JIM BAEN’S UNIVERSE

Vol 1 Num 5: Feb 2007

SCIENCE FICTION STORIES

War Stories

Written by Elizabeth Bear

Illustrated by Ural Akyuz

No shit, there I am.

So it’s 2030, right? And I’m sprawled on my belly in the pile of rubble that used to be 100 Constitution Plaza, rifle fire skipping over my head, a broken rock gouging my groin just down and to the left of my armor. My neck wants to crawl into my helmet like a turtle jamming itself into its shell. There’s a crater the size of Winterpeg under my nose, and busted rocks and shattered glass scattered all over Main Street. Suicide van bomb.

Any asshole can die for his country. The scary shit is living for it.

Old joke: join the army, see the world, meet interesting people and shoot them. And hell, I could be anywhere. Anywhere in the newly reconstituted Commonwealth, say. Where there’s fewer places to see every week, and I—so I’m what, eighteen when this is going on?—would like to get a look at a few of them before they’re under ice, or under water.

Ah, the Commonwealth. Back again like it never left.

I could be anywhere. I could be in the UK, evacuating Glastonbury or helping sandbag, or process refugees, in London. London, which is not holding. I could be in South Africa, putting down the warlord-of-the-week. Hell, I could be in Canada, guarding the home front.

No.

I’m face down in a pile of bricks in Hartford, Connecticut, in the good old U.S. of A., pinned under enemy fire, wondering when they’re going to bring in the sonics to relieve us and if we’re going to catch friendly fire when they do—and not loving a minute of it.

Shit. If I’m going to get my ass shot off, you’d think they could send me someplace pretty to do it in.

Carter’s yelling at me from better cover, shouting something I can’t catch over the noise. His mike might be on the fritz, or maybe it’s my earpiece. His electronics seem okay, at least—he isn’t eightysixed on my heads-up.

Good thing, too; you can see it yourself when it happens—unless your whole rig goes dead—and it’s creepy as shit. Your icon grays out on the map and there are all your buddies, looking around to see if you got garroted or picked off by a sniper while the team was otherwise engaged.

Modern technology. Used to be, you got shot, you screamed and bled on people until a medic got there. Now, they have machines to do your bleeding for you.

So I wave back at him, hand down low beside my ass: yeah, I have enough cover.

Yeah. Enough. He’s just a private anyway, which means…

… which means, technically, this is my action.

Mother pus-bucket.

I hope the rest of the guys show up fast.

I’m still thinking about that when I catch a little motion down in the hole.

That thing about your life flashing before your eyes? It’s bullshit. Never had it happen, and I’ve been scared. What did happen, even before I was wired, was the adrenaline-dump shocked-time thing, and that’s what I get, a freeze frame image of the crater and the sunlight shattering off broken glass.

Fuck me with a chainsaw. There’s a child down there.

* * *

The social position of a MWO in the Canadian Army is a little odd. You’re not a commissioned officer. But you’re not really one of the grunts any more, either. The “I work for a living” joke only works until you get past warrant.

It’s more like you’re a vassal. A country of one, owing absolute allegiance, but generally trusted to wipe up your own ass—and your own spilt milk—as necessary.

It’s an uncomfortable kind of freedom to get used to. But yanno, I never would have made it to RMC with my math skills, and we don’t have enough college grads anymore to keep all the whirlybirds for lieutenants. And the way it works out, the rest of the pilots are scared to death of me, anyway.

So I don’t have to leave the service to move in with Gabe Castaign. He got out before I did, and then we could be friends in public, even. The way we couldn’t when I was a corporal and he was a captain and he saved my life.

Thank god he was never in my chain of command. I don’t think we could have managed to stay pals; it would have gotten all knotted to that feudal thing, and that would have been the end.

Of course, I don’t quite get to move in with him in the sense that I really wanted to, because by 2053, Gabe’s married and has two beautiful, ridiculous, towheaded baby girls. And when I de-enlist, I do it to stay with him and Geniveve.

Because they already know that the transplants haven’t taken, that the stem therapy and the chemo aren’t working. And Geniveve wants to die at home. She needs help doing it, if she’s going to do it comfortably. And Gabe, well.

Gabe doesn’t really want to live through it alone.

So Geniveve comes home to die with her husband and her children, and I—

I go along because I don’t have anyplace else to call home, and they need me. And yeah, I know going in it’s going to be hard. And some poisonous bit of me hopes that Gabe will rebound in my direction when she’s gone, because you think things like that, even when you don’t say them.

But I like Geniveve. She’s got every right to be jealous, but Geni is five nine and blonde and pert-nosed and has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen that aren’t contact lenses. And look at my face. But … I could be Gabe’s scary war-buddy who he owes some kind of life debt, and she could walk on eggshells. She could leave us in the kitchen and herd the babies away.

And she treats me like her best girlfriend.

The first time I met her was at the bridal shower, a kind of Jack and Jill thing, and if she’d been strong enough I think she would pick me up in a Gabe-standard bear-hug, just like him. She kissed my burned cheek, and nevermind I couldn’t feel it, and she laughed at my jokes.

So what I’m saying is, I’m here for Geniveve as much as I’m here for Gabe. But it’s not them I leave the army for. In ‘53 I get my 25 in. I always wear a glove on my left hand, and I’m heading down the back side of notorious into old warhorse. Infamy doesn’t suit me.

I leave the army because it’s time to leave the army. You can’t fight all your life.

They’ve got a spare bedroom. Geniveve—the coincidence of names is no end of amusement, but Gabe calls me Maker not Jenny and so does Geniveve and so that’s okay—has good days and bad days. Gabe mostly helps her. I mostly help with the girls and the housework, my Cinderella childhood all over again.

And don’t I just look like the perfect fairytale princess, too?

Whatever else, this is how I get to know Leah. She’s about five already, and Genie (see what I mean about the names?) is two, and not only had Geniveve gotten sick while she was carrying her, but Genie has cystic fibrosis, and she’s all straw hair and straw limbs and big luminous eyes. She eats enough for a kid three times her size, and barely absorbs enough to grow on.

Gabe never once says a word to me about the hand he got dealt being unfair. I might mutter a few. But then you feel ugly. Especially when you know something about yourself that maybe the other guy doesn’t.

Leah thinks I’m just a set of monkey bars. Just the right size for swinging on.

So we hold on about six months, while Geniveve has more bad days than good days, and big Gabe Castaign, with his wrists I could barely close my metal hand around, starts to look downright thin. Geniveve holds on longer than anybody thinks she might. Stubborn bitch.

But she’s got two little girls to buy a few more days for, and you never know which one day … might be the day that counts.

You know, in a lot of ways, she reminded me of Maman.

Except, even when she was dying, Maman was funnier.

* * *

Hartford is after I quit dope, but before I start drinking. It’s before a lot of other things; before Pretoria, before Gabe, before we—the Commonwealth, I mean—and the Russians team up to invade Brazil. I’ve still got both the hands I was born with, and Carlos’ diamond ring is on the left one—when I’m off-duty.

I’ve got a man at home. I’ve got no business doing what I do next.

I have done things in my life that I liked less than that belly-crawl over broken glass and girders, but don’t ask me to name three. There’s a street down there under the rubble and maybe people with it, but it’s hard to run a proper search and rescue when the whole world’s blowing up. It’s a hell of a thing to think about while you’re crawling over them, though.

At least the site’s cold. Not fresh, not likely to catch fire or explode under my belly. Just not cleaned up yet. If it ever will be.

The body armor helps some. Easier to keep your butt down crawling over plate glass shards when your belly’s plated like a turtle’s. And everything that isn’t Kevlar or ceramic or leather is covered in ripstop, bladestop, breathable IR-defeating CADPAT digital urboflage.

Comforting.

I’ve got gloves too, dragged on over my blackened nails. The broken glass might have edges like a pile of rusty razorblades, but the combats can turn a thoracic stab wound into a bone bruise.

A little broken glass and a few gross of tenpenny nails are just what it was overdesigned for.

Good stuff.

Weighs a ton, makes you sweat like a pig, and the straps snag on every sharp pointy thing I slither over, but you take the good with the bad, like in any relationship.

The opposition hasn’t seen me. Don’t expect me to head down into the crater, I’m pretty sure, and are watching the near rim for a silhouette. Because that’s what somebody would do in the war movie; send a scout out to distract them, draw their fire, and execute a pincer.

Imaginary soldiers don’t actually have to crawl through rubble. And the imaginary enemies never seem to have somebody with a sniper scope and some elevation watching their ass.

Real bad guys can watch the war movies too.

As I get down closer to the bottom of the crater, I notice a few things. One is that the kid looks about eleven. Not a teenager yet; not really a child. Poor kid; that cusp is kind of the suck. Because you haven’t changed, not really, but suddenly all the cultural slack and protectiveness, the puppy factor, is just gone.

He’s a fresh casualty, though; I’d bet he was scavenging and took a fall, or maybe ducked stupid when the shooting started.

Well, at least he ducked.

He’s conscious, huddled, bleeding between the fingers shoved against his scalp. I can’t see how bad; one hand’s balled into a fist and pressed to the flat back of the other. Head injury, not great. But up on top, not on the fragile temple.

If it’s not depressed, it might not be too bad.

Once I got my GED I started studying emergency medicine on the side. It might come in handy if I pass the test, and if I live long enough being a medic beats being an ex-grunt with no job skills.

I cover him with my body and hope like hell we don’t get blown up before the rescue comes, or I figure out how to get us out of here.

* * *

Five years old, Leah strokes the back of her hand down the back of mine and snatches her fingers away, shaking them like they sting. “Can you feel anything? Does it hurt?”

How do you explain phantom pain to a first grader? “No. Where you touch it, I can’t feel anything.”

“Wow.” She peeks at me through bangs and eyelashes. “That must be nice.”

* * *

Somehow, Carter must get through, jinky radio and all, because the next thing I know there’s a helicopter slamming over like the Archangel Michael on a three day bender. Dusty air buffets us, dust that’s half powdered glass and God knows what, like sticking your hand in a sandblaster. The kid squeaks—he’s been quiet against my chest, both fists knotted around my LBE like a baby sloth clinging to its mother—and I pull his face into my neck. It can’t be comfortable, but maybe it’ll encourage him to close his eyes.

Me, I get in a couple of hail-Mary’s, but the gunfire I hear is ours and not theirs. You really can pick out the make of the gun by the sound, after a couple of weeks. They use whatever they bought off the Internet; all our shit matches. Score one for the away team. Let’s go for the hat trick, shall we?

“You grunts alive down there, over?” The last thing from regulation, but a voice I loved to hear. Chief Warrant Officer Tranchemontagne, the own personal hell-on-rotor-blades of the Canadian Armed Forces, Hartford franchise. There were only about two hundred of us in town; I didn’t expect him to know me, but I sure as hell knew him.

The helmet mikes were voice-activated. I cleared my throat and spoke up. “We’re alive, Chief. This is Corporal Casey. You gonna come pick us up, or do we hike back? Carter’s radio’s busted, but we’re both unwounded. I’ve got a civilian casualty, though. A child. Over.”

Carter and Casey. I’m not sure if we sound more like a law firm or a comedy team.

“Where’s the kid, over?”

The kid kicks me in the knee, suddenly, and tries to squirm free, ready to dart out of that hole into the broken glass and flying bullets. All he’s gonna do is bust his toe on the ceramic armor, but he doesn’t know that. I grab, and get him over the shoulders. “Stay the hell down, you little bastard! Chief, the kid is under me. And seems to be alive. Ow. Over.”

I hear the son of a bitch laughing. “Got yourself a live one there, Corporal. All right, I’ll get you some evac.”

I don’t quite have to hit the kid to bundle him into the chopper, but his feet don’t touch the ground on the way there, either. Just his luck I’m five eleven in my bare feet, and he—well, he isn’t.

Once the chopper’s off the ground he quits kicking me, though. I let him scramble loose; he jams himself sullenly into the corner furthest from the door.

“Great job, Casey,” Carter says, in what he thinks passes for French. “You think it’s housebroken?”

“Shut the fuck up, eh?” I’ve got half a pack of cigarettes left. I take one out and toss him the rest, and catch the kid watching. I shoot him a sidelong glance. He licks his lips. He’s a good looking kid, broad regular features, behind the crust of blood that dribbles over one sharp brown eye. “Hey, Carter?”

He looks up from lighting his cigarette. I leave mine, still cold, between my fingers. “Give the pack to the kid.”

And Carter looks at me, looks at the kid—eleven, right?—and shrugs and tosses him the pack.

The kid pulls one out, looks at the pack, thinks real hard, and tosses it back to me with eight left. Then he flicks the one he kept with his thumbnail to light it, a practiced economy of motion. Yeah, I was like a fucking chimney at that age, too.

I keep an eye on him without looking like I’m looking at him. He takes two puffs before he picks the ember off the end and tucks the rest in his shirt pocket. Price of a meal at least, I guess, in a wartime economy.

You’re not supposed to smoke in the Army’s aircraft. I guess somebody might not like the smell. I stick my untouched cigarette back into the half pack and toss the whole thing back to him, with nine smokes now.

* * *

The genius behind chemotherapy is that you poison yourself a little slower than you poison the cancer. It’s fucking barbarism; no different from the mercury treatments they used to give people who had syphilis, although maybe it works a little better.

I don’t blame Geniveve for deciding that if she was going to die, she’d rather do it without the puking.

She’s too proud to wear a wig, but her hair’s coming back in patchy now that she’s stopped poisoning herself. She keeps her head shaved and it makes her look elegant, Egyptian.

I maintain it for her: a couple of times a month I settle the moist, warm, tender skin of her nape against the palm of my living hand, my thumb resting behind her ear, the vibrations of the electric razor carrying up my machine arm.

I used to do the same for some of the guys in my platoon.

She closes her eyes while I shave her, dreaming like a cat. Her lips move, shaping words; her fuzz clings to my sleeve. I could cut myself touching her cheekbones; there’s a dead woman just under her skin.

I thumb the razor off. “I didn’t hear you, sweetie.”

When people are dying, it’s easier to tell them you love them. You know they’re not going to hold it over you later.

She nibbles her thumbnail, a nervous tic, and presses her skull into my hand. “Maker.” And then she says my real name, her eyes still shut. “Jenny. When I’m gone, you ought to marry him. Before he thinks to play it tough.”

* * *

By the time I get him to the displaced persons camp, the kid’s attached to my hip like he grew there. The dressing on his scalp is white and bulbous; I made the duty nurse shave the whole thing, and not just the part she was stitching, so at least both sides match, but he still looks like he’s farming mushrooms up there. His name turns out to be Dwayne MacDonald; he’s ten, not eleven, and he’s got a fouler mouth than I do, which is saying something.

So yeah, all right, I like the kid. And the clerk at the resettlement office gets up my nose in about thirty seconds flat. “Name?” she says, without looking up at either of us, and he doesn’t answer, so I say it for him. She taps it into her interface and frowns. “MacDonald’s a pretty common last name. Parents? Street address?”

I look at him. He shrugs, shoulders squared, hands in his pockets. Cat’s got his tongue. “What if you can’t find his family?”

“He’ll stay at the camp until we can find a foster situation for him.” She still hasn’t lifted her eyes from the interface. “It might be a while. Especially if he won’t talk. Where’d you find him?”

“Downtown.” Five more seconds, and I’m going to be as silent as the kid. I fold my arms and lean back on my heels.

“Look.” She pushes back from her desk, and I catch her eyes, contacts colored blue-violet with swimming golden sparks. Distracting as hell. “We get a couple dozen porch monkeys through here every week. Either you can help me out, or—”

The kid presses against my side, and it’s a good thing he’s in the way of my gun hand, because there’s a rifle across my back and if I could reach it, she’d never have gotten to the second syllable in “monkey.”

“Or I can try to find his parents myself. Thank you, miss.”

She’s a civilian, more’s the pity. And they won’t do a fucking thing about her, but I’m still going to file a complaint.

God, I hate these people.

I take the kid back to my billet. Halfway there, as we’re trudging along side by side, I run into Brody. “New boyfriend, Casey?”

I look at the kid. The kid looks at me. “He’s like a mascot, Sarge.”

“Like the camp cat, Casey? Not gonna happen.”

But Brody’s okay on a lot of levels, laid back and easy-going with a full measure of sun- and laugh-lines. He likes to talk about his grandkids, though he can’t be much more than fifty-five.

Yeah, so at eighteen, fifty-five is like the end of the world. The light from fifty-five takes a million years to reach eighteen. Brody sighs and hooks his thumb in his belt and says, “Get some dinner in him. And some breakfast. Tomorrow, you get his ass home, you understand?”

“Yes, Sarge,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get too used to it, Casey.”

One more shake of his head, a self-annoyed grunt, and he’s gone.

* * *

We all want to die at home.

Geniveve gets close, but even her stubborn isn’t quite enough to pull off that one. There’s the hospital and then there’s hospice care and Genie’s way too young for this, and too sick, because she’s stressed out and flares up. Don’t ever tell me babies don’t understand.

So God help Gabe, he’s mostly with Genie, because somebody has to be and she wants her Papa. She wants her Maman too.

And Leah and me, we stay with Geniveve. I haven’t really got a lot to say about it.

Except, Geniveve is so fragile by the end, a soap bubble. You know in movies where there’s a Chernobyl event and then people die, crying from the pain in their joints, bruising in huge terrible flowers anyplace their bones press the inside of their skin?

That’s leukemia. That’s how leukemia kills you.

You know that thing where they say that God never gives you more than you can shoulder?

It’s a vicious, obscene lie.

* * *

You know what happens. What with one thing and another, he stays a night, and then three nights, and then by four days in he stops being “Casey’s kid” and turns into the whole camp’s mascot. They call him half a dozen stupid nicknames—mouche-noir, first, which turns into Mooch overnight. Moustique, which is “mosquito” and also “punk.” One of the guys starts singing the black-fly song at him—a-crawlin’ in your whiskers, a-crawlin’ in your hair, a-swimmin’ in the soup and a-swimmin’ in the tea—and pretty soon the whole camp is doing it, which drives him as nuts as the black flies would’ve.

Poor kid.

I ply him with hockey cards and cigarettes, and even get him half-interested in the games. We get them on satellite, and it’s a camp-wide event when they’re on. You really have to piss somebody off to draw picket that night. They’re the old-fashioned cards mostly, you know the ones with the limited memory and just a little chip screen, maybe 90 seconds of highlights? He’s fascinated by a couple of the “classic” ones—Bill Barilko, that kind of stuff—players from the previous century in grainy black and white, images set to radio broadcast clips. There’s more highlights on those, and he listens to them for hours, curled up in the corner with his elbows on his knees.

And then after a week of this, I get my leave. Thirty-six hours, back in Toronto, and a unit transfer.

Everybody knows what that means.

I guess I’m going to get my wish. I’m going overseas.

Between us, Hetu and me hack one of the hockey cards—they have an uplink so you can check these dedicated web pages with scores and biographies and stuff—so the kid can use it for email. I show him the trick; it’s awkward, but hey, it’s free, right? Last thing I do, before I shake his hand, is rip the unit patch off my shoulder and hand it to him.

I won’t be needing it anymore.

He takes it, crumples it in his fist until I can’t see it.

“You gonna be okay?”

Jerk of his chin.

“Really okay?”

And he gives me this stiff little nod. He’s not going to cry. He’s not even going to look like he wants to cry.

Brave little toaster. But I’m dumb enough to push it. “I’ll come back if you want me to. After. I’ll come get you.” What am I gonna do with a kid? What is Carlos going to want with some American refugee kid with PTSD who cries in his sleep like a puppy? How the fuck old are we both going to be before I could come back?

Fuck it. Sometimes you just have to pretend you’re not lying.

But he stares right through me and says, “You won’t come back.” The finality of abandonment, of somebody who knows the score.

I don’t argue. “Write me?”

And he licks his lips and jerks his chin down once, like he was driving a nail. Sure thing, Casey.

I don’t lose my shit, myself, until I’m on the transport. Until I’m safe in Ontario, getting off the bus, and then it’s okay because Carlos thinks I’m crying over him and it never does any harm to let your fianc think you can’t live without him.

Carlos has lousy feet and worse ankles. He works for the quartermaster. He’s not going anywhere. From each according to his ability.

I get my orders for Pretoria. And the rest is history. I dear-john Carlos from the hospital, after burning half my fucking face off in South Africa. I never have the heart to find out if he makes it through the war.

Dwayne doesn’t write. It’s three months before I figure out that he’d been too proud to tell me he didn’t know how.

* * *

I stick around Toronto for a little while after the funeral, until things are settled and the girls aren’t constantly asking when Maman is coming home. I want to stay forever.

I … can’t. Every time I look at Gabe now, I hear Geniveve telling me to marry him, and the hell of it is, boy, it would make the kids happy. It would even make me happy, for a little, until the whole thing went pear-shaped. As you know it inevitably would. Love affairs forged in crisis, they’re like trashfires. They burn out hot and leave a lot of stink behind.

He says he’ll call. I tell him I’ll come visit for Leah’s birthday, which is May. It’s only a five-hour drive from Hartford. There’s a lot of rundown old dumps there, and I buy one. On the worst street in the worst neighborhood of town, but who’s going to give me a hard time?

It’s barely got electric.

They call that area the North End. It’s the kind of place where men in bedroom slippers drink forties of malt liquor from paper bags on bus benches that haven’t seen service since the war. It’s full of immigrants and poor blacks and West Indians. Which is fine with me; you can never have too much Jamaican food.

It’s exactly what I want. A hole I can crawl into and pull up snug.

That’s a joke, isn’t it? Vets going back where they fought, where they served. Marrying a brown native girl who only speaks horizontal English. Happens every day.

It’s the peak experience, maybe. Or maybe the thing where we can’t go home and we can’t stay here. Wherever here might be. Maybe they ought to just shoot the warriors when we come home.

That way, it would be over quick.

Anyway. I’m standing on a street corner smoking my last cigarette when I see him. This gangster, and he’s like a kick in the chest. Threat response, predator response, because he’s the king of the street. Swaggering down Albany Ave in a black T-shirt, boots, jeans, and a black leather jacket zinging with chains. His shaved head’s glossy in the sun. Pink proud flesh catches the sun on his crown; he taps knuckles with a skinny guy headed the other direction. He’s huge; shoulders bulging the seams of his jacket. And he’s flanked by two toughs that trail him like pilotfish after a shark.

I’m supposed to be impressed.

One falls back a half-step to have a word with the guy the big man deigned to notice, and that’s when I catch a flash on the head man’s shoulder. Red and white and gray, sewn to black leather.

It stops me in my tracks. I stare uncomprehendingly and take a step forward. That sharp pink scar, the heavy neck, the massive hands, the swagger. The way he dips his head when he turns to his friend and half-nods.

The friend catches me staring and moves in. The big man turns, notices my face, recoils. I’m used to that, but it stings from him. If it is. Him.

The scars, of course. And I’m in mufti. I hope I can talk my way out of this before I get my head handed to me.

They move toward me, the big man and both his toughs, and the newcomer trailing like a remora hoping to attach itself to an apex predator. Four of them.

I can do it.

I can’t promise to keep that many safe.

They pause three meters distant, the big one sizing up my scars and my face. His pistol’s under his jacket, a hilt-down shoulder holster. I can tell through the hide.

I wear mine in plain sight, strapped to my thigh.

“There a problem?”

Right on script, but he reads it too softly. It could be an honest question.

I treat it that way. “No problem. I was wondering if you knew a Dwayne MacDonald, grew up near here.” Pause. “He’d be about your age.”

The silence stretches. He looks at me, into my eyes, at the shape of my shoulder and the angle of my nose. “Beat it,” he says, finally, and he’s not talking to me. I catch a glitter, steel teeth behind his lips. Some sort of cosmetic mod.

Not cheap.

Without protest, with a few unanswered promises to catch-you-later-man, the other three recuse themselves. Dwayne stands there looking at me, hulking behemoth with his hands shoved in his pockets. I think I could get a ting! out of the tendons on his neck if I flicked them with a thumbnail.

“What do you go by now?”

“Huh?” As if I’ve shattered his concentration. “Oh. Razorface.” The sibilants hiss through his teeth. “They call me Razorface. This my street.” A shrug over his shoulder. Sure. Lord of all he surveys. “War’s over, Casey.”

“Yeah.” We stand there staring at each other for a minute, grinning. People cross the street. “Call me Maker. I live here now. Hey, you know what?”

“What?”

“You should come over some time. And watch a hockey game. In fact, can I buy you a drink?”

“It’s ten in the morning, you fucking drunk,” he says, but he takes my elbow and turns me, like he expects me to need the support. “Fuck, you look like hell.”

“Yeah,” I say, ‘cause it’s true.

But that’s okay. Because on the other hand, he looks like he’s doing … all right.

So that’s something, after all.

* * *

Elizabeth Bear is the author of several novels.

To see this authors works sold through Amazon, click here:

A Stranger in Paradise

Written by Edward M. Lerner

Illustrated by Dean Spencer

Row upon row of blue-and-green-and-white globes mock me.

The world below reflects from tumblers and goblets and snifters and flutes, from more types of antique glassware than I can name. Bottles and decanters of amber liquid line other shelves. Seven thousand years is too vintage for my tastes; I’m ignoring my craving for a drink.

Ama and I first spoke in a place like this—not a derelict starship, but another tavern. Human nature has changed over the millennia, but not in that way.

No, let me call her Amanda. If those I want to find this memoir do, the old form of the name may be more familiar. My name has no old form; Cameron will do.

I was alone, my back to the boisterous crowd, when she approached my table. The friends she had come in with were chattering away. Despite pulsing music and her soft tread, I knew she was there well before she spoke.

“You act like the world is against you.”

I was new there—there meaning Earth, not only the Academy—and homesick and friendless. I held back my reflexive reply: that the world was. Medicine and training notwithstanding, the gravity was killing me. The answer I gave instead made her laugh.

I had met the one. Some things you just know.

* * *

Planets are tough on artifacts mere mortals can build. A few thousand years of weathering and erosion destroys and obscures a lot. It wasn’t until we stumbled upon ancient lunar settlements preserved by the vacuum that we realized we—humankind—had been in space before. A whole new science, techno-archeology, was needed to understand. When fragments of data finally began to emerge from the lost civilization’s computers, we were even more amazed.

The Firsters had burst from the solar system with an armada of slowboats and an excess of enthusiasm. Their ships would, in a few generations’ time, reach nearby stars thought to warm planets with good prospects for human colonization.

The solsys-wide civilization collapsed before any of those pioneers could possibly have reached their destinations. Archeologists agree that Earth suffered plagues, famine, global warfare, eco-collapse, and socioeconomic implosion. They just cannot agree on cause and effect.

Millennia later, humanity has recovered, and more, exploring its galactic neighborhood in faster-than-light ships embodying technologies the Firsters never imagined.

And none of our nearest interstellar neighbors has a human presence.

If any of the slowboats narrowcast home as instructed about their first landfalls, no one retained the technology to hear. Some ships, perhaps, never reached their destinations. Some planetary settlements, it was eventually discovered, were started and failed. A few asteroid bases were found orbiting nearby stars—all abandoned.

But those failures were not the end of the story.

What is known for certain is that some missions traveled far past their intended stars. Were the original destination worlds too inhospitable for the colonization methods of the time? Interstellar space is a big place—did they simply lose their way? Did settlements split, some staying to defend a hard-won beachhead, others ever seeking a better world? All the above occurred, and more than once, the process repeating until the slowboats could voyage no more.

The Firster generation ships spread humanity thinly across a million cubic light years, in hundreds of tiny enclaves in as many alien environments. Many groups eventually died out. Some continued to eke out a hard-scrabble existence, their memories of Earth warped or nonexistent. Few retained any vestige of civilization.

For those who survived, there is the Reunification Corps.

* * *

Amanda… .

Whenever she entered a room, heads turned, conversation stopped, men smiled reflexively, and libidos engaged. I knew then, and remember now, that she is physically beautiful. Flowing brown hair. Striking blue eyes ever twinkling with warmth and curiosity. A willowy grace.

And yet beauty is the least of her charms.

I should get on subject.

Finding lost colonies is an art. Few records survive to show where the slowboats went, even on their first, usually failed attempts. There are too many stars, even with FTL drive, to search them all. So, while the Reunification Corps employs a multitude of skills and professions, the rarest and most precious talent is the one that makes all the others relevant.

Mine.

It’s a peculiar mode of thought, the ability to put one’s self into the mindset of a doomed expedition born of an ancient civilization. To think: I’m here, one of the lucky ones, after generations of travel. To realize: this climate, these perils, a lack of vital resources … something makes it too dangerous to stay. Extrapolating from that crushing disappointment, and what little we’ve reconstructed of Firster technology, how they might have reacted to the prospect of moving on. Which of the distant pinpoints of light would seem the most promising? Which would merit entombing myself and generations of my descendants on a slowboat that logic says may not survive another epic voyage but is too complex to replace? Deciding where, with an entire solar system to choose from, the Firsters might have established a base.

There is no way to capture the process in an algorithm, or exercise it from behind a desk. It takes walking the planets of distant stars, communing with the faint anomalies that just might be the crumbled remains of abandoned settlements.

Amanda and I became instant friends, and then a sweaty-and-entangled whole bunch more than friends, at Corps Academy. We begged and bargained our way onto the same Corps re-orientation ship, two earnest grads eager to help a world of Firster descendants rejoin a larger humanity scarcely recognizable in their mythos. After three missions together, we decided to get married.

I couldn’t believe our good fortune that a two-person scout ship mission was available. Starhopping would leave plenty of time for us—it seemed like the perfect honeymoon.

And then one of those starhops brought us to Paradise.

* * *

Long before sensors spotted the tumbling hulk of the abandoned slowboat, I felt certain the Firsters we were tracking had settled here. From halfway across the solar system, sensors showed the planet was too perfect not to settle.

Amanda was equally sure any colony had failed. There was no hint of chlorophyll in the orbital scans, nor signs of energy being harnessed. No chlorophyll means no terrestrial plant life to anchor a human-usable food chain. No energy generation means no bioconversion to change local biota into something terrestrials could eat.

“Damn. Sorry.” Amanda’s sympathy for the lost colonists was sincere. And misplaced.

There were people on the planet below. I was as sure of that as I’d been, from star to star to star, which way this slowboat had gone. Call it a hunch.

“It’s a waste of time.” Amanda had been seated in front of a bio-readout panel. “Humans might as well eat dirt as anything growing down there.”

The planet we circled, that I still circle, is green almost everywhere not covered by water or polar ice cap. That lushness was one more anomaly, since its orbit was barely within the habitable zone of its K-class sun. While I began the painstaking process of bringing back on-line the slowboat’s ancient, crumbling computers, Amanda, at my insistence, flew down in a lander to check things out.

We have been apart ever since.

* * *

Any planet you would want to colonize belongs to someone else—the only question is how much of an ecosphere you are willing to displace. That is true, at least, if a breathable atmosphere is a meaningful part of your lifestyle. Oxygen is so chemically reactive that only a planet rich with photosynthesizing life can sustain an oxygen-rich atmosphere.

From interstellar distances, the only discernable planetary characteristics are orbit, rough size, and atmospheric composition. Evolutionary progress from the single-celled stage until sentients begin to use radios, not that any such have ever been found, is undetectable. Fortunate colonists found bare rock plus oceans full of oxygen-producing algae. Unlucky colonists, at least for those with a sense of bioethics, encountered continents teeming with indigenous life.

Like Paradise.

* * *

The lander touched down just inside one of the planet’s few desolate regions, on the rocky coast of an inland sea. Amanda could not bring herself to use a more hospitable prospective landing site. A column-of-flame descent into some verdant meadow would have been, she said, like torching a park.

I had no reason to doubt her inference that the area had, within the last few years, been cleared by a forest fire. “Caused by lightning,” she insisted. “There are no careless campers here.” Charred, often toppled, boles of tree-analogues dominated the landscape. Beyond the devastation towered vast expanses of the spiky, fern-like plants. Patches of new growth poked, scrub-like, through ashy soil. “You getting this?” she radioed, surveying the landing site on foot. She wore an envirosuit although every sensor showed the area to be safe. That was protocol: Thorough checkout took time. Videocams on the lander panned slowly.

“Good place to take up charcoal drawing,” I commented from orbit. I had no difficulty imagining her answering smile.

“Not among my talents, and I don’t see staying here long enough to cultivate new skills.” Her suit radio conveyed faint crunching sounds as she walked. Saplings became denser as she progressed towards the closest unmarred growth. “What luck with the slowboat’s computer?”

“Not much,” I admitted. Computing was one of the technologies at which the Firsters excelled. The Corps had, over time, reverse-engineered a few of their tricks, but the systems on every slowboat differed. Each crossing took generations … why should their technology stand still? “Maybe you can charm it …” I trailed off.

“What?” she asked.

“Stand still.” She froze. “Speed up panning.” Her helmet camera did. The matching view on my display swept across the countryside, then reversed direction. Fern saplings trembling in the breeze showed the only motion.

“What did you see, Cameron?”

“Apparently nothing.” The videocam again reversed its arc.

Something shot across the screen.

“Did you see that?” she shouted. Her gloved fist, one finger outstretched, blocked a corner of the camera’s field of vision. Ground-hugging fronds still rustled where she pointed.

I was advancing, frame by frame, through captured images of a scuttling, six-legged, ankle-high alien something when Amanda whooped excitedly. Her helmet camera swung wildly. “What is it?” I yelled back. “What do you see?” The image stabilized; from the change in perspective it was clear she was squatting. Green glowing eyes studied Amanda from deep within shadowy underbrush. My gut clenched. “What is that?”

Moments later, a clearly terrestrial calico cat sauntered out of the undergrowth to sniff Amanda’s still outstretched finger.

* * *

The slowboat was a wreck. I tell myself that if I had skills beyond gleaning clues from traces of hints of ruins, I would have brought the old systems on-line soon enough to have made a difference. Or that if I’d somehow stitched together the colonists’ story faster, I’d have gotten Amanda offworld in time.

But I don’t believe it.

I had followed these colonists across four interstellar hops. That was a record … most slowboats were worn out after two; a few managed three. The problem was always biosphere collapse. A crossing Amanda and I could reasonably call a hop was to the Firsters a multigenerational odyssey. By the time the colonists reached Paradise, the slowboat’s ecology was exhausted and dying. They had no choice but to descend to the surface.

They were up to something neither Amanda nor I could comprehend. I kept exploring, kept reconstructing the spotty surviving records for some clue how these Firsters expected to live here, how they thought to avoid ravaging a thriving native ecology to transplant their own.

Now that it is too late, I do understand.

* * *

What did Amanda see in me? Given my looks—straw-colored hair, a pasty complexion, features I’ve always thought a bit awry, and the tall-and-gangly frame common to Belters—there was always ample speculation. I’ve overheard enough whispers to grasp the popular explanation, and it makes me crazy: That it is a marriage of convenience. She gets the career benefit of my semi-spooky skills at tracking down Firsters. I get … her. It’s hardly flattering for either of us.

As I said, it drives me crazy.

She met, she loves, an artist. When I could no longer bear the stubborn refusal of planet and slowboat to relinquish their secrets, I sought refuge—looked, in a way, for Amanda—in my art.

There are many restored recordings of Firster music; by those standards my compositions are arrhythmic, overly complex, and discordant. Each of my melodies has a visual setting, forming a sight-and-sound poem. The first time I shared one with her, back at the Academy, she gazed at me in silent wonder. What a rare treat it was to bask in someone’s appreciation.

Years later, I cannot experience that piece without memories flooding my mind. Recalling her, recalling that moment, my heart aches.

So what did Amanda see in me? The person. Mine is not the only sixth sense.

* * *

Recovering data and restoring limited operations in the balky Firster computers involved one part inspiration and twenty parts head scratching. The work left plenty of time for watching Amanda through landing-site cameras. I missed her.

I miss her now.

DNA from a blood sample proved Amanda’s new friend was, without doubt, a terrestrial cat. She was playing with the feline, teasing it with a dangling bit of vine, the game by way of apology for the needle stick, when two landing-site motion sensors gave alarms.

Moments after the alert—trilling discreetly in her personal communicator and booming from my console in our orbiting starship—someone strode from the brush, as obviously a human as the cat was a cat. The burly figure wore a knee-length tunic of clearly natural fibers, cinched at the waist by a braided sash from which hung a cloth sack and various wood-and-stone implements. The loosely woven garment left no doubt that her caller was a man.

“Amanda,” I whispered.

“I see him.”

He ambled casually towards her, greasy hair hanging past his shoulders. If he understood the lander’s stungun turret slow swiveling to track his progress, he gave no sign. His body language seemed somehow disdainful of the ship. He sniffed repeatedly, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Amanda,” I whispered again. “What’s he doing?”

“You tell me,” she whispered back.

The stranger sniffed again. His meandering path took him past the flat rock on which lay the galley scraps Amanda had set out for the cat. He bent slightly, inhaled, and then continued slowly towards her. He seemed no more impressed by home-world food than had the cat.

After the linguistic drudgery of the initial colony rediscoveries, the Corps had painfully reconstructed passable versions of the Firster languages. Modern survey ships carried translation software attuned to all major colonist dialects—that is, to the versions deduced to have been spoken when the slowboats were leaving solsys. It didn’t take many utterances by the visitor to recognize English as the root of his speech. The lander’s computer took longer, but not much, to derive many of the pronunciation shifts and some divergent vocabulary. From a speculative understanding of roughly every third word, Brian—his name was one thing we did ascertain—was most interested in discussing the weather.

“His vocabulary appears limited,” Amanda said. She had cranked up the sensitivity of her implanted communicator sufficiently to capture her subvocalizations.

We both knew the computer had already reached that conclusion, and she wasn’t one to repeat the obvious. “What’s worrying you?”

“Why isn’t he more curious? This,” and she gestured at the lander, the stacks of equipment she’d unloaded, and herself in the crinkly envirosuit, “must be strange to him.”

Paradise’s sun, almost overhead at the beginning of the visit, nearly touched the horizon. I was hungry, although I had snacked throughout the session. Improvised cat food sat, scarcely touched, in a corner of my screen. Chicken scraps … funny that the cat still had not attacked them. “Not curious fails to do it justice.” The Academy had drummed into us that body language is not universal, but I indulged myself once more. “He’s yawning a lot. Fidgety.” I fast-scanned backward. “Bored? And the angle at which he cocks his head, the tension in his jaw, the squint of his eyes … it’s as though he has a headache.”

Brian loosened the drawstrings of the bag that hung from his belt. He removed two pieces of lumpy, red-orange fruit. He bit into one, pulpy juice trickling into a matted beard. The second piece he offered to Amanda. If he considered the head-to-toe encapsulation of her envirosuit strange, or an impediment to her ability to sample the local cuisine, he kept it to himself. “These need little rain.”

“Thank you.” To me, she subvocalized, “I’ll analyze it later.” She set his gift on a portable workbench, and then unsealed an emergency ration. Insinuating food through the helmet port of an envirosuit is neither easy nor pretty; she mimed tasting a cookie before offering one to her visitor.

Brian spit seeds in several directions before giving the cookie a perfunctory sniff. This time his expression was too foreign for me to hazard a guess—but the snack went unsampled into his sack. The headache I inferred him to have seemed to have worsened. “I must leave.” He pivoted without ceremony and began walking purposefully back the way he had come.

“Will you return?” Amanda called. “Will you tell others?”

He stopped, less to answer, it seemed, than to reposition a box. A frond that had been bent by the crate sprung straight. “Why?”

Without further comment or explanation, he disappeared into the woods.

* * *

“So what do you think?” Amanda spoke around a mouthful of the autogalley’s finest. She had a heroic metabolism and an appetite to match. The lunch foregone due to the inconveniences of the envirosuit only made her that much hungrier. A still frame of the disinterested colonist occupied the wall screen behind her.

Halfway around the world I was also eating. “About Brian?”

“About whether it’s time to lose the suit.” She chewed a mouthful of greens. “Obviously Brian is fine without one.”

What could I say? That I had a bad feeling about this? I did, and she laughed.

“You have a bad feeling about everything.” She turned her attention to a cookie like the one she had given her visitor. “However.” Her eyes darted to the lab containment unit in which were arrayed row after row of culture dishes with smears and thin sections of native fruit glob. “That no earthly mold or bacterium has taken hold on the fruit he eats is puzzling enough that I’m going to stay protected for a while.”

* * *

Things stayed the same for a time. Fruit globs, while non-toxic by every test known to the ship’s computers, were also entirely lacking in dietary value. Nor was the mystery limited to the one native species. Amanda made several trips to the edge of the forest—Brian made plain, without lucid explanation, that he did not want her entering—to collect roots and tubers and growths of every type remote sensors captured Brian eating. All hid their nutrients well.

She had no better luck with snared specimens of the six-legged native things we’d taken to calling mice—because that’s what you call what a cat stalks. The wireless cameras Amanda had strewn around the landing site and nearby woods had yet to catch her furry friend hunting anything else. It did not eat many Earth-food scraps either. “She,” I was repeatedly corrected. “Calico cats are always female.”

Ship’s sensors had failed to find people on the surface for a good reason: Weaving and woodworking are not industries one observes from orbit. Now, with Brian as an example of the survivors, I switched tactics. Low-flying microbots spotted plenty of other humans. Their shelters were primitive: caves, hide tents, and lean-tos and shacks made of fallen branches. They lived alone or in, we guessed, family units. Nothing bigger.

That dispersion was one more mystery. Even for hunters and gatherers, there appeared to be more than enough food to support many times the current population.

Brian remained nearby, rarely venturing from the densest parts of the fern woods. If he ever saw other humans, those encounters were as elusive as the nutrients that sustained him.

* * *

With power and supplies from my docked starship, I restored to habitability an insignificant portion of this ancient and mummified miniworld. The fragile, recreated bubble of life evoked in me some essence of the long-departed crew. Grudgingly, and in elusively suggestive fragments, repaired computer archives surrendered their secrets.

Only constant nurturing of the ecosystem had enabled completion of the slowboat’s fourth voyage. In the process, the crew became devoted—by most standards, fanatical—to ecological sanctity. They were overwhelmed when, another interstellar voyage clearly impossible, the prospective home finally within reach after lifetimes of travel proved too Earth-like. They would not consider wreaking ecological havoc to give Earthly life a chance to take root; they could not survive any longer aboard ship.

I’m a rock boy, asteroid born and bred, so maybe my comments are uninformed. Still, studying the slowboat’s records, I didn’t consider the planet the colonists were so mystically protective of all that special. The planet at which they had arrived, that is. In the intervening few thousand years, it had flourished.

All I knew for certain was that the colonists had done something—found some course of action between extinction and their principles. What that compromise was, I could not say.

* * *

“The damnedest thing,” Amanda said. She did not puzzle easily, or admit to it readily.

She had been poring over long-range fauna surveys from microsats I had deployed and low-flying drones she had deployed. “We’ve got very stable populations. The herbivores don’t overgraze anywhere, which means the carnivores are keeping them in balance. The carnivores are nicely dispersed, too. Very uniform.”

From our years together, I more or less understood her point. Natural systems tend toward equilibrium—but outside shocks to the system disturb that equilibrium: forest fires, earthquakes, volcanoes. Disaster strikes; in that region, one species or other is disproportionately killed off. Surviving species burst into a new niche, for a while with dis-equilibrating effects. Why weren’t there more areas in which the predator/prey balance was off? “What do you make of it?”

“Nothing.” She grimaced at the camera. “I’m not getting it.”

Constantly vidding Amanda made separation that much harder. I even found myself jealous of Brian. The neighborhood primitive showed no interest in her, but at least he had the unused option of seeing her, in person. Until, with no obvious reason, he was back.

Back to the fringes of the burned-out region, that is. He was in plain sight of the lander and Amanda’s outside equipment, but he did not come close. His attention was on planting seedlings even when she donned her envirosuit and hiked to visit him. When she asked if anyone else would join them, the translator’s best guess at his answer was confusion.

* * *

I was running out of excuses why Amanda should maintain isolation from Paradise’s environment—although, as the mission’s biologist, that decision was logically and factually hers. Why I sought excuses was unclear. A planet declared safe would mean our reunion. My innate caution outweighing my loneliness, I speculated. Airless “worlds” like the rock I grew up inside had no tolerance for mistakes.

Long searching eventually revealed some poisonous vegetation, but no more than could be found on large swatches of Earth. Mice (the four-legged, Earthly kind) set outside sniffed and peered about curiously, perfectly content within their wire cages. The big mystery remained how Brian’s people lived on what grew here. Amanda’s lab animals had ignored samples put into their enclosures. As long as that critical detail eluded us she agreed, reluctantly, to continue avoiding all exposure to the biosphere.

And then… .

“These guys were brilliant.”

We kept comm channels open at all times. Amanda’s whoop roused me from deep sleep. I had reset my body clock to sun time at the landing site, where it was now far from daylight. Why was she up? “A chipped rock is their idea of advanced engineering,” I grumbled. It was an attitude I knew I had to lose. The reunification protocols—our reason for being here, after all, and my job to implement once I was on the ground—were meant to be executed with an open mind.

“Trust me.” On-screen, her eyes shone. She could be so enthusiastic; that passion for her work is yet another reason I love her. “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to finish some lab work.” She brushed an unruly lock of hair from her forehead. “Cameron, I know how they eat here.”

That brought me fully awake.

“The Firsters left Earth many thousands of years ago, and we don’t know the human genome of the time in detail. Ever since, they’ve been an isolated, in-bred community. And shipboard shielding is never perfect: There are always the random effects of generations spent exposed to increased cosmic radiation. We always expect to find minor genetic drift in rediscovered colonists.” She finally paused for breath. “I think this bunch made a genetic change on purpose.”

I found I did not share her enthusiasm, even if genetic tinkering had enabled the colonists’ survival. “What, exactly, did you find?”

“Gifts from Patches.” The lander’s galley was tiny; Amanda’s body blocked my view of whatever late-night snack she had cooking. A buzzer announced the completion of something. I saw only her back as she turned to remove something from the infrared oven. “From Brian, too, although he is equally oblivious.” She turned back to the camera, a mug of steaming whatever clasped in her hands.

Patches was the calico cat. “What did … she”—a dazzling smile rewarded me—”give you?”

“Gnawed exoskeletons of the local mice. In Brian’s case, spit fruit-glob seeds. In both cases, piles of excrement.”

“And?”

“Enzyme traces, Cameron.” An arm waved excitedly in, I knew, the direction of her lab. “Enzymes like I’ve never seen. In the saliva. In the excrement. Enzymes that convert indigenous biochemicals into amino acids and sugars our enzymes can process. The colonists must have reengineered themselves, in a way we’re not smart enough to manage.”

Our civilization has its technological advances, primarily in physics—hence our FTL ships—but all those years ago the Firsters knew much about bioscience we still do not. We could never have gotten to the stars by slowboat—we couldn’t keep a shipboard biosphere viable for generations, not for even one slowboat crossing. The ancestors of these Stone Age primitives had sustained an ecology in their slowboat for four.

I shared, for a moment, my lover’s awe in the colonists’ accomplishments. That emotion demanded suppression of the misgivings Paradise continued to generate.

“Do you agree?”

An amused tone of voice revealed I had missed an earlier iteration of a question. “Sorry?”

“Do you agree it’s time to lose the envirosuit? The lab mice outside are still fine.”

What could I say? That I had a bad feeling about this? Again? “I can’t think of a reason why you shouldn’t.”

By the time I was ready once more to consider sleep, Amanda was outside, casually dressed, pitching a tent.

* * *

Amanda grew up in an Earth megalopolis with, if it were possible, less vegetation than most asteroid habitats. At one level, that’s why she went into the life sciences. She is an expert by modern standards, if not those of the Firsters. Her parents are interplanetary traders, and, from my between-mission contacts with them, egotistical, self-centered, and greedy.

The popular image of the Reunification Corps is of a band of romantics. The truth is very different. Most members enlist for the adventure, the fame of discovering a lost civilization, or the rewards of recovering a lost Firster technology. Amanda, and I love her for it, was idealistic. Sure, a part of her recognized her selfless behavior as rebellion. Independence is another part of her charm.

Sudden interest in gardening was no more surprising than many of her whims, and unshielded immersion in Paradise’s environment was the last phase of eco-safety assessment. I would be joining her soon. I took her new hobby as an indirect compliment, a way for her to fill the time until our reunion.

Finally, the regulation quarantine period was complete. Amanda suggested that I delay joining her. “I just have a bad feeling.” The lopsided grin was like her, if the words were not.

Days laboring outside had left her tanned and toned. Sunshine had bleached brown hair almost blonde. We had been having steamy radio sex since she landed. I wanted to land immediately. What was happening?

The radio sex had become a bit routine, I realized. That was surely from repetition. What to many people would have been the obvious explanation never crossed my mind. There was no way Amanda had become involved with someone else—I know her. And Brian, still the only other human in the area, kept his distance more than ever since she had shucked the envirosuit. Only Patches was a frequent caller.

Hurt, I redoubled my own cultivation: of techno-archeological insights coaxed and reconstructed from the slowboat’s balky computers. Why was Paradise so much greener than upon the colonists’ arrival? Why were the animal populations so well balanced? How had the colonists accomplished their genetic adaptation?

Those questions were no more tractable than the one that most troubled me. Besides being my wife, Amanda was the mission’s commander and biologist—and she had ordered me to stay where I was.

Why?

* * *

Adrenaline coursing, I startled awake. I had not been sleeping well. My body coped by springing catnaps on me.

A half-heard shout still rang in my mind’s ears. On a nearby screen, Amanda stared at me, wide-eyed. The sensors that surrounded the landing site read uniformly normal. “Are you all right?”

She swallowed loudly. Her forehead furrowed. “I am.”

I needed to be down there to comfort and support, as well as to see and hear. If not her, then who? There were few choices. “Did something happen to Brian?”

A shiver ruined her shrug of denial.

“Amanda! What is it?”

She stepped aside, revealing a mouse cage suspended by steel cable from a local tree at about her shoulder level. She shivered again.

Within the wholly intact wire-mesh cage, the scarcely recognizable remains of two mice lay bloody and still.

* * *

Perimeter sensors had detected nothing approaching. The lander’s cameras had not been watching the cage. Brian, whom she sought out, reacted to the bloody cage with an inscrutable comment about the weather. He kept his distance from her.

Amanda’s bad feeling suddenly was not so implausible.

For lack of other ideas, we deployed more sensors and camera drones. We encountered a plethora of local species, both predators and herbivores. I have described this world as Earth-like, but I should clarify: I refer to a much younger Earth than knew humans. None of the indigenous forms was as advanced as a cockroach; Paradise had yet to evolve endoskeletons, multi-chambered hearts, or lungs. At great separations, we saw several cats, a dog, a goat, and two rabbits. Nothing had the incredibly thin claws that would have been required to reach into the still-intact mouse cage.

What kept down the human population? Did something invisible shred them unawares, like the mice? Brian did not understand the question, let alone have an answer.

We closely observed Brian, and, far around the periphery of the forest-fire zone, his closest human neighbor: a woman. Both spent their time thinning underbrush, pruning weather-damaged fronds, and doing other pastoral tasks. Don’t expect details: On my home rock, we cultured our food in vats.

To meet that newly revealed neighbor meant leaving line-of-sight of the lander and its automatic gun turret. Stun rifle in hand, camera on her shoulder, and translator in her backpack, Amanda trekked to see her. Myra’s vocabulary was as limited as Brian’s; her curiosity, if anything, even less. Her attitude, which I once again chose to infer from body language, was hostile.

Once more, I was left to wonder: Why?

* * *

Three days after the first incident, more mice set outside were slaughtered. This time, the cages had been under constant video surveillance. We replayed the episode, time and again, in confusion and horror.

The mice tore each other apart.

* * *

I kept sifting through the digital detritus of a lost civilization, as Amanda grew ever more restless at the landing site. Neither of us found answers.

Amanda started taking long hikes, gleaning samples from the scattered flora poking up through nearby ashes and specimens from the periphery of the native forest. Studying the local plant life was unsurprising enough for a biologist, but, “It seems like the thing to do,” was not the answer I expected to her planting and nurturing far more seedlings than she analyzed. What I had called a garden now evolved, by my standards, into a farm. A restful pastime, I supposed. One I would try to get into after I joined her.

Brian, meanwhile, had become openly sullen. He was curt, even belligerent, whenever she approached the fringe of new growth that separated the fire-scarred region from his forest. Without quite knowing why, Amanda found herself taking an unprofessional dislike to him.

There was a Firster expression that applied: about how the cobbler’s children went barefoot. Mining the data of an ancient slowboat was second nature to me. Analyzing our own situation—that it had not occurred to me to do. Data about the present was Amanda’s purview. When I finally did a correlation, two things stood out. Brian only visited when the wind came from his forested home region. Both mice incidents followed weather shifts such that the wind blew briskly from the inland sea.

Brian’s ever-cryptic references to wind and weather suddenly took on importance.

* * *

“Cameron!”

My heart instantly pounding, I looked up from a dissected Firster computer. On-screen, Amanda shuddered. I was relieved to see her safe inside the lander. Behind her, visible through open airlock doors, stretched the still unnamed inland sea. I could hear the surf. “What is it?”

Still shaking, she pointed to her left; a ship-controlled camera panned to follow the gesture. Two more caged mice, dead. Other mice scurried frantically around their own cages, squealing. The survivors were scant inches from the enclosure of the latest victims.

“Cameron.” Sweat beaded on her forehead, ran down her face and neck. An eyelid twitched uncontrollably. “Cameron, if it can strike in here… .”

It: The madness that made creatures kill each other. No need to finish the thought.

Unable to concentrate on my work, I watched her autopsy and analyze the dead rodents. She soon had an answer of sorts. “The enzymes from Patches’ and Brian’s saliva … they’re also in the dead mice’s stomachs.”

I asked the one question whose answer might have negated my sense of doom. It did not. “Have you fed these mice any local food?”

“No.”

Which suggested that whatever caused these deaths was transmitted by air. But what could it be?

* * *

Patches mostly disdained Amanda’s offered snacks. It was a small surprise that local descendants of Earth mice, when caught and caged, would, once they got hungry enough, eat ship’s food. It was a far bigger surprise when Earth-bred lab mice ate local food. So far, they were doing fine on a diet of it. I watched her peel a piece of native fruit and feed slivers to mice in their cages. They were delighted.

Then she popped a piece into her mouth. “Spit it out!” I yelled.

She swallowed instead, and licked her lips. “It smelled good,” she said, as though that were a justification.

* * *

The final lab mice were gone, their self-destructive struggles captured on video. The early deaths had involved pairs of mice, who killed each other. Separating them, attempted more for lack of ideas than a theory, accomplished little. Solitary mice fatally injured themselves in a frenzy of failed escape attempts. The one thing we learned was that mice did not die before puberty.

Amanda refused to quicken any more mice from frozen embryos. “I have no theories to test, no experiments to perform. Creating new mice would be wanton, pointless cruelty.”

Misery and fear had us speaking almost constantly; stress made us snap and snarl at each other. When would the self-destructive insanity strike Amanda? I respected the wisdom of Corps protocols, the reasons for her quarantine below … all the while hating them.

Meanwhile, she endlessly cultivated her ever-expanding fields. Dirt streaked her face where she had, distractedly, brushed at trickles of sweat. Her bare arms and legs grew filthy, as though she dare not pause to rinse the caked, dried mud.

* * *

So we dug, side by virtual side, Amanda in her garden and I, in my own way, in the vast, gap-filled digital archives of the slowboat. “What,” I finally asked, on repeatedly encountering the same exotic term, “is an eco-pheromone? Our colonist friends were fascinated with them.” On-screen, she shivered. “What? Is that significant?”

“Don’t know. A bit of a breeze here, is all.” She was kneeling; her attention fixed on the ground until she had tamped down the soil and moistened mulch around the most recent bit of transplanted greenery. It took her a long time; I couldn’t imagine what she found so interesting. Finally, she looked up to wink at the camera. “Some pheromones would be welcome.”

“Hmm.” It had been a very long time, even by radio. “I could be talked into that.”

“That has never required rhetorical skill.” She cackled at my mock glower. “What do you say? Give me a while to wash up, and I’ll call you from,” and she batted her eyes, “my private chambers.”

“Hmm,” I repeated enthusiastically. This time we both laughed.

We met at the appointed time, each in our own cabin. The only alcohol on the lander was in the form of lab supplies, pure but without character. Amanda named a brandy we both favored, suggesting that I enjoy for two.

Then, touchingly, she called up one of my compositions, the first she had ever experienced. Arpeggios from a thousand synthesized instruments rippled and interlaced in counterpoint to a spectacular video from Alpha Centauri 4. Snowcapped mountains glittered in countless colors. Shadows cast by three suns lengthened and blended. One by one, the suns set, until only a warm red twilight glow remained. Music and dusk faded together into an infinite sea of stars.

What we said and did … those are important only to us. Afterward, I slept soundly for the first time in a long while.

* * *

Yet again, strident alarms made me jump. System after system aboard the lander screamed electronically: catastrophic failure. Text scrolled faster than I could absorb it: alerts and warnings. Mostly obscured on screen by the blur of dire notifications was a frenzied, axe-wielding figure. Amanda. Sparks, flame, and black smoke spewed from shattered consoles.

“Stop!” Had she heard me over alarms shrieking in the lander and echoed here? “Amanda, stop!” My shouts had no effect. “Please,” I implored. Why was she doing this? From orbit, I could only send an acknowledgement of the alarms. Electronic warbling faded. Great sobs became audible between crunching thuds of the fire axe. “Amanda!”

Either my yelling or sheer exhaustion finally stopped her. She tottered, leaning against the wooden haft of the axe. Sooty garments clung to her, sodden with sweat. Her eyes glinted insanely. “I … I …” she coughed.

“Please,” I pleaded again. I fell silent in confusion. Please what? Stop? She already had. Tell me I’m going mad, that I’m imagining things? “Please tell me why you are doing this.”

The choking sobs subsided a bit. Her eyes streamed tears, whether from smoke or emotion I did not know—and that I couldn’t distinguish was bitter. “I … I had to do this before I lost the will.”

“Do what, Amanda?” Coughing preempted any answer. The crackling of the flames grew louder. Alarms rang anew, as fire suppressant sputtered futilely from ceiling nozzles. “Get off the lander.” She nodded and stumbled to the open airlock.

Outdoor sensors imaged her from all sides as she stood, stoop-shouldered and weeping. Wordlessly we watched the lander vanish in a geyser of flames. Comsats relayed the scene, low-res and shimmery for lack of landing-site amplification. “Amanda.” No response. “Why?!”

“I can never leave. I made certain that, if my resolve weakens, I never do.” It had to be blisteringly hot so near the still-burning wreckage, but she was shivering.

My mind raced. Whatever momentary lunacy had made her wreck the lander need not doom her. Our starship was fine—if unbearably empty. I could go for help, for a team of biologists to somehow make things right. “At least tell me what this is about.”

She explained a lot now, with one word.

Replaying the video, the fronds of the seedlings all around Amanda had been perfectly still. There had been no breeze; her spontaneous trembling in reaction to my question about eco-pheromones had been horrified insight. The long time she had spent puttering with the plant, staring at the ground and away from the camera, masked frantic thinking.

“For some reason, you feel you can’t leave.” I could not yet imagine what the reason might be. I did not care. It was Amanda. “Then I’ll join you. I’ll come down in the other lander.”

“No!” Tears that had subsided welled anew. Mucus bubbled from her nostrils and ran down her chin. “Don’t you see, Cameron? That would be worse. If I see you in person, I’ll be repelled.” A shudder made her pause.

“If you leave, at least we’ll have our memories.”

* * *

Pheromones, it turns out, are much more than sexual attractants. More broadly, they are biochemical stimulants of behavior, like the scent trails left by ant scouts to lead worker ants to food. Not only animals secrete pheromones; so do some algae, slime molds, and fungi. But pheromonal effects were largely intra-species—on Earth. Eco-pheromones, Amanda had realized, must involve wide-ranging biochemical signaling among species.

And that mechanism resolved so many of the unanswered questions about Paradise.

* * *

Only science far beyond even the Firsters’ usual unattainable standards had kept the ship’s biosphere viable long enough to reach Paradise. With the scattered and incomplete records that were recoverable, we had not a chance in several lifetimes of recreating their achievement. By we, I mean the Corps and all its resources.

I did not have several lifetimes.

Still, what had happened was finally clear, if only in barest outline. The Firsters had synthesized two of what they called retroviruses. These molecular machines were benign as far as the immune system was concerned, which made them invisible to our biohazard sensors. Both retroviruses implanted designer genes into terrestrial mammals. The spliced genes from the first retrovirus expressed the proteins that, by allowing the colonists to digest local life forms, enabled survival. Given that adaptation, however, there was nothing to stop the highly evolved immigrant species from out-competing all native fauna—which the colonists were unwilling to permit.

Hence the second retrovirus: It implanted the genes that let the survivors live with themselves.

“We will not prolong our time through the wanton extinction of those who belong on this beautiful world,” declared the slowboat’s log, in an entry recorded as the shipboard biosphere was in its death throes. “Nor will we abandon to their fate those who have been such loyal shipboard companions.

“We will co-exist, or we will perish.”

Perhaps they knew what they were doing. I prefer to think they ran out of time before testing could be completed. Either way, the crew descended to Paradise’s surface, committed to being stewards of the land.

They had succeeded brilliantly. Earth animals coexisted everywhere with native forms, and, as the records from planetfall proved, the indigenous biosphere was now far lusher than before humanity’s arrival.

But genius does not preclude unintended consequences. Such as: Biological imperatives that made caged mice, their enforced proximity unbearable, fight to the death once a fickle wind stopped wafting plant and animal scents, eco-pheromones, from the nearby forest. The same imperatives that drove uncaged cats and dogs—and humans—far apart.

Humans are meant to be social creatures, not territorial like cats.

Biological imperatives the colonists had created rewarded ecological stewardship above all else. Healthy regions exuded a rich trans-species stew of pheromones, and the body responded to immersion with an endorphin-like reward. Even a brief absence from a healthy, balanced ecosystem interrupted secretion of the endorphin, and began production of its opposite, some type of repellent. Too late, I understood Brian’s evident headaches—drug withdrawal—when he ventured into the forest-fire zone. I remembered him meeting Amanda in her envirosuit and sniffing in puzzlement—at her lack of pheromones.

Only in a broad expanse where many species flourished did the density and diversity of pheromones enable small groups to form, and then only temporarily. Puberty began pheromone production; only an exceptionally fecund region could sustain eco-balance in the presence of pheromones from more than two adult anythings. Puberty caused dissolution of the family unit.

When Amanda shed her suit, Paradise’s ubiquitous retroviruses began her transformation. No mere garden could prevent her altered body’s production of the anti-endorphin. Whenever the prevailing wind shifted, whenever steady currents of pheromones did not arrive from Brian’s ceaselessly cultivated and much larger domain, she became abhorrent.

Unapproachable.

As I would be, if, against Amanda’s express commands and wishes, I were to join her… .

* * *

Luminous orbs dominated an ink-black sky, mirrored in a glass-smooth sea. The nearer moon, larger than Earth’s and closer to its primary, seemed to fill the sky. The other satellite, appearing half the size of Earth’s, also full, hovered above its companion. An evening star sparkled like a ruby just over the paired glowing disks. Music swelled as celestial spheres swung into alignment, a visual harmony observable at this spot but once every three hundred nine Paradise years.

The image is computer-generated, because the next physical alignment is not due for twenty years. Amanda and I silently shared the moment. Needing above all else to parallel her experience, I too witnessed it on a portable computer, shunning sensory immersion in the starship’s holographic theater.

We watched each other watching through tiny inset windows of our computer screens. She recovered the power of speech first. “It’s stunning, Cameron, a gift I will cherish always.” Her voice quavered. Left unspoken was that this new composition, like that last night of passion, was meant as a keepsake for the long years to come. “When alignment comes, Cameron, I’ll be playing your music and thinking of you.” Tears flowed, and her voice grew husky. “Still loving you.

“Now, go.”

* * *

Loneliness rends me. Protocol, the mission commander’s orders, and common sense all insist that I leave. My preparation, such as it is, is complete.

I look for the last time around the empty tavern of the slowboat. Hundreds of blue-and-green-and-white reflections of the globe below mock me.

This history is almost complete, recorded for some improbable resurgence of civilization by the primitives below.

Can the humans of Paradise ever cure what their mad, desperate, genius ancestors did to them? A cure is what’s needed. The retroviruses, more than an ecological adaptation, are a devolutionary trap. In a scant few thousand years, the surviving colonists—addicted to healthy-ecology endorphins, unable to congregate—have regressed to near-instinctual behavior.

Most of the planet’s surface is already in bloom; there is no basis for population expansion. Culture and science have been forgotten. How much longer, in a “society” that can support even family units only occasionally and temporarily, will traces of language survive? How few generations remain until the mute descendants of starfarers become mere tireless servants to ferns?

There is little left to say.

“If you now viewing this history come from afar, from the Reunification Corps, perhaps, a sincere warning: Do not land! If you reached this ship from the planet below … then surely you understand the nuances of your biosphere better than did Amanda or I.” In case of that eventuality, computers were rendering my rambling oration into English. The translation had to use the full Firster language—that which I needed to impart was far too complex for the pathetic scraps of speech still in use below. “Somehow, you have escaped the trap. I salute you.”

I like to believe that somehow involves me.

I have set my landing coordinates for the fire-ravaged area in which Amanda now makes her home—but at the opposite extreme. If we can make bloom our separate ends of that desolation, can expand them until they merge, the reclaimed region, bountiful with its own eco-pheromones, will make possible our reunification.

My lander’s lab computers contain the finest of modern and recovered Firster biotech. Long after I become a grubber in the dirt, lab automation will simulate, and wherever there is a chance, synthesize, possible counter-pheromones and anti-retroviruses.

I do not delude myself: Much of the search will be by trial and error. Mere neutralization of the Firster technology, as unimaginably difficult as that would be, is not my goal. A new bioagent must be limited in its effects to humans—anything less specifically targeted would destroy the biosphere the colonists sacrificed so much to preserve. Extrapolation suggests that the process could take hundreds of years, but it could still help someone.

I have purged all interstellar navigational data from the lander. That precaution, this recording—and the dispatch of the Corps starship to its fiery death in the nearby sun—are necessary to protect my civilization from the eco-madness below.

Hundreds of blue-and-green-and-white reflections of the globe below mock me.

I will not be mocked.

Amanda’s first words to me were, “You act like the world is against you.”

Slowly, I had turned toward at her. Smiling, I had peered deeply into her blue, blue eyes. “If we can be together,” I had answered her, “I’ll take those odds.”

I stride confidently to the lander. In twenty years, we have a celestial wonder to share.

* * *

Edward M. Lerner is a physicist, computer scientist, and curmudgeon by training. Now writing full-time, he applies all three skill sets to his science fiction. His web site is www.sfwa.org/members/lerner/

Science Fiction Weekly says, “In his novel MOONSTRUCK, physicist Edward M. Lerner operates proudly in the classic hard-SF tradition of John W. Campbell and Robert A. Heinlein.” SFRevu writes of MOONSTRUCK, “This is a terrific book by an emerging talent.”

Baen Books will re-release MOONSTRUCK, a unique first-contact tale, in mass-market paperback around February 2007.

To see this author’s works sold by Amazon, click here.

Demonstration Day

Written by Ian Creasey

Illustrated by Andy Hopp

“Roll up, roll up! Get your antimatter here! Gravitons, superstrings, Higgs bosons—all going cheap. Every proton has a lifetime guarantee! Buy caloric, aether, and nebulium while theories last. Special offer on orgone and vril! Dried ghosts, astrographs, universal meters. Superconductors and Bose-Einstein condensates. Athanors and alembics. Test tubes and Bunsen burners, if anyone still uses them.”

I switched on Markor’s Domestic Star to spotlight the stock. It had taken all afternoon to set up the booth, and I didn’t want to have to take everything home again. As the scientists began walking in, I mentally assigned a sales target to each experimenter.

Pale from lack of sun, or tanned scary colors from exposure to strange rays, the early arrivals stared at each other as if they’d forgotten what other people looked like. Their expressions told of the despair of failure, or the voyeuristic exhilaration of uncovering the universe’s secrets. Only a few remained unmarked, as if they’d discovered an anti-aging drug or been silently replaced by a robot they’d foolishly made in their own image. I recognized most of the arriving scientists, but one face was missing.

“Any sign of Rankin?” said Audran, who’d been browsing my stock of entangled photons.

“No,” I said. “You think your device can find him?”

He looked hurt. “You saw it at Demonstration Day last year. Given the right input, it can find anything. Grab one of those tables and I’ll set it up.”

Let the sleuthing begin, I thought. Audran had been nagging me to stock his latest device ever since he invented it, and this would be a good test of whether it worked in the real world, as well as in carefully contrived demonstrations.

“I need something close to him,” he said, returning with his laptop computer.

“That’s the problem: all his personal stuff disappeared with him—notebook, everything. But we do have this.” I reached into one of my cases and brought out a dead dog in formaldehyde.

He burst out laughing. “Is that the best you could do?”

“Don’t laugh. Occam here was his constant companion in the lab and acted as point man in his experiments—or point dog, you could say.”

“What experiments?” asked Audran, curious.

“No one knows, not even his daughter; only the dog, and he’s not talking. Margaret reckons he died of a broken heart after Rankin disappeared, but I think lack of food and water might have had more to do with it. Anyway, she preserved old Occam in case her father wanted to do any tests when he returned. But he didn’t come back. And so—”

“And so you called me. I still think a ten percent royalty is pitifully low.”

“You’ll be getting a hundred percent of nothing if this doesn’t work. Do we have to take the body out and drain off the formaldehyde? I’d rather not.”

“We’ll try it the easy way first.” Audran booted up the computer and plugged a homemade device into the back. “Got any Z-leads?” he asked.

I passed him two from my stock, making a mental note to get them back after the test. Audran clipped one end of each lead to his device and attached the other ends to the big specimen jar with sticky tape.

“Woof!” said a passing scientist. “It’s alive! Run! Run, I tell you!”

I glared at him and he slunk away.

“The classical world is an illusion,” said Audran, looking at the screen and typing away. “The universe is a single quantum system in which everything is connected. Nonlocal entanglements—”

“Spare me the spiel,” I said. “I heard it last year.”

He sniffed, annoyed at being cut off. But he shut up and typed for five minutes, without seeming to get much joy. Eventually he said, “Can you open it up? No need to take anything out; we’ll stick the leads in at the top.”

I didn’t enjoy the task—I’m a salesman, not a vivisectionist—but after some ineffectual poking, we snagged two leads on the remaining patches of fur, and Audran said that would have to do. Then he looked at the screen and shook his head. “Nothing. Are you sure it’s his dog, and not a stray?”

That wasn’t worth answering, so I didn’t. Audran shrugged. “I’m not getting a damn thing off it. If this dog ever had an owner, right now he’s seriously unavailable. I’ve had livelier readings for corpses.”

“Looks like you need to improve performance before worrying about a brand name,” I said. I recovered my leads and wiped them clean.

“I’ve decided to call it the Quent,” he said.

“Snappy name. Shame it doesn’t work.”

He looked devastated. “I don’t understand what’s wrong. Can we test something else?”

“I haven’t got anything else that belonged to Rankin,” I lied. “And I can’t stock equipment that only works when it feels like it. Come back to me when it’s fixed.”

Audran gave me a sour look. He picked up his kit and went upstairs to stow it away, safe from the prying hands of rival scientists. Paranoid? Yes, but I remembered the chap who invented antigravity—someone got sick of him showing off, sabotaged his flying belt to stick at full power, and the inventor spent the rest of the convention glued to the ceiling.

I put the lid back on the collie, who looked sadder than ever. The sharp tang of formaldehyde hung in the air, so I zapped it with an Odor-Exploder—item #16024 in my catalog. I left the specimen jar on the table. The chances of anyone wanting to buy an ill-preserved dead dog were low, but not zero. It might be just the thing for someone’s latest research. And if Rankin became angry at me for selling his late pet—well, he’d have to come back to be annoyed, and that would be worth it. I was worried about him. I’d known him for years, and he’d never been so eccentric as to disappear without telling anyone. He was a friend.

And he was one of my best customers.

Calverley had been standing by my booth, watching the attempt to locate Rankin. He had a smirk on his face, presumably satisfaction at the failure of Audran’s Quent. There’s a lot of competition among the inventors, and Calverley fancies himself as the top experimentalist. He likes to remind people that he’s discovered five new principles, eight strange particles, and eleven mysterious forces. He even wears a white coat to the convention, when most of the others make their annual attempt at dressing up and come along in suits that smell of mothballs and year-old sandwiches in the pockets.

“Have you heard from Rankin?” he asked Vanzetti.

Vanzetti, the president of the Advanced Studies Association, was lurking by my bookshelf. “No one’s seen or heard from him in months,” he said. “It’s very odd. Maybe he was abducted.” He pulled down Kay’s Field Guide to Aliens of the Nearer Galaxies and began flicking through it. I knew he wouldn’t buy it, so I gave the penniless theorist my best shopkeeper’s glare.

“More likely the government press-ganged him into weapons research in a secret lab somewhere.” Calverley mimed a Super Blaster Ray with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old boy, pointing the imaginary weapon at Audran, who’d just come back.

“Or maybe the Reds nabbed him,” said Audran. They don’t have much grasp of current affairs, these scientists.

“Perhaps he’s taking the chance to break into our labs and see what we’re all up to,” said Calverley.

“I’d like to see him try,” said Audran. “I’ve got my lab so protected it takes me ten minutes to get in. If anyone else tries, my ParaZap throws them into the Holding Pit.” He smiled and held Calverley’s gaze. “I check the pit every week or so, or whenever it starts to smell.”

All this speculation seemed uninformed; I wondered if any of the speakers knew more than they were letting on. Rankin’s daughter had hinted darkly at rivalries, saying he’d been worried someone else was working on the same project.

As more people arrived, conversation turned to scientific matters: the known, the unknown, and the dubious maps of the border in the Advanced Studies Journal. When acronyms and mathematics started outnumbering real words, I bought a round of drinks, hoping that this would bring the talk back down to my intellectual level. The scientists congregated in the bar, playfully spiking each other’s drinks with lab alcohol, and Rankin’s mysterious disappearance sparked recollections of the great experimental mishaps of old colleagues.

“Remember Hogg?” said Vanzetti. “Clever fellow—invented the Practical Angel Trap. I remember the demo as if it were only last year: never been so moved in my life. We all warned him of the consequences if he fiddled with the apparatus, but he just had to see what happened if he reversed the polarity. Next thing he knew, a swarm of demons carried him off to Hell. That’s no way for a scientist to go.”

Everyone shuddered. Calverley said, “Then there was Caprivi. He built a dimensional traveler, and ended up proving that the higher spatial dimensions are tiny. He came back as a red smear about a nanometer thick.”

“So Rankin might have suffered a laboratory accident?” I said.

“It’s possible,” said Vanzetti. “Though he never struck me as being rash. He wasn’t a tinkerer.”

This disparaging term drew frowns from Calverley, Audran, and the other practical scientists. While the experimenters may bicker among themselves, they all gang up on the theorists.

“But there was no sign of an explosion in his lab,” I said. “It looked more as if he’d been kidnaped than blown up.”

Calverley turned to me. “You seem rather keen on that interpretation. Is that the sign of a guilty conscience?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if he had an accident in his lab, it could have been the result of rash experiments—or faulty equipment.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my equipment,” I said.

“There’s the prices, for one thing,” said Audran.

I ignored the price issue—it’s an argument I can’t win—and said, “I only sell stuff that’s been properly tested and vetted. That’s why I refused to stock your Quent when you couldn’t get it to work.”

“You can’t possibly test all your stock,” said Audran. “You don’t know what half of it is for.”

Before I could answer that, Calverley said, “I think you should tell us what equipment you sold to Rankin. Then we can test it and see if it’s safe.”

“Rankin asked me to keep his purchases confidential, just as you all do,” I said.

“His project can’t be that secret if he was planning to present it at Demonstration Day tomorrow,” said Calverley.

“He might only want to demonstrate one aspect of his work. He could have several projects on the go.” I looked round at all the gadgeteers and said, “How many of you want me to abandon confidentiality and let everyone know what you’re buying?”

There was a swell of protest, but Calverley shouted over it. “Rankin’s gone! What’s wrong with a safety check?”

I laughed. “That’s the most pathetic attempt at spying I’ve ever seen. Are you really that desperate to find out what Rankin’s been doing?”

“I’d like to find out if he’s been killed by your products,” said Calverley.

“You want to believe that, don’t you? Because if Rankin was killed by his own bad judgment, that makes you realize the same could happen to any of you. Whereas if he was killed by dangerous equipment, that doesn’t reflect on him or on you, only on me—”

“—And you can be replaced,” said Calverley. “We can get our apparatus elsewhere.”

“But this is all supposition. There’s no evidence that my supplies killed him.”

“Except that you won’t let us test—”

“Because his purchases are confidential—”

At this impasse, we all looked at Vanzetti. This is why the president of the Association is usually a theorist, someone neutral in these arguments.

Vanzetti said, “You’re all assuming that Rankin’s dead, just because no one’s seen him lately. But the demonstration isn’t till tomorrow—there’s still plenty of time for him to arrive. Let’s not worry just yet. If he turns up in the morning, we’ll feel silly for having this argument.”

The optimism sounded hollow. And I realized from everyone’s expressions that if Rankin didn’t show up, they would blame me. As the outsider, the only nonscientist at the convention, I was the easy scapegoat. They’d worry about the safety of my products, start buying elsewhere… .

Unless I could prove that Rankin’s disappearance wasn’t my fault, my business was in deep trouble.

* * *

Saturday morning looked like an advert for washing powder: the fresh white snow outside was clean and bright as a New Improved Ultra-Detergent. Inside, however, an Inferior Rival Brand had been used. There were drifts of papers everywhere, all covered with smudged equations, circuit diagrams, obscure notes, preprints of ASJ articles, and sketches of elaborate experiments. The tables were stacked with journals, books, notepads, and my equipment catalogs, all overlaid with scattered hats, scarves, umbrellas, and galoshes, not to mention miscellaneous toolkits, specimens, and devices.

In the middle of the hall, three robots were constructing houses of cards—I recalled a drunken argument last night over whose robot had the most nimble, delicate manipulators. The robots had spent all night competing to build the highest structure, using punch cards from someone’s old mainframe. Three slender, elegant towers rose high above the convention detritus, the oblong holes in the punch cards looking like windows in miniature skyscrapers. Metal Boy was winning: he was busy cutting a hole in the ceiling to make room for further ascent.

I was the first real person out of bed. I don’t drink, and I always get up early so that I can dispense Crabtree’s Hangovercome to the scientists staggering downstairs. The morning passed in a gentle drone of conversation and brunch. I sold some equipment, and took orders and inquiries. But I wasn’t as busy as I had been in previous years. After last night’s safety smear, was my custom dropping off already?

Rankin still hadn’t shown up, and the long gaps between customers were making me edgy. I decided that I had to break my confidentiality rule. When Vanzetti appeared, red-eyed and bedraggled—he might be a theorist, but he’d been experimenting with cocktails last night—I gave him a double dose of Crabtree for instant sobriety.

“What is it, Drake?” he said. “You know I don’t buy apparatus—none of that dangerous mucking about with unknown forces for me.”

“I know. That’s why I want to show you something.”

I turned on the Impenetro force field around my booth, giving us a private space. Then I uncapped a plastic tube containing a set of blueprints. I unrolled the largest print, and weighted each corner with my latest novelty item: a plastic bubble containing a tiny castle on a crag. As Vanzetti picked one up for a closer look, his touch sparked a lightning bolt onto the castle and a roll of thunder followed by maniacal laughter.

“For the scientist whose budget doesn’t stretch to a real gothic mansion,” I explained. I tactfully didn’t mention that some budgets don’t even stretch to lab equipment, which is one way theorists are born.

Vanzetti laughed. “You never give up, do you?”

“One day you’ll buy something, even if it’s only a piece of chalk. But never mind that. As I said last night, I keep all my orders in strict confidence—you know how paranoid people get about their work—but I think the circumstances call for an exception. Rankin still hasn’t turned up, so he can hardly complain. As a theorist, you’re not one of his direct rivals, so you’re the best person I can think of to show this to.”

“But I thought Rankin didn’t leave any notes.”

“Not in his lab, no. But he gave me these specs for the device he was building and disappeared two months after I delivered the equipment. This has got to be the key to the puzzle. What is it? What does it do?”

Vanzetti looked at the print with a keen interest. I’d already looked at it a dozen times, so I watched him instead, hoping to spot a spark of comprehension. But his brow remained furrowed.

“The only way to see what it does would be to build it. And I don’t think even that would suffice. Most of this is just framework—he’s left out the activating principle. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than the obvious.”

“Which would be?”

“Look,” he said, pointing. “That’s a seat. Why would he build a seat inside the apparatus? He’d only need to do that if it was intended to move in some way: it’s a form of transport. But the engine details are missing from the diagram. So how it’s powered and where it would go are anyone’s guess.”

I felt stupid for not having realized this myself, but I’m used to feeling stupid around the scientists, so I didn’t let it bother me. “What’s your guess?”

He shrugged. “There’s lots of possibilities—” Then he smiled. “Maybe that’s where he went. Possibilities, lots of possibilities.”

I was puzzled for a second until I realized what he was driving at. “You mean parallel universes, where history took different paths?”

“Could be. There’s no evidence for it, other than the fact that he hasn’t come back.”

“Why is that evidence?”

“Think how many parallel universes there must be by now, billions of years after the Big Bang. Sideways navigation would be a nightmare. After leaving your home universe, how could you ever get back? Forget looking for a needle in a haystack: you’d have a better chance of finding a black cat in a black hole.”

Vanzetti must have seen my face drop. He said, “I was just speculating. It might not be that at all. It’s a shame we won’t find out what he was working on—I was looking forward to his demonstration.”

I remembered that, as president of the Association, Vanzetti was in charge of Demonstration Day. “Didn’t he tell you what he wanted to show?”

He laughed at the thought. “No, they never do that. Surprise is everything: it’s the only way to make everyone’s jaws drop off in admiration. If I announced beforehand that I was going to turn lead into gold, for instance, one guy would say that he’d already made a mountain of gold and had suppressed the process because it would disrupt the economy, and another guy would say that it was an interesting advance but not half so significant as his Patent Bootlace Fastener.”

“Then how do you decide who gets the billing?”

“If there’s more than one applicant, I give it to whoever’s waited longest since his last demonstration or since joining the Association. Rankin had years of seniority.”

I frowned. “But if Rankin doesn’t turn up, does that mean you have to cancel the show?”

“Oh, no,” said Vanzetti. “Demonstration Day is the highlight of the convention. Calverley was next in line, so I’ve said he can do it. He’s already setting up, though he’s got so much equipment that it’s bound to be a frightful bore. I always say the best demonstrations need the least apparatus. Less is more, you know. In my younger days, experimenters poked the universe with a stick to see if it jumped, but now they can’t even do that without buying your Cosmo-Prod 4000.”

He wagged a finger at me. “It’s all your fault. You keep selling fancy equipment, so now everyone’s building complicated machines with flashing lights and beeping gizmos. Big boys’ toys, that’s all they are. And there’s no theory behind any of it. None of the new people in the Association could integrate a spanning function to save their lives. They’re a stranger to footnotes, the lot of them… .”

While he rambled on, a big neon sign flashed in my skull. Calverley was Rankin’s rival, possibly working on similar research. I had seen Calverley smirking when the Quent failed to find him. And Calverley had benefited from Rankin’s disappearance by acquiring the coveted Demonstration Day lecture.

Calverley was the number one suspect. No wonder he’d tried to deflect suspicion onto my equipment.

I put Rankin’s blueprints away, then de-energized the force field surrounding the booth. Vanzetti wandered off, still muttering about the mathematical inadequacies of the younger generation. I wondered how to approach Calverley, and a notion began to take shape.

I was about to go look for him when he came through the door.

“Calverley!” I shouted.

“Ah, Drake,” he said, hurrying across the hall. “Have you got any more of those monopoles?”

I thought I might as well make a sale, and it was a good opening. “Sure,” I said. “Today’s special: with every ten monopoles, a gremlin trap. See how smoothly your experiments run when the little bastards are squeaking under a bell jar.”

“I already have a gremlin trap.”

“Only one? How often is it out of action? You need another trap to stop them jinxing the first trap.”

“And a third to protect the second, no doubt,” said Calverley, with a twitch of a smile. But he looked interested.

I brought out my best trap and placed it in the middle of the table. I needed bait, so I began activating curious devices. A ball lightning generator sparked and hissed as it emitted glowing spheres of electricity, which floated around the hall until they grounded themselves or fell into the Domestic Star like doomed comets. I set a universal Turing machine to grind out the decimal expansion of pi, and fed a stack of notes into my counterfeit detector. Other scientists gathered round, attracted by the noise, and one or two added their own gadgets to the rapidly developing Shrine of the Machine.

Soon there was a crunch as the Turing machine’s tape jammed, followed by a faint cackle of glee, then a shriek as the trap sprung.

“Look what we have here,” I said. The gremlin was blue and about five inches high; one arm was a spanner set and the other was a multi-screwdriver. Its wheels span furiously but gained no purchase on the frictionless floor of the trap. “A Class Five, tooled up for action.”

“Kill it! Kill it!” shouted the scientists, their eyes full of hate at the sight of their ancient enemy.

“It’s back to entropy for you, pal,” I said, opening the trap. But instead of squishing the gremlin, I flung it right into Calverley’s face.

He gibbered and sputtered as the gremlin reached up his nostril and started poking around in his brain. “Need more monopoles, need more monopoles. The fossilization takes too much power—” Then he peeled the gremlin off his nose and flung it to the floor, where it broke open, spilling tiny ratchets and lubricating oil onto the ground. A flock of inch-high Class One gremlins appeared and gathered up the remains of their comrade, then vanished, squeaking in grief.

“What the hell was that for?” shouted Calverley.

I avoided his gaze and concentrated on shutting down the other devices. “Sorry. I knew the gremlin would make you say the thing you most wanted to keep quiet. I thought if you had anything to do with Rankin’s disappearance, it would come out then. Obviously, you’re innocent and I apologize.”

Calverley’s face was flushed with outrage. “You nearly made me give away my demonstration.” And indeed the other scientists were already whispering to each other, wondering what “fossilization” meant and saying it didn’t sound very exciting.

“Sorry,” I said again, while under the table my hand closed on a titanium strut in case he went for me. “I was concerned about Rankin—”

“You should be more concerned about yourself,” said Calverley, still seething. “Selling overpriced, dodgy equipment is bad enough, but assaulting the customers is going too far. I want you out of this convention. At tomorrow’s AGM I’m going to propose that you be barred from all Association events—forever.”

“So you don’t want to buy my overpriced, dodgy monopoles?” I wasn’t going to let him show how much his threat worried me.

He frowned, clearly needing the monopoles but hating to back down. Concern for his demonstration won out. “Yes, I’ll buy them—if they’re up to scratch. But it’ll be the last sale you ever make.”

I bagged the ‘poles and took his cash. I dearly wanted to jack up the price, but other scientists were watching the scene, and I knew I couldn’t afford to alienate anyone by blatant profiteering. Tomorrow I’d need all the votes I could get.

And now was the time to start campaigning, by advertizing my unique wares. “Gremlin traps! Special offer on gremlin traps, all sizes up to Class Nine. Come on chaps, buy gremlin traps!”

Business was brisk. I was pleased, until I realized people were buying because they thought I wouldn’t be around for much longer.

* * *

Late afternoon, custom dried up as people began gathering for the Demonstration Day show. The traditional start is 5:00 p.m., but the scientists always arrive early to fight for a good heckling position, and nowadays the demonstration often begins as soon as everyone’s assembled.

I let the rush subside and followed at my own pace, taking up a seat near the back and listening to the excited buzz of the scientists as they contemplated Calverley’s apparatus. I recognised the high-spec generator I’d sold him, but I knew nothing about the case or the silver cube with a door in the front and a control panel on the side. This looked very like a large microwave oven and provoked a shout of, “I’ll have a jacket potato please,” from the audience.

Vanzetti called for order. “Gentlemen. Thank you all for attending this year’s convention. The Association has a proud tradition of demonstrating the practical applications of the latest scientific advances… .” The speech is so familiar I swear I can hear tape hiss, and so few people bother to listen that he could announce discovery of the Final Theory without raising a flicker. It just gives the waiting scientist time to worry about everything that could possibly go wrong with his demonstration.

Relieved applause marked the end of the speech, and Calverley walked onto the stage.

“Thank you. I will begin by showing you all what this apparatus can do; you may like to guess how it’s doing it.” He reached into his case. “I have here an ordinary hen’s egg—I’ll pass it round so you can see it’s normal in every respect.”

This took some time, as many of the scientists wanted to scrutinize it with magnifying glasses and detectors of every sort, from Geiger counters to spectrometers. As the egg moved from hand to eager hand, tension and anticipation rose within the hall. Then someone dropped the egg, which caused a few giggles. While two people argued over who hadn’t had hold of it, others gathered round to inspect the debris. But the shell fragments, the albumen, and the yoke with its black dot were all, indeed, perfectly normal.

Calverley reached into his case again. “I have here another ordinary hen’s egg,” he said, offering it to the front row.

“Get on with it!” cried several voices, and Calverley dispensed with the inspection.

He opened the door of the silver cube. “Look: completely empty.” The cube was mirrored silver on the inside as well, but was definitely empty. Calverley put the egg inside the cube. He closed the door and pressed a button on the control panel. The generator hummed briefly, then the On light glowed for about five seconds.

Calverley knocked on the top of the cube three times and said, “Abracadabra!” He opened the door. Tottering around inside the cube was a tiny, downy chicken.

There was scattered applause and a cry of, “I wanted an omelette.”

He acknowledged the applause, then removed the chick and wrung its neck. “Is it red wine or white with chicken? I can never remember. But here are two bottles of white, fresh from my cousin’s vineyard.” He presented them to Vanzetti. “Pick a bottle, any bottle.”

Vanzetti tapped them both—what he hoped to learn I have no idea—then selected the one on the right.

“Open it,” invited Calverley, distributing glasses among the front row.

Vanzetti opened the bottle and there was a dash for the free drink, which soon stopped when Vanzetti tasted his and promptly spat it out. “It’s disgusting!”

“Then let’s see if we can improve it,” said Calverley. He put the other bottle in the silver cube and made a few mystic passes with one hand while programming the panel with the other. “A little sprinkle of magic dust, and—Prestidigitarium!”

He removed the bottle and handed it to Vanzetti, who smiled sourly and made rather a meal of opening it.

“Surely we could invent something more efficient,” mused Calverley as Vanzetti struggled ostentatiously with the corkscrew. “Maybe we ought to have a convention at which we all turn our hands to something useful… . What do you think?” he asked.

Vanzetti couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of his voice as he said, “It’s drinkable, very drinkable. Is it really the same wine?” The dash for the drink resumed on this vote of confidence, and all the scientists marveled at the instant improvement.

Calverley moved to the blackboard. “It’s the same wine. The only added ingredient is time. You’ve just seen the world’s first Chronoplus! Inside the cube, the t component of spacetime is accelerated by a factor of rho squared, where rho is defined by… .”

He began scribbling equations, and I popped out for a smoke.

I’d intended to loiter on the porch and return before Calverley filled up the board with his theorems, because I do a lot of business just after demonstrations, when the audience is fired up with enthusiasm and the desire to finally iron out the niggling flaws in their perpetual motion machines. But it was so cold that I had to move around, so I walked down to the lake, crunching snow crystals underfoot. In the late afternoon twilight, all color had drained out of the world: the sky and everything under it were test-card shades of gray. A thin film of ice smoothed the surface of the water, and I tossed a few stones just for the tiny thrill of breaking it up.

The convention was nearly over now. After tomorrow’s AGM the scientists would all return to their labs for another year of persuading the mute cosmos not to be so shy. There was still no sign of Rankin, nor any clue to his fate. What could I tell his daughter, after my promise to investigate and my grand hints that the case was as good as solved?

No one had seen him, no one had heard from him. If the blueprints did show a vessel of some sort, as Vanzetti thought, then he’d built it, climbed inside, and vanished. What kind of vessel could it be? If it was going anywhere dangerous, like outer space, he would have left a note or said good-bye. He wasn’t a loner with no ties: he had a daughter. To leave unannounced, as if popping out for a pint of milk, he must have had a safe destination in mind. But where?

He’d disappeared, but he’d applied for Demonstration Day, which was probably the most prestigious event of his life. So he’d want to turn up for it, surely, not go gallivanting across spacetime. Spacetime. Space? Time!

I dashed back inside and rushed into the hall, where Calverley had abandoned the blackboard for a final, end-of-show extravaganza.

“—To see how they will look as fossils, let me first set the timer for one million years.” The generator began to groan.

Everyone turned to look at me as I charged in, uttering incoherent warnings which were drowned out by the increasing hum of the generator. No one else, therefore, saw Rankin appear center stage, behind Calverley and his equipment, in the vessel I recognized from the blueprints. He looked enormously pleased with himself and said, “Gentlemen—”

Still running forward, I heard the generator stop and saw the On light appear.

“—it gives me great pleasure—”

Rankin’s voice began descending in pitch like a tape played with exhausted batteries.

“—to demonstrate—”

The scientists looked back to the stage, where Rankin began to fade out in a cinematic slow dissolve.

“—time travel!”

He was transparent now, and his voice growled down into a subsonic rumble like the rattling chains of a ghost.

By now I was at the front of the hall. I leapt onto the stage and pressed the big red button on Calverley’s device, trusting it meant what I thought it meant.

“What is it now?” he cried. “Stop persecuting me!”

“Rankin! You must have noticed,” I accused, forgetting he’d been facing the wrong way.

A mob of scientists clambered on the stage to investigate the apparition. Vanzetti poked the faint shimmer that marked Rankin’s presence or absence, then sucked his finger and shrugged. “Clear the area!”

That took far longer to do than say, and even when we all congregated in the bar, the air still buzzed with questions and speculations. But the assembled brainpower didn’t take long to thrash out what had happened.

Vanzetti waved his glass as he expounded, spilling beer onto discarded convention programs. “Rankin’s traveler arrived just as Calverley’s accelerator started up. The two time machines so close together created an interference effect and Calverley’s dragged Rankin off into the future. How long elapsed in yours?” he asked Calverley.

“At the cutoff, just over a hundred thousand years had passed.”

There was a moment’s silence as we all imagined Rankin’s voyage and wondered what he’d see.

“I don’t think Rankin will go that far,” said Vanzetti. “He’s like a cat that’s walked into the road, been hit by a car, and dragged along on the bumper. Just because the car’s going a long way, that doesn’t mean the cat will. I could probably work it out, given the distance between the time-drives and the ratio of their powers.” Give a theorist a problem to solve, and he’s happy.

“He’s going to slide through every Demonstration Day from now on,” Audran said.

“He’ll be a permanent demonstration in himself,” said Vanzetti. “I think he’d have liked that.”

”He’d have liked that?” I asked, incredulous. “Why are you talking about him in the past tense?”

“You think the future tense would be more appropriate?”

“No, I think rescuing him would be more appropriate.”

I looked into a circle of blank stares.

“Rescue him? Does he want rescuing? He built the thing, so he must have wanted to travel in it. And we all know we experiment at our own risk,” said Vanzetti.

I didn’t bother pointing out that Vanzetti never experimented at all. “He expected to turn up here, not thousands of years in the future in an unknown environment. He won’t be prepared—he won’t have food or drink. And the machine might not have enough power to come back.”

“Just how do you propose we rescue him?” said Vanzetti.

“You’re the scientists. Figure it out!”

“We’ll think about it,” Vanzetti said. “There’s no rush. If he’s traveling forward in time, it hardly matters whether we start now or tomorrow or next year. Hastiness is the enemy of good science.”

I saw the sense in that, but I knew that if the task was put off now, it could be put off again tomorrow, and again next year. “Fair enough—postpone it as long as you like. But his daughter’s been mad with worry. Which of you wants to tell her what happened to him? Which of you wants to tell her that you’ll eventually get round to thinking about rescuing him when you’ve all wrapped up your own far more important projects?”

“Look, we’re not heartless—we’re not opposed to rescuing him. But what can we do? He has the only time machine,” said Vanzetti.

“What about the Chronoplus?” I asked.

“That’s not the same thing at all,” said Calverley indignantly.

“It’s the same principle, isn’t it?”

“It may be the same principle, but just because a radio and a computer both use electricity that doesn’t mean you can convert one into the other with a few bits of string and an adjustable spanner.”

I pointed to my catalog with its vast range of stock. “I think I can provide a bit more than that.”

This brought a few surprised looks and a sarcastic comment from the crowd. “Mr. Markup is offering to underwrite the rescue costs? Now I have seen everything!”

“I’ll charge it to Rankin,” I said. “If he’s got a time machine and a bank account, he won’t have any trouble paying.”

Audran spoke up. “The two time machines probably have a quantum entanglement. I might be able to detect him with the Quent, if I can rework the equations to include the temporal displacement.”

The prospect of a blank check galvanized the scientists. Others said their own research might be able to help. Vanzetti pored over Calverley’s papers, saying that a full understanding of the underlying theory would be necessary before any dangerous rescue attempts, and Calverley himself basked in the attention that his device had brought him.

Having bullied everyone into thinking, I felt I ought to shut up and let them get on with it. I bought a round of coffee and carried the blackboard into the bar so that people could contemplate Calverley’s scrawled lecture notes. Despite the unusual events of the day, the convention soon took on its normal evening atmosphere of learned disputation. The only difference from last night was that, faced with a substantive issue to engage with, the scientists didn’t indulge themselves with their usual long-winded anecdotes.

Anecdotes… . Somewhere in my brain a neuron yelled for attention, and my own mental time machine transported me back to last night. “Remember Hogg?—invented the Practical Angel Trap.”

I marched over to the table where Calverley was deep in discussion. “What happens if you reverse the polarity?”

He stared at me as if I were a rat querying the design of his maze: not being a scientist myself, I usually confine my technical suggestions to buying more expensive equipment. A babble of responses rose from the others.

“Time would slow down instead of speeding up.”

“No, time would go backward instead of forward.”

“No, the thing would blow up.”

“Whatever, it wouldn’t affect Rankin.”

Audran shook his head and said, “It would if they were still entangled.”

Vanzetti waited for everyone else’s instant opinion before saying, “Let’s ask the equations.” He added a minus sign near the top of the blackboard and started following it through, until Calverley seized the chalk from him.

“That doesn’t follow—it’s squared, so the minus disappears.”

“No, look, it goes through here—”

“No way!”

I recognised the situation from conventions past: they would never agree. It wasn’t that it was my suggestion; it would have been the same had any of the scientists suggested it, perhaps worse as professional rivalry took hold. They were all too individualistic, too keen on the primacy of their own opinion, too convinced of their own genius to agree with lesser mortals. I realized that the scientists would never agree on any rescue plan. It was up to me to take action, and if one polarity had sent Rankin away, the reverse might bring him back.

I waited until the mle round the blackboard became absorbed in argument, and tiptoed out of the bar back into the hall. Calverley’s device was still on the stage.

“Don’t touch it!” Audran had followed me. “Before you start fiddling, don’t you want to be sure of success? You’ve already annoyed Calverley; you don’t want to mess about with his apparatus if it’s not going to do any good.”

“Calverley can’t become angrier than he is already. And I won’t know if this’ll do any good until I try it, will I?”

“There’s no point in trying unless the two time-engines are still interfering. Let me test for quantum entanglement: if they’re still connected, you can go ahead.”

“You had your chance before, and your test didn’t work.”

“Of course not, because you asked me where Rankin was, not when he was. I couldn’t pick him up in any spatial direction because he wasn’t anywhere in the universe at that moment: he’d time-jumped past it. But now I know to allow for that.”

I hesitated.

“Look, you said come back when it’s fixed. I’ve fixed it.”

I wasn’t convinced, but the test would probably be quicker than an argument. “All right,” I said. “But hurry up. The others won’t stay in the bar forever.”

“Get the dog again,” said Audran. “We’ll do a triangulation.”

Soon we had the Quent set up, with one lead in the specimen jar and the other taped to Calverley’s device.

“I’m scanning for someone linked to both objects… . That’s a strong signal,” he said with surprise. “Oh, it’s you. I said not to touch the Chronoplus.”

“I didn’t! But who do you think sold Calverley the components?”

Audran gave me another lead to hold. “I’ll filter you out. Scanning again… . Got him! Ten thousand years, or thereabouts.”

“Are you sure it’s Rankin?” I asked.

“Who else in the future would have such an entanglement? Even if the Chronoplus ends up in a museum, I think the dog will have had a decent burial by then. I’d hate to think what it would look like otherwise.”

It was true that Margaret’s preservation job wasn’t exactly Egyptian quality. Audran cleared away his stuff and said, “So you’ll stock the Quent? And I get ten percent royalties?”

“Hold on. All you’ve said is that Rankin’s in the future, which we knew already. I won’t know that it’s measured a genuine entanglement unless we can use it to get him back.”

Audran started to protest, but I cut him off. I walked over to Calverley’s apparatus and examined the connections between the generator and the cube. Now I’m no scientist, but after years of selling gadgets of one sort or another, you can’t help picking up a few basics. It was the work of a moment to switch the polarity. Then I set the controls for the level reached on the earlier aborted run, to ensure delivery of an equal and opposite amount of power.

I took a deep breath and pressed the big green button.

The roar of the generator must have been audible from the bar, for a gaggle of scientists rushed into the hall to see what was happening. It was most gratifying to have an audience see me conjure up Rankin from thin air. His machine was a fantastical agglomeration of gleaming pipes, struts, and copper cylinders. It appeared a few inches above the stage and dropped with a crunching thud, narrowly missing the leads to Calverley’s generator.

Rankin stepped out and smiled at me. “Did you figure it out for yourself, or will I have to go back in time and plant a clue?”

I was hurt. “Ideas aren’t the sole preserve of scientists, you know. Even a salesman—”

Calverley interrupted, shouting, “How dare you fiddle with my machine!” He was hopping up and down, quivering like a defective robot about to explode in an eruption of springs and gaskets.

I said to Rankin, “Calverley here accused me of causing your disappearance by selling you defective equipment. He’s going to propose a motion to expel me from the convention. I trust I can count on your vote against?”

“Disappearance?” Rankin frowned. “I was going to go back, but I’d better not if that’ll cause a time paradox. But that’s not your fault. Of course you have my vote.”

Exploiting my position as savior of the hour, I turned to the watching crowd and said, “How about the rest of you?”

A rumbling of support showed I was safe. Calverley shot me a black look, then began dismantling his equipment. The other scientists pressed forward to question Rankin and examine his apparatus.

“A marvelous breakthrough,” said Vanzetti. “Shame about the interference problem, though.”

“Yes, I was thinking about that while I was stranded in the future,” said Rankin. “I’ll have to build a baffle around the time-engine. Drake?”

I pushed through the mob of scientists. Rankin gave me one of my equipment catalogs, folded open at the order form. Tachyon waveguide, spintronic inverter, copper coils x4, mahogany trimmings… .

I mentally reckoned up the total, and smiled.

* * *

Ian Creasey is the author of many stories.

To see this author’s work sold by Amazon, click here.

I Could’ve Done Better

Written by Gregory Benford and David Brin

Illustrated by Pamelina

1

They didn’t have to do this to me. Dump me in this place, with no chance of going home.

I told them I’d try harder. Really. Make up for my mistakes. Be a better person. They could choose someone else, easy.

But did they listen?

How I miss the things I’ll never do again. Eat a hotdog at the ballpark. Take a flight out to the coast. Catch a Vegas show or watch a playoff game on TV. I suppose I could invent baseball or teach these people how to play poker. But they’d just let me win all the time, so where’s the fun?

Here comes slender Mirimani now, carrying a basket of fresh fruit, followed by Deela—buxom Deela—with a pitcher of beer. I’ve grown used to the strong, bitter stuff they brew here, though I’d trade Tut’s treasure right now for a cold, frothy Budweiser …

“It is time for my lord to have his morning massage,” Deela says, leaning over me to fill a golden goblet. Her scent is mild must and myrrh. Two more girls approach with linen towels and scented oils.

Mirimani smiles. She’s leaner, more athletic.

“Or would the Father of the Nile prefer to bathe first?”

All right, I admit it. I used to get a kick out of talk like that, the first hundred or so times. Till I realized what an absolute pit it is to be Pharoah.

“Not now,” I respond. My Old Kingdom Egyptian has an Illinois accent, but no one complains. “What’s on our schedule today?”

Mirimani can glide smoothly from seductive to pure business—one reason she’s risen so high in my service.

“A new ambassador from Babylon wishes to present gifts.”

“Right into my lapis, I suppose.”

“My lord?”

“Never mind.” Making puns in English, instead of my tortured Ancient Egyptian; I really am homesick today. “Okay, then what?”

“You grant clemency to the Lybian rebels.”

“Clemency? Those guys gave me real trouble last summer, raiding caravans and burning my new schools. Remind me. Why was I planning to spare them?”

“In order to set an example, my lord. To illustrate your innovations called ‘due process’ and ‘rehabilitation,’ as I recall. Have you changed your mind?”

“Well … no, I guess not. It’d be more satisfying to set another kind of example, though. One involving hungry lions. Oh, never mind. Is there anything else?”

“Only an audience with the High Priestess of Isis, who craves a few moments from the Father of Waters.”

At this I groan. “Aw, man, do I really have to see her?”

Mirimani smiles gently. We’ve been through this before. “No one commands the Pharoah of all Egypt. But you have found the wisdom of Isis indispensable in the past.”

Her phrasing tugs with bitter irony.

In the past, Mirimani? Oh, if only you knew how far off you are.

2

All right, picture this. Two babes come swaying into Mulligan’s Bar, wearing identical black dresses with slit sides and plunging backs. One blond and the other with tightly curled hair that’s a deep, almost black, henna red. They seem awkward on spike heels—wobbling a little—yet getting the hang of it fast. Athletic types. No. More than that.

Right away the old radar is up, beeping. They’re knockouts. Tall, luminous, luscious … every male in the place takes notice. So does every female. You’d have to be dead not to.

Let me get something straight—I wasn’t asking for trouble. Just stopping by the old haunt to relax with a brew—one!—after a racquetball match. I demolished poor Fred from Accounting pretty easy, 31, picking up fifty bucks on bets and feeling smug over grinding his nose in it. I’d been riding my underlings at work, too—working off the steam that kept building up in my life. The feeling that I should be doing more. More than middle management. More than this.

Sandy expected me home by six-thirty. I really meant to be prompt. Maybe put in some quality time with the kids.

The after-five crowd was trickling in. My fave time of day. Allowing for a twenty-minute commute, I had three quarters of an hour to just relax and be me. If I cut it close.

I had promised Sandy to do better, and really meant it this time. She had caught me chatting up an intern at the office picnic and raised hell. Then, two days later, I came home late and brewed up a bit. She didn’t seem to understand that I was still a fun kinda guy. That’s what originally drew us to each other, right? We sure had some wild times.

Only now she was auditioning for the role of Wounded Hausfrau and I hadn’t changed. Why should I? part of me protested.

Another part answered—Come on, sport, you know you’ve crossed the line a few times since you got hitched. She’s worth some extra effort. So are the kids. Give it a rest.

I’m sure every married guy has those conflicts, right? Well, a lot of us.

So there I was, just mulling it over, dealing with it, when the two lookers came in.

Lookers in both senses—they sat down and right away started looking at me.

Ah, those sheath dresses, hose, and high heels—tight skirts, covering without concealing two great bodies. And the faces—just my type. High cheekbones, full lips, arching eyebrows, long hair. Redhead’s dusky complexion set a nice contrast to the blonde’s cool snow. Couldn’t be better if I’d ordered them from a menu.

Okay, maybe I was a little irked with Sandy. Maybe I was tired. Give me credit—I went over there more out of curiosity than anything else. I mean, how often do two knockout babes send you pickup looks across a bar?

For just a moment, I recall, something about these two—the way they moved—made me think of … soldiers.

The thought was kind of weird. Unnerving.

It didn’t stop me, though.

“Do I know you ladies?”

Not as amateur as it sounds. If they say no, turn it into a compliment, something about getting to start fresh with two such lovelies, blah blah. When I was in practice, I could come off even a routine opening with confidence, like answering a backhand serve.

Only the blond surprises me.

“Oh, we know you. You’re famous.”

I gave her a quick look to see if this was irony, but she’s beaming a big, white smile. Good teeth, great glossy lipstick, and not a hair out of place. Maybe they’d been in Mulligan’s before and heard something.

I tossed it off with a disarming chuckle. “Whatever they’re saying, officer, it ain’t true.”

“Oh, no, Alec,” the redhead said, “you’re renowned.”

All right. A bit nervous now. They knew my name. I glanced around to see if any of the guys were giggling in a corner, having put these two up to it.

“Renowned, eh? How come I don’t see myself on magazine covers?”

“Not now—in the future.” And she motioned for me to sit down.

Now I know it’s a gag. But nobody was cackling beyond the potted plants. Mulligan himself seemed unaware, busy with customers. I decided to play along, plopping in a chair.

“Oh, yeah?”

“We’re serious,” the blond said. “We really are from your future.”

“Sure, like in those movies.” The guys knew I was a lifelong sci-fi fan. Whoever set this up, I’d have to come up with something good to top it.

“Indeed—” the redhead nodded “—our research shows several cinematic dramas in your era approached the general concept, so you should easily grasp what we’re talking about. Please do accept it. We are real, from two centuries ahead of this day.”

I gave them a smile of disbelief, with a Cary Grant cock of the head. “Hm, well, they do make real beauties in the twenty-third century.”

For the first time, something I said affected her. A modest blush, apparently sincere. I blinked, more surprised by that than anything she had said. This was no hired hooker or actress. She was nervous underneath and actually appreciated the compliment. My opinion meant something to her.

“So, are you ladies tourists? Come back in time to do a little slumming with the ancestors?”

The blonde was more businesslike. “We are not tourists, Alec. Our mission is serious. We are at war.”

I blinked. A surprising turn. My latest theory had been that they were sorority pledges from a nearby college, pulling mind games on some locals as part of an initiation stunt. The future babes trip had just the right flavor for a tease fantasy. But this—

“At war?”

“Yes. And we are losing.”

“You …”

“We,” she corrected. “All of us. Humanity.”

“Uh huh, I think I saw that movie. You want me to go forward in time because I’m a typical primitive warrior type. Only a real man can defeat the alien invaders or rogue computers or mutant spiders, because your males are too civilized.”

They gave me a “don’t be ridiculous” look.

“Our warriors are strong, Alec,” the redhead said, “both men and women. Indeed, many of our greatest heroes and most innovative thinkers are descended from you.”

That made me blink a couple of times, momentarily at a loss for words. What a line! I should try it myself sometime. Somebody at the sorority had an imagination, all right.

Well, if they wanted to be outrageous, fine.

“Descended from … Oh, I get it now. You’ve come back in time to ask me for genetic samples?”

The blonde put her hand on my thigh, a pleasant warm pressure, and rather more alarming than I expected. Her smile broadened.

“Yes, but more than that, we need your help.”

“No fighting aliens in the future? Shucks.”

A small corner of me felt strangely disappointed. I kind of hankered after that.

“We would not risk your life. But you can save humanity, Alec. If you are willing to accept a most difficult, onerous but ultimately rewarding task.”

3

The ambassador from Babylon brought mostly the same old crap. Jewelry that my kid might’ve spurned at a discount store, back home in Chicago. Some pathetic rugs. Spices to cover the smell when food starts to go stale.

We’ll fix that problem by next year, if I keep making good progress setting up Pharoah Laboratories, Inc. I think I can remember how to make a refrigerator and there’s no lack of willing labor. Nor any corporate bean-counters or stockholders to hinder us. We’ll keep trying till we get it right.

I’ll have cold beer yet! You’ll see.

The ambassador looked scared, trying desperately to impress me with his gifts. Well, can’t blame him. Babylon and all the other ancient powers are pissing in their pants because Old Kingdom Egypt now has muzzle-loading cannon.

He seemed especially upset over the girls. He brought twenty of them. Real beauties. Didn’t Pharaoh like ‘em?

Shucks. The ever-efficient priestesses of Isis whisked them all away before I could even get a good look! Only those who actually volunteer—of their own free will—may come back to the palace, later. It’s my own law, dammit.

To compensate, I enjoyed making the ambassador sweat some more. But not too much. To my surprise, I’ve found a little groveling goes a long way.

Anyway, the Libyan rebels were next. They should put on a good show.

4

All right, so there we are are in the bar, see? I’m getting into their little game—this time travel story thing. As I said, it just had to be a sorority prank. A sexy little mind tease. Even the “future war” scenario fit in. Maybe they were “assigned to protect me” from some horrible android assassin. Why not play along? It wouldn’t be sporting to spoil their fun, right?

Only part of me was getting worried. The part that knows people, often letting me manipulate them to my own advantage. The part that does well at poker. The part that knew these weren’t ditzy sorority chicks out on a dare.

They were formidable women. Capable adults, serious and determined. Whatever they were up to, they meant to accomplish it.

Part of me already half believed them.

“Um … a task?”

“In another era.”

“Another … right. You want me to come with you in a time machine.”

“Not a machine. A time beam. Our greatest scientists managed to create just one, with an interference fringe here in your era and another at our final destination. So this has to work.”

“Hm. Will it take long? My wife expects me home in less than an hour.”

That’s not like me. To mention Sandy, up front. First clue that I really am starting to take this crazy story as more than a joke.

“Your wife was destined to be disappointed tonight, whether or not we came to intervene. Do you see the brunette sitting behind me? Three tables back, trying to read a book.”

“Yeah, so? I noticed her before.”

“You were about to go to her and … what is your expression? Pick her up.”

“No way.”

“After your third beer …”

“I was just having one!”

“… one thing would lead to another. Amid the subsequent accusations, lies, and recriminations, a downward spiral would commence, with more such philandering episodes, more alienation, resulting in divorce and then two more failed marriages —”

“Hey!” This was getting weird. “I’m happy. All right, I need more control. And maybe I can be a bit self-centered. But I wouldn’t spoil things like that! Not where it counts.”

The redhead stayed serious. They were dividing roles.

“During the next month, by our records, everything will turn sour. You will go back to gambling, promiscuity—”

“No! I’m through with all that.” Then I recall how I was feeling a minute ago. “Dammit, you started flirting with me. I was just having a beer, and … and I’ve been trying harder.”

It sounded pretty lame, even to me, but I had been doing better. Really I had. Right up till that evening!

The blonde was merciless.

“Yes, but you will fail. If it helps, let me assure you that it isn’t entirely your fault. Blame it on upbringing and a wretched environment—certainly not genes.”

“What about my genes?” The weirder this got, the more I seemed compelled to stay and listen.

“Your traits are mostly outstanding and they manifest that way through all eight of your children. And their heirs, far downstream.”

“Eight!”

“I mentioned other marriages. That is how we know your genes are the critical factor, since you were not especially helpful to the mothers in any other way. Yet, all eight achieved wonders.

“Again, it’s not really your fault, Alec. Twisted by your own past, you were merely a somewhat successful executive in this era, good at manipulating and defeating competitors, but also thwarted by those above you, who were put off by your drive and apparent amorality. At a root level, you have powerful leadership talents, inheritable traits that will prove crucial in our future. Your descendants will be mighty leaders, ambitious, innovative, demanding, and yet fair.”

I couldn’t even begin to imagine the point of this “joke” anymore. It was taking on a harshness that burned inside.

“What did you mean by twisted?”

“Our analysts believe your abilities—especially your sense of empathy for others—were stunted because of traumas you suffered while young.”

Ouch. I felt a wrench in my stomach. How the hell could this bitch know about—

I very nearly got up at that moment. Got up and walked away from the lure of their beauty, the fascination of their teasing game. I almost stood up to go home, to where I knew I was loved in spite of my faults. At least up till that night. Stand … up! I commanded my muscles and bones. But they betrayed me.

“Those childhood traumas twisted your gifts, turning you into a user of others. Unpleasant traits you fought to overcome, beginning with your playground experience—you always felt badly about being a bully, didn’t you? History gives you credit for that, Alec. And yet, you were never able to—”

“Hey, wait a second—”

The redhead injects with enthusiasm “—but what struck Special Projects HQ was how those very same traits ideally suit you for a special task! A role in saving all humanity.”

I blink. Doubt, anger, and disbelief welled up in me. None of this made sense, even as an elaborate practical joke. It came rushing back: Tony Pasquetto beating the crap out of me in fifth grade, my seething anger, a bile from that simmered on and on. I took it out on others, roiling with both pleasure and guilt. One word from these two and presto—back it came. And worse, much worse from my own parents, too caught up in their war against each other to see what collateral damage they were doing to me inside.

I made myself take a deep breath. “I … had some rough times as a kid, sure, but that doesn’t mean—”

The blonde’s hand slid higher up my thigh, threatening to drive all rational thought.

“Let us persuade you.”

“Huh? Of what?”

“Of our purpose. Our resolve to make your decision obvious.”

“Yes,” the readhead added, leaning closer. “We are here to give you everything that you presently want. To fulfill your fantasies, such as they are.”

“And you figure I want more than a good exec job and a wife and home?”

“We know you. Better than you know yourself, Alec,” Red said with a slow, sly smile.

Struggling for some sense of control, I stretched, pretending nonchalance, knowing that I’m fooling no one.

“You ladies have got quite a line, I got to hand it to you.”

“You do not believe us,” the redhead said. “Of course, it is a fantastic tale.”

“It’s original, I’ll give you that.”

Blonde is all business. She leaned back, giving me a good long look at her perfectly proportioned body. “For now, let us see about collecting those samples you offered.”

5

The rebels groveled very well. Heads smacked on marble, moans of supplication echoed, they even trotted forward some women to offer—probably their poor frightened wives. I yawned.

My Western Frontier Advisor whispered, urging me to put them all on spikes. “As an example to others!” he finished.

“Have you watched an impalement?” I answered. I had made that mistake the first time I went along with this joker. They put the pointed shaft up the anus and it takes the victim a full day to work down on it. I would still wake up in a sweat, years later, remembering their screams.

“Sire, for the good of the Kingdom—”

“Clemency is granted!” I said loudly. “One year at hard labor, helping to build the Great Library in Alec-Sandria, then back home on probation—and I better not hear of any more raided caravans! This rebellion stuff has got to stop. Get a life!”

Okay, not eloquent. But the expressions on their faces—and their wives’—made me feel like Abraham Lincoln. Sheesh, these ancient guys are easily pleased.

Not that I was always Mr. Nice Guy. Especially at the beginning, building a ragtag band of followers, then eventually taking over and ejecting the old Pharaoh. Had to show I was the kind of ruthless cutthroat that my growing army expected. Those first years were hungry, danger packed, and tense, even with some modern tricks from the twenty-first century. And yet … it’s funny how finally taking power didn’t turn out to be as voluptuously satisfying as I thought it would be.

Who would have expected that I’m nowhere near the bully that I used to think I was?

The cries of gratitude from the rebels hardly faded away before the chief herald cried out. “Lo, the Priestess of Isis arrives!”

Damn! I had meant to slip away—

She came in at full swagger. And though she bowed low before me and uttered all the proper phrases, anyone could tell that she’s my equal here.

Some may even suspect the truth.

The gold bracelets were striking, the ivory headdress and ebony belt gave her authority, and the figure … well nobody else in 1400 B.C. has anything like it.

But she was all business. How did I ever think she was so alluring, back in Mulligan’s?

“Lord of All the Lands, I approach you with supplications.”

Which meant work to do. With a sigh I sat back on my throne and answered in English.

“The usual?”

“I bring laws for you to proclaim. Matters that we discussed at our last monthly meeting. Regulations for fair trade in the Sini. A better plan for Nile boats. The apprenticeship and scholarship program for bright sons and daughters of the peasant class.”

Yeah, yeah. Half of the ideas were mine. I’m not a complete puppet. Still, I winced when I saw a crimson scroll under her belt. The weekly quota of heirs for me to sire.

Dammit, I bet she was planning an increase! What am I, a machine?

“Look, what’s the rush?” I mumbled. “We’ve already accomplished—”

“A great deal, proving that our estimates of your abilities were correct. You should trust—”

“Trust!” I laughed, without joy. “You tricked me! All of this, in order to—”

“In order to help guide society quickly toward a more advanced state, so that in three and a half millennia it will be capable of defeating a dire enemy from the stars.”

None of the guards, deputies and ass-kissers around the throne room understood us, of course. They assumed we were talking in the Language of the Gods.

“Do remember the Enemy, O great Pharaoh.”

I shivered. They had showed me a foe, all right—made me experience them in full. Not classic aliens or terrifying robo-devils, nothing you’d expect at all. They came from a world where smart mammals like us were herded. Not like cows, but more subtly. Symbiotic, they had mastered how to tap our deepest fears, using them against us. They ruled by immersing us in them. Imagine a chilly analytical engine, impersonally merciless as it uses you, only far worse to look at and impossible to look away from—because it’s always there, slimy, inside.

The blonde and the redhead made me experience that. They showed me how humanity was losing.

But on this new timeline, we’ll have an extra 3,000 years to get ready. Time enough, maybe, if we bypass the cruel stupidities and waste of the Assyrian and Roman and Ch’ing empires and all the dark ages between. If feudalism gets replaced by opportunity and science a whole lot earlier. Especially—they say—if that future has plenty of people with my traits. Traits that did me little good in my old life, but ones that would breed true, making great leaders in the future. Leaders not stunted the way I am—only good for simple tasks, like bullying primitives by the marshy borders of the Nile.

“One of your descendants invented the time beam,” they had told me that night—it seemed like ages ago—as if I was supposed to be proud. “She knew this attempt would be our only chance.”

“Well then, why not take her back in time? Or pick my son to be Pharaoh? He carries the same miracle genes, right? He’s better and wiser than me, too, ain’t that right? Anyway, if I leave, won’t they vanish?”

“It is hard to explain the subtleties of temporal dynamics,” the redhead had said. “All of your children made large contributions to our future. That timeline must continue to stand like a trellis for the new one to grow alongside. And it will continue to stand, even after you are removed.”

I think of myself as flexible-minded, but this made my head hurt. You can’t do time travel without a painful paradox, and the two savants in front of me were accommodating.

“But still … why me? Because that time beam had a fringe that appeared here? I mean now?”

“That’s part of it. Also, we must borrow the least important element. One whose suite of actions—personal choices and conscious involvement—can be spared, and yet someone capable of exercising fierce power in a primitive era, then growing into the job. All of those reasons pointed to you.”

The least important element. Brutally frank, those gals were, once they knew they had me. Their futuristic personality analyzer told them I’d be fine leading a nation of millions, though in my real world I never made it beyond middle management. I could satisfy harems, but not one modern wife.

Go figure.

6

It really came home to me later that day, in the privacy of my seraglio.

Did you ever work in an ice cream shop? First week you gorge. Second week you peck a little. Third week … well, I was getting that third week feeling again, real bad.

A voluptuous lady of the Levant, soft like pillows. A stately and dignified Nubian, like warm ebony. A leering, silky submissive of the West and a skilled contortionist from the Far East. All of them were volunteers, of course, never coerced. That moralist, Isis, made sure of their enthusiasm before any came to me. (What did she do with the others? I wondered.)

I had done the research every other man only dreams about, and learned a daunting truth: there is only a finite range of women, as there is of men. Probably Casanova learned the same lesson. Who would’ve figured the polygynous drive for variety turns out to be satiable, even in a rutting fool like me?

Eventually, it palls.

And then, dammit, you start dreaming every night of someone who actually loved you, who chose you, as an equal, despite knowing all your faults.

I tried to shake off the mood. It would be unseemly for Pharaoh not to watch the Parade of Lovelies, then show that he still has what it takes to govern. Sighing, I proceeded to do my best.

Later, the Priestess of Isis arrived for another consultation, this time accompanied by her redheaded companion, now the Priestess of Karnak, proudly bringing the latest crop of infants to show off. Each one a gift for the ages, or so that pair of eugenic time warriors crooned.

And yet, once again I wondered. They’d told me that a chain beginning in the year 2006 would not be long enough to create a new civilization with sufficient power by 2200. But three thousand years might suffice. We were growing a parallel timeline, a vine climbing alongside the world I had known. One that would be strong enough to battle a terrible foe. Too much High Concept for me, I’m afraid. But one nagging doubt kept bothering me—

I have only their word for it that I joined the right side in their war.

Looking at my latest offspring, one baby after another whom I would barely know, I found myself wishing with a pang that I hadn’t missed so many of Bobby’s Little League games. That I had gone to see Rachel win the science fair.

Who knew they’d turn out to be geniuses?

And who cared about that? I just missed them.

Oh, the blond and redheaded time agents played me right. They offered power, which I enjoyed at first— till I got responsible. They knew it would happen… .

“Hey,” I barked at both of them as they packed up their latest harvest of healthy, cooing princesses and princelings to depart. “I’m here running the Kingdom all day, begetting heirs all night, and meanwhile—what are you two doing in those temples of yours?”

The Priestess of Isis interrupted her inspection of a young heir. Her eyes became slits.

“We are organizing the women, Alec. Mind your own business.”

I sighed as they left, ruminating yet again on my fate. And especially on one awful irony.

Somewhere deep down, way back in my former life, I always expected to be punished. For my faults. For my failings.

Now, despite pleasures that would have stunned Hefner, I couldn’t escape feeling that way again. Exiled and condemned. Wishing … though I knew it was hopeless … for clemency.

A pardon.

For some way to go home.

“I could have done better,” I muttered. “If only they left me alone. Really. I would have changed.”

The pall lingered over me like a familiar cloud …

… till a nearby Grecian-primitive beauty gave me a slow, suggestive smile.

Ah, well. One endures.

* * *

Gregory Benford is the author of many novels and short stories, and has edited a number of anthologies.

To see this authors works sold through Amazon, click here:

David Brin is the author of many novels and short stories.

To see this authors works sold through Amazon, click here:

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Marklord Pete

Written by Wil McCarthy

Illustrated by Luis Peres

Take away their freedom? Gawd, man, when have people ever been free? We’re not even taking their money, because ultimately that comes from the trademark holders anyway. But people go to work every day, right? And somebody’s got to own the result. Administrative law is just a fancy word for not letting it all go to waste.

—Chief Justice Billy Grab Cashford III, LLP

* * *

Once upon a time a young IP attorney named Pete, three years out of law school and bursting with enthusiasm, was surfing database reports with his equally young and doubly beautiful paralegal, Muffy.

IP: intellectual property. The traffic in ideas, the certified ownership of thought.

“Welcome to Cheese Information Center,” their fleshtop chirped, just like it would for any ordinary subscriber logging on. “Please enter loyalty information and stand by for discount offers.”

“Another day in the brambles.” Muffy sighed, pretending resignation. But she was decked out in her finest typing thimbles, with an air mouse dangling from her earlobe like a drop of liquid gold, and a smile that simply wouldn’t wipe off.

“I’ll stay one click behind you,” Pete offered gallantly.

“Hyah, so you can watch my cookies update,” she snarked back.

“Muffin,” he called her.

“Poot,” she replied.

Her full trade name was Muffietta Litting Von Mausland. Pete’s was Pyotr Rao CompService, but their licensing agreement expressly permitted looser forms of address, including parodies and pet names, so off they went, punning and ribbing and giggling.

This assignment was makework imposed by Pete’s parents to keep him out of trouble, and he and Muffy were under no illusions about it. But the networks were unusually responsive today, the news sites alive with cheerful prattle, and the two of them would take almost any excuse to work together, especially at a chore no sane person would supervise.

And anyway, in another, deeper sense this was a critical task; how else could the status of dozens of subscriber demographics be assessed in real time? How else could the license limit enforcements be validated? While they enjoyed their surf together, Pete and Muffy skimmed user complaints, inspected keyword filters and defensive copyrights along the major portal sites, and otherwise saw that the CIC portfolio remained secure.

Portfolio: an itemized list of investments, securities, and intellectual properties, especially trademarks. Literally, a container for documents, from the Latin portare folium, to carry leaves or sheets. In practice, a service organization for delivering licensed content and protecting the interests of its users.

“Ho!” Pete would text to the logged-in subscribers. “How you doin’, peeps?”

“We’re peachy, you little trademark stinge,” they’d text back merrily. Or anyway if they weren’t merry, if they had actual problems to report, he piped them to his message queue for off-line analysis, because why spoil a perfect morning?

Though both were accomplished surfers, Pete and Muffy kept to the portals and pipes for the sake of browser stability. The folio’s raw databases, while not actually encrypted, were thick with proprietary acronyms and self-referenced data fields, too twisted for automated probing. “Clutter,” some of the rival marklords called it. “A navigation hazard and regulatory quagmire. Who owns what in this mess?”

Which missed the point entirely; the cryptic formats of the database obscured the portfolio’s richest intellectual property from would-be infringers. They were a crude but important part of the IP defenses: you want to look in here? Surrender your credit report and open a subscriber account like everyone else. And unless you needed blindingly fast access times, bulk storage was still one of the cheapest commodities in the world.

“Ouch,” said Muffy more than once, as the hyperlinks sent her to null pages, or flipped back on themselves, or popped some weird bit of data correlation across her screen. “The good news is, Good News downloads are up five percent! The bad news is, I’m lost.” Even at the edges, the database could be tricky.

“You’re doing fine,” Pete assured her. “You wouldn’t guess it, but the main portal is never more than three clicks away.”

“And never less than two,” she moaned in tones of ghostly doom, waving her arms like noodles. Meaning you could never get home, right. Muffy’s humor was like that: funny if you thought about it.

Pete, whose humor was more direct, said, “Put a sock in it.”

He liked these thickets, liked their sense of fractal vastness, the way they dripped and seethed with hidden order. IP defenses aside, this wonky database was a boon for the folio’s subscribers, who could extract considerable value from manual searches when no other sort of billing credit was available. Data mining, yes. Manually, yes. Even subscribers without a dime to their names could stay privved if they really wanted to, and could find synergies and correlations no machine would ever dream of looking for. Just yesterday, a subscriber had uncovered hints of an exploitable, twenty-two-day cycle in cheese consumption patterns, and today the chat boards were humming about it.

In a market analysis page, Pete and Muffy came upon a lone subscriber repeatedly downloading the same header, scraping select bits of data and discarding the rest. “You’re breaking me, dude.” Pete texted affably. “You’re going to find something, and I’ll have to comp your bill.”

“I could use it,” came the reply, gruff with emoticons.

“Good!” said Pete. “That’s what commerce is all about!”

Of course, this kind of subscriber empowerment made Cheese Information Center attractive to the poor and downtrodden and thus lent (some said) a gloomy, shabby air to it. But the sort of people who said that were the sort who overcharged their own subscribers and eventually drove them off. That was just bad business. In Pete’s opinion you couldn’t make scratch without scrounging, and the cash-starved working classes made loyal subscribers if you just treated them with probity and respect. So where was the problem?

Still, the brambles did make for hard surfing. “I’m lost,” Muffy said again, and this time even Pete needed a minute to work out where she’d clicked to. So went the morning, and after two exhausting hours Pete and Muffy parked themselves in a high-level summary page with a view of all the major stats and knocked off for an early lunch. Thai pizza, delivered right to their cube. Privileges of rank, oh yes.

“It’s certainly a fine group of assets,” Muffy said, scanning through the portfolio highlights. She’d only been here eight months, and was still saying things like that. In fact, she was saying them more and more often—”dropping hints,” Pete’s ‘rents had noted dourly on more than one occasion. She was sniffing around for a marriage proposal, they insisted, and though Pete was willfully dense about things like that, even he had to agree.

“We’ve talked about this,” he said to Muffy now, in mildly warning tones.

“What?” she asked innocently. “Can’t I sit up here and admire the stats?”

No, Pete wanted to say. Not like that you can’t. Not without breaking my heart. “The ‘rents say our portfolios are incompatible.”

“Incompatible?” she snarked. “Incompatible? My family makes cheese, Poot! Or owns the process, anyway.”

”A process. One of thousands.”

“With high peer ratings,” she countered. She was blushing now, and on the brink of real anger. This was a sore subject, clearly. But it was sore for Pete, too, and she was the one who’d brought it up.

“Let’s not fight,” he said, holding up his hands. “Okay? Let’s not. I’ll feed you a slice.”

For a moment she just glared. Then she sort of shrugged it off and settled back with her elbows on the desknic blanket, looking up at him with those big, blue, trademarked eyes of hers. She was smiling again—thinly, tentatively—and he was dangling a wedge of the pizza just out of her reach, making her snap for it. Then, seeing the metaphor in this and thinking better of it, he actually let her take a bite. He wanted to be her knight and shining lawyer, not some stingy marklord slapping late fees on her bill.

“I could up your privileges,” he suggested. “Comp your bill, make you my personal assistant or something.”

“Could you really,” she said, losing her smile again. The subject no longer amused her. “Do you think this is about money, Pete? Or privs?”

Well, damn. He knew it wasn’t, but what did she expect him to say? Her folio was respectable enough—the patents had mostly expired, but she did have a stake in some trademarks, copyrights, secret formulae, and whatnot. Her name and face weren’t exactly in the public domain, right? Her family had license agreements through damn near every sector of the economy!

What she didn’t have, though, was a subscriber base. As far as Pete knew, she didn’t have one single subscriber anywhere in the world. To put it simply, she was a kind of gal, where he was a full-fledged . Even her name was owned by, and licensed from, the Mausland portfolio, whose holders were her distant cousins. Really, if not for the billing credit she earned at Cheese Information Center—credit that could be swapped at a loss for goods and services from other portfolios—he wasn’t sure she’d have any income at all. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but his ‘rents did have a point: if he was merging at a loss and she at a gain, then their marriage would be so swathed in prenups that they might as well live in separate houses, on opposite sides of the planet.

In purely legal-economic terms, anyway. Lately Pete had begun to suspect there was more to life than legonomics; you couldn’t trademark a feeling, after all, though many had tried. And yet, these fleeting, ephemeral feelings were some of the most important things in Pete’s life. That was a heresy he shared with no one—not even Muffy—but it drew his mind the way an aching tooth attracts the tongue. If intangible things could be desired, then couldn’t they, in principle, be packaged and bartered as a sort of IP? Quid pro quo; could the best things in life be free? Really?

“I love you,” he said simply. “I do. I just don’t know … how to act on it without hurting you. Or myself.”

And there might just be something to his theory after all, because that pulled the plug on Muffy’s anger. A simple voice message, that primal ancient medium, seemed to give her what she needed. But it deflated her, too, leaving nothing else to talk about. With a melancholy air settling into the cube, the two of them took up their pizza in silence.

Damn.

“My grandfather built this folio himself,” Pete offered by way of topic change. He gestured at the screen, where the properties were summarized by category and the categories were color-coded by market value, net cash flow, number of active subscriptions, et cetera. “The data weren’t laid out so neatly for the early marklords, before the full power of IP had really sunk in. They were more worried about schedules and budgets than they were about ledger sheets and subscriber rolls. They were like gentleman farmers, breeding and counting their sheep but forgetting to, you know, shear them.”

Muffy’s laugh was uncertain, quivering between the professional and the intimate. Pete felt a rush of sympathy for her, for the awkward position he’d just put her in. I love you. Hell, even he didn’t know what he meant by that.

“That’s not a criticism,” he pressed on, trying to bury the issue in words. “Without the managed flow of human capital, their world was kind of fogged in. Who controlled information? Back then it was all about authority: Bachelor of Arts, Master of Sciences, MBA, and Juris Doctor. There was no cheap way to measure skills and no polite way to measure wealth, so the schools and universities did the sorting for you. The transcript agencies told you what social class people came from, where they ranked in it, how much they knew. That was supposed to tell you how far they’d go in life, how much value you could extract, and how much you should pay them in return.”

“Reverse subscribers,” Muffy snarked, “selling labor and blackmailing employers with the threat of idleness.” It was a fair analogy, made ironic by the fact the Muffy was, herself, a paid employee of sorts. And hardly idle.

“Right,” Pete said, pleased by her wit. “But unless there was a labor shortage, the threat cut both ways. Employers could fire without warning or cause. Oh, Granddad looked good on paper, as they said back then. At my age he had all the right parchments on his wall, all the right bullets on his rsum. But he was powerless. I’ve read his diary, and he used that word: powerless. He had no assets, no cash flow except what his bosses chose to pay him. In those days, believe it or not, intellectual property lawyers were the hirelings of the merchant class. Like doctors.”

In spite of everything, Muffy giggled. It was a cute observation, her tone suggested, but she wasn’t buying it.

“No, I’m serious,” he told her. “IP ownership and IP defense were completely separate issues back then. Until that changed, the marchival age was just a business plan. Ours may be a minor portfolio in the grand scheme of things, but Granddad was one of the first to see the writing on the wall. His colleagues laughed when he opened his own portal site. About cheese! That wasn’t something a respectable attorney was supposed to do. But piracy and litigation were rampant in those days, and the people who dealt with cheese all flocked to him for information, and eventually for formal licensing and protection agreements. And with subscriber money coming in, he started buying up content, hiring writers and designers, copyrighting recipes …”

“Becoming a mark holder …” Muffy offered. She’d never heard this side of history before, and it clearly intrigued her.

“Well, yeah, but you could only trademark words and pictures back then. Of course, if you knew the system really well, if you trademarked the right words and pictures, you could end up owning a molecule. Patents expire, right? But a trademark is forever. And from there it was just a matter of buying up the regulations so that, for example, making cheese without your molecule would be a violation of the health code. Pretty soon, anyone who wants legal access to cheese is going to have to pay you for the rights. To subscribe to your portfolio.”

“Poot, I think I’m passingly familiar with that part of it,” she snarked. Oh, right. Because as a paralegal and game theoretician, she administrated it for a living.

Something shifted in Pete’s brain. Maybe a bit flipped, or a quantum uncertainty collapsed and untangled. Maybe he just made up his mind. “I’d like to be passingly familiar with you,” he said, grabbing for her, burning with sudden desire.

For a moment, she looked ready to deflect him. She was still mad; her emotional shields were up. “Pete,” she said warningly. But then a catty expression flickered on, cool and measuring and ever so slightly playful, and before Pete could fully parse the look she was leaning in toward him, too close and too fragrant for abstract study.

And who knows where that might have led? For better or worse, they were interrupted by the jangle of a telephone. She sighed and picked it up.

“Yes? Oh.”

She covered the receiver with her hand, and said to Pete, “It’s a user complaint.”

“Escalated all the way to me?” Pete asked, blinking in surprise.

She was listening to someone on the other end, but she nodded at Pete, too. Yes, escalated all the way to you.

“Uh-huh,” she said into the phone, glancing at the screen and tapping her way down to individual subscriber records. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, the system appears to have all your information, ma’am. I’ll raise the issue with counsel, and you should hear from us sometime in the next few hours. You … what? Well, yes, he is available. Shall I put you on speaker? Hold on.”

She pressed a button.

“Counselor Pete,” said a woman’s voice on the phone, sounding frantic. “They jacked my account! Somebody. I didn’t … These aren’t my charges!”

“Slow down,” Pete tried. Then, when the woman continued yakking, “We have your data right here, ma’am. You’re clearly upset, so I’m going to transfer you to customer service for appropriate counseling. But you—”

“I can’t afford this! My charges are always—”

“Ma’am,” said Pete, “I haven’t studied your case file, but you have my personal guarantee we’ll figure this out. This is Cheese Information Center; no one pays for services they haven’t received. Have a nice day if you can, and thank you for calling.”

He gestured to Muffy, slashing a hand across his throat, and Muffy dutifully took the woman off speaker and punched in the transfer codes. Damn, she would make a good personal assistant. Or more.

“Now that’s what I call probity,” he said, in a moment of self-congratulation.

Probity: the legal doctrine of moral obligation. From the Latin probitas, meaning honesty or fairness. He wasn’t obligated to speak personally with the plaintiffs he represented; most mark heirs wouldn’t bother, even fleetingly. “What is this, a billing dispute?”

Muffy nodded. “Strange one. Apparently there are phantom charges on her account.”

“I’d gathered.”

But it was strange, because in this day and age it was difficult indeed to steal an identity or to stick another person with your bills. Phantom charges were rare, and phantom charges that couldn’t be cleared up by first- or second-tier tech support were rarer still. This woman’s credit bureau had somehow cleared the transaction, had somehow believed that she actually owed the money. Which meant it was probably a royalty charge of some kind, generated and billed from within the portfolio itself.

But the charges couldn’t be legitimate, either, or tech support wouldn’t have escalated the issue, and the browser screen wouldn’t be full of blinking red numbers.

“Pirates?” suggested Muffy. “Operating inside the license limits?”

“Bandits in our borders?” growled Pete. “For their own sake, I certainly hope not.”

But when they sat down to follow the data trail, it quickly became obvious that that was indeed going on. That or worse. In fact, over the past several hours four different subscribers had been phished and scaled so thoroughly that they couldn’t afford the network charges to log on and complain. As far as Muffy could tell they weren’t bankrupt yet—that would take time, and the intervention of courts with bigger nuts to crack—but they’d been left out to rot nonetheless. She of course sent a financial response team to, at the very least, waive their late fees and stabilize their cash flow until an executor had a chance to audit their losses and, if possible, reverse them.

The woman on the phone was within her rights to be frantic; she’d been lucky to escape with her privileges intact.

While Muffy was thus engaged, Pete set about rounding up a crack legal team to take the billing—and if necessary, the litigation—directly to the pirates. Within the portfolio he found Esquires Heimbecher and Hattenbach, Hall, and Hensley, and from the outside world he pulled in two others so famous that this magazine can’t afford to print their names.

“Cheat my subscribers,” Pete muttered to the screen.

Said Esq. Hattenbach through a chat window, “I found a journal reference that clearly infringes. They’ll argue fair use, but any court would rule they’re a commercial enterprise operating within our mark definitions.”

Pete grunted his acknowledgment. “Does the subject matter match the subscriber charges?”

“It does. I’ve drafted a cease and desist …”

“Send it,” Pete told him. “There’s no sense being polite.”

And when that letter was rebuffed, Esq. Hall remarked, “Injunctions are ready when you are, sir.”

“File.”

“Injunctions away. The defendants are filing a protest, obviously, and … here come the counterinjunctions.”

“Object.”

“I have, sir. Sustained.”

Said Hattenbach, “I’ve got a lien on their assets.”

“Foreclose,” Pete grimly instructed.

“But sir, if we can read their arguments into the record, we may discover their funding source.”

“Funding source? Funding source! They’re bloody pirates, Brad, we’re their bloody funding source. I said foreclose! I don’t want these bastards drawing another nickel out of my subscribers. Out of anything!” Pete was young. Bright and skilled and gallant, yes, but still impulsive. He hadn’t consulted his parents—the portfolio’s actual mark holders—about any of this. It simply didn’t occur to him.

“Bankrupt,” said Hall, watching a display somewhere in his own browser space. “Bankrupt. Bankrupt. B—whoops! The fourth defendant has sheltered his remaining assets and been found not liable. He may be a bystander.”

Bystander? That brought Pete up short. Had he—a member of the holder class—just filed legal action against an uninvolved third party? Against a victim of the pirates, even, maybe a subscriber from some near-linked portfolio? Someone too poor to afford his own justice? That was a damnably modern thing to do, in all the oldest, foulest meanings of the word, and here in the marchival age the code of probity—encompassing everything from fair use to customer satisfaction to equal protection under the law—would condemn him for it. And right in front of Muffy, too, giving her one more victim to attend to. Damn!

“Assess his court costs and offer him double,” said Pete. “Along with my apology. Tell him his subscription is always welcome at Cheese Information Center.”

“Pete,” said Hattenbach, “I’ve found something in the escrow holdings.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“A funding source. I’ll be damned. It’s a license agreement with the Chaos Home portfolio, sir, asserting ownership over cheese recipes as a subclass of spoken-word poetry. This isn’t piracy at all; it’s the opening salvo of a full-scale infringement.”

“Oh. Crap. Somebody get my mother on the line.”

But Pete was too late; his mother was already looming in the cube’s entrance, sucking up all the light and heat and oxygen.

“Ho, Moms,” he tried, sensing her there, turning and smiling weakly.

Whereupon she favored him with the two words he dreaded most in all the world: “Explain yourself.”

* * *

“I acted within my authority,” Pete said firmly. “The defense of our license limits is realtime, online, for keeps. You want me to slack?”

“We want to be informed,” Pete’s father replied dryly, “before the red ink starts spilling. Especially the ink of subscribers, m’boy. Gawd, I can hear the bloggers already: Cheese stinks! Butter beware!”

“An honest mistake,” Pete said, trying to walk the line between apology and wounded innocence. “The infringers were agents of Chaos Home, and his username and activity profile were congruent with theirs. You’d’ve done the same in my place, I think.”

“He was standing nearby?” said Pete’s mother archly. “He looked funny, so you filed on him? Young man, probity demands a subtler pen.”

Pete refrained from snarking at that; his mother was not a subtle woman. They were in the corner office, top floor, with a view of the city sprawling below. From the low visitors’ chair, his parents’ twin desks seemed to loom over him. But there was a Sourcer here as well, clad in the age-old uniform: blue canvas trousers and a black T-shirt adorned in cryptic text. Sysadmin, they’d’ve called him in days gone by. The man hadn’t insinuated himself into the conversation—yet—but he’d showed up at just the right time, claiming a cable fault or something, and was on his knees in the far corner, muttering, pinging the network over and over through some sort of packet-jack pendant slung around his pudgy neck.

Mother’s words had been for the Sourcer’s benefit, to soothe any appearance of improbity in the portfolio’s management, because any slide in CIC’s reputation scores right now could be disastrous. The ‘rents themselves were standing at the windows, pacing, looking troubled. If she could say what she really felt, it would have come out a bit differently.

Seeing his opening, Pete stoked their quite reasonable fears: “What does Anthony Walking Chaos know about probity? Can he just stroll in here whenever he likes? His daughters are famously haughty. Do we let them poach our IP? Maybe I should marry one, eh?, and turn over all our assets with a single click.”

And he could see that hitting home behind his parents’ trademarked eyes. Ouch, yes! Chaos Home had once been a wood pulp company, then an information company, and finally one of the wealthiest ‘folios in the marchival world. Mark holder didn’t begin to cover it; Anthony Walking was a mark jacker and subscription slammer whose litigation skills were legendary and whose docket was perpetually full. He didn’t always win, but he did always press the point. Hard. Crossing paths with him was unlikely to leave any of them richer or happier.

“Your point’s taken,” Pete’s father conceded. “Consider yourself indemnified for the error. But let’s keep our heads, hmm?”

“Oh, dear,” said Pete’s mother, recognizing that tone in his voice. That tone, which meant litigation if it meant anything at all.

Father was brusque. “Spare me the hand-wringing, darling. It’s quickest if we take this straight to the top. Injunctions and restraining orders, not against the portfolio but against Anthony Walking himself. Make him sweat for his trouble.”

But now it was Pete’s turn to play the cooler head. “That’s just the ‘sponse he’s looking for, Dads. It gives him the pretext for a full-fledged class action on behalf of his poor, beleaguered subscribers.”

“Class action? I’ll show him class action. I’ll strip every asset and throw him out naked in the public domain!”

“And his subscribers will rally around him,” Pete countered. “They’ll have to. If he’s smart, he’ll offer billing credit; if he’s cheap, he’ll threaten rate hikes and service cuts, with crippling disconnect fees for anyone who tries to defect. And who defects from Chaos Home, anyway? They control all the major storage formats. Lose your license agreement with them and you might as well be off the network! So either way, the subscribers will be throwing themselves in our path in a million petty lawsuits, and we’ll be forced to counter. Then you’ll see innocent ink on our hands.”

Both parents glowered, having nothing to say to that and nowhere to direct their anger except at Pete himself. But here the Sourcer rose from his knees, dusted them off with a swipe of his hand, and said, “Baseless lawsuits are a violation of your open-source license. You know that, right?”

“Obviously,” Pete replied, with all the civility he could muster. The last thing they needed was to add the open-source community to their enemies list. But really, the Sourcer’s comment was (a) condescending, and (b) a blatant threat. If Cheese Information Center lost its Open-source Public License it really would be off the network, sending out—gawd!—paper billing notices by bike messenger or something, with all the subscription content burned onto optical disks and passed hand to hand in the ancient modern way. At prohibitive cost, yes, until the slush funds ran dry, and the folio was forced to raise its rates, driving away more and more subscribers in a suicide spiral.

The Battle of Desktop had settled it long ago: you simply couldn’t do business without a nod from the Sourcers. They didn’t control the network’s fiber or its servers; these were owned by legitimate portfolios and a smattering of regional monopolies. They didn’t even assert ownership of the operating systems and transport protocols, claiming these were somehow “free” and “open.” They didn’t have any sort of mark holder or CEO to hear out grievances, mediate disputes, or provide any semblance of marchival civility. Individually they didn’t have to own or buy or be anything to become Sourcers; coding skill, knowledge, and mutual acknowledgment were all it took. “The Headless Sourcemen,” they were sometimes called, mostly behind their backs.

But a license was a license, and the Sourcers were quick to rally around their own and to punish abusers. As a result, they could pretty much shake you down whenever they felt like it. They weren’t a greedy bunch, but gawd, if you didn’t take a few of their mendicants in for at least the three I’s (insulation, income, and interesting work), if you didn’t tithe to their foundations and pay lip service to their ideals, life could get very difficult indeed.

On the other hand, at heart their ideals were not so different from the code of probity itself. They were on the side of the angel investors, and if you played ball with them, they really would save your data. Guaranteed.

So just for good measure Pete added, “It’s nice of you to remind us, Admin, before we do something we can’t retract.”

“Hyah,” the Sourcer replied with characteristic inhumility.

But Pete’s father was having none of that. “What about Anthony? Is he, what, exempt or something? We can’t file a preemptive motion, but he can? ‘Sup with that?”

The Sourcer spread his hands. “Man, I’ve got a full plate right here. You want me to monitor other intranets on the side? He’s probably skirting the limits, endangering his privs, but if he’d actually busted license, I think I’d know about it. I think we all would.”

“I smell corruption,” Father insisted.

Crap.

Before Pete could stick his nose in further, Mother cut in with, “Let the Sourcers police their own, dear.” By which she meant, don’t pick a fight you can’t win, when someone else is picking a fight with us! “Our response should be firm but measured. We want the press on our side.”

But that was a dumb thing to say, and Pete could see she knew it before the words were even out. Because where did the press reside, if not in Chaos Home? Oh, sure, there were free media all over the place, but if they didn’t own the rights to a press release—a judge’s ruling, say, or rumors of a portfolio merger—how much could they really say? Reformatting and original commentary could only get you so far; even in a world of probity, the indies lived under constant threat of libel and infringement suits.

“Truth is always in the public domain,” the Sourcer quoted, falling back on stale doctrine.

Pete’s father laughed sourly. “Is that all you have for us, you and your feeble priesthood? Truth has to be expressed, Admin, through ownable words and pictures. That’s the hand we cuff it by. This is high court, I tell you: class action, full scale. Assemble my legal team.”

But with all this going on, Pete had hatched an idea of his own—or the chick of an idea—up there in his noggin. He said to the three of them, “We could appeal.”

That brought down immediate silence and attention.

“We could query the director,” he pressed, “to broker an out-of-court. Quietly, on the side. Good for business, I would think.”

They were all just staring at him.

“You think I’m kidding? I can pick up the phone as soon as we’re done here.” Hyah, like it was that easy. But it almost sounded plausible. Almost.

Suddenly the ‘rents were both laughing, and it wasn’t sour at all. They were indulgent, proud of this silly, idealistic boy they had somehow managed to raise. Where did he learn that, they seemed to be asking themselves.

Then, his chuckle quieting, Father looked out over the city in a thoughtful brood and said, “Well. Well. We lose nothing by trying, eh? My boy, I’ll give you five business days. But if it doesn’t work out, I’ll expect you to coordinate the litigation yourself.”

* * *

Not surprisingly, the director wasn’t reachable. From the main switchboard it took Muffy five hours of runaround just to be connected with the Directory Rolodex, which primly told her, “You’ll have to submit your request in writing, along with a full-presence biometric signature.”

“In person?” Muffy asked, blinking.

“Of course,” the Rolodex answered. “For IP security reasons.”

Which made a kind of sense, Pete thought, because biometric data sent over a compromised network might as well have been sketched in crayon. Still, it was an odd hurdle to throw in a plaintiff’s path.

Through the speakerphone he said, “Can’t we just mail you an Authorized Face?”

“With whom am I speaking?” the Rolodex inquired.

“Pyotr Rao CompService, Counselor Esquire and Mark Heir of Cheese Information Center.”

“Ah. Well, my apologies, sir, but I think you know the answer to that.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Well, I suppose we can hire a two-seater dragonfly or something. Can you fax over a physical address?”

“‘Fraid not,” answered the Rolodex.

“Eh? Why’s that?”

“Trade secret, sir, in the interests of IP security. If you were authorized to know it, you’d have no need to ask.”

“But that’s … that’s …” Ridiculous, yeah. He tried, “Is there someone else we should speak with?”

“Oh, counselor, I really am sorry to have wasted your time.” The Rolodex was impeccably sympathetic. “I’ll set the screening parameters a little higher, OK? So next time you won’t have to speak with me. Have a nice day!”

The phone clicked and toned, and Muffy hung it up. “You too,” she snarked at it. Then, to Pete she said, “Now what?”

“Now we surf,” he answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He pulled on his typing thimbles one by one, patiently checking each contact and sensor. “Outside the ‘folio subnet, someone in this great wide directory must know the way. We’ll ask around until we find that person, then we’ll get persuasive.”

He was partly joking, but Muffy didn’t laugh or even crack a smile, because by now she knew him as well as anyone ever had. And hyah, he could be very persuasive when it suited him.

Still, as they glanced from portal to portal, leaving the folio’s pages behind and surfing out into the wider network, his first real move was a blunder.

“Ho!” he said on a public chat. “Anyone here less than six degrees sepped from the director?”

To which a subscriber replied, “Up your pipe, Chumlord. We’re having a conversation, here.”

And so they were: a whole gaggle of them were swapping ancient music files, steganographically embedded in the low-order bits of even ancienter porn snaps.

“Pirates?” Muffy texted in private, clearly unsettled by the layout of this place, and by the clientele.

“Nah,” Pete answered dismissively. “This material’s old. Grayware salvage, or maybe even public domain. They’re probably hiding it to avoid a licensing hassle with their frontlist media provider. Gawd, are there really people that poor?”

“Got something to say, Chumlord?” the subscriber snarked at them. “Text it in public or leave us alone.”

The guy’s connection was seriously overcompressed; his packets were laggy and lossy, his images pixelated. Everyone’s were. Looking around, Pete realized self-consciously that not a single person here was banding more than a megabit per second. At a hundred thousand times that much, he and Muffy were putting the patrons to shame by their mere presence.

“Meaning no disrespect,” he tried.

“Actually, we’re leaving,” Muffy added, popping a public banner across Pete’s screen—across the screens of everyone assembled here—directing him toward the back button. Dragging him away, as it were.

But apparently that was six words too many; the subscriber’s emoticon reddened in anger, and in another moment the guy slapped a crude freeware cease and desist over Pete’s workspace, obscuring Muffy’s banner.

“Respect this, Chumlord! You think we don’t know the law?”

Oh, brother. Pete didn’t believe there’d ever really been a time when the law concerned itself with who was right and who was wrong, but even in such a mythic age, this would have been a stupid ploy. There was no law against acting like a jackass. In today’s world the move was even dumber, because right and wrong were coded in the rules of probity if they existed at all. The law itself was simply a weapon, indifferent to the plights and whims of the people who took it up.

Laughing would have been the worst possible response, though the stilted, hostile wording of the letter was quaintly generic. Second worst would be backing out of the page like those three paragraphs actually meant anything. Pete settled instead for the third-worst response: rising to the bait.

“The informal embodiment of my name,” he texted, less calmly than he would have liked, “is Pete. By addressing me otherwise you risk a violation of trademark.”

And by allowing such violations to occur, Pete risked a weakening of his mark. So he annulled the C&D, drafted a full-fledged restraining order and a punitive damage claim, and jabbed a fat bolus of meaningless data in the stranger’s pipe to further lag up his response time. One click could send the guy spiraling into debt, and suddenly he seemed to know it; emoticons cooling from red to blue to a deep, submissive pink. Pete’s upbringing, his years of legal training, his automated responders and motion scripts were way more than a match for some random ‘scriber’s temper tantrum.

Now, objectively the stranger deserved to be taught a lesson, and emotionally speaking, Pete wanted to be that teacher. And since the letter of the law required him to defend his mark with all due diligence and vigor, he’d be well within his rights. Unfortunately, in unequal encounters like this, the code of probity required the mark holder to be the better man, and, anyway, barging in here oozing money and ‘tude was clearly a provocative and ill-thought-out move. Winning this exchange would not advance Pete’s cause, and might hurt it.

“This could get expensive,” he texted publicly to Muffy, in fonts and formats of mock concern. To the stranger he said, “I see you do know the law, sir. I wish more of my own subscribers did. What say we settle for zero damages?”

That brought another flare of red, and for a moment Pete thought—even hoped?—the guy was really going to try something. But the color faded quickly to gray. “Misunderstanding,” the stranger footnoted, in the smallest text his interface would allow.

And that was good enough for Pete and Muffy, who logged the exchange, then took the opportunity to back out with all marks and subscribers intact. But it wasn’t exactly an auspicious start to their inquiry, and as they surfed away Pete mentally began the task of drawing up litigation plans against Chaos Home. He wasn’t giving up hope—not by a life annuity!—but he needed a Plan B ready if things went skippy on him.

Said Muffy, “No offense, Poot, but I’m picking the next place.”

* * *

In fact, she picked the next eleven places, ten of which were uncannily savvy choices but still came up napes. The eleventh, though—a massively multipersonal delusion called Vee Rail Cartel—provided a solid lead.

“John Wireless Access Point, III,” said an anonymous lady gamester in tricorn space helmet, dangling from the vent stack of an Iron Mammoth on a megameter of vertical rail. “He used to play proxy golf geocache with the director, back in the century.”

Scuttlebutt around the delusion held this gal’s network to be deeply connected, if perhaps a bit stale.

“Really,” Pete said, mulling that. He himself was dressed as a Sector Sheriff, with twin lightshooters strapped crossways on his hips and a column of vaporized reactor coolant chuffing backstream in the space above his head.

“We’ve heard that name, John Point,” confirmed Muffy, in the garb of an Air Tax Auditor. These Old Space dramas were corned cheese and speedball, but gawd if they weren’t a hoot on a Sunday morning. Chaos Home owned them all, of course.

And Muffy was right, hyah, they had heard that string of syllables at least twice already in the course of their investigation. But Pete realized suddenly that without the tribal tongue-click to signify a trademark symbol, it simply hadn’t registered as a human name, or anyway not the name of a person you’d expect to find virching the corridors of power.

“Last I heard was some decades ago,” the gamester noted, “before I retired from Point’s service. I could be out-of-date.”

“What did you do, exactly?”

“Geocaddy,” the lady said, shrugging, as if it should be obvious. “I was good; I’d hand you the whip for any half wavelength at all, without so much as a word to the wise. Just there, you know? The director even tried to hire me away, once. Of course, he was just another marklord back then, Barry Pondu Cleaning Products. He wasn’t a scalp or anything, I just … couldn’t see myself there.” A pause, and then: “Do sometimes wonder what might’ve happened if I hadn’t laughed.”

“Can you forward us a link to, uh, Mr. Point?” Muffy asked prettily.

“Lespoint III, dear,” the lady snarked. “That’s what his friends call him. I take it the name doesn’t index for you? I’ll summarize a long and sordid bio with one word: ‘Neoscetic.’”

Pete frowned, parsing and dredging the term. “He’s off-line? Some old-tech purist?”

“And then some.” The gamester’s smirk said a lot, but nothing Pete could actually interpret. “He started out as a conscientious nonsubscriber in the Mark Litigations, and later encouraged the Great Infringement through a program of graywaring and flaccid resistance. He even filed actions against the open-source licensing cartel for price fixing, racketeering, and enforcing an undeclared lien.”

“Jeez,” Pete said, with appreciative horror. “I take it the Sourcers ‘voked his privs?”

“And then some.” The woman’s smile deepened, becoming wistful. “I’ll summarize with another word: ‘exnetworkated.’ Oh, don’t look so shocked. In the end they pulled the fiber right out of the ground, on the theory that he gave a crap. But you see, that’s what he wanted all along. Not just for himself, but for all of us. A true ideologue, that man.”

“We’ll say hi to him for you,” Pete told her sincerely.

* * *

There was more to it than that—a bit of ceremony and a bit of theater, a bit of help with her causes inside the delusion’s gameworld. A light fight, of all things! Pete had absorbed the protocols for this sort of deal with his mother’s milk; among the holder class and even the high-end functionaries he knew exactly what dance to dance. It took an hour and a half, but he came away with permissions to the woman’s real name and a set of GPS coordinates.

So Muffy really did rent them a dragonfly, and surprised Pete by piloting it herself. This was only slightly more complicated than, for example, surfing the undeveloped terabytes of Cheese Information Center, but it still took a certain measure of confidence, of verve, of full-presence training. He owned a pilot’s license himself, but without chauffeurs at her beck Muffy had apparently had more chance to practice the art; she coolly flitted them out of the city and across an expanse of ocean, and Pete was too embarrassed to tell her she was flying fast enough and low enough to really scare him. Dodging ship masts and radio buoys—gawd, what a trip!

“My goodness,” she said later, when they’d completed their ocean crossing—and an even hairier mountain crossing—and were hovering above their destination: the poor, exnetworkated homestead of John Wireless Access Point, III. “It’s an orchard.”

“Yeeesss,” Pete grudgingly agreed. But this was a real stretch of the term; other words might just as easily apply, like “paddy” or “jungle” or “maze.” There were vine-covered trees down there in a rough grid pattern, but between them were squares of marsh that glittered in the noonday sun, and high glass walls scattered here and there, separating one square of the grid from its immediate neighbor. The purpose of this was not at all obvious; since the walls didn’t form any actual enclosures, it seemed to Pete that critters and pollen and such could go right around them. There were antique robots, too; a bewildering variety of rolling, hopping, floating forms down there amid the vegetation. So right away the place gave off a kind of crazy-obsessive vibe. Otherworldly, almost.

There was a farmhouse of sorts, too: a mound of earth covered in grass and flowers, but also in terraces and glass domes. There was even an obvious landing pad, marked out on a flat stretch of lawn with rings and symbols in different-colored grass.

Under normal circumstances he and Muffy would’ve called ahead, or at least proximity-pinged the household with their biographical data and purpose of visit. As it was, Pete settled for popping the dragonfly’s canopy and shouting down with a bullhorn, “Ho, Lespoint III! Your old caddy, Veronica Von Biergarten, says hello! May we touch down?”

This produced no immediate response, so he repeated it twice more, until finally a grumpy-looking figure—his gray hair and bathrobe fluttering in the downdraft—stalked out through a doorway and onto the lawn, then waved them down with a pair of faded semaphore flags.

Minutes later, when the engines had stopped and the entomopter wings were rocking slower and quieter with every passing second, the man called out to Pete and Muffy, “Veronica’s not with you. Is this a joke? Are you reporters again, after all these years?”

“No, sir,” Pete reassured, giving his full name and title, and adding, “We disturb you only with the greatest reluctance.”

“Yes?” He was striding up, looking at the two of them narrowly. “Well, welcome to Real Estate, my home. Are you familiar with physical space? Can you walk?”

“Um, yes,” Muffy answered for them, sounding put off by such a strange question.

“No offense,” the man said, sidling up to the cockpit and offering his hand. “The world’s been getting awfully … hypothetical lately. Hi, yes. I’m Lesspoint III, as you seem to know. Climb on out of there … I … may I offer you …”

He stood by awkwardly while Pete and Muffy exited the dragonfly and stepped out into the dewy grass.

“What can I help you with?” he asked finally.

“I’m told you know the director,” Pete said without preamble, because in this particular situation, that was how the dance went. “Can you be persuaded to help us?”

“Ah.” Lesspoint sucked his teeth and once again looked the two of them over. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Persuaded, eh? Do you … have something I need?”

“Uh,” said Pete, “well, possibly. I’ll confess we’re not really familiar with your needs.”

“They’re minimal,” said Lesspoint, not snarking but simply stating it as a fact. He turned, waving a hand toward his trees. “I’ve got mulberry over nut palm and citrus over pandanus over blueberry and flax and hemp, with green beans creeping over all of it. Six edible layers! In between I’ve got rice and cattail over flightless ducks over catfish and crawfish. There … boy, there isn’t a living thing on this property I can’t eat, wear, smoke, or stuff in a pillow. Over behind the hill I’ve got limestone for cement, and clay for, you know, clay. My fuel sources are deadwood and sunlight.”

He spoke as though these were the only things in the world: food, clothing, shelter, energy. What more could I need? his tone implied.

“What about medical care? Or entertainment?” Muffy tried. “Without a network connection you must have a hard time receiving content. Or paying royalties!”

“Old books and movies,” Lespoint answered, sounding even more puzzled. “And old music, synthesized of course. Doctors? I don’t use ‘em. Royalties? I haven’t paid a license fee in thirty years.”

And now it was Pete’s turn to be confused. “But the formats, sir. The formats for those media are controlled by Chaos Home. You know that, right? You’re not … committing piracy, I hope.”

John Wireless Access Point snorted, squinting hard at Pete and Muffy for a long moment. “Are you for real?” Then his face grew more serious, and he ran a hand over it in a funny sort of despair. “Oh, gawd, you are. A marklord and his secretary, living in a world of linked portfolios. The United Directory of Properties, is it? It’d cook your brain to imagine anything outside of that. People like me are from some other dimension you can’t even perceive. Listen, why don’t you come inside? I’ve got something to show you.”

“People like you?” asked Pete. “You mean Neoscetics?”

“I mean free human beings,” the man answered, without anger or condescension but with perhaps a trace of pity.

They followed him inside.

* * *

It was educational, to say the least. Shelves groaned under the weight of paper books; speakers chattered with voice traffic over unlicensed radio frequencies. Unlicensed, in this day and age! The aud-vid synthesizer was old enough that Lespoint actually seemed to own it outright; he could turn it on without paying royalties, connection charges, or subscription fees—to Chaos home or anyone else. Even his electricity was generated on-site.

“Living outside your system,” he said to Pete and Muffy, handing them clay mugs of fresh-squeezed juice, “does not by itself mean piracy. Just how vital do you think ‘content’ is, that I’d need to steal it? For you, the mark holders—the landlords of intellectual property—are on top of the world, and subscribers are at the bottom. And that may be true. Poor subscribers! Forced to choose between exorbitant fees to a hundred different portfolios, or else selling all their choices for a single-provider discount. Or, yes, breaking the precious law your kind has stacked so heavily against them.”

They were in a kitchen, bathed in natural light.

“‘Our kind?’” Pete said, feeling defensive not only for himself but for his entire demographic. “That’s hardly fair, sir. The marklords stepped up in an age of turmoil. Baseless suits were bankrupting innocent professionals and even common laborers. The ‘insurance’ industry abandoned its commitments and fled, until finally no one was safe. People flocked to the holders for protection, and they got it. They still do.”

Lespoint snorted. “‘Flocked’ is an apt word, kiddo. With snapping dogs on all sides, the people were driven like sheep. Into your loving arms, yes. No offense, but the mark holders simply found a loophole to enrich themselves, never suspecting the fiduciary and attorney-client duties that would tumble in through the same gap. You’re a CompService boy, aren’t you? Cheese Information Center? Gawd, I remember your grandpappy, dreaming a world of safe profits. Well, the subscribers were protected from each other, I’ll give him that. And to a lesser extent, from the naked greed of the other holders. His license-sharing agreements allowed people to eat and breathe without fear of getting personally sued for it. But could he shield himself? He lived out his days in constant litigation, and from the look of things, so will you.”

“We’ve been infringed,” Pete told him.

“Of course you have.”

“Subscribers indebted, useful properties called into dispute,” said Muffy.

“Yes, well. That’s the way these things go.”

“It’s stupid.” Pete glowered. “It undermines mutual profit. It’s bad for holders and subscribers everywhere. It flies in the face of probity!”

Lespoint threw back his head and laughed. “Probity is a pleasant dream, kiddo. Have you mistaken it for real life? Gawd, I see you have. Really, when have fancy words ever stood in the way of greed? Even for an idealist like you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Pete said, rising from his chair. “We offer basic food rights to all comers, and reasonable code charges on designer cuisine. Nearly every subscriber is a potential contractor or creditee. We provide a full-service media bar, along with scaled access to the latest clothing and medicine. Capacity is the only thing holding us back; with limited IP, we’re forced to barter for certain necessities. But we do. Even our lowliest subscribers are fully privved.”

“No offense,” Lespoint said, amusedly motioning for Pete to sit back down. “But your subscribers’ fortunes are yours to control. Yes? You charge what you like, on whatever terms you like, then you give back what you like in services, legal protection, and billing credit. Oh, sure, if you turn the cost/benefit dial down too far, they’ll revolt, or flee to some other portfolio. Not that anyone will offer them better terms, of course. But this is the genius of our age: to force everyone to subscribe to something. Ultimately, the entire market is captive.”

“Our fees are the lowest in the business,” Pete snapped, now sliding toward genuine anger. “And our customer service ratings are among the highest.”

“Are they?” Lespoint raised an eyebrow. “Well, then, it’s no wonder your rival lords are infringing. You’ve broken the cartel, the unwritten agreement to keep people poor, lazy, and beholden. Shame, shame.”

After that came an uncomfortable silence, which Pete and Muffy covered by sipping from their mugs.

“You’re a very cynical man,” Muffy said, finally.

To which Lespoint just nodded his agreement. “I am. It’s the curse of anyone wise enough to imagine a better world. Or old enough to remember one.”

He took a drink from his own mug, and added, “You probably pay the Pauls folio for every bite of fish you’ve ever eaten. Am I right? When I was a boy, you know, it was legal to harvest wild trout right out of the streams. Just gut ‘em and fry ‘em with some lemon and butter. You needed a license, of course, and someone to police for cruelty and overfishing, but the natural world belonged to everyone. That, of course, made it the enemy of commerce, but I still have some trout here on the property, breeding in tanks. No gene splices, no royalties, no one to beg for my supper. Can you imagine? Gawd, what a fossil I am. Keeping this place up takes a lot of work, kiddo. Someday I’ll drop dead, and the weeds and lawyers will have it all.”

There was more silence, even less comfortable than before. Finally, it was Lespoint himself who broke it, by smiling, clasping his hands together, and saying, “You still haven’t told me what you want. I don’t get many visitors these days, especially strangers. What exactly are you hoping for?”

“The director’s address,” Pete said, coming right to the point. “And if possible, a letter of introduction.”

Lespoint’s smile faded, then returned, then faded again. The words seemed to make him sad. “Going to plead your case, eh? Avoid a pyrrhic legal battle? Good for you. It’s a personal failing, I’m sure, but I’ve always admired empty gestures, and the solid people who make them.”

* * *

The director’s headquarters—really the center of power for the entire directory—were in an unassuming brick building in a suburb somewhere. The sign on the front said: LEGAL OFFICE, INDEMNITIES, PROFESSIONAL SERVICES. And then, in smaller letters: not a customer service location.

Nevertheless, Pete and Muffy barged in first thing the next morning. Or tried to, anyway.

“This is a closed facility,” the front door told them, refusing to open.

Muffy answered with their names and titles, saying, “We’re here to submit a mediation request.”

“Slip it through the mail slot,” said the door.

To her credit, Muffy didn’t waste anger on a mere device. Instead, she told it, “The Directory Rolodex instructed me to submit the request in person. Shall I read you the legal definition of that term?”

“I’m not equipped to understand it, miss.”

“Then get me someone who is.” She followed up the command with some old-fashioned knocking.

Half a minute later, a latch clicked open, and a security guard peered out. “Can I help you?” he asked, sounding nonplussed. Which definitely said something about the number of visitors they got around here.

“I’m Muffietta Litting Von Mausland, paralegal aide to Counselor Pyotr Rao CompService of Cheese Information Center. We’re here by invitation of the Directory Rolodex; a major infringement is in progress.”

“Uh,” said the guard.

“Don’t just stand there,” Muffy told him. “Let the counselor in. Or do we need to call in a process server?”

“You can’t serve the director’s staff,” said the guard.

“No?” said Muffy, glancing back at Pete with glittering trademarked eyes. “I think the courts might have something to say about that. Listen, I can feel the counselor’s blood pressure rising from here. If you piss him off, the director’s going to hear about it, and if you really piss him off, you may find yourself on the receiving end of a willful obstruction suit.”

“Are you threatening me, miss?” Again, the guard sounded more surprised than angry.

Muffy snorted. “What do you do here all day? Yes, I’m threatening you. Or if you prefer, I’m helping you understand the consequences of the dire choice you’re making. Now, are you going to open this door?”

“Uh. I suppose I … Sorry.”

Once they were inside, the director’s paralegal tried to pull a similar number on them, but was foiled nearly as fast. In the end, Muffy jammed the papers down the front of the woman’s blouse, saying, “Will you acknowledge these as served, or do I need to snap a picture? We’ll take an appointment today, if you please. Unless you can prove the director isn’t here, or his calendar is full, you’re pretty much obligated by the invitation of your Rolodex.” Her eyes narrowed. “You do realize that if you waste enough of our time, the counselor can sue for triple damages?”

“You’re laying it on too thick,” Pete whispered in her ear, discovering in the process just how wonderful her perfume smelled.

But instead of quieting, she turned and clutched her chest in apparent anguish, “No! Counselor, please! Don’t fire me. It’s her fault, honestly!”

Finally, the director himself came out of his office with a legal pad in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “What’s all the ruckus out here?” he wanted to know.

He was younger than Lespoint, but dressed older: a blue-and-white button-down shirt, with red suspenders holding up gray flannel trousers. His shoes were mirror black, like pools of liquid tar, and his necktie was so red that it actually hurt Pete’s eyes.

At the sight of him, Muffy dropped her gaze and fell silent, dutifully yielding the floor to Pete.

“I’m, uh, from Cheese Information Center,” he said uncertainly. Then, in a stronger voice, “That is, I’m Pyotr Rao CompService, and my father has sent me here to request your intercession on the matter of an infringement.”

The director blinked. He blinked again. He blinked a third time. “Are you serious?” he finally asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Pete. “Chaos Home has filed a motion laying claim to the cheese recipes at the very foundation of our IP portfolio. They can’t win, sir, but the litigation could be very costly for all of us.”

The director gave Pete a hard look. “And?”

“And I was hoping—that is, the portfolio marklords were hoping—that you could broker an out-of-court settlement.”

At that, the director set his pad down on the paralegal’s desk, then cracked the seal on his water bottle and raised it to his lips. “Son,” he said, when he’d made the noises people make after taking a big drink of water, “do you suppose I was aware of this before you came in here? A major infringement happens in my directory, and I haven’t heard about it? Get real.”

He took another drink, and added, “If I wanted to do anything about it, I’d’ve done it already, don’t you think?”

“But sir,” Pete tried, his hopes flagging but not yet extinguished, “a lot of dollars will be lost. Mostly by innocent subscribers.”

“The stupid and the weak,” the director said, shrugging. “To maximize profits across the board, we need strong management. Cunning management. If you can lose your IP, you deserve to. If you can take someone else’s, well … The world is a hard, cold place, and litigation does favor the capable. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. It does.” Pete tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He’d ignored a lot of warnings in coming here, but this reality was still hard to swallow. There was, of course, no help to be had here, or even sympathy, and the litigations of the world were constant for one simple reason: because they were meant to be. Costly to the subscribers, yes, and even the marklords, but for this man, Barry Pondu Cleaning Products, it paid dividends. And that was the bottom line.

Even so, Pete couldn’t help saying, for the sake of his own personal dignity, “You’re wrong about management, though. I’ve seen great litigators who couldn’t supervise their way out of a paper jam. I’ve seen bean-counting geniuses who never won a court case in their lives.” Most of his teachers, for example. For good measure, he added, “Brute force will eventually fail, sir, unless people are actually on your side, deep down in their hearts. That’s the whole point of probity: to make more friends than enemies. Ultimately, that’s the best business decision any of us can make.”

And if ever a speech fell on deaf ears, surely that was the one. The director’s face betrayed only amusement, and not much of that.

Well, then. Pete had nothing left to say.

Muffy did, apparently. She waved another thin stack of documents, saying, “Sir, we’ve got parking to validate and expense reports to submit. That’s not your problem, obviously, but as invitees we’re entitled to one signature, to prove we were physically here.”

She handed him a slip of paper which he looked over impatiently. Then a smirk broke out across his face. He glanced up at Pete for a moment, then at Muffy. Finally, he clicked open a pen and signed, with his legal pad underneath to keep from marking up the desk. He handed the slip back.

Just like that, businesslike, Pete’s hopes collapsed. But just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the director put a warm hand on his shoulder, and said, “For what it’s worth, CompService, you seem like a capable young man. Anthony Walking Chaos had better watch his backside.”

Did he think he was being supportive? Hedging his bets? Backing both sides to guarantee he was backing a winner? In any case, the director’s smile was a terrible thing to behold. Heedless of protocol, Pete shrugged off the hand, turned his back, and slammed the hell out of there.

* * *

“Well,” said Pete, sitting on the curb outside the building, “I guess that’s that. We’re headed off to court.”

“Yup,” Muffy agreed, lowering herself beside him. But she seemed a lot less mopey than she ought to be.

He looked at her sidelong. “Why so cheerful? We lost. All our efforts in vain.”

“Due diligence is never wasted,” she countered. “And neither is ethical conduct. You made some good points in there.”

“Yeah. Fat lot of good it did.”

He picked at flattened, blackened chewing gum on the sidewalk.

“Well,” she said, “do you actually believe what you said?”

“I …” Did he? Hyah, of course he did. “Sure.”

“Well, then, we ride to war with a clean conscience.”

“Clean?” he gaped. “The collateral damage will be ruinous.”

“For some,” she agreed. “But our side is all volunteers, right? No innocent ink to spill. Given that, deciding where the damage falls is just a matter of choosing your enemies wisely.”

“You don’t mean …”

She smirked. “Don’t I?”

“But his resources …”

“Are worth squat in the face of real probity.”

Here Pete rolled his eyes. “You mean stupidity. Following the rules—especially the unwritten ones—puts a man at huge disadvantage against an improbate enemy.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, in a gesture wholly, completely, and utterly unlike the director’s. “Sadly, that’s true. Game theory confirms it. And you do what’s right anyway, which makes you the boldest counselor I’ve ever known. But understand, Poot: that only applies at the individual level. When whole groups compete, the willingness to sacrifice becomes a huge survival advantage. Your people will back you up. Hell, complete strangers will back you on reputation scores alone. Your enemies would bankrupt for an advantage like that, and that’s exactly why they’ll never have it. Or even know it exists. When the ruling gets rough, their allies will desert them one by one. And good riddance.”

Pete, looking down at the road surface, took some time to wrap his head around all that. Did she mean it? Was she right? There was a scary-smart edge to her words.

“So,” he said, “we file a full-up class-action suit against … the director?”

“None other. If he wants litigation, I say we give it to him.”

Legally speaking, anyone had the right to sue anyone; the question was whether you could win. Or make your opponent spend more than he cared to. Or make the whole thing such a bother that people would simply pay you to go away. None of those things were true if you took on an opponent clearly richer and better connected than you were. It was madness. And yet …

If the director’s true colors were flown high for all to see, if he could be cornered and subpoenaed and cross-examined under polygraph, his reputation scores would plummet. Could his subscriber revenues fail to follow? Could the probitous marklords—and their loyal subscribers—fail to profit from the upheaval? Through Muffy, Pete could see a shadow network all around him, hidden strengths and weaknesses waiting to be unmasked.

“Society’s a consensual hallucination,” Muffy said. “A set of rules we all agree—however grudgingly—to live by. But if the people stop believing it—if even ten percent of the people wake up one day with a different idea in their heads and the courage to sue for it—the whole thing collapses. The art of tyranny is to keep it under five percent on any given day. The art of revolution is to nudge it up, just a little.”

“Gawd,” he said. “Jeez. That’s … that’s …” Brilliant.

With barely a moment to reflect, he seized her cheeks in his palms and gazed hard into her trademarked eyes. “Marry me, Muffy. Please.”

“Oh, Poot,” she said, holding up a document with his signature on it. And the director’s. And the paralegal’s, and even the security guard’s, in a space marked WITNESS. “I just did. Gawd, man, didn’t Moms teach you to read the forms before you sign?”

Her grin was wide and beautiful, inviting him to join in the joke, but whatever she intended, whatever she expected, the words hit him like a summons. Tricked again, eh? By the one person he’d thought he could trust?

He stiffened. “Ah. Nice.”

“We can annul it,” she said, backpedaling. Flickers of guilt and hurt and disappointment played across her features, but mostly she just looked calm. “I wouldn’t bind you with a trick. Probity forbids it! But it’ll smooth things over with your parents. Sorry, Moms, I was snared by webs of womanly deceit, wink wink. She’ll understand. She’ll approve. She’ll bring your father around, if necessary.”

“Ah,” he said, grasping her meaning. More strengths and weaknesses exposed. There was more to the world than he’d yet perceived.

Still, it rankled, coming as it did on the heels of the director’s rebuke. Or did Pete have it wrong? Was this the counterpunch, the first victory of truth and justice over mere law, and merer custom? If two people loved each other, shouldn’t the world be bent and twisted until their lips could finally touch?

“Well,” he said, thawing, “clearly I can’t afford you as an enemy.”

“Neither can they,” she said with a laugh, nodding sideways at the director’s front door. And then, with a kiss to seal the deal, they were off.

Was there ever a grander wedding, a more perfect marriage? The inky reformatting of the United Directory of Properties—the Backup Revolution, as some have called it—followed shortly thereafter, and the great irony, little appreciated by history, is that it began right there on the director’s front step. From there, of course, the story of Marklord Pete and Marklady Muffy passes into history and legend, and the rest of it is so beloved that this magazine can’t afford to print it. However, fair use does permit us to note—if only in passing—that the two of them lived happily ever after.

* * *

Wil McCarthy is the author of several novels and short stories.

To see this author’s work sold by Amazon, click here.

FANTASY STORIES

The Spiral Road

Written by Louise Marley

Illustrated by Karl Nordman

Alhasa

Gray smoke curled from the beaten copper censer and rippled gently up to the high ceiling, filling the sanctuary with the spicy smell of pursil smoke. It made Romas’s nose tingle.

Angkar Rinposh, the blind lama, sat crosslegged beside the censer. He bent over the glowing coals to breathe the smoke, and his dark face shone with reflected light. Novices knelt around him, crimson cowls thrown back, shaven heads bent, topknots pointed at heaven. They hummed in perfect unison. Romas supposed each singer must occasionally stop to breathe, but he heard no interruption. Sound flowed around him, deep and monotonal, resonating against the stone walls and vibrating in his bones.

Romas fingered his own long braid, and shifted his feet. He felt overlarge and out of place, but a little giddy with pursil smoke. Pursil was Alhasa’s treasure and its pride. It grew only on their high plateau, with its cool salt air and unobstructed light. Suspensions of pursil leaf healed wounds, defeated infections, eased pain. And to Angkar Rinposh, its smoke brought visions.

Romas straightened, tossing his braid back over his shoulder. He must not be tempted by the chant, nor besotted by the smoke. The crimson cowl was not for him. Romas had devoted his life to Alhasa as a courier. He wore a brown dolman over black leggings, thick-soled sandals laced to the knee. He carried no dagger. It was the pride and the sacrifice of couriers that they went unarmed, so that no one would question their purpose. They carried messages, letters, sometimes goods. To be a courier meant to be both strong and patient and swift. Romas folded his arms, and dropped his chin. Patience, of course, was the hardest of all.

At last Angkar Rinposh lifted his head, and rubbed his sightless eyes as if he were waking from sleep. When he raised one bony dark hand the humming faded and ceased, one voice at a time. When there was silence, the lama dropped his hand, and then extended it, palm up. One of the novices hurried to help him to his feet.

Angkar Rinposh, leaning on the arm of the young monk, hobbled across the sanctuary to stand before Romas. He was bent and frail, and could weigh not half as much as Romas, but his blind gaze was commanding.

Romas pressed his hands together before his chest, and bent his head. “Holiness,” he said quietly. “Do you have a message for the Chamber?”

“I do.” Angkar’s voice was as thin and high as the wind over the cliffs. “But I sorrow to say it.” He gestured to the door of the sanctuary, and began to hobble toward it. The novice walked with him, but Angkar Rinposh led the way as surely as any seeing man. Romas followed down the long aisle and out, coming to stand beside Angkar on the steps of the sanctuary, to look down over the terraced city.

The pastel houses of Alhasa nestled in layers on the steep slopes of the plateau. Narrow lanes twisted between them like the elaborate braids of young girls. Slender streams of smoke rose from kitchen stoves to disperse before the sharp morning breeze. Tiny figures moved among the vineyards and gardens, and below everything was the sheer drop to the sea. The water was almost always shrouded by a layer of cloud below the great cliff. On rare occasions, the clouds would part to allow the Alhasi a brief and dizzying view of distant green water.

In the days of the flyers, people had sailed above the oceans, but those days were lost. The Alhasi had learned to be content with their hilltop city, their terraced farms. Pursil grew on the heights, and snow grapes, and gisko berries, and a dozen other herbs to soothe, to heal, to nourish. The herbs of Alhasa were prized by the lowland people, who traded grain and tools and cloth for them.

But now, it seemed the Callistans were no longer content with the system of barter. Threats had been made, speeches and rallies had been stated. Alhasa’s Chamber had sent Romas to the blind lama to discover what he could see.

Angkar Rinposh pulled up his scarlet cowl to block the bite of the wind from his bare head. “Courier,” he said.

“Yes, Holiness.”

“It is not good news.”

“What shall I tell the Chamber, Holiness?”

“Tell them they are coming. The Callistans are coming, with their shou dan and their spears. They are going to block the Spiral Road.”

* * *

Callis City

Irlen braced her hands on the pitted iron balustrade and leaned forward to see past the gray-tiled rooftops. The dry wind stung the tip of her nose and chilled the rusting rail under her fingers. Fronds of hair whipped across her face, and she lifted one hand to hold them out of her eyes. “Do you see that, Old Man?” she said. “It grows smaller every year.”

Her shadowy companion nodded. “Like a stale cake being eaten by rats,” he said. “Crumbling away.”

The skeleton shapes of the ever-diminishing spaceport loomed just beyond the city, its collapsed platforms and broken passenger tubes jutting into the twilit sky like the limbs of a massive dead tree. For years scavengers had been carting off bits of it, raiding the carcass to make cart tongues out of tower struts, chimney pots out of storage cartons, water pipes out of conduits. Irlen had never seen the Callis Spaceport before its terminals had been gutted, its observation decks toppled, but there was a vintage picture at Li Paul House, an actual photograph, from the days when such things were possible.

“What are you thinking, daughter?” her companion said.

“That we remember our history, yet fail to learn from it.”

“Not so many remember, now.”

“I suppose not. They’re too busy surviving.”

“That is human nature, my daughter.”

“Does it never change, then, Old Man?”

His gesture was so familiar, the graceful lifted hands, the elegant tilted head, that a spasm of loneliness twisted in her breast. He said, with a laugh, “Perhaps when the ships come back.”

She could not bring an answering smile to her lips. “That’s such a stupid saying.”

“The General says it all the time.”

Irlen rolled her eyes, and he gave her a sympathetic look.

“You should go home, daughter. You’re no good to your patients if you’re exhausted.”

“But it is exhausting,” she said tiredly. “The wounded come back from the Spiral Road every day now, and we are stretched to the breaking point. There are few enough physicians in Callis City. I’m the only one these children have, and I’m about to lose a patient.”

“Doctors lose patients. I taught you that much, surely.”

“This one is so young—and we don’t even know her name.”

“You’re doing all you can, daughter. I know that.”

She gave him a sideways look. “You know everything now, I suppose.”

His smile twisted a little, rueful and wise. “Not always a blessing.”

Her throat tightened. She had not been able to shake a pervasive sense of isolation, ever since his death. “I wish you were here, Old Man.”

He shrugged, and his image wavered before her weary eyes. “Here I am,” he whispered. “Here I am.”

In the ward behind her, a child began to wail. Irlen turned to leave the narrow balcony, her black vestment whipping around her legs until she closed the balcony doors.

The matron met her, rubbing her hands on her long apron. “Doctor Li Paul,” she said. “The girl is worse—she’s so hot.”

“Did you rub her with grain alcohol?”

The matron nodded, her eyes weary, her face lined with worry.

“Did you ask the apothecary for pursil leaf?”

“I asked. He says he needs what little he has for the wounded from the war.”

Irlen pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead in a helpless gesture. “War,” she said bitterly. “Young men wounded, maimed, killed—and for what?”

The matron pursed her lips, and looked disapproving. “Doctor,” she said, “we had no choice. Those Alhasi, they’re barbarians. They practice all sorts of abominations. Do you know what they do with babies they don’t want? They throw them over that cliff into the sea!”

Irlen dropped her hands and fixed the matron with a hard gaze. “How do you know any of that, Matron?”

The other woman shrugged. “Everyone knows it. The General told us.”

Irlen went to the sink and began to wash her hands. “I would be happy if half what the General says is true,” she muttered, but fortunately the matron didn’t hear.

Irlen took a fresh cloth and the bottle of grain alcohol, and crossed to the child’s bedside.

There were a dozen beds in the children’s ward, and every one was full. Murmurs and whimpers filled the darkness. Often a parent came with their child, if they could be spared from home, and the matrons were grateful for their help. But this child, the one Irlen knelt beside now, had come alone, carried in the strong arms of one of the General’s Guards. He had found her lying in the doorway of a bakery. Irlen had been grateful to him for bringing the girl to the hospital. Many another man would have left the child to die where she was.

They called it crystal fever, and a urine sample soon confirmed that the nameless child had it. Tiny crystals shone in the beaker, showing that the girl’s kidneys had already failed, that septicemia had set in. The little one appeared to be about four years of age, and she was the classic example of a crystal fever victim, poor, young, undernourished, and abandoned.

Irlen reached in the pocket of her vestment for her ancient stethoscope, the one that had been her father’s, and his father’s before him, all the way back to the ships. She carefully unwound its cloth wrapping, and put its earpieces in her ears.

The silvery metal of the earpieces and the cup never degenerated, which was a blessing, since the forges of Callis were incapable of such fine work, and the necessary metals were rarely available. Irlen kept the tubing of her heirloom functional by using pond reeds. Some used finely split leather, which lasted longer, but was not as flexible.

Irlen bent her head to listen to the little girl’s faltering heartbeat. Gently, she pinched the skin on the child’s hand. It formed a tiny tent that collapsed only slowly, evidence of the dehydration that came with crystal fever. There was nothing to be done about it. Without a dose of pursil leaf to suppress the fever and ease the pain, the child’s jaws grew tighter and tighter, until she could no longer swallow the fluids Irlen and the matron tried to trickle into her mouth.

Irlen sat back on her heels to rewrap her stethoscope, and then stayed there, watching the child try to breathe. At one time physicians could replace lost fluid in their patients, pump it directly into their veins, but Callis had lost that technique. The arid plain of Callis held sulphur and graphite, but no iron, no copper; the Callistans could make their nasty little shou dan, hand bombs; they couldn’t make needles.

Irlen wished with all her being that she could think of something else to do.

One of the things Callis wanted from Alhasa was free access to pursil leaf, to the sweet wine made from ice grapes, to the other herbs the Alhasi cultivated, and that would not grow on the dry plains. The General could claim that the war was about the “reunion” of their peoples, that he had a moral imperative for attacking Alhasa; Irlen had no doubt he had simply decided trade was too slow, and too costly. Morality had nothing to do with it, and profit everything. There was no profit, naturally, in saving the life of a nameless child of the streets.

Irlen thrust these useless thoughts aside. She put a hand on the sick girl’s tangled hair. “It won’t be long now, little one,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be right here. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

As she waited, she let her gaze stray to the window that looked out on the balcony and the dark night. Her companion was there, a foggy form watching through the glass. Irlen nodded to him, tucked away the stethoscope he had left her, and waited for the girl to die.

* * *

The nightly caravan of wounded soldiers arrived an hour after the child drew her last breath. Irlen was called to the trauma room, and spent hours trying to mend arrow wounds, crushed bones, lacerated skin. It had been a long day and a longer night, and she was stunned to exhaustion by the weight of the work and the weeping of young men in pain. The last of the pursil leaf was gone before the Guards stopped carrying in stretchers. Irlen had to send away her blood-stained vestment before the night was out, and work on in a long apron like the one Matron wore.

As she trudged back up the stairs to the children’s ward, her companion returned, a faintly gray figure in the dimness of the stairwell. She grimaced at him. “It troubles me, Old Man. They go off to war expecting glory, and they come back shocked at how much glory hurts.”

“There is no good war,” he said. “And no bad peace.”

“You’re quoting again,” Irlen sighed. “As usual, I remember the quote but not the author. From the time of the ships?”

He gave her a ghostly smile. “The quote is much older than that. Benjamin Franklin, some pre-Industrial philosopher.”

“Ah. Well, he was right.”

“Every physician knows that,” her companion said lightly. “It is politicians who don’t believe it.”

“All I know,” Irlen said wearily, reaching for the handle of the door to the ward, “is that without pursil leaf, and the other herbs we can get from Alhasa, this will be a primitive kind of medicine. We’ll be cauterizing wounds with hot irons next.”

She went through the door, leaving him behind in the dark stairwell. She saw that the vacated bed had already been filled. Against the far wall of the ward, two parents stood with sick children in their arms.

Irlen gritted her teeth against the wave of despair that swept her. If only … just a basket of pursil leaves, and a day in which to make the medicine … but the General had seen to it that wasn’t possible.

* * *

Alhasa

“Romas,” his mother called. “There’s a message for you.”

Romas turned away from contemplating the ruin of the stone arches that had protected the Spiral Road for years. It made his heart ache, that ruin. Early in the days when the Alhasi had parted from the Callistans, when they had determined to live in harmony with their new world, rather than yearn for their lost technology, they had carved the Spiral Road out of the living rock of the cliff, a great ribbon of road that wound up and around the immense plateau. To protect travelers on the middle reaches of the Road from the high winds blowing from the sea, and from toppling over into the abyss, the carvers had made tall, broad arches out of the rock, at the cost of thousands of hours of labor and not a few lives. And now the arches had been destroyed. It felt to Romas, and to all the Alhasi, like a betrayal of their ancestors.

The city was quiet now, but throughout the night the sounds of war had shattered the darkness.

“Romas!” his mother called again.

“Coming, Ama la.”

He trailed his fingers across the pursil vines that grew over the door as he went in. His mother, her profusion of braids tucked neatly beneath her round linen cap, held out a small scroll marked with the seal of the sanctuary. “It’s from him,” she said, her eyes as round as her cap. “From Angkar Rinposh.”

Romas took the scroll, wondering at it. Why would the blind lama send a message to his home?

“Open it!” his mother urged, her voice tight with anxiety. All the Alhasi were anxious these days, since the first Callistan assault on the Spiral Road had sent sparks and explosions high into the night sky, and collapsed the ancient arches. Bits of rock had gone crashing over the great cliff, bringing the Alhasi out of their homes to stare fearfully downward into the night. The Chamber had positioned archers to protect the city, but they could not stop the destruction of the arches. They shot their arrows at the Callistan soldiers, and the Callistans answered with spears and hand bombs. The screams of the injured carried up the twisting road to the city, and the Alhasi braced for a siege. A demand had been sent to the Chamber, some nonsense about setting the Alhasi “free”—a euphemism, every Alhasi knew, for taking control of their resources, the herbs and grapes that wouldn’t grow on the plains. And the labor to harvest them!

Romas unrolled the scroll. “The lama wants to see me, Ama la.”

“Go quickly, my son.”

Romas kissed her, and then dashed out into the steep street. He ran, hurrying toward the top of the city, where the sanctuary crowned the plateau. His sandals thumped on the hard ground, and his braid bounced over his shoulder. One or two people lifted their eyebrows at his swift passage, but most were in their houses, their doors and windows shut tight, preparing for the siege.

* * *

Callis City

By the time Irlen left the children’s ward, she was staggering with fatigue. Two more children had died, their mothers wailing over them as their ragged breathing ceased. Matron, and several other parents who had come to help, had struggled to comfort them, had wrapped the small bodies, tried to calm the other patients.

The sun had risen on this chaos, red and dry. At least, for the moment, the flow of wounded soldiers had ceased, and the ones who had died were carried away. Irlen crept down the stairs to find a rickshaw, and almost fell asleep as it carried her to Li Paul House. She refused food, wanting only to collapse upon her own bed for the first time in thirty-six hours.

Her companion was not there. He usually followed her home, to haunt the old halls and the library where he had spent so many hours. They were empty now. No one lived in Li Paul House but Irlen and her housekeeper.

Irlen was too tired to notice his absence. She fell immediately into a heavy, hot sleep.

When her housekeeper woke her, it was almost dark again. She ate a hasty meal, and set out again for the hospital, grateful for the coolness of the night air. In the distance, the abandoned spaceport hulked beneath the stars. Oil lamps glimmered here and there in the city.

Irlen climbed wearily out of the rickshaw, feeling as if she had hardly rested at all. She moved slowly up the stairs, reluctant to face the renewed tragedies, the ceaseless need.

Not until she pushed open the door, and reached for her vestment, did she remember that she had not seen her companion since the night before. She stopped, the vestment in her hands, and looked back at the stairwell. “Where are you, Old Man?” she murmured. “You wouldn’t abandon me now, surely?”

There was no answer.

* * *

Alhasa

This time, when Romas came into the presence of the blind lama, the two of them were alone. The novice who escorted him into the sanctuary pressed his hands together before his chest, bowed, and was gone. Romas walked alone down the aisle to the center of the sanctuary, where the censer smoked beneath the dome. Angkar Rinposh sat there alone, crosslegged, his blind eyes following the sounds of Romas’s footsteps.

Romas knelt before him. “You sent for me,” he said, a little hoarsely. The pursil smoke hung heavily in the air, a cloud of gray tinged with brown.

“I had a vision in the night,” the lama said. He squinted at Romas as if he could see him through the smoke.

Romas fidgeted. It was said the lama saw more than any sighted person. It was said that he could see into your soul. His eyes, milky blue and ghostly, made Romas feel small and transparent. “Yo—your Holiness,” he stammered.

“Yes, a vision,” Rinposh said again. His blank gaze wandered away from Romas and up to the dome above the sanctuary. “I saw a tunnel—little more than a fissure, really—running through the ruin of the arches. And I saw you there. With a woman.”

Romas felt his cheeks flame. “Your Holiness,” he said, his voice quavering a little. “I am a courier. I would never take a woman—not to the arches—there’s a war, Holiness.”

Rinposh showed his teeth, white in the mass of brown wrinkles that was his face. “I know there’s a war, Romas,” he said lightly. “I can see it perfectly well.”

Romas opened his mouth, and closed it again.

“And I can hear it, of course,” the old lama went on. “Such a waste.” He waved one hand in a gesture of irritation. “Still. Men make war until they learn its futility. There is nothing I can do about that.” He took a deep breath, pursil smoke filling his nostrils. He breathed it out again, whiter and lighter than when he had drawn it in. “This vision came to me by way of a visitor. It’s not a vision of something that has happened. It is an invitation to make something happen.”

“Vi—visitor?”

The old man’s eyes returned to him. “Do you have a speech impediment, Courier?”

Romas set his jaw, trying to regain his composure. “No, Holiness,” he said firmly. “But I am nervous in your presence.”

Rinposh showed his teeth again. “Of course,” he said amiably. “And so you should be.”

He chuckled, and then linked his hands in his lap, and lowered his head as if to stare into the rising smoke. “I have had such visitors before,” he said after a time. “But this is the first from Callis.”

Romas almost stammered “Ca—callis?” but caught himself.

“He is a ghost,” Rinposh said, as calmly as if he were ordering tea. “A Callistan ghost.”

* * *

Callis City

Irlen went for days without sleeping more than four hours at a time. Some patients she lost, both in the trauma room and in the children’s ward. Some of the soldiers she could patch, though she did her work while they screamed in pain.

The children didn’t scream. As they got sicker and sicker, they grew more and more quiet. Once or twice, they died without anyone noticing, slipping away in silence, small heartbeats slowing, shallow breaths growing less and less frequent until they ceased altogether.

Irlen lost track of time. She couldn’t remember when her companion had last been at her side. On one clear, starry night, she left the trauma room and trudged slowly up the stairs to the children’s ward. Evely was sitting between two cots, murmuring comforts to the children there. Two mothers hovered over their children, whispering, sponging them with cloths. Irlen went to the sink to wash her hands again, though she had done it before leaving the trauma room. She looked around at the ward, quiet for the moment, and then went out onto the balcony to breathe clean air for a few moments.

She turned her gaze, as she so often did, to the skeleton of the spaceport. A ruin, like the beautiful and ancient arches spanning the Spiral Road had been ruined, blown to bits by the General’s explosives. “Everything is falling apart,” she murmured into the night. “Nothing lasts.”

“We do,” came a soft voice at her shoulder.

Irlen turned her head. “There you are, Old Man,” she said tiredly. “Where have you been?”

“I’m always with you, daughter.”

“Are you? I feel like I’m always alone.” Irlen heard the bitterness in her voice, and shook her head sharply. “It’s just that I’m so tired, Old Man. And it all seems pointless. The crystal fever, and then this damned war—pointless.”

His image wavered beside her, glimmering in the starlight. “Trying to save the children isn’t pointless.”

“Except I can’t do it,” she said. “I have nothing to work with.”

“Because you have no medicines?”

“Yes. The General cut us off from our medicines with his stupid war.”

She saw the familiar, gentle smile on her companion’s face. “Why not go and ask for what you need?”

“Ask whom, Old Man? I have asked the apothecary, I have pleaded with the General—it does no good.”

“Those people don’t have what you need. You must ask those who have the medicines.”

She gave a sour laugh. “That would be the Alhasi. Our enemies. I hardly think they will be feeling generous toward us.”

“Perhaps not with all Callistans. Certainly not with the General. But a physician, struggling to save innocents …”

Irlen put one hand to her temple, as if the thought had struck her with some physical force. “Go myself,” she murmured. “And ask.”

“They can only say no.”

“But would I … could I find someone to ask?”

Her companion gave the old, elegant shrug. “You will never know unless you try.”

She stood there, on the balcony, her vestment whipping about her ankles, for a long time, thinking. Pondering. She stared at the ruin of the spaceport, and then turned to stare up at the distant silhouette of Alhasa’s plateau. She had never been there, but the traders who brought the Alhasi medicines down the Spiral Road had told her of the beauty of the city, the colorful houses jumbled together on steep streets, the dizzying cliff falling away to the sea, the ancient and glorious stone arches, carved by hand out of the living rock.

It was the spaceport that caused the Callistans to build their city here, on the dry plain. The Alhasi had alienated Callis with their belief that the ships would never return, after one of their visionary monks had pronounced it. The Alhasi had moved all of their people to the high plateau, where the sun and the sea mists made gardens and fields richly productive. The Callistans had refused to adapt, but were happy to use the treasures the Alhasi found on their plateau. Pursil leaf in particular was prized for its opioid effect.

Irlen wondered if the Alhasi thought of the Callistans as barbarians. She wondered if the Alhasi threw unwanted babies into the sea. A fire rose in her mind, a flame that burned away her restraint.

She made a noise in her throat, one of acceptance. She whirled about, and left the balcony, leaving her companion hovering in the starlight.

* * *

Alhasa

Romas moved down the Spiral Road at dusk the next evening. Over his shoulder he carried a woven bag, carefully sewn shut by his ama, whose faith in Rinposh’s visions brought immediate obedience to anything he might say. As Romas stepped carefully along the steep, twisting way, he wished his own faith were as strong.

To his right, and far below the precipitous road he followed, he heard the distant crash of the sea. Ahead, and almost as far below, the flashes and explosions went on, a barrage of noise and violence. The pile of rock that had once been Alhasa’s pride had become its protection, and its prison gate. He heard faint cries from the archers, and from the soldiers on the other side. It was a sound as monotonous as the tides of the sea, the noise of men making war.

The descent took two hours in the growing darkness, Romas placing his feet with care on the narrow, twisting path. He had made the full descent often, passing beneath the great arches and on, all the way to the foot of the plateau. He had once carried a message all the way to Callis City, a journey of a full day’s run each way. In the days of peace, Callistan traders had moved easily back and forth, unloading their carts at the bottom of the Spiral Road. The Alhasi would descend with their bags of herbs and grapes, make the exchange, then hoist the cargo of grain and tools and cloth, Callistan goods, on their backs. It had seemed an adequate arrangement to the Alhasi. Angkar Rinposh said the Callistans lacked patience.

As Romas drew close to the toppled arches, the noises grew louder. Alhasi archers had found perches in crannies and splits in the cliff. They waited, bows at the ready, for any Callistan who dared climb to the top of the ruin. The Callistans hurled spears and shao dan over the ruin, and the Alhasi archers did their best to dodge them. Rock and rubble crashed down on both sides.

The problem, Romas knew, was that the Callistans could hold their position indefinitely. There were many, many more of them. This war could last a long time. The Alhasi would have to do without grain, and the Callistans would have no pursil, or gisko, or ice grapes. What both sides would have, in abundance, was spilled blood.

Romas tightened the bit of scarlet ribbon around his arm that was Rinposh’s token, a sign to all Alhasi that he was on the sanctuary’s business. He adjusted the sack over his shoulder, and rounded a corner.

The ugliness of the battle scene shocked him to a standstill.

He was no more than a spear’s throw away from the crumbled first arch. As he stumbled to a halt, a flash and a blast of sound erupted a little way to his right, throwing him off balance so that he almost fell. He saw the Alhasi archers dive for cover behind smashed blocks of stone, saw some on the ground dashing up the road toward him. As gravel and dust fell across the scene, Romas saw that one archer, a gray-haired man he recognized from Chamber gatherings, lay still, his face covered in stone dust, one leg at a nasty angle. As the dust settled, and the rocks stopped rolling, two of his fellows hurried to him, lifting him between them and carrying him past Romas and to the left, in what he saw now was a bivouac snuggled close against the cliff wall. Off to his right, unprotected now that the arches had been destroyed, the precipice fell away in the darkness. The unobstructed wind blew hard, tugging at his hair and his leggings, making him lean inward, away from the drop. Ahead of him, the noises of battle continued, the archers scrambling back to their posts, loosing their arrows, the Callistans on the other side shouting, hurling spears almost at random over the pile of stone.

Anger darkened every face he could see, and fury sounded in the voices from the other side of the tumbled stone. Peril vibrated in the air, threatened with every flying rock, every spear, every hand bomb. And Rinposh wanted him to walk through all of this as if it didn’t exist.

The blind lama’s scarlet token seemed almost to burn his arm.

He forced himself to take a step forward, and then another. Some of the Alhasi caught sight of him, and turned to call out. He saw their faces when they saw the token, watched them catch back their words, then turn away to hide their sympathy. There were many who could not understand the commands of the lama. No one disobeyed them.

Romas pressed on, putting one foot in front of the other. He winced as another blast shook the ground beneath his feet, and a flare of sparks shot past his head, but he had set his goal, now, and he kept moving. A spear flew above him, and he ducked, but it rattled uselessly against a chunk of rock. One of the archers shouted, and stood up to loose an arrow. Romas watched in horror as an answering spear nearly caught the archer, just missing his head as he ducked. It sailed past him into the darkness, over the precipice.

Romas forced his eyes forward, and kept moving.

Rinposh had described his vision, a channel through the chaos, a corridor created by the tumbled stone. Romas scanned the ruin ahead of him as he drew closer, but it looked impassible, a jagged mass of rock, huge tumbled blocks of stone footed in rubble of every size. Romas tried to suppress his fear that Rinposh’s vision was more pursil smoke than prognostication. It didn’t seem possible that there was a passage through the ruin, that a slender, wide-eyed woman would be waiting for him there.

* * *

The Spiral Road

Irlen was given a tent with the camp followers, the only other women in the encampment at the foot of the Spiral Road, but she spent no time there. The moment she stepped off the caravan, she was swept into the hospital tent, where she labored for hours with the medics. It was unbearably hot, with the great plateau blocking the wind from the sea. When she stepped outside as evening approached, a tantalizing whiff of salt carried on the still air, and made her long to be on the other side, where the road wound up the cliff above the water.

All the wounded had been either treated and sent back to their barracks, or shipped back in the caravan to Callis City. And now, as darkness approached, Irlen saw that the fighting would begin again. She knew it was dangerous, she had seen the damage done to the Callistan soldiers. But compulsion drove her. What she needed for the children in her ward was on the other side of that pile of blasted rock, and that was still an hour’s walk away. The fighters were already on their way, marching up the twisting road, disappearing around the curve as they climbed.

Her companion hovered beside her in the dusk as she hesitated. “You’ve come this far,” he said. “You won’t give up now.”

“I was crazy to come,” she muttered. “But the General couldn’t accept my offer fast enough.”

“No, of course not,” he smiled. “A real doctor, a volunteer … a patriot.”

She snorted, the sound lost in the clatter of boots on rock, of orders being called, of conversations around campfires and in the cooktents. “I’ll probably get myself killed.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’ll find a way through.”

His was the very voice of her compulsion. “Well.” She straightened her long jacket, dusted her palms together. “Now that I’m here, I’m going to try.”

The last of the soldiers had already rounded the curve in the steep road above her head. She set out after them with a determined step. She had nothing with her, deliberately. Her plan—inasmuch as she had one—was simply to arrive with empty hands, to find someone to ask for what she needed, to beg for help for the children in her care. Her head buzzed with the odd drive that had brought her here. It was not like her to act on impulse, and she had never done so before. But now … she put one foot in front of another, and climbed.

One of the medics spotted her before she had gone far, and came running after her, his boots clacking against the stone. She turned to face him.

“Doctor,” he cried breathlessly. “Don’t go up there! Those barbarians—they shoot arrows and throw huge stones—you’ve seen the damage!”

“And what do we throw at them?” Irlen asked.

His look of concern transformed instantly into a scowl of disapproval. “They are Alhasi,” he said, sternly, as if she were a child. “Godless. Immoral. They are our enemies.”

Irlen spun away from him, her long coat flaring. “Enemies,” she muttered to herself as she resumed her climb.

“The way to destroy our enemies is to befriend them,” her companion said, at her shoulder.

“Ah, I remember your saying that, Old Man. Quoting again. Lin Chu, I believe.”

“You remembered this time, daughter! Good for you.”

She didn’t answer. The climb took all her breath.

* * *

The opening was slender and irregular, a corridor of stone formed by two great chunks that had fallen at angles to each other, frighteningly close to the precipice. Romas found that once he had inched along the base of the ruin, he was beneath the trajectory of the Callistan spears, but the explosives were still a danger. Something fell near him, and rolled across the rubble. Instinctively, he turned his face to the rock and covered his head with his arms. The hand bomb, blessedly small, blew up with a popping sound, and bits of gravel stung his back and bounced off the walls. He held still, more afraid of the drop than the bomb.

An archer above him cried, “Khu bo! They’ll kill you!”

Romas looked up at him. He gave a slight shrug, and held up his arm.

The man nodded understanding, and touched his own arm, acknowledging the lama’s token. Romas turned around, his back to the rock, and sidestepped toward the opening. When the next bomb fell, he simply closed his eyes. His fate was no longer in his hands.

* * *

Irlen, after climbing for half an hour, rounded a sharp turn. To her left, the cliff fell away into utter blackness. Ahead, the battle was in full spate. Callistan soldiers stood in lines, braving the arrows of the Alhasi, and threw spears and shou dan with all their might over the ruin of stone. There were already wounded, lying on stretchers in the road. Piles of the nasty-looking hand bombs lay in wagons, and bundles of spears with barbed tips waited in racks. The men shouted orders and questions at each other over the noise of the detonations on the other side. The explosions lit up the night, and Irlen could see how beautiful the arches must once have been, crenellated edges and scrolled lintels now decorating jagged fragments. As she approached, one of the captains caught sight of her.

“What’s a woman doing here?” he demanded.

Someone else glanced around, and said something to the captain Irlen couldn’t hear. The captain whirled, and stamped toward her through the noise and confusion.

She stopped where she was, but it was hard. The impulse that pushed her on burned in her mind. Her companion wavered, frowning, looking ahead. He lifted one arm, only faintly visible in the starlight, and pointed at the jumble of broken stone ahead. She tried to see what he was pointing at, but at that moment the captain reached her.

He stopped abruptly, his hard boots spitting bits of rock at her ankles. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said harshly.

The burning in her mind became an inferno. She could hardly think how to answer the man. “I—” she faltered. “I—I’m a doctor,” she said, not knowing how else to persuade him.

He gave her a hard look. “There are wounded on those litters, there,” he said, pointing back the way she had come.

“I know,” she said. Her eyes strayed past him, raking the ruin for a way through. Her feet inched forward of their own volition. “I know, but—”

And there it was. She knew, distantly, that the captain shouted something at her, but the compulsion in her mind allowed nothing but the awareness that her goal was just ahead, perhaps thirty yards away. She strode forward. The captain’s hand grasped at the back of her coat, but she was already gone. He shouted, but her mind would not permit her to hear it. She started to run toward the cliff’s edge, where she saw the break in the pile of rock. She ran directly into the path of the arrows and stones from the Alhasi side of the barrier.

* * *

“Stop!” came a shout above Romas’s head.

It was the archer, but Romas knew he was not shouting at him. He was ordering the others, the fighters, to stop their barrage.

And a moment later, the hail of spears and shou dan from the other side stopped, too. A strange, tense silence fell over the blasted arches. Romas drew one surprised breath, and then dashed for the opening into the ruin.

* * *

Irlen was only faintly aware that the arrows had stopped falling before she reached the breach she had spotted in the tumbled rock. It was little more than a darker rectangle in the dark face of the ruin, but it was there. She stood for a heartbeat in the opening, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. The space was irregular, and close, but big enough for her to wriggle through. She slipped off her coat, to show that she carried no weapon, and dropped it on the ground. A gust of wind caught it, and it sailed out into the abyss like a great bird, its panels flapping like wings. In a heartbeat, it had disappeared into the night. Irlen cried out, shocked by a sudden dizziness, and clung to the nearest chunk of rock with both hands. When she had calmed a bit, she let go of the rock, and sidled into the break in the ruin. She began to creep forward into cold, cramped darkness.

When the torch flared, she exclaimed, and shielded her eyes with her hand. Her voice sounded dead in the narrow space.

“It’s all right,” came another voice, a deep one. A real one. “Nu mo, don’t be afraid. Everything’s all right.”

Cautiously, Irlen opened her eyes, and let them adapt to the dancing light of a small oil torch. Her companion had left her alone with a tall, dark Alhasa. He wore a thick black braid hanging over one shoulder, and a piece of red ribbon twined around his bicep. Her heart pounded in her ears, but the compulsion that had drawn her all the way from Callis City released its hold, and she could think clearly for the first time in two days. The situation was bizarre, but she could think of only one thing to do.

She took a step forward, and held out her hand. “Ni hao,” she said. “I am Irlen Li Paul.”

Her new companion smiled, showing very white teeth. It was hard to see him well in the flickering torchlight, but he was tall and well-made, with muscled shoulders and clear eyes. His hand was hard and strong against hers. “Romas Battu,” he said. “I am ashamed, now, that I did not believe Angkar Rinposh.”

She dropped his hand, and stood back. “Who is Rinposh?”

“He is our lama.”

“Oh—you mean the blind monk? I have heard of him. Did he tell you I would be here?”

“He had a vision, he said. Brought to him by a ghost—a Callistan ghost.”

Irlen released a trembling breath. “It may be the same ghost who brought me. I can’t think why else—I hardly know why I am here, Romas Battu.”

“His Holiness seemed to know.” The tall man smiled again, and swung a bag from behind his shoulder. “He wanted me to carry something to you.” He held the bag out to her, a handsewn burlap sack, tightly filled.

She took it in her hands, surprised to find that it weighed almost nothing. She put her nose to the burlap, and sniffed. “Pursil leaves,” she breathed. “And so much!”

“It was all my ama—my mother—had in her garden.”

“But—how did you know? Why did you come here, and why …” Irlen hugged the fragrant sack to her, shaking her head, mystified, moved.

He pressed his two hands together before his chest, and bowed. “Angkar Rinposh sees truly,” he said gravely. “I doubted him, but he was right.”

Involuntarily, Irlen glanced back over her shoulder. Was he there, the Old Man, laughing? She lifted her eyes again to Romas Battu. “A vision,” she said wonderingly. “You would come here—bring me this gift—because of a vision.”

“Why did you come, nu mo? Did you have a vision? It was perhaps even more dangerous, and a further journey, for you than for me.”

Irlen laughed a little. “I had no vision,” she said. “But I had a compulsion. There are sick children in Callis City …”

“Rinposh knew this.”

Irlen searched Romas Battu’s eyes, trying to comprehend what had happened. She pushed away her awareness of the closeness of the stone corridor, of the peril that awaited them outside. Her skin tingled with the nearness of him, dark and tall and strong, smelling faintly of smoke and sweat and fragrant salt air.

When she found her voice, she spoke softly, her eyes stinging with emotion. “Children will live because of you, Romas Battu. I thank you. And I thank your lama, and your mother.”

“They will try to take the pursil from you for their soldiers.”

She lifted her chin. “They will not succeed,” she said. “I will threaten to throw it over the cliff if they threaten me.”

“They will try to come through this corridor.”

“Block it, Romas Battu.”

He nodded. “We will. Go now, while I light your way.”

Irlen hesitated. It was difficult to take her eyes from his face. It was hard to return to the loneliness of Callis City, where she had only a ghost for company. But she had something, now, that she could do to help the children.

She wriggled around, holding the sack closely in her arms. He raised his torch, and its light glimmered on the constricting walls of stone.

She looked back over her shoulder, once. “Romas Battu …” she said hesitantly. “What do you—the Alhasi—what do you do with unwanted babies?”

He frowned. “We do not have unwanted babies here,” he said. “Someone always wants a baby.”

Irlen smiled, and hugged the sack closer. “If this ever ends, this stupid war …” she began, but her voice trailed off, weak and wistful. She looked ahead, to her side of the corridor, to the war waiting outside.

“They will tire of it,” he said, behind her. “It will end. Someday.”

“When peace comes, then.”

“Yes, Irlen Li Paul. When peace comes.”

Irlen didn’t look back again. She worked her way forward, through the cramped space, finding her way back to her own side, and out into the night.

* * *

The silence lay across the ruins of the arches like a blanket. As Romas emerged, he saw that the archers still waited on the heights, their bows at the ready, but their arrows unstrung. Nothing moved. No spear fell, and no hand bomb flew into their midst.

Romas turned his head up to the nearest archer. “We must block this corridor,” he said. “Now they know it’s here.”

“What happened to your sack?” the man asked.

“It’s gone.” Romas smiled. “Rinposh has given a gift to the children of Callis,” he said. He paced away from the ruined arches, up the Spiral Road toward Alhasa. The silence behind him lasted long minutes before another shou dan exploded in the darkness.

* * *

Louise Marley is the author of many novels and short stories.

To see this author’s work sold by Amazon, click here.

Rebel the First

Written by Edd Vick

Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

This here’s a story about more than a few things, but mostly it’s about Duane Fuller, who we all call Reb, so you might as well forget I told you his real name anyway. Now as with most stories about Reb it’s got a few things in it what don’t make no sense nohow. You’re gonna have to bear with me over some of the rough spots; I expect you’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em.

But lemme tell you it from the beginning, which is where I come in.

There we are at Slow Jack’s Place lifting a few, Reb and me. The Place is a converted railroad passenger car. Jack painted all the windows black except the one at the end in the door, so it’s dazzling to look that way when you’re in there in the daytime. It gets dimmer the farther you get toward the back under the box air conditioner he Bondoed into the metal wall. Jack likes it that way, so people who don’t know what he really is won’t be too shocked right away.

We’re at the bar, about halfway down where Jack took out some of the seats. Nobody’s in there but us and Jack. Reb’s on my left so the low sun throws the brown shadow of his bottle all the way down past mine. I get to thinking and turn to him and say, “You know, I don’t recall seeing you around the last month.”

Reb says, “I was in Italy. Didn’t you hear?”

“No,” I say, because I hadn’t. “Maybe did you and Maybelle go away that week I was up to Tulsa visiting my niece?” Maybelle, that’s his wife.

“Most likely,” he says. “It was kind of sudden.”

It all started—says Reb—with that box of Cracker Jack.

* * *

Now normally (Reb says) I don’t eat the stuff, what with getting popcorn bits between my teeth and just generally being able to take peanuts or leave them. But when a guy’s drinking the fancy imported beer that his son brought all the way from Arizona because he wants his pa to like the slip of a girl he’s bringing along—why, then a guy’s just got to have something to wash that beer down with. So I opened the Cracker Jack and passed it around. Let me tell you, it washed that beer down mighty fine.

Soon enough we got down to the bottom of that box, and all that was left was the prize: a teeny puffy paper pillow with something heavy inside. I tried to give it to my boy Dallas and he gave it back, and I tried to give it to that girl Patricia of his, and she gave it back. Finally Maybelle up and said so open it already.

About then my boy Dallas asked if we’ve started keeping cattle that are maybe given to stampeding and I said no.

And after that Patricia asked if we’re prone to earthquakes here in Anthem, Texas, and I said no.

And then I tore the end of that prize off and tilted it so what was inside rolled out onto my palm. Turned out it was a ring, gold-plated and looking mightily expensive. I resolved then and there to buy Cracker Jack more often. There was a folded piece of paper in the envelope, too, so I asked Maybelle to fetch me my reading glasses.

She was on her way to get them when she happened to look out the window and she said, Law, would you look at that? Dallas and Patricia, they ran to look, so I went to fetch my glasses my own self.

Maybelle yelled something about her pea patch. I ambled over to the window, unfolding that paper as I went. When I got there, the window was rattling fit to burst. I looked out and what do you think was landing out there? A helicopter, that’s what, a big old jobber like they use to fly whole tanks around.

Well, we all gawked for a long second or two, afore I remembered the paper in my hand. I looked down at it.

Congratulations, it read, you’re the new Pope.

* * *

“The Pope,” I say to Reb, peering up at him and setting my beer down. “Imagine that. I thought they’d have a fancier system for picking ‘em.” I pull out my spiral notebook what the Daily Sun gave me and start writing down keywords.

“Seems they do,” says Reb. “It’s got to do with them taking votes of people they call ‘Cardinals.’ Not like the St. Louis variety; I reckon they’re more like senators. And they vote and they vote. If they don’t decide in eight votes, though, they’re deadlocked. And blamed if that ain’t what happened this time. First time since Jesus appointed Saint Peter the first Pope, they said.”

* * *

But I learned all that later. Just then we were all in a tizzy about having unexpected visitors. The pilot set that helicopter down pretty as you please between the pecan trees, the Well of Youth, and the pea patch, although he did blow over a few trellises. Old Blue the Fifteenth lost his doghouse, but the Good Lord knows you do make sacrifices. Maybelle said Law she was going to have to break out the good china now and Dallas went to get his camera. Patricia asked me did we get things landing on the lawn often, and I said not since that roc-bird back in sixty-four. You remember, Buddy, that’s when we lost the first Blue. Or was it the second?

Anyway.

You never saw the like of the troop that come out of that helicopter. There were guys in black suits who held one hand up to their ears, the spitting image of the folks who guard the President. And there were these guys in armor carrying spears, setting up one of those whatchacallits, an honor guard. And then they unrolled a red carpet. I kid you not, a red carpet just like it was the Academy Awards on television or something. A guy came out waving a ball that had smoke coming out of it. I figured they didn’t want skeeters bothering them.

The last one out was a man in red robes with a hat like a gimme cap but it didn’t have a brim. Wouldn’ta kept the sun off his neck none, hope to tell you. He took one look around and I could tell he didn’t particularly cotton to what he saw, and then he marched to the house surrounded by the black suits. I figured, let them knock, and after a little bit that’s just what they did.

Dallas let them in and we served ice tea all around in the glasses we brought back from the Alexandria Library. Red Hat introduced himself as Cardinal Matthew Carlino. He said did I get the invitation and I said I got the ring if that’s what you mean. He said that means their gee-pee-ess dingus was working just fine.

So Carlino asked me did I want to be Pope and I said I thought they’d already decided themselves. And he said sure they’ve decided, but I have to say okay too. Now as it happened I was between jobs at the time, so I said yes.

* * *

“Neighborly of them to ask,” I say.

“Right neighborly, except I do keep forgetting to ask what a job pays before accepting it. But anyway, then they asked me if I was Catholic.”

“You aren’t, are you?”

“As it happens, I was.” Reb looks down at the bar for one whole entire minute. “The janitor at the high school, Mr. Herrera, remember him, he’s the one got sainted last year? He was a Catholic, and he and his wife used to have me over for pie or cake after school. They were the ones who converted me to Catholicism with a—whatcha call, a confirmation and all. There was a time I’d do anything to piss off the folks.” His pop, the pastor of First Anthem Baptist, that’s who he really meant. “Cardinal Carlino seemed really relieved, and I wondered how many people he’d been to see in that fancy helicopter of his before he got to me. I kinda figured he’d bring up my being married next, since I never heard of a married Pope. But no, he slid right past that subject. So then he said what name did I want to have as Pope.”

“How’s that?” I say, fixing to get indignant. “They wanted to give you a different name?”

“I didn’t get that either, so I just told ‘em that the name my buddies gave me in high school was good enough.” Reb slaps the bar, raising a cloud of dust that swirls around in the air like dirt behind a big rig. Slow Jack looks over and waves a granite finger at him all slow-like; he likes it quiet in his bar, the way it used to be on the top of that church in France. “Anyway,” Reb says, “from then on they all called me Pope Rebel the First.”

“The First,” I say. “The One and Only is more like it.”

“That’s what I like about you, Buddy, you’re none too subtle.” He lifts the bottle to take his last swig.

Well now, that sounds like a compliment to me, so I up and buy him another Coors.

* * *

We all trooped out and got on that helicopter, which took us to DFW airport, where we got on a jet, just the five of us and the cardinal. Boy, howdy, how we all howled—especially old Blue—when that plane took off straight up! I looked out the window and its jets were pointing straight downward, just like a rocket’s. That jet took us to an aircraft carrier in the Gulf, the Saint Agricola of Avignon they called it, which took us all the way to Italy. I remember the name of the ship because I kept one of the cocktail napkins for a snotrag.

And then there we were docking in Port Civvy-something. It’s near Rome on the west coast of Italy. They got this Hummer with tinted windows, which it took us to a subway station. We didn’t have to buy tickets, though—that place was there just for us and whatever other muckitymuck wanted to go to the Vatican. Blamed if that subway car didn’t look just like the monorail at Disneyland, excepting there weren’t no Mickey painted on the side. Instead there was a painted cross with Jesus on it, all bloody and looking mightily pained.

We took that subway forty miles to Vatican City, just west of Rome. Carlino, he told me the subway’s been there a couple hundred years now. It used to be a secret, a back way into the catacombs, he said, but now they let big celebrities like Judge Judy use it. Her and the President and Dwight Yoakum and all.

Pretty soon I knew what them catacombs Carlino had mentioned was. The subway started up and we’re driving between twin walls of bodies, all turned to bones and stacked up like cordwood. I figured the stink in there would be worse’n anything, if the windows was open. But instead it was dark and cool in the car. Restful, like. I reckon I wouldn’t mind being planted there myself, once I’m dead that is. For a second I wondered what the smell reminded me of—kind of piney, actually—and then I saw they had one of them tree-shaped freshener things hanging up front.

It was a pretty quick trip. Soon we pulled up at a subway station with velvet walls and tile floors, and an escalator that took us up to the pope-house. It was like being at the mall excepting there wasn’t hardly any people.

Things happened pretty fast after that. We were all tuckered out from the trip, but Carlino, he up and dragged us out to this balcony overlooking the front yard. And boy was it full of people, let me tell you. They put up a yell when they saw us, just like as if we were football heroes, and I looked to see if they were going to do the wave. But then a chimney nearby let out this plume of white smoke, and they gave a yell that put the first one to shame. Just as they’re letting up, Carlino he sneaked up behind me and put a mile-high pope-hat on my head, and that made ‘em bust out all over again.

* * *

“White smoke,” I say. “Smoke signal, more like. Sounds like that’s their sign that you’re the new Pope.”

“Got that right.” Reb is in profile to my left, the setting sun outlines him in light so’s I can’t hardly look at him. He turns toward the light, tapping a nervous few times on the bar, then looks back down. Then Slow Jack turns on the fluorescents, which come on in ones and twos, buzzing like spring somewhere where there’s flowers. “Got that right,” Reb mutters again into his beer. “At first …”

* * *

At first it was a cake walk. Maybelle she found out about the shopping in Italy, and faster’n you can say Jack Robinson she was off to the stores with some Swiss guards. I had thought they were there as real soldiers, but Carlino said they were trained but really mostly for show. If a Catholic hurt me he’d be excommunicated—thrown right out of the church. They keep better watch when the Pope’s away from the Vatican. At any rate, soon enough Maybelle was bringing back leather coats and shoes and purses and I-don’t-know-what-all, enough to outfit an army of wives.

Dallas and his girl, all they needed was a room, if you know what I mean. My dog Blue, well, he got the biggest thigh bone around. Wouldn’t surprise me to hear it was from some kind of dinosaur.

That just left me. The first couple of days I was sitting in a red throne of a chair while people come up to kiss my ring. I hope to tell you, I never seen so much hand-kissing in all my born days. The first few times I fixed to slug whoever it was planting their lips on my hand, but after a while I got sorta used to it.

And I was signing stuff I couldn’t read. Sure, Carlino would tell me what they were. Investitures, renewals of treaties, encyclicals—he said those are just letters that go to a bunch of people, like pizza place flyers, I guess—things like that. Who woulda thought I shoulda taken Italian back in high school, instead of Shop?

That put me in a stew. I like to know what it is I’m signing. For all I knew they were trying to put one over on me, like that time the Devil came to Anthem. If I’m going to do a job I like to do it right, so I asked Carlino if all them documents could be put into English. He squealed about it a little, saying it’d take time to do and that’s not how things were done, and how if anybody was to write anything anti-Catholic I’d never see it anyway because they’d be excommunicated so fast it’d make your head spin. Seems their answer for everything was to throw a guy out of the Church. Finally he came around when I told him right then and there to translate one of them suckers out loud. I expect he knew I’d just ask him to read every single one of them for me.

From then on they were in English, but of course it was all still lawyerese to me. I pondered my way around each of ‘em as best I could, signing maybe five things a day and not doing much of nothing else. The in-box turned into an in-crate mighty fast, but I just don’t like doing things halfway. It didn’t take much of that for me to remember I hadn’t asked Carlino what the job paid. Boy did I slap my head over that one.

* * *

“Don’t tell me,” I say. “Let me guess: they expected you to work for nothing.” Reb and I had done community service that time when we were teenagers and got caught stealing unicorn horns from the five and dime. I figured that’s how this job worked too.

“Naw, it was worse than that,” he says. “You’re right that there wasn’t a paycheck, but we had room and board and could have just about anything we asked for. Remember what I told you about Maybelle’s shopping for clothes? Whenever she’d pick out a new pair of shoes the store owner would just give them to her. When I had a hankering for one of Shorty’s barbecue sandwiches, they flew him on over to Italy. If Dallas wanted a chocolate-covered Labrador Retriever, he just had to ask and it’d be there inside of an hour.”

I look at him.

“Not that he ever asked for such a thing,” Reb adds, studying the new beer closely. “That’s just a for instance.”

“I don’t see what’s so bad about getting whatever you want,” I say. “Sounds pretty cushy.”

“It didn’t bother me so much at first, either. It took Maybelle to point out the problem.” He turns to face me. “How do you know if your stories for the Sun are any good?”

“Well, the paper pays me.”

“Exactly. If they just gave you a paycheck because of who you are instead of how good you can write, would you feel so good about what you’d written?”

I go, “Hmm.”

* * *

Exactly. I got to thinking that made this job a lot like welfare, where they give you money just for being poor. Now Maybelle brings in enough at the Save-a-Lot to keep the wolf away from the door. How do you think she’d feel if we had to go on welfare? Pretty bad, I reckon. We worked hard to get where we are. I could have lived with that, but it did kind of eat at me.

And then there was, well, the sermon. For my first one Carlino suggested I preach from a text they’d worked up for me, and I said okay. He delivered it so fast I figured it was a standard speech. That, or they had a habit of providing such things to popes. I practiced it up in front of a mirror a dozen times, then delivered it to the family who said I did okay by it. A couple of weeks after we got there, my usual clerk Tomas rousted me out of bed on Sunday and dressed me up in my pope-robes. When I got up in front of those thousands of people, though, I just lost it. My mind went blank and the notes in my hand looked like they were written in Martian. That’s when I winged it.

* * *

“Winged it?” I ask all innocent-like, and if there’s a grin on my face it’s all on the inside, where Reb can’t see it.

“Yeah, I stared out at all those people, and it got to looking like when I was little and my dad made me stand up near the pulpit and announce the next hymn. All I could think of was his hellfire and damnation sermons, so that’s what I gave them. Unfortunately I didn’t really remember everything just the way he put it, so I might have added a few things from The X-Files and The Terminator and The Weekly World News. I can’t say for sure; it’s all a bit hazy.”

“How’d they take it?”

“I wasn’t sure at first that most of them understood me. The translator gave up a minute or two in. Everybody—everybody looked pretty dazed when I was done, though; they just kinda sat there.” Reb looks toward the window. The sun’s gone down outside, and I figure he’s going to want to go home to Maybelle before long. She sets a great table when she gets home early enough. Then he sighs.

* * *

Monday rolled around. We’d made pretty good friends with the guards and the folks who served up the grub, so usually we’d be joking and making faces at each other because most of them didn’t speak English. That’s not how it was on Monday, no sirree.

You’d think I’d turned into Johnny Cash the way they looked at me. Everybody tiptoed around like I was gonna burst into song or punch somebody out at any moment. Now it doesn’t take much of that to rile me, so I up and ordered everybody out of the room. There was a television there that we got American TV on. They’d piped it through a couple of Vatican satellites. Patricia switched on CNN, and we found out right away what was up.

Wolf Blitzer was talking about “the astounding pronouncements of Pope Rebel the First.” All about how I’d said that aliens from the future were after our embryos, or something like that. They had a picture of me and Blue; the one where I’d put the pope-hat on the dog. Dallas he laughed at that until Patricia kicked him.

Tomas came in to tell me it was time to get to signing paperwork. At first he was quiet like the rest of them had been. He’s usually chatty, though, and I guess that’s a pretty hard thing to recover from, so we were only a few steps down the hall when he up and asked me what to do about the aliens.

“What aliens?” I said, then I said, “Oh, those aliens. Well, I reckon you’ll just have to build some anti-time machine rockets.”

“Oh,” he said. “I suppose we’ll need to talk to the Americans about that,” and I agreed, just to play along.

When we got to the office, everybody else was still pussyfooting around, except for Carlino. Him? Well, he was just looking thoroughly pissed. “Let me show you something,” he said, and led me to the office next door.

This it turns out was where I answer my mail. And by “me” I mean a bunch of clerks were sitting there typing letters into computers. Carlino told me the Vatican gets a couple thousand letters and emails a day addressed to the Pope. Only the most important ones are passed on to the man himself, the rest are up to these guys to answer. “Care to know how many email messages we received today?” he asked.

That’s not the kind of question somebody asks when they’re looking for a wild guess, so I kept quiet. “Four hundred thousand,” he said. “And counting. I can only imagine how much we’ll be seeing from the mail and Federal Express this week.”

I allowed as how that was a pretty big number.

“Half of them will be cranks of one stripe or another,” he said, “and the other half will want to know what to do about the aliens from the future.”

I didn’t get it for all of ten seconds. Then I did, although he helped by spelling it out for me.

Turns out I couldn’t make a mistake. Or wasn’t allowed to, same thing. It’s called “papal infallibility,” in case you want to write that down. It means most Catholics take everything the Pope says like it comes from God’s own mouth, and those that don’t keep mum about it. I asked him if we couldn’t send out a newsletter cyclical-thing that said I was only joking, and he said it’s hard for a Pope to unsay something. Wars are started over things like that.

Still, it did seem pretty unfair to let everybody think what I’d said was gospel. I wanted to make it right. I would’ve taken to that job a lot more if I hadn’t taken it so damn seriously.

I decided it was a good time for a family meeting. When we were all together I started out by asking how everybody felt about this whole Pope hoo-ha. Maybelle, she looked like she wanted to say something, but Dallas spoke up first and allowed as how he was just fine with it. He’d fattened up a bit on that Italian food and wasn’t in no hurry to give up the good life.

Maybelle spoke up then. She was of two minds. She loved the free clothes, and how she could make them Swiss guards jump just by saying boo. But she was missing her pea patch and her hellhounds and the other checkers at the Save-a-Lot.

I told them about my morning with Carlino, and that sobered them up some.

Patricia was the one that surprised me. I’d expected her to go along with Dallas, but she up and said she was planning on college and wanted to make something of herself and she was going back to Arizona, fianc or no fianc. Dallas he looked stricken at that, and changed his tune pretty damn quick. He said he was just kidding before and he thought living in Tucson sounded like a fine deal.

Once we’d all agreed that I needed to give up the Pope gig, it was time to talk to Cardinal Carlino. I didn’t expect him to be too broken up about it. I’d only been signing a few things a day, and my sermon had not been what you call a rousing success. Plus there was that whole papal infallibility thing.

Sure enough, he was ready to be rid of me. He said he expected there wouldn’t be a problem getting the rest of the cardinals to agree to my successor, now they’d experienced the alternative. We talked over ways for me to get shed of my popedom. I figured it was just a case of me saying I was quitting, no harm no foul. But he said that wasn’t something a pope had done before, and it might not work, infallibility or no infallibility. When I asked him what he meant he said that whole other churches had sprung up like weeds when there was more than one person claiming to be Pope, and there might be a lot of people who wouldn’t accept my quitting just like that. It would have to be something more drastic than that, he said.

“Drastic” didn’t sound so good. I asked him if he was talking about my committing suicide. I thought that’d bring him up short, but he just laughed and said if I were to wait a few days I wouldn’t have to kill myself. Somebody else would do it for me.

Now I didn’t like that line any better than I had suicide, so I asked him if he was planning something. I kinda loomed over him when I said that. If he was bothered he didn’t show it—he just said that he knew there were a couple dozen would-be assassins on their way to Rome already.

That did kinda bring me up short. From his expression, Carlino might just open all the doors between them and me.

He said it would’ve been better if I’d never gotten to be Pope. Then he said it would’ve been better if I’d never been born. I was about to let him know that was mighty unmannerly of him when what he said rang a bell. I knew then what to do.

It was the easiest thing in the world, once I though of it. There was a way I could get the church to say I didn’t exist. All I had to do was excommunicate myself.

* * *

“Didn’t that cause more problems than it solved?” I ask.

“How’s that?”

“Well, if you were unfoolable, then you were right when you decided to kick yourself out of the Church for telling a whopper about aliens from the future. But if you were Pope, nobody ought to be able to kick you out, ‘cause you’re unfoolable.” I pull a few shelled peanuts out of the bowl Slow Jack keeps on the bar, and pop one into my mouth. I suck the salt off of it and then crunch up the stale nut.

“Infallible,” he says, “not ‘unfoolable.’ Oh, I didn’t excommunicate myself for telling a lie or even for making a mistake.”

“No? Well then what did you do?”

“Remember the guards? How they were just for show because nobody would dare hurt the Pope for fear of getting thrown out of the Church? Except for assassins, evidently. All I did was bang my fist really hard against the wall. It hurt like hell, so after I got it looked at, I excommunicated myself for hurting the Pope, and we all came on home.”

I give him that look I save for city councilmen who think they’re putting one over on their constituents by lowering one tax and raising three others. “How come I never heard about any of this?”

“Well, hell, Buddy,” he says. “You were in Oklahoma.” He takes a last pull off his bottle of Coors. “They let me keep the ring. See?” And he pulls his hand off of his bottle to show me. Boy howdy, what a sparkler. His finger’s welled up around both sides of it like a cheap radiator hose around a clamp.

“I thought sure they’d of kept that,” I say, scribbling furiously in the notebook.

“Nah,” says Reb. “Usually they break the old one up and melt it down to make a new one for the next Pope. But this one wouldn’t come off my finger, on account of my fingers being so thick and swelling up so much when I punched that wall. They lemme keep it.” He raps the ring against the counter. “Better’n what you usually get in a box of Cracker Jack, any old day.”

Slow Jack, he takes the sound for Rebel calling for another round, so he brings ‘em over. That reminds me that Reb’s usually home eating by now, so I ask him why he’s still at the Place so late.

“I had dinner already,” he says. “Maybelle brought home Chinese food from the deli at the Save-a-Lot.” It’s long after dark, but I see a halo around his head like the one when the sun is coming through the Place’s lone window, and I lean back to look past him. Several reporters are jockeying with a rabbi and a monk, all trying to get through the door at once. Camera lights are blazing and people are yelling Reb’s name.

He shakes his head. “I should never have opened that fortune cookie.”

* * *

Edd Vick is the author of many short stories.

To see this author’s work sold by Amazon, click here.

Pawn’s Gambit

Written by Carol Hightshoe

Illustrated by Kelley Hensing

1

Malei watched the images in her mirror as the guests began to arrive at the palace. The King had invited everyone of any position from within the kingdom and the neighboring lands, as well as the fairy council, to attend the christening of his first-born child. That is; everyone but her. True, she had been exiled to this remote castle in the high mountains after she had argued against the King’s coronation in favor of herself as the older sibling and had failed. But she was still his sister and she held the same power as the members of the fairy council and should have been included. However, that did not matter. She had planned for this day for several years.

She concentrated for a moment on the Queen’s image, frowning at the paleness of the woman’s skin and the lines still etched in her face. The princess had been born six months ago, yet the Queen looked as if she had only risen from the birthing bed a few hours prior. Malei doubted she would ever have another child.

She continued to watch as the princess was presented to the court and they re-affirmed their loyalty to the royal family. Before the feast was brought in, the members of the fairy council appeared. This was what she had been waiting for. She leaned closer to the mirror then passed her hand over it. The images sharpened and she could hear each of the fairies as they approached the baby.

“My gift to the child will be the gift of beauty. Even the dawn, for which she is named, will pale by comparison,” the first said.

“And my gift is that of music,” the second said. “The birds will fall silent at the sound of her voice.”

Malei shook her head as the rest continued in the same vein. Beauty, music, grace? What do these have to do with the ruling of a kingdom? They should be gifting her with things like strength, wisdom and compassion. She waited until the next to last of the council approached, then dropped a handful of blue powder on the floor in front of her.

* * *

She bowed her head slightly as she appeared in the hall amid a cloud of billowing blue smoke. “Your Majesties, it appears I must apologize for the lateness of my arrival,” she said stepping forward.

“I do not believe you were actually invited,” the King said.

“So, now you refuse to acknowledge the blood kinship I share with the princess and would not allow me to offer her a christening gift.”

The Queen placed a shaking hand on the King’s arm. “We are the ones who should apologize for the insult. And we will not stand in the way of your sister bestowing a gift on your daughter.”

Malei raised an eyebrow as she bowed to the Queen. The woman had more strength than she had given her credit for. She stepped forward and looked down at the sleeping child. So small and innocent, she thought. For just a heartbeat, she hesitated before raising the staff she carried with her.

“The princess has been blessed by the members of the fairy council with gifts of beauty, grace, and music. These gifts will be indeed blossom as she grows. However, before the final setting of the sun of her sixteenth year, the princess shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die.” She dropped another handful of the powder on the floor and left the hall.

* * *

Back in her office, she watched the last of the fairy council approach the child, her head held high as she smiled at the King and Queen. “Fear not, your Majesties,” she said. “While I cannot undo the curse, perhaps it can be modified.”

Malei smiled. This was why her arrival had had to be timed properly. She knew the others would think to interfere and if several them had yet to bestow their gifts on the princess they could have combined their power and undone her spell. If she had waited till they were all done, they would have been able to use their magic to shield the princess until the last day the curse would be in effect and prevent it from happening. Now, the laws of magic bound them; they could interfere at this time or wait to see if they could prevent the final outcome of the curse. She had judged them correctly; they would interfere now, attempting to modify the curse, and she would have sixteen years to complete her plan.

“This is my gift to the princess,” the last of the council said. “When she pricks her finger, she will not die. Instead she will fall into a deep sleep, one that will last until she is awakened by a brave and true prince.”

“A brave and true prince?” Malei shook her head again. Another complication and one she would have to be prepared for as well. There were too many fools who thought of themselves as brave and true princes, and who would be eager to be the one to awaken the sleeping princess and thereby break the curse.

2

Malei looked up as the guards escorted the rain soaked figure into her office. The girl appeared to be no more than fourteen years old, despite this being her sixteenth birthday. Her honey blonde hair and clothes clung to her like second skins. Her black eyes stared straight ahead, not wavering as Malei’s own met them.

“Why are you here?” Malei watched the girl as she snapped the question at her.

The girl blinked once, slowly, before answering.

“My family was murdered and I want vengeance.”

Malei raised an eyebrow. “Are you accusing me of this act?”

“No!” the girl said quickly. “I … I want to be trained.”

Malei noted the girl’s hesitation. She did suspect her of being responsible for the deaths of her family. Perhaps, she still had a faint recollection of Malei’s role in bringing her here.

Malei stood up and walked around the girl studying the small, lithe figure. The girl was shivering in her wet clothing. Despite her appearance, there was something about her spirit that appealed to Malei. It was stronger than she suspected it would be when she had initiated this series of events almost sixteen years ago. Maybe she had misjudged the impact the other gifts would have on this girl’s life.

There was a flash of silver at the girl’s throat. Malei reached out and lifted the small alicorn pendant. A tie to the life the girl had left behind. Something else she would have to take away. The girl started to grab for the pendant and Malei slapped her with her free hand. “You come to my house, asking to be trained. Do not presume to lift your hand to me!”

“As you wish,” the girl said.

Malei jerked the pendant, breaking the slender chain holding it. “As I command! If you are to remain here, you will learn respect for those over you. And while you are in training, everyone is over you.”

“Yes, My Lady.” The girl nodded slightly.

“That is better.” Malei turned and placed the girl’s necklace on her desk, then picked up an egg-sized purple stone. She held the stone at the girl’s eye-level, then rubbed her thumb across the top if it. A brilliant purple light burst from the stone and captured the girl’s attention. Malei lowered the stone as the dark obsidian of the girl’s eyes faded to clear lavender.

“For now, until you are instructed otherwise, your name is Pawn. A Pawn is all you are and all you will be, until you earn a higher place. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Malei nodded to the guards. “Escort her to her quarters. See she is fed, given new clothes and the opportunity to bathe.”

The guards bowed and led the girl from the room.

Malei sat at her desk, picked up the small pendant and caressed the winged unicorn. She carefully coiled the chain around the pendant, and then placed it on the shelf next to the purple stone before turning back to look at the door. She had waited sixteen years for this day to come.

3

Malei listened to the reports of the trainers each day and personally supervised much of the girl’s training. Pawn quickly learned to use a rapier and other small bladed weapons, in both defense and attack. Her grasp of strategy and tactics was surprising in one who had been taught her primary talents were her music and beauty. Malei shook her head as she thought about that. This girl’s family only expected her to make a good marriage, just as Malei’s had once expected of her.

The girl’s training progressed rapidly. She was intelligent and an eager learner. She demonstrated a willingness to accept the authority of those over her. But while she was never abusive when granted authority over others, she seemed hesitant to wield that authority. That was something Malei worried about. The girl had shown strength and spirit when she first came to her citadel, but Malei now wondered if that spirit had been crushed by the months of training. If it had, all her planning would have been for nothing.

Malei walked into the dimly lit training hall. Pawn had been given a day to herself and she wanted to see how the girl was passing it. The training ring was covered in shadows as two figures sparred in the center. The ringing of the blades echoed off the stone walls as the metal flashed in the flickering torchlight.

Malei watched as Pawn sparred with one of the guards. The girl had matured well in her time here, but still carried herself with the poise and grace of her former life. Pawn’s beauty and intelligence, if combined with a strong will and sense of self would make her a powerful person when her training was complete. Tomorrow would be the test to see if that time had come. If the girl’s spirit had been broken she would have to hope the other half of her plan worked better than this one had.

4

Malei smiled as Pawn was escorted into the throne room of the castle. Her pale blue gown shimmered as she walked and the silver and sapphire crown sparkled brightly. The only thing missing was the silver alicorn pendant. That part of Pawn’s past would only be returned when her training was completed. Another glint of silver caught Malei’s eye and she nodded to herself at the small dagger Pawn was wearing under her sleeve.

“This will be a role-play scenario. You are the new Queen of this Kingdom and Pyrin is your Prince Consort. A petitioner has approached you both regarding an idea he has.” Malei bowed slightly as she backed away from the throne. She stood in the shadows and watched carefully. Pawn had been given instruction in government and royal hierarchies as part of her training. She would know that as Prince Consort, Pyrin’s position should be considered subservient to her own. Malei wanted to see if and how the girl would exercise her authority when Pyrin tried to usurp it in this little scene—just as her father had done to her mother.

Pawn seated herself on the throne and blushed slightly as Pyrin laid his hand on top of hers. He left his hand there as the petitioner was escorted in.

“Your Majesties,” he said bowing deeply.

The man kept his attention focused on Pyrin instead of Pawn. Pawn sat quietly, smiling softly and occasionally glancing at the Prince-Consort as the petitioner explained a plan to send tutors to each of the towns and villages in the kingdom to teach the peasants to read and write. She continued to sit there without saying anything when Pyrin stood and dismissed the petitioner, saying they would consider his proposal and announce a decision within the next few days.

After the door had shut, Pawn stood and faced Pyrin, her hands crossed together lightly. “What did you think of his proposal?”

“I don’t like it. Educating the peasants cannot be a good idea. It will encourage them to rise above their stations.” He stood also and reached out to take her hands in his. “However, this is not a matter you need worry about, my dear. I will send a message to the man and let him know we have given the proposal its due consideration and have decided against it.” He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them.

“And what gives you the authority to do that?” Pawn pulled her hands away from Pyrin and placed them on her hips, her head cocked to the side. “You are only my consort, I am the Queen.”

“My Lady, you have much more important concerns that demand your attention: the running of the castle as well as providing the Kingdom with an heir.”

“The Kingdom is my primary concern and I will make the decision regarding the proposal that has been brought to us. I appreciate your opinion and I will be speaking to the council of advisers as well. This is not a decision to be made lightly.”

Malei was pleased. Pawn had not made a scene regarding the petitioner’s apparent dismissal of her, yet she did not back down to Pyrin when he tried to assume her authority. She had demonstrated both diplomacy and wisdom in her handling of the situation. Malei wondered what the young woman’s decision regarding the proposal would be. Her father had agreed with the petitioner. Though he had not mandated that everyone would be taught to read and write, he had decreed schools would be set up and open to all. She would have to ask the girl what her opinion of the petition was. But that could wait until after the final test.

“Pawn!” Malei called. “I have an assignment for you. Change your clothes, get your weapons and report to my office.”

The girl nodded then hurried out of the room.

* * *

Malei looked up at the girl as she entered the office. She was dressed in her leathers and carried herself with confidence. Her back was straight and her head held high as she nodded politely. This would be the last time she addressed her only as Pawn. After today, she would be a different person. The girl she had been when the original spell had been triggered was dead, and a new person had been forged in her place.

“When you came here you said you wanted revenge for the murder of your family. The time has come for you to achieve it. This man,” Malei passed her hand over the mirror on her desk, “is the one responsible for the deaths of your family. I can send you to his castle. My magic will return you here once your have accomplished your assignment.”

The girl looked at the image in the mirror and tightened her hand on the dagger at her side. “I understand,” she said.

Malei tossed a handful of the blue powder on the floor in front of Pawn and watched the girl vanish in a swirl of smoke. Then she passed her hand over the mirror on her desk. The polished silver clouded for a moment to show the girl standing in the shadows of a long hallway. Dust covered the floor and spider webs hung from the burned out torches and empty sconces. Pawn didn’t seem to notice the signs of neglect as she moved through the corridors, but the girl’s soft leather boots left almost no trace of her passing.

Malei touched a corner of the mirror and the scene changed slightly. Now, she could see what the girl was seeing.

* * *

Pawn pressed back into a curtained alcove as footsteps approached from an adjoining hallway. Malei had shown her an image of the man who had ordered her family’s death, but she had not told her specifically where to find him. From the picture she assumed he was a man of some importance as he had been well dressed and wore a thin gold band on his head. If he held some type of power in this place, then it seemed reasonable he would have an audience hall. It was that location she wanted to find.

She waited until the footsteps passed her then slipped out from behind the curtain. She watched the two guards turn down another hallway before moving to follow them.

A statue stood at the corner and she found enough space to stand between it and the wall as she risked a quick glance down the other hall. There, at the end of the hallway was a set of double doors and guards stood on either side. The other two guards waited as the doors were opened and an older man stepped out of the room. The guards saluted as he walked past them. It was the same man Pawn was here for.

The guards did not accompany the man and Pawn moved from one shadowed area to another as she followed him. She was surprised to find the corridors empty except for herself and the one she was after, but she wanted to wait until they were both in a room or other less accessible place before striking. After what seemed like an hour of following the man through the corridors of the castle, he opened a door and stepped into a room.

She waited for several minutes to see if he exited or if any voices could be heard in the silence of the hallway. Only the creak of a chair as someone might have sat down reached her. She moved to the door, which had been left ajar. The man was sitting in a large cushioned chair, his back to the door, as he appeared to be looking out a window.

She slipped past the door and into the room. She caught her breath at the sound the metal of the dagger made as she pulled it from the sheath. The man in the chair didn’t react in any way and she offered a silent thank you to whichever power was watching over her.

The man turned and looked up as she approached the chair. “Why are you here?” His voice was soft as he spoke.

“To take payment for the death of my family.” She shoved the blade into his chest. The strike was perfect, passing just under the breastbone and into his heart

She stared at the man for a moment as he slumped in the chair. There had been no protest, no struggle, no attempt to call for help. He had let her kill him. It made no sense to her. Her hand shook as she removed the blade from the body and stared at the blood on the now dull metal. A chill wrapped itself around her and she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them the scene had changed. The man was still there, blood staining his clothes, but everything else was covered in dust—the dust of many years.

She looked again at the man she had killed. She knew this person. The golden band he wore on his graying hair and the slender hands that rested in his lap. A glint of silver sparkled at his neck and she reached out with a trembling hand. He wore an alicorn pendant. She snatched her hand back, but continued to stare at the pendant as it rested against the dark blue of the man’s clothes. Her hand went to her own throat for a moment as her vision blurred with a lavender haze. When the haze faded, she glanced at the body in the chair again.

“Father?”

Pawn dropped the dagger, the metal of the blade ringing as it hit the stone floor. She felt her heart pounding—her whole body drumming with the rhythm as she tried to catch her breath.

“Malei!” She finally forced the name out between breaths as she picked up the dagger.

Now she realized exactly who it was she had gone to. There had been no attack against her family. She had met an old woman who had offered to show her how to spin thread. When she took the spindle, she had pricked her finger. The next thing she remembered she had been standing outside the gates to Malei’s castle in the high mountains.

Malei. The name came back to her memory as the stories she had been told in her childhood resurfaced. She was a witch who had tried to overthrow her father. The fairy council had supported him and it was their power that had exiled her to the mountains. Pawn also remembered hearing rumors that the witch had appeared at her christening and had attempted to place some sort of curse on her—one the fairy council had been able to counter. She closed her eyes for a moment. Obviously, they hadn’t fully succeeded.

The witch had called her a pawn and had used her as such in whatever game she was playing. Now her father was dead—by her own hand. The witch will pay for using me like this, she thought. A chill seemed to wrap itself around her and the girl shivered.

“Do not presume to lift your hand to me!” She heard Malei’s voice in her head. The witch had cast some sort of magic with those words. She knew she would not be able to do anything against her. Her hand tightened on the hilt of the blade and she concentrated on returning to Malei’s office.

* * *

Malei paced her office; the mirror had gone blank after Pawn had completed her task and it was taking longer than it should have for the girl to be returned. A sudden chill filled the room as a mist began to form. She raised her staff and whispered the words of an emotion calming spell. Between that spell and the protections she had woven on that first day, she should be safe.

The mist shimmered as the girl stepped out. She dropped the bloodstained dagger on the table. “Next time, do your own dirty work, witch!”

Malei looked at Pawn and grinned. The girl’s eyes were now a brilliant sapphire. The previous spells placed on her were broken. The Pawn was no more; there was only an angry young woman with a major decision to face.

Malei passed her hand over the knife and the blood vanished.

“What is this?” Pawn started to reach for the dagger, but stopped herself from actually touching it.

“It was only an illusion, a test. You killed no one tonight.” Malei reached behind her to the shelf, picked up the dusty alicorn pendant, and laid it on the desk next to the knife. “In chess, when a pawn reaches the other side of the board it is promoted; sometimes to the most powerful piece on the board. Now that you know what it is to be a Pawn and subject to the whims of another you are ready to be a Queen,” she said.

Pawn stared at her for a moment. “Then my father …”

“Is still alive.”

“But you tried to take his throne before. Why do this? Why use me? If it was only an illusion, are you planning to enchant me again so I will kill him for you?”

Malei shook her head. “No, child. What I have done and what I do is to preserve and protect this kingdom.”

The girl reached for the pendant, and Malei trapped her hand before she could remove it from the desk. “If you pick up that pendant, you will have no memory of this place or of me. You will be returned to your family, and it will seem as if you have awakened from a long sleep. You will no longer have a choice in what you do. You will be required to fulfill the role your family has laid out for you. However, you will perform that role exceptionally well because of your time here.”

Malei removed her hand from Pawn’s. “On the other hand, if you pick up the dagger, you will be permitted to remain here and continue your training. You have within you the potential to be a great leader. The choice is yours.” She paused for a moment. “Before you choose, I have one other question. What was your opinion of the request brought before you during the session with Pyrin?”

“I agreed with the proposal.”

“Why?”

“By ensuring everyone is able to read, they are less susceptible to rumor and superstition. It is easier for those who govern to make sure their message is delivered properly if it is written out instead of hoping nothing is misspoken if it is only heralded.”

Malei nodded. “You are ready to choose.” She waved her hand over the knife and the pendant. As her hand passed over the blade the blood reappeared.

“Know this; whether you decide to stay or leave, you will one day have to live with another’s blood on your hands. Whether you spill that blood yourself or order it spilt, either way you are the one responsible. You should also understand that your responsibilities to those you lead and serve must come before personal loyalties. There may come a time when you will have to sacrifice someone or something you care deeply about to protect those who look to you for protection.”

The girl hesitated as her hand wavered over the bloody dagger and the silver necklace. “Wasn’t it you who taught me that sometimes we must put personal desires aside in the name of duty because it is in the best interest of those we would serve and have serve us?”

Malei nodded once. “I am proud of you, Aurora. You have learned your lessons well. Pick up the pendant and claim your birthright.”

“Why did you do this to me?” Aurora demanded.

“Because I was once as you are now.” Malei reached up and removed a slender silver chain from under her dress; on it hung a silver alicorn identical to Aurora’s. “As the eldest, I believed I would be the better choice to rule. However, my father was adamant that a woman could not rule and gave what should have been my birthright to my brother—your father. Since then, I have remained here, protecting the kingdom with my magic and keeping a watchful eye on the royal family. My mother was the only child of the previous king and when she married, her husband was crowned as the heir and she became subservient to him. Fortunately, they married while her parents were still ruling and he came to love this kingdom and the people here so that he was a good ruler. I worry that there will come a day when someone will marry into the royal line just to take control of our land and subjugate it to another. Because of who you are, there are many who will want to control you in order to control what is rightfully yours. I have given you the training to prevent this. You will no longer be a pawn. Not for me, not for your parents or anyone else.”

Aurora picked up the pendant and fell to the floor. A spot of blood was on her finger where the horn of the alicorn had pricked her. Malei stepped around the desk and carefully placed the necklace around the girl’s neck. She then spoke the words of an ancient spell and the sleeping girl vanished from the room.

Malei passed her hand over the mirror and watched as the girl appeared in the sleeping chamber of a high tower at the palace. She clutched the silver alicorn pendant at her neck as she watched the scene unfold in the polished surface. A young man was there, frozen in time as he leaned over the girl. The prince who had passed his own tests in reaching the castle to kiss Aurora.

A blue light glowed in the room and the man stirred slowly. He looked at the sleeping princess, then leaned over and gently kissed her.

Aurora’s eyes fluttered as she woke. Her hand went to the silver pendant she wore before she reached up to kiss her prince.

* * *

As the spell completely faded, Malei watched the rest of the castle waking up from their long sleep. She spent not much time at it, however, for she had other pressing business to attend to. She did wonder, briefly, how the legends would be written about the sleeping princess who had waited one hundred years to be awakened by her prince, now that Aurora had no memory of her time with her aunt.

It was an amusing thought. She would probably be labeled as an evil witch!

* * *

Carol Hightshoe is the author of several short stories.

To see this author’s work sold by Amazon, click here.

CLASSIC

Research Alpha

Written by A. E. van Vogt and James H. Schmitz

Illustrated by David Maier

I

Barbara Ellington felt the touch as she straightened up from the water cooler. It was the lightest of touches, but quite startling—momentary, tiny flick of something ice-cold against the muscle of her right arm at the shoulder.

She twisted quickly and rather awkwardly around from the cooler, then stared in confusion at the small well-dressed, bald-headed man who stood a few feet behind her, evidently awaiting his turn for a drink.

“Why, good afternoon, Barbara,” he said pleasantly.

Barbara was now feeling embarrassment. “I ” she began incoherently. “I didn’t know anyone else was near, Dr. Gloge. I’m finished now!”

She picked up the briefcase she had set against the wall when she stopped for a drink and went on along the bright-lit corridor. She was a tall, lean-bodied girl—perhaps a little too tall but, with her serious face and smooth, brown hair, not unattractive. At the moment, her cheeks burned. She knew she walked with wooden, self-conscious stiffness, wondering if Dr. Gloge was peering after her, puzzled by her odd behavior at the water cooler.

“But something did touch me,” she thought.

At the turn of the corridor, she glanced back. Dr. Gloge had had his drink, and was walking off unhurriedly in the opposite direction. Nobody else was in sight.

After she’d turned the corner, Barbara reached up with her left hand the rubbed the area of her upper arm where she had felt that tiny, momentary needle of ice. Had Dr. Gloge been responsible for—well, for whatever it had been? She frowned and shook her head. She’d worked in Gloge’s office for two weeks immediately after she’d been employed here. And Dr. Henry Gloge, head of the biology section at Research Alpha, while invariably polite, even courteous, was a cold, quiet, withdrawn character, completely devoted to his work.

He was not at all the kind of man who would consider it humorous to play a prank on a stenographer.

And it hadn’t, in fact, been a prank.

From Dr. Henry Gloge’s point of view, the encounter with Barbara Ellington in the fifth floor hallway that afternoon had been a very fortunate accident. A few weeks earlier he had selected her to be one of two unwitting subjects for Point Omega Stimulation.

His careful plans had included a visit to her bedroom apartment when she was not there. He had installed equipment that might be of value later in his experiment. And it was not until these preliminaries were accomplished that he had headed for the steno pool, only to find that Barbara had been transferred out of the department.

Gloge dared not risk inquiring about her. For if the experiment had undesirable results, no one must suspect a connection between a lowly typist and himself. And even if it were successful, secrecy might continue to be necessary.

Gloge chafed at the delay. When on the fourth day of his search for her he suddenly recognized her walking along a hallway fifty feet ahead of him, it seemed as if fate was on his side after all.

As the girl paused at a water cooler, he came up behind her. Quickly, he made sure that no one else was in view. Then he drew the needle jet gun and aimed it at her shoulder muscles. The gun carried a gaseous compound of the Omega serum, and the only sign of a discharge, when he fired it, was a thin line of mist from the needle end to her skin.

His task then accomplished, Gloge hastily slipped the instrument into the holster inside his coat and buttoned his coat.

Barbara, still carrying her briefcase, presently came to the offices of John Hammond, special assistant to the president of Research Alpha, which lay on the fifth floor of what was generally considered the most important laboratory complex on Earth. Alex Sloan, the president, was on the floor above.

Barbara paused before the massive black door with Hammond’s name on it. She gazed possessively at the words Scientific Liaison and Investigation lettered on the panel. Then she took a small key from her briefcase, slipped it into the door lock and pressed to the right.

The door swung silently back. Barbara stepped through into the outer office, heard the faint click as the door closed behind her.

There was no one in sight. The desk of Helen Wendell, Hammond’s secretary, stood across the room with a number of papers on it. The door to the short hall which led to Hammond’s private office was open. From it Barbara heard Helen’s voice speaking quietly.

Barbara Ellington had been assigned to Hammond—actually, to Helen Wendell—only ten days before. Aside from the salary increase, part of her interest in the position had been the intriguing if somewhat alarming figure of John Hammond himself, and an expectation that she would find herself in the center of the behind-the-scene operations of Scientific Liaison and Investigation. In that, she had so far been disappointed.

Barbara walked over to Helen Wendell’s desk, took some papers from her briefcase, and was putting them into a basket when her eye caught the name of Dr. Henry Gloge on a note in the adjoining basket. Entirely on impulse—because she had seen the man only minutes before—she bent over the paper.

The note was attached to a report. It was a reminder to Hammond that he was to see Dr. Gloge today at three-thirty in connection with Gloge’s Omega project. Barbara glanced automatically at her watch; it was now five minutes to three.

Unlike most of the material she handled, this item was at least partly understandable. It referred to a biological project, “Point Omega Stimulation.” Barbara couldn’t remember having heard of such a project while she was working under Dr. Gloge. But that was hardly surprising—the biological section was one of the largest in Research Alpha. From what she was reading, the project had to do with “the acceleration of evolutionary processes” in several species of animals, and the only real information in the report seemed to be that a number of test animals had died and been disposed of.

Was the great John Hammond spending his time on this sort of thing?

Disappointed, Barbara put the report back into the basket and went on to her own office.

As she sat down at her desk, Barbara noticed a stack of papers which hadn’t been there when she had left on her errand. Attached to them was a note in Helen’s large, clear handwriting. The note said:

Barbara,

This came in unexpectedly and must be typed today. It obviously will require several hours of overtime. If you have made special arrangements for the evening, let me know and I’ll have a typist sent up from the pool to do this extra work.

Barbara felt an instant pang of possessive jealousy. This was her job, her office! She definitely did not want some other girl coming in.

Unfortunately, she did have a date. But to keep an intruder from taking her place in John Hammond’s office, even if only for a few hours, was the more important matter. That was her instant decision, needing no second thought. But she sat still a moment, biting her lip; for that moment she was a woman considering how to put off a male who had a quick temper and no patience. Then she picked up the telephone and dialed a number.

For some months now, Barbara had settled her hopes for the future on Vince Strather, a technician in the photo lab. When his voice came on the telephone, she told him what had happened, finishing contritely, “I’m afraid I can’t get out of it very well, Vince, so soon after starting here.”

She could almost feel Vince absorbing the impact of the denial she was communicating; she had discovered quickly in their brief romance that he was trying to move her towards premarital intimacy, a step she was wholly determined not to take.

She was relieved now, when he accepted her explanation. She replaced the receiver, feeling very warm toward him. “I really do love him!” she thought.

It was a few moments later that she suddenly felt dizzy.

The feeling was peculiar, not like her usual headaches. She could feel it build up, a giddy, light swirling which seemed both within and without her, as if she were weightless, about to drift out of the chair, turning slowly over and over.

Almost simultaneously, she became aware of a curious exhilaration, a sense of strength and well-being, quite unlike anything she could remember. The sensations continued for perhaps twenty seconds then they faded and were gone, almost as abruptly as they had come.

Confused and somewhat shaken, Barbara straightened up in her chair. For a moment she considered taking aspirin. But there seemed no reason for that. She didn’t feel ill. It even seemed to her that she felt more awake and alert.

She was about to return to her typing when she became aware of a movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked up and saw that John Hammond had paused in the doorway of her little office.

Barbara froze, as she always did in his presence, then slowly she turned to face him.

Hammond stood there, staring at her thoughtfully. He was a man about six feet tall, with dark brown hair and steel gray eyes. He seemed to be about forty years old and he was built like an athlete. Yet it was not his appearance of physical strength but the fine intelligence of his face and eyes that had always impressed her during the ten days since she had been assigned to his office. She thought now, not for the first time: “This is what really great people are like.”

“Are you all right, Barbara?” Hammond asked. “For a moment, I thought you were going to fall out of your chair.”

It was highly disturbing to Barbara to realize that her dizzy spell had been observed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hammond,” she murmured shyly. “I must have been daydreaming.”

He gazed at her a moment longer, then nodded, turned and walked off.

II

On leaving Barbara, Gloge went down several floors and stationed himself behind a pile of shipping crates. These were in a passage across from the locked door of the main photo lab storeroom. On the dot of 3:15, a door farther along the passage opened. A lanky scowling, redheaded young man wearing a stained white smock over his street clothes, pushing a loaded handtruck ahead of him, appeared and turned down the passage towards Gloge and the laboratory storeroom.

It was the end of the lab shift. Gloge had discovered that one of the regular duties of Vincent Strather, Barbara Ellington’s boy friend, was to return certain materials to the storeroom at this hour.

Peering through the slats of a crate, Dr. Gloge watched Strather’s approach. He was, he realized, much more tense and nervous now than he had been when he had given Barbara the injection. Of himself, Vincent Strather was not the kind of subject Dr. Gloge would have chosen—the young man was too angry, too bitter. But the fact that he was Barbara’s friend and that they spent their spare time together, should be useful in the further steps of the experiment—so it seemed to Dr. Gloge.

Sliding his hand under his coat where the jet gun rested, he moved quickly out into the passage and across it toward Vince Strather… .

Even as he pressed the trigger, he knew his nervousness had betrayed him.

The needle tip of the gun had been too far away from Strather; a foot; almost two feet too far. At that greater distance the jet stream, emerging from the needle at nearly a thousand miles an hour, had time to spread and slow down. It caught Strather high up on the shoulder blade and tugged at his skin as it entered. For Strather, the sensation must have been that of a sharp impact. He jumped and cried out, then stood shuddering, as if in shock—long enough for Gloge to slip the little gun back into its holster and close up his coat.

But that was all. Vince Strather whirled. His hands caught Gloge by the arms, and his angry face glared down into the Doctor’s.

“You damn jerk!” he shouted. “What did you hit me with just now? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

For a moment, Dr. Gloge felt appalled. Then he tried to twist out of Strather’s hard grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he said breathlessly.

He stopped. He saw that Vince was gazing past his shoulder. The young man’s grip relaxed suddenly, and Gloge was able to free himself. He turned and looked behind him. He felt a stunned, incredulous dismay.

John Hammond was coming along the passage, gray eyes fastened questioningly upon them. Gloge could only hope desperately that he had not been in sight when the gun was being fired.

Hammond came up and said in a tone of easy authority: “Dr. Gloge, what’s going on here?”

“Doctor!” Vince Strather repeated, in a startled voice.

Gloge put puzzled indignation in his tone: “This young man appears to be under the impression that I struck him just now. Needless to say, I did nothing of the kind and don’t understand what gave him such an idea.”

He looked frowningly back at Strather. Strather’s gaze shifted uncertainly between them. He was obviously abashed by John Hammond’s presence and Gloge’s title but not yet over his anger.

He said sullenly, “Well, something hit me. At least it felt that way! When I looked around, he was standing there. So I thought he’d done it.”

“I was passing you,” Dr. Gloge corrected him. “You exclaimed something and I stopped.” He shrugged, smiled. “And that’s all I did, young man! I certainly had no reason to strike you.”

Strather said grudgingly, “I guess I was mistaken.”

Dr. Gloge said promptly, “Then let’s call it an error and forget it!” He held out his hand.

Strather reached out reluctantly and shook it, then looked at Hammond. When Hammond remained silent, he turned away in obvious relief, took one of the boxes from the truck and disappeared into the storeroom with it.

Hammond said, “I was on my way to your office, Doctor, where I expect to have an interview with you in a few minutes on the Omega project. I presume you were heading in that direction.”

“Yes, yes.” Gloge fell into step beside the bigger man. He was thinking: “Did he see anything?”

His companion gave no sign.

A few minutes later, as he gazed across the gleaming desk of his private office at John Hammond, Gloge had the uneasy feeling of a criminal confronted by the law. It had always amazed him that this man—Hammond—could make him feel at very least like a small boy.

Yet the discussion that now developed began with a reassuring statement from the bigger man:

“This is a completely informal conversation, Doctor. I am not representing President Sloan at the moment—even less the Board of Regents. That has been deliberately arranged. It will make it possible for both of us to speak quite frankly.”

Dr. Gloge said, “Have there been complaints about my work here?”

Hammond nodded. “You can’t have remained entirely unaware of it, Doctor. You’ve been asked to amplify your project reports, make them more detailed and specific, three times within the last two months alone.”

Gloge was reluctantly deciding that he would have to tell some of his data.

He said with apparent openness, “My reluctance to communicate has been due to a strictly scientific dilemma. Things were happening in the experiment but their meaning was not clear to me until very recently.”

“There is a feeling,” said Hammond in his steady voice, “that your project is failing.”

Dr. Gloge said sharply, “The accusation is unworthy!”

Hammond looked at him, said, “No accusations have been made—as yet. That’s why I’m here today. You have reported no successes within the past six months, you know.”

“Mr. Hammond, there have been many failures. Within the limited framework of the present stages of the project experiments, that is exactly what should be expected.”

“Limited in what way?”

“Limited to the lower, less complicated forms of animal life.”

“That,” said Hammond mildly, “is a limitation you yourself have imposed on the project.”

Dr. Gloge agreed. “True. The conclusions I’ve been able to form at such lower levels have been invaluable. And the fact that the results of the experiments have been almost invariably negative, in the sense that as a usual result the subject animals evolved into nonviable forms, is completely unimportant.”

“As a usual result,” Hammond repeated. “Then not all of them died quickly?”

Gloge bit his lip. That was not an admission he had intended to make at this initial stage in the discussion.

He said, reluctantly, “In a respectable percentage of the cases, the subject animals survived the first injection.”

“And the second?”

Gloge hesitated. But there was no turning back. “The survival percentage drops very sharply at that point,” he said. “I don’t recall the exact figures.”

“And the third?”

He was really being forced to make revelations. Dr. Gloge said, “To date, three animals have survived the third injection. All three were of the same species—Cryptobranchus.”

“The hellbender,” said Hammond. “Well! A large salamander … Now, the third injection, according to your theory, should advance an animal along the evolutionary line stimulated in it to a point which might be reached through half a million years of natural evolution. Would you say such a result was achieved in these three cases?”

Dr. Gloge said, “Since Cryptobranchus might be considered with some reason to be a species in which evolutionary development is at a practical standstill, I should say that much more was achieved.”

“What were the observable changes?”

Gloge had been bracing himself as he made one admission after another. He was striving to decide exactly when he could start resisting the interrogation.

Now! he thought.

He said aloud, trying to appear frank, “Mr. Hammond, I’m beginning to realize that I was in error in not making more positive reports. I can’t believe that you are really interested in these superficial accounts. Why not let me summarize my observations for you?”

Hammond’s gray eyes were calm and steady. “Go ahead,” he said in an even tone.

Gloge outlined his conclusions, then. The interesting features were two-fold, probably equally important.

One of these was that there remained in all life forms a wide evolutionary choice. For reasons that were not yet clear, the Omega serum stimulated one of these potential developments and no subsequent stimulation could alter the mutational direction. Most of these developments led to extinction.

“The second feature,” said Gloge, “is that the chances for success increase as the life form becomes more highly evolved.”

Hammond said, interested, “What you’re saying is that when you finally start working with the more active mammals and eventually monkeys, you expect more and better results?”

“I have no doubt about it,” said Dr. Gloge, firmly.

A secondary aspect—Gloge continued—was that brain areas which controlled the inhibition of simple reflexes often seemed to be the source of new neural growth and of sensory extension. The serum apparently intensified these effort points, increasing their operational flexibility. What went wrong was that all too often such one-sided inhibitory amplification ended in non-survival.

However, in Cryptobranchus, the roof of the mouth developed small functional gills. The hide thickened into segmented, horny armor. Short, grooved fangs were acquired and connected to glands that produced a mild hematoxic venom. The eyes disappeared, but areas in the skin developed sight-level sensitivity to light.

Gloge shrugged, finished: “There were other changes, but these would seem the most dramatic ones.”

“They sound sufficiently dramatic,” said Hammond. “What happened to the two specimens which were not dissected?”

Dr. Gloge realized that his diversion had not worked. “They were given the fourth injection, of course,” he said resignedly.

“The one,” Hammond asked, “which was to advance them to a point a million years along the evolutionary line they were following—”

“Or,” Dr. Gloge said, “to the peak-point of that evolutionary line. The equating of the four stages of the stimulation process to the passing of specific periods of normal evolutionary development—twenty thousand years, fifty thousand, five hundred thousand, and one million years—is, of course, hypothetical and generalized. My calculations indicate that in many species of which we have knowledge in that area the two points might be approximately the same.”

Hammond nodded. “I understand, Doctor. And what happened after your evolved Cryptobranchus received the fourth injection?”

“I cannot give you a precise answer to that, Mr. Hammond. In appearance it was a very rapid breakdown of the entire structure. Within two hours, both specimens literally dissolved,” Gloge answered tensely.

“In other words,” Hammond said, “Point Omega Stimulation directs Cryptobranchus and, in fact, every species to which it has been applied into one of the many blind alleys of evolution.”

Dr. Gloge said curtly, “So far it has done that.”

Hammond was silent, then: “One more point,” he said. “It’s been suggested that you might consider taking on a sufficiently qualified assistant in this work. Research Alpha probably could obtain Sir Hubert Roland for a project of such interest.”

Dr. Gloge said coldly, “With all due respect for Sir Hubert Roland’s accomplishments, I would regard him as a meddler here! If the attempt is made to force him on me, I shall resist it.”

“Well,” Hammond said easily, “let’s not make any unalterable decisions at the moment. As I mentioned, this has been a completely informal discussion.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid we’ll have to terminate it now. Would you have time to see me in my office one week from today at ten o’clock, Doctor? I wish to carry this matter a little further, and that will be my first free time.”

Dr. Gloge had difficulty restraining his feeling of triumph. Today was Wednesday. He had selected it as his starting time because he had wanted his subjects to be away from their place of work over the weekend.

Between now and Saturday, he could undoubtedly accomplish the second injections on the young couple.

By the following Wednesday, the third, perhaps even the fourth shot would have been administered and all strong reactions either taken care of or the experiment terminated.

To cover up his elation, Gloge said in the tone of one making a concession, “As you wish, Mr. Hammond.”

III

Dr. Henry Gloge was awake much of the night, vacillating between hopes and fears of what he would find when he went to check on the first results of Point Omega Stimulation in human beings. If they were obviously negative, he would have only one choice.

It could be called murder.

Dr. Gloge approached that subject in a detached, undisturbed frame of mind. He had several times in his work secretly carried on a more advanced experiment while, ostensibly, following the step-by-step scientific method. Thus fortified by special knowledge, he had in the past been able to plan lower-step work with the sometimes intuitive insights gained from his unpublicized private investigation.

The importance of the Omega project to him justified a similar expedient. Objectively considered, in the light of such a goal, the lives of the two young people he had chosen for the experiment were of no value. Their destruction, if it became necessary, would be in the same category as the slaughter of other experimental subjects.

With human beings there was, of course, an element of personal risk involved for himself. It was that realization that troubled him, now that he had made the first injection. Time and again, Dr. Gloge awakened out of a nightmare-riddled half-sleep, to quail anew at the knowledge and to lie sweating with anxiety until he slid back into exhausted slumber.

When four o’clock came, it was almost with relief that he arose, fortified himself with several tablets of a powerful stimulant, made a last check of his preparations, and set out across town toward the house where the Ellington girl had a room. He drove in a black panel truck that he had bought and equipped for his experiment.

He arrived at his destination about a quarter past five. It was a quiet residential street, a tree-lined avenue in one of the older sections of the city, approximately eight miles west of the Research Alpha complex. Two hundred yards from the house, Dr. Gloge pulled the small truck up to the curb on the opposite side of the street and shut off the motor.

For the past week, a miniature audio pickup-recorder, inserted under the bark of a sycamore tree across the street from the house, had been trained on Barbara Ellington’s second-floor room, its protruding head cunningly painted to resemble a rusty nail. Dr. Gloge now took the other part of the two-piece instrument from the dashboard compartment of the truck, inserted the plug in his ear, and switched it on.

After perhaps half a minute of twisting the tuning dial back and forth, he felt his face whiten. He had tested the instrument at night on two occasions during the past week. It was quite sensitive enough to pick up the sounds of breathing and even the heartbeat of anyone in the room; and so he knew with absolute certainty that Barbara Ellington’s room had no living occupant at this moment.

Quickly, he attached the recording playback mechanism to the little device, turned it back one hour, and put the plug into his ear again.

Almost at once, he relaxed.

Barbara Ellington had been in that room, asleep, an hour ago, breath even and undisturbed heart beat strong and slow. Dr. Gloge had listened to similar recordings of too many experimental animals to have the slightest doubt. This subject had moved up successfully, unharmed, to the first stage of Point Omega Stimulation!

The impact of his triumph after the ghastly fears of the night was very strong. Dr. Gloge needed several minutes to compose himself. Finally, he was able to move the recorder by ten-minute steps to a point where the Ellington girl obviously was awake and moving about the room. He listened with absorbed fascination, feeling almost able to visualize from moment to moment exactly what she was doing. At one point, she stood still for some seconds and then uttered a low, warm laugh which sent thrills of delight through the listening scientist. Perhaps a minute later, he heard a door being closed. After that, there was only the empty, lifeless silence which had startled him so badly.

Barbara Ellington had awakened that Thursday morning with a thought she had never had before. It was: “Life doesn’t have to be serious!”

She was contemplating this frivolous notion with the beginning of amazement when a second thought came which she had also never had in her entire previous existence. “What is this mad drive to enslave myself to a man?”

The thought seemed natural and obviously true. It had no general rejection of men in it. She still—it seemed to her—loved Vince … but differently.

Thought of Vince brought a smile. She had already noted in one of numerous, quick, darting glances around the room that it was nearly two hours before her usual rising time. The sun was peering through her bedroom window at that almost horizontal angle which, in the past, had seemed to her a horrifying threat that she would be robbed of precious sleep.

Now it struck her: “Why don’t I call Vince and we’ll go for a drive before I have to go to work?”

She reached for the phone, then considered and drew back. Let the poor man sleep a little longer.

She dressed swiftly, but with more than usual care. When she glanced at the mirror, it occurred to her that she was better looking than she had realized.

… Very much better looking! she decided an instant later. Intrigued, for a moment amazed, she went up to the mirror, studied the face in it. Her face, familiar. But also the face of a radiant stranger. Another awareness came and the bright, glowing, blue mirror-eyes holding hers seemed to widen.

“I feel twice as alive as I ever have before!”

Surprise … pleasure … and suddenly: “Shouldn’t I wonder why?”

The mirror-face frowned slightly, then laughed at her.

There had been a change, a wonderful one, and the change was not yet complete. There was a sense of shifting deep inside her, of flows of brightness along the edges of her mind. Curiosity had stirred, but it was light, not urgent or anxious. “When I want to know, I will know!” Barbara told herself … and, with that, the trace of curiosity was dismissed.

“And now.”

She glanced once more around the little room. For over a year, it had held her, contained her, sheltered her. But she didn’t want shelter now. The room couldn’t hold her today!

She decided, smiling, “I’ll go and wake up Vince.”

She rang Vince’s doorbell five times before she heard him stirring inside. Then his voice called harshly, thickly, “Who is that?”

Barbara laughed. “It’s me!”

“Good God!”

The lock clicked back and the door opened. Vince stood staring at her with bloodshot eyes. He’d pulled a robe on over his pajamas; his bony face was flushed and his red hair tangled.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” he demanded as Barbara stepped past him into the apartment. “It’s half-past five!”

“It’s a wonderful morning. I couldn’t stay in bed. I thought I’d get you to go for a drive with me before I went to work.”

Vince pulled the door shut, blinked at her incredulously. “Go for a drive!” he repeated.

Barbara asked, “Aren’t you feeling well, Vince? You look almost as if you’re running a fever.”

Vince shook his head. “I don’t feel feverish, but I sure don’t feel well either. I don’t know what’s the matter. Come on and sit down. Want some coffee?”

“Not especially. I’ll make some for you, if you like.”

“Nah, don’t bother. I’m sort of nauseated right now.” Vince sat down on the couch of the little living room, fished cigarettes and matches from a pocket of his robe, lit a cigarette and grimaced. “That doesn’t taste too good either!” He scowled at Barbara. “Something pretty damn funny happened yesterday! And I’m not sure—”

He hesitated.

“Not sure of what, Vince?”

“That that isn’t why I’m feeling this way.” Vince paused again, shook his head, muttered, “Sounds crazy, I guess. You know that Dr. Gloge you worked for once?”

It seemed to Barbara as if whole sections of her mind lit up in brilliance at that instant. She heard Vince start to tell his story. But—except for John Hammond’s intervention—it was something she already knew.

Part of a much bigger story …

She thought: Why, that impudent little man! What a wild, wonderful, terrific thing to do!

Excitement raced through her. The paper she had seen lying on Helen Wendell’s desk flashed into her mind, every word sharp and distinct—and not only the words!

Now she understood. What they meant, what they implied, the possibilities concealed behind them—for herself, for Vince.

Another feeling awoke. Sharp wariness.

There was danger somewhere here! John Hammond … Helen … the hundreds of little impressions she’d received all suddenly flowed together into a picture clear but puzzling—of something supra-normal, she decided, amazed.

Who were they? What were they doing? In a dozen different ways, they didn’t really fit in an organization like Research Alpha. But they had virtually complete control.

Not that it mattered immediately. Yet she was certain of one thing. They were opposed to what Dr. Gloge was attempting through Point Omega Stimulation, would stop it if they could.

“But they can’t!” she told herself. What Dr. Gloge had begun was right. She could feel the rightness of it like a song of triumph in every aspect of her being. She would have to make sure that it wasn’t stopped at this point.

But she would need to be careful—and act quickly! It was incredibly bad luck that John Hammond had arrived almost while Dr. Gloge was giving Vince his first shot.

“Do you think I should report it?” Vince asked.

“You’d look a little foolish if it turned out that you were coming down with the flu, wouldn’t you?” Barbara said lightly.

“Yeah.” He sounded hesitant.

“What does it feel like, aside from the nausea?”

Vince described his symptoms. Not unlike her own—and she’d had a few bad moments before she went to sleep last night. Vince was going through an initial reaction period more prolonged and somewhat more severe than hers.

She was aware of a fond impulse to reassure him. But she decided it would be unwise to tell him what she knew. Until he came out of his physical distress, such information might disturb him dangerously.

She said urgently, “Look, you don’t have to go to work until tonight. So the best thing for you is to get a few more hours of sleep. If you start feeling worse, and would like me to take you to a doctor, give me a call and I’ll come and get you. Otherwise, I’ll phone at ten.”

Vince agreed immediately. “I’m really awfully groggy. That’s a big part of it. I’ll just stretch out on the couch instead of going back to bed.”

When Barbara left a few minutes later, her thoughts quickly turned away from Vince. She began to consider various methods she might use to approach Dr. Gloge this very day.

* * *

Gloge reached the street where Vincent Strather lived and was looking for a parking place, when suddenly he saw Barbara Ellington emerge from the area of the apartment building and start across the street ahead of him.

The girl was perhaps a hundred yards away. Dr. Gloge braked the panel truck hastily, pulled it in to the curb, rolled up behind another car parked there and stopped. He sat there, breathing hard at the narrow margin by which he had avoided being seen.

Barbara had hesitated, glancing in the direction of the approaching truck, but now she was continuing across the street. Watching her swift, lithe stride, the proudly erect carriage of her body—comparing that picture with the frozen awkwardness he had observed in all her movements the day before—Dr. Gloge felt his last doubts resolve.

It was in the human species that Point Omega Stimulation would achieve its purpose.

His only regret now was that he had not arrived even as much as ten minutes earlier. The girl obviously had come to see Strather, had been with him until now. If he had found them together examination on a comparison basis could have been made of them simultaneously.

The thought did not in the least diminish the tingling excitement that filled him as he watched Barbara’s brown car pull out into the street and move away. He waited until her car was out of sight, then drove the truck down to the alley beside the apartment building and turned in to it. His intention was to give Strather a careful physical examination.

A few minutes later, Dr. Gloge watched a pointer in the small instrument he was holding drop to the zero mark on the dial. Pulling off the respirator clamped over his mouth and nose, he stood looking down at the body of Vincent Strather sprawled on the living room couch.

Vincent Strather’s appearance was much less satisfactory than he had expected. Of course, the young man’s reddened face and bloodshot eyes might be due to the paralyzing gas Dr. Gloge had released into the apartment as he edged open the back door. But there were other signs of disturbance; tension, distended blood vessels, skin discoloration. By comparison with Barbara Ellington’s vigor and high spirits, Strather looked drab and unimpressive.

Nevertheless, he had survived the first shot.

Gloge straightened, studied the motionless figure again, then went about the apartment quietly closing the window he had opened exactly one minute after releasing the instantly effective gas. The gas had dissipated now. When its effect on Strather wore off an hour or so from now, there would be nothing to tell the subject that anything had occurred here after Barbara Ellington had left.

Tomorrow he would return and give Strather the second shot.

As he locked the back door behind him and walked over to the panel truck, Dr. Gloge decided that he would have to come back and check both his subjects that night.

He felt extremely confident. It seemed to him that before anyone found out that it had been started, the Point Omega Stimulation experiment on human beings would have run its course.

IV

Hammond heard the bell sound as he was shaving in the bathroom of his living quarters which were located behind his office. He paused, then deliberately put down his razor and activated a hidden microphone in the wall.

“Yes, John?” Helen’s voice came.

“Who came in?”

“Why—only Barbara.” She sounded surprised. “What makes you ask?”

“The life range indicator just now registered an over-six read.”

“On Barbara!” Helen sounded incredulous.

“On somebody,” said Hammond. “Better have Special Servicing check the indicator out. Nobody else came in?”

“No.”

“Well—check it.” He broke the connection and finished shaving.

The buzzer sounded in Barbara’s office a little later—the signal that she was to report with her notebook to Hammond’s office. She went, curious, wondering if he would notice any change in her. Much more important was her own desire to take a closer look at this strange, powerful man who was her boss.

She walked into Hammond’s office and was about to sit in the chair he motioned her to, when something in his manner warned her. Barbara made an apologetic gesture.

“Oh, Mr. Hammond—excuse me a moment.”

She hurried out of the office and down the hall to the washroom. The moment she was inside, she closed her eyes and mentally re-lived her exact feelings at the instant she had sensed—whatever it was.

Not Hammond at all, she realized. It was the chair that had given forth some kind of energy flow. Eyes still closed, she strove to perceive what within herself had been affected. There seemed to be an exact spot in her brain that responded each time she reviewed the moment she had started to sit down.

She couldn’t decide what the response was. But she thought: “I don’t have to let it be affected now that I know.”

Relieved, she returned to Hammond’s office, seated herself in the chair and smiled at Hammond where he sat behind his great, gleaming, mahogany desk.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m ready now.”

During the half hour that followed, she took shorthand with a tiny portion of her mind, and with the rest fought off a steady, progressively more aware battle against the energy pressure that flowed up at her in rhythmic waves from the chair.

She had by now decided it was a nerve center that reacted to hypnotic suggestion, and so when Hammond said suddenly, “Close your eyes, Barbara!” she complied at once.

“Raise your right hand!” he commanded.

Up came her right hand, with the pen in it.

He told her to place it back in her lap; and then swiftly put her through several tests—which she recognized as being of a more important kind.

What interested her even more was that she could let the center respond and monitor the parts of the body that he named—without losing control. So that when he commanded her hand to be numb and suddenly reached over and stuck a needle into it, she felt no sensation; and so she did not react.

Hammond seemed satisfied. After normalizing the feeling in her hand, he commanded: “In just a moment, I’m going to tell you to forget the tests we’ve just been doing, but you will remain completely under my control and answer truthfully any questions I ask you. Understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Hammond.”

“Very well, forget everything we’ve done and said since I first asked you to close your eyes. When the memory has completely faded, open your eyes.”

Barbara waited about ten seconds. She was thinking: “What roused his suspicions so quickly? And why would he care?” She suppressed an excited conviction that she was about to discover something of the secret life that went on in this office. She had never heard of a hypnotizing chair.

She opened her eyes.

She swayed—an act—then caught herself. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Hammond.”

Hammond’s gray eyes regarded her with deceptive friendliness. “You seem to be having problems this morning, Barbara.”

“I really feel very well,” Barbara protested.

“If there’s anything in your life that has changed recently,” he said quietly, “I want you to confide in me.”

That was the beginning of an intensive questioning into her past history. Barbara answered freely. Apparently Hammond was finally convinced, for he presently politely thanked her for the conversation and sent her off to type the letters he had dictated.

As she sat at her desk a few minutes later, Barbara glanced up through the glass and saw Helen Wendell walking along the hall toward Hammond’s office, disappear into it.

Hammond greeted Helen: “All the time I talked to Barbara, the life range indicator showed eight-four, above the hypnotizable range. And she told me nothing.”

“How is it registering on me?” Helen asked.

He glanced down at his right to the instrument in an open desk drawer.

“Your usual eleven-three.”

“And you?”

“My twelve point seven.”

“Perhaps only the middle ranges are out of order,” Helen said, and added, “Special Servicing will make their check after day-time office hours. All right?”

Hammond hesitated, then agreed that there seemed to be no reason for breaking the rules of caution by which they operated. During the lunch hour, Barbara experienced a brief return of the dizziness. But she was alert now to the possibilities. Instead of simply letting it happen, she tried to be aware of every nuance of the feeling.

There was a—shifting—taking place inside her.

She sensed a flow of energy particles from various points in her body to other points. A specific spot in her brain seemed to be monitoring the flow.

When the pulsations ceased—as abruptly as they had started—she thought: “That was more change taking place. I grew in some way in that minute.”

She sat very still there in the restaurant, striving to evaluate what had changed. But she couldn’t decide.

Nonetheless, she was content. Her impulse had been to seek out Dr. Gloge some time during the day in the hope that he would be wanting to give her a second injection. That ended. Obviously, all the changes from the first shot had not yet taken place.

She returned to Scientific Investigation and Liaison.

The bell sound, as Barbara entered, caused Hammond to glance at the indicator. He stared at it for a long moment, then buzzed Helen Wendell.

“Barbara now reads nine point two!” he said softly.

Helen came to the door of his office. “You mean her reading has gone up?” She smiled. “Well, that settles it. It is the instrument.”

“What makes you say that?” Hammond seemed strangely unsure.

“In all my experience,” Helen said, “I’ve never seen anyone change for the better. There’s the slow drop as they grow older, but—” she stopped.

The strong face was relaxing. Yet after a moment Hammond said, “Still—we never take chances, so I think I’ll keep her with me tonight. Do you mind?”

“It’s a nuisance,” she said, “but all right.”

“I’ll give her the conditioning that overwhelms twelve point 0 and higher. She’ll never know what hit her.”

V

It was shortly after dark when Dr. Henry Gloge parked his black van near Barbara’s home. He promptly tuned in on the audio device attached to the tree and adjusted the volume for pickup.

After thirty seconds of silence, he began to frown. “Not again!” he thought; then, wearily, “Well, maybe she’s over at her boy friend’s.”

He started the motor and presently drew up at the curb opposite Strather’s apartment. A quick check established that the lanky redhead was there—but alone.

The young man was awake and in an angry state. As Gloge listened in, Vince savagely picked up the phone and dialed what must have been Barbara’s number, for presently he slammed the receiver down and muttered, “Doesn’t she know I’ve got to go to work tonight? Where can that girl be?”

That, in rising alarm, was a question which Gloge asked himself as the evening wore on. He returned to the vicinity of Barbara’s boarding house. Until eleven P.M. the phone in her room rang periodically, testifying to Vince’s concern.

When it had not rung for an hour, Gloge presumed that Strather had gone off to night duty. It was not a fact that could be left to surmise. He drove back to Vince’s apartment. No sounds came from it.

Gloge accordingly returned to the street where Barbara lived.

He was tired now, so he rigged up an alarm system that would buzz him if Barbara entered her room; then, wearily, he crawled onto the cot in the back of the van and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Earlier, as Barbara sat in her office a few minutes before closing time, she swayed and almost blacked out.

Greatly alarmed, she emerged from her office and reported the feeling to Helen Wendell. She did not question the logic of seeking the help of Hammond’s blonde aide.

The secretary was sympathetic, and promptly took her in to John Hammond. By this time Barbara had experienced several more brief blackouts. So she was grateful when Hammond unlocked the door behind his desk, led her through a luxurious living room and into what he called the “spare bedroom.”

She undressed, slipped under the sheets and promptly went to sleep. Thus, subtly, she was captured.

During the evening, Hammond and Helen Wendell took turns looking in on her.

At midnight, the Special Servicing expert reported that the life range indicator was working properly and he himself checked the body of the sleeping girl. “I get nine two,” he said. “Who is she? New arrival?”

The silence that greeted his remark abruptly startled him. “You mean she’s an Earther?”

“At least,” said Helen Wendell after the man had departed, “there’s been no further change.”

Hammond said, “Too bad she’s above the hypnotizable stage. Mere conditioning is actually a sorry substitute for what we need here—truth.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hammond did not make up his mind about that until after daybreak.

“Since nine two is no real threat to us,” he said then, “we merely return to routine and keep aware that maybe somebody is doing something that we don’t know about. Perhaps we might even use a little ESP on her occasionally.”

“Here—at Alpha?”

Hammond stared thoughtfully at his beautiful aide. Normally, he trusted her reactions in such matters.

She must have sensed what he was thinking, for she said quickly, “The last time we used extended perception, about 1800 Earthers tuned in on us. Of course, they thought of it merely as their imagination, but some of them compared notes. It was talked about for weeks, and some awfully important things were close to being revealed.”

“We-l-l-l, okay, let’s be aware of her then.”

“All right. On that basis I’ll wake her up.”

As soon as she was in her office, Barbara phoned Vince. There was no answer. Which was not surprising. If he had worked the night shift, he would be dead to the world. She hung up and checked with the photo lab, and was much relieved when the night work list showed that Vince had signed in and out.

As she sat at her desk that morning, Barbara felt extremely grateful to Hammond and his secretary for having been so helpful to her. But she was also slightly guilty. She suspected that she had been affected again by the injection that Gloge had given her.

It was disconcerting to have been so strongly affected. “But I feel all right now!” she thought as she typed away at the pile of work Helen Wendell had put in her basket. Yet her mind was astir with plans. At ten o’clock, Helen sent her out with the usual morning briefcase full of memos and reports.

Elsewhere—

Gloge had awakened shortly after seven. Still no Barbara. Baffled, he shaved with his electric razor, drove to a nearby business thoroughfare and ate breakfast.

He next went back to the street where Strather lived. A quick check established that the man was home. Gloge triggered his second charge of gas—and a few minutes later was in the apartment.

The young man had changed again to his pajamas, and he lay stretched out once more on the settee in his living room. If anything, the angry expression on his face was more pronounced.

Gloge, needle in hand, hesitated. He was not happy with this subject. Yet he realized that there was no turning back at this stage. Without further pause, holding the point almost against Strather’s body, he squeezed the trigger.

There was no visible reaction.

As he headed for his office at Research Alpha, Gloge’s thought was on the girl. Her absence was unfortunate. He had hoped to inject the serum into his two subjects at approximately the same time. Evidently that was not going to happen.

VI

A few minutes after he returned to his office, Dr. Gloge’s phone rang. His door was open, and he heard his secretary answer. The woman looked up over the receiver.

“It’s for you, Doctor. That girl who worked here for a while—Barbara Ellington.”

The shock that went through Gloge must have shown as disapproval, for the woman said hastily, “Shall I tell her you’re not in?”

Gloge quivered with uncertainty. “No.” He paused; then, “I’ll take the call in here.”

When he heard the clear, bell-like voice of the girl, Dr. Gloge felt tensely ready for anything.

“What is it, Barbara?” he asked.

“I’m supposed to bring some papers over to you,” her voice trilled in its alive, vital way. “I’m to give them to you only, so I wanted to make sure you would be there.”

… Opportunity!

It seemed to Gloge that he couldn’t have asked for a more favorable turn. His other subject would now come to his office where he could fire the second injection into her and deal personally with any reaction.

As it developed, there was no reaction that he could detect. She had turned away after delivering the papers to him, and that was when he fired the needle gun. It was a perfect shot. The girl neither jumped nor swung about; she simply kept going toward the door, opened it, and went through.

Barbara did not return to Hammond’s office. She expected a strong physiological disturbance from the second injection, and she wanted to be in the privacy of her own room when it happened. It had cost her an effort not to react in front of Gloge.

So she stayed in her bedroom, waited as long as she thought wise, and then phoned and told Helen Wendell that she was not well.

Helen said sympathetically, “Well, I suppose it was to be expected after the bad night you had.”

Barbara answered quickly, “I began to have dizzy spells and nausea. I panicked and rushed home.”

“You’re home now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Hammond.”

Barbara hung up, unhappy with those final words. But there was no way to stop his learning about her condition. She had a feeling she was in danger of losing her job. And it was too soon. Later, after the experiment, it wouldn’t matter, she thought uneasily.

Perhaps she had better take the “normal” precautions of an employee. “After all,” she thought, “I probably show symptoms.” She called her doctor and made an appointment for the following day. Barbara replaced the receiver feeling a strange glee. “I ought to be in foul shape by tomorrow,” she thought, “from the second injection.”

What Hammond did when he returned to his office late that afternoon was to sit in thought for a while after Helen reported to him Barbara’s situation.

Then:

“It doesn’t add up, Helen. I should have asked you before. Have you examined her file?”

The blonde young woman smiled gravely. “I can tell you everything that’s in it, right from the top of my head. After all, I security-checked her. What do you want to know?”

“You mean there’s nothing?”

“Nothing that I could find.”

Hammond hesitated no longer. He was accustomed to trusting Helen Wendell. Abruptly he threw up his hands. “All right. She’s got the whole weekend to be sick in. Call me when she comes in to work again. Did that report arrive from New Brasilia?”

“It was sent to Manila Center.”

“Are you serious? Let me talk to Ramon. There must be a reason!” Quickly he was absorbed in his new tasks.

Barbara slept. When she awakened her clock said twelve after seven.

It was daylight, early morning. She found that out in a sensational fashion. She went outside and looked … without moving from the bed!

There she was lying in her bedroom; and there she was out in the street.

Simultaneously.

Involuntarily, she held her breath. Slowly, the outside scene faded, and she was back in the bed, wholly indoors.

With a gasp, she started breathing again.

By cautious experimentation, she discovered that her perception extended about a hundred yards.

And that was all she learned. Something in her brain acted like an invisible eye stalk that could reach through walls and bring back visual images to the light-interpretation centers. The ability remained completely stable.

Presently she became aware that a small black van was parked down the street and that Dr. Gloge was in it. She realized that he had an instrument with an earplug with which he seemed to be listening in on her.

His face was intent, his small eyes narrowed. Something of the determination of this little, bald-headed scientist seeped through to her, and Barbara suddenly felt uneasy. She sensed remorselessness, an impersonal quality that was entirely different from her own light-hearted participation in his experiment.

To Gloge—she realized suddenly—his subjects were like inanimate objects.

In human terms the viciousness of it was infinite.

As she continued to perceive him, Gloge shut off his instruments, started the motor of his car and drove off.

Since Vince was again on the night shift, presumably Gloge was heading home.

She phoned Vince’s apartment to make sure; when there was no answer, she called the photo lab.

“No, Strather didn’t come in last night,” the administrative assistant of that department told her.

Barbara replaced the receiver unhappily, recalling that Vince had not responded well to the first shot. She suspected that the biologist had given him his second shot also, and that he was not responding favorably to it either.

She dressed and drove over to his apartment. As she came near, she could see him inside, so when he showed no sign of replying to her ring, she let herself in with her key—and found him on the living room couch, tossing and turning. He looked feverish. She felt his forehead; it was dry and hot to the touch.

He stirred and opened his eyes, looked up with his sick brown eyes into her bright blue ones. She thought unhappily: “I’m so well and he’s so ill. What can be wrong?”

Aloud, anxiously, she said, “You need a doctor, Vince. What’s the name of that man who gave you a checkup last year?”

“I’ll be all right,” he mumbled. He sank back to sleep.

Sitting there on the settee beside him, Barbara felt something in her lungs. Her instant, amazed thought was: “Gas!” But she was too slow.

She must have blacked out instantly—because her next awareness was of lying on the floor, and of Gloge bending over her.

The scientist was calm, efficient, seemed satisfied. Barbara caught his thought: “She’ll be all right.”

She realized that he was stepping past her to Vince. “Hmmm!” Gloge seemed critical and unhappy. “Still not good. Let’s see if tranquilizer will help him.”

He made the injection, then straightened, and there was a strange, hard thought in his mind: “By Monday night, it’ll be time for the third injection and I’ll have to decide what to do.”

So clear was the thought that came from him, it was almost as if he spoke aloud. What his thought said was that he intended to kill them both, if either failed to develop as he desired.

Shocked, Barbara held herself very still; and at that moment an entirely different growth process occurred in her.

It began with a veritable flood of suppressed information suddenly rising to the surface of her mind.

… About the reality of what people were like … the dupes, the malingerers and the weaklings on the one hand, and, on the other, the angry and the distorted, the worldly wise and the cynics. She recognized that there were well-meaning people in the world who were strong, but she was more aware of the destructive at this instant … by the million, the swindlers and betrayers—all self-justified, she saw now. But she realized also that they had misread their own bitter experiences. Because they were greedy and lustful and had lost their fear of punishment, earthly or unearthly; because they resented being thwarted in their slightest whim; because—

A forgotten scene flashed into her mind from her own past, of a minor executive in her first job, who had fired her when she refused to come up to his apartment.

All her life, she had been taught and she had tried not to be aware of such things. But now, at some level of neural computation, she permitted all that data to be calculated into the main stream of her awareness.

The process was still going on a few minutes later when Gloge departed as silently as he had come.

After he had left, Barbara tried to get up and was surprised that she could not even open her eyes. The realization that her body was still unconscious presently enthralled her.

What a marvelous ability!

As time passed, it began to be disconcerting. She thought: “I’m really quite helpless.” It was early afternoon before she was finally able to move. She got up, subdued and thoughtful, warmed a can of soup for Vince and herself and forced him to drink it from a cup.

Immediately after, he stretched out again on the couch and fell asleep. Barbara left the apartment to keep her appointment with her own doctor.

As she drove, she could feel a stirring inside her. More change? She decided it was. Perhaps there would be many such between now and Monday. Yet her intuition was that she would not be able to dominate this situation with the changes from the first and second shots only.

“Somehow,” she thought, “I’ve got to get that third shot.”

VII

At noon Monday, after he had dictated some letters to a girl from the steno pool, Hammond came out of his office.

“What’s the word from Nine-two?”

Helen looked up with her flashing smile. “Barbara?”

“Yes.”

“Her doctor called in this morning at her request. He said he saw her Saturday. She appears to have a mild temperature, is subject to dizzy spells, and a variety of unmentionable ailments like diarrhea. However, there’s one unexpected thing, the doctor said—evidently his own comment. Interested?”

“Of course.”

“He said that in his opinion Barbara has had a major personality change since he last checked her about a year ago.”

Hammond shook his head slowly. “Merely confirms our own observation. Well, keep me in touch.”

But about four o’clock, when the long distance screen was finally silent, he buzzed Helen Wendell. “I can’t get that girl out of my mind. It’s premonition level stuff, so I can’t ignore it. Phone Barbara.”

She called to him a minute later: “Sorry, there’s no answer.”

“Bring her file to me,” said Hammond. “I’ve got to assure myself I’m not missing something in this unusual matter.”

As he scanned the typed pages a few minutes later, he came presently to the photograph of Vince Strather. He uttered an exclamation.

“What is it?” Helen asked.

He told her what had happened the previous week between Dr. Gloge and Vince Strather.

He finished, “Of course, I didn’t connect Barbara with that young man. But this is his picture. Get Gloge’s file.”

“Apparently the change started when his sister died two months ago,” Helen Wendell said presently. “One of those sudden and dangerous shifts in personal motivation.” She added ruefully, “I should have watched him on that. The death of a near relative has often proved important.”

She was seated in the main room of Hammond’s living quarters at Research Alpha. The door to Hammond’s private office behind them was closed. Across the room, a large wall safe had been opened, revealing a wide double row of thin, metal-bound files. Two of the files—Henry Gloge’s and Barbara Ellington’s—lay on the table before Helen. Hammond stood beside her.

He said now, “What about that trip he made back east early in the month?”

“He spent three days in his home town, purportedly to make arrangements to sell his sister’s and his property there. They had a house, complete with private laboratory, untenanted, on the grounds of an old farm. The perfect location for unsupervised experimentation. On primates? Not likely. They’re not easy to obtain secretly and, except for the smaller gibbons, they should make potentially quick dangerous subjects for Dr. Gloge’s project. So it must be humans he planned to work on.”

Hammond nodded.

There was an almost sick expression on his face.

The woman looked up at him. “You seem very anxious. Presumably, Barbara and Vince have now had two injections each. That will take them to 50,000 years from now on some level. It doesn’t seem desperately serious to me.”

The man smiled tautly. “Don’t forget that we’re dealing with one of the seed races.”

“Yes—but only 50,000 years so far.”

He stared at her sympathetically. “You and I,” he said, “are still far down on the ladder. So it’s hard for us to conceive of the evolutionary potential of the Genus homo galacticus.”

She laughed. “I’m content with my lowly lot—”

“Good conditioning,” he murmured.

“—but I’m willing to accept your analysis. What do you intent to do with Gloge?”

Hammond straightened decisively. “This experiment on humans has to be stopped at once. Call Ames and have him put special security men at every exit. For the next hour, don’t let Gloge out of this building. And if Vince or Barbara try to enter the complex, tell him to hold them. When you’ve done that, start canceling my appointments for the rest of the day and evening.”

He disappeared into his bedroom, came out presently dressed for the street.

Helen Wendell greeted him with: “I called Ames and he says ‘Check!’ But I also phoned Gloge’s office. He left about an hour ago, his secretary says.”

Hammond said quickly, “Sound a standby alert. Tell Ames to throw a guard around the homes of both of those young people!”

“You’re going where?”

“First Barbara, then Vince. I only hope I’m in time.”

A look must have come into Helen’s face, because he smiled tensely and said, “Your expression says I’m getting too involved.”

The beautiful blonde woman smiled with understanding, said, “Every day on this planet thousands of people are murdered, hundreds of thousands are robbed and countless minor acts of violence occur. People are struck, choked, yelled at, degraded, cheated—I could go on. If we ever opened ourselves to that, we’d shrivel away.”

“I kind of like Barbara,” Hammond confessed.

Helen was calm. “So do I. What do you think is happening?”

“As I see it, Gloge gave them the first injection last Wednesday and the second on Friday. That means the third one should be given today. That I’ve got to stop.”

He departed hastily.

VIII

Gloge had become nervous. As Monday wore on, he kept thinking of his two specimens; and what bothered him was that he did not have them under observation on this last day.

What a ridiculous situation, he told himself. The greatest experiment in human history—and no scientific person watching it through to a conclusion of the key second injection.

There was another feeling, also.

Fear!

He couldn’t help but remember the young man. It seemed to Gloge that he had seen too many animals show in their fashion the symptoms he had observed in Vince. Failure to respond well to the serum, the signs of internal malaise, the sick appearance, the struggle of the cells visibly reflecting defeat in the efforts and chemistry at the surface of the skin.

And there was—he had to admit it—a further anxiety. Many of the unsuccessful animal specimens had developed tough fight-back characteristics. It would be wise to be prepared for emergencies of that nature.

He thought grimly: “No use fooling myself. I’d better drop everything and take another look at those two.”

That was when he left his office.

He took it for granted that Barbara was all right. So he drove to Vince’s apartment, and first checked with his audio pickups to make sure he was there and alone.

He detected at once movements; the sound of labored breathing, an occasional squeak of the springs of the couch. These noises came screeching through the hyper-sensitive receiver, but Gloge had the volume on them turned down so that they were not actually painful in his ears.

Gloge’s spirits had already dropped even more, for the sounds he was hearing confirmed his fears.

Suddenly, all the justified scientific attitude that had motivated him until now came hard against the reality of the failure that was here.

By his previous reasoning, he would now have to kill Vince.

And that meant, of course, that he would also have to dispose of Barbara.

His state of funk yielded after what must have been many minutes to a strictly scientific thought: Mere sounds were not enough data for so basic a decision, it seemed to him.

He felt intense disappointment.

Now, he must go and make his decision from an actual meeting with Vince. It would be improper to dispose of his two human subjects without a face to face interrogation.

As Gloge climbed out of his car and headed for the apartment building, Vince had a dream.

He dreamed that the man—what was his name?—Gloge, with whom he had quarreled a few days before in the corridor at Research Alpha, was coming here to his apartment, with the intention of killing him. At some deep level of his being, anger began. But he did not awaken.

The dream—product of his own disturbed, strange evolutionary development—continued.

From some vantage point, he watched Gloge approach his back door. He felt no surprise when the small, bald-headed man produced a key. Tense with fear, Vince watched as Gloge stealthily inserted the key into the lock, slowly turned it and quietly opened the door.

At that point, Vince’s body was impelled by his extreme anxiety to defensive action. Millions of tiny, shining, cream-colored energy bundles were emitted by his nervous system. They resembled very short straight lines. And they passed through the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, and they struck Gloge.

Great masses of the energy units unerringly sought out nerve ends in Gloge’s body and darted in their scintillating fashion up to the man’s brain.

The energy units were not the result of conscious analytical thought. They were brought into being solely by fright and carried pressor messages. They pushed at Gloge mentally, urging him to leave, to go back to where he had come from—

Dr. Gloge came to his senses with a start. He was back in his van. He remembered running in precipitant flight. He had a vague recollection of complete panic.

He sat now, trembling, breathing hard, trying to recover from the most disgraceful act of fear that he had ever experienced in his whole life.

And he knew that he had to go back.

Twice more, the sleeping Vince emitted enough energy bundles to compel Gloge to run. Each time the power available was less and Gloge retreated a shorter distance before stopping and forcing himself to go back again to the apartment.

On Gloge’s fourth approach, the brain mechanism in Vince was able to manufacture only a small energy discharge. Gloge felt the fear rise in him, but he fought it—successfully.

He moved silently across the kitchen floor toward the door of the living room.

He still did not realize that the sleeping body and he had fought a battle—which he had now won.

Moments later, Gloge looked down at the exhausted form of his male subject. The sleeping body had perspired excessively. It trembled and moaned, and, as Gloge watched, jerked fitfully.

Unmistakably—Gloge decided—a failed experiment.

He wasted no time. He had come prepared. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, carefully clipped one over Vince’s farthest away arm and softly clicked it shut. He lifted the arm as carefully toward the other wrist and clicked that handcuff on also.

Gloge next successfully tied Vince’s legs together, and then lashed together the hands and feet.

The victim continued his restless, feverish sleep.

Gloge brought out a gag. As he had anticipated, forcing it into the closed mouth was more disturbing. Under him, the body grew rigid. Wild eyes flicked open and glared up at him.

In a single, convulsive effort Vince tried to bring up his arms and simultaneously struggled to get to his feet.

But Gloge had done his preliminary work well. The victim’s intense effort subsided. Dr. Gloge realized that his control of this situation was complete. He removed the gag and said: “What I want to know is, how do you feel?”

The half-crazy, rage-filled eyes snapped with the impulse to violence. Vince cursed in a shrill voice. He kept this up for several minutes. Then he seemed to realize something.

“Y-you did something to me last week.”

Gloge nodded. “I injected you twice with a serum designed to accelerate cellular evolution, and I’ve come here to find out how you are.”

His gray eyes were steady, his bald head gleamed in the reflection of the light he had turned on. His face was serious. “Why not tell me exactly how you feel?” he asked earnestly.

This time Vince’s cursing subsided after about a minute. He lay, then, staring at his captor, and something about the pale, tense face of the scientist must have convinced him. “I feel—awful,” he said uneasily.

“Exactly how?” Gloge persisted.

Slowly, by dint of determined questioning, he drew from his reluctant victim the fact that he felt weak, exhausted and numb.

It was the fateful combination that had so often shown in the animals; and Gloge knew that it was decisive.

Without another word, he bent down and started to force the gag into Vince’s mouth. Vince twisted, wiggled, turned his head, and several times tried to bite. But inexorably Gloge pushed the gag all the way into the other’s mouth and knotted it firmly behind his head.

He now went outside and drove the van into the driveway opposite the back door of Vince’s apartment. Wrapping the young man’s body in a blanket, he carried him boldly outside and into the van.

A few minutes later he was heading for the home of one of his subordinates. The man was on loan to an eastern laboratory and his house and yard were unoccupied.

If he had paused, if he had stopped moving, if he had even taken his foot off the accelerator, Gloge might have faltered in his grisly plan. But his only slowdown was when he finally brought the car to a stop at his final destination. And that, in its real meaning, was a continuation of the plan.

Its final moments.

Laboriously, he dragged the gagged, handcuffed and bound Vince across the sidewalk, through a gate, and over to the deep end of the swimming pool. And still without pausing he shoved the tense body over the edge and into the water.

He straightened from his terrible act, stood there gasping for breath, exhausted, watching the trail of bubbles that roiled the dark surface. Abruptly terrified that he might be seen, he turned and staggered away.

As he half-fell, half-crawled into his car, the first opposing thought came, as much a feeling of horror as an idea: “My God, what have I done?”

But there was no opposing motion in that reaction. He did not go back. Instead, he sat there, bracing to the realization that a few feet away a man was still in process of drowning.

When there was no longer any doubt; when the subject of his experiment was by all laws of life dead, Gloge sighed, and stirred. There was no turning back. One gone, one to go.

Next—the girl!

From a phone booth a few blocks away, Gloge dialed Barbara Ellington’s boarding house. The voice of an elderly woman answered and told him Barbara had gone out.

The voice added, “She certainly is a popular girl today.”

Gloge said uneasily, “How do you mean?”

“Several men came by a little while ago and asked for her, but of course I had to tell them also that she wasn’t there.”

A sharp fear struck through Gloge. “Did they give their names?” he asked.

“A Mr. Hammond,” was the reply.

Hammond! The chill of that froze Gloge. “Thank you,” he gulped, and hung up.

He returned shakily to his car, torn between two impulses. He had intended to return after dark to the pool, fish Vince’s body out of it, take off all the bindings and dispose of it. He had a strong feeling now that he should do that at once. On the other hand, he had a desperate conviction that he must return to his office and remove the rest of the serum from the safe there.

That last suddenly seemed the more important thing to do, and the safest at this hour. The sun had gone down below the western hills, but the sky was still bright blue. The dying day had too much light in it for the gruesome task of getting rid of a dead body.

IX

At ten minutes past seven, Dr. Gloge unlocked the door that led directly from the corridor to his office in the biology section of Research Alpha. He went in, closed the door behind him, walked quickly around the big, bare desk in the center of the room, and stooped down to unlock the desk drawer where he kept a key to one of the safes.

“Good evening, Dr. Gloge,” a woman’s voice said behind him.

For an instant Dr. Gloge seemed unable to move. The words, the tone, sent an electrifying hope through him. He could scarcely believe his luck: that the second person he had to dispose of had come to where he could best deal with her.

He straightened slowly, turned around.

Barbara Ellington stood in the open door to the adjoining library, watching him, face serious and alert.

At no time in what followed did Gloge have any other conscious awareness than that this was Barbara Ellington.

But the very instant that he saw the girl, at some depth of his being neural readjustments took place. Millions of them. And from that instant, subconsciously, she was his dead sister. But she was not dead any more. She was reassuringly alive in the person of Barbara.

A look passed between them. It was one of complete understanding. It occurred to Gloge that it was scientifically wrong to kill this successful experimental victim. He even had a feeling that she was on his side and would cooperate with him. He suppressed a fleeting impulse to pretend not to know why she was here.

He said, matter-of-factly, “How did you get in?”

“Through the specimen room.”

“Did any of the night workers see you?”

“No.” Barbara smiled slightly.

Gloge was examining her with quick evaluative looks. He noted the way she stood, almost motionless but lightly and strongly balanced—a pose of contained, absolutely prepared energy. He saw in her eyes bright, quick intelligence.

The thought came to him: Nothing quite like this was ever on Earth before!

Barbara said suddenly, “You took a long chance on us, didn’t you?”

The words that burst from Dr. Gloge surprised him: “I had to do it.”

“Yes, I know.” Again she spoke matter-of-factly, moved forward into the room. Dr. Gloge felt a surge of alarm, a sharp, cold prickling of the skin. But she turned from him to the left, and he watched silently as she sat down in a chair against the wall and placed the brown purse she carried on the armrest of the chair. She spoke first.

“You must give me the third injection of the serum immediately,” she told him. “I’ll watch you do it. Then I’ll take the instrument and a supply of the serum to Vince. He—”

She paused; blue eyes kindling with abrupt comprehension, as she studied Dr. Gloge’s expression. “So you’ve drowned him!” she said. She sat there, thoughtful, then: “He’s not dead. I sense him to be still alive. Now, what is the instrument you use? You must still have it with you.”

“I do,” Dr. Gloge admitted hoarsely. “But,” he went on quickly, “it is advisable to wait till morning before administering the third shot. The chances of a further favorable development would be increased by doing it. And you must stay here! Nobody should see you as you are. There should be tests … you will tell me …”

He halted, realizing he was stammering. Barbara’s eyes hadn’t turned from his face. And in the same way that her knowledge of Vince’s fate had not disturbed him—somehow, he took it for granted that she realized and appreciated why and what he had done—so now her expression reassured him.

She said quietly, “Dr. Gloge, there are several things you don’t understand. I know I can assimilate the serum. So give me the shot—and the serum—at once.”

Barbara Ellington arose and started over toward him. She said nothing, and her face revealed no emotion, but his next awareness was of holding the jet gun out to her on his open palm as she came up.

“There’s only one charge left.”

She took the gun from his palm without touching him, turned it over, studied it, laid it back in his hand. “Where is your supply of the serum?”

Dr. Gloge nodded at the entrance to the library behind her. “The larger of the two safes in there.”

Her head had turned in the direction he indicated. Now she remained still for a moment, gaze remote, lips parted, in an attitude of intent listening; then she looked back at him.

“Give me the injection,” she told him. “Some men are coming.”

Dr. Gloge lifted the gun, put the point against her shoulder, pulled the trigger. Barbara drew her breath in sharply, took the gun from him, opened her purse, dropped the gun inside and snapped the purse shut. Her eyes shifted to the office door.

“Listen!” she said.

After a moment, Dr. Gloge heard footsteps coming along the narrow corridor from the main laboratory.

“Who is it?” he asked anxiously.

“Hammond,” she said. “Three other men.”

Dr. Gloge made a stifled sound of despair. “We’ve got to get away. He mustn’t find either of us here. Quick—through there.” He waved toward the library.

Barbara shook her head. “This place is surrounded. All passages are guarded.” She frowned. “Hammond must think he has all the evidence he needs against you—but don’t help him in any way! Admit nothing! Let’s see what I can do with my—” As she spoke she moved back to the chair on which she had been sitting. She settled into it, her face composed. “Maybe I can handle him,” she said confidently.

The footsteps had reached the door. There came a knock.

Gloge glanced at Barbara. His thoughts were whirling. She nodded, smiled.

“Come in!” Dr. Gloge said harshly, too loudly.

Hammond entered the room. “Why, Mr. Hammond!” Barbara exclaimed. Her face was flushed, she looked embarrassed and confused.

Hammond had stopped, as he caught sight of her. He sensed a mental probing. His brain put up a barrier, and the probing ceased.

Their eyes met; and there was a flicker of consternation in hers. Hammond smiled ironically. Then he said in a steely voice:

“Stay where you are, Barbara. I’ll talk to you later.” His voice went up. “Come on in, Ames!” he called.

There was threat in his tone; and Dr. Gloge sent a quick, desperate, appealing glance at Barbara. She gave him an uncertain smile. The look of earnest, fumbling innocence with which she had greeted Hammond had left her face, leaving it resigned but alert.

Hammond gave no sign of being aware of the change.

“Ames,” he said to the first of the three men who came in through the library from the specimen room—Dr. Gloge recognized Wesley Ames, the chief of Research Alpha’s security staff—”this is Barbara Ellington. Take charge of that handbag she’s holding. Allow no one to enter this office. Miss Ellington is not to leave and is not to be permitted to touch any object in this room. She is to stay in that chair until I return with Dr. Gloge.”

Wesley Ames nodded. “Understood, Mr. Hammond!” He glanced at his men, one of whom went to the office door and locked it while Ames turned to Barbara. She handed him her purse without comment.

“Doctor, come with me,” Hammond said curtly.

Dr. Gloge followed him into the library. Hammond closed the door behind them.

“Where’s Vince?” he said in an inexorable voice.

“Really, Mr. Hammond,” Gloge protested. “I don’t—”

Hammond stepped toward him abruptly. The movement seemed a threat. Dr. Gloge cringed, expecting to be manhandled. Instead, the bigger man firmly caught his arm and pressed a tiny metal object against his bare wrist.

“Tell me where Vince is!” Hammond commanded.

Gloge parted his lips to deny any knowledge of Barbara’s boy friend. Instead, the confession of what he had done poured forth from him. As he realized what he was admitting, Gloge tried desperately to stop himself from talking. He had already divined that the metal touching his skin was some kind of a hypnotic device, and so he tried to pull his arm from Hammond’s grasp.

It was a vain effort.

“How long ago did you drown him?” Hammond asked.

“About an hour ago,” said Dr. Gloge, hopelessly.

At that instant shouts came from the adjoining office. The door was pulled open. Wesley Ames stood there, ashen-faced.

“Mr. Hammond—she’s gone!”

Hammond darted past him into the office. Dr. Gloge hurried after, legs trembling. As he reached the door, Hammond already was coming back into the office with one of the security men from the hall on the other side. Ames and the other men stood in the center of the office, looking about with stupefied expressions.

Hammond closed the door, said to Ames, “Quickly now! What happened?”

Ames threw his hands up in a gesture of furious frustration.

“Mr. Hammond, I don’t know. We were watching her. She was there in the chair … then she was not there, that’s all. He—” he indicated one of the men—”was standing with his back to the door. When we saw she was gone, he was sitting on the floor next to the door! The door was open. We ran into the hall, but she wasn’t there. Then I called you.”

“How long had you been watching her?” Hammond asked sharply.

“How long?” Ames gave him a dazed look. “I had just taken my mother down the hall to the elevator—”

He stopped, blinked. “Mr. Hammond, what am I saying? My mother’s been dead for eight years!”

Hammond said softly, “So that’s her little trick. She reached to that deep of the heart where the pure, unsullied dead are enshrined. And I thought she was only trying to read my mind!”

He broke off, said in a clear, commanding voice:

“Wake up, Ames! You three have been gone from the world for a couple of minutes. Don’t worry about how Miss Ellington did it. Get her description to the exits. If she’s seen approaching by a guard, tell him to keep her at a distance at gun point.”

As the three hurried from the office, he indicated a chair to Dr. Gloge. Gloge sat down, senses swimming, as Hammond took a pencil-shaped device from his pocket, pressed it, and stood waiting.

On the fifth floor of the Research Alpha complex, Helen Wendell picked up the small private phone at the side of her desk, said, “Go ahead, John.”

“Switch all defense and trap screens on immediately!” Hammond’s voice told her. “Gloge’s drowned Strather—as an experimental failure. But the other one’s awake and functioning. It’s hard to know what she’ll do next, but she may find it necessary to get to my office as a way of getting out of this building fast.”

Helen pressed a button. “Not this way she won’t!” she said. “The screens are on.”

X

Outside, it grew darker on that tense Monday night.

At eight-eighteen, Helen Wendell again picked up the small phone purring at the side of her desk in the Research Alpha complex, glanced over at the closed office door, and said into the receiver, “Go ahead, John.”

“I’m here at the pool,” John Hammond’s voice told her. “We’ve just fished his body out. Helen, the fellow is alive. Some reflex prevented any intake of water. But we’ll need an oxygen tent.”

Helen’s left hand reached for another telephone. “You want the ambulance?” she asked, starting to dial.

“Yes. You have the street number. Tell them to pull up at the side gate. We have to act swiftly.”

“Police uniforms, also?” Helen asked.

“Yes. But tell them to stay in the cab unless needed. We’re out of sight, behind a high fence. And it’s dark. I’ll come back with them. Has Barbara been apprehended?”

“No,” Helen said.

“I really didn’t expect she would be,” Hammond said. “I’ll question the guards when I get there.”

Barbara had allowed Ames to escort her to the nearest elevator, while she continued to have him think that she was his mother.

Once in the elevator she pushed the up-button and came out presently on the roof. As she had already perceived, a helicopter was scheduled to take off. And, though she was not an authorized passenger, the pilot took her along believing her to be his girl friend. Her sudden arrival seemed perfectly logical to him.

A little later, he set her down on the roof of another building. And that, also, seemed the most natural act to him, her reason for going there obvious.

He flew off and promptly forgot the episode.

The hasty landing was an urgent necessity for Barbara. She could feel the new injection beginning to work. So in her scanning of the buildings flitting by below, she perceived one in which the upper floors were unoccupied.

“I’ll try to make it down to some office,” she thought.

But she didn’t get beyond the top floor. She actually began to stagger as she went down the first steps from the roof. And there was no mistaking the out-of-control state of her body. To her left, a door opened into a warehouse-like loft. She weaved through it, closed it behind her, and bolted it. Then she half-lowered herself, half-fell to the floor.

During that evening and night she never quite lost consciousness. Blackout was no longer possible for her. But she could feel her body changing, changing, changing—

The energy flows inside her took on a different meaning. They were separate from her. Presently they would be controllable again, but in another fashion entirely.

Something of Barbara seemed to disappear with that awareness.

“I’m still me!” the entity thought as it lay there on the floor. “Flesh, feeling, desire—”

But she had the distinct realization that “me” even in these early stages of the five hundred thousand year transformations was ME PLUS.

Exactly how the self was becoming something more was not yet clear.

The slow night dragged by.

XI

Tuesday.

Shortly before noon, Helen Wendell came along the hallway that led from John Hammond’s quarters to the main office. Hammond was sitting at the far side of her desk. He glanced up at her as she approached.

“How are the patients?” he asked.

“Gloge is role-perfect,” Helen said. “I even allowed him to spend part of the morning talking to his assistants here. He’s already had two conversations by Telstar with Sir Hubert about his new task overseas. I’ve put him to sleep again, but he’s available. When did you come in?”

“Just now. How’s Strather?”

Helen tapped the recorder. “I checked with the MD machine on him twenty minutes ago,” she said. “It gave me its opinion in detail. I took it all down. Do you want to hear it?”

“Sum it up for me.”

Helen pursed her lips; then: “The MD verifies that he didn’t swallow any water, that some newly developed brain mechanism shut off breathing and kept him in a state of suspended animation. Vince himself has no conscious memory of the experience, so it was evidently a survival act of the lower brain. MD reports other developments are taking place in Vince, regards them as freakish in nature. It’s too soon to tell whether or not he can survive a third injection. He’s under sedation.”

Hammond looked dissatisfied. “All right,” he said after a moment. “What else do you have for me?”

“A number of transmitter messages,” Helen said.

“About Gloge?”

“Yes. New Brasilia and Manila agree with you that there are too many chances of a revealing slip-up if Dr. Gloge remains at Research Alpha any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“You said Gloge is role-perfect.”

Helen nodded. “At the moment. But he is a highly recalcitrant subject and naturally I can’t give him the kind of final conditioning he’d get at Paris center. That’s where they want him. The courier, Arnold, will take him aboard the Paris-jet at 5:10 tonight.”

“No!” Hammond shook his head. “That’s too early! Gloge is our bait to catch Barbara. His experiments indicate that she won’t be able to function until some time this evening. I calculate that somewhere around 9 o’clock will be a good time to let Gloge out from behind the defense screens.”

Helen was silent a moment, then said, “There seems to be a general feeling, John, that you’re over-estimating the possibilities of any really dangerous evolutionary developments in Barbara Ellington.”

Hammond smiled tautly. “I’ve seen her. They haven’t. Mind you, for all I know, she may be dead or dying of the effects of the third shot by now. But if she’s capable of coming, I think she’ll come. She’ll want that fourth injection. She may start any time looking for the man who can produce the serum for her.”

By Tuesday, a new awareness had come to Barbara.

She had developed brain mechanisms that could do things with space—do them on an automatic level, without her conscious mind knowing what, or how. Fantastic things …

As she lay there, a new nerve center in her brain reached out and scanned a volume of space 500 light-years in diameter. It touched and comprehended clouds of neutral hydrogen and bright young O-type stars, measuring the swing of binaries, took a census of comets and ice asteroids. Far out in the constellation of Ophiuchus a blue-white giant was going nova, and the new, strange linkage in Barbara’s mind observed its frantic heaving of spheres of radiant gas. A black dwarf emitted its last spray of infra-red light and sank into the radiationless pit of dead stars.

Barbara’s mind encompassed it all, and reached farther … reached out effortlessly until it touched a specific Something … and withdrew.

Brimming with ecstasy, Barbara cried out in her mind, What did I touch?

She knew it had been something the brain mechanism was programmed to search for. But no conscious perception was involved. All she could be sure of was that the nerve center seemed satisfied, and ceased its scanning.

But she sensed, in an intensely happy way, that it remained aware of What it had contacted.

She was still savoring the joy a while later when she became aware that the shifting energy flows inside her had resumed.

Gradually, then, she permitted her body and mind to sink into a receptive state.

Midsummer heat built up over the city throughout the day. In the locked room on the vacant top floor of the multi-storied building three miles from Research Alpha, the heat grew stifling as the sun shifted overhead, began to beat in through closed, unshaded windows. Barbara, curled on her side on the dusty floor, did not move. Now and then she uttered a moaning sound. Sweat ran from her for a long, long time, as the heat increased; then the skin of her face dried and turned dirty white. She made no more sounds. Even a close study would not have been able to prove that she still breathed.

By four o’clock the sunblaze had shifted past the windows, and the locked room lay in shadows. But it was another hour before the temperature in it gradually began to drop. About six, the curled figure moved for the first time.

She straightened her legs slowly, then, with a sudden, convulsive motion, rolled over on her back, lay flat, arms flung loosely to the sides.

The right half of her face was smeared grotesquely with thick dust caked in drying sweat. She breathed—lay quiet again. Several minutes later, he eyelids lifted. The eyes were a deep, brilliant blue, seemed oddly awake and alert, though they remained unfocused and did not shift about the room. After a while, the lids slowly closed and remained closed.

The day darkened; the city’s lights awoke. The empty warehouse stood silent. More than an hour passed before the figure in the room on the top floor moved again.

This time, it was motion of a different order. She rose suddenly and quickly to her feet, went to the nearest window and stood looking out through the dirt-stained glass.

The towering Research Alpha complex was a glow of white light to the west. The watcher’s eyes turned toward it …

A second of time went by. Then the mind that directed the eyes moved on an entirely new level of extended perception.

Night-shift activities in the research complex were not essentially different from those of the day; but there were fewer people around as the awareness that was Barbara drifted along familiar, lighted hallways, about corners, dropped suddenly to a sublevel which contained the biology section. Here she flicked through the main laboratory and up a narrow corridor, pausing before the door to Dr. Gloge’s office.

She moved through the door, paused in the dark and silent office, then moved on into the library. She remained a minute or two above the big safe in a corner of the library. Then she knew.

The safe was empty—and trapped.

The awareness flicked out of the library, shifted to the fifth floor of the complex, drifted toward a great, black door showing the words: Scientific Liaison and Investigation. She stopped before it.

Minutes passed as she slowly and carefully scanned the outer walls of John Hammond’s offices and living quarters. Here was something new … something that seemed very dangerous. Within the walls and doors, above the ceiling, below the flooring of this section, strange energies curled and crawled like twisting smoke.

She could not pass through that barrier.

But though she could not enter, her perception might, to some extent.

She must avoid, she decided, both the front entry door and the secret elevator which led directly to Hammond’s living quarters in the rear of the section. As the most obvious points for an intruder to consider, they were also the most formidably shielded.

She shifted back along the hall to a point some twenty feet away from the massive black door, well back from the wall between her and the front office. She waited. Gradually a picture began to form …

This was an unfamiliar room, the inner office of the section. There was no one in it, nothing of interest except a closed door across from the one which opened on the corridor.

The inner office disappeared … and what came next was no picture, but a surge of savage, demanding hunger.

Startled, shocked, already feeling the pull that in a moment would hurl her into the murderous barriers about the section, the searching awareness instantly broke the thread of visual perception, went inactive to allow herself to stabilize.

Nevertheless, she now knew where the serum was—in a strongroom of Hammond’s quarters, heavily screened, seemingly inaccessible.

Perception cautiously opened again. Another section of the living quarters appeared, hazy with hostile energies. The other—the male counterpart—was here. Alive.

Here, but helpless. Here, but unconscious, in a cage of dark force which permitted no more than barest identification by the searcher. She was very glad he had been rescued.

Minutes later, she knew there was no one else in Hammond’s locked quarters. She withdrew visual perception from there, and let the picture of the main office develop. The blurred image of a woman—Helen Wendell—now seemed to be speaking into an instrument connected with the apparatus before her.

A second band of perception opened, and voices became indistinctly audible.

Ganin Arnold, the New Brasilia courier, was making his final call from the city jetport, nine miles south of the Research Alpha complex.

“The doors are being secured,” he said. He was speaking into a disguised microphone clamped over his mouth and nose, which had the appearance of the tranquilizing respirators many of the other jet passengers were using now in the last moments before lift-off. Even to anyone within inches of him, his voice would have remained completely inaudible. In John Hammond’s office, it emerged clearly from the device on Helen Wendell’s desk.

“Lift-off for the nonstop jet to Paris,” Arnold went on, “will follow—” he glanced at the watch on his wrist—”in two minutes and thirty seconds. All passengers and every member of the crew have passed at least once through the measurement radius. Nothing which may have preceded or followed myself and our biologist aboard registers life energy levels significantly above the standard Earther range—that is, of course, below six.

“To sum it up, we definitely are not being accompanied to Paris by any abnormally high human evolutionary form. Dr. Gloge’s behavior has been excellent. His tranquilizer has begun to take effect and he is showing signs of drowsiness. Undoubtedly, he will sleep soundly throughout the trip.”

Arnold paused, apparently waiting for comment. When there was none, he resumed, “As soon as the lift-field goes on, communication by this means, of course, will be impossible. Since nothing is likely to go wrong from this moment on, I suggest, if it’s satisfactory to Mr. Hammond, that I end my report now.”

Helen Wendell’s voice, seeming to speak from a point just within the left side of the courier’s skull, told him pleasantly, “Mr. Hammond prefers you to remain alert and available for final instructions until the lift has begun.”

XII

In the locked room on the top floor of the empty warehouse a few miles east of Research Alpha, the woman-shape standing at the window stirred suddenly out of the tranced immobility it had maintained for the past minutes. The head lifted, gaze sweeping the softly glowing night-sky above the city. A hand moved, touching the thick windowpane probingly. The glass fell away like a big drop of melting ice.

Dust swirled as cool air rushed in.

Barbara waited, then moved closer to the opening.

Her gaze swung to the west again, remained there. She listened. The myriad noises of the city were clear and distinct now. Overlying them was a thin fountain of sky-sound as, every thirty seconds—at this hour—a jet lifted vertically from the city port, cut in its engines and vanished up into the night with a whistling shriek. Her head shifted quickly, briefly following the changing pattern of the sound. Then it steadied.

Her gaze rose slowly, slanting to the north, following a moving, distant point in the night, eyes narrowed with intentness.

On board the Paris jet which had left the city port a few minutes before, Dr. Henry Gloge now had a very curious experience. Drowsily, almost on the verge of sleep, he had been contemplating the pleasant significance of his assignment today to Sir Hubert Roland’s Paris Project. Suddenly, then, there was a sensation of coming partly awake.

He gazed around him with a rising sense of alarm, looking first of all at his seat companion.

The fellow was big, heavily built. He looked like a police detective, and Gloge knew that the man was his guard. The curious thing was that he was slumped back in the seat, head lolling forward, eyes closed … typical indications of a tranquilized stupor.

Gloge thought: “Why is he asleep?” He had a strong conviction that it was he who should be unconscious. There was a clear memory of a device—an instrument totally unfamiliar to him—which the Wendell woman had used to implant a complete, compelling set of delusions in his mind. He had come willingly aboard the jet. And he had, at the suggestion of his guard, inhaled enough tranquilizing gas from the seat respirator to have kept him somnolent until the jet touched down in Paris.

Instead, minutes later, he had come awake, the delusions of the day slipping from his mind!

There must be an explanation for these apparently contradictory events.

The thought ended. A feeling of blankness held him for a moment. Then came a churning wave of terror.

Somewhere a voice had said:

“Yes, Dr. Gloge—there is an explanation for this!”

Slowly, against his every inclination but completely unable to withstand the impulse, Dr. Gloge turned, looked back. There was someone in the seat behind him.

For an instant, it seemed to be a complete stranger. Then the eyes opened. They fixed on him, glowing brilliant demon-blue, even in the muted light of the jet.

The woman spoke, and it was the voice of Barbara Ellington. “We have a problem, Dr. Gloge. There seems to be a group of extra-terrestrials on this planet, and I still do not have any clear idea of what they are doing here. That’s our immediate task—to find out.”

“You are where?” Helen Wendell said sharply.

Her hand flicked to the right, snapped a switch. A small view-screen on the right side of the desk lit up. She said, “John—quick!”

In the inner office, John Hammond turned, saw the lit screen on the desk behind him. An instant later he was listening to the words tumbling hoarsely from the telephone speaker on his left. He said to Helen’s tense, pale profile in the screen to the right, “Where is he?”

“At the Des Moines jetport! The Paris jet put down for emergency repairs. Now nobody seems to understand just what was wrong with it or what repairs are needed. But the passengers have been disembarked, are to be transferred to another jet. Arnold’s in a state of confusion and shock. Listen to him!”

“—there was a woman with him,” the courier’s voice babbled. “At the time, I thought it was one of the passengers who had come off the jet with us. Now I’m not sure. But I simply stood there and watched the two of them walk out of the hall together. It never occurred to me to ask myself why this woman was with Gloge, or to stop them, or even to wonder where they were going …”

Hammond twisted a dial, dimming the voice. He spoke to Helen Wendell. “When did the jet come down?”

“From what Arnold said first,” Helen told him, “it must have been over half an hour ago! As he puts it, it didn’t occur to him to call us about it until now.”

”Half an hour!” Hammond came to his feet. “Helen, drop everything you’re doing! I want an off-planet observer sitting in on this, preferably within minutes.”

She gave him a startled look. “What are you expecting?”

“I don’t know what to expect.”

She hesitated, began: “The Wardens …”

“Whatever can be done here,” Hammond said, “I can do myself. I don’t need anyone else for that. The defense screens on the northern side will go off for exactly forty seconds. Now move!” He snapped off the screen, reached under the desk, threw over another switch.

In the main office, Helen Wendell stared at the blank screen for a moment. Then she jumped to the entry door, pulled it open and slipped out into the hall. The door swung shut behind her.

Some moments later, John Hammond entered the room behind his private office where Vincent Strather lay enclosed by a trap screen. Hammond went to the wall, turned the trap controls there halfway to the off point.

The screen faded into smoky near-invisibility, and he stared for a few seconds at the shape stretched out on the couch within it. He asked aloud, “There have been no further internal changes?”

“None within the past two hours,” the MD machine’s voice said from the wall.

“This form is viable?”

“Yes.”

“He would awaken if I released the screen?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

Hammond was silent a moment, then asked, “You have calculated the effects of a fourth injection of the serum?”

“Yes,” the machine said from the wall.

“In general, what are they?”

“In general,” the machine said, “there would be pronounced changes and at an again greatly accelerated rate. The evolutionary trend remains the same, but would be very much advanced. The resultant form would stabilize within twenty minutes. It would again be a viable one.”

Hammond turned the trap screen controls full over to the left. The screen darkened once more into a dense, concealing shroud.

It was too soon to make the decision to give the fourth shot. Perhaps—mercifully—it could be avoided altogether.

XIII

At half past ten, the long-distance signal sounded from the telephone screen. Hammond glanced around from the portable control box on the desk, simultaneously pressed the answer button and the stud which would leave him unseen if the caller’s instrument was equipped with a viewscreen, and said, “Go ahead!”

The screen remained dark, but somebody made a gasping sound of relief. “Mr. Hammond!” It was a reedy, quavering voice, but it was distinctly the voice of Dr. Gloge.

There were two sharp clicks from one of the instruments lying on the desk—a signal from Helen Wendell, in the observer boat standing off Earth, that she was recording the conversation.

“Where are you, Doctor?”

“Mr. Hammond … something terrible … that creature … Barbara Ellington—”

“She took you off the jet, I know,” Hammond said. “Where are you now?”

“My home—in Pennsylvania.”

“She went with you?”

“Yes. There was nothing I could do.”

“Of course not,” Hammond said. “She’s gone now?”

“I don’t know where she is. I took the chance of phoning. Mr. Hammond, there was something I didn’t know, didn’t remember. But she knew. I …”

“You had some Omega serum in that farm laboratory?” Hammond asked.

“I didn’t think of it as that,” Dr. Gloge’s voice told him. “It was an earlier experimental variant—one with impurities which produce a dangerously erratic reaction. I was under the impression I had destroyed my entire stock. But this being knew better! It brought me here, forced me to give it what was left of the serum. The quantity was small—”

“But enough for a standard fourth shot of the series?” Hammond said.

“Yes, yes, it was sufficient for the fourth injection.”

“And she has now taken it as an injection?”

Dr. Gloge hesitated, then he said, “Yes. However there is reason to hope that instead of impelling the evolutionary process in what I now regard as a monstrous creature on to its next stage, the imperfect serum will result in its prompt destruction.”

“Perhaps,” said Hammond. “But almost since you first launched Barbara Ellington into this process, she appears to have been aware of what was possible to her. I can’t believe she’s made a mistake now.”

“I …” Dr. Gloge paused again, went on: “Mr. Hammond, I realize the enormity of what I’ve done. If, in any way, I can help avert the worst consequences, I shall cooperate to the fullest extent. I—”

There was a sharp click as the connection was broken, a pause, then Helen Wendell’s voice whispering into Hammond’s ear, “Do you think Barbara let him make that call, then cut him off?”

“Of course.”

Helen made no further comment, simply waited; and presently, softly, Hammond continued: “I think she wants us to know that she’s coming here.”

“I think she’s there now,” said Helen. “Good-by.”

XIV

John Hammond glanced at the control box on the desk, and saw the flickering indicators. He also saw a wholly unexpected reaction: A condition of non-energy that actually canceled energy.

“Helen,” he said. “This woman has gone up somewhere out of our reach! What you’re seeing is energy trying to maintain itself against anti-energy. I received recognition drilling on such things, but I’ve never seen it before in an actual situation.”

Helen Wendell, eyes fixed on a duplicate check screen in the distant observer boat, did not reply. A shifting electronic storm was blazing through the check-screen indicators; it showed that the defensive forces enclosing Hammond’s office and living quarters were coming under a swiftly varying pattern of attack … presently that they were being tested almost to the limit.

It held that way for over a minute—every reading almost impossibly high, barely shifting.

“John Hammond!” the desk top said softly to Hammond.

He jerked slightly away, eyes flicking down to it.

“John Hammond!” the chair whispered beside him.

“John Hammond!” “John Hammond!” “John Hammond!” “John Hammond …”

His name sprang at him from every part of the office, in a swirling, encircling pattern. Because of his special supervisory position, Hammond knew the pattern and its danger. It had never been considered probable, but nevertheless they had taken the possibility into account and so he had outside power available to deal with this emergency.

He looked hurriedly about on the desk for an instrument he had laid down among the others there. For an instant, he seemed unable to recognize it, and there was an icy touch of panic. Then he realized he already held it in his hand. He ran a knob up along its side with his thumb, locked it into place, laid the instrument back on the desk.

A rasping came from it. Not only a sound, but a vibration, a rough, hard shuddering of the nerves. The voice-ghosts sank to a whisper, flowed from the room. Helen Wendell’s tiny, distant voice stabbed at Hammond’s ear like a needle:

“The check screen! She’s leaving!” Hopefully.

“You’re certain?”

“Not really.” Alarm whipped at him through Helen’s voice. “What does your screen show?”

“A subjective blur at the moment. It’s clearing.”

“What happened?”

“I think she felt above us and so she took it for granted that she could walk all over us. Accordingly, she’s just had the surprise of her brief existence as a sub-galactic super-woman. She didn’t realize we represent the Great Ones.”

“Is she damaged?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She’s learned too much. But … details later.” Hammond blinked at the check screen, swung around toward the door of the adjoining room, pulled it open.

“Administer the final injection to the subject!” he said sharply into the room. “Acknowledge!”

“The fourth and final injection of the Omega Stimulation series will be administered to the subject,” the machine replied.

“Immediately!”

“Immediately.”

Helen’s voice reached Hammond again as he drew the door shut and came back to the desk. “At moments,” she said, “the anti-energies were holding the ninety-six point of overload. Within four of the theoretical limit. Did she get to you at the energy balance?”

“Very nearly,” Hammond told her. “A very high-energy, pseudo-hypno trick that didn’t quite work. And she’ll be back. I still have something she wants!”

On his desk, the telephone screen blurred. When he turned it on, the voice of Dr. Gloge sounded in his ears.

“We were cut off earlier, Mr. Hammond.” The biologist’s voice was strongly even and controlled.

“What happened?” Hammond asked warily.

“Mr. Hammond, I have finally analyzed what evolution really is. The universe is a spectrum. It needs energies in motion at all levels. This is why those at the higher levels do not interfere directly with individual activities at the lower. But this is also why they are concerned when a race reaches the point where it can begin to manipulate large forces.”

Hammond said steadily, “Barbara, if the purpose of this call is to find out if I’ll let you in, I will.”

A pause, then a click. Then there was a tiny, momentary flickering in one of the check screen indicators. Then, in a different section, another.

“What’s happening?” Helen asked tautly.

Hammond said, “She’s coming through the screens, with my permission.”

“Do you think it’s a trick?”

“In a way. For some reason, she hasn’t let herself reach that theoretical, final million-year point on Dr. Gloge’s evolutionary scale. That may come a little later.”

“And you’re actually letting her in, believing that?”

“Of course.” Helen did not answer him.

A minute went past in silence. Hammond shifted so that he faced the door, moved a few steps away from the control box and the desk, and stood waiting.

A small light burned red in a corner of the check screen. Something had come into the main office.

The heavy silence continued for some seconds. Then, on the hard flooring at the far end of the corridor, Hammond heard footsteps.

He couldn’t have said what he had been expecting … but certainly nothing so commonplace as the sound of a woman’s high-heeled shoes coming briskly toward the inner office.

She appeared in the doorway, stopped there, looking at him. Hammond said nothing. All outer indications were that this was the Barbara Ellington he had seen sitting in a chair in Dr. Gloge’s office the night before. Nothing had changed either in her looks or in her clothing; even the brown purse she held in one hand seemed the same. Except for the air of radiant vitality, the alertness of her stance, the keen intelligence in her face, this also was, in fact, the awkward, overanxious, lean girl who had worked in the outer office for less than two weeks.

And therefore, Hammond thought, it was a phantom! Not a delusion; he was protected now against any attempt to tamper with his mind in that manner by barriers which would break only if he died. The shape standing in the door was real. The instruments recorded it. But it was a shape created for this meeting—not that of Barbara Ellington as she was at this hour.

He was unsure of her intention in assuming it. Perhaps it was designed to throw him off guard.

She came into the room, smiling faintly, and glanced about. Hammond knew then that he hadn’t been mistaken. Something had come in with her … something oppressive, spine-tingling; a sense of heat, a sense of power.

The curiously brilliant, blue eyes turned toward him; and the smile deepened.

“I’m going to have to test why you’re still here,” she said carelessly. “So defend yourself!”

There was no sound; but a cloud of white light filled the air between them, enveloping them; faded; flared silently; faded again. Both stood unmoving, each watching the other. Nothing in the office had changed.

“Excellent!” the woman said. “The mystery behind you begins to reveal itself. I know the quality of your race now, John Hammond. Your science could never control the order of energies that are shielding you mentally and physically here!

“There should be other indications then that in extreme necessity you are permitted to employ devices created by beings greater than yourself—devices which you do not yourself understand. And where would such devices be found at the moment? … Over there, I believe!”

She turned toward the door of the adjoining room, took three steps, and halted. A rose-glowing haze had appeared before the door and the surrounding sections of wall and flooring.

“Yes,” she said. “That comes from the same source! And here—”

She turned, moved quickly toward the control box on the desk, checked again. A rose haze also enveloped the box now.

“The three points you must consider vital here!” she said nodding. “Yourself, the being in that room and the controls of the section. You may safeguard these at the expense of revealing a secret you would otherwise least want to reveal. Now I think it is time for us to exchange information.”

She came back to Hammond, stopped before him.

“I discovered suddenly, John Hammond, that your kind are not native to Earth. You are superior to Earth’s humanity, but not sufficiently superior to explain why you are here. You have an organization on this world. But it is a curious organization. It does not appear to serve the purposes of conqueror or exploiter … But let’s leave it at that. Don’t try to explain it. It doesn’t matter. You are to release the human male who was to have received the series of serum injections with me. You and the other members of your race stationed here will then remove yourselves promptly from this planet. We have no further use for you.”

Hammond shook his head.

“We might be forced off the planet,” he said. “But that would make Earth an active danger spot. The Great Galactics whom I represent do have servant races who carry out military assignments for them. It would not be to your advantage if such a race were to occupy or quarantine Earth to make sure that the seedling race here continues to receive the necessary degree of supervision.”

“John Hammond,” the woman-shape said, “whether the Great Galactics send military servants to Earth or come here themselves is a matter that does not concern me in the least. It would be very unwise of them to do either. Within hours from now, the Omega serum will be available in limitless quantities. Within days, every man, woman, and child of Earth will have gone through the full evolutionary sequence. Do you think Earth’s new humanity could still be supervised by any other race?”

“The Omega serum will never be used again,” Hammond said. “I’ll show you why …”

Hammond turned, went to the control box on the desk. The rose haze faded before him, appeared behind him again. He threw a switch and the haze vanished. He turned away from the controls. “The energy fields that kept you out of that room are being shut off,” he said. “In a moment, the door will open. So see for yourself—the barriers are off.”

Except for the blazing blue of the eyes, her face was a cold mask. Hammond thought she must already know what was there. But she turned, went to the open door, and stood looking into the room. Hammond moved to the side of the desk where he could look past her …

The energy trap enclosing the couch in the room had vanished. The dark thing on the couch was just sitting up. It shook its head dazedly, rolled over and came up on all fours.

Its huge, dull-black eyes stared at them for an instant; then it straightened, rose to its full height …

To a full height of twenty-two inches! It swayed unsteadily on the couch—a hairy little figure with a wide-mouthed, huge-eyed goblin head.

Its eyes blinked in vague recognition. The mouth opened. It cried in a thin, bleating voice:

“Bar-ba-ra!”

XV

The woman wheeled, turning away. She did not look back at the grotesque little figure. But a faint smile touched her lips as she gazed at Hammond. “All right,” she said, “there goes my last tie with Earth. I accept what you said. I gather that the Omega serum is a unique development and that it hasn’t shown up elsewhere in the galaxy.”

“That is not a literal truth,” said Hammond.

She nodded toward the adjoining room. “Then perhaps you can tell me what went wrong.”

Hammond told her Gloge’s two-fold theory: that at this stage of man’s evolution many possibilities remained for evolvement, and that apparently the serum stimulated one of these and thereafter was bound by natural law to follow that line of development.

As he talked, he was watching her, and he was thinking: “This problem isn’t resolved. How are we going to deal with her?”

He sensed an almost incredible strength, an actual, palpable force. It poured from her in a steady stream of power.

He continued tensely: “The Great Galactics, when planting their seed on a new planet, have never interfered with the basic characteristics of the various races that live there. They interject selected bundles of their own genes by grafting into thousands of men and women on every continent. As the generations go by, these bundles intermix by chance with those that are native to the people of the planet. Apparently, the Omega serum stimulates one of these mixtures and carries it forward to whatever it is capable of, which, because of the singularity factor, usually leads to a dead end.”

“The singularity factor—?” Her words were a question.

Men, Hammond explained, were born of the union of a man and a woman. No one person carried more than a portion of mankind’s genes. As time passed, the interaction and interrelation of all the genes occurred; the race progressed because billions of chance intermixings of different bundles took place.

In Vince, one such bundle had been stirred, been whipped up to its ultimate point by repeated Omega Stimulation—but evidently that particular bundle had strictly limited possibilities, as would always be the case when a single person was bred, so to speak, with himself … the singularity factor.

And that was what had happened to Vince and herself. They were products of the most fantastic inbreeding ever attempted—life surviving through one line, a kind of incest carried to some ultimate sterility, fantastic, interesting, freakish.

“You are wrong,” said the woman-shape softly. “I am not a freak. So what has happened here is even more improbable than I have realized. In myself, it was the galactic seedling bundle of genes that was stimulated. Now, I understand what it was I contacted out in space. One of them. And he let me. He understood instantly.”

She added, “One more question, John Hammond. Omega is an unusual term. What does it mean?”

“… When man becomes one with the ultimate, that is Point Omega.”

It seemed to Hammond that, even as he finished speaking, she was growing remote, withdrawing from him. Or was it that it was he who was withdrawing? Not only from her but from everything—drifting away, not in any spatial sense, but, in some curious fashion, away from the reality of the entire universe? The brief thought came that this should be an alarming and disturbing experience. Then the thought itself was forgotten.

“There is something occurring,” her voice was telling him. “In the small thing behind the door, the Omega evolutionary process is completed, in its fashion. In me, it is not completed—not quite.

“But it is being completed now …”

He was nowhere and nothing. New word-impressions, new thought impressions came suddenly and swept through him like the patter of rain.

The impressions took form. It was later in time. He seemed to be standing in the small room next to his office, looking down at the lanky, redheaded young man sitting groggily on the edge of the couch holding his head.

“Coming out of it, Vince?” Hammond asked.

Vincent Strather glanced uncertainly up at him, ran his hand over the jagged rent in the sleeve of his jacket.

“I guess so, Mr. Hammond,” he muttered. “I … what happened?”

“You went for a drive tonight,” Hammond told him, “with a girl named Barbara Ellington. You’d both been drinking. She was driving … driving too fast. The car went off a highway embankment, turned over several times. Witnesses dragged you to safety minutes before the car burst into flames. The girl was dead. They didn’t attempt to save her body. When the police informed me of the accident, I had you brought here to Research Alpha.”

As he spoke, he had the stunning realization that everything he was saying was true. The accident had happened late that evening, in exactly that manner.

“Well …” Vince began. He broke off, sighed, shook his head. “Barbara was an odd girl. A wild one! I was pretty fond of her once, Mr. Hammond. Lately, I’ve been trying to break off with her.”

Hammond received the impression that much more had happened. Automatically, he looked back through the open door as the private telephone in the inner office signaled. “Excuse me,” he said to Vince.

As he flicked on the instrument, Helen Wendell’s face appeared on the phone screen. She gave him a brief smile, asked, “How is Strather?”

Hammond didn’t reply at once. He looked at her, feeling cold, eerie crawlings over his scalp. Helen was seated at her desk in the outer office. She was not in a spaceboat standing off the planet.

He heard himself say, “He’s all right. There is very little emotional shock … How about you?”

“I’m disturbed by Barbara’s death,” Helen admitted. “But now I have Dr. Gloge on the phone. He’s quite anxious to talk to you.”

Hammond said, “All right. Put him on.”

“Mr. Hammond,” Dr. Gloge’s voice said a moment later, “this is in connection with the Point Omega Stimulation project. I’ve been going over all my notes and conclusions on these experiments, and I’m convinced that once you understand the extraordinary dangers which might results if the details of my experiments became known, you will agree that the project should be closed out and any records referring to it destroyed at once.”

After switching off the phone, he remained for a while at the desk.

* * *

So that part of the problem also had been solved! The last traces of the Omega serum were being wiped out, would soon linger only in his mind.

And for how long there? Perhaps no more than two or three hours, John Hammond decided. The memory pictures were paling; he had a feeling that sections of them already had vanished. And there was an odd, trembling uncertainty about what was left … thin, colored mind-canvas being tugged by a wind which presently would carry it off—

He had no objections, Hammond told himself. He had seen one of the Great Ones, and it was not a memory that it was good for a lesser being to have.

Somehow, it hurt to be so much less.

He must have slept. For he awoke suddenly. He felt vaguely bewildered, for no reason that he could imagine.

Helen came in, smiling. “Don’t you think it’s time we closed up for the night. You’re working too long hours again.”

“You’re right,” Hammond nodded.

He got up and went into the room next to the office to tell Vincent Strather he was free to go home.

* * *

To see the works of A. E. van Vogt sold by Amazon, click here.

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SERIALS

Slan Hunter, Part 2

Written by A. E. van Vogt and Kevin J. Anderson

CHAPTER 14

From his headquarters office in the Martian city of Cimmerium, Jem Lorry received the vivid images from his vanguard forces at Earth. This was one of the most satisfying moments in his life.

Jem played the footage twice more just to savor it, then he picked up the display plate and hurried to show his father and the Authority members. Seeing this, they would have to admit that he had been right all along.

He marched into the cavernous crystal-ceilinged room, where the council members were packing up for the day. With a shout, he made the seven old men turn around. “I have news from Earth, glorious news! I must show it to you.”

Altus looked impatient, as if he had tolerated enough from his son, but Jem stepped directly up to the podium where supplicants addressed the tendrilless Authority in open session. He plugged in his display plate and transferred the images to the tandem screens in front of all seven members. “Behold the fall of the human government! We have won. It was even smoother and more absolute than I had dreamed possible.”

The transmitted images showed the devastation of Centropolis in impeccable detail. At first the cameras tracked across the city streets: collapsing skyscrapers, flaming vehicles, panicked pedestrians. Then the view centered in on the towering palace. Like a flock of hungry raptors, the tendrilless attack ships zeroed in, exchanged orders, then swooped down in perfect formation. Their bomb-bay doors opened to drop load after load of weapons on the grand structure.

The detonations occurred simultaneously, shockwaves crashing against each other, reinforcing and amplifying the destruction. Flames roared to the skies. Ornate and spectacular towers that had stood as landmarks for centuries now toppled into rubble.

A hundred stories tall, highlighted with crystalline spires, parapets, and remarkable architecture, the ancient slan-designed palace collapsed under the bombardment. The Presidential quarters, the administrative chambers, staff rooms and records vaults, formal dining halls and galleries lined with state portraits. After the palace collapsed, secondary detonations spat out bright orange flowers, columns of black smoke and plumes of debris. The images zoomed in on the burning rubble and smoking pit.

Jem stood tall, supremely confident. “Right now, every surviving human in the city is staring in despair, weeping for what they’ve lost. Even I didn’t expect their defenses to crumble so easily, though I did take care to make their small space navy ineffective. I’ll bet President Gray was quite surprised.”

Altus scratched his chin as he watched the replaying images. “We expected more resistance from Earth because we thought the true slans would come out of hiding at last. Are you sure there has been no sign of them?”

“None at all. If anything could flush out the snakes, this should have done it. It is time for the Authority to face the only possible conclusion: There are no more true slans. We’ve heard rumors for so long, but they’re just that: rumors.”

“Rumors? And what about Jommy Cross or Kathleen Layton?”

Jem covered his pained expression at the thought of Kathleen. With her true slan genetics and Jem’s tendrilless bloodline, their offspring would certainly have been superior. But she had rebuffed his advances. What a fool the girl had been! No doubt Kathleen had been inside the palace when it was destroyed. His lips pulled down in a bitter frown. She could have been with him.

“The only slans left are insignificant throwbacks, one or two genetic mistakes. They belong in a museum with other extinct species.”

Altus said, “You draw sweeping conclusions from a relatively small amount of evidence.”

One of the other Authority members added, “We can’t be too careful.” The other old men nodded, mumbling to each other.

A flush of anger came to Jem’s cheeks. The Authority—and his own father—seemed intent on stalling every bit of progress he made. “Our irrational fear of the slans has set us back by centuries! We were so sure they were hiding, building great weapons, preparing invincible defenses against us. We wasted generations establishing our fortified city here on Mars, building an invincible fleet. We laid down an extensive space mine field around Earth orbit to guard it—and from what? We’ve squandered a fortune and years of effort building bastions against an enemy that doesn’t even exist.”

“Thank you for your interesting report, my son. We will draw our conclusions once we’ve received a report from our operative on the scene.” Altus switched off the display plate, and his fellow Authority members did the same. “She should arrive soon.”

Jem blinked, feeling left out. “What other operative? I am in charge of this strike.”

“Joanna Hillory. We have already dispatched her to Earth.”

“On what mission? How dare you go around me?”

“We are the Tendrilless Authority. We decide what is best,” Altus said in a patient voice. “We sent her to find Jommy Cross, whom we consider to be our largest threat. After we have interrogated that outlaw slan—by whatever extreme means necessary—we will discover all we need to know.”

CHAPTER 15

The sleek armored car raced toward the outskirts of the city, escaping from the holocaust. Behind them, the palace was completely destroyed. Overhead, enemy spacecraft continued to criss-cross the sky in search of targets. Once they had leveled Centropolis, the tendrilless attackers would spread out to the fringe areas, the smaller cities and towns. The invaders would not leave the job half finished.

Jommy drove through the late afternoon, dodging rubble, and continued to accelerate. The thick tires hummed across the cracked and blistered pavement. His reflexes were sufficient to dodge stalled cars, an overturned wagon, even a wide crater made by a stray bomb.

“Jommy, are you sure we’ll be safe where we’re going?”

“I can’t guarantee we’ll be safe anywhere, Kathleen, but we’ve got a good chance.” His fingers danced across controls on the dashboard, illuminating a map. “It should take us about five hours to get there.”

“That’s assuming the roads and bridges along the way aren’t blown up,” said John Petty from the back.

“If there are obstacles, we will deal with them,” Gray said.

“Obstacles?” Petty said. “I’d say the end of the world as we know it is a pretty substantial obstacle!” Then the slan hunter slumped back into silence.

Jommy’s special car hugged the ground, moving almost as fast as an aircraft. After they left the outskirts of the city and headed toward the farmland and forested hills, he began to feel safer.

The car roared along isolated roads, making steady progress on the map projected on his dashboard. The ranchers and farmers who lived in the rolling countryside had holed up in storm shelters and root cellars, hiding from the interplanetary attack. No one else moved about. The sun would set soon, and then they would be safer.

His unusual vehicle, moving alone, inadvertently called attention to itself.

Red lights flashed on his sensitive detection systems, and from outside he heard a whining tone. He gripped the steering mechanism and looked around wildly. “Proximity alert. Something coming closer.” Flipping a toggle switch, he shifted the ten-point steel of the car’s roof into its transparent phase so that he could look overhead. “There!”

Three dark craft swooped down, the blunt-nosed tendrilless cruisers. For many years in his youth, he had seen similar fast vehicles launched regularly from the rooftop of the Air Center. “They’ve spotted us.”

“Worse—they’ve targeted us.” Kathleen craned her neck.

Plunging like hungry hawks, the tendrilless cruisers dropped focused explosives. The bombs blasted craters on either side of the country road, coughing up thick plumes of dirt and smoke. Jommy swerved, squeezing more power from the engine, but even with all his technological improvements, he could not make the car go faster.

The tendrilless bombers curved upward in a graceful loop, as if to show off their aerial maneuvers, then they came back down like a trio of executioners’ axes. They would never let the car get away.

Jommy narrowed his eyes, his senses alert. He had to time this very carefully. Once the tendrilless ships dropped their next array of focused bombs, he needed to react perfectly and unexpectedly. The invaders cracked through the air, and the cluster of bombs dropped down exactly where the car should have been.

Jommy swerved, spun the rear tires, and hoped he had built sufficient clearance into the armored vehicle. The car bucked off the paved road, kicked up gravel as it went over the shoulder and through the shallow ditch. He didn’t slow for an instant, but careened across the fallow countryside into the roadless rolling fields and grassy hills. Dirt and corn stalks flew up in a roostertail behind him. Ahead, past a small marker fence, he saw a thick line of dark trees, a patch of forest that had regrown after the old Slan Wars.

As he hit boulders and ruts, soft dirt and gravel, Jommy had a hard time maintaining his grip on the steering controls. At full speed, he dove through a small pond, hoping it wasn’t too deep. Muddy water gushed in all directions, and then he was clear, arrowing straight toward the line of trees and, he hoped, shelter.

The tendrilless bombers had turned about again and raced after him, launching another volley. Coughing explosions left fresh craters in the field, but the tendrilless were overreacting. Jommy continued to dodge, spinning the wheels right and then left.

Petty, who had not properly strapped himself in, was thrown sideways into Kier Gray. The deposed President shoved him away in a tangle of arms and legs.

As the woods loomed in front of them and the tendrilless ships closed in, Jommy knew he would have to crash and dodge his way through the trunks, grind underbrush with his wheels, and hope the armor could withstand any impacts.

One of the dropped bombs exploded right behind the vehicle, and the concussion threw the car several feet in the air. After they crashed to the ground, Jommy spun and swerved, still accelerating toward the forest.

Flying low, the first enemy bomber streaked past the car, its pilot furious at having missed. He skimmed just above the speeding vehicle, as if he meant to smash the car’s roof with his landing wheels.

Tall trees loomed up like a wall directly in front of the attacking craft. The tendrilless pilot pulled up frantically, but too late. Unable to clear the treetops, the attack craft scraped the high branches, which ripped out the underbelly. Hurtling out of control, the tendrilless fighter reeled, arced around, and plunged like a missile into the ground.

While the others in the car cheered, Jommy couldn’t let his attention waver for a second. He drove headlong through the small marker fence and into the line of trees. Once in the forest, he was forced to slow, threading his way through the randomly spaced trunks. Branches crashed and crunched beneath him. He caromed off a thick spruce, ripping away a great chunk of bark, then he lumbered through a gully, spraying dry leaves. Ahead, the forest was even thicker.

The two remaining tendrilless bombers soared over the treetops, still searching. Now that their comrade was dead, Jommy knew they would never give up. The canopy was dense enough that they could not easily see the car, but they must have some kind of technological scanners that could pick up the heat of his engine or the ten-point steel of the vehicle’s armor.

He knocked down a small tree, which did not even damage the reinforced fender. The gauges showed the engines overheating. He crunched along, plowing a path through the woods, all the while knowing he couldn’t hide.

The two invader ships came back over the treetops in a methodical search pattern. When they spotted the car and homed in on it, they dropped another volley of aerial bombs. They meant to destroy the whole forest if they needed to.

Jommy saw them coming. “Hold on! We can’t get away from this.” Despite himself, he closed his eyes, hoping the armor would be sufficient against the destruction.

Like fireworks, a dozen explosions erupted through the woods. Fireballs knocked down trees; blast waves snapped trunks like toothpicks. All around the car, tall pines and oaks toppled. Boughs smashed across the car’s roof and hood. A towering pine crashed immediately to their left, scraping and scratching with its needle-filled branches. A thick, shattered trunk fell on top of them like a sledge hammer, burying them.

But the car’s armor held.

As the fire continued to swell and trees fell all around, the car was trapped under the avalanche of broken wood. Completely trapped. Even when the trees stopped falling, the blaze increased in intensity, rapidly becoming an inferno that spread through the forest. The car was immobilized, caught in the heart of a furnace.

Jommy shut down the systems. “There. We’re completely safe.”

CHAPTER 16

As the librarian stared at her baby’s exposed tendrils, Anthea’s own thrill of fear was echoed and doubled in her mind. The newborn somehow knew that he had been discovered—and instinctively understood the danger to both of them.

“Oh, my!” Mr. Reynolds took a half step backward. He raised his hands in a warding gesture, as if afraid he had touched something that might contaminate him.

Anthea tried to come closer. “Please, Mr. Reynolds! It’s not what you think.”

His eyes wide and round, the librarian jumped, as if he wanted to bolt out into the streets, regardless of the danger. “Not what I think? I think it’s a slan baby!” He blinked several times, gaping at the child. “Yes, indeed, I’m sure it’s a slan baby.”

“Believe me, we’re no threat to you—”

Outside, thunderous explosions made the walls shudder. The candles threw uncertain light and strange shadows.

The librarian made a quick move and dashed around the table. “Help!”

Anthea bounded in front of him, drawing strength from what she had been through, from what she knew might happen. She picked up one of the heavy tomes on the table. Without thinking, she swung it hard and bashed him on the back of the head. The hardcover hit his skull with a loud thump. Reynolds let out a heavy “oof,” then sprawled face first on the polished floor. His round glasses bounced off his face and clattered to one side.

Anthea knelt beside him, her heart pounding. “I didn’t mean that! I’m so sorry, but you didn’t give me any choice.”

The librarian groaned, though he remained unconscious. Anthea touched his head, then the pulse at his neck. “I think you’ll be all right.” She looked at the book with which she had hit him, noted the irony. The title was The Hidden Slan Threat.

On the table, the baby had turned his head so he could see her. She felt the continued strange connection with him. Her infant son seemed very aware of what was happening, and she felt a wash of secondhand relief coming from him, confident that his mother had taken care of the threat.

Anthea hated herself for hurting Mr. Reynolds. She had never been a violent person. She worked in a bank! Before today, she had never struck another person. But she had seen the doctor try to kill her newborn baby, and her own husband had been gunned down trying to protect them. When she’d fled, more people had tried to kill her. The city had been bombed, and now Earth itself was in the middle of a war. Anthea was fighting not only for her life, but for their child’s as well. A slan child—a slan born from two apparently normal people.

She had been driven to do many extraordinary things this day, and she feared she would be forced to do many more.

In order to stay safe, she had to keep the librarian out of her way. Finding strength, she rolled Mr. Reynolds over, picked up his hands, and began to drag him down the slippery hall. Either through adrenaline or newfound physical strength, Anthea pulled the heavyset man along without difficulty. Conscientiously, she picked up his eyeglasses, folded down the bows, and tucked them into his pocket. She didn’t want to inconvenience the man any more than she had to. Knocking him unconscious was bad enough.

The librarian’s office was just outside of the archives wing. She could tie him up there, and she needed him safely out of the way before he regained consciousness. She hated to leave her baby alone even if the room was not far away, but she could sense that the child was in no immediate danger.

Inside the librarian’s office, stacks of books and periodicals were on Reynolds’s desk, on the floor, on top of filing cabinets. Neatly lettered labels on colored index cards identified each stack. Plastic wrappers and open cardboard boxes indicated that the man did much cataloguing of his new acquisitions here. For a large city library, Reynolds didn’t seem to have very much staff. At the moment, she was glad that no one else was in the large building.

On a special table were five old books, dog-eared, their spines cracked and dust jackets torn. But they had been lovingly taped and bandaged, the bindings reglued. She could picture Reynolds spending hours under his bright desk lamp, like a surgeon performing an operation on these beloved and well-read tomes.

She wrestled Mr. Reynolds into the chair behind his desk, then looked around for something to tie him with. When nothing obvious presented itself other than cellophane tape on the desk dispenser, she removed the librarian’s blue striped necktie and quickly lashed his wrists to the chair arms. Then she unthreaded the laces from his black Oxford shoes and used those to tie his ankles in place. When that didn’t seem terribly secure, she also used the full roll of tape.

When he groaned, she felt sorry again for what she’d been forced to do. It seemed so unfair. Reynolds had been kind to her. She didn’t want to hurt him. She had never wanted to hurt anybody—but the slan hunters had certainly changed that. With herself and her baby at stake, she couldn’t trust anyone. But Anthea loved her baby far more than Reynolds could ever love his books. The man would be safe enough here until someone else rescued him.

Anthea took a sheet of paper from the desk and quickly scrawled a note. “I’m very sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you. I did not ask for this, but I had to protect my child. I hope someday you’ll forgive us.”

Rummaging in his desk drawer, she found a set of keys in a red envelope with a hand-written word. Archives. For the padlock that secured the combination wheels? She took the keys. Even without thinking, she knew she would have to open the vault and discover what secret information the government had hidden from the public. Why didn’t they want anybody to know the truth about the slans?

She ran back to the thick vault door and its heavy combination wheels. The padlock itself couldn’t have been more than a minor deterrent for anyone determined to break in, but it was one extra time-consuming step. She removed the key from the red envelope, inserted then twisted it. When the padlock popped open, she removed it with one hand and set it aside.

The large combination wheels that locked the heavy vault were ready for her. In her mind she remembered the combination Mr. Reynolds had so vividly recalled, the numbers that her baby had detected with his slan tendrils. 4 - 26 - 19 - 12.

The baby’s bright eyes watched as Anthea turned the first wheel, felt it clicking through numbers. She stopped at the mark for 4, ratcheted the next wheel into its appropriate position, then the third, and finally the fourth. She heard a humming inside. It wasn’t just a simple gear lock: She had activated an entire mechanism. Pistons and deadbolts rose up and down, pulling aside, clicking into place, and with a hiss like a tired sigh, the vault door moved out of its frame.

She bunched the soft blanket to prop the infant’s small head as she picked him up from the table. Holding the baby, Anthea stepped back as the thick barrier groaned open. The hinges and heavy hydraulics seemed well-lubricated and maintained.

She wondered how often anyone ever studied these archives. Considering the security Mr. Reynolds had mentioned and how few curiosity seekers the government allowed, she doubted very many had read the information contained within.

But now she intended to.

CHAPTER 17

With Jommy’s car buried under the inferno of collapsed trees, he had sealed off the vehicle’s environment systems, opaqued the windows, and switched on the air scrubbers and recyclers. Then he sat back to wait.

He reassured his companions. “This may look like a normal car, but it’s practically a battleship on wheels. The armor is sufficient against any temperatures a mere forest fire can generate. The self-contained air systems can last for a day underwater, so they’ll easily filter out a little smoke. It might get a little warm in here, but I prefer to call it cozy.”

“Have you ever tested it under those conditions?” Petty asked, clearly uneasy.

“Not exactly, but you can trust my calculations.”

While the forest fire burned for the next three hours, the car was buried in a furnace of coals. Though the interior temperature became uncomfortably warm, the four occupants were never in real danger. By the time night had fallen, the blaze had begun to die down. The barricade of fallen trees and branches that had buried them was now little more than a rubble of charred logs and ashes. Even if the two enemy bombers had circled the spreading inferno, keeping watch, they would have departed by now, confident they had destroyed their quarry.

With the last vestiges of the blaze still shimmering against the purple night, Jommy activated his engines again, cleared the front screens, and slowly crunched their way through the live coals, emerging with a spray of sparks like an orange blizzard. As they drove out of the now devastated woods, the car smoked, covered with soot and ash, but it made it out to the fields, across the bumpy ground, and back to the paved road.

Jommy raced forward again, back on their way, this time under the cover of a starry night. The car’s sharp headlights sent lances ahead of them.

“I told you Jommy could do it,” Kathleen said.

From the back of the vehicle, John Petty began to laugh with relief and delight.

By morning, they had reached open country far from Centropolis, passing over a line of hills and into a broad and beautiful river valley. The landscape was green and peaceful, with a smattering of widely separated ranch houses and farms.

“It’s lovely.” Kathleen rubbed weariness from her red eyes as she watched the buttery-yellow sunrise come over the hills. One of the larger mountains was distorted, half collapsed, as if a great force had smashed it down.

This valley had always been a sheltered place where he and a hypnotically modified Granny had built a sanctuary for themselves. Jommy explained to his companions that he had spent four years building underground laboratories, an arsenal, even turning the interior of a nearby mountain into a fortress. But the tendrilless had already struck here, using a gigantic attack vessel to melt part of his mountain fortress in search of his underground laboratories and industries.

“I don’t recall hearing about any tendrilless attack,” Petty said, looking at Gray. “How could something like this be kept quiet, especially from my secret police?”

“The tendrilless controlled the news media, and they wanted to keep it a secret,” the President said.

“I first bumped into one of the tendrilless when I was just a boy, not long after my mother was murdered.” Jommy pointedly looked behind him at the slan hunter. “At the time I was thrilled, since I’d been looking for other slans. I knew I couldn’t be the only one. I naively assumed the tendrilless would be happy to see me. Instead, they tried to kill me.”

Petty said, “So, even the great Jommy Cross can make a mistake.”

Kathleen glared at him. “The more I’m around you, Mr. Petty, the more I wonder why exactly we’ve taken you with us.”

“You need me. I still control a sizeable force of the secret police, if I ever get in touch with them.”

“We need a lot of things, but I’ve learned to live without them,” Gray said. Petty became quiet.

Jommy continued, “When the tendrilless tracked me to this valley, I boobytrapped my extensive laboratories so the enemy couldn’t get their hands on my technology. It was the only way. I left everything behind … everything and everyone.” He had sent Granny to safety in their armored ranch house while he fled in his ship, luring the tendrilless after him.

He hoped that at least some of his notes and equipment were intact at whatever remained of the old ranch. He’d already begun to imagine how he might rebuild what he needed. Once he got a transmitting station up, President Gray could make world-wide broadcasts, rally the surviving humans, even establish a government in exile. And Jommy could create the arsenal they needed to fight back in an outright war.

As he drove down the narrow country lanes past other houses, farmers and ranchers looked up and waved congenially. He felt warm inside as he remembered how much he had loved this valley.

“It certainly seems a friendly place,” Kathleen said. “Isolated, peaceful.”

“I helped that along a little bit. In the years I lived here, I used my mental skills and hypnosis crystals to gently guide my neighbors in their thinking.”

Petty seemed indignant. “So you used your mind powers to brainwash them.”

Jommy frowned back at him. “On the contrary, after generations of propaganda and lies, I used my powers to un-brainwash them.”

Driving smoothly along a lane and then up a gravel drive lined by maple trees, they arrived at a ranch house. It was a small affair, painted red with white trimming, but Jommy knew that the walls, roof, and floors were made of reinforced steel. The decorative shingles on the roof had been patched. The familiarity of the place made Jommy grin.

He parked the car on the gravel pad in front of the house’s big garage. The potted geraniums by the front porch were overflowing with bright coral-red flowers. Tulips planted along the front of the house blossomed in bright colors, and a small vegetable garden sported rows of beans, corn, potatoes, onions, and carrots—just enough for one person. Several feral-looking chickens squawked and ran along the front of the house, pecking at insects.

Jommy climbed out of the car with Kathleen beside him and saw how the vehicle had been battered and scraped. Considering what it had been through, though, it seemed in good shape. Petty and Gray stretched their legs, taking deep breaths of the fresh, clean valley air. The slan hunter rubbed his finger along the hood, smearing a long track in the soot. He wiped his blackened finger on his dark jacket.

Jommy took one step toward the front door of the house when someone yanked it open. A rail-thin old woman stepped onto the porch. Her skin was wrinkled and leathery, her gray hair pulled back. She wore an apron and a drab work dress. Her eyes were like a crow’s, black but bright, flickering from side to side.

He grinned, raising a hand. “Granny!”

Without acknowledging, the old woman reached inside the door and came back out with a loaded shotgun. She raised the barrel, glaring at Jommy, glaring at them all, and aimed directly at him.

CHAPTER 18

Joanna Hillory’s ultra-fast ship soared across interplanetary space from Mars to Earth. She would cover the distance in a fraction of the time that the lumbering occupation fleet required. She had only a few days to complete her mission—to find Jommy and make an emergency plan—before the main tendrilless forces reached their target.

As she streaked past them in space, Joanna gazed at the impressive armada of tendrilless battleships: giant wheel-shaped vessels powered by internal cyclotrons, bristling with atomic-powered weapons. Each gigantic craft was loaded with ground assault vehicles and the bulky equipment needed to crush any remaining resistance and establish an invincible presence. The heavy vessels carried most of the population of Cimmerium in a great exodus to occupy conquered Earth.

As she sped past the occupation fleet, Joanna transmitted the special signal that verified her business for the Tendrilless Authority. In a flurry of messages, the captains of the giant vessels wished her luck while making brave claims about how much damage they intended to wreak upon human civilization. She sent a gruff acknowledgment, feeling a knot in her chest, and flew onward.

When she made her final approach to Earth, she encountered a treacherous debris zone in the orbital lanes. A great battle had taken place here. Had the humans found some way to mount a space defense?

She saw blackened ships hanging dead in space, their hulls ripped open, cockpits and propulsion engines torn away by explosions—either from the tense dogfights or from detonation of the space mines. Hazardous shrapnel consisted of drifting hull plates, globules of molten metal that had solidified in the frozen vacuum.

Using the sensitive detectors aboard her scout ship, Joanna scanned and then projected a three-dimensional map of all the obstacles, including the remaining tendrilless space mines in orbit. Carefully avoiding collisions, she studied patterns among the wreckage, trying to piece together what had happened. When she studied the ruined hulks more closely, she could not identify the ship design. One hull fragment, though, had colors painted on it and she recognized the insignia. A secret human fleet. Astonishing!

For the past century, humans had made only minimal attempts at resurrecting their space program, which had once flourished during the First Golden Age of mankind. The very idea of President Gray building enough ships to pose a threat to the tendrilless was absurd. And yet the humans had indeed managed to launch their own space defensive fleet. The brashness and bravado amazed her.

For a long time now, tendrilless had controlled the airways, industries, and communications centers on Earth. Somehow Kier Gray had managed to create a significant space force without anyone—not even her—knowing about it. Did the humans have unexpected help? Slan collaborators, perhaps?

Joanna knew that the Tendrilless Authority was far more worried about the true slans. Jommy Cross had proved how frightfully talented others like him could be. Now that she had thrown her lot in with Jommy, she needed to reconcile her loyalties—and in the middle of a war.

Looking at the wreckage all around her, thousands of shards glinting in slow revolutions as they caught the light from the sun, she admitted that the human space fleet had failed, but they had caused great damage to the tendrilless ships.

Finalizing her approach, Joanna spotted a few spaceships from the vanguard fleet still cruising around the battle zone. While bombers and small fighters continued to pound the cities below, vanguard scouts patrolled the orbital zone, waiting for the main occupation force to arrive, hunting down any last human spaceships, alert for any last-ditch tricks.

Unexpectedly, her communications apparatus picked up the steady, rhythmic beacon of an S.O.S. signal. As she maneuvered her ship toward the source of the beacon, Joanna realized that it was a distress call from a lifepod.

One of the human defenders had somehow managed to eject an escape pod! As the lifepod drifted along, the lone survivor aboard begged for assistance, but all of his comrades were eradicated. He had no chance for rescue, with Earth completely under fire.

Uncertain what to do, Joanna followed the signal, homing in on a small ellipsoidal container. The automated beacon droned on, calling attention, pleading for someone to come and help.

Joanna imagined the bravery of this soldier. She had seen enough of human society to know that the man would have been terrified of the inhuman slans, but he would not have known any difference between the tendrilless ones and the “snakes.” Even so, when his planet was in danger, he had climbed aboard one of the Earth spaceships—far inferior to the advanced tendrilless vanguard fleet—and launched into orbit to fight against the enemy. What folly! The soldier was either a hero, she decided, or a fool.

“Is anyone still alive there?” she transmitted, closing in on the drifting lifepod.

“Yes, I’m here!” came a shrill voice, a young man’s. “Captain Byron Campbell, sole survivor of my ship. Gunner and navigator both killed in the explosion. Please, I need help.”

“How is your oxygen?”

“My recyclers are still operating. I can last for another day or two. Please bring me back to Centropolis. The fight must still be going on down there.” Joanna couldn’t believe his naivet. “My squadron flew up to engage the enemy, but the dirty slans had planted mines throughout orbit. Booby-trapped our whole planet! Most of my fellow ships were destroyed. Filthy cowards.”

Around her in space the drifting debris could not convey the scope of the massacre. “Captain Campbell, Earth has already fallen. No one will rescue you.”

“But there’s you.”

A lump formed in her throat. Before Joanna could respond, another ship streaked in, one of the sharklike vanguard scouts. “Commander Hillory, I apologize for not intercepting you sooner! Welcome to Earth. You’ll find that everything is in order. We have taken care of most of the distractions. I’m sorry for this one. Just a loose end to tie up.”

Campbell’s voice cracked, full of betrayal. He shouted at Joanna. “You! You’re one of them!”

The vanguard ship swooped in and opened fire with a blaze of energy bolts, disintegrating Captain Byron Campbell and his lifepod. Joanna caught her breath, but did not speak out. The damage was done. The man was dead, the lifepod destroyed.

“I need to get down to the surface,” she said, cold and businesslike. “I have orders from the Authority.” She watched the burning debris of the lifepod, chunks of glowing metal slowly drifting apart. “I don’t require an escort, so long as you guarantee me clear passage to Centropolis.”

The vanguard pilot transmitted a verification, and she plunged down toward the main cities of Earth. In the turbulence of war she wasn’t sure how she could ever find Jommy Cross, but she had an idea where to start looking. She and Jommy had already begun to make plans during his last hours in Cimmerium, but now all those had fallen apart, thanks to the impatient and brash violence of Jem Lorry.

She had to find him if she had any chance of stopping this disaster. She was sure Jommy was the only one who could pull a solution out of the air.

With a sinking heart, Joanna cruised over the smoldering ruins. He was down there somewhere, and she knew he must still be alive. Tendrilless ships criss-crossed the air, hunting down any remaining resistance, though Centropolis looked sorely beaten. Rooftops had been blown apart, anti-aircraft guns and defensive measures entirely removed from the equation.

Zooming in closer, she was dismayed—yet not entirely surprised—to discover that the grand palace had been utterly leveled. Now, nothing remained of it.

Joanna set down her ship in the vicinity. This was where she would concentrate her search. Amidst the continuing explosions and the chaos in the streets, no one gave a second glance to her small craft. Angular invader ships still scattered occasional bombs to maintain the heightened state of fear.

Joanna stepped out of her craft, brushing curly brown hair from her forehead. It had been some time since she’d breathed the fresh air of Earth. Curls of smoke from burning buildings rose into the sky, adding a sour, raw smell. She stood in the rubble and looked toward the collapsed fragments and the burned-out zone.

Nothing could have survived that devastation.

In her heart she wanted to believe that Jommy had found a way out. But even if he had, how could she link up with him? He wouldn’t know that she was searching for him, or that she had come to Earth at all. How could she find out for sure?

As she stared around the obliterated palace, she had no idea where she should start to look.

CHAPTER 19

“Not one step closer,” the old woman said. The barrel of the shotgun in her hands did not waver. “You have a lot of nerve to come back here. Granny intends to protect her home.”

Jommy smiled at her, unintimidated by the weapon. “I believe it’s my home, Granny. I paid for it.”

“My home!” She swung the shotgun around, pointing at all of them. Petty dove for cover behind the car, while Gray stood next to his daughter, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.

Through his tendrils Jommy sent questing thoughts, soothing emotions. During the four years he had lived here with the old woman, he had done much work to alter her personality, to smooth over the corruption in her twisted mind. He had changed her into some semblance of a normal human being, but she had been through much recently—and he hadn’t been around to reinforce his work. The old woman certainly didn’t know how to show compassion—at least not naturally.

“Granny, is this any way to say hello?”

“I would prefer to say goodbye. Or better yet, rest in peace.”

Still smiling, Jommy was sure he could do this. No one in the world knew Granny and her weaknesses better than he did. The greedy woman had manipulated him when he was just a boy, coerced him into committing many crimes. But she had also saved him from killers like Petty. He had owed her a debt of gratitude, though by any reasonable measure, he had already paid her back a thousand times over.

“Well, for my part I’m glad to see you alive and healthy. After the tendrilless almost destroyed this valley, I wasn’t sure just how you had recovered.”

The old woman cackled, still gripping the shotgun. “Oh, Granny’s good at surviving. Do you have any idea how much misery you put her through? How much work it was to rebuild this house?”

In all the time he had known the old woman, Granny had been allergic to physical labor. He stepped closer until the shotgun barrel was only a few feet away, still pointed directly at his chest. “And it looks like you did a fine job.”

“Damn right I did.” Four of her chickens strutted around the yard in front of them. One scuttled under the big car. “I went through a lot of hard times because of you, Jommy Cross.” Maintaining her huffy act, she glared at Kier Gray and Kathleen. “And if one slan wasn’t enough to cause me misery, who are all these people? Are they slans, too?”

Petty barely poked his head up from behind the car. One of the chickens pecked at his ankle, and he cried out in pain, kicking at the bird. Feathers flew as it ran squawking toward Granny.

Jommy extended a hand behind him; Kathleen came forward and took it. “This is Kathleen Layton. She’s the love of my life.” The young woman blushed.

Granny grew misty eyed for just a moment, then forced her wrinkled face into a scowl. “How sweet. And what about the other two? And you better impress me. Otherwise, why should I keep you here on my property? Granny’s got enough shotgun shells for all of you.”

“That man cowering behind the car is the great slan hunter, John Petty, chief of the secret police.”

Granny grinned with her papery lips. “Oh, Mr. Petty! I’ve admired your work.”

The slan hunter blinked at her, then stood to his full height. Ashes and soot from the car smeared his chest, cheeks, and jacket.

“And this is Kier Gray, the President of Earth,” Jommy said. “Is that impressive enough for you?”

Cradling the gun in the crook of one arm, Granny fumbled in a pocket of her apron and withdrew a ten credit note, flapping it to unfold the paper. She held it up with her bony fingers, stared at the portrait on the money, comparing it with Gray. “Yes, that’s him all right. You haven’t aged a bit, Mr. Gray.”

The President couldn’t shake Granny’s hand because she was gripping the shotgun too tightly. Jommy could tell the old woman was relaxing, but she wanted to maintain her semblance of power for as long as possible. It was Granny’s way.

“From what the wireless says, he’s not President of much anymore. I wasn’t surprised to hear about those evil slans attacking. I always knew there were thousands of them just waiting to come after decent, law-abiding humans.”

“They aren’t slans, Granny. They’re a different breed—”

“They’re all slans to Granny! And I wouldn’t be surprised for a second to find out that you and all your ilk were behind this.”

Kathleen looked indignant. “We most certainly aren’t! We’ve been hunted down. The grand palace is destroyed.”

“Don’t excite yourself, Missy. This is a peaceful valley, and I intend to keep it that way—through force of arms if necessary.” She looked down at the shotgun, then finally rested the stock on the porch beside her. “And having you folk here increases Granny’s danger. Who knows how many people are after you? Could be angry mobs, could be assassins … maybe more slans, maybe even secret police.”

Then her eyes got that familiar greedy gleam. “Hmm, on the other hand, there’ll be a big reward for you. Could be enough money to put a nice addition onto the ranch house.”

Gray’s rich familiar voice was very regal. “I’ll make you a proposal, ma’am. As the President of Earth, I could dredge up a ransom a lot larger than any reward offered by those hunting for us. Consider it your reward for services rendered.”

“It would be more money than one woman could imagine,” Petty said.

She turned her steely glare at him. “Granny has a very good imagination, Mr. Petty.” The wheels were turning in her head. “But if the world is overrun by slan traitors, how can even President Gray pay me anything? Sounds like your wallet could very soon be empty.”

The President turned on his charm. “Think of it this way: If the world is destroyed by our enemies, how could you spend a reward even if you have it? It makes much more sense to help us out, and then send us a bill.”

Granny considered for a long moment and then, in a fluid motion as fast as a snake striking, she reached down and snatched up the chicken pecking around the flowers at the porch. She lifted it into the air and wrung its neck. The bird barely had time to squawk.

“All right, you can stay for supper.” The old woman grinned. “Then I’ll show you how I welcome my guests.”

CHAPTER 20

Once she entered the library’s archive vault, the lights came on automatically, powered by the emergency generator. The stale air had a metallic flatness of recyclers, filters, and dehumidifiers.

Anthea saw a maze of wonders, historical treasures beyond her wildest imagining. Even with her new speed-reading ability, she had a lot to study. Standing inside, she just stared for a moment; her baby’s small hazel eyes were hungry, looking around him.

Metal shelves were stacked high with bulging and yellowed boxes of documents. Books bore red-and-white Classified and Restricted Use stickers; many of the volumes seemed incredibly old. One small table held a stack of polymer-coated papers, preserved newspaper clippings from when slans had first appeared. Some clippings quoted outspoken supporters, while others declared that these new “terrible mutants” posed a severe danger to humanity. The dates on the newspapers came from a different calendar entirely; she couldn’t tell how old they really were.

After finding a safe and comfortable place for the infant to rest, Anthea turned her attention to the old records. When tendrilled children first began to be born—unexpectedly, it seemed—they were treated as freaks, oddities, and misfits. By the time the public began to suspect the powers of the new race, a flood of slans had been born all around the world. Was the emergence of mutations an accident or part of a carefully coordinated plan? The records were unclear on that point.

As the first generation of slans grew to adulthood, the reports became darker and more disturbing. New radical groups formed, in particular a masked and black-robed society calling itself the Human Purity League. Bloodthirsty vigilantes, they hunted down and lynched slans.

Some brave first-generation slans acted as spokesmen on television and radio talk shows, begging for understanding and acceptance. The spokesmen claimed that slans did not choose to be what they were, but that they could not give up their birthright. They simply wanted to live in peace like any other human, to go about their business.

Their detractors, however, insisted that “slan business” was to destroy “inferior” humanity much the same way that modern man would have hunted down and eradicated Neanderthals. “How can a slan not feel this way?” claimed the leader of the Human Purity League. “They must believe themselves to be superior—and if they believe themselves superior, then all humans need to be concerned.”

This attitude sparked protests from militant slans, who retaliated against the prejudice and persecution by standing up for themselves. “We are superior. We are the next step in human evolution. Why should we be ashamed of our skills and abilities? We should use them, not hide them.”

Absorbing information as swiftly as she could sift through the records, Anthea read with growing horror. In four separate incidents, black-robed vigilantes dragged outspoken slan advocates out of their homes in the middle of the night, then drugged them into a stupor to dull their mind powers. The Human Purity League hacked off the tendrils of the advocates, then hung the victims from lamp posts or trees as an example “for all good humans to follow.”

These terrifying acts drove many slans into hiding. Slans went to back-alley clinics to have their tendrils surgically removed so they could live quietly among human society. Entire networks and underground railroads sprang up to give these “neutered” slans new identities in safe places.

Saddest of all, Anthea thought, was one small article reporting (with no particular significance) that a large percentage of those shamed slans who had chosen the illicit tendril-amputation surgery exhibited an extremely high incidence of suicide afterward. Approximately eighty percent of those desperate enough to take such measures chose not to survive with dulled senses and mental blindness; they killed themselves within months.

The Human Purity League began to sport clean-shaven heads as proof of their tendril-free scalps. Flagrantly bragging about their actions, the Purity League insisted that anyone with long hair—male or female—had to be hiding something. Their thugs knocked down people in the streets and forcibly shaved their heads. Very few of their targets turned out to have tendrils, but this did not stop their antics.

Anthea felt a tightening in her gut as she continued reading. She already knew how history would turn out, and now she could see the events escalating toward a full-scale war between slans and normal humans.

Pushed into a corner, slan activists began to fight back more aggressively. They formed support groups and protective societies. They met openly where they thought their large numbers would guarantee them safety. But in a particularly appalling incident, the Human Purity League surrounded one such hall where they claimed the evil slans were plotting the overthrow of Earth. They barricaded the doors, barred the windows, then set the whole building on fire, burning to death over three hundred slans.

That had been the tipping point that turned slans entirely against their human persecutors. From there, it had only grown worse and worse.

Trembling with all she had learned, Anthea realized that very few people alive knew this truth. Humans still exhibited an undiminished hatred toward the mutant race. No wonder the true slans (if any of them still remained) lived in desperate hiding.

Weary of the sickening reports, Anthea stretched her legs and moved along the shelves, pulling down boxes and poking among the other paraphernalia. She found dusty devices, strange laboratory equipment that looked antique while at the same time futuristic. The sealed items were labeled merely “unknown slan weapon” or “dangerous slan mind-control device.”

In one cabinet she found an old-fashioned video viewer and canisters of tapes. “S. Lann recordings: Original statements. Highest Security Access.” Doctor Samuel Lann, the first investigator—some said the creator—of the slans! She knew she had to watch the tapes.

She lifted the viewer and brought it back to the table where the baby still lay, wide awake. She spent several minutes deciphering the player and loading the old and brittle tapes. She feared the tape might snap as it rattled through the viewing mechanism, but she had to learn what Samuel Lann had said in his own words.

Once she activated the power switch and heard the wheels clattering, jumpy images began to flicker on the screen. She saw a handsome man with dark-brown hair, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw that denoted confidence and trustworthiness. He seemed defiant yet patient as he faced his questioners. She realized that this was Lann and that these were interrogation tapes. Even back before the Slan Wars, there must have been an organization equivalent to the secret police and the slan hunters.

“Why do you fear my children?” Lann said. “I love them. Two fine daughters and a son—triplets—who happen to have been born with an unusual birth defect. They’re no threat to you.”

The interrogator said in a gruff voice, “Anyone with powers such as theirs is a threat to us. Anyone who has the ability to control minds must themselves be controlled before they harm our government or our population.”

“But they’re just children, barely fifteen,” Lann said mildly. Even Anthea could tell he was hiding something.

“They are weapons, living weapons that could be turned against us if we do not control them.”

Another voice, a woman’s, spoke up from outside the field of view, “And how many others like this are there, Dr. Lann? How many children have tendrils? We’ve heard reports from other countries—countries that you visited. Wouldn’t you like us to bring together these other mutants, just so we can give them proper medical care?”

Lann wasn’t falling for it. “Ask the other parents. How can I judge how many have been born?”

“Born? Or created, Dr. Lann?” said the male voice.

“What are you suggesting?”

“In your laboratory we found and confiscated many devices, strange machines that had the ability to alter human brains.”

The woman continued in a soothing voice, “Your research is well-known, Doctor. You are quite prominent in the field of mental enhancement.”

“Yes, I have made a career of studying the nature of the human mind, of memories and knowledge. My dream is to record and share those components that make up a person’s history and personality.”

The male interrogator seized on the comment. “And did those diabolical machines also expand the brains of your children, mutate them into these powerful creatures who can manipulate thoughts? You could be manufacturing enhanced humans, putting your own fingerprints on the evolution of the race.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Lann laughed at first, then saw that the others were serious.

“We know you have the capability,” the woman added.

“No one has that capability. I may be a genius in my field, but not even my children—who are far smarter and more imaginative than I am—could concoct such a bizarre conspiracy of using mind machines to produce a whole new race of human beings. Surely you can see that’s ridiculous?”

“What we see, Dr. Lann, is that your three children have powers we do not understand. We’ve already received reports from our counterpart agencies that an alarming number of others just like them have begun popping up in the most unlikely places. Children born with tendrils—”

The woman interjected, harsher now, “Or perhaps innocent babies were exposed to unusual rays produced by your machines, which caused the tendrils to grow. Are you seeding them around the world, Dr. Lann, trying to create a quiet revolution?”

“Of course not.”

There was a long silence, and finally the interrogators decided to let him go. “You watch yourself, Dr. Lann—because we’ll certainly be watching you.”

With a shudder, Anthea removed the tape and put in the next one. Beside her, the baby was fully alert. When she looked at her little boy, she experienced a poignant understanding of how Dr. Lann must have felt upon seeing his own three children born with strange tendrils. Was he surprised, or intrigued?

There was no record of the woman who had been mother to those first three slan children. Had the mother been normal, or a secret slan all along? Maybe the race had existed far longer than anyone suspected. Had that long-forgotten woman—or Dr. Lann himself—been exposed to some strange chemical or mutagen? She doubted she would ever know.

In the next interrogation tape, Dr. Lann looked haggard. Purple bruises surrounded one eye, and a bandage covered his forehead. His clothes were rumpled, even torn, but his face held a murderously defiant spark that hadn’t been there before.

“By being so outspoken, you call attention to yourself, Doctor,” said the interrogator, a different one than before. “If you don’t want to be singled out for our special attentions, then you shouldn’t speak on the behalf of these dangerous mutants.”

“Someone has to,” Lann snapped back. “Someone needs to be the voice of reason. Obviously, it won’t come from your new secret police organization.” A stiff gloved hand struck him across the face. Lann spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at his interrogator. “You have no right to hold me here. I have committed no crime.”

“You have attempted to destroy the human race. That’s a significant crime in our book. Mutants are cropping up everywhere—it’s a veritable plague! I doubt we could possibly stop the spread now, even if we exterminated all of them before they have a chance to breed. They keep appearing even from seemingly normal parents.”

“I have nothing to do with that,” Lann said. “It’s the next step in evolution. Why fight it? Embrace it, for the betterment of the human race.”

“There’s nothing natural about it. Everyone knows of your machine for transforming babies into telepathic monsters. You use your rays on pregnant mothers and newborn infants, causing them to develop tendrils.”

“That is absurd propaganda. Everyone ‘knows’ about it only because of the lies you and your organization have spread.” Another slap across his face. Dr. Lann didn’t even seem rattled.

“We know your son and daughters have barricaded themselves inside your fortress lab. One can only guess what they’re doing in there. Is it true both daughters are pregnant? Who is the father?”

“None of your business. We have done nothing wrong.”

“Then why won’t they let us come in and inspect?”

Lann sneered at the interrogators. “Because you’ve already proved yourselves to be prejudiced oafs. You wouldn’t understand what you find. You could easily plant evidence.”

“If you cooperate, Dr. Lann, perhaps we’ll be merciful.”

“I think this interview is over.” Lann struggled to stand up, but the gloved hands shoved him back down into the chair.

“It’s over when we finish asking you questions.”

But Lann clenched his jaws, crossed his arms over his chest, and refused to say another word. The tape ran for several long minutes. The interrogator prodded and provoked him, but he would not answer. Finally the recording ended.

Anthea could only stare. This information had been kept from the public! How could the government have sealed away such details from everyone? It was as if someone—someone in control—wanted the slans to remain hated.

CHAPTER 21

While the chicken was roasting in the oven, sending savory smells throughout the house, Granny showed the fugitives their separate rooms and allowed them to clean up and rest. But she had other business with Jommy.

As he followed the old woman, he suspected that she had a scheme up her sleeve. Even though he had worked to adjust her corrupt attitudes over the years, she could easily have reverted to her villainous old self. At the moment, however, he had few other choices.

Spry with eagerness, Granny walked around to the back of the house, where she pulled up the wooden door to the root cellar. Instead of the traditional smells of dirt, cobwebs, and old vegetables, Jommy saw bright lights, tiled walls, and metal stairs leading to one of his underground chambers. “I thought you might like to see this—I salvaged a few scraps. Important scraps.” Her eyes glittered. “I’m sure it’s worth something to you.”

Jommy looked around in amazement and confusion. “But I triggered the self-destruct myself, just before I led the tendrilless away from here on a wild-goose chase! I gave you a hypnotic instruction.”

“Yes, you did, but Granny’s mind found a way around it.” She propped her hands on her bony hips. “And I had a devil of a time saving some of your papers and blueprints and designs. I had burns and blisters on my face and hands for weeks!”

“But why would you do that? It was dangerous, and foolish.” He stepped ahead, amazed to see so many intact boxes and shelves. He had expected it all to be destroyed, and he couldn’t keep the appreciation and admiration out of his voice. “You saved so much of my work.”

She snorted. “It could have been valuable. I always intended to sell it, but I wasn’t sure how much it was worth. I didn’t want to be cheated. Everybody wants to cheat Granny.” She narrowed her eyes. “And what’s it worth to you now, Jommy? Take a look around.”

She led him into a chamber where she had stacked a pile of singed lab notebooks along with some of his personal inventions, instruments he used for testing circuits and improvising power sources. With a flourish, she opened a metal cabinet full of small components, valuable micro-generators, and a host of other devices the world had never seen before.

Jommy was grinning. “It’s a starting point for me to rebuild everything, Granny. But it’s still missing a great many of my records and notes. Most of those were burned, I’m sure.”

“Oh, they burned all right. But Granny has more. Not everything was lost.” Her expression was very devious. “During our four peaceful years here, when everybody liked each other in the whole valley, I used to sneak into your laboratories at night. I copied many of your notebooks—and you didn’t suspect a thing!” She cackled. “It was just a precaution. Common sense, actually. You would have done it yourself. Maybe old Granny’s figured out how to block your slan mind probing, eh?”

“Very risky, Granny. If the tendrilless got their hands on this information—”

She pointed a scolding finger at him. “Don’t you get all high and mighty, Jommy Cross. It was a bit of insurance, and if you were to leave me—which you did—then I had something I could sell. I was sure there’d be many buyers for these notes and blueprints.”

“So why didn’t you sell them?”

Now the old woman looked away. “I was afraid to. What would I say? ‘A slan criminal left me these designs because I sheltered him for so long?’ I would have been arrested by people like that John Petty you brought into this house.”

Jommy knew the old woman was right.

“So now you owe it to Granny. I’m an old woman with modest needs. I don’t have to be filthy rich, but I wouldn’t mind a little wealth here and there.”

He knew Granny would never be satisfied. Only her constant, greedy dreams of having more kept her going.

She took him through several of his old laboratory rooms, which were cluttered and dark. The walls bore serious burn and smoke marks, and half of the lights didn’t work. She’d used his precision testing room to store canned vegetables and sacks of sugar, flour, and beans. It would take him quite a while to clean and set up his lab again, but it was quite a head start.

Granny led him with her stiff-legged gait down the tunnel that went under the ranch house to one of the outbuildings. “This way. One last thing. Extremely impressive. And valuable—very valuable.” Her chuckle turned into a dry cough.

They climbed a set of metal stairs. Granny flicked a switch to activate the lights, then raised a hatch to the small hangar shed Jommy had built. He climbed out onto the sealed concrete floor and just stared. “It’s still intact!” His fast rocket-plane, which he had built for his special explorations.

“Not just intact, young man—it’s fully fueled and ready to launch, just the way you left it.”

He startled the old woman by throwing his arms around her in a hug. She felt like a sack of sharp elbows and ribs and shoulder blades. “Granny, you may well have helped save the world. That must be worth a very large reward. I am very impressed.”

* * *

The next day, with Kathleen sitting beside him in the well-lit laboratory chamber, Jommy carefully cracked open the first of his father’s notebooks in the stack on the table. He didn’t want Petty close to him while he looked at the papers, and President Gray had left the two of them alone, preoccupied with possible plans to draw up a defense of what remained of civilization on Earth.

Jommy had slept for only a few hours the night before, too excited to lie around in bed. Kathleen also got up at dawn, looking refreshed and beautiful. Granny brought them a pot of strong coffee, and the bitter roasted scent drifted into the air. She had also cooked a big breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes, which Gray and Petty gladly devoured, but Jommy was too anxious to get to work in the laboratories.

“This is very interesting stuff,” Kathleen said, scanning the records as she sat beside him. Granny had copied many of the documents onto fresh paper, but they devoted their initial efforts to the original records. “Your father’s conclusions are … remarkable.”

“He was killed when I was only six, but he placed these volumes in storage for me, to help me reach my potential. But they weren’t just gifts—they were clues, his way of showing me what I could become. I wish I’d known him better.” He heaved a sigh.

Kathleen picked up the bottom journal on the stack, the one most severely singed around the edges. Granny must have pulled it directly from the flames. She turned the brittle, brown pages, looking at Peter Cross’s tight, neat handwriting. As she flipped from one page to the other, she frowned, then held one page up to the light. “Jommy, look! There’s something more here. I thought it was just a stain, but …”

Leaning close, he saw faint lines and scrawls, diagrams and symbols that might have been shadows of letters etched into the paper. “Thermal-response ink. The heat from the fire must have activated it.”

“It’s all just gibberish. Can you decipher it?”

“If my father created the code, then I can translate it. It just might take a little while.”

“And help,” Kathleen added, “which I’m glad to provide.”

Jommy picked up the other notebooks, carefully warmed some of the pages over a small flame, and saw that many of the pages did bear secondary messages. Messages for him. Peter Cross’s notebooks were already so full of unexpected details and incredible revelations that he would never have thought to look for additional information.

But the information he found between the lines were even more amazing.

Jommy and Kathleen worked intensely for hours, transcribing the symbols onto clean sheets of paper. Jommy set up graphs to decode the messages, while Kathleen scrutinized them, remembering all the intensive schooling Kier Gray had given her at the grand palace. Back then, many detractors had complained about the waste of time and energy in educating a slan girl who was due to be executed on her eleventh birthday. But the President had insisted. She knew a great deal about encryption and secret messages, more than the palace workers ever suspected.

Jommy finally discovered a connection, figuring out that one of the symbols indicated a letter in his mother’s name and another in Jommy’s own name. From that point, they possessed a key to part of the alphabet, and by translating bit by bit, unfolding incomplete words and filling in blanks, they picked up speed. Jommy and Kathleen vigorously cracked the code, both of them grinning, their slan tendrils waving as they shared telepathic excitement. They laid out the real message Peter Cross had hidden in his journals.

Jommy read the lines of text, barely daring to breathe. “It’s directions to my father’s main laboratory. A major slan base containing technology far beyond anything I’ve ever invented. It was there that he did his greatest work.”

“The diagrams are a map, and these numbers are geographical coordinates.” Kathleen eagerly leaned over his shoulder, reading. Jommy felt her nearness, smelled the faint perfume of soap on her skin, and a great warmth filled him. She picked up on his thoughts and let her fingers trail down his shoulder as she kept reading. “It sounds like the greatest repository of slan knowledge in the world. Look here.” She pointed. “He says it includes machinery and stored energy sources dating all the way back to the time of Samuel Lann himself.”

“Maybe that’s where the other slans are hiding. We could sure use their help. That place could be the key!” He looked up at her, suddenly frowning. “But now I’ve lost my father’s disintegrator weapon, thanks to Petty. My father left it for me. He considered it his greatest, most dangerous weapon. With the tendrilless taking over the Earth, we have a huge fight ahead of us. We’ll need every advantage we can get.”

“Can you build another one? I’ll help—”

“The technology is beyond even me, and my father didn’t leave the designs. He considered the weapon to be too deadly for anyone but his own son. It could have been our greatest advantage.” He squeezed her hand.

“No, Jommy. We ourselves are the greatest advantage. The disintegrator was destroyed along with the palace. You’ll have to learn to do without it.”

He caught his breath as an idea occurred to him. “Not necessarily. I placed a locator tag on the weapon.” He gestured to the metal cabinet against the wall. “I can modify some of this equipment to pick up the signal. I could easily trace it, even if it’s buried in the rubble of the palace. If I find the disintegrator, then we can hold our own—and take back the world.”

She looked at him puzzled, not sure what he meant. Her tendrils waved in the air.

“I’m going back to the city. I intend to retrieve it, no matter what it takes.”

CHAPTER 22

The last of the Samuel Lann records were a hodge-podge of media reports and news items. Wanting to know more, to know everything, Anthea viewed them all, drinking in the horrifying details.

One clip blared that the dangerous Dr. Lann had escaped from custody and interrogation. A squat, angry-looking man spoke to the reporter, “Our security is tight, but his mutants possess abilities against which we have no defenses. It’s clear to me that Dr. Lann’s own corrupted children were involved in the breakout. They twisted our minds, hypnotized us so they could free their father.” He sounded quite indignant.

“This proves two things. First, this implies that Dr. Lann is indeed guilty of everything we suspect him of doing. If he had nothing to hide, as he insists, why would he escape? Second,” the man pointed now at the camera, “it proves that these slans are a genuine threat. Look what happened here! With such mind powers, they could walk into any home, rob our families, assault our wives, kidnap—or even mutate—our children! Be afraid of them. We should all be very afraid.”

The next clip showed a large building completely engulfed in flames. Fire vehicles and army troops had surrounded the structure, but did nothing to quench the blaze. The emergency personnel stood back and watched, waited, like predators. They didn’t seem to be there to help.

Finally, a lone man broke out of the doors and ran away from the blazing laboratory. His clothes were on fire. He waved his hands, screaming. Anthea recognized Dr. Lann himself. Instead of helping him, though, the soldiers raised their rifles and shot him in full view of everyone. Lann’s body jittered as a dozen bullets struck him full in the chest. Then he collapsed to the pavement.

“Do not approach!” a military commander shouted through a bullhorn. “There could still be some danger.” The cordon remained in place as the uncontrolled fire raged through the laboratory. No one came within twenty feet of Dr. Lann’s still-smoldering body.

Watching the records, Anthea felt sick.

“His three children are in there,” bellowed the incident commander. “They’re a bigger threat than the doctor is. If they come out, your orders are to shoot to kill. Don’t give them a chance to twist your minds. Remember, these are slans we’re talking about. They could hypnotize you into opening fire on a comrade. We can’t risk that. Slans are a danger to all humanity, and they must be wiped out.”

But the laboratory building continued to be consumed by flames; the roof collapsed, timbers fell, but no one else emerged. Having seen what had happened to their father, Anthea couldn’t blame them. The son and daughters of Dr. Lann were doomed, either way.

The brittle tape footage jumped. Anthea could feel her baby’s agitation as he drank in the knowledge. She sensed an undertone in the air of the archives vault, a humming that grew louder. Before she could wonder about the strange background sensation, though, the next footage showed the same laboratory complex in daylight. The building had burned to the ground; only skeletal beams and blackened construction blocks remained.

Grim-faced workers sifted through the wreckage. Their cheeks were covered with soot, their eyes irritated from smoke as they reported to the commander. “There are no further bodies, sir. We’ve sifted the ashes. Dr. Lann must have been the only person inside the building.”

“How could that be? We know the children were all in there. That’s why they made this place into a fortress. They barricaded themselves so we couldn’t get in.”

“Commander! Over here!” one of the workers called.

The incident commander ran over to where three men wearing gloves and insulated jackets shoved a smoldering wooden crossbeam aside to reveal a previously hidden metal hatch. “Is it a safe room? Are they holed up in there?”

One of the firemen laughed scornfully. “It would have been a pressure cooker in there. We might have a few well-done slans inside.”

They undogged the hatch, opened it—and the commander cursed to see a tunnel leading down into a catacomb of passageways. “You two men—go down there. Follow it! See where it leads.”

The excavators looked at each other in nervous concern. “But what if the slans blast our brains?”

“Then shoot them before they have a chance.” The incident commander shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh. “I doubt you’ll find them, though. The slans went through a lot of trouble to build this barricade. They wouldn’t leave themselves with no escape.”

A few moments later, the men came back up looking defeated but oddly relieved. “Sorry, Commander. The tunnel leads to several escape hatches that open directly into the city streets. Those three slans are long gone by now.”

The commander chewed on his lip. “Then why didn’t Dr. Lann escape with them?” He scratched his head. “He must have sacrificed himself so that we’d keep thinking the others were inside. He bought time for his children to get away. Now those dangerous slans are loose.” His eyes took on a far-off, frightened look. “Who can tell what they’ll do now?”

The tape ended, and Anthea was left with a strange sense of foreboding. Though those events had occurred many centuries ago, they felt real to her.

Her baby was restless, perhaps reading her own mood. She realized that the bone-jarring hum had grown louder and louder. The signal seemed to come from the back of her head, in her ears, rattling her teeth. However, when she concentrated on it and tried to listen more closely, she could hear nothing.

Anthea understood with a jolt that it wasn’t a tone any human could hear. A secret signal? She turned, eyes widened, and looked at the baby. His fine tendrils were waving like antennae, picking up a transmission meant only for slans—and passing it on to her.

Her son couldn’t move, but he transmitted his need. She had to follow that sound, find out what was making it. She looked on the equipment shelves, found the strange and indecipherable devices that had been confiscated and sealed so long ago. She was sure the secret police had no idea what it was they had taken.

One of the stored devices turned out to be the source of the piercing hum. It was labeled as “Unknown Slan Mind-Control Device—never tested.” The humans must have been too afraid to toy with it.

Instinctively, Anthea understood which buttons she was supposed to push on the long-quiescent device. The humming gadget began to vibrate in her fingers. Status lights illuminated, and the needles on gauges swung over to their maximum markings. She saw a fuzzy image form, but not with her own eyes. It was the face of a man, but it seemed distant, coming to her in thoughts instead of visions. Her baby was doing it!

The man talking looked like Dr. Lann, but subtly different. His son, probably, one of the first slans. “If you are receiving this, then I know you are a slan. For our own protection, we have attuned this Porgrave recording so that only those with tendrils can receive it. Those foolish humans who have caused us so much harm and pain will never know how much vital information we transmit right under their noses. All slans, hear me—you must understand who you are, know your destiny, and help gain revenge for the heinous crimes that have been committed against our new race. It will be war.

“We do not know how our fight will proceed, whether or not we’ll be victorious, but we must lay plans so that battle can continue for as long as necessary. Our father was the first to see the potential in the race of slans, and he was murdered for his support of our cause. Blind and prejudiced normals harassed him, interrogated him, and then they set his lab on fire. They shot him down while we watched.”

The blurry face smiled. “But we all knew his conspicuous laboratory was primarily a sham. A diversion. We did very little real work there, but all the humans were afraid of it. Our real laboratory was a completely different complex, well-hidden. There, our father did his ground-breaking work with mental enhancement, brain recordings, and studies of thought processes. All of his real equipment remains there, a true fortress, a place where we slans can build our defenses. In this recording we will implant the location of that secure hideout. The machinery, records, and primary mind imprints of our great father are there. Use what you find, if you can. Help us win this unjust war.”

Anthea suddenly knew where to go. The picture was clear in her mind. She couldn’t explain any coordinates or directions, but she knew.

Even though this strange telepathic beacon had been made centuries before she was born, she felt confident. She went over to her baby, smiling. “Thanks to you, we know of a place now—a place where we can be safe.”

CHAPTER 23

Kier Gray watched as Jommy packed up the armored vehicle and said his farewells. The President admired the young man’s dedication and drive, though he was concerned about the dangers he might encounter in the war-torn city.

“This is a great risk you’re taking, Jommy. We’re safe here for now, and we can start to rebuild the government in exile with anything and anybody we can find. Are you sure it’s wise to go back to Centropolis?”

“Mr. President, once I recover the disintegrator weapon, we can stand against this invasion. We can’t just hide here.”

“Isn’t that what slans are good at? Hiding?” Petty said rudely, and Granny smacked him across the back of his head. The slan hunter spluttered in surprise.

While Jommy prepared to depart, Petty had grudgingly admitted that his men had taken the disintegrator weapon to a protected sealed vault for his researchers to study in safety.

“Why are you being so cooperative?” Jommy had asked suspiciously.

“I was always cooperative—just not too happy about it.” The slan hunter’s brows furrowed. “With a weapon like that, we could withstand the tendrilless even if they track us down here on the ranch. It just might save my skin.”

With the mind block he had learned over the years, Petty made it impossible for Jommy to read his true thoughts. The secret police chief almost certainly meant to seize the disintegrator for himself as soon as he had the chance, but Jommy would never let that happen.

Kathleen hugged him before he got into the car. “Be careful. I should be going with you—”

He was sorely tempted. “I can’t risk losing you again. Even if the immediate attack has ended, it’ll be dangerous back in the city.”

“Then let me help!”

“I’ll do my work better and faster this way—but I’m not alone. We have a connection through our tendrils. Your mind and my mind. You’ll know that I’m safe, and I’ll sense you thinking about me.” Jommy climbed into his car and sealed the doors. When the engine roared to life, he drove off, leaving his friends behind.

Gray watched him go, sent his hopes with the young man, then rounded up the others to get down to work putting together the shreds of a government.

They monitored news reports using battery-powered radios and a short-wave transmitter in Granny’s sitting room. Eyewitness accounts claimed that slans were behind the continued bombings of Earth’s largest cities, even though the attacking armies had no tendrils that anyone could see. No one challenged the claims, thanks to propaganda distributed for years by tendrilless rebels. One account claimed that John Petty was himself a disguised slan and had seized the presidency so that he could launch this attack upon all humanity. The timing couldn’t possibly be a coincidence, the commentator observed.

Petty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s absurd!”

“The public has been trained to believe absurd things,” Gray said. “You did it yourself.”

“Yes, my secret police were actually quite good at that,” Petty admitted. “Disinformation is a simple and commonly used tactic. If you give people enough crazy stories, they won’t believe the truth more than any other lie.”

“And now you’ve been beaten at your own game,” Kathleen said. “How are we going to convince the population of the truth, that the tendrilless slans are their enemies and they should rise up against them?”

“That would trigger another whole round of Slan Wars,” Petty said. “Do you want more centuries of endless bloodshed? We’d never see the end of it.”

”Or,” Gray continued, “we can suggest a meeting with the tendrilless leaders. They have a vendetta against slans, and there’s cause for grief on both sides, but maybe they’ll listen if we tell them the true story. I doubt they even know their own origins. The only way we all win is if we can work out a peace, a way for us to live together in prosperity.”

“Sounds like you’re dreaming,” Petty said.

“Jommy managed to make it work here in this valley,” Granny interrupted. “I’ve never seen so many good neighbors.”

Kathleen sat next to her father. “But what is the true story of the tendrilless? Why do they hate the slans so much? Where did they come from?”

Gray sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s a long story.”

“Oh, then I’ll make coffee.” The old woman came back in a few minutes with a reheated pot of bitter old brew.

Petty slurped his coffee, then winced at the taste. “And what about yourself, Gray? You don’t have tendrils, yet you seem to be on the side of the slans, not the tendrilless. You’re obviously a spy, an infiltrator—but which side are you on?”

The President accepted a cup, thanked Granny, and searched in his mind for the proper spot to begin. “During the long dark ages of the Slan Wars, slan geneticists decided that for the survival of our race they had to breed a new offshoot that couldn’t be detected by outsiders, slans that had no tendrils. But consequently, the tendrilless had none of the superior telepathic abilities of true slans. They were sleepers, like dormant seeds planted in the recovering society.”

“What happened to all the other true slans?”

“They went into hiding somewhere. I don’t know the details, since it was so long ago. But many more of them survived than was apparent.”

“Not after my men rooted out the ones you kept in the grand palace.” Petty chuckled. “That diminished your numbers quite a bit! And my secret police are probably still hunting them down.”

Granny poured more hot coffee into Petty’s cup … and onto his hand, and onto his lap. He yelped. The old woman walked away with an innocent expression, which broke into a smile.

Gray continued, “As vigilante groups killed anyone with tendrils, my forefathers began to create slans that still had the same mutant genes, the same physical strength, but genetically designed to manifest no tendrils, not for several generations. Their telepathic abilities were dormant. Originally, when we infiltrated them into human society, the tendrilless were supposed to know what they were and what their mission was.”

“Spies among us,” Petty muttered.

Granny waved a stern finger in front of his face. “Let the man talk. He’s the President.”

“He’s been deposed.”

The old woman said with a smirk, “Until you have your picture on a ten-credit bill, Mr. Petty, you’d better listen to him.”

Gray continued, “The tendrilless offshoot could live as humans, among humans, and act as humans. Because of their superior intelligence and physical strength, the tendrilless wouldn’t take long to work their way into important positions, running governments and industries. Before the normal humans knew it, slans would have a tight hold on society. By the time the tendrilless began to have true slan babies again, once the genetic clock brought the chromosomes back to the forefront and they bred true, our disguised sleeper agents would have made another slan war impossible. They would have created an environment where slans and humans really could live together.”

“Sounds like that whole idea backfired.” Granny slurped her own coffee.

“The tendrilless convinced themselves that we had betrayed them, that we had robbed them of their telepathic abilities. By depriving them of tendrils, they felt as if we had”—he searched for a word—”castrated them in a way. They claimed that we had stolen their birthright. And so, when true slans came to teach them what they needed to know, the tendrilless turned on them. They declared open war and killed any true slan they could find. That erupted in a terrible slaughter—and it’s never stopped.”

Kathleen gave him a puzzled frown. “But if the tendrilless were indistinguishable from normal humans, how could they know each other?”

“Oh, they could still sense the differences,” Gray answered. “Jommy found that out when he tried to approach them as a young boy, thinking they were allies. And because the tendrilless were as intelligent as any other slan, they developed devices to detect us. They could track us down, ambush true slans. Many were murdered before we knew they had this ability. In turn, some radical slans declared open war on the tendrilless. And it got worse from there.”

“People never seem to get tired of killing. It’s one of the things we do best.” The old woman gulped more coffee. “This is good. Maybe I should go burn another pot.”

Gray, Petty, and Kathleen all spoke out in a quick chorus. “No, no thank you. We’ve had enough.”

The President leaned back in his chair. “Numerous tendrilless lost contact with each other over the centuries. Plenty of their descendants don’t even know what they truly are. And right now, all across the race, the dominant genes are beginning to manifest themselves. Once embedded in their chromosomes, the modifications can’t be changed. Even the militant tendrilless who want to destroy all true slans are beginning to give birth to babies with tendrils. In another generation or two, they’ll all be true slans.”

“Then they would have killed us all for nothing,” Kathleen cried. “By killing us, they’ll be killing themselves. If we could just explain to the tendrilless leaders what happened, they’ll stop trying to exterminate slans and humans.”

“If they’ll listen to us,” Gray said.

The secret police chief made a rude noise, then cringed as if expecting Granny to smack him again.

“I’m still the President. I’ll try to contact the leaders of the tendrilless.” He turned to the old woman. “I can use the equipment in Jommy’s laboratory to boost the signal and build a powerful transmitter. I’ll hold out an olive branch to the tendrilless. Then it’ll be in their hands.”

* * *

Gray, Kathleen, Granny, and even Petty worked together to erect a tall signaling tower on the roof of the back shed. Announcing himself as the President of Earth, Commander-in-Chief and head of the legitimate government in exile, Kier Gray transmitted a bold message to Mars, where they knew the tendrilless had established their base. He hoped his words would fall upon receptive ears.

Gray requested a peace conference, a summit to discuss the current war on Earth. He was careful not to phrase it in terms of a proposed surrender, though he was sure the tendrilless would view it as such.

Then they waited. Because of the sheer distance between Earth and Mars, a signal would take hours to cross space and come back. Even so, someone monitored the shortwave constantly, waiting for an answer. The Tendrilless Authority would be surprised, even horrified, by Gray’s revelations. They would argue and disagree, but the tendrilless scientists were intelligent enough to discover their own proof. With the invaders bombarding cities and setting up occupation headquarters, Gray hoped the enemy council would at least give him the benefit of the doubt.

Petty took his own shift waiting by the shortwave. He was grudgingly cooperative, even helpful. Gray found it suspicious, and he wondered about the slan hunter’s true motives. The secret police chief had been trying to gather his scattered operatives into a full-fledged defense, but so far claimed no success. The President would have to rely on diplomacy, because he had no military strength to fall back on.

Finally, at three o’clock in the morning, the crackling answer came when a sleepy Kathleen was waiting at the radio, missing Jommy. “This is Authority Chief Altus Lorry representing the tendrilless slans on Mars. We have received and considered your message. Your claims are as unexpected as they are unbelievable. However, it is the feeling of this council that we should give it due consideration. Therefore, we will send a representative to meet with you and hear your case. After so many centuries of betrayal and distrust, you should expect no more than that.”

Kathleen frantically answered. “Of course. We accept! I will have President Gray transmit his suggestions to you.” She switched off the unit and ran through the house to wake everyone up.

CHAPTER 24

Under the great glass sky-ceiling of Cimmerium, the woman sat by herself on a red-rock balcony. Peaceful, she looked out over the deep dry canyon, then turned her face upward and closed her eyes, basking in the distant sunshine. Her light brown hair had grown back in bristly patches, not long enough to be attractive but sufficient to cover the large scars on her scalp.

Ingrid Corliss had been dead, or at least brain-dead, after a terrible spaceship accident on Mars. Tendrilless medical knowledge had restored her, regrown the damaged parts of her brain, and returned her to some semblance of life. With conditioning, mental priming, and careful therapy, she had reached the limits of what her people could do for her. The doctors had said that Ingrid would never be normal, that nothing could be done.

Until Jommy Cross came.

While infiltrating the city on Mars, Cross had found the injured woman. He had disguised himself as Ingrid’s husband and used that deception to gather vital information about the tendrilless plans for taking over the Earth. And, though he didn’t have to, he had helped to put her brain back together… .

Now, in the quiet and near-empty city, Jem Lorry stepped up behind the too-peaceful woman, frowning. He could see what she must be thinking. Cross had a way of manipulating people, brainwashing them into forgetting how evil he was.

Ingrid opened her eyes. She stiffened when she saw him. “I’m aware of what you want, Mr. Lorry, but I can’t help you. I don’t know where Jommy Cross is.”

“You don’t know—or you refuse to tell us?”

She languidly reached up to scratch the scars on her scalp. “I won’t lie to you—I have no desire to see him caught and punished.”

“Sympathizing with slans is treason, Mrs. Corliss.”

Her eyes lit up with anger. “You don’t understand, do you, Mr. Lorry? Jommy Cross gave me my life back. He restored my mind. I would still be a vegetable were it not for him. He had no obligation to help me, and no reason to. The tendrilless mean to destroy him and all true slans. Why should he care about me? And yet he did.”

Jem wondered what it would feel like to strangle her. “Friendship and bleeding-heart dreams have no place in politics. That young man doesn’t even know his own powers. He must be stopped.”

“I owe him an obligation I can never repay. Given what he did for me, can you truly believe that every slan is bad? The evidence does not lead to that conclusion.”

“The evidence I have is centuries of true slans killing the tendrilless, preventing us from achieving a rightful place among the superior races of humanity. You know they bred us without tendrils to prevent us from having powers like theirs. And then they began to kill us off, one by one.”

“I believe there was killing on both sides, Mr. Lorry. So we should condemn Jommy Cross and all other surviving slans for the sins of the fathers? Why not trace the crime all the way back to Samuel Lann?”

Jem looked over the sheer drop to the bottom of the dry red gorge. Though the filtered sunshine was warm enough, he continued to feel a chill in his bones. His father was a doddering fool, the Authority members were passive and ineffective, and now this woman, a tendrilless, seemed to be siding with the enemy.

“If you think we have nothing to fear from the true slans, then you haven’t realized the insidious ways they continue to strike at us. In the past two months, sixteen babies have been born with tendrils in Cimmerium—here, on our very doorstep! Somehow the slans have been transmitting their mutation rays to Mars. That’s the only explanation.” He pointed a stern finger at her. “Of course we couldn’t allow those babies to live. They would have grown up to be spies among us, so we quickly destroyed them. Their parents have been arrested and are currently undergoing detailed genetic profiling. I suspect they were true slans all along, surgically modified to fit in among us.”

“You’re paranoid, Mr. Lorry.”

“I’m a realist.” He stormed away.

Unbothered, Ingrid Corliss lay back in the sun and closed her eyes, continuing to heal.

* * *

The Tendrilless Authority had called an emergency session to talk about the news they had just received, the unexpected proposal from the President-in-hiding on Earth. When Jem barged in, uninvited, his father looked down his nose at him. “You are not a member of this council, my son.”

But I certainly should be. And one day after Earth is conquered, no one will deny me my right. He forced a respectful expression on his face. “But I’m sure I could help, given my background. What is the basis for this session?”

His father scratched his neat white beard. “We’ve received a direct communication from President Gray requesting a summit. He’s provided some rather disturbing historical information that explains a great deal about our background. It even explains the babies recently born with tendrils.”

“We already have an explanation for that. Anything Gray says is bound to be a trick.”

“Nevertheless, we should consider this carefully. Gray has requested that we send a delegation to hear what he has to say.”

Jem leaned against a stone column, casual in front of his leaders. “It’s bound to be a trap. You do not know Kier Gray the way I do, Father. None of you Authority members do. I worked with him for years. If he truly is a slan, then he was working against us all along. As President he pretended to be human, while plotting against his own kind. If he’d known I was a tendrilless among them, he probably would have hurled me from the highest tower of the palace.” Jem smiled. “Fortunately, there aren’t any towers left.”

One of the old men said in a creaky voice, “Nevertheless, President Gray has revealed historical explanations that makes us question many of our preconceptions.”

“Take it with a grain of salt,” Jem said. “Gray is trying to save his skin. He’s working with Jommy Cross, as far as we know.”

Altus seemed intrigued, and expected his son to be as well. “Ah, but hear him out, Jem. It makes a great deal of sense.”

He listened with horror, disbelief, then anger as the council members repeated the story of the origin of the tendrilless. Gray suggested that the entire tendrilless race was a mere temporary offshoot, never intended to survive for more than a few centuries. The very idea appalled him. Worse, his own father and the Tendrilless Authority seemed to believe the ridiculous notion. Gullible fools! It was obviously a trick of some kind, an excuse to lull the tendrilless into doubts.

He saw only one way out. Covering his true mood, Jem bowed formally. “Father, this summit meeting will be very important, and it must be done with exquisite care. Perhaps I have been overly hard and aggressive in order to protect our race, but I can be cautious as well. I know Gray’s mannerisms and schemes, and I can spot a trap. Please allow me to go to Earth as your representative.”

Bleary-eyed Altus perked up. He seemed pleased with his son’s apparent change of heart. “A mutually beneficial solution will be best for all of us. Listen to what Gray has to say.”

Smiling carefully, he bowed. “If it is not a trap, then I am willing to consider alternatives. No one knows Earth better than I do. I can handle this.”

“We never wanted the option of complete annihilation, as you well know,” Altus said. “Make us proud.”

Inwardly furious with the soft passivity of the Authority, he went to the transmitting center and opened a channel. “This is Jem Lorry. By now, President Gray, you will have realized that I was a tendrilless slan working in your own government. My father is the leader of the Tendrilless Authority here in Cimmerium. He has delegated me to work out the details of the summit.” He paused, considered his words carefully. “I am skeptical about what you have said, but I will listen with an open mind. Tell me how to meet you, and we’ll proceed from there.”

When enough time had passed for a return signal to be received, he paced the floor, waiting and annoyed. The responding voice that came over the transmitting system, though, was a complete surprise to him. “Lorry, you’re a bastard! You worked with me, and you worked with the President, and you fooled us all. You were a snake in our midst.” It was John Petty.

Jem wished he could have seen the great slan hunter’s face when he’d learned the President’s chief adviser was a tendrilless turncoat.

Then Petty surprised him even more. “We are two of a kind, Lorry. It galls me to be here with the President, who has revealed himself as my greatest enemy. You and I have something in common—we each want to get rid of Kier Gray, so listen to me well. We’ll set up this summit, but I propose a double-cross. I’ll deliver Gray’s head on a platter.”

Jem’s eyebrows shot up. At first he didn’t trust the suggestion, but he and Petty had known each other for years, both of them ruthless and ambitious. He had to admit that a double-cross sounded like Petty—a way to turn the tables on the government in exile, to kill off Gray, his slan daughter Kathleen, possibly even Jommy Cross. It was an opportunity he simply couldn’t pass up.

Hoping that his signal would not be intercepted by the wrong person, Jem answered immediately. The slan hunter should still be there at the communication console awaiting his answer. “I like your proposal, Petty. What I really want is to destroy President Gray and eliminate the government. Despite what my foolish father says, I have no interest in suing for peace with slans or with humans. Why should I? We’ve already won. You’re a realist. Maybe I could find some way to make accommodations for you and a few other human beings. I’m willing to compromise.”

Jem smiled to himself as he signed off, knowing Petty would accept the terms. It was all coming together. And once they had everything set up, Jem thought, why stop at just a double-cross? This meeting would be the convenient answer to everything.

CHAPTER 25

When Jommy arrived back in Centropolis, cautiously dodging debris and trying to avoid detection, he saw that the grand palace wasn’t the only thing utterly destroyed.

He had driven through the night, keeping his vehicle out of sight whenever possible. Hidden in the darkness, Jommy had seen bright signal lights overhead indicating the flybys of bold enemy spacecraft. Parked under a dense stand of trees, he sat waiting in his dark and silent car until the tendrilless patrols passed out of sight.

Though the airships were a threat, he knew these were just scouts, not outright attack squadrons. With Earth’s defenses already crushed, the bombardment of cities had stopped. The invaders’ vanguard forces expected no further resistance from the vanquished people of Earth.

But Jommy and his friends still stood against them. He had his father’s notebooks; he had superior slan technology; he had President Kier Gray. Unfortunately, Kathleen’s father had not been able to contact any of his slan operatives from the old government, and Petty could not reach his secret police, who—he claimed—could form an organized resistance. One of Jommy’s other hopes for this mission was to find the hidden enclave of slans in ruined Centropolis, the ancient highly secure hideout his father had marked in his logs. He knew some of his people must still be alive, and they had to be willing to fight.

The remaining slans had certainly been driven into hiding, but what had once been a superior race couldn’t have been so utterly exterminated. But where were they? Why hadn’t they fought against the invasion? Could it be that the true slans were even more afraid of the tendrilless? Jommy knew he wasn’t the only one willing to fight for his planet.

He’d been striving to find the lost slans all his life. If a large population did survive, he doubted they were anywhere on Earth—and if they were still here and had chosen to do nothing, then perhaps he didn’t want to know them after all… .

When the night sky was clear again, Jommy drove his car along the deserted roads. At last he arrived at the outskirts of the main city as the first light of sunrise painted the east with colors of blood and fire.

The streets of Centropolis were a mad turmoil of collapsed buildings and hollow-eyed survivors. Fires had gone unchecked, and entire blocks had burned down. For all their military superiority, the tendrilless had not attempted to mitigate the wanton destruction. They could have assured their victory with far less carnage. Did they really want to take over Earth if they left nothing but a charred ball? It made no sense.

As he drove along, always wary, Jommy understood that the desperate survivors might not be rational. They had gone through two days of hell, and at the very least would try to take his vehicle from him. Though the controls were keyed to operate only to his touch, the mob wouldn’t know that. He would have to shed a great deal of unnecessary blood in order to defend himself—and they weren’t his real enemies.

Hoping to prevent that, Jommy found a quiet alleyway full of long shadows cast by the intact buildings. With the extra awareness from his tendrils, he listened to the static of frantic thoughts and fear, but sensed no one watching him. He drove the already-scuffed car into a partially collapsed shed structure, then quietly piled debris around the hood and roof. The camouflage wouldn’t bear careful inspection, but most people glancing at it would assume the car had been buried during an explosion.

Taking careful note of the car’s location, Jommy trudged out into the dangerous streets. He wore nondescript clothes and carried only the small tracking device that would help him locate his disintegrator tube, wherever it might be buried in the palace rubble.

As the morning brightened, he passed people going about the business of survival. They pushed wheelbarrows, carried rucksacks full of canned food or jewelry. Looters ran in and out of stores, breaking open display cases and ransacking cash registers. Pale and frightened faces stared out of darkened windows.

He heard sporadic gunfire, screams, and laughter. One man ran past him with long chickenlike strides, carrying three overstuffed bags filled entirely with colorful hats. Jommy couldn’t understand what the man was doing, but a second red-faced man chased after him, yelling, “Give those back! They’re mine. Bring them back!”

Moments later, somebody shot at Jommy. He dove out of the way as ricochets peppered the pavement and the building walls next to him. He couldn’t see where the shots were coming from or whom he had offended. He got to his feet and ran out of range.

Across one main thoroughfare, someone had strung barbed wire and built a rough barricade of old furniture, a refrigerator, and automobile parts. A huge sign bore dripping red letters that said MY TERRITORY. Three mangled bodies were strung on the barbed wire like gruesome trophies. Jommy chose an alternate route.

When he finally reached what had once been the grand palace, he saw only a wide rubble-filled crater. Somewhere buried inside that wreckage, hopefully close to the surface, was his powerful, one-of-a-kind weapon.

“Like finding a needle in a thousand haystacks,” Jommy said aloud. “But at least this particular needle has a locator beacon.” He held out his tracking device, and tiny flashing lights indicated the scan of the area, the search for a signal.

Smoke still rose from the pile of rubble, curling out from hundreds of fires still smoldering in vaults and smashed office levels below. He climbed over the debris like an explorer in a dangerous new mountain range. He found thick reinforced walls broken in half, leaving jagged edges like the teeth in a skull.

He balanced on fallen blocks, then climbed on top of a battered metal desk half-buried in the rubble. >From there, he pointed the tracking device into the wreckage, turning in a slow circle. Nothing but gray static filled the screen. Leftover thermal signatures from cooling girders and simmering fires masked the signal.

Jommy ventured deeper into the rubble, walking precariously on fallen blocks. He poked into dark and dead-end passageways that looked like dangerous mine shafts, hoping to catch just a flicker of the signal on the detector. Once he determined the weapon’s location, though, then he would be faced with the even more difficult task of digging it out, perhaps under a mountain of debris. That would put his slan physical strength and his engineering ingenuity to the test.

By noon, painted with sweat and dust and soot, he sat down to rest, trying not to be too disheartened. As he propped his elbows on his knees, he suddenly caught a faint signal on the device’s screen. Startled, he pointed the nose of his locator device downward, increased the gain, and picked up a louder ping. When he made his best guess of the location, he pocketed the device and used his bare hands to shove the fallen rock plates aside. Uprooting a broken metal pipe, he used it as a lever to pry away more heavy debris.

With no one around in the bombed zone, he dug down with renewed energy and enthusiasm, scraping rubble, gravel, and broken plaster away. Then he found an armored hatch. Confirming that the locator signal came from the chamber behind the hatch, he continued to dig until he uncovered a massive door, sealed and locked. He couldn’t believe the detector had picked up any signal at all through such an obstruction.

After another hour of tireless excavation, Jommy realized that he had found an entire isolated chamber, like a self-contained bank vault—just like Petty had said. The armored chamber had remained intact even as the rest of the palace collapsed around it. Now the cubical vault rested in the rubble, tilted at an angle, like a treasure chest buried in debris.

Activating the detector again, Jommy saw that the static was thinner, the signal stronger. Yes, the vault’s thick metal walls had blocked much of the beacon, but the disintegrator tube was definitely inside the chamber. He had to find a way to open the heavy door! Now that he had a chance, he had hope, and that was enough to keep him going long past the point where he would normally have been exhausted.

At last, when he had cleared all obstructions from the door, Jommy considered his options. The vault door weighed several tons and was held secure with thick pistons. However, despite its bulk, the motors and the lock were controlled by a simple spring-loaded hydraulic mechanism.

Completely focused on his task, Jommy tinkered with the dead controls. He needed only a power source to activate them, and then he could short-circuit and bypass the vault’s standard combination. For him, this was child’s play.

Now that he no longer had any need for the hand-held locator device, he removed the back plate and exposed its circuits. Pulling out the tiny power source, he inserted and adapted it for the vault door’s security controls. He was rewarded to see the lights on the locking panel glow green and amber. Jommy pulled more wires from his tracker, cross-connected them, then hooked the detector to the motor controls for the large locking wheel.

Powered again, the locking bolts slid aside, making the sealed chamber vibrate. The motion caused the whole self-contained vault to shift and settle where it rested precariously in the unstable rubble. Jommy knew that if the rubble pile collapsed beneath him, he—and the vault—could be buried in a giant cave-in. He fought for his balance, ready to leap free at the last moment.

Then the thick locking bolts finally thumped into place, and the door unsealed itself with a hiss. Thick, lubricated cylinders heaved the massive barrier on gigantic hinges. Because the vault box lay tilted backward, the door lifted against gravity, then ground to a grudging halt, leaving a gap barely two feet wide.

The shifting rubble stabilized, and the ground beneath Jommy’s feet stopped trembling. He approached the laboratory chamber cautiously. Wafting from the thick darkness of the interior, he could smell stale air, spilled chemicals, burned circuitry. The disintegrator tube would be in there.

Moving anxiously, Jommy squirmed through the gap and climbed partway inside, fearing that the uncertain pistons would release their hold at any moment. Even though the jury-rigged power source kept the controls active, the several-ton door could easily slam back down. He slipped inside quickly, dropped to the tilted floor, and squatted, catching his breath. Still not safe, though: If the door crashed shut now, he would be trapped in a tomb.

Jommy fumbled his way forward, straining to see details in the darkness. Then he tripped on something and crashed to his knees. Catching himself with palms flat against the metal floor, he found himself staring face to face with a pallid corpse.

The man had been smashed, his face bruised, his eyes open. Jommy scrambled backward and bumped into a second dead man. As his eyes adjusted, he noted that both men were wearing the armbands of the secret police. Both looked like broken dolls, tossed about in the tantrum of a hyperactive child.

Jommy realized what had happened. Though the vault walls were impregnable, this whole room had crashed down during the intense bombardment of the palace. To the men sealed inside, it would have been like being in a barrel going over a waterfall. They had been smashed to a pulp.

The slice of daylight shining through the open door provided just enough illumination for him to make his inspection. Forcing himself to ignore the corpses, Jommy searched the debris. His tendrils gave him no advantage; in the thick-walled vault, he could sense nothing around him, nothing outside. A table lay overturned among smashed bottles; papers were strewn like the feathers of a startled chicken. Wall brackets had snapped, tumbling and twisting metal shelves into piles. Jommy flung the shelves aside with a loud clatter, searching for his disintegrator.

With a distant rumble, the shaking vault continued to settle, and the floor tilted at a more substantial angle. Jommy scrambled to keep his balance. Three unbroken canisters and a metal pipe rolled down to the low point of a back corner. Then, as the room came to rest at a new unstable point, he spotted the slender, polished tube that had saved his life so many times. His father’s weapon!

With a wash of relief and a sudden flood of urgency—something from his slan senses, even here in the thick-walled vault?—he knew he had to get out of there. He grabbed the weapon and worked his way up the steep and slippery floor, past the scarecrowish corpses. Victorious, with the disintegrator in one hand, he worked his head and shoulder through the door gap, then balanced on his elbows. He had done it!

As he blinked in the low light of sunset, cradling the weapon, he heard voices outside, other people moving through the rubble. Nearby. Treasure seekers must be looking for valuable artifacts and antique treasures in the palace ruins. He hadn’t sensed them from inside the thick-walled chamber.

As he oriented himself and turned, in the cramped gap, he felt a tingling, sensed someone very close—and then hands grabbed his shoulders from behind. A man was standing right on top of the partially open vault door above him. “Here he is! I told you I saw someone up here.”

Caught halfway in and out of the door gap, Jommy struggled, but the metal floor and walls were slippery and he couldn’t get a solid grip. People rushed forward to grab him. To his dismay, he dropped the disintegrator weapon as he tried to wrench himself free. He heard the tube clatter back down among the debris.

More scavengers clutched at him, wrenching his arm. Someone wrapped fingers in his hair and yanked it with a painful tug. “Hey, look at this. He’s got tendrils!”

“Tendrils! He’s a bloody slan!”

“Looks like we caught ourselves one of the enemy.”

CHAPTER 26

Now that Anthea’s head was filled with wonderful, horrible knowledge from the library’s “true archives,” she knew what she had to do. Long ago, the children of Samuel Lann had built a large subterranean hideout right under the noses of the humans. The Porgrave message said that it had been designed to last for centuries.

That was where she would go.

The baby rested comfortably against her chest as she hurried down the corridor from the vault room. Before she could leave the great stone building, however, Anthea heard a ruckus coming from Mr. Reynolds’s office. “Help me, somebody! Is anybody out there?”

As she heard his plaintive tone, a lump formed in her throat. So many people had been awful to her since the birth of the baby, but not Reynolds. What sort of person was she turning into? Did she have to leave the poor man there, helpless? With all the turmoil in the city, there would be looters, marauders—and no police or rescue workers. What if Mr. Reynolds starved to death because she had tied him up, left him with no chance of escape.

She swallowed hard, hesitated, then made up her mind. When she stepped into his office, he flinched when he saw her. “Don’t hit me again! I won’t hurt you.”

“Right now you’d say anything to get yourself free.”

He hung his head. “Yes, in fact, I probably would. I don’t understand who you are, or what you want—”

“I just want to live in peace, to get from day to day without strangers trying to kill me!”

“But you have a slan baby, madam. Even if I wanted to, how could I harm you? Can’t you just … manipulate my thoughts? Why not brainwash me so that I won’t even remember you were here?”

Anthea marched toward where he was tied up in his chair. “Now you listen to me, Mr. Reynolds.” She showed him the back of her head, and though he squinted without his glasses, he could definitely see that she had no tendrils. “I’m not a slan. Neither was my husband. But somehow I gave birth to a baby with tendrils. Don’t ask me how.” She turned back around, let him take a good look at the infant’s innocent face. “I never expected this to happen, but I am not going to give up my baby. I will not let him be harmed by lynch mobs of ignorant and prejudiced people. We’re getting out of here, to safety.”

“But … but, ma’am—I didn’t threaten him in any way.”

She crossed her arms. “I saw the look of horror on your face.”

“Probably more a look of surprise. I’ve never seen a slan baby. In fact, we don’t get many babies in the library.” A look of alarm crossed his face. “Wait! If you’re going away, please don’t leave me tied up like this!”

Though she tried to be stern, Anthea simply wasn’t very good at looking tough. “It’s your lucky day, Mr. Reynolds. I’ve decided not to.”

“My lucky day…” he groaned.

She took the eyeglasses from his pocket and set them on a filing cabinet in the far corner of the room. “I just want a head start.” She unbound both of his arms. “You can free your own feet. By the time you get out of this chair and find your glasses, we’ll have vanished into the streets. It won’t do you any good to chase after us.”

“I have no interest in chasing after you, Madam! You’d just beat me up again. I wish you’d asked for my help instead…”

She felt a twinge in her heart. “I feel the same, Mr. Reynolds. But the sad fact is, if you helped me, you’d be putting yourself in danger, too.” She winced at the memory of poor Davis, how he’d been killed so that she and the baby could get away. As she turned to leave, Anthea hesitated at the door of his office. “You’re a man of books and of learning. Don’t let prejudice and ignorance get the best of you. In fact, why don’t you go into that archives vault and take a good look at those reports from the Slan Wars? Learn the truth. There’s plenty of blame to go around, for humans and slans alike. Protect those records. Someday, they might help us all understand each other.”

She left out of the room, not even feeling the need to hurry. She could see something trustworthy in the librarian’s round eyes.

* * *

From the mysterious Porgrave transmission, Anthea had an instinctive grasp of how to get to the safe underground base—if it still existed. Slans had apparently hidden there for many generations, and the old redoubt had been built to last for centuries, maybe even millennia, as a stronghold. However, Centropolis itself had changed a great deal after such a long passage of time and the long rebuilding from the devastating Slan Wars.

Anthea had faith it would still be there.

Leaving the shelter of the library, she discovered it was a new morning, though the city was a chaos of still-burning fires, collapsed skyscrapers, smashed cars, and crushed bodies. Anthea spent most of the day picking her way through the streets, hiding from anyone who might see her. In normal, civilized times, no one would have refused to help a mother and her baby; now, though, she looked like a victim, an easy target. And if anyone should notice the baby’s tendrils …

When she finally stood at the supposed entrance to the hidden underground base, she fought back her disappointment and surprise. Maybe it had been a wild-goose chase after all.

The small, old building was nondescript, intentionally designed so that no one would give it a second glance. A small sign in the window said that it was a “Museum of Sewing Machines”—a legitimate-sounding place, but one that would not entice great crowds of visitors. Even with the blast marks and rubble in the streets, this structure remained intact and untouched. Anthea realized that the building was incredibly old, deceptively ancient, and reinforced to the point that it must be virtually indestructible. The small, quiet museum had probably existed in this spot since the days of the Slan Wars.

Looking around furtively, Anthea scurried over to the Museum of Sewing Machines and found the door unlocked. That seemed strange to her, but then she realized that the mobs had many more tempting places to ransack.

The current owners of the small building probably didn’t even know its connection to the ancient slan hideout … or maybe hidden slans watched over the building. She clung to that hope. If there were others, she could take safety among them. They would help protect her and the baby.

“Hello?” she called into the shadowy lobby. No one answered.

On tables and in transparent cases, strange contraptions were on display, spindles and pulleys, specialized industrial stitching devices and models used by homemakers from days past. One battery-powered demonstration unit slowly bobbed up and down, pumping its needle endlessly through a patch of cloth like a mechanical mosquito.

“Hello?” She crept around behind a desk where an attendant would have waited fruitlessly for paying visitors who never came. She found a small file room, a broom closet, a cold coffeepot and a packet of stale crackers, which she wolfed down, but no hidden passage that led to the underground vault. Of course, if this secret had endured undetected for centuries, the door or hatch would be well hidden. She wandered back out to the display room, at a loss for what to do next.

The baby was restless in her arms, and she felt a thrumming inside her skull. Another Porgrave signal was coming from here, a pinpointing beacon like the one transmitted from inside the archives vault. The infant could not speak, could not direct her, but she could sense things through him. Anthea was not entirely on her own.

The vibrations seemed strongest in the main museum room, surreptitious scanners or detectors that no human would notice. She continued to search, tapping on walls, looking for hidden doors. She walked from one old sewing machine to the next, from the bulky and old-fashioned to the sleek and modern.

Anthea felt drawn again to the battery-powered demonstration model that continued pumping its needle up and down. When she touched it with her outstretched hand, she felt a thrill of rightness about this machine. The baby’s tendrils waved in the air, and the beckoning signal grew stronger. She heard a click, as sensors detected the baby, accepted him.

The sewing machine stopped, and Anthea froze as well. Then she heard a whirring release, and the display stand moved slightly. She stepped back, fumbled around, and realized that the whole podium rested on a clever pivot. When she pushed it, the stand slid easily on lubricated tracks to expose a hatch in the floor—the entrance!

As she bent down with the baby, a metal covering whisked back to reveal a ladder leading down into a narrow chamber. Weak-kneed with relief, Anthea wrapped one arm around the baby and painstakingly made her way down seven rungs until she found herself in a small metal-walled room. She could make out no doors or hatches. A dead end.

Overhead, the covering slid back into place, sealing her inside. With a whirring noise, the sewing machine display case pivoted back into its normal position. She held the baby against her; this felt like a trap.

Anthea could find no controls, no windows, no posted instructions. “Well, now what?” she asked, a rhetorical question.

Then the whole room fell into a stomach-lurching plunge. Cables hummed and the walls vibrated as the elevator shot downward. In her arms the baby cooed and gurgled happily, sensing no danger.

Because the machinery still worked, because of the well-maintained sewing machine museum overhead, she was sure they’d find another population of slans inside the underground base. She would ask them for help. She could be at home among the other refugees, who would protect her.

When the elevator finally stopped, one wall whisked aside to reveal a huge, warm, and well-lit cavern. Anthea formed her most welcoming smile and stepped out, carrying the infant and expecting to be greeted by a group of slans, people who would help her, protect her baby, and explain everything to her.

Instead, she found only skeletons.

CHAPTER 27

As the angry mob grabbed for him in the wreckage of the palace, Jommy was precariously caught in the vault door gap. He had dropped the disintegrator, and now hands clutched at him, seizing his arms, his hair. He tried to let himself drop back down into the chamber, but somebody grabbed his collar, dragging him back up.

If he struggled too much, Jommy feared he might jar loose the tracking device wired up to the door mechanism, and then the thick pistons would release the heavy door. Or, the whole armored chamber might collapse into the unstable rubble. As a trick, he went limp, forcing the scavengers to drag him out; they would underestimate him, believe he was weak. As soon as he was free, though, he flew into a frenzy.

Jommy punched the nearest man with strength that surprised his attackers, knocking him back head over heels. Then he flung two more far away as they threw themselves on him. Like a pair of rag dolls, they tumbled into the rubble, smashing into the jagged stones. One slipped and fell into a wide gap, dropping deep into the unseen lower levels; a rumble of a cave-in accompanied his fall, cutting off his screams.

The murderous scavengers circled, wary now. “Dirty slan!”

“Careful, he might fry your brain.”

“You didn’t have a brain to start with, Jerome.”

One scrawny man who wore several layers of mismatched clothing was much more interested in the vault Jommy had been investigating. Ducking away from the fight, the scrawny man shouted, “Looks like a treasure room! I bet he was hiding something in there. Slan treasure.” He started to crawl headfirst into the vault.

Jommy fought each attacker that came at him, but more and more people swarmed over the rubble, at least a hundred, all of them carrying makeshift clubs and pipes; a few had firearms, but they did not shoot. Jommy could tell they wanted to tear him apart with their bare hands.

When a man jumped on his shoulders, Jommy clawed to get the attacker away. A red-haired man sprang at him as well, but Jommy spun, knocking him with the other attacker’s thrashing feet. Pinwheeling his arms, the redhead stumbled against the door controls and knocked loose the device that powered the unlocking mechanism.

The scrawny treasure hunter had crawled halfway through the gap, peering into the darkness of the chamber. When several tons of vault door dropped shut on him like a mammoth guillotine blade, he made a sound more like a cough than a scream. On the outside, separated from the rest of his body, his legs kept twitching.

Several of the scavengers stepped back with expressions of queasy disgust. Two men began to laugh like hyenas at their comrade’s misfortune.

Jommy slugged an oncoming attacker in the chin with enough force that he heard both the man’s jaw and his neck snap. Then he snatched up chunks of rock at his feet and began to throw them like cannonballs, smashing several more scavengers in the face. But still they kept coming, swinging their clubs, closing in.

Jommy couldn’t possibly fight them all. A heavy pipe smashed down on his left arm, numbing it from the elbow down, and another caught him a glancing blow on the temple. He reeled, but kept fighting.

A square-shouldered man with a scabbed cut on his left cheek drew a long knife and came at the stunned slan. Jommy threw another sharp-edged chunk of rubble at the knife-wielder, but his aim was off and the burly man ducked to one side. Jommy held up both fists, ready to fight, barely keeping his feet on the shifting ground.

The knife-wielder was apparently the leader of the mob, judging from the way he barked orders and how the others deferred to him. The rest of the mob backed away to let the leader have his chance. He slashed designs in the air with his dagger, taunting Jommy. The scavengers hooted and chuckled roughly, enjoying the show, while more vermin streamed over the ruins of the palace, coming from side streets. While Jommy defended himself from the dancing blade, more attackers seized his arms—far too many for him to throw off. The leader with the knife just smiled, letting the others do the work for him.

One of the scavengers swung a wooden club that struck Jommy squarely in the forehead. The blow would have killed a normal human, but even Jommy’s slan strength was not enough. His legs went limp, and he fought to remain conscious. The men surrounding him laughed, grabbing his arms and holding him.

“What shall we do with him, Deacon?”

“Hey! I’ve got an idea! Let’s break him into little pieces, just like he chopped Thompkins in half.” The scavengers glared at the partial body severed by the falling vault door. The detached legs continued to jitter, as if impatient to be on their way. The redheaded man squatted beside the lower half of the bloody torso, clearly wondering what might be inside the vault, but unable to open the door.

Deacon, the knife-wielder, was unimpressed. “If he’d been busy fighting alongside us, he wouldn’t be in two pieces now. Thompkins got what he deserved.” He tapped the dagger tip against his cheek as he considered possibilities. Jommy then noticed the leader wore a gruesome necklace from which hung several discolored and shriveled strips of flesh. They were unmistakable. Slan tendrils—as trophies!

Still struggling weakly, Jommy cursed his stupidity. He should have been watching more closely, aware of other dangers. He’d been so excited to find the disintegrator at last, and the thick vault walls had shielded him from outside thoughts and senses. He’d forgotten about the human mob mentality.

“Shall we take turns killing him?” said one heavy browed young man. His voice was eager and high-pitched.

“We can only kill him once, Jerome. Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh. I meant kill him partway, lots of times.”

Deacon fingered the blade. “As long as I get to keep the tendrils.” He stroked the disgusting strands at his neck. “I hate slans as much as the next man, but I do like my collection.” Jommy could barely focus on the man who paced around him, toying with his knife, drawing out the moment. “As much as I’d enjoy torturing this snake for the next week or so, there’s too much loot to be had. So let’s get on with it.”

Jommy found a surge of energy, fought furiously, and threw off two of his captors. Then someone pummeled him again with the thick, wooden pole. He staggered, barely able to think straight. The pain rang in his ears.

“Knock him down and turn him over, then hold him real still.” He stroked the discolored tendrils on his necklace. “I don’t want to get ragged ends.”

The men did as they were instructed. Jommy barely remained conscious. “I’m not your enemy,” he croaked. “You don’t need to hurt me.”

The scavengers snickered and guffawed. “Oh sure, slans aren’t our enemies. The whole city’s blown up around us, but that was a slan gesture of friendship, wasn’t it?”

Deacon bent over with his long knife, whispering in his ear. “You slans think you’re superior to us because of your tendrils. They give you some kind of super mind powers. Doesn’t seem fair to me. I think you should feel like one of us mere mortals for a few minutes before you die.” Deacon yanked Jommy’s thin golden tendrils, pulling them straight.

A sudden icy fear plunged down Jommy’s back. “No, don’t!” With heroic strength he nearly knocked aside the four men holding his shoulders.

Deacon made a quick slash. The knife blade cut swiftly, severing the tendrils in a single sweep.

Jommy felt an indescribable blaze as if a lightning strike had gone off in his mind. The pain was incredible. He felt suddenly blind. Deafness roared in his ears and in his thoughts, but he could still hear laughter echoing in the background. He heard a low moaning sound that warbled higher, then lower, and he realized that it was his own voice expressing his agony. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight any longer. He felt utterly helpless.

Deacon stood up with an evil grin, holding his hand high. In a clenched fist, he held twitching fleshy tendrils. Tiny droplets of blood oozed out of the amputated ends. He waggled them in front of Jommy’s glazed eyes.

Jommy groaned, seeing only red confusion. Deacon and his gang could easily kill him now. He couldn’t find the will inside of himself to resist.

“Pathetic.” The square-shouldered man stepped away, satisfied with what he had done. The rest of the mob came forward to finish up. Awash in agony, Jommy tried to face them, to fight one last time.

Then they looked up into the sky, shouted, and scattered in all directions. A shadow like a giant hawk swept over the debris of the palace, then explosions rocked the rubble nearby. Jommy squinted, saw one of the tendrilless ships cruising very low. The pilot took potshots at Deacon and his mob, like shooting fish in a barrel.

As the unexpected attack continued, Jommy crawled into the uncertain shelter of a fallen wall. The tendrilless pilot could easily have targeted him, but instead seemed interested in blasting away at the frantic scavengers as they clattered through the shifting rubble of the collapsed palace. Some of Deacon’s men shot their firearms at the ship, but its hull was far too tough.

Groaning, feeling little more than his pain and his absolute loss, Jommy crawled and staggered, trying to get away from all the various enemies who wanted him dead. He ducked into a black crevice, out of sight, as the tendrilless ship came back around, searching for him.

CHAPTER 28

Back at Granny’s ranch, Kathleen waited anxiously for the summit meeting, now that Altus Lorry and the Tendrilless Authority had agreed to the terms. She had done everything possible to be of assistance to her father, but until the emissary ship arrived from Mars, she and Gray had little to do but wait. If the President could talk sense into the tendrilless leadership, convince them of what had really happened in their history, her father just might cement a peace between humans, slans, and tendrilless. It was their best chance.

Despite all the turmoil and uncertainty, Kathleen knew she could count on Jommy to get through, to find his disintegrator if it was at all possible—and to investigate the slan hideout from the maps in Peter Cross’s logbooks.

She had felt a pure love for Jommy as soon as they’d been reunited; their thoughts, their hearts, were linked through their tendrils. Slans could know each other’s minds, could look inside each individual soul. She knew Jommy was a good person, and she knew she loved him. From the moment they had encountered each other in that first slan redoubt, years ago, it seemed as if she and Jommy had lived a lifetime together.

But then the slan hunter’s bullet to her head had crashed everything into silence. Some long time later, after a slan medical miracle had helped her recover, Kathleen was amazed to find herself alive but dismayed to be without Jommy. Completely separated, cut off. She knew he had to believe she was dead. For a long time she had been so miserable, but when they were reunited in the grand palace, all her agony had passed away like smoke in a rain shower.

Missing him, she busied herself in Granny’s kitchen, helping the old woman bake apple pies to welcome the representatives for the important meeting. “You mark my words, girl, once they taste Granny’s apple pie, they won’t have any further thoughts of war and killing in their minds. I might even sell them the recipe—if the price is right.”

Kathleen was better versed in politics and scientific studies than she was in cooking, but she enjoyed working beside Granny, rolling out the dough, peeling and slicing apples, sneaking a few bites whenever the old woman wasn’t looking. When Granny thought Kathleen was paying no attention, she snitched a few bites as well.

When the pies were in the oven, filling the house with a delicious cinnamon-sugar aroma, Kathleen went out to the hangar shed and studied the rocket-plane Jommy had built. She instinctively understood the controls, the design. Jommy’s genius never ceased to amaze her.

Also waiting for the tendrilless emissary to come, her father wandered around the ranch house and found her in the hangar. “A splendid machine, isn’t it? If only we could find the lost slans, we could have a whole race of people building advanced vessels and weapons like that. With such geniuses at our disposal, no tendrilless would dare threaten Earth. They might just as well hide in their Martian city and never show their faces again.”

“Given the chance, Jommy could probably do all those things by himself,” Kathleen said, forcing a smile.

Gray detected something in her voice. “You’re concerned about him, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. I know how dangerous the city is and … and Father, I love him.”

“I didn’t need slan tendrils to figure that out, Kathleen.”

She blushed. “I suppose it’s obvious.” She turned from the silver rocket-plane, noting the red fins and the personal symbol Jommy had painted on its side. “I’m going back to study his father’s notebooks. Maybe I’ll learn something there.”

While the President went off to plan his negotiations and prepare for the meeting as much as possible, Kathleen entered the brightly lit underground rooms. She looked at the encrypted diagram again, studying the tremendous headquarters that the slans had used in the original wars.

She stared at the designs and notes, amazed at all the work one man had done while trying to protect his wife and young son. Peter Cross had sacrificed everything for them, and then Jommy’s mother had also been killed. How many more sacrifices would be required? They had already paid such a high price.

Thinking of Jommy, she tried to sense him with her tendrils. Their connection was strong enough that she detected him even far away, though she couldn’t capture specific thoughts. An uneasiness tingled through her, and with a gasp she understood that this was more than just a flickering contact. This was strong emotion, a powerful urgency—Jommy sent his panic out like a beacon. Or a scream!

Was he trying to contact her, or was he just afraid—or in pain? Kathleen closed her eyes to concentrate, and her tendrils quested like antennae to pick up any thought he might be sending. She caught a flash inside of her mind.

Yes, Jommy was in danger, struggling. Many men, punching him. He fought back, but more attackers came—and they had weapons. She sensed a flicker of a knife, a gleaming blade that burned a perfectly clear image in her thoughts.

Someone touched Jommy’s tendrils, lifted them away … and then as clearly as if a siren had blasted in her ears, she felt a slash of pain as hot as a molten wire.

Unable to stop herself, Kathleen screamed. Suddenly all of Jommy’s thoughts, all awareness of his presence, went black and silent. The afterimage of pain inside her head still throbbed.

“Jommy!” she cried aloud. “Jommy!”

She quested out, but received no answer. No thoughts whatsoever. Just silence.

She was completely cut off. Sobbing, she ran out of the laboratory room and up the stairs, shouting for her father, for Granny, for anyone who would come to her. As tears poured down her face and the memory of the pain continued to pound in her head, she ran into Kier Gray.

He grabbed her. “What is it? Kathleen, tell me, what happened?”

“It’s Jommy. Jommy’s dead!”

* * *

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Kevin J. Anderson is the author of many books and stories. A. E. van Vogt died in 2000 and was the author of Slan as well as many other books and stories.]

To see Kevin J. Anderson’s works sold by Amazon, click here.

To see the works of A. E. van Vogt sold by Amazon, click here

Fish Story, Episode 5

Written by Eric Flint, Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer

Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

The Whale at Bay

“—and that’s when you went to Nineveh.” Sheila Rowen took another long pull from her tankard. “It’s right there in the Bible, He-Who-Calls-Himself-Jonah. So please explain to the jury—sorry, the peasant mob with pitchforks, imitation thereof—how there’s any room in there for my client—”

She used the now half-empty tankard to point to the mini-whale on the table. “—to have engaged in this conspiracy you’re talking about?”

The little homunculus standing on the table peered up at her. Then looked around at the other people staring down at him.

“Isn’t that called ‘leading the witness’?” he complained.

“More like dragging the witness with chains,” I said, belching. “Grossly improper in a court of law, and any competent judge would have ruled her out of order five minutes ago. Unfortunately, we’re not in a court of law and if there’s any judge about—competent or otherwise—he’s keeping his light well hidden under a bushel. Nothing here but a bunch of drunks, several of them intemperate. Well … Actually, all of us are intemperate or we wouldn’t be souses. But some of us are also bad-humored.” I used my tankard to point at the big redheaded carpenter. “Shockingly so, in the case of this one.”

Sheila leaned forward and stuck her finger in Jonah’s face. “So answer the question, shorty.”

Jonah now looked to the redhead for support. The carpenter seemed unhappy with Sheila’s aggressive courtroom technique, but all he did was shrug. Couldn’t very well do otherwise, of course, seeing as how he’d just gotten done threatening my client Captain Ahab with dismemberment.

Jonah planted his hands on his hips. “Well, this sucks. And I’ll tell you right now that as soon as this is over I’m sending a strong letter of protest to the Connecticut Bar Association.”

“We’re in California, actually,” said Dryck Spivey.

“Venice, to be precise,” added James Watters.

“Oh.” The homunculus glanced around. “Looks just like the one in Hartford. Don’t you guys in the Brotherhood have any imagination? Well, silly question. But I’d think you could at least afford to hire an interior decorator.”

He gave the redheaded carpenter a sour look. “Or is your sponsor’s rep over here still claiming they’re broke on account of the child support?”

The redhead smiled. “Hey, he’s a big mutt. And the legal bills over the custody dispute are a constant drain on the treasury.” He nodded toward me and Sheila. “Lawyers charge by the hour, you know. We’re talking a lot of hours, by now.”

Jonah sneered. “Save it for the chumps. Fine. I’m writing a strong letter to the California Bar Association.” He jabbed a tiny little finger up at Sheila. “You’re as good as disbarred already, lady.”

The finger jabbed at me. “You, too. Aiding and abetting, in clear violation of your oaths.”

“We’re Brits, you little ass. Ask us if we care whether the colonials let us practice in their courts or not.”

“He still hasn’t answered the question,” said Rowen. “Can I borrow your pliers, Red? Oh, never mind.”

She rummaged in the Purse of Death, still planted on the table, and came out holding a stapler. “This’ll do well enough.”

Jonah sidled back. “What kind of screwball carries a stapler in a purse?”

“She’s a lady lawyer,” pointed out Spivey. “I’d recommend you start talking. Consider the implications of ‘screwball.’ She probably will start stapling various parts of your body together. And we certainly won’t try to stop her, being sane and reasonable men who long ago learned the folly of interfering with drunk, overmuscled, tattooed, screwball lady lawyers in a stapling frenzy. They pack on you, once the smell of blood starts spreading.”

Sheila took a grab at him, but Jonah scampered aside. “Hey! Take it easy! This is just a case of mistaken identity!”

“Huh?”

“Mistaken identity, I said. What’s the matter, you have trouble with three-syllable words?”

Sheila sneered. “I can recite whole pages of publishing contracts in my sleep, twerp. The yeomanlike ‘huh’ was a reference to your preposterous—not to mention problematical, dubitable, uncompassable, rococo, phantasmagorical—”

“Okay, okay, lady, you made your point.”

“—and cockamamie claim that there’s more than one Jonah in the Bible. And before you even think of trying to claim there is, you stand forewarned that I am an expert on the subject.”

I squinted at her. “You never told me or the lads you were some sort of Biblical scholar.”

Rowen made a face. “Am not. Came from a religious family. Had to do Bible readings every Sunday, week in and week out. A psychologist I dated once told me that’s what explains the addiction to tattoos and alcohol and the general irreverence.”

I thought about it, as I drained the last of my tankard. “Well, it’s a theory.”

“Only date that jackass ever got with me and that one ended right there. It’s an insult, what it is.”

“Well … Look, Sheila, it’s just a fact that you’re a souse and covered with tattoos—I won’t even get into the body-building madness—and—”

“Yeah, sure. But I worked at all that, and damned hard too.” She emitted, wonder of wonders, a very lady-like sniff. “It’s offensive to see hard-earned adult vices dismissed as mere childhood by-products. How would you like it if I told you the reason your avarice is so transcendent that every single one of your clients refers to you as The Vampire except the one who calls you The Tapeworm, is because you were deprived of enough birthday presents as a wee lad?”

I thought about it, again, for a split-second. “That’s deeply offensive.”

“See?” She took advantage of the momentary distraction to reach out and snatch Jonah. A moment later she had the homunculus nicely fitted between the jaws of the stapler. “Well, my fine whale-up-chucked friend. You’re about to discover the meaning of arms-akimbo-nevermore.”

“Wait! Wait!” shrilled Jonah. “You gotta let me talk!”

“I don’t propose to staple your jaws together,” Rowen said reasonably. “Just your arms.”

“Wait! Wait! Yeah, there’s only one Jonah in the Bible! But there’s lots of us in the great game! Seventeen, at last count. I’m the Jonah working for the Greater Epsilon Eridani Katamorphic Society. We’re the ones—”

“Oh, Haurun help us,” groaned Spivey. “He’s a fucking Geek.”

“—trying to overcome the divisions in the ranks of the anti-piscine forces.” He managed to glare at Dryck, even pressed like he was between the jaws of a stapler. “Which are perfectly exemplified by the attitudes of that schismatic over there. The Brotherhood is one of the worst outfits, when it comes to sectarianism.”

Spivey rolled his eyes. “Just for starters, peewee, it’s the anti-ichthyoid forces.”

“We might, in a pinch, settle for anti-pisciform,” agreed James Watters heavily, “although that term is unbearably sloppy. But ‘anti-piscine’ borders on outright deviationism. Implies that the great enemy is limited to narrow genetic lines instead of”—he pointed at the miniature white whale on the table—”being able to suborn all manner of low creatures.”

“I’m a mammal!” the whale snapped. Literally, snapped. That lower jaw really was pretty impressive.

The big redhead glared at him. “You’re a pack of Benedict Arnolds, is what you are. No better than squids.”

He shifted the glare to Jonah. “And spare us the Geek lecture, shorty. If you’re not the Bible Jonah, explain how you wound up inside Richard M. Dick. And there’s only sixteen of you Jonahs left, by the way. Jonah Twelve got trapped months ago by cnidarian agents on Tau Ceti II. Wasn’t much left of him, after the nematocysts got done.”

Jonah winced. “Oh, jeez. He wasn’t a bad guy, if you made allowances for being a piscophage.”

”All true chthonians are piscophages, you Geek wuss,” jeered Watters. He drained his own tankard and used it to point at the whale. “As he’s most likely going to find out before the day is done. Hey, Mario, I think we need another round. And while you’re back there, check in the kitchen to see if we’ve got all the spices we need.”

The bartender rose from his chair and collected all the empty mugs. “What recipe have you got in mind? I’m warning you, if it’s paella cetacii, forget it. I know I don’t have saffron.”

“No, I was just thinking along the lines of a bouillabaisse.” He turned his attention back to the homunculus. “And answer Red’s question, damn you. How did a Geek wind up inside a whale? Not likely to have been divine intervention, ha! The Big Guy despises you wimps even more than we do.”

Jonah eyed Rowen, whose face loomed above him. “Tell the lady weightlifter to let me out of this stapler. It’s a long story, too long to tell all cramped like this. And how’s about somebody offering me a drink, while we’re at it.”

“You started the whole thing off by saying you were an alcoholic,” I pointed out.

Jonah squinted at me. “And your point is?”

I felt a bit foolish. “Oh, sorry. I assumed you were about to launch into one or another of the Twelve Steps.”

The homunculus made a face. “You don’t need to be insulting, you know.”

The big redhead waved at Sheila. “Oh, what the hell. Let him out. We’ve got him surrounded, after all.”

Rowen took him out of the stapler jaws and set him back on his feet. “Okay, then. Start talking.”

* * *

“—which point I knew something was fishy. Pun intended.” Jonah gave Captain Ahab a sharp glance. For his part, the one-legged crazy fellow had been silent during all this, in striking contrast to his former loquacity. In fact, he seemed completely spaced out. He’d spent the whole time since Red squeezed Jonah out of the mini-whale staring off into space.

“I mean, ask yourselves. What sort of whaling captain do you find playing blackjack in Las Vegas?”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Spivey said, sounding a bit dubious, “Not impossible.”

“In the Venetian?”

“Oh.”

Sheila had been following the back and forth closely. “Explain, please. My opposing counsel and I are not familiar with the colonial vice dens.”

Mario Jori provided the answer. “The Venetian‘s one of your upscale casinos on the Strip. ‘Upscale’ as in a room costs $400 a night, a meal in most of the restaurants not all that much less. That’s for a party of two; forget a whole table. And the boutiques in the Grand Canal Shoppes—that’s ‘s-h-o-p-p-e-s,’ naturally—give a whole new meaning to the expression ‘sticker shock.’”

Everyone was now peering suspiciously at Ahab. Who, for his part, continued to stare off as if mesmerized by some vision in the distance.

“Bullshit!” snapped the redhead. “One of the old fleabag casinos downtown, maybe. The Venetian on the Strip? This clown? Since when did whale-hunters start getting paid like lawyers? Those guys bill by the barrel, not the hour.”

“That’s exactly what I thought!” shrilled Jonah. “So, I started tailing him. And the first thing he does after he finishes losing a bundle at blackjack is start walking south down the Strip. Walking, mind you—with a pegleg.”

He seemed to think that fact was significant. As did, from their expressions, Spivey and Jori and the redheaded carpenter. Watters, on the other hand, being a fellow Britisher—using the term loosely—was frowning with puzzlement the way Sheila and I were.

“You’ll have to explain again,” groused Rowen. “We’re not natives, remember. I grant you that walking with a pegleg’s got to be a bit difficult, but so what?”

“First of all,” said Spivey, “while Las Vegas isn’t technically part of Southern California, the religious ambiance”—he waved about—”of this region spreads widely, through manifold and multiple means. It certainly spreads as far as Las Vegas. The eleventh commandment here is Thou Shalt Not Walk.”

Mario shuddered. “Unheard of. There’s even a rumor that a new developer is putting up a tract somewhere out by Glendale that lets the owners bring their cars into the house, so they can drive to the bathroom. Probably a tall tale, of course. Unfortunately.”

“And secondly,” Dryck continued, “they’ve got cabs in Las Vegas. Sure, it’s a hair-raising experience, taking a cab down the Strip—but why else does anyone go to Vegas, except to gamble?”

“Very suspicious, I agree,” rumbled the big redhead. “But not conclusive of anything, in itself. Let’s be fair-minded here.”

I thought that was a preposterous caution, coming from him. Your average fair-minded fellow, after all, is not inclined to question a homunculus by threatening to cut off his leg with a pair of pliers. But I kept my mouth shut, seeing as how the homunculus in question was technically my client.

“So go on,” the carpenter told Jonah.

“Naturally, I caught a cab. No way I was going to follow the idiot walking on the Strip. Fer chrissake, it was August. The temperature was one hundred and ten degrees—Fahrenheit, sure, but we’re still into heatstroke territory here.”

For a moment, he looked uncomfortable. Embarrassed, perhaps. “‘Course, I lost him almost right away. Stupid cabbie ignored me completely when I told him to drive slow enough to follow the guy.”

Jori chuckled. “No fool, he. You’re lucky he did ignore you. Driving slowly, on the Strip? What’re you, nuts?”

Jonah ignored the quip. “Well, anyway, so I told the cabbie to just drop me off on the corner of the Strip and Tropicana. I figured I’d wait for Stumpy there, since I could keep an eye on the whole area from the overpass between the New York, New York and the MGM Grand. Hey, what happened to that drink I was promised?”

“What drink you were promised?” scoffed Jori. “Keep talking. Maybe if you ever get to a conclusion I’ll summon up the energy to go over to the bar and pour you something. But it better be a damn good conclusion, seeing as how I got no choice but to walk to the bar and I’m trying to keep my L.A. karma from getting too badly frayed.”

Jonah glared at him, but went back to his story. “After maybe an hour he finally shows up, weaving and staggering down the sidewalk on the MGM Grand side of the strip. It was late in the afternoon, which meant the idiot spent the whole time walking in the sun, instead of crossing the street and getting a bit of shade here and there. I’m telling you, he’s nuts.”

Sheila didn’t miss the opening. “Exactly what I said right at the start. An obvious lunatic, whose testimony against my client is therefore automatically suspect. In fact, ought to be tossed out with no further ado.”

I was no slouch myself, of course. “And agrees entirely with my argument that my client”—here I nodded to the one-legged captain—”is not guilty of the charges on grounds of insanity. And what are the charges, anyway?”

The big carpenter gave me a cold sort of grin. “You’re old-fashioned, fella. We lads in the Brotherhood figure it makes a lot more sense to charge somebody with a crime first and then use the interrogation to find out what the crime was.”

The scary thing was, it did make a lot more sense, if you were prepared to throw away all notions of fairness, civil rights, the rule of law, and respect for the dignity of the individual. And, worse still, get rid of lawyers.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Following that method, every human being who ever lived—I exempt not toddlers—could be accused of being a criminal.”

Suddenly Captain Ahab roused himself from his stupor. “Curses throttle thee!” he shrilled, looking wildly about. “Born in throes, ‘tis fit that man should live in pains and die in pangs! So be it, then! Here’s stout stuff for woe to work on. So be it, then.”

We all stared at him. But, an instant later, he went back into his stupor. So, our attention returned to Jonah.

“Crazy, like I said. Luckily for me, he crossed the street—down below, on the crosswalk—so I was able to follow him into the Excalibur. Stumping along the way he was, I managed to get downstairs in time to spot him coming in, and fell in right behind him. He was an easy tail, since he never bothered to so much as glance over his shoulder.

“Eventually he got on the walkway connecting the Excalibur to the Luxor. I guess a momentary spasm of sanity came over him, because that’s an interior connection. Air-conditioned, the whole works. Then we got into the Luxor itself and I had my second piece of evidence that he was a fake and a fraud. There’s a fancy coffee place in the Luxor, and he stopped there. Can you believe it?”

Jonah bestowed a look of scorn on Captain Ahab. “Ha! Caught him red-handed!”

Watters shook his head. “Sorry, don’t see your point. Even peg-legged crazy whaling ship captains drink coffee, I’d imagine.”

“A non-fat extra-dry cappuccino?” demanded Jonah. “I say again: Ha!”

Several pairs of beady eyes now focused on Ahab. “Suspicious, for sure,” muttered the big redhead. “Then what did he do?”

Jonah’s eyes got a little furtive-looking. “You ain’t gonna believe me. I could really, really use a drink.”

The redhead slapped the table. Even hitting it with his open hand, the whole table shuddered. Only the quick and sure reflexes of the sots at the table kept the mugs from spilling.

“Talk, damn you! What’d he do next?”

“There’s some sphinxes in the lobby. Supposed to be statues.” Jonah pointed an accusing finger at Ahab. “But I saw him. He went up and started talking to one of them.”

The redhead’s jaws tightened. Spivey grimaced. So did Watters.

“Oh … bloody hell,” said Jori. “Are you telling us that Stumpy here is in league with the Manticore Alliance? Just what we needed. Those clowns getting into the act.”

Jonah shrugged. “Way it looks to me. Of course, the Manticores are usually considered part of chthonedom.”

“Only by Geeks and other deviants,” growled the redhead. “Where’s it stop, this mixing up of parts? Once you start down that slippery slope, what’s to prevent you from falling into outright ichthyophilism?”

“Nothing,” said Spivey. “Just a matter of time before one of the Manticores decides that scales are just the thing for fending off mosquitoes. Add gills just in case Little Baby Mishmash slips in the tub and would otherwise drown. Before you know it—”

“Aye, and we’ve said it all along,” chimed in Watters, heavily. “Sooner or later, some Mantie is going to adopt indiscriminate sperm-spraying as part of their physiological repertoire. From there, it’s a hop, skip and jump before they all get sucked into the genetic maelstrom. Just as the enemy planned.”

Jonah rolled his tiny little eyes. “Oh, for crying out loud! Yeah, sure, they’re promiscuous—but they’re still mammals.”

“Like me! Like me!” yelped the whale.

Jonah ignored him. “Well, bits of mammals stuck together. Okay, yeah, the occasional reptile thingie or other. But it’s all solidly chthonic, isn’t it?”

“So far,” hissed the redhead. “Only reason we haven’t declared war. Yet. But the more I think about it, the more it strikes me that this shaggy dog story of yours still hasn’t gotten any closer to an answer to the question we asked you at the beginning.” He reached out a meaty hand, grabbed the mini-whale by the flukes, and held him up. Then, poked the creature’s belly with a finger. “How did you wind up in here? Remember?”

“Oh, that. Well …”

“I’m a mammal, you idiots!” yelped the whale.

Jonah gave Mario a look of appeal. “Boy, could I use a drink. Just thinking about Las Vegas in August is enough to parch my throat.”

“Fuck off. How’d you get in the whale? Speaking of which”—he glanced at the carpenter—”I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m getting tired of that yapping.”

“Got just the thing for it,” said the redhead, grinning evilly. He dug into his huge carpenter’s belt and came out with …

At this point, my ever-growing suspicion that Sheila Rowen and I had fallen in with lunatics was confirmed. Either that, or I was suffering from delirium brought out by too many hours of non-stop alcohol consumptions. Of course, the two possibilities were not mutually exclusive.

Before I quite knew it, the carpenter and Spivey had seized the whale and fitted the miniature cetacean with a straight-jacket and muzzle. Richard M. Dick just barely had time, before the muzzle got fitted, to yelp: “You morons! I’ve got no arms!”

It did seem like a waste of a perfectly good miniature straight-jacket. On the other hand, the muzzle worked fine. Truth is, I was getting a little tired of the yapping myself.

“I wish to register for the record,” said Sheila, then pausing for a belch, “that I object to the immobilization and silencing of my client. I warn you, this won’t look good in the appeal.”

“What appeal?” said the redhead, laughing. “Wrong court, lady. The minute we find this whale wannabe guilty, off comes his head and flukes and into the pot he goes. As they say, ‘justice delayed is justice denied.’ Now get on with the story, you aggravating little pukee!”

This last was bellowed at Jonah. The homunculus must have jumped his full height.

“Hey, take it easy, willya!” Jonah waved his arms about. “I was just getting to it! Because no sooner does this one-legged if-he’s-a-whaling-captain-I’m-Joe’s-uncle get finished talking to the sphinx—”

“Wait a minute!” I interjected. “Where did this supposed conversation between my client and an inanimate statue takes place?”

“Huh? In the lobby of the Luxor, where else? That’s where the statues are.”

I put on my best skeptical expression, which is known to make judges swoon. “Ah, right. This Luxor, I take it, is a popular resort location?”

“Well, sure. It’s right on the Strip, fella. Hotel-and-casino combined, like all of them. People coming and going twenty-four hours day. Cars parked two and three deep in the driveway outside, waiting for valet service. What’re you? Some kinda hick?”

“Ah, right.” The Skeptical Expression went into overdrive. “And in the middle of this huge throng, you claim that my client was having a conversation with a statue—and nobody noticed?” Here, I added a sneer. “Except you, of course.”

Jonah stared at me. Then, stared at the redhead.

“You rotten bum,” he said. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

For a wonder, the redhead—whose personality based on the evidence so far could be labeled Extrovert, Extraordinaire—looked mildly embarrassed. “Well. He—the tattooed lady, too—they’re conscripts.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a security, issue. You really don’t know much about conscripts.”

“Hey, no shit. That’s why the Brotherhood is the only goofball outfit—well, except the Vampire Communions, of course—who uses draftees in the first place. You guys are nuts. Not to mention unprincipled.”

The redhead and Spivey looked sulkily stubborn. Mario Jori suddenly got up and headed for the bar. Watters looked shifty-eyed.

“Got no choice,” the redhead growled. “Can’t win the War to End All Wars just with volunteers. And get on with the story.”

The homunculus’ eyes widened and he stretched out his hand to indicate me. “Can’t, big buy. The lawyer’s got a question needs to be answered, remember? How is it that a stone statue starts talking in the lobby of a major Las Vegas casino and nobody notices except me and his confederate?”

The redhead gave me a sour glance. After a moment, Dryck said: “It’s the glamour, Ishmael. All Major, Minor, Lesser and Subsidiary powers involved in the War to End All Wars can cast a glamour when surrounded by mundanes. Whatever they do in the glamour goes unnoticed by non-combatants. We’re pretty sure the same applies to aquanes, although we’re not positive.”

I stared at him. Then, stared at my mug—which, alas, was empty again. Then, stared at Sheila Rowen.

“I’ve been trying to decide,” I mused, “whether we’ve fallen in with lunatics or whether we’re suffering from hallucinations brought on by excessive alcohol consumption. The evidence, I believe, is finally in.”

Rowen nodded. “We’ve fallen in with lunatics. Leaving aside the unlikelihood that we’d be sharing the same hallucinations, not in my wildest reveries would I come up with something this ridiculous.”

“Well, it’s true,” muttered Spivey. He poked his finger at the homunculus. “So back to the story, you.”

Mario returned at that point, with, thankfully, some full mugs to pass around. Lunatics or not, at least they weren’t teetotalers.

“So then Mr. Sure-I’m-A-Captain heads back to the coffee place and orders another non-fat extra-dry cappuccino. Once he gets it, he sits down at one of those silly little round tables with silly little wrought-iron chairs and starts talking to himself while he’s drinking. Seeing my chance, I snuck up from behind to eavesdrop on the sorta-conversation.”

“And what was he saying?”

Jonah gave Captain Ahab a very nasty look. “Same fricking gibberish. Something about being ‘measured for a leg’ and ‘a cogent vice’—whatever that is—and ‘a fierce red flame’ but it was all a shuck because once I got close enough to hear much of anything I was suddenly seized from behind. I struggled, but it was hopeless. The bitch was even more muscled than Lady Lawyer here and”—he paused to give everyone a portentous look—”she had ten arms. Need I say more?”

“Kali,” hissed the redhead. “So the rumors are true.”

Spivey looked dubious, and waggled a hand back and forth. “Maybe, but probably not. Last I heard—we’ll, never mind. Let’s just say it was more likely to have been one of the nine navadurgas. Might have been a gauri, too.”

The redhead rolled his eyes. “Dryck, have I ever told you what a royal pain in the butt you damn Hindoos are?”

“I’m not actually a Hindoo. Precisely speaking.”

“‘Course not!” jeered Watters. “Nobody is a Hindoo, ‘precisely speaking,’ which is why you buggers generate Major and Minor powers like confetti. Makes it bloody damn difficult for the rest of us, mate, just keeping track of the players.”

The big redhead raised his hand. “Enough, enough. Let’s get back to the story. So then what happened, shorty?”

“You shouldn’t call me that!” snapped Jonah. “Not my fault I was born on Epsilon Eridani III. It’s a hell-planet, you know that.”

The redhead sneered. “Sins of the fathers onto the sons. If your worthless ancestors hadn’t settled there, you’d have been normal-sized. And get on with it!”

The last was bellowed so loudly the table actually shook. Fortunately, the habituees were all experienced sots, so no ghastly spillage of brew occurred. Well, I suppose “ghastly” is excessive, seeing as how the brew in question was American beer.

“All right! All right!” The homunculus waved his hands in a pacifying gesture. “So the next thing I knew the she-devil had me hustled into one of those weirdo diagonal-moving elevators they got in the Luxor they call inclinators or something like that—think of an escalator except with a cage around you—and she punched every button for every floor. At first, I thought that was just excess enthusiasm on her part—I mean, think of a kid with ten arms in an elevator; the temptation’s gotta be pretty irresistible—but it turned out it was actually because she had a confederate on every floor and they all piled into the elevator-they-call-something-else until I thought we’d all suffocate. But finally they got to the top and the whole crowd piled out and the next thing I knew they had me in one of rooms, with—”

He stopped, drew himself up majestically, and pointed a rigid finger at the muzzled and straight-jacketed miniature white whale. “J’Accuse!”

“Jack who?” demanded Watters. “Mate, this story makes less sense the longer it goes. Now you’ve got a ‘Jack’ coming in too?”

Dryck Spivey’s eyes suddenly widened. He dipped a hand into a pouch he had connected to his kilt and brought out with one of those old-fashioned pocket watches. Flipping the lid open with a practiced thumb, he studied the dial.

“It occurs to me,” he said, “that this mini-fellow’s tale has gone on way too long, even by fish story standards.”

The big redhead’s eyes widened, too. Suddenly, the mini-whale started flapping his flukes frantically, in a weirdly uneven rhythm on the table.

Watters’ eyes got very wide, at this point. “Hey, that’s Morse code. The critter’s flapping out … ‘T-H-E-D-U-M-M-I-E-S-A-R-E-F-I-N-A-L-L-Y-G-E-T-T-I-N-G-W-I-S-E-F-E-L-LA-S.’”

“Bastards!” snarled the redhead. He reached into his carpenter’s belt.

Watters kept translating. “Now he’s flapping out ‘P-L-A-N—”

The whale’s last tail-flaps were so powerful they brought the critter erect, balanced on his flukes.

“B,” concluded Watters.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Captain Ahab emerged from his stupor, raised his peg-leg and took dead aim with the stump at Spivey.

“Aye, Parsee!” he cried. “I see thee again!” Something flew out of the tip of the pegleg and smacked Dryck right on the nose. He flinched back so hard his chair tipped over, spilling him to the ground.

Ahab made a quick hop and brought the pegleg tip to bear on Watters. “Befooled, befooled!” Another something—call it a spitball, for lack of a better term—now smacked James on the tip of the nose, and he too went tipping over onto the floor.

Meanwhile, Jonah had sprung upon the whale and was working at the muzzle. The muzzle came off just as the big redhead’s hand came up with a huge hammer.

” bas les Boches!” hollered Richard M. Dick. With a prodigious thrust of his flukes, the mini-whale flung himself right at the redhead. Then, twisting about in midair, ended up with a resounding slap of his flukes across the carpenter’s face.

” moi, les braves!” the whale yelped on his way down. Then, springing back up from the table with another tail-thrust, he sailed back at the redhead and gave him another resounding slap across the face with his flukes. “ nous, les pommes frites!”

The carpenter roared and took a mighty swing with his hammer, but Richard M. Dick was already back down and leaping toward the other end of the table. The missed hammer-swing unbalanced the redhead and caused him to fall onto one knee.

By the time he got to the end of the table, the mini-whale was almost completely erect, moving in prodigious bounds like a kangaroo, using his tail and flukes instead of legs. Weird-looking, it was.

Jonah was already on the whale, now working at the straight-jacket.

“Forget that!” yelped the whale. “I got no arms anyway!”

Captain Ahab leapt onto the whale as he passed by and held onto to one of the straightjacket straps. The whale flew off the table with a mighty fluke-bound, with both Jonah and Ahab riding on his back.

Watters was coming up off the floor at the same time. For his troubles, the whale somehow managed to twist around in mid-flight and give James a resounding smack in the face with his flukes.

”Pour encourager les autres!” the whale hollered gleefully. As soon as he hit the floor he was back up on his flukes and making those great kangaroo-like bounds toward the door.

“Stop them, Jori!” bellowed the redhead, back up on his feet. Seeing that Jori was behind the bar, way off to the side, and in no position to intercept the fleeing weirdos, the redhead uttered a curse in some language I didn’t know and hurled his hammer at the escapees.

Which turned out to be probably the stupidest thing he could have done, since the hammer missed, struck the door—which had heterofore been closed and would have posed a bit of a problem to open for one armless and straightjacketed miniature whale and two tiny homunculi—and did a splendid job of disintegrating it for them.

“Hey, thanks, you moron!”yelped the whale. And off he went, bounding outside.

“Follow them!” roared the redhead. He started racing for the shattered door with heavy, clumping strides. Watters and Spivey came after him, with Mario Jori closely behind.

Sheila and I stared at each other. Then, she shrugged.

“What the hell. I suppose they’re still our clients.”

So, off we went also—although I’d like it noted for the record that we drained our mugs before doing so. American dishwater beer or not, principles are principles.

* * *

Once outside, we had to pause for a moment to let our eyes adjust to the bright mid-afternoon sunlight of Southern California. Which, let me state here, is a completely unnatural phenomenon. A blue sky, unmarred by any hint of clouds, with an ambient temperature—here, at least, not more than a block from the beach and the Pacific Ocean—that teetered between perfect and sublime. It’s no wonder those people are half-crazed, with that constant assault on any sense of reality.

In fairness to them, they do try to compensate with heroic pollution. Still, it’s a losing battle.

Once our eyes adjusted, we spotted the targets of our search.

“Oh, what a laugh!” cried Sheila.

Indeed so. The miniwhale was still bounding about with his two passengers, like a tiny fluked kangaroo, and still yelping jibes back at his pursuers. For their part, the four worthies were looking as clumsy as you could imagine, weaving through mobs of volleyball players, some teams male and some female, and each with far larger mobs of admirers of the opposite sex. Oddly, neither the players nor the spectators seemed to notice the bizarre pursuers and their still more bizarre prey.

Yes, yes, I know. I should have realized then that there was more to this “glamour” nonsense than nonsense. I plead intoxication as my excuse.

After perhaps a minute, the chase came back in our direction. Then, the whale veered off toward the ocean and began bounding onto the looser sand near the waters. That slowed him down immensely, of course. The first foolish move the creature had made since his escape.

“I’ve got to see how this turns out,” said Rowen, trotting toward the beach herself. There being no good reason to do otherwise, since the only alternative I could think of was another mug of American beer, I followed.

Just as Sheila and I started onto the sand, the redhead finally trapped his prey. The whale was now at bay, caught between his pursuer and a lifeguard tower. Too bad for him, of course. Had he been able to make another twenty feet, he’d have been at the water and could have swum off.

The carpenter had scooped up the huge hammer on his way out the door he’d splintered with it, and now brought it up for a mighty stroke. The miniature whale looked up at the towering figure above him. Somehow—don’t ask me how, with no upper lip—Richard M. Dick sneered mightily.

“Hey, it worked!” I heard Jonah exclaim.

“To the last I grapple with thee!” shrilled Ahab. “From hell’s heart I stab at thee!”

I heard a vast roaring from the ocean. Looking out, I saw a tsunami emerging from the ocean—except it was concentrated only in one spot.

“What the hell?” demanded Sheila.

“It’s a trap, Red!” shouted Dryck Spivey. He pointed at the surge of water coming toward us. “They suckered us!”

The redhead’s downward stroke stopped. He looked up. Gaped.

A monster’s face emerged from the water-surge. Like a dragon, it seemed—except it suddenly dawned on me that no dragon in any mythology ever had jaws this huge. As the head came down, it could have swallowed the lifeguard tower like a man might swallow a canap. A very small canap, like they only serve at the swankiest parties.

“It’s the snake!” bellowed Watters. “We’ve been ambushed!”

The redhead roared and hurled the hammer. It struck the monster right between the eyes, just as its head came down for the carpenter-gobble. Amazingly, the blow was powerful enough to cause the dragon to miss the strike. The redhead dodged aside and began racing away from the beach. Somehow, he had the hammer back in his hand.

“Get the goats!” he shouted. “Get the goats!”

The dragon reared back for another strike. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Richard M. Dick and his two passengers hopping into the waters. Just before they plunged in, I heard the miniwhale yelping ” nous les femmes corrompu et dprav!”

“It occurs to me that dragons are probably not fussy eaters,” muttered Sheila. “Perhaps—”

“We’re lawyers,” I pointed out.

Sheila pursed her lips. “Well … There was a story in the papers just a few months ago. Seems a lawyer somewhere in India—maybe Pakistan—got attacked by a crocodile. The reptile died horribly, of course. Still …”

She had a point—and looking upon the huge dragon as it drove its snout entirely in the sand in another missed strike at the scampering carpenter, I couldn’t held but ponder the very low slope of its forehead. Not much room there for the sort of frontal lobes that lead your intelligent animals to avoid lawyers. Unfortunately, we don’t come with the brilliant markings that those incredibly poisonous touch-my-skin-once-and-you-drop-dead toads do somewhere in the Amazon. True, we have attach cases—but, alas, all sorts of innocuous businessmen and accountants and the like have them also. Natural selection at work, there.

“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “Best we sidle off.”

Unfortunately, I delayed just that little bit too long. The dragon kept ignoring us, in its frenzy to gobble the redhead. But the redhead himself didn’t. The next thing we knew, from out of nowhere came some sort of grotesque cart drawn by two enormous goats. Spivey was guiding it, with Watters already aboard. The carpenter jumped in and took the reins. Then, sent the preposterous contrivance right at us.

Drawing the dragon after him, naturally, thank you very much. But before the dragon could strike again, the cart swept up and the redhead curtly ordered us aboard.

“I think we’ll be going our own way, now,” said Sheila, quite reasonably. “That thing looks more dangerous than a London minicab.”

“Which syllable in ‘conscript’ don’t you understand?” snarled the redhead. He hefted the hammer. “Get in, I said—with or without your heads attached.”

Put that way …

We got in and the carpenter sent the cart racing off, just in time to avoid another dragon strike.

I looked back. The monster was huge. The rest of its body—Lord only knows how long it was, all told—was still in the waters of the Pacific. Only the first two or three hundred feet was visible, as the great serpent reared up to make another strike.

Our best chance, of course, was to race inland. But the lunatic redhead was driving the cart right down the beach, along the edge of the Pacific. A small part of my rapidly-sobering mind noted that the volleyball players and spectators and the various sunbathers still didn’t seem to be noticing anything amiss, such as a giant snake trying to eat a cart drawn by giant goats.

“We should go that way!” I shouted, pointing toward downtown Los Angeles, not visible somewhere in the pollution but clearly many miles from the ocean.

“No point in that,” said Dryck, shaking his head. Somewhere in the excitement, his turban had started coming loose, but he didn’t seem aware of the fact. “L.A.’s only thirty miles wide or so. And after that it’s just desert, perfect territory for the snake.”

Sheila stared at him. “But … would it actually follow us that far?”

“Who said anything about ‘follow?’” said Spivey grimly. “The damn thing’s long enough to encircle the world. It’d just keep stretching. No, our only hope—and there it is!”

His finger pointed ahead of us and a bit off to the side. Looking, we saw that a weird shimmering rainbow was taking shape. Impossible, of course. The atmospheric conditions weren’t right—and I’d now sobered up enough to make the theory of alcohol-induced delirium sadly tenuous.

Impossible or not, there it was—and the next thing Rowen and I knew, the cart was racing up the steep incline.

“Ha-ha!” bellowed the redhead. He looked over the side of the cart and sneered down at the snake, still trailing after us. “Nice try, worm! Better luck next time!”

The monster seemed to coil back down into the water, and then made a tremendous lunge upward. But its fanged jaws snapped shut at least thirty yards behind the cart. Which was now, I noticed, perhaps a thousand feet up in the air, supported by nothing more than a shimmering …

Whatever.

Apparently sensing my puzzlement, James Watters shook his head. “Oh, stop worrying. It’s the Bifrst Bridge. Hasn’t collapsed once since they built it.”

“‘They’ being who?” asked Rowen.

“The Aesir, who else.” Watters pointed at finger at the big redhead guiding the goats. “That’s Thor, by the way.”

I leaned back against the high walls of the huge cart. “Naturally. Who else? I suppose it’d be too much to ask for a drink?”

Watters and Spivey—Thor too, he must have overheard me—burst into riotous laughter.

“In Asgard?” howled Dryck. “You must be joking!”

Sheila and I looked at each other; then, simultaneously, shrugged.

“Not so bad, then,” she said.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction. He has also edited a number of anthologies.

Dave Freer has written a number of novels and short stories.

Andrew Dennis has co-authored books with Eric Flint. This is the first time the three have worked together.

To see Eric Flint’s works sold through Amazon, click here

To see Dave Freer’s works sold through Amazon, click here

To see Andrew Dennis’ works sold through Amazon, click here

To read more work by these authors, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

INTRODUCING:

Stories by new authors

Storm Warning

Written by Robert Cruze

Illustrated by Rita Reed

“Honey, it’s late. Come to bed.” Madison Kurchowsky shot a pleading gaze at her husband, who was sitting at his workstation in his boxers. But he was too involved with the task at hand to notice.

“Just a few more minutes,” Leland replied. “I’m checking the purity of the latest run.”

Lee and Maddy Kurchowsky were entrepreneurs who owned and operated a solar-fusion smelter in the sun’s corona, where they produced an incredibly durable superalloy known as “battle steel,” or, more commonly, “B-steel.” Since it was originally created for a military contract, the name stuck, even though 90 percent of the battle steel produced was used in civilian applications. Producing B-steel wasn’t very complicated with the right technology, enough raw materials, and a big enough fusion furnace. Lee provided a top-of-the-line smelter and a massive nickel-iron asteroid that the smelter was grafted to; the sun provided the furnace. He and hundreds of other solar smelters ventured into Sol’s hellish corona to make their fortunes or break their backs trying.

And there had to be a human presence because smelting was more art than science. Even with the AI breakthroughs over the past few centuries, no machine had the “touch” needed to tweak a smelter to turn out high-grade B-steel. Until enough data was collected for a machine to learn, the job was up to humans. The risk was great, but the potential for profit was even greater.

Lee gazed at the figures scrolling across the screen. Months of tweaking had finally paid off. “Maddy? You’re not gonna believe this. According to the numbers, this latest sample puts the purity up about three percentage points. You know what that means?”

“You’ll finally come to bed?”

Lee shook his head and grinned wickedly. “Insatiable vixen. No, even better. We’ll be in the ninety percentiles for purity. We’ll almost double our return. Plus, I got some really good data off this batch.”

Realization struck home, and Maddy’s eyes widened. “Um, honey … I checked the books earlier. The last slug we sent out paid off what was left of our initial operating costs and balanced out this month’s overhead.”

While Lee knew metal, Maddy knew finance and organization. She was able to keep things running and keep creditors off their backs while he churned out product. When it came time to talk to investors, Lee always let Maddy do the talking. Her business savvy caught their pocketbooks, and her delicate-boned, Celtic-goddess looks caught their eyes. Lee, on the other hand, looked more suited to chasing a mammoth on a stretch of prehistoric tundra, which sometimes caused people to underestimate his intelligence—a mistake Lee was more than willing to capitalize on. The two of them had made a perfect partnership in business as well as marriage. The marriage end had been extremely successful, and they had two lovely daughters to show for it.

The grin on Lee’s face grew even bigger. “Sweet Jesus! We’re profitable! And it’s gonna be a helluva profit, too! Best of all, I might have just enough data to tweak an automated smelter.”

In addition to turning a profit, Lee’s other goal was to help develop an automated smelter so people wouldn’t need to risk their lives. It looked like both goals were now in reach. Maddy’s eyes narrowed, and she grinned mischievously. Her voice became low and sultry. “This calls for celebration. Now get your hairy carcass over here so we can celebrate!”

A piercing alarm stopped Lee halfway to the bed. He snarled at the cruelty of the universe and turned on the wallscreen. A message scrolled across the screen, and a narrator spoke in a cheerful, sexless voice. “—Coronal Mass Ejection Warning has been issued by the Solar Weather Service. You are located in the projected damage path. Our positioning system indicates that this facility is too close to the damage path to relocate. All personnel are advised to evacuate immediately. The projected escape window is forty-five minutes—”

“Forty-five minutes! That’s cutting it way too close. What in the hell’s wrong with those SWS morons—”

“Lee!” His wife glared at him from beside the bed. “Dress now; bitch later.”

He nodded grudgingly and reached for his pants. Maddy was already dressed. She had started dressing the instant the alarm sounded. Ten years of Solar Guard training had left its mark on his wife, and Lee was intensely grateful for every ounce of conditioning the Guard had imprinted on her lizard-brain.

Her face calm, but her eyes intense, she casually tossed him a shirt and a pair of socks to urge him along. While he finished dressing, she tracked down the kids.

“House: occupant search! Locations: Katrina and Shelby.”

The bedroom door slid open and a wide-eyed nine-year-old girl hurried in.

“Change search params. Location: Katrina.”

“Katrina is in her bedroom, sitting at her comm, mistress,” the habitat’s computer answered in an even cheerier tone than the wallscreen.

“Understood. Preflight pinnace for emergency evacuation.” She turned to Shelby. “You stay here with Daddy. I’m going to get your sister, then we’ll get out of here, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice was shaky, but her eyes were steady—Maddy knew she could depend on her younger. Now her elder, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely.

* * *

Maddy walked into Kat’s room and found the fifteen-year-old chatting on the comm. Kat turned around with the startled look of someone caught in the act. The look quickly changed into one of adolescent defiance.

“Mother! What are you doing here?”

Maddy took a quick look and saw an adolescent boy’s face on the comm screen. “We have to go Kat. Now.”

“But Roger and I were talking! Why do you always have to do this—”

“Kat! I said now!” Her mother’s voice brooked no argument. “We’re under a CME Warning. Didn’t you hear the alarm?”

“Yeah, but I shut it off because I couldn’t hear what Roger was saying.”

Maddy cringed internally, and her mind conjured a brief fantasy of her daughter being dressed down by Chief Hughes on the Deadly Sin of Overriding Safety Equipment.

“Say good-bye to your friend. We have to go.”

Kat exhaled Sigh Number Twenty-Two (the “Why Must You Ruin My Life” sigh), and turned back to the screen.

“I have to go, Roger. I really like you.”

“I really like you, too,” Roger cooed back.

Maddy saw where this was heading. So, she simply slapped the disconnect.

Kat shot her a glare icier than nighttime on Europa. “Mother!”

Unperturbed, Maddy returned the glare with a calm, determined stare. “Roger lives in a nice safe habitat orbiting Mars, and doesn’t have to worry about becoming component atoms in the immediate future. Which reminds me: this call is coming out of your allowance, along with any others to young Roger. Our FTL long-distance isn’t cheap, and you didn’t ask permission first. Now move!”

Without further protest, Kat stood up sharply and stomped out of the room. Maddy shook her head. How can she pout that much and not dislocate her jaw?

* * *

While Maddy was fetching Kat, Lee stopped the plasma draw on the magnetic bottle and started the cooling cycle to form a slug. After it cooled, the slug would be fitted with a set of impellers, a shield generator, and a small guidance computer. Then it would be shot out into space for collection. The slug would be only 75 percent complete, and most buyers balked at nonstandard-sized slugs. Lee would be lucky to get half the price of a full slug. Still, he needed to get something fired out to the collection point and sold. Until the insurance company paid off, that slug was the family’s sole source of income.

He downloaded the facility’s computer contents to a database on the family pinnace. Every electronic memory of the Kurchowsky family, from tax records to birthday cards, got backed up—along with all the documentation on his smelting techniques. Even if they had to start over, they wouldn’t have to begin completely from scratch.

Lee mentally kicked himself for bringing his family here. He knew the sun was a deadly place to live and work, and he knew that old Sol Invictus had no patience or mercy for careless dilettantes. Yet Lee also knew that as long as he and his family maintained a healthy respect for this unforgiving environment, solar smelting was no more dangerous than asteroid mining in the Belt—and Belters felt safe bringing their families. In fact, the sun held far less danger than the icy outer planets. When operating at several million degrees Kelvin, a couple degrees difference one way or the other was meaningless; but at close to absolute zero, that same difference could mean life or death. A degree or two warmer or colder could completely change a material’s properties, and, at that level of cold, substances behaved just plain weird. But all those facts and statistics were no comfort to him now.

Lee vowed that, if they survived, he’d never bring his family back here. He hoped that, with the data he’d collected, maybe no one else would have to come back either.

He looked up in time to see Maddy hustling a pouting Kat into the bedroom.

“Okay, kids,” Maddy began, “we’ve got forty minutes left on our evacuation window. We’re going to do this just like the drills we have. Now you know why we have evacuation drills. All the supplies we need are in the pinnace, so let’s go down to the boat bay.”

Kat nodded assent. Once she realized what was happening, Kat cooperated without a complaint and didn’t balk at all about leaving most of her possessions behind.

Shelby pitched a fit. Even though she barely acknowledged the existence of most of her toys, they suddenly were all precious, dear, and irreplaceable.

Maddy laid down the law. “Now you listen to me, Shelby Anne Kurchowsky. Toys can be replaced, but people can’t. Get your butt moving right now!”

Shelby shot a quick, pleading look at Kat, who returned it with a stern glare. Defeated, the nine-year-old relented sullenly, sporting a prominent pout that put her sister’s to shame. That settled, they made their way to the boat bay in the basement where the Dodge Sunglider busily preflighted itself.

Seconds after they boarded, the alarm sounded again.

This time a different voice came on, a voice that sounded at the tail of adolescence. “CQ, CQ, CQ. This is S77GTC, SunWarn Station Seven. Listen carefully, we’ve got an increase in solar activity, so forget the window SWS gave you. You folks only have a fifteen-minute evacuation window, so you really gotta get moving. I’d say keep it at a minimum of three hundred gees, people.”

It looked like SunWarn, the group of amateur comm operators that monitored the solar weather, must have overridden the SWS, as they were empowered to do in emergencies. In a situation like this, the Solar Communication Commission would back them to the hilt. Since the times of prespace Earth, “hams,” as they referred to themselves, had rendered assistance during emergencies. When bureaucracies failed, as they almost always did, hams kept the lines of communication open. Their technology had evolved from crude radio-frequency modulators to quantum resonance transceivers, but the ethos remained the same. In times of trouble, hams would be the first to offer their help.

Maddy’s eyes widened. “My God. Half the people in the area will need to redline to hit that.”

Lee’s stomach clenched with worry. “How about us?”

“We can do three-fifty. The last time I had it overhauled, I upgraded the impellers.”

Lee nodded and went back to his own console. Maddy ran down the checklist, and brought systems online. When she attempted to bring the engines up, the onboard systems blocked her and scolded her in an annoyingly pleasant voice.

“Warning: the engine requires twenty-five more minutes of preflight diagnostics—”

“OVERRIDE!” Maddy yelled. She almost shouted “belay that!” Old habits die hard. She remembered one more of Chief Hughes’s Deadly Sins: The Sin of Not Overriding Safety Equipment When Needs Must.

While the engines spooled up, she generated a shortest-time course to MSD at maximum emergency acceleration. Contrary to what she told Lee, she’d actually push 390 gees—forty gees beyond the manufacturer’s stated “redline.” In addition to her SAR duties in the Guard as a pinnace pilot, Maddy did a tour as a pinnace test pilot and knew exactly how far above the manufacturer’s specs she could push a ship. The pinnace would need another expensive overhaul afterward, but that was the least of her worries. She was worried that some crucial component might fail at the edge of the envelope. All it took was a single, slightly off-spec part, or one too close to the end of its service life …

Wisely, she decided not to mention that little detail to Lee.

Lee was busy, too. He submitted an insurance preclaim. The claim was set on a dead-man’s loop and tied to the smelter’s comm system. The claim was stored in a digital vault aboard a Venus-orbiting satellite, with a constant carrier backtracking to the house. The instant contact was lost with the facility—when it was vaporized by the ejecta—the preclaim would go active and submit itself to the provider. Of course, if the smelter miraculously survived and remained inhabitable, or if it turned out to be a false alarm, he’d either have to send a desubmit message before shutting down the carrier, or contact the provider directly to stop them from processing the claim. If he didn’t, he risked stiff penalties for insurance fraud. He could even face criminal charges.

Also, he remembered to make reservations at the Mercury Motel Six. It was all their limited budget could afford, but at least they’d have warm beds to sleep in. He had just picked out a suite when Maddy announced, “Looks like we’re ready to go. Hang on, this might be a bit bumpy.”

She opened the bay doors and used the reaction thrusters to ease the pinnace out. The facility was oriented so the “roof” was attached to the asteroid, and the “basement” was pointed out toward space.

Lee looked at an overhead viewscreen, and gazed at the false-color image of the photosphere above. It still had its healthy, even appearance in spite of the gathering magnetic forces that conspired to hurl gigatons of plasma out into the void. Strangely, that made it seem more sinister, and he shuddered with unease. The image slid away when Maddy rotated the pinnace and increased thrust.

Once clear, Maddy boosted power to the pinnace’s shields and closed the distance with the edge of the facility’s shield. Although she wanted to hurry, she knew this phase had to be done with great care. If they were in normal space, it wouldn’t be a problem, but with the fury surrounding them, a shield was under incredible stress. The two shields needed time to interpose with each other, much like a small soap bubble squeezing its way out of a larger one. If done carefully, both bubbles go on their merry way, but too much force would pop one or both bubbles. Whatever object lost its shield would be instantly destroyed by the full fury of Sol’s corona. She was sorely tempted simply to shut down the smelter’s shield, but that would have voided their insurance claim and ruined them financially.

Several tense seconds passed while the pinnace slipped out, but once it was clear of the other shield, Maddy, in the archaic lingo of her profession, “kicked the tires and lit the fires.” With the impellers engaged, the pinnace accelerated toward the relative safety of open space. Maddy kept a careful eye on the status displays—particularly the impeller display and the compensator display—but everything remained “in the green.” Lee opened his mouth to say something, but she squelched him immediately.

“No, honey. Please don’t distract me when I’m driving.”

He mumbled an apology and sat back quietly in his couch. Maddy looked at her sensor display and saw several dozen icons representing the pinnaces of other evacuees. The majority maintained the recommended three hundred gees, and a few actually matched her acceleration. However, three of them barely plodded along at a leisurely two hundred gees.

Don’t these people know what’s going to happen? she thought in astonishment. She looked closer and saw they were all from the Solar Steel Works smelter. Solar Steel Works was the solar system’s largest producer of B-steel— though they couldn’t match Lee’s quality. Theoretically, they were Lee and Maddy’s competition, but they were still human beings, albeit stupid human beings.

She opened a channel. “Attention SSW pinnaces. Increase your acceleration to the three hundred gees SunWarn recommended. Pick it up people! We don’t know when this is going to blow.”

“No-can-do, Kurchowsky,” a defeated voice came back. “These buckets are at their maximum accel right now.”

A decade of search-and-rescue work screamed at her to turn around and shepherd the stragglers. However, everyone was on their own right now. Maddy had her own family to think of. Still, it was unthinkable for her to sit back and do nothing when lives were at stake, and she racked her brain for a solution.

Inspiration hit her. “SSW pinnaces. What type of pinnace are you flying.”

There was a brief pause. “Buick Millennium CEs. Why?”

“Oh, thank God,” she muttered. “Now listen carefully: you can override your governors and max out your accel. You’ll probably burn out your impellers, but you can make it.”

“But our gravcomps—”

“Don’t worry about them! The Millenium is a civilian version of the Solar Guard’s SP-7, and they all use the same compensator. It’s mil-spec, so it can take the load. Now shut your mouth and listen to me …”

While Maddy tried to save the SSW people, Lee saw a telltale on his screen flash to life as the partial slag exited the smelter’s shield and brought up its own impellers. He watched it surge forward as it screamed spaceward at nearly a kilogee toward a pickup point halfway between the orbits of Mercury and Venus. A gigantic weight lifted off his shoulders. Lee had done his part; now the rest was up to Maddy.

* * *

They were only minutes away from the MSD point when Sol belched. Instantly, the SWS feed hissed into static, overwhelmed by the electromagnetic howl produced by megatons of liberated plasma. Not even the SWS equipment, custom-tuned to function this close to the sun, could filter out the cacophony of physics gone insane. She chanced a quick glimpse at her family. Kat read a book, while Shelby slept. However, Lee’s eyes met hers. His eyes gazed back with complete and utter trust. She cracked a faint, forced smile to reassure him, then turned back to her console.

Helplessly, she watched the icons for two of the SSW pinnaces wink out on her display. Each one represented living, breathing human beings seared to a whiff of carbon atoms in a nanosecond. The flight crews of those two pinnaces must have somehow misunderstood her instructions and not been able to override their governors. However, the third one had increased its accel. Maddy felt a surge of relief, but it did nothing to ease the guilt of not being able to save those aboard the other two. A few other pinnace pilots must have panicked because they threw their craft into wild evasive maneuvers. The gyrations decreased their relative accel, and they died, too. The rest increased their accel as much as they could, and they barely kept ahead of the superheated reaper.

Maddy fought every instinct to override the navcomp and pull some idiotic nugget move. Contrary to the ancient piloting mythos, the last thing a smart pilot did in a hairy situation was “shut off the computer.” Panic welled up inside when she noticed the outside radiation readings climb; the monster was tickling their shield. The heavy-duty shielding easily kept out the worst heat and radiation normally encountered in Sol’s corona, but it couldn’t hold back a massive blast of plasma larger than any of the inner planets.

A voice cut through the static in her headset, and the speaker sounded like he was fighting to stay calm. “This is S77GTC to all pinnaces hearing my transmission. I have you on my sensors, and I’ve found some thin spots in the plasma. If you follow the course I’m downloading to your navcomps, you should be able to avoid the worst of it, and your shields should hold. Transmitting now.”

A vector appeared on Maddy’s screen, and she instantly altered course to follow it. Other pinnaces followed suit, each on a slightly different vector to find the weak spots in the plasma. Maddy was in awe of the young ham who managed not only to establish communication through this hurricane of electromagnetism, but actually to use it to download individually customized navigational data to each ship’s computer. Maddy guessed he had just stretched the SCC regs well beyond the breaking point, and she was glad he did it.

“Looking good, people. Looking good.” She could hear a sense of satisfaction in the voice. “Stay on those courses and you should be safe. Godsp—”

The communication suddenly broke off, and Maddy felt her guts clench up. She hoped beyond hope that it was only interference, but she didn’t have time to think about it. She worried her lower lip with stress, and she contemplated diverting an extra trickle of power from the engines to the shields. She quickly disregarded it because, in this circumstance, speed was life. Radiation readings increased, and alarm telltales lit up on her display. However, none of the radiation had reached the pinnace itself, and the shield still held. Another pinnace, which had drifted off its vector, vanished from her sensors. Maddy felt a trickle of blood run down her chin, and realized she had bitten deeply into her lip.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the radiation levels slowly started to drop and continued to drop. They were safe! After she took several deep breaths to calm herself, she rotated her couch sideways and played her eyes across her family. Except for Lee, who could see it in her eyes, they had no idea how close they had come to dying, for which she was eternally grateful.

Kat looked up from her book. “Mom? Is your lip bleeding?”

Lee’s eyes popped up, and she could feel the concern radiating from him. She smiled and wiped the blood away with her sleeve. “Oh, it’s nothing. It just got a little bit tense back there. But everything’s going to be all right.”

She slid out of her harness and got up from the couch. “Excuse me for a moment, hon, I’ve got to take care of this cut. Then we’ll decide what we want to do on Mercury.”

She stopped by Shelby and tousled her hair. The girl murmured slightly, then rolled over and went back to sleep. Maddy closed the door behind her, tossed her headset aside, dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, and threw up. She gripped the rim of the bowl and held tightly until her hands stopped shaking. She took several deep breaths, then stood up and turned to the sink. While she was washing out her mouth, she heard a tinny voice call from her headset.

“Calling Kurchowsky pinnace, this is SSW Niner-Golf-Three.”

She snatched up the headset and put it back on. “Go ahead Niner-Golf-Three.”

“You were right, Kurchowsky: we toasted our impellers. If we sent you our coordinates, do you think you could, um, give us a tow?”

Maddy couldn’t help but grin. “I don’t think that would be a problem, Niner-Golf-Three.”

* * *

After they reached Mercury with the other survivors, Maddy handed the disabled SSW pinnace and its occupants off to the Mercury Orbital Patrol. Then she and Lee found out what went wrong.

For the past two centuries, the SWS had operated an automated network of solar forecasting satellites orbiting the sun. The network scanned Sol in every imaginable spectrum, and was able to issue accurate forecasts days, if not weeks, in advance. It was so effective that, since it went online, only fifty-seven people had died as a result of solar weather—and most of those because they either disregarded the warnings or were unable to receive them.

Today, the network failed, and the system ceased issuing warnings. The cause was a bug that appeared in the system after the latest software patch. Naturally, the SWS blamed the software developer for creating a defective patch, and, just as naturally, the software developer blamed the SWS for improperly installing it.

Regardless, the quick action of a single person aboard SunWarn Seven saved the day. The ham on watch, a seventeen-year-old man named Ndungu Semenya, noticed the wild buildup of energy in Sol’s magnetic field. He was astonished that the system never issued a warning. He wondered, if SunWarn could see what was happening with their less sophisticated weather equipment, why couldn’t SWS? Quickly, he logged into the SWS network and found it had registered an alert two days ago, but did not issue a warning. Ndungu, using a series of codes issued by the SCC, made himself a superuser and issued the warning manually. Since they were in the damage path as well, the SunWarn people started to evacuate.

Ndungu was ready to board the pinnace, when he noticed the network had updated its forecast and narrowed the window for escape, but, yet again, the network didn’t issue a warning. He made a split-second decision, told his comrades aboard the pinnace to leave without him, then went back to his comm station. He logged back in as a superuser, became SWS, and started issuing warnings. He then acted as an impromptu, one-man space traffic control. Ndungu was the “S77GTC” to whom Maddy had been listening.

Fortunately, while SunWarn’s weather equipment was lacking, their comm gear was top-notch. Ndungu managed to keep talking to the pinnaces even after the CME erupted, guiding them out of harm’s way. He stayed at his rig until the ejecta bombardment collapsed SunWarn Seven’s shields and vaporized the station. However, because he stayed behind, only fifteen pinnaces out of one hundred seven were lost, and those mostly because their pilots didn’t, or couldn’t keep their acceleration high enough. One hundred and forty-nine people died, but thanks to Ndungu, over one thousand were saved.

Of all the organizations and institutions that played a part in the disaster, only the amateur comm community came out of it with its reputation intact. However, the community was too busy mourning its “silent key” to enjoy the accolades.

Lee decided to take the family down to the pool to blow off some steam, and Maddy heartily agreed. The children, lacking their parents’ sense of mortality, threw themselves wholeheartedly into the simple joy of the pool. The two immediately discovered that they could create some truly monumental splashes in little over a third of a gee. This was their first time in any gravity besides microgee and earth-normal. Maddy was about to take a nap when a petite, dark-haired woman walked up to them. A camera drone hovered behind her.

She smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Misa Gonzales from SNN. How are you holding up?”

Maddy stared with shocked disbelief. How am I holding up? she thought in amazement. I damn near lost my family you little airhead, how the hell would you be holding up?

“As fine as can be expected, Misa,” Lee answered, his voice weary. “We’re alive, so that’s a start.”

When she saw Maddy shoot her a hostile glare, Misa reached in her pocket and pulled out a remote. She clicked a button, and the red light went out on the drone. Then she clicked another, and the drone turned its camera away. “I can come back later, if you guys want. Or not at all.”

Touched by the gesture, Maddy waved her to a seat. Maddy had developed a not-unfounded knee-jerk reaction to reporters while she was in the Guard. It surprised her to see one act like a human being.

“Thanks,” Misa said. “This really isn’t my bag. I mostly work the business sector—whistle-blowers, shady deals in smoke-filled rooms, and the like. But, my boss wanted a ‘human interest’ story on the disaster, and since I just happened to be on Mercury at the time …”

She shrugged. “My ancestors on Mom’s side of the family have a long history of getting their homes washed away by tsunamis, along with reporters sticking cameras in their faces and asking them how they felt about it. So, I guess you could say my heart isn’t really in it.”

Maddy cracked a slight smile. “Sorry I gave you the evil eye. I guess I’m still a little worked up.”

“That, and you really didn’t want to deal some annoying newsie,” Misa added.

“That too. Maddy Kurchowsky.” She stuck her hand out, and Misa took it. “And this is my husband Lee.”

Misa shook hands with Lee. “Pleased to meet you. Those your kids there?”

“Yes,” Maddy answered. “The little one’s Shelby and the older one is…KAT! STOP SPLASHING YOUR SISTER! Um, her name is Kat—as you probably guessed.”

“Oh, they’re both wonderful.”

“You have any of your own?” Lee asked.

“I have a ten-year-old son.” Misa grimaced. “With this job, I don’t get to spend as much time with him as I’d like to. Someday that’ll change.”

“With our work,” Lee said, “we’ve been able to keep our kids with us. But it almost killed them in the process.”

“What work do you do?”

“We were solar smelters.” He grimaced.

“Oh! Wildcatters! You make B-steel, huh?” Her eyes lit up.

“Yes we do. However, I’m trying to take things a step further.” He gave her a thumbnail rundown of his plans for his data. “In fact, I just sent off a cover letter and synopsis to the Mars Technical Institute before I came down here.”

Maddy looked up at him and nodded in approval.

“My wife tells me that they’re pretty sharp at MTI,” Lee continued. “So, if anyone can do anything with the data, it’s Mars Tech. Oh sure, it’d be easy to say ‘stop making B-steel,’ but that stuff is the key to the stars. It’s the only material that can reliably withstand a transition into warp without degrading. Enriched titanium, the best metal we had before B-steel, crumbles like dry cake after only four transitions. So, B-steel is what we need to get out of the solar system. We’ve left Earth’s cradle, but now it’s high time to move out of the nursery.”

“So, you basically want to get as many people as you can away from the sun—away from all that danger.” Misa scratched her chin. “Wouldn’t a remotely operated smelter do? You’d have people in the loop, but nobody at risk.”

“Oh no.” He shook his head. “Solar Steel tried it a few years ago. It sounded like the way to go, but it didn’t work out.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard that.”

“Yeah, it turned out to be kind of an embarrassment for them. I got the details from a former employee.”

“Well, why didn’t it work?” Watching her draw Lee out, Maddy concluded that Misa was in the right line of work. Maddy was about to cut her off, but she noticed that Misa seemed genuinely interested in what Lee was saying.

“There are a few reasons, Misa. First off, it’s extremely expensive to fit a smelter with all the necessary remote equipment—the big boys can do it, but a wildcatter is on too tight a budget to begin with.

“Another problem is that Sol throws off a lot of interference on every imaginable spectrum. It’s hard enough to make a phone call to or from the sun, much less transfer trillions of lines of code back and forth. You get a glitch during a phone call to Grandma, it’s no big deal. You just ask her to repeat what she said. With a slew of code, it’s a lot different because if you mess up the right line of code, you might ruin an entire slug.

“Finally, when you’re throwing transmissions across open space, whether electromagnetic or quantum band, there’s always a chance that it’ll be hacked.”

“I thought encryption could prevent that.”

“So did Solar Steel. Just remember that no matter how sophisticated the lock, someone still has to open it. You can pick it, make your own key, or steal someone else’s key. SSW’s not sure what happened, but someone got into their system and, well, changed the specs on the slug.”

“Changed the specs? How?”

“Well, when the tug went to fetch the slug, they found its structure had been modified …”

“Go on.”

“How can I put this delicately? The slug that got shot out was shaped like … well, let’s just say that somebody was compensating for something. A ‘shortcoming,’ shall we say?”

“Oh. My. God.” Misa burst out laughing, and it wasn’t the standard “ha-ha, that’s funny” kind of laugh. It was a hope-your-bladder-is-empty laugh. She laughed so hard—roaring guffaws with snorts here and there to punctuate—Lee and Maddy couldn’t help but join in. Others around the pool gaped at them, and a few pretended to ignore them.

“Oh, I haven’t laughed that hard in years.” She coughed as she got herself under control. “Thank you!”

She let out a few more giggles, then settled down. “So, since you said you ‘were’ solar smelters, it’s my guess that you’re thinking about another line of work?”

“Yes I am. I’d prefer a job nice and far from the sun. Maybe Mars …”

Lee trailed off when Misa looked away and gazed across the pool. Then she turned her camera back on. Lee and Maddy followed Misa’s gaze and saw a man and a woman in business suits heading their way.

“That can’t be good,” she whispered. “The man is Ray Quimby from Solar Steel Works, and the woman is Selene Rostov from Lunar Applied Metals. They’re both pretty high on their respective corporate food chains, and they look like they want to talk to you. My advice: watch out. Sharks leave the water when they go swimming. Oh, they’re just gonna love running into me—especially Quimby.”

The two businesspeople walked up and introduced themselves. Quimby gave an icy stare to Misa, who answered with a warm smile. Rostov’s face was almost totally emotionless. Both Quimby and Rostov were physically perfect representatives of their gender, which left no doubt in Maddy’s mind that they had biosculpted to excess. The two “suits” had made the classic blunder of removing all the tiny imperfections that create true beauty.

Quimby sat on one of the lounge chairs and made a shooing gesture at Misa. “You need to leave, Gonzales. What we’re about to say is proprietary information. Go.”

“Not my problem, Ray. I’m just sitting here by the pool. I am a guest here, after all. Are you staying here, too?” She grinned sweetly.

“No,” he growled, “we’re staying at the Hilton, but you knew that. Didn’t you?’

Misa simply shrugged and made no effort to get up.

Quimby blew out a puff of air. “Fine! But that thing goes off. Right now.”

Nodding in acquiescence, Misa pointed her remote at the drone. The red light winked off. Lee noticed it didn’t turn around like it had last time.

Rostov fixed her with a piercing gaze. “He said ‘off,’ Misa.”

“Well, I had to try.” Misa sighed, then pressed another button on her remote, sending the drone away. Rostov nodded and sat down.

“Mr. Kurchowsky,” Quimby began, “I’d like to make you an offer. My competitor here will make you another offer, but I think you’ll like mine better.”

Lee shot a quick glance at Maddy, who nodded slightly. “Okay. Shoot.”

“As you’re well aware, we’ve all taken some big hits in this disaster, and we need to get back on our collective feet. So, we’d like to offer you a job.”

“Doing what?”

“We’ve already got an asteroid fitted out, a fifty-gigatonner—”

“Hold on right there. You want me to work another smelter?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what we want you to do.” Quimby flashed a smile that reminded Lee of a man he’d bought a “slightly used” flitter from, only to find out it was a complete clunker the next day. “This time, you’ll be supervising a complete crew. We’ll give you free run of everything. After all, you are the best in the business. All you’d have to do is produce. Plus, we’d take that partial slug you fired out there off your hands—at the going price, of course.”

“Sorry. I can’t do it. I’m not putting my family at risk again.”

“Oh! No-no-no! You misunderstand me. It’d just be you going. We don’t have dependent quarters on our smelters. The insurance premiums are way too high for that.”

A horrible sinking feeling washed over Maddy at the thought. She did not want to see her husband go back into that inferno, nor did she want to be left behind, alone with her fears. Her face must have mirrored her thoughts, because she saw Lee shake his head.

“No can do,” he stated. “I can’t—and won’t—do that to Maddy and the kids. I’m not going to put my family through hell every time I leave, not after what we’ve just been through. Sorry, but my answer is no.”

Rostov quirked an eyebrow at Quimby. She opened her mouth to speak, but Lee cut her off. “I’m sorry, but that goes for you, too—if the job involves going back to the sun, I’ve gotta refuse.”

Not to be dismayed, Rostov pressed on in an even tone. “Mr. Kurchowsky, my firm is prepared to offer you a substantial salary, as well as stock options—which my competitor here isn’t prepared to offer. We could make you a rich man.”

“Yeah, wealth is nice, but Sol already tried to kill me once. I’d be a damned fool to give him another shot at me. No deal.”

Quimby spoke up again. “Mr. Kurchowsky. Lee. May I call you ‘Lee’?”

“No, you may not.” Quimby recoiled as if slapped.

“Very well. Mr. Kurchowsky, what happened was a once-in-a-lifetime accident. They’re revamping the warning network, so it’ll never happen again. So—”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place!” Lee’s temper flared. Couldn’t guy understand no?

“But even if it did happen, we have pinnaces—”

“That can’t do over two hundred gees without jury-rigging them and burning out the impellers,” Misa interjected. “Solar Steel’s famous for putting the bottom line first, no matter what the cost.”

“You’re on thin ice, Gonzales!” Quimby snapped, and his face reddened. “And those pinnaces were perfectly adequate for any projected emergency. Accidents happen. Today’s losses were tragic, but you just can’t plan for the impossible.”

Maddy couldn’t hold her tongue anymore. “That’s no excuse!”

Quimby jerked like a dog that overestimated the length of his leash. “I beg your pardon?”

“Maybe you can’t ‘plan for the impossible,’ but that is no excuse for skimping on safety equipment. You plan for the absolute worst, then double your estimate.”

Maddy fixed Quimby with an icy glare. “You always overdesign, overbuild, and overstock your safety equipment. That way, when the ‘impossible’ happens, there just might be enough of a cushion built up to give your people at least a fighting chance.

Maddy shook her head. “I’d never serve under an officer who was as casual about the safety of her crew as you apparently are about that of your employees. And, knowing that, I sure as hell wouldn’t want my husband working for you.”

Lee shook his head and chuckled. “I guess that settles it. Where my wife goes, so go I. Nice talking to you, Mr. Quimby. Please go away.”

Quimby stood so quickly he knocked his chair over. When he spoke, he abandoned all pretense of politeness, and a biting undertone of disgust filled his voice. “Fine! Be that way. But you can forget about anyone buying that hunk of B-steel. After all, if we refuse to buy it—and we do buy a substantial amount from wildcatters—everyone else is going to start wondering what’s wrong with it, especially if we put a few whispers in the right ears. I hope you realize that the Solar Guard will come after you, sooner or later, for creating a ‘navigational hazard.’ I hear the fines are quite stiff. Good day.”

Rostov shook her head. “I think my competitor’s offer has been withdrawn. However, our offer is still on the table. I should remind you that, with all the claims filed because of this disaster, it’s probably going to take quite some time for your insurance to pay off.”

“Ms. Rostov, I won’t go back there, and I certainly won’t take my family back there. We barely made it out of there alive. So, my answer is still ‘no.’”

She nodded, and said, “I wish you’d change your mind, but I can understand your reasoning. Here’s my card. If you eventually reconsider, or if you think of some other way we can arrange this, please give me a call. I’ll be in my suite at the Hilton for the next few days.”

Lee took the card, and Rostov stood up to leave. She took two steps, then stopped and turned around. “One more thing, Mr. Kurchowsky; I wouldn’t worry too much about the Solar Guard if I were you. They’re pretty flexible with regard to disaster victims.”

After Rostov left, Lee asked Misa, “She’s a little different, isn’t she?”

“Oh yes. While Selene is definitely a shark—I’ve tangled with her before, and I’ve got the bite marks to prove it, she’s an honorable shark. She won’t double-cross you as long as you deal honestly with her. Plus, you can bet your bottom credit that the LAM pinnaces can do more than two hundred gees. Quimby, on the other hand, is just a rude, obnoxious, backstabbing toad who climbed the corporate ladder holding on to Daddy’s coattails. If brains were reaction mass, he wouldn’t have enough to deorbit a dust speck.”

Maddy rested her head on Lee’s shoulder. “So, I guess this means we’re at rock bottom, huh?”

He grinned and chuckled lightly. “No way. I’ve been at rock bottom before, and I know what it looks like. This is much nicer. The last time I was at rock bottom, I sure as hell don’t remember having a pool.”

Maddy tried to chuckle, but it came out as a partial sob. “I know you’re just trying to cheer me up, but you don’t have to. I know we’re in for some tough times.”

“Don’t worry, honey. Things will work out—trust me. Besides, we may not have money, but at least we’re not in debt. You said so yourself.”

Lee was right. Maddy was still convinced they were at rock bottom, but at least they weren’t digging.

Misa favored them with a sympathetic grin. “He’s right, Maddy. Things will work out.”

Maddy was puzzled. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“Oh … maybe. We’ll just see how things shake out.” A Cheshire-cat grin spread across her face. Her eyebrows then shot up, and she started digging in her handbag. She pulled out a handful of flashsticks and handed them to Maddy.

“Here! These should come in handy.”

“What are they?”

“Chits for complimentary stuff—free meals, entertainment, and the like. I get tons of this sent to me as a ‘media personality,’ but I’m never gonna use all this crap. Hell, there’s enough there in meal chits alone that your whole family could eat free for the next six months.”

Maddy’s eyes started to mist up. “Thank you … I don’t know what to say.”

Misa made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I got tired of lugging it around. Just one thing? If you ever decide you want your story told, could you give me a jingle? Please? I can’t help it—I’m still a reporter.”

“Okay, okay. If we do tell our story, you get first crack at it. Deal?” Maddy put out her hand.

Misa took it and shook. “Deal”

When they returned to their room later in the evening, there were two messages for Lee. The first message was from their insurance company. The sender apologized profusely and conveyed regrets that “due to the large volume of claims from the recent incident,” the turnaround time on their claim might be “indefinitely prolonged.” The other message was from the Solar Guard—the first good news all day. Because of the hardship the Kurchowskys sustained, the Guard tagged their slug with a beacon, and would delay classifying it as a navigational hazard for the next six months. Also, the slug would be tracked and monitored by picket cutters in the area to safeguard it from possible theft.

There was no way they could get to the slug, or sell it, but at least their nest egg was safe for now. In the Grand Scheme of Things, the scales were tipped well away from them. But this small victory, as well as the meal at the five-star restaurant Misa’s chits had provided, gave them reason to celebrate.

After they sent Kat and Shelby to bed early, Lee and Maddy resumed the celebration the SWS warning had interrupted—and continued to celebrate throughout the night.

* * *

They had visitors the following evening. Maddy answered the chime and found Misa outside their door with a slender, severe-faced woman and a chubby, gregarious man in tow.

“Misa?” she asked, somewhat puzzled. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, Maddy, it’s what these nice people I found wandering around the spaceport can do for you. May we come in?”

She nodded. “Sure, make yourself at home.”

The voices drew Lee out of the bedroom. “Maddy, what’s going on?”

“Mr. Kurchowsky?” the man asked. “Hi, I’m Gunther Faber, the president of the Mars Technological Institute, and next to me is Cora Patel. She’s the Director of Research and Development for Olympus Heavy Industries. We need to talk.”

The group sat around the table in the suite’s small dining room, and Faber took a data pad out of his pocket and switched it on. “We would have got here sooner, but, with the disaster, it was hell chartering a fast courier. On the flight, I was looking at your cover letter, and I have to say that I’m impressed.”

Lee nodded. “So, are you interested in the rest of my data?”

“Hah!” Faber grinned. “I hate to break it to you, but we really don’t want your data; we want you. I’d like to offer you a position with our School of Applied Metallurgy. From what little I’ve seen, the data looks impressive—but not nearly as impressive as the man who put it together does. Granted, we couldn’t pay you the high salaries SSW and LAM offered, but you definitely wouldn’t be hurting.”

His grin widened. “Plus, you get your summers off.”

“Wow.” Lee shook his head in amazement. “Sounds nice, Mr. Faber. We’d move to Mars then?”

“Yup! Oh, and it’s ‘Gunther.’ And, as of sixty years ago, you wouldn’t even need to pack a respirator.”

“Oh, I know that—believe me I know! Maddy’s originally from Mars, and that’s the first detail she beat into me.”

“We’re moving to Mars!” Kat’s voice squealed from the other bedroom. “That’d be great! If we’re on Mars, it’ll be a local call to talk to Roger.”

Maddy narrowed her eyes, and her tone was stern.. “Kat …”

Sigh. “Ye-e-e-s, Mom.” The Pout reappeared, and Kat went back into her room.

“You’re from Mars?” Patel asked. “Which family?”

“The MacBride clan. My parents are Aaron and Tammy.”

“Ah. I’ve met your mother.” Cora shifted uncomfortably. “She’s an … interesting woman.”

Maddy laughed. “You have my sympathies! She’s the reason I joined the Guard. Sure, the duty, the honor, and the sense of pride had a lot to do with it, but getting out from under Tamara MacBride’s roof was the main factor.”

Patel’s severe features cracked into a warm smile, and she actually giggled. “That was much less awkward than I was afraid it would be.”

Cora regained her composure slightly, but the whole severe facade was completely gone. “I guess we should get back to business. You’re probably not going to like it, Mr. Kurchowsky—”

“‘Lee,’ please, and ‘Maddy,’ please as well. If that’s all right with you, hon?”

Maddy nodded.

“Then it’s ‘Cora’ for me. Anyway, you’re not going to like it, Lee, but what I’m going to offer you would eat up the summers that Gunther says you’ll have off. We’re right now developing an automated solar smelter that can produce high-grade B-steel, and we’d like to retain you as a consultant. I’m sure we could make it worth your while to give up your summers, along with the occasional weekend. Interested?”

Cora and Gunther leaned forward in anticipation.

“This is a little overwhelming,” Lee said in an incredulous voice. “I’d have to think about—OW!”

Maddy cuffed him on the side of the head and stage-whispered, “Say ‘yes,’ stupid.”

“Yes!” Then he became serious. “I wouldn’t have to go anywhere near the sun, would I?”

Both Gunther and Cora shook their heads emphatically.

“No, Lee,” Cora reassured him. “That’s why we’re developing the automated platform. We think that, with MTI’s analysis of your data, and whatever advice you can give us, we can make sure no one has to go back there, at least to make B-steel.”

“Okay. That sounds good.” Lee looked over and saw the utter relief in Maddy’s eyes.

“Now there is one more matter,” Cora said. “We’d like to procure an engineering sample of high-grade B-steel, preferably with ninety percent purity or higher. We want to buy your slug. Unfortunately, there’s a catch; we’re having a cash-flow problem right now, so we can’t pay for the slug up front.”

Before Lee could protest, she held up a hand. “No, we’re not broke! You will get paid, and paid in full. Financially, we’re making money hand over fist. Our employees are getting paid, and will continue to do so. But, right now, our cash-conversion cycle is a complete mess. We’ve got the cycle so skewed, that we’re paying our vendors before our customers pay us, and it’s going to take twelve to eighteen months to get everything straightened out—but it will get straightened out. So, in the interim, while we can’t give you any large amounts of cash, aside from your consulting fee, we can give you an advance in the form of goods. Would you be interested in a house?”

“A house? You’d buy us a house?”

“No, not buy—give. There’s a housing surplus on Mars, and one of the things we did a few years ago to boost recruitment was to build several homes, and offer them to prospective employees. Normally, they live in the houses, rent-free, for the first two years of employment. After that, it’s theirs with no strings attached.”

“Isn’t that a little costly?”

“Not really. Right now, real estate is dirt cheap on Mars, and it really doesn’t cost us that much to put up a decent home. We don’t have all of the red tape and fees you have to deal with to build a house on Earth. For the price of building a one-bedroom house on Earth, we can build ten three- or four-bedroom homes. We can build thirty of those same homes for the price of a condo on an L5 station. Besides, what’s really costly in the long run is not attracting good people. Believe it or not, even with that incentive, we’ve barely been able to fill ten percent of those homes.

“Your case is a little different. We’d just give you the house outright, sell you it actually, with the assessed value—and we’d go with the lowest price—deducted from what we pay you for the slug. We’ll also put in a clause that, if the price of B-steel drops by the time our cash flow gets back on track—though I don’t see why it would—we’ll still buy the slug from you at today’s value. However, if the price goes up, we’ll pay you that price for it. Yes, we will put it in writing—and you can have any lawyer you want go over it. Just remember: we may be a big outfit for Mars, but we’re still small enough we can’t afford to screw people over. So, you have a slug you want to sell?”

“I think I might know where I can lay my hands on one.”

“Great! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get the paperwork in order. I’ll drop by tomorrow, and we’ll go over it. If there’s anything in there you don’t understand, please ask!”

“There is one thing I don’t understand. I never contacted OHI, so what brought you here? Was this Gunther’s idea?”

Lee then turned to Misa. “Or was it yours?”

Misa’s Cheshire-cat grin returned, and Cora sported one herself, revealing the conspiracy. “Oh, I might have dropped Cora a line. Hey! You did mention Mars, after all. I just did a little research into automated smelters last night, and OHI popped up. Then, like a good little reporter, I followed up my leads. Besides, I didn’t know MTI was actually going to hire you.”

Cora tilted her head to the side. “Yeah, she was very persuasive—she spent half the night talking my ear off until I finally gave in! Any more questions?”

“No, I guess that sums it up.” Lee’s head was reeling.

Cora turned to leave, but Gunther stopped. “One other thing, Cora. Make sure the house is close to the Institute. No more than a half hour drive! We don’t want the poor man stuck in a two-hour commute.”

“Yes, Gunther.” She sighed with exasperation, gave him a wink, and left.

“Well, I’d better be going, too. We’ll have to sit down and get things squared away. Don’t worry, we’ll get you set up.”

After Gunther left, Misa still sat at the table with that same inscrutable grin.

“Okay, Misa, spill it,” Maddy ordered. “You’re driving me nuts with curiosity, and you know it!”

Misa raised and eyebrow in amusement. “Spill what?”

“Lee, honey. Please leave the room. Someone’s going to get beaten if she doesn’t get to the point.”

Lee gave a gentle pat to Maddy’s shoulder. “I think what my wife wants to know, but is too flustered to ask, is: why did you do it? Why’d you help us?”

A wistful look crossed Misa’s face. “You said you’d give me the first crack at your story when you were ready to tell it. However, your story had a big problem, and it needed fixing, before you could even hope to tell it.”

Maddy’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? What kind of problem?”

Misa shrugged. “It needed a happy ending.”

* * *

Old Folks’ Home

Written by John Kratman

Illustrated by Brian Brennan

Bobby Cullivan finished entering the staff schedules and leaned back in his chair, doing his best to ignore the arthritic twinge in his hip. It was nice to be calling the shots again.

His son, Joe, did a decent job managing the retirement station, but Bobby missed being in charge. Joe went down to Earth once every three months for a few weeks of high gravity and Bobby looked forward to his son’s time away.

At ninety-two years old, Bobby had no interest in making the trip to Earth. After his last heart attack, his ticker just couldn’t take the strain of a full gee anymore. The retirement station’s simulated gravity was easy on old, tired bones, but it made going planetside harder and harder as the years wore on.

Bobby stood up and walked from his office to the station’s great room. Mr. and Mrs. Silverstein were playing cribbage and watching the nightly news in their usual spot. They sat in thin plastic chairs in front of one of the viewports.

“Fifteen for two,” Mrs. Silverstein said. She waved frantically at Bobby as he walked past. “Good evening, Bobby!”

“Ach,” her husband said. He moved her cribbage peg forward with an angry swipe of his hand. “Enough with the waving! He sees you already.”

“Good evening, Gertie. Evening, Saul.” Bobby smiled and waved.

“‘Good Evening’ he says.” Mr. Silverstein slapped his cards down on the table. “How about you make yourself useful, hotshot, and turn down the gravity? My feet are killing me!”

“Don’t pay any attention to this mashuganah, Bobby. The gravity is fine.” Mrs. Silverstein pushed a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear and winked at him. “He’s always grumpy on his birthday.”

“What? I should expect a call from my grandchildren on my one hundred and fifth birthday? God forbid I should get a little consideration!”

“They’ll call, Saul.” Mrs. Silverstein reached out and patted Mr. Silverstein’s spotted hand. “You know how busy they are.”

The comm unit sounded and Bobby rushed to a nearby console, relieved to get away. No one had called Mr. Silverstein the previous year, either. He toggled the reply button. “Happy Orbit Station here.”

“Sir, this is the repair ship Abigail. We’re with the Quality Shielding Company of Luna.” It was a kid’s voice, no older than twenty by the sound of it.

“We don’t need any.” Bobby reached out to push the button and close the channel.

“Can I talk to Mr. Cullivan?” Bobby’s hand stopped a few millimeters from the contact.

“This is Mr. Cullivan.”

“Ah, Joe Cullivan?”

“Oh, no. Joey’s my son. He’s not here.”

Just then, a commotion broke out across from Bobby in the corner of the great room.

“You’re a damned flirt, Gertie! That’s what I’m upset about!” Mr. Silverstein shook his fist at his wife and stood up, knocking his chair over with a crash. He stomped over to her, his legs quivering with the effort, and waved his shriveled fist in her face.

Mrs. Silverstein wound up and struck Mr. Silverstein with the cribbage board. “Meshugenah!” He clutched his nose and let out a strangled howl. The crowd of old folks in the great room let out a collective cheer and shuffled over to watch the fight, happy for anything to break the monotony of their day.

“We need orderlies in here!” Bobby shouted toward the nurses’ station. He pressed one ear closer to the wall mounted comm unit and covered the other with his hand.

“What was that?” he asked into it. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Well, ah, sir,” the voice over the comm continued, “you’ve got a real problem with the shielding near your docking bay. The radiation membrane is coming loose and it looks like the impact shield is chewed up pretty bad. Your son said we should come over and get it fixed right away.”

“Hmm. That’s funny. He didn’t mention it to me,” Bobby said.

“Well, no need to worry. We’ll get right to work.” The comm unit clicked as the ship signed off. Bobby went over to the viewport, dodging the orderlies who were trying to get Mr. and Mrs. Silverstein calmed down. He toggled through a few camera views before he saw the ship. It was a crappy old tug, the standard type of ship used by the various blue-collar tradesmen who worked the stations. It was parked next to the stationary docking bay at the station’s hub. The retirement home’s ring turned at a stately two rotations per minute behind it.

Bobby saw a few smallish pieces of space junk impact the aluminum bumpers of the tug’s shields. “More and more junk everyday. Damn young people don’t respect anything.”

After a moment’s thought, he decided to check with Joey.

“Get me Joseph, planetside,” he said into the com panel. A low-tone beep emanated from the unit.

“Hello?” Joe’s wife answered after a small delay.

“Angie? It’s Bobby. Is Joe there?”

“Oh, hi, Dad.” She flipped the contact on her side and a video image of his daughter-in-law’s pretty face filled the comm’s screen. “He just went to the store with the girls. He should be back any minute. You want me to leave him a message?”

“Yeah, have him call me. There’s a crew of workmen here to repair the shielding and I want to make sure he knows about it.”

“I will,” Angie said. “You take it slow, okay? You’re not getting any younger.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He smiled and winked at her. “Bye, Angie. Kiss the girls for me.” Bobby closed the contact and folded his arms in front of him, his smile melting into a frown. He toggled the camera back to the tug and saw the workmen exiting their ship.

“Screw this,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m going out there.”

He took the elevator to the hub. The transition from one-third a gee to weightlessness made him nauseous, but he was used to the sensation. By the time he was suited up, he felt fine.

Bobby cycled through the airlock. Four workmen were standing around surveying the hub’s impact shield. A couple of them noticed Bobby and began unloading tools and attaching safety tethers to the station.

Bobby walked across the hull with the practiced ease of an old spacer, disengaging one magnetic boot at a time. He paused to look down at Earth. North America, green and beautiful, was directly beneath the station and Bobby spent a wistful moment thinking about fishing for stripers in Narragansett Bay as a boy.

“Long time ago.” Bobby shook his head and walked over to the work crew. He looked over the shield with a critical eye and clicked on the general com channel for suit-to-suit. “It looks fine to me.”

“Oh, no, sir.” One of the workmen put out his hand. “I’m Tom, from Quality Shielding.”

Bobby ignored his offer to shake and Tom drew back his gauntleted hand. “I ain’t no ‘sir,’ young feller. I used to work for a living.”

“All right, Mr. Cullivan, no offense meant. You’ve got some real problems here, though. Radiation leaks, worn out spots on the Whipple shield—a good piece of space junk or a solar flare and you can say ‘bye-bye retirement station.’”

“Really?” Bobby had spent enough time on space stations and ships to see there was nothing wrong with the shield. He wasn’t keen on talking about the weather with some guy trying to sell him something he didn’t need.

One of the other workmen took a diamond bit cutter out of his toolkit and started removing the riveting that held the first layer of the Whipple strike shield to the deck. It was essentially a multi-ply aluminum mesh shield, designed to distribute impact as debris penetrated each stacked layer. Still effective, even though the design was well over a hundred years old.

“Hold on there, boy. Just when did my son tell you to fix this shield?”

“Called us yesterday. Told us it was a rush job,” Tom said.

“Well … I want you to hold up for a few minutes until I talk to him. I’m not sure he understood what you guys meant to do.” Bobby really wanted to tell them to buzz off, but Joe ran the station now. He didn’t want to step on his son’s toes.

“All right, but we got more than one job going right now, mister. You want to hold us up, we may not finish it for a while,” Tom said.

“That’s okay. He should be calling in soon and we’ll straighten this all out.” Bobby silently noted the registration numbers on the side of the crew’s tug.

“If that’s the way you want it.” Tom turned to his work crew. “Hold up, everyone. Take five.”

“Thank you.” Bobby made his way back to the airlock and peeled off his suit, cursing the stiffness in his hands as he worked the latches and seals. On the way to his quarters, he asked one of the crew if Joe had called.

“Ten minutes ago,” the crewman said. “Said you should call him back.”

“Thanks.” Bobby stopped for a cup of coffee in the galley and went to his room to call Earth. He dialed Joe at home.

“Hi, Dad.” Joe looked a little tired, but it wasn’t easy going back to full gravity, even for a relatively young man. “I hope that’s decaf. You know you’re supposed to lay off the caffeine.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’m not a baby, Joey. I can decide when I can have a cup of coffee.”

Joey rolled his bloodshot eyes toward the ceiling. “Okay, Dad, forget I mentioned it. Angie told me the shielding company called you?”

“They didn’t just call—they’re here. Just showed up an hour ago and started peeling off the docking bay’s Whipple shield.” Bobby took a sip of his coffee. “Thought I should call you since the shield looked good to me when I went out there.”

Joe’s face paled. “I told them ‘no,’ for God’s sake.” He put his hand over his eyes and shook his head. “Those bastards have been on me for a month and I keep telling them we don’t want any. The last time they called was last week.”

“Did you tell them you were going planetside, smart guy?” Bobby asked.

“Ugh. I might have mentioned it, yeah.” Joe sat up, and took his hand from his face. “Are they still there?”

“Yeah. I told them to hold on so I could straighten this out with you. They didn’t get far.” Bobby flipped on a viewer and toggled to the docking bay at the station’s hub. “Oh, crap.”

The workmen were tearing off the shield.

“What is it?”

“Gotta go.” Bobby ran over to the sink and put his coffee cup in it. “Call the orbitmaster and tell him we got some people trying to steal our Whipple shield.” He relayed the registration numbers of the tug, though he was sure they were fakes.

“Dad, remember your heart. Don’t do anything crazy. I’l—” Bobby pushed the contact on the comm and broke the connection.

He took another look in the viewer. The workers had detached a large section of the shield and were maneuvering it over to the tug using their suit thrusters.

“Son of a bitch!” Bobby punched a security code on his console. The orderlies would evacuate the residents from the zero-g recreation rooms and the crew members from the docking bay. Without the Whipple shield, even the impact of a moderate-sized piece of space junk could mean disaster.

Bobby ran down the hallway which was blessedly clear of oldsters. “Damn thieving lowlifes,” he muttered. He commandeered an elevator and gritted his teeth against the inevitable nausea the trip to the hub would cause.

He put his suit on in record time and cycled through the airlock. Exiting the station at high speed, he took long bounding leaps and activated his magnetic boots to keep him in contact with the deck. “Hold on, you bastards!”

If anyone picked up his comm transmission, it had the opposite effect. Bobby got most of the way to the tug before the engines flared up, spouting a jet of propellant twice as long as the ship.

But Bobby didn’t slow. He jumped off the station’s hull and sped toward the ship. He triggered a full burn of his maneuvering pack’s available propellant. His suit was equipped with an emergency tether and magnet that rode on his left forearm and he fired it toward the tug.

It never even occurred to him that he would be stuck in orbit if the grapple connected with a plastic piece of the tug’s hull. His forward momentum had carried him almost a half kilometer already and his maneuvering pack was now out of fuel.

The little magnet stuck to the tug and held fast. The grapple mechanism spun out the remainder of its cable and Bobby braced for the inevitable. All the slack went taut and the force of the tug’s thrust nearly ripped his arm from its socket. Bobby’s heart was pounding and he tried with all his might to steady his breathing. The tug’s engine abruptly cut off and the pressure on his arm subsided as his relative speed matched the ship’s. He managed to toggle the crank and the grapple mechanism dragged him toward the tug. He positioned his feet beneath him and activated the magnet mechanism of his boots, letting out a sigh of relief when they locked to the hull. His heart steadied a bit and he rolled his arm around its socket, grimacing at the pain.

After a moment, he drew the grapple and line back into the forearm spool. He hoped the thieves inside would mistake the noise of his impact for a piece of debris clanging off the tug’s hull.

The purloined Whipple shield was about ten meters away, lashed down to the side of the ship. Bobby walked gingerly over to it, suddenly aware that he had no real plan as to what to do next.

The tug wasn’t meant for deep space—that much was obvious. It was just an orbital ship. Bobby reasoned they were headed for a nearby station. There was nothing to do but cultivate patience. He found a handhold next to the shield and waited for the inevitable braking maneuver, watching as his retirement station dwindled to a speck on the Earth’s horizon.

When the tug’s maneuvering jets fired and the ship spun around, he had no difficulty holding on. His suit was firmly anchored. The main engines fired a long burst and Bobby saw a station he didn’t recognize looming ahead.

It was an old station, designed much like Bobby’s retirement home. It was a standard torus, perhaps two hundred and fifty meters in diameter. The hub was stationary and held a central docking bay. Bobby had never seen a station in such bad shape.

The original structure was sound, but it had been repaired in spots with various pieces of junk. A bit of gas was leaking in tiny puffs from the ring. As they drew closer, Bobby saw a large section of shielding missing from the station’s hub. He no longer had to wonder why they wanted his station’s impact shield.

Bobby watched the station’s rotation and counted to himself as it spun. He did some quick calculations in his head and guessed that the ring wasn’t rotating fast enough to maintain a healthy level of gravity. Anything less than one-third of a gee meant permanent bone loss and muscle degradation. Bobby guessed that whoever lived on that station would be in trouble before too long.

The tug docked with the station and Bobby waited, feeling foolish. He had a few hours of oxygen and plenty of water, but absolutely no idea what he was going to do next. He toyed with various ideas, but only one made any sense. He would need to get access to the station and use the comm to call the orbitmaster.

His maneuvering thrusters were out of fuel so he walked carefully across the tug’s nose and onto the station. There was nothing to be done about the sound his passage would make inside the docking bay, but he hoped there would be a lot of noise from machinery and the like inside.

Bobby located the airlock and grunted in frustration. It was old. There was no way to open it unless a crewmember cycled it from the inside. He would have to try to find a way in on the tug.

He crossed back over and located the emergency airlock forward of the tug’s docking capsule. A small control pad was embedded in it, but there didn’t seem to be any power to it. Bobby rapped on it angrily with his armored fist and was pleasantly surprised when it began to glow with a weak green light.

He punched through the airlock’s cycling sequence and breathed a sigh of relief when it opened. He moved into it, half-expecting to hear an alarm even though he was still in vacuum.

The outer door closed behind him and an indicator light in his helmet changed from amber to green as warm air flooded the chamber. He retracted his helmet and watched as the inner door opened.

He kicked lightly off the wall and into the tug. There was a second airlock, its door wide open, leading to the docking bay’s interior. Reflexively, he closed the airlock behind him, long years in space telling him it was the right thing to do.

Beyond the airlock was a long corridor branching both left and right. Flickering fixtures provided dim light that stretched into long, shadowy darkness. Bobby, trusting instinct, headed left. A short crawl along the handholds lining the tube brought him to an ajar blast door. He could hear the hum and roar of cutting and welding tools.

He eased his way up to the door and peeked around the corner. A number of people were moving about in a large zero-g metal shop, pushing massive pieces of machinery back and forth. They were shouting to each other over the squeal of metal on metal.

“Did you get the shield?” one asked. He had red hair and was wearing an old blue work coverall.

“Yep, we got it,” a small man in a patched, old-fashioned spacesuit answered. He had his helmet in his hand and he put it down on a workbench before replying. It was the kid Bobby had spoken to on the retirement station—Tom. “Thought we were gonna get bagged for a minute there, but we got it.”

“What happened?” The redhead cut power to the diamond-bit saw he was using and Bobby edged back from the doorway. With the saw off, it was easier to hear. He drew in a ragged breath and felt a twinge in his chest.

“Some old guy nosing around, wondering what we were doing. We took off while he was calling his kid.”

“Wish we didn’t have to steal from old folks like that,” the redhead said. There was something strange about his voice and Bobby peeked back into the chamber to get a look at him.

He was young. Fourteen years old at the most and his voice was cracking.

“They have insurance, don’t worry. We gotta do what we gotta do,” Tom said, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. But Gramps wouldn’t like it.”

“No, I guess not,” Tom said. “But he would have wanted us to stick together.”

Bobby had heard enough. He dragged himself through the hatchway. “Yeah, and what about the old folks back on my station, huh? Don’t they need to live, too?” His anger made his heart beat heavily in his chest.

“It’s the geezer from the retirement station!”

“The station you stole from, boy.” Bobby put his hand to his chest, forgetting he was suited up. The pain was bad and he had left his pills in his room.

Tom stared at the deck. Both boys’ faces were red. “We needed it.”

“Yeah, well, so do the thousand-odd old folks that live on my station.” Bobby’s left arm felt like it was in a vise. “Where’s your comm unit?”

“Why?” Tom asked.

“So I can call the orbitmaster.” Now that he had a better look at them, Bobby saw the kids had to be brothers. One had brown hair and the other red, but their resemblance was unmistakable.

“You can’t do that!” Jimmy said.

“Watch me.” Bobby cast his eyes around the room and saw the glowing comm panel across from a heap of scrap metal. “You could’ve gotten all of the people on my station killed.”

Bobby waved his arm in a gesture of dismissal and pushed off the bulkhead toward the comm, trying to ignore the screaming agony in his chest.

“Wait, don’t. Please. Let me explain,” Tom said.

“Save it for the orbitmaster.” Bobby reached the comm panel. As he did so, there was a tremendous thud from somewhere on the station and the entire bay shifted around them. Alarm klaxons, deafening even in the relatively large metal shop, began to sound. The sudden noise made Bobby’s heart leap into his throat. He clutched his left arm and curled into a ball, the klaxon’s wailing adding a soundtrack to the dizzying pain.

“Jesus! Something hit us!” Tom grabbed Jimmy by the shoulder and pushed him toward the hatch. “We gotta get the kids out of here!”

Jimmy used a handhold to spin around and point at Bobby. “What about him?”

Tom looked back at Bobby. “Aw, crap. Are you all right?”

“My heart—” Bobby said, as loudly as he could.

“He’s having a heart attack,” Jimmy said.

“Get the kids into the tug. I’ll bring him.” Tom pushed off the wall toward Bobby and put his hand on his arm. “C’mon, Pops. We have to get out of here.”

Bobby was barely able to nod through the pain, but he did his best to help Tom push him down the corridors. All around them, red lights flashed and the klaxon sounded. Dimly, Bobby could hear screams and high-pitched voices raised in alarm.

Tom dragged Bobby to the tug’s airlock. The chamber was crowded with children, some in spacesuits, others not. All of them had various possessions clutched in fingers goobered with bubble gum, peanut butter, and various other sticky substances. Bobby realized through his pain that they were screaming in delight, not fear.

“Somebody shut the tug’s lock!” Jimmy was wrestling with the airlock hatch. “It’s jammed!”

Tom pushed him out of the way and strained to turn the hatch. “Damn it! Who the hell closed it? It’s busted. It only works from the inside!”

Tom and Jimmy looked at each other, at a loss for what to do. Bobby, the pain in his arm and chest starting to subside, stood a little straighter. “Seal the bulkhead. I’ll go out through the other hatch and try from the other side,” he said. “Where’s the main airlock?”

“It’s in the shop, but I’ll go,” Tom said. “You’re having a heart attack, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah? How are you going to go out without your helmet, smart guy?” Bobby asked. Tom’s suit wasn’t a one piece like his. “Just get the door shut behind me before you lose all your air.”

Bobby’s helmet slid out of his suit and Tom nodded as the pressure seal closed with a hiss. Bobby crawled along the corridors, tracing his way back to the shop.

The main airlock was there, just as Tom had described it, but there was no power to the mechanism. Bobby turned the manual hatch with difficulty and cycled through it. Moving as quickly as he dared, he climbed out onto the hull and looked around.

A large section of the station was completely destroyed. A big, vaguely cylindrical object had smashed into the wheel and embedded itself there. The force of the impact ejected a huge amount of debris into space and a long train of detritus trailed away from the station. Bobby could see the pinpoint sparks of the station’s automated thrusters firing as they attempted to correct its position and spin.

Bobby limped to the tug’s hatch and opened it for the second time in the past hour. He pulled himself into the airlock and breathed a sigh of relief when the cycling was complete and his helmet registered a breathable atmosphere. He retracted his visor and instantly heard the clamoring of the children on the other side of the inner airlock. He activated the lock to the station and stepped out.

Jimmy and Tom did their best to cram the children into the tug. They unceremoniously threw out the baggage some of the kids had dragged with them, ignoring the outraged protests of the pint-sized spacemen. Bobby was the last into the tug and Tom kicked and pushed his way through to clear a spot for him. There were about twenty children and seven larger-sized teens crammed into the ship.

A four-year-old girl stuck her face into Bobby’s, unaware he was about to pass out. “Grampa!”

The lights went out on Bobby Cullivan.

* * *

“Hey, I told you to take it easy, didn’t I?” The voice came from far away, but there was no mistaking the owner.

Bobby felt a warm cloth on his eyes. Someone was wiping away the goo that was gluing them shut.

“Hi, Joey.” He blinked up at Joe and the nurse who was behind him.

“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked.

“Better, I think.” Bobby looked around. He was in bed in the retirement station’s infirmary. “Thirsty.”

The nurse brought him a squeeze bottle of water from the dispenser.

“Thanks.” Bobby looked at Joe. “Are the kids okay?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “They’re fine. All present and accounted for. The older ones are out reattaching our shield.”

“Where are the rest of them?” Bobby asked.

“They’re here, until we find someplace else to put them.”

Bobby struggled and sat up. The nurse clucked her tongue at him.

“Press the call button if you need me, Bobby,” she said as she left the room.

“Their station’s wrecked,” Joe said. “At least, that’s what the orbitmaster told me. Direct hit by a derelict satellite.”

“Oh.” Bobby raised his eyebrows. “No great loss, I guess. It was in pretty sad shape.”

“Yeah. I guess they’ve been holding out there since their grandfather died, trying to keep his little orphanage going.”

“Orphanage?”

“Yeah. Tom tells me his gramps started by taking care of a few kids whose parents died working on the space elevator. They were all born in orbit. More kids came along and things got out of hand. He bought the old station to fix up, but died not too long ago.”

“So now what?”

“I guess we’ll see if we can find foster homes for them. They can’t go earthside, not yet anyway. The docs say they all have major bone loss and muscle atrophy. It’ll take a lot of work to get them strong enough to take Earth gravity.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Bobby said. “That station’s rotation was way too slow.”

“You can’t break up our family.” Tom was standing in the doorway, still in his patched spacesuit. He looked tired and a lot older than when Bobby had last seen him. “We’ll get some money somehow. Then we can fix the computers and the thrusters. We’ll have our station up and running in no time.”

“If you say so,” Joe said doubtfully. “Is our shield back in place?”

“Yeah, we put it back.” Tom walked over to Bobby’s bed, dragging his feet a little. “I’m sorry we took it.”

“Thanks,” Bobby said.

“Hey, we stole it, it’s only right we put it back.”

“Not for that. For getting me out of there,” Bobby said. “You saved my life.”

Tom shrugged. A skinny little girl clutching a threadbare plush doggy ran into the room and Tom reached out to catch her. Mr. Silverstein came in behind her, clutching his cane and laughing like a madman.

“You get over here, you little scamp!” Silverstein puttered into the room and tried to grab her, but the little girl giggled and ran between Tom’s legs. The old man chased her out of the room, hollering.

“The old folks sure do love your kids,” Joe mused. “The place hasn’t seemed this happy in a long time.”

“Maybe you could stay here for a while, Tom,” Bobby said.

Tom looked from Bobby to Joe, not knowing what to say.

“We’ve got plenty of room,” Joe said. “You’re welcome to stay until you’re back on your feet.”

“There’s no rush.” Bobby smiled and put his hand out to Tom. “Shake, young feller.”

* * *

The Goblin Hunter

Written by Jeff Stehman

Illustrated by Mike Rooth

After much consideration, Adham decided greed was not responsible for his current situation. True, the job had promised more pay than any he had ever taken. Even now, lashed off the ground and spread-eagled between two trees as he was, it still seemed like a reasonable proposition.

No, the problem was not greed. The problem was that he had failed to follow his own rule: work alone. Adham had tried to explain that to the merchant, but he had insisted on sending his own people along. Even the one that Adham had talked the merchant down to had been one too many.

In truth, the merchant’s demand hadn’t been unreasonable. He didn’t know Adham or if he could be trusted. Reason and goblins, however, had little to do with each other, and the merchant’s soldier now lay dead beneath three toppled trees. Adham didn’t know how the goblins had managed that, but to an experienced goblin hunter, not knowing made sense.

He could see the horses, his mule, and a pile of gear in a patch of moonlight a short distance away. Adham suppressed a strong urge to sigh. He had already discovered that, in his current position, a proper sigh sent spasms through his shoulders and chest. He guessed there were as many as a half-dozen goblins there, in the brush below his feet, and he saw no reason to excite them by adding to his own discomfort.

After what seemed an eternity, the apparent leader of this band of goblins marched along a tree branch in front of Adham. Drawing itself up to its full, inconsiderable height, it confronted him. Even in the filtered moonlight, Adham could see its determined expression.

“Out of respect for your past dealings with goblinkind, I’ve decided to do this right and proper. So, any last words?”

Adham thought for a moment. “All things considered, I should have gone for the beer instead.”

* * *

Adham left the stable and headed for the nearest public house. He flapped his coat, leaving behind a cloud of road dust. The work had been hard, but the job was done, and now he wanted nothing more than to elevate his feet and lubricate his throat. With that goal in mind, he tried to ignore the commotion caused by a man running up the street. Panting, the fellow stopped in front of a group of men loitering outside the public house. He spoke excitedly to them and pointed back the way he had come. Adham couldn’t help but overhear one word in particular.

“Goblins!”

Adham stopped and looked down the street where the man pointed. He looked at the public house door, then looked down the street again and scratched his bristly chin, imagining the taste of the beer that awaited him inside. Heaving a great sigh, he turned back toward the stable.

“Best to look for silver when it can be found,” he grumbled.

Several men stood in the middle of the street, their attention fixed on a warehouse. Adham judged all but one of them to be laborers, and that one had the look of money about him.

“Come along, Maible.” Adham tugged on the lead to his pack mule. He approached the gentleman. “You the owner?”

The man gave him the briefest of glances. “I’m busy, and there’s no work for you today.” The workers behind the gentleman spared him even less attention. They were tense and stared at the warehouse as if they expected it to come to life and attack them.

“Oh, I think there’s work for me.” Adham chuckled. “I’m a goblin hunter.”

That gave the owner pause. He looked Adham up and down but didn’t seem impressed. “I’ve already sent a man inside. He seemed quite capable and has a reputation for getting things done.”

“Is he a goblin hunter?”

“Thief-taker.” The gentleman turned his attention back to the warehouse.

Adham stepped to the pack on his mule, unhooked a lantern, and dug out his firepot. He blew enough life into the coals to light a taper and the lantern. By then a few of the workers were keeping an eye on him as well as the warehouse, for the sun was high and the sky clear.

“Let me show you your man,” Adham said, taking the owner by an arm and leading him to a door leading into the warehouse. “It’ll be dark inside, so close your eyes for a moment.” The gentleman was confused enough to oblige, and Adham put a hand over his own eyes. After several slow breaths, he opened the door.

“All right, lean in behind me and take a look.”

The warehouse was dimly lit by the lantern he held high and the sunlight trickling past them in the doorway. Adham could see bales of wool stacked to the roof on one side and crates stacked man-high on the other. In the open space between hung the thief-taker.

“He must have killed one.” Adham shook his head. He heard the owner of the warehouse swallow nervously beside him.

The thief-taker dangled from a rafter, cocooned like a spider’s meal. More of him was covered in rope than not. He was blindfolded and had something stuffed into his mouth. He responded to their entrance with a brief struggle, so there was some life left in him.

Adham listened for a few moments before stepping back outside and closing the door. “He seemed quite capable, did he?”

The owner, staring at the closed door, responded only with a faint whimper. Adham took him by the arm again and led him back to his men.

“How many goblins are there?” Adham addressed all of them. Their answers tripped over each other, but consensus seemed to be a dozen. “I see. That would make it … three to four goblins.”

“What?” The owner had started to gather his wits. “You saw what they did to that man. How could four goblins do that?”

“Not four. Three, at most. He’d have to kill one before they’d do that to him.”

“How could you possibly know that? And how could three knee-high goblins hoist a full-grown man into the air?”

“I doubt that would take more than two of them. It’s difficult to explain.” Adham scratched his chin. “But there’s little goblins can’t do when you’re not looking. Look, you need a professional, which I happen to be. Eight silver marks and I’ll make your problem go away. Deal or no?”

The gentleman opened his mouth to speak, closed it, gave his warehouse a very puzzled look, and opened his mouth again. This time he managed to say, “Okay.”

Adham collected a few things off his mule, the last of which was a wooden chest that he tucked under one arm. He picked up the lantern, entered the warehouse, and closed both the door and his eyes. While waiting for his eyes to adjust, he listened for the scrabble of small, taloned feet around him. He heard nothing, but he could feel them watching him.

He opened his eyes, stepped over a crossbow and some bolts scattered on the floor, and walked toward the thief-taker. The man tried to say something, but the gag in his mouth turned it into a moan. The coils of rope were bound so tightly that his face was a deep red and he struggled to breathe. When Adham pulled the large wad of wool from the thief-taker’s mouth, he gagged and coughed.

“Help me.” The words rasped through a swollen throat.

Adham shook his head. “Next time, stick to thieves.”

He set the chest down and cut the rope above the man’s head. The thief-taker hit the floor with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Still encased in rope, he could do little more than groan. Adham set about cutting him loose and heard whispering in the shadows to his left.

“Can you stand?” Adham asked, helping the man to his feet. The thief-taker swayed on his feet but nodded. “Good. Now get out of here, and take your crossbow with you.”

The thief-taker didn’t need to be told twice.

“And close the door behind you!” Adham called after him, an instruction the thief-taker carried out with enthusiasm.

“Amateurs.” Adham kicked aside the pieces of rope with disgust and set the lantern on the floor by the chest. He pulled a heavy sack out of a large coat pocket, turned the sack inside-out to show his audience it was empty, and tossed it to the floor. The stage set, he sat down cross-legged with his back to the chest.

The goblins were also behind him.

Patience is a goblin hunter’s friend, but not the kind of patience used for waiting. The ability of goblins to frustrate all those they come in contact with requires great perseverance, like a mother with a houseful of children on a rainy day. Waiting, however, is rarely necessary.

“What’s this?” asked a small, squeaky voice.

Adham glanced over his shoulder, as if to see what the goblin was talking about.

“That’s an empty chest. Here, let me show you.” He turned at the waist, flipped open the clasp, lifted the lid, and held up the lantern so the goblin could peer inside. And peer the little creature did, standing on its tiptoes so it could lean way over the lip of the chest.

Goblins come in a variety of colors, shapes, and assorted ugly attributes. This one had mottled green skin and tiny, human-like ears that were set too high on its head. Finding nothing in the chest, it looked up at Adham with bulging eyes and blinked in confusion.

“See? Empty.”

“I don’t get it,” the goblin said, obviously disappointed. “Why’d you lug it in here?”

“It’s a goblin trap.”

“A what?”

“A goblin trap. Look, it says so right here.” Adham pointed to the letters he had carved into the front of the chest years ago. “G-o-b-l-i-n t-r-a-p. Goblin trap. It’s a goblin trap.”

The goblin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. It walked around the chest, inspecting it, and shook its head. “You’re talking nonsense,” it said, setting its little hands on its hips. “If it’s a trap, how’s it work? It’s got no spring or snare or anything. It’s just a box with a lid. Is it magical or somet’ing?”

“Nope, no magic, but it’s not set yet.” Adham dug into a coat pocket and pulled out a large padlock. He threaded the arm of the padlock through the clasp on the chest and clicked it shut.

“There.” He yanked on the lock. “Now it’s set and ready to go.” He sat forward, making a show of ignoring both the chest and goblin behind him.

“What? What do you mean it’s ready to go. You think a locked chest is going to catch a goblin? That’ll never work. It’s insulting. I mean, look at this …”

While metal rattled, Adham silently counted, “Three, two, one …”

Click.

No matter how many times he heard that sound, it saddened him. Only goblins were cunning enough to do something so impossibly moronic. Still, he waited to make sure.

“Okay …” The tiny voice was muffled. “Okay, that … that was funny. Joke’s on me. Ha, ha. Now, let me out’a here!”

The chest started shaking. “Come on! Let me out! If you don’t let me out I’ll … I’ll … I’ll spit!”

Adham stood and strolled away from the chest with an air of indifference, pulling a fist-sized bag of sand from a coat pocket. He whistled while tossing it from hand to hand. When the chest stopped moving, he stopped whistling, and at the sound of the lock rattling, he turned and threw.

Another goblin, taller than the first and bluish, turned from examining the lock. The sandbag took it in the midsection and slammed it into the chest. Adham pounced on the goblin and stuffed it into the sack and tied the top into a knot. He heard a struggling, shrill wheeze as the goblin tried to catch its breath.

“Sorry, little fella, but I know what you’re capable of.” Adham pocketed the sandbag and tucked the chest under one arm. “Don’t you two worry. I’m a law-abiding hunter.”

Adham stepped out of the warehouse and into a small mob of people demanding to know what had happened. “Relax, it’s over. Everything is fine. There were only two of the little buggers.” He strode to his mule. “Here, Maible, hold this.” He held out the sack, and the mule took the knot in her mouth. Adham set about tying the chest on top of the pack. “Mister, I believe you owe me eight silver marks. I put off a long-awaited beer to help you out, so prompt payment is appreciated.”

The owner of the warehouse looked skeptical. “How do I know you’re done? Show me the goblins.”

“I am sorry, sir, but that is not possible. It would be a bad idea to take them inside just to have a peek, and out here the bright sunlight would kill them. If you want to know why killing them is a bad idea, I suggest you ask your friend the thief-taker. Assuming you can catch him.

“Now then, the king’s law says goblins are to be delivered to the nearest wizard’s tower. I need my chest back, so I’ll take care of that for you. But I do need payment before I go.”

When the owner seemed on the verge of replying in a manner that didn’t involve reaching for his purse, Adham added, “Unless you’d like me to put the little devils back. They were in a good mood last time. Now, they’re not.”

* * *

Adham leaned back in a chair, his feet propped up on a table. Since finishing his business at the wizard’s tower, he had visited a bathhouse, eaten a hot meal, and was finally enjoying a cool beer. All in all, it had been a good day.

“Perhaps too good,” he thought as a shadow fell across him.

“Are you the goblin hunter?”

Adham took the time to sigh before looking up at the speaker. “And you are?”

“My name is Mooney. I heard about your doings at the warehouse today, and I have a proposition for you.”

“Thank you, but my day is done. My tomorrow’s done as well. Possibly even the day after that.”

“Hear me out, and I’ll buy your next beer. Help me out, and I will make it very worth your while.” When Adham didn’t respond, Mooney leaned closer. “Very.”

Adham lowered his feet to the floor and offered the man a chair.

“I am assuming,” Mooney began, “that one in your profession knows the trails through the Goblin Hills.” Adham nodded. “Excellent. I have a cargo that needs to reach Seabay, and time is a critical factor—too much so to take the road around the hills.”

“You can’t take carts through the Goblin Hills.” Adham sighed.

“I was told you’d sigh. Anyway, the cargo is very small. A pack animal could carry it.”

“Then get a wizard to send it.”

“Unfortunately, magic cannot be used with this cargo,” Mooney said.

Adham rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just say it’s quicksilver and be done with it?”

Mooney glared a moment before continuing. “I am prepared to send a dozen of my men, all quite capable, and I would like you to guide them.”

“Quite capable? Mister, there’s a reason the road to Seabay goes around those hills. If you send a dozen men in there, a half-dozen might make it out the other side, and they will not have your cargo.”

“What do you suggest?”

Adham started to sigh, but stopped himself when Mooney gave him an expectant smile. “If you give me your cargo, I should be able to get it to Seabay in four days.”

Mooney fixed him with an unpleasant gaze. “Needless to say, this cargo is very precious to me. Handing it over to you alone is not an option.”

After an uncomfortable silence, Adham said, “Well, I thank you for the beer—”

Mooney cut him off. “How about this? I’ll send along my best man, and only my best man. You get the cargo to Seabay within four days, and my partner there will pay you three hundred silver marks.”

Adham froze, the beer halfway to his lips.

* * *

Adham was preparing his horse and mule in the stable when Mooney arrived the next morning.

“This is Ualtar.” Mooney didn’t waste time with small talk.

Adham nodded his greeting and looked the man over. He appeared to be every bit a warrior. “Ualtar, if you find that armor comfortable, you’re welcome to wear it, but the spear and your sword are staying here. You kill a goblin, and this’ll be a very short trip with a very bad ending.”

Ualtar looked to Mooney for approval before setting aside his weapons.

Adham continued, “Your horses, do they have to be tied up at night?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest you bring something to hobble them. Otherwise, goblins will probably steal them.” Ualtar furrowed his brow, and Adham noted the well-worn crease in it. “If you tie them up, you’re telling the goblins that they can’t take the horses, so they will. If you let them stand free, goblins usually leave them alone. Likewise, be prepared to unpack your saddlebags every night so nothing is hidden. That includes the quicksilver. We’ll set it in a pile of loose gear when we camp and leave some other things to distract the goblins.”

This time Ualtar both looked to Mooney and furrowed his brow.

“Impressive,” Adham thought, managing not to sigh. “Very impressive.”

* * *

Midmorning on the second day, Adham set a brisk pace into the hills, stopping only to rest their animals by a stream and fill some sacks with sand. For the most part he followed game trails, as few humans traveled through these hills. With dusk still an hour away, he stopped near a grove of oak trees and called a halt.

“Why stop so early?” Ualtar asked. “We could make another league before it gets dark.”

“By dusk we will be watched. We need to prepare our camp in private if we want to use goblin curiosity to our advantage.”

Ualtar furrowed his brow but set about unloading the horses. Adham gathered a large supply of deadwood for a fire. The nights were still pleasant, and their cooking gear was meant to be stolen, not used, but he suspected they would need the light.

“Ualtar, help me with these sandbags. We need to hang them far enough off the ground to make them interesting.”

“I was wondering what those were for.”

“We’ll use the two smaller ones for pillows. If we lay on them, the goblins will assume we don’t want them taken …”

“… So they will.” Ualtar finished, surprising Adham with a chuckle. “Do you always have to do the opposite of what you want?”

Adham considered how to explain. “Goblins are like no other creature. To them, doing the impossible is like breathing to you and me, provided it is done to satisfy their curiosity or cause some mischief. That’s their weakness, and how I usually catch them. Curiosity gets them into my trap, and as long as I don’t give their curiosity a reason to get out, they stay trapped.”

“So we give them some things to be curious about while leaving the quicksilver out in the open.” Ualtar nodded. “What do we do if they wake us up?”

Adham shrugged. “Chase them around a little. Maybe try to keep a bag of sand from them. But do not show any interest in the quicksilver, even if they take it, and do not kill them.”

“Seems to me killing one or two would make the rest think twice about harassing us.”

“Listen to me.” Adham stopped his work and looked Ualtar straight in the eye. “You look very imposing, and I have no doubt that you’re dangerous, but the impossible is what goblins do. You do not want to make this a lethal contest. Understood?”

“Understood,” he said gravely enough to satisfy Adham.

* * *

When his head tapped the ground, Adham woke fully aware of what was upon them. “Ualtar! Protect the bags!”

Ualtar rose with a roar and started chasing a goblin that had been stalking his pillow.

The fire still burned but didn’t offer much light. Adham scooped up a large pile of dry pine branches and threw them onto the fire. As the flames leaped higher, he saw a sandbag fall from the tree. Despite being much smaller than the bag, a tiny goblin waited for it with outstretched arms. The impact appeared to flatten the creature, completely eclipsing it. Yet it began to move, slowly, haltingly, away from the fire.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Adham hefted the bag off the goblin. The goblin turned its head, perhaps hopeful that it hadn’t been discovered. Seeing Adham’s glare, it gave him an innocent smile, and bolted.

Adham heard a rope break overhead. Even though he had been expecting it, he leapt aside just in time to avoid being brained by another sandbag. He looked up and saw a goblin jump to a third bag and start ripping through the individual fibers on the rope holding it in place.

“Ualtar, stop that goblin!”

Ualtar paused in his pursuit and looked to where Adham pointed. In one smooth, practiced motion, he drew his knife and threw it underhand.

Adham watched the knife spin through the air. It took an eternity to reach its target, which gave him time to consider what he had done. His command had been for the goblins to hear, but he had uttered it without consideration for Ualter’s training and reflexes. In the midst of battle, the warrior had heard an order and acted. Adham should have expected no less.

Their lives were about to become … unpleasant.

The blade skewered the goblin and pinned it to the tree. There was no doubting the lethality of the throw. Where moments before there had been chaos, all was now silent. After staring at the dead goblin for a moment, Ualtar looked at Adham, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged.

* * *

The goblin on the branch before Adham looked disappointed. “A beer? Them’s your final words?”

Adham reconsidered. “I do have a last request.” He had an impossible idea, but the impossible was what goblins did.

The goblin’s pointed ears cocked forward. “Yeah?”

Adham suspected it was enjoying the drama of the moment. “Actually, this is more for your benefit than mine. You see that chest by my mule? That’s a goblin trap. It says so right on the front. Granted, it is a simple trap, but as they say, better safe than sorry. We should make sure that no goblin accidentally falls into it.”

The goblin cupped its chin in its tiny hand and nodded sagely. “I see, I see. Not a bad idea. How do we do that?”

“In my coat pocket you’ll find a padlock …”

* * *

NONFICTION

S.S. Sunbeam

Written by Iver P. Cooper

Illustrated by Laura Givens

A new Age of Sail is dawning. One in which the ships sail through outer space, not on water; and are propelled by the sunlight, not wind.

A conventional spacecraft burns fuel and discharges exhaust gases. The gases move backward and the spacecraft, in reaction, moves forward.

The great advantage possessed by “light sailers” is that they don’t need to carry fuel. The force which is used to move these space clippers is supplied, free of charge, by the sun.

The exhaust of a rocket engine exerts a much greater force than that of sunlight. But once that fuel is used up, you’re in trouble. The fuel-free solar sailer doesn’t have that problem; it is the “Energizer Bunny” of space vehicles. So even though the rate of acceleration is slow, we can let the speed build up, day after day, week after week, month after month.

History of the Solar Sailing Concept

Johannes Kepler (1571-1630) was the first to propose that spaceships could use sails. He had noticed that comet tails point away from the sun. Of course, he thought this was the effect of a real wind, not of light.

In 1864, the great physicist James Clerk Maxwell (1831-1879) used his quantitative electromagnetic wave theory of light to predict the pressure that light would exert a pressure on objects.

Maxwell had speculated that light pressure might be observable in the laboratory if sunlight were directed onto a “thin metallic disk, delicately suspended in a vacuum.” In 1901, Pyotr Lebedev experimentally measured the pressure of light (and it obeyed Maxwell’s predictions).

* * *

Jules Verne’s From Earth to the Moon (1865) is usually cited as the first science fiction story to postulate a sunlight-propelled spaceship. But all Verne did was to vaguely speculate that the speed of his cannon-fired craft would someday be surpassed by a vehicle using “light or electricity as the mechanical agent.”

I would give more credit to an extraordinarily obscure novel by Georges Le Faure and Henri de Graffigny, Aventures Extraordinaires d’un Savant Russe (1889-91). According to Paul Gilster, their protagonists “travel in a hollow sphere pushed by the pressure of light from the sun. Launching the sphere is accomplished by concentrating sunlight from a huge reflecting dish onto a selenium disk.”

The first serious proposal of solar sailing was by Soviet space enthusiasts Konstantin Tsiolkovsky and Friderikh Tsander, in the 1920s. A much more detailed analysis appeared in an article published in 1951 by Astounding Science Fiction. “Clipper Ships in Space” was written by engineer Carl Wiley, under the pseudonym “Russell Saunders.” By the end of that decade, the subject was considered sufficiently respectable to be aired in the journal Jet Propulsion.

These articles inspired a new crop of science fiction writers. The earliest contributions were by Cordwainer Smith (“The Lady Who Sailed The Soul,” 1960, and “Think Blue, Count Two,” 1963), Jack Vance (“Sail 25,” 1962), Pierre Boulle (Planet of the Apes, 1963), Poul Anderson (“Sunjammer,” 1964), and Arthur C. Clarke (“Sunjammer,” 1964, sometimes reprinted as “The Wind from the Sun”).

Naturally, many of the readers of these stories were current or would-be scientists and engineers. Hence, solar sailing soon had its advocates within the space science community. In the late 1970s, NASA toyed with the idea of using a sunjammer to rendezvous with Halley’s Comet. However, this never went past the study stage. Occasionally, ordinary spacecraft have used solar collectors and sun shades as makeshift solar sails, slowly adjusting their orbits.

The first true steps into the new Age of Sail were taken by Russia on February 4, 1993; in the Znamya-2 experiment, a small solar sail was deployed from an unmanned Progress M-15 supply ship after it was undocked from the Mir Space Station. More recently, on August 9, 2004, the Japanese Institute of Space and Aeronautical Science (ISAS) deployed “four-leaf clover” and “six-rayed fan” type test sails from an S-310 sounding rocket, at altitudes of 122 and 169 kilometers. Both Japanese sails were 7.5 microns thick. NASA has also gotten back into the act; on August 10, 2004, they ground-tested two 100 square meter solar sails in a vacuum chamber.

The Underlying Physics

In classical physics, light is characterized as an electromagnetic wave, composed of fluctuating electric and magnetic fields. However, it is more convenient to calculate light pressure if we, like Albert Einstein, visualize light as a stream of particle-like units (photons). The photons carry momentum, and one of the fundamental laws of physics is that momentum is conserved. When a photon strikes an object, it is absorbed, and delivers its momentum to the latter. The change in the target’s momentum is felt as a force. If the object reflects light, it emits a photon in the opposite direction, and, to conserve momentum, the object recoils, as if it had felt a force. Thus, light delivers one “kick” per photon to a perfectly absorbing surface, and two “kicks” to a perfectly reflecting one.

* * *

The light exerts a force on the sail; this causes it to accelerate (increase speed). The force equals the light pressure times the reflective area of the sail. If the sailcraft is at Earth’s distance from the sun (one Astronomical Unit, A.U.), and the sail directly faces the sun, the light pressure is 4.7 newtons per square kilometer on a perfectly absorbing surface, and twice that (9.4 newtons, or two pounds) on a perfectly reflecting one. (The pressure exerted by a 12 mph wind is about 50,000,000 times the latter.)

Light spreads as it moves away from the sun, and therefore weakens in intensity, according to the inverse square law first postulated by Johannes Kepler. So solar sailing is more efficient in the inner solar system, where the light pressure is stronger.

A common misconception is that solar sailing uses the “solar wind.” The solar wind is the stream of ionized particles ejected by the sun. While it would produce a pressure on a spacecraft, that pressure is less than one-thousandth of the sunlight pressure. So it can safely be ignored.

* * *

The acceleration is the force divided by the total mass (sails, support and control structures, and payload). So the greater the mass, the more force is needed to achieve a particular acceleration (which in turn determines how soon you reach a desired speed).

Accelerations felt by space sailcraft are measured in millimeters (thousandths of a meter) per second, per second (mm/sec^2 ). If your car accelerates from zero to 60 mph in ten seconds, it is increasing speed at a rate of 6 mph per second (about 2.68 meters per second, per second, “m/sec^2 “). Newton’s apocryphal apple fell toward the ground with an acceleration of 9.8 m/sec^2 , or “one-gee,” and jet aircraft feel accelerations of several “gees.” If Earth were stopped in its orbit, it would fall toward the sun, its speed increasing at the rate of 5.9 mm/sec^2 (half a gee).

Engineers find it convenient to define an “areal density,” which is the reflective area divided by the mass. Then acceleration equals the light pressure divided by the areal density. The “characteristic acceleration” of a sailcraft is the acceleration it would feel from light if the sail faced the sun directly, and the sailcraft was one A.U. from the sun. If the areal density is 10 grams per square meter, and the sail is perfectly reflecting, then, at one A.U., the characteristic acceleration is 0.9 mm/sec^2 (ten-thousandth of a gee). Halving the areal density doubles that limiting acceleration.

Maneuvering in Outer Space

There are two solar forces acting on the light sail: the force of gravity (pulling it sunward) and the photonic (electromagnetic) force (whose direction is determined by how the sail is oriented).

What is the best way to sail a sunjammer away from the sun? Surprisingly, it is not to aim the solar sail directly at the sun. Then the photonic force has to overcome the force of gravity. It is better to direct more of the force into the direction of travel.

If the sail is tilted so that the sunlight is reflected obliquely “backward,” that is, away from the direction the spacecraft is orbiting the sun, it not only tries to push the spacecraft outward, but also pushes it “forward” in its orbit, speeding it up, and the orbit widens.

Tilt the sail the other way, and the spacecraft slows down and its orbit shrinks. Thus, depending on the orientation of the sail, the solar sailer can move away from, or toward, the sun—even though the sunlight just moves outward.

It is only the thrust in the orbital direction(whether forward or backward) which is changing the size of the orbit. This thrust component is maximized when the angle of incidence of the sunlight on the sail (the angle between the sun and the perpendicular to the sail surface) is about 35.3 degrees.

However, tilting the sail reduces the total thrust (the sail captures less light, and the light is spread out), and only a portion of that thrust is in the orbital direction. The net result of these factors is that the effective orbital thrust at the optimum tilt angle is only 38% of the all-outward thrust obtained when the sail directly faces the sun.

* * *

An advanced maneuver is called “sun-diving” or, more prosaically, “fast solar sailing.” While your ultimate goal is in the outer solar system, you sail sunward first. You slingshot around the sun, and head back out at a greatly increased speed.

Sun-diving is the extraterrestrial equivalent of an automobile driver taking a more roundabout route, using high speed expressways, to reduce the overall trip time. Sun-diving is very likely to be used for missions to Jupiter and beyond, but for a trip to Mars, a simple ballistic trajectory is about twice as fast.

All-Metal Sails

The simplest sail concept was an all-metal sail which was thick enough, by itself, to withstand the stresses of manufacture and use. If you’re going to provide a metal sail which is several microns thick, you’re going to favor a metal with a low density, such as lithium, sodium, potassium, beryllium, magnesium, calcium, or aluminum.

In 1929, Hermann Noordung suggested that an orbiting space station could be equipped with sodium mirrors. The great advantage of sodium is that it is of very low density (one-fifth that of aluminum, one-fifteenth that of iron). However, it is a very difficult metal to work with; it has to be handled in an inert atmosphere.

“Russell Saunders” favored lithium or magnesium sails for his “clipper ships of space.” He pointed out that magnesium “has a fair strength mass ratio and is opaque for sheets 0.15 microns thick.” Magnesium is about two-thirds as dense as aluminum (which is why magnesium is used in the bodies of professional cameras). Unfortunately, it is much more expensive. Also, if a magnesium sail strip somehow gets ignited during manufacture on Earth, you have a serious problem.

Composite Sails

An alternative to an all-metal mirror is one in which the metal is deposited as a very thin coating on a low-density substrate. Vance, in “Sail 25,” favored a 2.5 micron thick “fluoro-siliconic film … fogged with lithium to the state of opacity.” Clarke, in his 1962 story, envisioned sails made of “aluminized plastic,” perhaps 50-100 microns thick.

NASA’s Solar Sail Technology Development group considers a “conventional light sail” to be a 0.1 micron thick layer of aluminum, which reflects 90% of the sunlight, deposited on a five micron thick substrate made of Mylar polyester film. (Ordinary plastic wrap is about thirteen microns thick.)

Mylar is less dense than aluminum. Each square meter of five micron Mylar would have a mass of seven grams (as compared to sixteen for the plastic wrap), and so the characteristic acceleration would be ~1.3 mm/sec^2 . The 0.1 micron aluminum coating adds ~0.3 g/m^2 . In contrast, if NASA were to attempt to make the same sail entirely out of five micron thick aluminum foil (household aluminum foil is closer to thirty microns), its “areal density” would be almost twice that of the Mylar.

Mylar is now available commercially in films which are just 0.9 microns thick, and these are generally considered to be strong enough for use in solar sails. The new ultrathin films allow us to improve acceleration almost four fold (taking the aluminum coating into account).

* * *

The basic problem with Mylar is that it is susceptible to degradation by high-energy solar radiation. That, of course, is of particular concern if the solar sailer is going to be venturing sunward. An alternative to Mylar is Kapton polyimide film. Unfortunately, Kapton is only available now in a thickness of eight microns, so the areal density of a Kapton-based sail is high (12 g/m^2 ).

Another alternative is the carbon micro-truss, whose areal density is comparable to Mylar’s.

Ultra-Thin All-Metal Sails

If we could manufacture the sail in space, we could dispense with the substrate. An all-aluminum sail, if just 0.1 microns thick, would have an areal density of 0.27 g/ m^2 and allow an acceleration (at 1 A.U.) of 33 mm/sec2.

Why not make the sail even thinner? Even a 0.1 micron layer of aluminum is only a few hundred atoms thick. If the layer is made much thinner than that, reflecting power is lost. By way of analogy, if a forest is too thin, you will be able to see through the gaps between the trees.

But there is a trick which somewhat defies common sense. You can perforate the metal layer. If the holes are small enough (less than the wavelength of the light), the light waves have difficulty penetrating them.

Sail Metal: Silver vs. Aluminum

While thin films of silver are traditionally used in mirror-making, silver is expensive (~$1,300/kilogram), four times denser than aluminum, and easily oxidized (if manufactured on Earth). In thin films, it agglomerates (clumps) at high temperature. Also, it is fairly transparent to short wave ultraviolet, which allows that radiation to attack the Mylar or Kapton substrate beneath. Nowadays, most telescope mirrors are aluminized, and aluminum is the standard solar sail reflector.

Alternative Sail Metals

There are many metals, of course, and some have distinct advantages over silver and aluminum. But bear in mind that these metals can be expensive to obtain in high purity, and that there may be technological problems to overcome if they are to be formed into large, thin films.

Near-Earth, Mars, and Outer Planet Missions

For missions relatively far from the sun, it is critical to obtain the highest possible characteristic acceleration. This will be proportional to the ratio (1+R)/D, where R is the reflectivity, and D is the density. By this criterion, sodium, potassium, lithium, calcium, magnesium and beryllium are all superior to aluminum.

Because of its low density, beryllium was the material chosen for the James Webb Space telescope mirror. Unfortunately, it is rather pricey on Earth (~$5,000/kilogram). Magnesium and calcium are highly reactive, which makes them difficult to work with on Earth.

Lithium, sodium and potassium are even less dense, but they would melt if used in a sail unfurled at Earth’s distance from the sun. Once we have manufacturing facilities in Mars orbit (1.5 A.U.), or on an asteroid (~2.8 A.U.), we can consider manufacturing such sails—assuming that the cost of shipping the metal, or extracting it locally, isn’t prohibitive.

Inner Planet Missions

If the sailcraft is going to be entering the environs of Venus or Mercury, it will experience greater acceleration because of the increased solar pressure. However, the maximum acceleration achievable by heading sunward is limited by the melting point of the sail’s metal veneer. The metal coating is thick enough so you can assume that whatever light isn’t reflected is absorbed. The absorbed energy is then re-radiated as long infrared (heat) radiation. The rate of re-radiation by a square meter of surface is proportional to the fourth power of its temperature. Which means that the maximum acceleration is proportional to the fourth power of the melting point, divided by the density. NASA scientist Geoffrey Landis suggested that this be used as a “figure of merit” for evaluating potential sail materials for an interstellar probe.

The metals with the highest scores are tungsten (33.5 times that of aluminum), tantalum (24.3), molybdenum (23.7), rhenium (23.6), and niobium (22.1).

Unfortunately, there is a general periodic correlation between melting point and density. So, the price of being able to descend deeper into the gravity well to increase the slingshot effect is poorer acceleration when far enough from the sun so that melting point is irrelevant.

It is therefore instructive to examine the metals in order of increasing density range. Of the metals lighter than aluminum, the one with the best score is beryllium (11.1), because it has a surprisingly high melting point of 1550o K. Beryllium’s density is just 1.8 g/cm^3.

Titanium is almost as good (11.0), but its density is a relatively painful 4.54. On the other hand, beryllium is also almost five times as expensive as titanium, so I am not prepared to rule the latter out.

To improve on beryllium’s sundiving score, you have to switch to scandium (12.5), and accept a density of 2.99. However, scandium is an extremely expensive metal.

Another small increment in inner system acceleration comes if you use vanadium (score 12.9) in return for a doubling of density (6.11). Vanadium is a little less expensive than beryllium.

Niobium has a density of 8.85 and a score of 22.1. It is also much cheaper than all of the high-scoring metals mentioned above.

You can’t improve on niobium’s sundiving capability without increasing density to that of molybdenum (10.28), tantalum (16.65) or, worst of all, tungsten (19.25).

* * *

Landis’s figure of merit can be improved upon. It doesn’t take into account the ability of the mirror to reflect sunlight (a perfect reflector wouldn’t heat up at all). Taking this into account, the top scorers are, in descending order: molybdenum, tungsten, niobium, and tantalum.

Sail Coatings

Emissivity (a measure of a metal’s ability to radiate heat—and thus keep its temperature down) could also be considered. Unfortunately, emissivity is a function, not only of wavelength, but also of temperature.

You can improve the temperature tolerance of a solar sail by putting a high emissivity coating (which doesn’t have to be transparent) on the back side. The measured emissivity of black chromium on the back of 0.9 micron aluminized Mylar is 0.4. Without the chromium treatment, the emissivity is only about 0.06.

Gray Sails

Recently, two of the basic assumptions of space sail design have been challenged. The first, that a sail should be highly reflective. The second, that letting the sails heat up is bad.

It is normally stated that a sail which perfectly absorbed light would experience only half the acceleration felt by one which was a perfect reflector. That ignores the re-radiation of the absorbed energy as infrared. As the infrared photons say goodbye, the sail recoils. And the hotter the sail, the more infrared it emits.

These “gray sails” were proposed by Robert Forward in 1999, and he suggested that they be made of sparsely aluminized carbon. The sail would initially behave like a traditional “white sail” but when the craft got to within three solar diameters of the sun, the aluminum would evaporate, exposing the carbon layer. This would absorb sunlight and give off heat. A lot of heat, since carbon has a high emissivity, and a melting point of 2,800K.

Rigging for Space Travel

A sailing ship has masts, yards and standing rigging (ropes) to hold its sails in position, and running rigging (more ropes) to control how the wind acts upon them.

While the pressure of sunlight is much less than that of terrestrial winds, solar sails are much flimsier than canvas. So they need to be stabilized in some way.

Like terrestrial sails, “sun-catchers” can be supported and stabilized by booms and lines. The booms can telescope out, fold out, roll out or inflate when the craft is ready to deploy the sail.

The thinner and larger the sail, the more support it needs against the photon pressure. Moreover, the longer the booms, the thicker they must be to resist bending. The mass of the rigging is therefore likely to be roughly proportional to the surface area of the sail. There is great variation in the estimates, but figure the rigging mass to be two-thirds to one-and-a-half times the sail mass.

A supported sail can have any of a variety of shapes: square, triangular, flower-like (with square-ish petals), or umbrella-like.

The square shape is the one most often depicted. One rigging method is to provide a central mast rising from the center of the back (non-reflective) side, from which yards extend to each corner. Stays further tie the mast to various segments of the yards and the outer rim.

Team Encounter, which hopes to launch an interstellar probe in the near future, doesn’t plan to run lines from a central mast. Instead, its sail is attached at numerous points (so-called “striped suspension”) to four booms extending from a hub.

In order to stretch the sail taut, one would need a substantial supporting structure. The acceleration is better if one accepts some sagging (billowing) and wrinkling in the sail, even though more sail material is needed, and the light pressure is a bit less.

The preferred method of steering the supported sail is with relatively tiny reflective vanes, attached to the periphery, which likewise are susceptible to solar pressure.

* * *

In outer space, another way of holding a sail rigid is to spin it. This has the advantage that you don’t need to provide an elaborate support structure, minimizing the weight of the sunjammer.

Geometrically speaking, you can’t get any simpler than the disk sail. The problem is with controlling its orientation to the sun. The most practical method appears to be to equip the payload with some means of moving relative to the center of the disk. For example, it is given tracks to move on. Moving the payload shifts the center of mass of the craft, and the sail tilts to compensate.

The heliogyro sail, invented by Richard MacNeal and John Hedgepath in the mid-sixties, is in the form of long blades which splay outward from a hub. It is spun up much like a disk sail. However, its design advantage is that the blades can be individually rotated around their long axes to change the angle of incidence of the sunlight.

According to Wright, the blades of a heliogyro sail require edge reinforcement to withstand the centrifugal force induced by the high-speed spinning. Consequently, the heliogyro sail is less mass efficient than the disk sail.

Instead of stiffening the blades, the “UltraSail” has a tip micro-satellite with its own propulsion system attached to the end of each blade. These move out to extend and spin up the blade. The proponents believe that, for large sails, the mass requirements of these micro-satellites will be less than for conventional heliogyro blade stiffeners. Of course, unlike a pure solar sail, the UltraSail requires fuel for its tip agents.

Sail Area

The sail on Clarke’s Diana racer was about five square kilometers. In Cordwainer Smith’s story, set much further in the future, the early interstellar colony ships had 3,200-square kilometer (km^2 ) sails. (Manhattan has an area of 59 km^2 , and Central Park, 3.2 km^2.)

In contrast, the real-life engineering proposals have been much more conservative. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory recently proposed use of sails with an area of about 10,000 m^2 (0.01 km^2 ) for inner planet missions. That is equivalent to almost two American football fields. The square sailer and heliogyro designed for the Halley’s Comet rendezvous both had a size of ~0.6 km^2.

The largest sailcraft on the drawing boards are those intended for interstellar flight. Forward, in his novel Rocheworld (Baen Books, 1990), described a 1,000 km diameter, laser-pushed, multistage light sail, destined to explore Barnard’s Star. Similar interstellar sailcraft appear in his scientific papers.

Sailcraft Payload

The purpose of the sailcraft is to transport a payload to an extraterrestrial destination. The payload may be just instrumentation, as in the case of a probe, or it may include astronauts and their life support systems. It may also be cargo for delivery to a space base, and robotic “teamsters” for handling it.

The payload may be an integral part of the “hub” of the sail, it can be rigidly connected to it by some sort of mast, or it may be suspended from the sail by cables. The last approach, a “parachute” design, was proposed by Wiley.

Acceleration is dependent on the total mass of the sunjammer, including its payload. The advantage of large sails is that a given payload has a smaller percentage effect on acceleration. JPL assumes that its 10,000 m^2 sails, together with their supporting structure, will have an “areal density” of ten grams per square meter (g/m^2 ), implying a sail-cum-rigging mass of 100 kilograms.

Adding just a 100 kilogram payload (one-eight the mass of the 1977 Voyager) would double the sailcraft mass, giving it half the acceleration with the JPL sail. It would only nick by 5% the performance of a sail which was ten times as large.

For interstellar missions, JPL expects that super-sails, one square kilometer in size, will be de rigeur. The mass of the sail will then be about the same as that of the Hubble Space Telescope (11,000), and more than that of the Apollo Command Module (5,800).

Getting the Sailcraft Into Space

It is impossible for a sailcraft to take off, under photonic propulsion, from the Earth’s surface. Atmospheric pressure is such that the sails either couldn’t be deployed at all, or would be torn apart.

Sailing is difficult even in low earth orbits; the deployed sails would cause so much drag that the ship couldn’t accelerate to a significant velocity. In general, “atmospheric effects surpass solar pressure effects at altitudes lower than 1000 km.”

Hence, the sailcraft will be carried to a higher altitude by rocket or Space Shuttle, or it will be built in space.

Sail Manufacturing, Packaging and Deployment

On Earth, it is impractical to manufacture, as a single piece, a sail which is 10,000 square meters in size. Instead, the sail material is going to be fabricated as long strips.

The prefabricated sail is then packaged into a deployment module, which is launched into space by a conventional rocket. Or the module could be carried in the storage bay of a space shuttle. Once the module is set free, it is ready to deploy the sail.

NASA expects that a 10,000 square meter sail can be stowed in a space of 1.5 cubic meters (a bit larger than an executive office desk).

* * *

For a heliogyro sail, each blade is produced as a single strip, which is rolled as the final step of the manufacturing process. When the craft is ready to set sail, the rollers are swung out, the central hub spins up, and the blades unroll.

With a scaffolded sail, the strips are loaded into individual canisters. The hub extends the mast and yards, and then the sail strips are hauled out of their containers and hung on the yards.

Louis Friedman says that it is impractical to package a disk sail for launch from the ground, but disk sails can be made once we have spaceborne manufacturing facilities.

* * *

Orbital factories would make it possible to build a lighter, hence higher performance, sail. As Eric Drexler said, solar sails can be improved “if you forget about folding them up and launching them from the ground.”

Wiley envisioned that the sail would be built in space, alongside an artificial satellite. He thought that a thin plastic sheet could be made rigid by applying an electric charge. The metal would then be sprayed on the plastic. Now comes the really neat trick: The plastic is coated with lampblack so that, when turned to face the sun, it melts, and can be separated from the metal. Wiley even explained how to recover the plastic for reuse.

In 1977, Drexler proposed constructing a sail in outer space, on a wire mesh framework. A thin layer of metal would be vapor deposited on wax, the wax would be vaporized and recycled, and the resulting foil would be laid on the scaffold.

Solar System Missions

Since the solar sailer never runs out of fuel, it is perfect for long “continuous thrust” missions. One such mission is the “Solar Sentinel.” This would “sit” seven million kilometers from Earth, angling its sail as needed to keep station as it watches for solar wind disturbances. Its sunward position would allow it to give Earth telecommunications and power networks about four hours warning of a “storm.”

The solar sailer is also favored for the “South Polar Imager.” This satellite, which is intended to study the sun from an unusual vantage point, is intended to take up a 0.48 AU high-inclination orbit. For a rocket ship, dramatically changing orbital inclination requires a lot of fuel.

You wouldn’t use a sunjammer for any mission for which time is of the essence. Still, I can imagine them being used to ferry cargo from a near-Earth space station to a base on the moon or Mars. They would never actually land; their payload would include rocket-driven dinghies for taking the cargo “to shore.” Once a space station was built in lunar or Martian orbit, these dinghies would become unnecessary, and there would be more space for cargo. Missions to Venus or Mercury are also possible, and, so far as solar sailing is concerned, are actually easier.

It has also been suggested that sunjammers could be used for asteroid mining or deflection. Again, the fact that they don’t run out of fuel is important. The shadow of the asteroid could complicate towing operations.

Even though other propulsion systems are favored for short missions to the outer planets, solar sails allow one to achieve high ultimate velocities—making them attractive for missions to the edge of the solar system, or beyond.

Interstellar Missions

In the late-nineteenth century, Svante Arrhenius speculated that life could travel between stars, as spores pushed by light pressure. A century later, science fiction writers wrote about great starships which were pushed the same way.

One way to escape the solar system is to accelerate at a rate greater than you’re pulled by gravity. For the photonic acceleration to equal the gravitational acceleration, the areal density would need to be about 1.6 g/m^2 .

However, it is not necessary to accelerate that quickly. The acceleration can be minimal, so long as it is continued long enough to reach escape speed (which, one A.U. from the sun, is 42.1 km/sec). Further out, of course, it is lower.

* * *

For true interstellar missions, we want to accelerate for a very long time, building extremely high velocities—we have a lot of distance to cover even to reach Alpha Centauri!

Unfortunately, the further out the spacecraft goes, the less the photonic force, and the lower the acceleration. Pluto’s average distance from the sun is 39.5 A.U., and at that distance, the push of sunlight would be 1/1560th what it was in Earth’s orbit.

The sun is not the only possible source of photons. A powerful laser, mounted on a space station, or perhaps on the moon, could be used to push solar sailing ships along.

This is loosely analogous to how electric trains work. The electricity is generated at a central power plant, and transmitted by overhead lines or a third rail to the train. The train can accelerate rapidly, because it doesn’t have to generate the power itself, just apply it.

Of course, that means that the energy is no longer completely free; we have to generate it. Still, we retain the advantage that the spacecraft doesn’t have to carry fuel.

The laser has to supply all of the kinetic energy of the probe at its terminal velocity (when the laser is turned off). For a 1000 kilogram probe traveling at 11% light speed, and driven for three years by the station laser, the latter would need a power output of 65 gigawatts. The laser, in turn, would be powered by a photovoltaic power plant generating perhaps 650 gigawatts.

* * *

Laser beams spread out (diffract), albeit slowly, with distance. There is what is called a diffraction limited distance at which the diameter of the laser beam is equal to that of the sail. If the solar sailer ventures further out, then part of the laser energy is wasted. The diffraction limited distance is the product of the diameters of the sail and the initial laser beam, divided by 2.4 times the wavelength of the laser light.

To increase the effective initial diameter of the laser beam, a giant Fresnel lens may be used. How big? Forward proposed a lens with a diameter of 1,000 kilometers, which happens to be one-third the diameter of the moon.

It sounds as though use of short wavelengths (e.g., ultraviolet) would be a good idea, as it would reduce beam divergence. That is true, but as the wavelengths are reduced, so too, are the efficiency of the laser, the transparency of the lens, and the reflectivity of the metal sail. Landis suggests use of a wavelength of 500 nm (that is in the visible light range).

* * *

The fact that we can control the wavelength emitted by the laser does give us an advantage; we can use a mirror optimized to reflect light of that wavelength. The most efficient mirrors aren’t metals, they are multi-layer dielectrics. Dielectrics are insulators like glass, plastic, and so forth.

In a multilayer dielectric mirror (“Bragg reflector”), layers of high- and low-refractive index materials are alternated, and these layers have thicknesses, relative to the wavelength of the light, such that the reflections from all the boundaries are “in synch.” There are commercially available multilayer dielectrics with reflectivities greater than 99.9%.

The ideal low refractive index “material” for a dielectric-type solar sail is vacuum (1.0).

Some of the high refractive index substances which have been considered are diamond (2.41), silicon carbide (2.65), or zirconia (2.15). These three materials have densities of 3.1-5.4, comparable to those of the metals scandium (3), titanium (4.5) and vanadium (6.1).

Unfortunately, the use of N high-index layers, even with just vacuum inbetween, still increases the weight of the sail by the factor N, whereas the improvement in reflectivity is slower. Hence, solar sail designers are content with using a single dielectric layer; with silicon carbide of the ideal quarter wavelength thickness the reflectivity is 56%.

It should be noted that with traditional dielectric mirrors the reflectivity is a strong function of the angle of incidence of the light. So the dielectric mirrors have to be optimized for a particular mirror tilt, or specially structured to make them omnidirectional.

* * *

The efficiency of laser light propulsion can be increased by “recycling the photons,” that is, reflecting them back and forth between the laser station and the spacecraft. This requires use of one of those multilayer dielectric mirrors we disdained a moment ago. In effect, we are trading more sail weight (and thus lower acceleration) for a lower power requirement.

Conclusion

In his Conversation with the Star Messenger (1610), Johannes Kepler speculated that in the future, there would be “sails or ships fit to survive the breezes of heaven.” We are on the verge of making his speculation a reality.

* * *

The Universal Diagram

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

Occasionally, important advances in scientific understanding are made not by gathering more or better data, or by developing a new and radical theory, but by simply experimenting with a new way of displaying the data that everyone has already examined to their satisfaction.

One example is the periodic table of the elements. It’s a simple chart of all the chemical elements arranged in order of how many protons each has in its nucleus. Yet this modest little arrangement has revealed numerous secrets of the elements because so many of their relationships are interlocking.

Another example is The Hertzsprung-Russell Diagram of stars which is drawn by plotting as many stars as you wish on a sheet of graph paper such that each one’s location depends on its luminosity vs. its temperature. (Usually luminosity is vertical and temperature is horizontal, with the lowest values to the lower right and the highest values to the upper left.) Armed with this simple graphical representation, many unexpected secrets of stellar evolution were made plain, and stars which at first seemed completely different were eventually discovered to be of the same kind, differing only in age.

About twenty-five years ago, based on the idea that I might be able to discover unexpected relationships, I devised a method of charting planets which in the childish vanity of my twenties I called “The Cobb Diagram.” I drew it several times by hand using all the planets of our solar system, but with so few planets it was mostly empty space and so nothing of significance could be gleaned of their interrelationships. Today, however, that situation is rapidly changing.

Currently, 210 planets have been discovered outside our solar system, with new discoveries being added every few weeks. Finding more planets which orbit stars other than our sun has become a new kind of international space race. The discovery rate has accelerated during the last few years, and within a decade may well reach explosive proportions.

At least eight different organized searches are currently underway for these extra-solar planets, or exoplanets, and more are in the works. A few include:

The Darwin Space Infrared Interferometry Project.

COROTA—French photometry mission for stellar seismology and planet detection.

ASP—Arizona Search for Planets (a ground based photometric search for giant planets).

MONS—Measuring Oscillations in Nearby Stars (a Danish space mission to study stellar oscillations, but also capable of doing some transit photometry).

MOST—Microvariability and Oscillations in Stars (a Canadian microsat that uses photometry to measure stellar seismology).

STARE—Stellar Astrophysics & Research on Exoplanets at High Altitude Observatory by Tim Brown.

TEP—A search for transits of the eclipsing binary CM Draconis.

University of California Planet Search Project—The work of Geoff Marcy, Paul Butler, Steve Vogt, Debra Fischer and Chris McCarthy (who have detected most of the known extra-solar planets).

Vulcan Camera—A ground based photometric search for short period transiting giant planets by William Borucki.

And launching in October of 2008the Kepler Mission from NASA. Kepler is specifically designed to “survey our region of the Milky Way galaxy to detect and characterize hundreds of Earth-size and smaller planets in or near the habitable zone. The habitable zone encompasses the distances from a star where liquid water can exist on a planet’s surface.” Yes, you read that right. Kepler will spend its entire four-year mission looking for earths.

But big money projects are not likely to be the only thing to contribute in a big way to the coming explosion in exoplanet discoveries. One of the newest, and perhaps most innovative, projects is called Systemic. It’s a web-based organization which lets amateur astronomers use their home computers to work with the star wobble data collected by professional astronomers. Participants select a star and tweak variables such as a planet’s mass and orbital period by moving a slider on their computer screen. The goal being to design a planetary system that best matches the measured wobble for that star. Over 750 amateur planet hunters are involved so far, and you can join them by going to http://oklo.org/?page_id=33

Because of all this activity and enthusiasm and money and fascination, and because of the potential universal access and participation provided by the World Wide Web, I estimate that within three years new planets will be discovered at approximately one per day. What’s more, I estimate the complete list of exoplanets to reach a thousand within four years, ten thousand within ten years, and a hundred thousand within twenty years. And I know that last estimate sounds impossible but, in truth, it’s not actually going to take that long. I just wanted to make it easier for you to accept. Exponential progressions can be so hard to swallow sometimes.

But even if my own estimates are exceptionally generous—though I doubt that—it remains clear that we will soon to be faced with an abundance of exoplanets. And because of this I feel it is time we had a means of arranging them in a logical order. Ideally this logical order should be one that allows us to uncover relationships that would otherwise remain hidden. So out of the drawer comes my old method of charting planets.

While it’s obvious that every planet is unique based on dozens if not hundreds of variables, I feel that three are most fundamental. These three properties working together may cause as much as 97% of a planet’s unique identity. Using this notion, every planet can be reduced to three numerical values, and these values can then be plotted within a three dimensional cube.

Back in 2002, while toying with this system, I surprised myself by realizing that there is no need to limit its use to planets. By shoving the cube’s metaphorical walls out a bit farther, the three numerical values could just as easily define stars. And having realized this, I next realized that all celestial objects could be plotted within the cube.

The three numerical values needed for this plotting are: 1mass (obviously), 2surface heating (usually received from an outside source, such as the earth’s surface being heated by sunlight) and, 3internal heating. This internal heating can be from thermonuclear fusion, as we see in stars; or it can be from tidal friction, or radioactive decay, or even gravitational collapse. The source doesn’t matter, only the amount.

But you must wonder: why these three values?

Mass is clearly the most important and hardly needs any explanation, but you might wonder why I chose energy for both of the other two values instead of, perhaps, chemical composition. Simple: in this universe, with the exception of the short-lived Population Two stars, almost all objects condense from roughly the same mixture of gasses and dust. And the reason they do is because that mixture was created by the short-lived Population Two stars and scattered all over the place when they went nova, which Population Two stars have a particular love of doing at the end of their short lives.

Consequently (especially for things smaller than stars, which most notably includes planets) the huge difference in chemical composition which we see in different objects is not a product of what they were given at their beginning, but of what they’ve lost in the time since. And, of course, precisely which chemicals an object will loose during its lifetime is determined by its escape velocity (and therefore mass) and by the likelihood that it’s molecules will have, at some point or other, the momentum needed to achieve escape velocity—which is to say, the likelihood that those molecules will be sufficiently heated.

For a star, internal heating is obviously a defining property, however for a planet it might seem that external heating is the only heating we need measure. But that would be wrong. Consider the four big moons of Jupiter. They are radically different from one another yet they have very similar masses and receive almost exactly the same amount of external heat from the sun. Their differences are a product of several features specific to their proximity to Jupiter, and one of those features is the different amount of interior frictional heating each one suffers by way of its tides.

Being closest to Jupiter, Io has the strongest tides. During every orbit, the material of Io’s deep interior grinds against itself as this moon is deformed from and returns to its spherical shape. Its interior is heated so violently by this friction that every amateur astronomer is familiar with its yellow and orange surface which is scarred with black volcanoes and smeared with plumes of red soot. Astronomers describe its volcanism as “slowly turning Io inside out.”

The volcanoes of earth, along with our plate tectonics, are also produced by internal heating; though in our case this heat is mostly the product of the decay of radioactive materials such as uranium and thorium.

I should also point out that while stars are dominated by their internal heating, which is usually thermonuclear, they are not immune to alteration by external heating. A close pair of binary stars will change one another dramatically by mutually heating each other’s exterior.

These are just a few examples of the importance of these three numerical values; and of why they are sufficient to define any naturally occurring object in the universe, so long as that object has experienced a relatively natural progression of heating for its particular situation without any catastrophic interference from a passing object.

So now, let’s fill in the cube.

There are trillions of trillions of celestial objects in this universe. If all these objects were plotted within a cube in which each of the three numerical values I’ve described controlled a dimension, nearly every point within this three dimensional plot would be overwhelmingly dominated by objects almost identical to one another.

Density of the plot points would vary. There would be clustering and crowding: regions where specific types of planets and stars, for example, would be more tightly packed.

Transition zones would also vary. Some would be gradual; places where objects would gently change from one recognizable type to another. But some transition zones would be abrupt; places where two adjacent zones would have a sharp and distinct boundary. These might be places where a small change in one of the three values would produce a big change in the properties and nature of the planet or star or other object.

Many distinct boundaries might exist, often in the form of gently curving sheets. Some of these might touch to form T-shaped intersections, others might curve themselves into the shape of a trough or a cup, and somewhere three boundaries may intersect to form a corner like that of a cardboard box. Some of these boundaries would separate things we are familiar with, such as stars, quasars, pulsars, comets, asteroids, even Earth-like planets and Venus-like planets; but some might delineate things we don’t yet have names for; and some might even surround regions of the cube that are mysteriously empty. Learning why they were empty could reveal further secrets, and clue us in about strange attractors which operate on the scale of planets and stars.

And since objects which plot near one another will tend to be very similar, once enough exoplanets have been discovered and studied and plotted, it would then become possible to immediately estimate the properties of any newly discovered exoplanet just by determining its three numerical values, two of which can be measured from hundreds of light years away.

Curiously, this plotting system has a two-faced Jekyll-Hyde nature; both of which may prove valuable for our greater understanding. While the vast majority of objects will closely resemble their immediate neighbors within the cube, a tiny percentage won’t. By not getting along well with their neighbors, these crazy Mister Hyde’s will be waving a red flag. They will be signaling that by their uniqueness they are worthy of special attention. Some of these will be like Uranus, with its mysterious 98 degree polar tilt; some will be tidally locked to their external heat source, as we long thought Mercury to be; others may be in crazy orbits, or suffer through other periodic temperature extremes. Regardless of why they deviate from their neighbors, that they deviate is indication enough that they are worth studying. Ultimately some of the deviations may also be discovered to be attractors, and by their popularity, worthy of their own classification. So that eventually things that today have no name may be become named.

My favorite feature of this plotting system is that it allows almost everything in the universe—from the tiniest tumbling grains of dust, to quasars brighter than a million galaxies—to be placed within a single unified continuum. Beyond its appeal to my love for neatness, this could prove to be a handy little diagram, especially when we are inundated with more exoplanets than we can explore in a typical human lifetime.

And now to the naming of my simple graphic: since all naturally occurring objects can be plotted within it, I suggest it be called “The Universal Diagram,” although I suppose it could be called “The Cosmic Cube.”

* * *

Stephen’s podcast about the future is at http://www.thefutureandyou.com

COLUMNS

The Editor’s Column February 2007

Written by Mike Resnick

So here I am, the new Executive Editor of Jim Baen’s Universe. And here you are, wondering who the hell I am and what I like.

Who I am is easy. I’m Mike Resnick, I sold my first science fiction novel exactly 40 years ago (don’t hunt for it; it’s pretty awful). I sold my first few science fiction stories even earlier (you might very well enjoy hunting for them; they were the “redeeming social value” in a trio of men’s magazines, stuck in there to make all the naked women legal). I attended my first Worldcon in 1963—I was a mature 21, my child-bride was 20—and we’ve been going back ever since.

I started selling stories and articles when I was a teenager. Somewhere along the way to 2007 I learned how to write acceptable prose (though I’m sure there are critics who would disagree). After producing a few million lesser words in lesser fields, I’ve now sold over 50 science fiction novels, close to 200 stories, more than a dozen collections, even a couple of screenplays, and I’ve edited close to 50 anthologies. Along the way I’ve won a bunch of Hugos (5), lost an even bigger bunch (23), and according to Locus I have won more awards for my short science fiction that any writer living or dead. (I have also lost more, but you have my permission to forget or ignore this fact.)

I’ve edited anthologies, as I said, and I spent a couple of years this decade editing science fiction for BenBella Books, but until now I have never edited a science fiction magazine. I’ve wanted this freedom for a long time. By freedom, I mean that just about every time you sell an anthology, you must sell it based on a theme, and while it’s interesting to edit the best Alternate Kennedy stories or the best Sherlock Holmes in the Future stories, it is a bit limiting for both the writer and the editor. Here at Jim Baen’s Universe I am free to select the best stories regardless of theme or subject matter, to help writers produce the best stories they can write rather than the best Space Cadet or Dinosaur or Christmas Ghost story they can write.

So what do I like?

It’s going to sound like a cop-out, but I like good writing. I used to write in the “adult” field, so I guarantee you can’t shock me. I’ve sold perhaps 60 funny science fiction stories, so you’re not going to get turned away because your story isn’t serious enough. I’ve won awards at every length, so I will not react unfavorably to any length.

But give me a story that’s poorly written, carelessly conceived, clumsily worded, or filled with cardboard characters, and I don’t care if you’ve been my friend for half a century, you’re not going to sell me. Jim Baen’s Universe is not just paying the best rates in the field, but much the best, literally 3 times more than Analog, Asimov’s and F&SF pay for short stories by major authors, and for that kind of money, we expect—and I demand—stories that are worth what we’re paying. Simple as that.

Other than the demand for good writing, the market’s wide open. I don’t believe in editorial soap boxes. I learned a long time ago that trying to shoehorn a writer into a style or subject I liked, rather than helping him create what he liked, was counter-productive. I love Robert Sheckley’s humor, and I loved the humor in Robert E. Howard’s Breckenridge Elkins stories—and neither of them wrote the kind of humor I do. I can admire Edgar Rice Burroughs’ fantastic adventures and Eric Flint’s alternate historical adventures and Fred Saberhagen’s futuristic adventures, and none of them read remotely like my own adventures. Indeed, when I make a list of my favorite science fiction writers—Alfred Bester, Barry Malzberg, C. L. Moore, Clifford D. Simak, Robert Sheckley, James White, a number of others—I find the one thing they have in common is that none of them writes like me. In fact, that’s one of the prime reasons I admire them: because they come up with stories and styles and approaches that are fascinating to me precisely because what they write is so different from what I write. (Why in the world should I want to read Imitation Resnick or Watered-Down Resnick when I can read unique and original Heinlein and Zelazny and Willis? And on those occasions that I want to read a Resnick story, whose writing I immodestly admit to liking, well, I’m on pretty good terms with the source and will simply suggest that he write one.)

Over the years, I’ve edited a number of stories that have won or been nominated for Hugo Awards, but the editorial feat of which I am proudest is that in the decade of the 1990s I bought more first stories than any of the major magazines, indeed than all of them put together, and that 8 of “my” discoveries made the Campbell ballot (science fiction’s Rookie of the Year award), and one of them—my daughter, in fact; good genes there—won it.

I am committed to editing the best science fiction around, but I am equally committed to encouraging the next generation to produce it. When Burroughs and A. Merritt and Olaf Stapleton had shot their bolts, along came Robert A. Heinlein and Isaac Asimov and Theodore Sturgeon. A decade later we had Sheckley and William Tenn and Jack Vance. Then came Robert Silverberg and Harlan Ellison, A few more years and we had Roger Zelazny and Ursula K. Le Guin and Anne McCaffrey. Then along came George R. R. Martin and Connie Willis and Orson Scott Card. A new batch of superstars makes the scene every few years. Along with presenting the best of the current ones, we owe it to the readers, and indeed to the field itself, to find and present the next generation as well.

Newcomers have a lot of stories to tell. They don’t fall into the trap of telling the same story over and over again. That they leave to television, and that we’ll leave to lesser magazines, which is one of the reasons I am so committed to finding the best of them.

I’m glad to be aboard. . Eric is still the head honcho, and production schedules being what they are very little of my editing will show up here before the last couple of months of 2007. But I’m at work on those future issues right now, and I promise to do my best to please you.

—Mike Resnick

Lies, and More Lies

Written by Eric Flint

In my last essay, I ended by saying that the claims made today on behalf of DRM—that stands for “Digital Rights Management”—can be summarized as follows:

The advent of digital media makes it so effortless to copy an intellectual creator’s work that traditional notions of “fair use” have to be abandoned. In today’s world, any sort of “fair use” will inexorably and inevitably lead to wholesale violation of copyright.

Therefore, fair use must be banned entirely—or, at a bare minimum, have tremendous restrictions placed on it.

And I concluded by paraphrasing Mary McCarthy’s famous quip that every word in the above statement was a lie, including “the” and “and.”

Let’s start with “makes it so effortless.”

What’s being claimed here, by the proponents of DRM, is that because digital data can be processed by computers all of the traditional practical obstacles that made it difficult for somewhat to infringe copyright have vanished. “Online piracy” has therefore become rampant. If someone wants to produce a “pirated” version of an electronic text, they no longer have to have access to printing presses, nor do they need the financial wherewithal to operate them or pay someone else to do so. They can simply duplicate the text on their own home computer and thereby completely circumvent the need to pay the creator of the work under traditional copyright laws.

For this reason, DRM supporters claim, all electronic text must be carefully encrypted. That forces the prospective user, whether he wants to or not, to pay the creators of the product the money that is legitimately owed to them. Without the code to open the encryption—to get which, he must pay for the legitimate product—the “pirate” is out of business.

Furthermore, in order to prevent anyone from producing an illegal code-cracking mechanism, severe penalties must be levied against any such activity. And finally—oh, they’re a thorough lot, these sweethearts—any product or activity that might be used to “pirate” an electronic text must be banned also.

An aside here, before I continue. In the paragraphs above, I put the terms “pirate” and “piracy” and “pirated” in quotation marks. And I will continue to do so throughout these essays.

That’s because the terms are another lie. They are words which—I speak as a professional author of fiction, here, who makes his living working with words and manipulating them consciously for a desired emotional effect on the reader—are consciously and deliberately designed to obfuscate the real issues involved by substitute hysterical terminology for rational discourse.

Piracy?

That’s preposterous. Piracy is a crime that involves such things as:

Murder.

Rape.

Arson.

Armed robbery.

To claim that an author or publisher has been “subject to piracy” because someone infringed their copyright is grotesque. They have suffered absolutely no physical damage, pain or indignity whatsoever. Their property as such has not been destroyed in any way, shape or form.

They’ve simply suffered what amounts to a theft. And even leaving aside the absence of any weapons being used, the term “robbery” cannot be applied because the theft involved is so petty.

How petty? As an author, I can tell you exactly how petty it is, taken one instance at a time.

Like most authors nowadays, I make most of my income from the royalties earned by my hardcover titles. I leave aside the money paid in the form of an advance, because an advance is simply an advance against royalties. It’s always royalties that are the ultimate determinant of an author’s income—as any author whose advances fail to earn out too often will quickly discover when the publisher refuses to buy any more of his books.

How much do I make in the way of royalties? The way they’re calculated in my contracts—and these are the standard contracts used throughout the commercial fiction industry—are as follows:

For sales of any hardcover book up to a total of five thousand copies, I am entitled to 10% of the retail price of the book. The cover price, that is, not whatever lower price to which a given retailer might have discounted the book. (There are a few exceptions, such as what are called “remaindered copies,” but that’s a side issue that doesn’t play any role here, so I’ll ignore it.)

For sales of any book between five thousand and ten thousand copies, I am entitled to 12.5% of the retail price of my book. And for any copies sold above ten thousand, I am entitled to 15%.

Except for a tiny number of top-selling authors, that’s where the cap lies: at fifteen percent. Whether a given title of mine sells 10,001 copies or 100,000 copies, I will make 15% of the retail price from each sale.

Okay, now let’s translate that into dollars and cents. The cover price of hardcover fiction titles varies a bit, but it’s fair today to put $25.00 as more-or-less the standard price.

Even at the top 15% tier, in other words, a theft of one of my books causes me loss and suffering in the amount of $3.75. About what it costs to buy a cheeseburger and fries at a hamburger chain like McDonald’s, or a large cappuccino at Starbuck’s.

So. Can you imagine the ridicule I would be subjected to if I demanded that a louse who stole my large cappuccino was a “pirate.” No different from a murderer, or a rapist, or an arsonist, or an armed robber?

Mind you, even the theft of a cup of cappuccino is a theft, sure enough. It’s against the law, and if the police catch the culprit he will be charged with a crime.

A misdemeanor, to be precise. Because when it comes to theft—assuming no violence is involved—the distinction between a misdemeanor offense and a felony is normally determined by the amount of money involved in the theft. And, in any municipality I know of, $3.75 falls way below the bar needed to turn a theft into a felony like robbery. Much less the equivalent of murder, rape, and arson.

Moreover, how many policemen in any city or town in the country are going to devote much effort to solving such a crime? And how many prosecutors are going to go all out to make sure the dastardly cappuccino thief is subjected to the full penalties provided for by the law?

Hopefully, none. I say “hopefully” because I think anyone with any sense at all realizes that police agencies and prosecutors have far more important problems to keep them busy. Such as real murders and real rapes and real instances of arson and armed robbery.

And yet it is exactly such a topsy-turvy misallocation of society’s policing resources that advocates of DRM and the panoply of laws that surround it are demanding. That’s why these liars—to call them by their right name—insist on using loaded and hysterical terminology such as “online piracy.”

Can you imagine the ridicule that would be showered on Starbuck’s Coffee if that company demanded that the theft of a cup of cappuccino or a caramel latte be placed in a special category and treated by police agencies as a serious felony? “Caffeine piracy,” let’s call it.

Every late night talk show host in the country would be making jokes about it. So would stand-up comics—and every person in the country who drinks coffee, for that matter.

Yet the claims made by DRM advocates are taken seriously. No jokes are made about it by comedians—and Congressmen solemnly nod their heads and vote for this chicanery.

Why?

Well, here’s where the next lie comes in. If you push a DRM enthusiast on the matter of their terminology, most of them will grudgingly admit that the hysterical words they use are …

Accuracy-challenged, let’s call it.

But they will then immediately advance a new argument. They will argue that while it may be true that each individual instance of “electronic piracy” is no more than a minor misdemeanor, the problem taken as a whole has assumed such gigantic proportions that it amounts to a “social felony.”

Mind you, this argument is not as silly as it seems at first glance. It is indeed true that many violations of the law which, on an individual level, are not taken too seriously by society, would be taken very seriously if they became a general habit practiced by a large section of the population.

For example, it is against the law to urinate or defecate in public. But, in the real world, nobody worries too much about it. Why? For the good and simple reason that it doesn’t happen all that often, and when it does happen it usually involves someone caught in a bad situation who found themselves forced to go off into the bushes somewhere to relieve their bladder or (more rarely still) void their bowels. If they are “caught” in the act, the person is more likely to be the subject of ridicule than of legal charges being pressed against them.

Now and then, to be sure, a particularly obnoxious instance of this crime occurs. A drunk, for instance, urinating against the side of a building in plain view of everyone. And, in such instances—if a policeman happens to be in the vicinity and spots the crime underway—the culprit might actually get arrested.

But let’s suppose, for a moment, that this activity became the common practice of a large section of the population. Hundreds of thousands of people—millions of people—relieving themselves anywhere they chose, every day. Urinating and defecating on other people’s property, on sidewalks, in parking lots, in schoolyards …

Oh, yes. Society would suddenly change its attitude on the matter. And correctly so, because leaving aside any issues of propriety if a very large number of people started urinating and defecating anywhere they felt like it, you’d very soon have a serious problem of public hygiene on your hands. Epidemics would be the sure and inevitable result.

And that is the claim advanced by DRM advocates. Electronic piracy, they insist, has become a veritable epidemic in the land. And therefore this illegal activity—though it may be no more than a misdemeanor in any specific instance—has to be treated as seriously as a major felony.

So …

It’s really not that silly to call it “piracy,” after all!

Yes, it is silly. Because, once again, they’re lying through their teeth.

They’re lying twice over, in fact, because there are two lies involved in this claim.

The first lie ought to be obvious. DRM advocates are systematically obliterating the distinction in the real world between actual theft and what I will call “virtual” theft.

Remember: electrons are not molecules. If you get nothing else from reading this essay, do yourself a favor and memorize those four words. They will serve you well as a shield against hogwash.

Here’s what I mean:

Again, I speak as an author who depends entirely on royalties for my livelihood. If a thief goes into a brick-and-mortar bookstore and steals a molecular copy of one of my books—i.e., a “real book.,” with paper and ink and a binder—then I have indeed suffered a real loss.

The loss, by the way, is not so much in the theft itself. That’s because in most instances, the thief wouldn’t have bought the book anyway. So it’s not as if I lost anything from him.

The real loss to me derives from the fact that because real books are molecular objects, they weigh something and they take up actual space. That means, in turn, that no bookstore can afford to keep an unlimited number of copies on their shelves. Typically, in fact, except in the case of a very small number of top-selling authors, an author will have no more than one or two copies of a given title on the shelves of a bookstore, if he or she has any at all. And if that one copy is now gone because a thief took it, that means nobody else can buy the book until the bookstore eventually notices its absence and gets a replacement for it.

Which takes many weeks, usually two or three months. Many weeks during which a possible sale I might have made cannot happen because of the theft.

But electrons are not molecules. A virtual theft—which is what we’re talking about, when someone downloads an electronic text without the permission of the author or publisher—has no such equivalent effect. The thief—excuse me, the “pirate”—has indeed swiped something from me. But unless he would have paid for it otherwise, which is a highly dubious proposition, I have not actually suffered any material loss. Why? Because his theft does not in any way prevent a legitimate purchaser from buying the product—nor does it cost me anything to replace the stolen virtual product.

That last point is very important. If you think about it, in what sense has even a petty theft occurred—when nothing material has been taken?

The answer is: in no meaningful sense of the term that doesn’t make hash out of the English language. The fact is that not only is it absurd to label electronic copyright infringement as “piracy,” it’s even absurd to label it as “theft.”

That doesn’t mean that copyright infringement isn’t a crime, because it is. What I am pointing out is simply that DRM advocates are constantly mutilating both the language and basic legal concepts in order to swindle the population into supporting them. What they are doing is no different than if a man demanded that a neighbor of his who walked across his lawn without permission be charged, not with trespassing—which he did commit—but with “grand theft, personal space.”

Again, if such a case become widely known to the public, you can rest assured that late night talk show hosts and stand-up comics would be making jokes about it. But when DRM advocates advance exactly the same twisted logic, they are taken seriously.

This is one of the favored tactics used by DRM advocates. Constantly, in every way possible, they find ways to distort the issue by what you might call semantical inflation. Copyright infringement becomes “theft,” and “theft” becomes “piracy.” By this means, a problem which in the real world—as I will demonstrate in later essays—is no more than a petty nuisance, becomes transformed into an impending social catastrophe.

Again, this is not rocket science. If DRM advocates wish to argue that “online piracy” has become so widespread that they are in fact suffering tremendously from the phenomenon taken as a whole, then …

Goddamit, they have to prove it. They cannot—as they do now—simply point to the existence of many instances of unauthorized downloading of their product as if, by itself, that substantiated their claim.

Sorry, it does not. In fact, claiming that it does is ridiculous. People have been “downloading” copies of books for centuries without paying the author or publisher a penny for the privilege. They do it every time they check a book out of the library, every time they buy a used copy instead of a new one, every time they lend or borrow a book from a friend.

Traditionally, that was considered fair use. And—miracle of miracles!—somehow authors and publishers managed to make a living for centuries despite all of this activity. In fact, as I will argue in later essays, the activity itself was critical to their ability to stay in business in the first place.

Remember my last essay? I told you then that what was involved in this swindle was that DRM advocates are trying to get fair use eliminated altogether. And now you can begin to see how it works.

To be sure, DRM advocates advance a few claims that purport to “prove” that the phenomenon of widespread unauthorized downloading of their product—”virtual theft,” to use my term—does indeed cause them tremendous losses. The most commonly known instance of such a “proof” is the claim constantly trumpeted by the music recording industry that their profits are down—and therefore “electronic piracy” must be the cause.

From the standpoint of logic, this claim is so laughable that any student in a college course in logic who advanced it would get flunked from the course. It’s a perfect example of that error in logic which is called post hoc, ergo propter hoc—and it’s usually the first form of logical error that an instructor will discuss, because it’s the crudest.

The Latin phrase, roughly translated, means “after which, therefore because of which.” In other words, it’s the notion that because Phenomenon B happened after Phenomenon A, it must have been caused by Phenomenon A.

Oh, sure. That makes sense! For instance …

Last month, in the course of a long road trip, I got a speeding ticket just outside of Dodge City, Kansas. It happened after I spent the night at a Holiday Inn motel.

Therefore … Holiday Inn was responsible.

Uh, no. I got the speeding ticket because it was a long, straight road with almost no traffic where going 77 miles per hour was perfectly feasible as a mechanical proposition, even if it was twelve miles per hour over the posted speed limit, I’d been driving for hours and wasn’t paying much attention to the speedometer, and—the rotten bastids—the local cops were lurking in ambush with a radar gun.

Oh, the possibilities are endless, using this specious form of logic. Nor do we need to restrict ourselves to petty, personal issues. No, no!

For instance …

There was at the time and still remains an enormous range of opinion regarding the Vietnam War. Still, most people today—from whichever angle they approach the matter—will agree that it was very unfortunate that the United States got involved in the first place.

Now—a roll of drums here, please—Eric Flint will finally advance an explanation for why that unfortunate event happened, that everyone will surely agree with, regardless of whatever else they might think about the war.

After long and careful study, I have determined that U.S. involvement in Vietnam clearly happened after the Andrews Sisters became a popular singing trio.

So. The truth is finally out. The Andrews Sisters caused the Vietnam War. You can blame them for the whole business.

Granted, the claim advanced by the music recording industry that the wide spread of such things as Napster caused their decline in profits isn’t as patently ridiculous as the two examples I used. That’s because, at first glance, there would indeed appear—possibly—to be some connection between the two phenomena. They both involve music, at any rate.

But it’s still just about as ridiculous as my examples. Why? Because the profits a company makes are determined by a multitude of factors. That being so, how in the world can the music recording industry make the claim that “piracy” was the cause of the decline in their profits?

The fact is, they can’t. The fact is—as I will show in later essays—it is far more likely that Napster helped sustain their profits, rather than sapping them. For the good and simple reason, to summarize quickly what will be a long and detailed analysis, the entertainment market is so opaque to its customers that any method that enables customers to penetrate the fog, such as file sharing, makes them more willing to buy products of that industry, not less willing.

By the way—this gives you another illustration of how sleazy DRM advocates are—the logic of post hoc ergo proctor hoc, as fallacious as it is, doesn’t even support them in the first place. The music recording industry’s endless drumbeating on the subject of the nefarious effects of Napster is designed, among other things, to obscure the fact that the big decline in their profits happened after Napster was legally banned.

But I’ll come back to that subject later. For the moment, let’s return to the matter directly at hand.

Which is not complicated. All—each and every one—of the arguments advanced by DRM advocates to substantiate their claims that “electronic piracy” is a major social problem, is based on what can, at best, be called circumstantial or anecdotal evidence.

They have yet to prove, in any way that would be accepted in an introductory course in logic, that “electronic piracy” hurts anyone at all.

Yes, that’s true, as astonishing as it may seem. These people—these rapacious giant corporations, to name the ultimate villains—have been successfully waging an assault against basic principles of copyright that have benefited society for centuries, without ever once proving that there was any need for their measures—or that the problem those measures are supposed to solve even represent serious social problems to begin with.

“Astonishing” is the right word for it, too. You would think that any one who stepped forward and demanded that society had to radically change long-established laws and customs would, at a bare minimum, have to prove that there was a problem that needed to be addressed in the first place.

But they have not done so—nor, to their disgrace and the disgrace of the republic—have any but a few of the country’s legislators insisted that they must do so. Instead, time after time, Congress has passed whatever new legislation was demanded by these corporations, on nothing more substantial that the say-so of the corporations themselves.

L’etat, cest moi was originally the boast of the King of France, Louis XIV—the famous “Sun King” of the so-called age of absolutism. Supposedly, we abandoned all that feudal garbage centuries ago. But, today, the executives of the music recording industry and the movie industry could advance the same boast.

We say it is true, therefore it is true—and you, our lackeys in Congress, must do our bidding.

My essays focus primarily on the publishing industry, however. And, to my momentary relief, although the publishing industry has been more-or-less tagging along in the wake of the Blackbeards and Morgans who run the music and movie industries—I can play this pirate game, too—the operative term is “tagging along.” Publishers haven’t been leading the charge, and not only are many of them very uneasy about it, but several university publishers and one commercial publisher have already stood forthrightly in defense of traditional copyright practice.

Of the university presses, whose practices and experience I will analyze in later essays, I think MIT Press can legitimately take of pride of place. And the one commercial publisher was my own, Baen Books.

The founder of Baen Books, Jim Baen, died a few months ago. I said at the time in my editorial regarding his death that I thought—I certainly hoped—that someday he’d be well remembered for the crucial role he played in defeating the assault on copyright laws and principles.

He certainly should be, because—this brings me to the last of the lies I will dissect in this issue’s essay—the stakes involved go far beyond any narrow concerns regarding copyright.

This final lie is the following:

We need to encrypt our electronic text because otherwise it will be stolen.

That statement is a lie, from top to bottom—and the people who advance the lie know it perfectly well.

The reason it’s a lie is because—ask any author, editor or publisher who isn’t a nitwit—everybody in the publishing industry knows perfectly well how “online piracy” actually happens.

It does not happen by some genius hacker figuring out how to crack whatever fiendishly clever code publishers might use to encrypt their text.

Why bother? The way “electronic piracy” actually happens is that the Fu Manchu arch-villain involved goes out and obtains a paper edition of the book to be “pirated,” runs it through an OCR scanner—which you can buy for a couple of hundred dollars or less in electronic stores all over the country—and, voila, the “piracy” is done. Professor Moriarty has struck again.

The whole world saw a perfect illustration of this truth not long ago. The wildly popular author J.K. Rowling, apparently because she was deeply concerned over the possibility of “electronic piracy”—and because she apparently was incredibly ignorant of the realities of the publishing industry—refused to authorize any electronic edition of her most recent Harry Potter novel.

The perfect encryption, you’d think. The ultimate, unbeatable code.

Oh, what a laugh. By dawn of the first day her book came out, there was a “pirated” copy available on the internet. Literally, by the time the sun came up. What happened was what always happens. Somebody was obviously standing in line to get a copy of the book as soon as the stores made it available—which many bookstores did at special midnight opening sales, the book was so popular—bought it, raced home and copied it on an OCR scanner and uploaded the resulting file onto the web. In this instance—which is rather uncommon—they even did a fairly decent job of proof-reading the text and getting rid of most of the typical OCR scanning errors.

How are you going to prevent this by encryption?

You can’t. It’s as simple as that. You cannot.

Unless …

You start shredding the most basic political freedoms of a modern society.

Unless …

You start placing severe restrictions on everything that involves the production and distribution of text.

Computers must henceforth be registered and monitored. All computers must have software that allows the authorities to inspect them to make sure that no unauthorized use of copyrighted text has taken place.

While we’re at it, the same must be true for all OCR scanners or any other electronic device that allows anyone to copy text in a way that might lead to violations of copyright.

For that matter, all PAPER books must have chips built into them that allows the authorities to track all books. That’s really the only way to put a stop to this nefarious piracy.

If you think I’m joking, I am not—and each and every one of these proposals has already started being bruited about, in one way or another.

That’s what is really at stake, in the end, with DRM. Nothing less than the right of free speech itself. Because the reality is that all the encryption being used by publishing houses is ultimately pointless—and they know it perfectly well.

So why do they do it? Well, in the case of the publishing industry, the most common reason is stupidity, and it descends from there.

Being fair about it, the stupidity involved is not low intelligence, as such—the average author, editor and publisher is normally a rather bright person—but functional stupidity in the sense of persisting mulishly in a form of pointless behavior simply because you can’t figure out any alternative and you’re too stubborn or peeved or just plain lazy to sit down and think.

Almost everyone is guilty of that form of stupidity, at one time or another. We’ve all done it, sure enough. Being stumped by the task of getting a malfunctioning machine to start working again, we keep kicking it in the hopes that somehow—by who knows what mechanical magic?—the damn gadget might start working again.

From there it descends to the next level, which is pure and simple spite. This may seem silly, but I can assure you from my extensive discussions with people in the publishing industry—authors, editors, publishers—that a great deal of the emotional force behind insisting on DRM is simply childish spitefulness.

It’s about on the level of a street gang mentality, except the vocabulary is fancier. It amounts to this:

That sonuvabitch PIRATED my book. He DISSED me! I’ll GET him for it!

Honestly. It’s no more sophisticated than a schoolboy getting into a fistfight because another schoolboy disrespected him in some way or other—or, at least, was thought to have done so. Whether or not the disrespect involved, assuming it even existed, caused any actual harm to the belligerent lad.

Yeah, I did it too. I got into quite a few fistfights in high school, most of them over the silliest things you can think of.

But that was then, and this is now—and I’m now well into middle age, and I haven’t gotten into a fistfight in decades. I like to think, at least, that the term “maturity” isn’t completely meaningless.

Is it really too much to ask authors, editors and publishers to act their age? Is it really too much to insist that they react to electronic copyright infringement—yes, it does happen, and yes, it’s certainly annoying on a personal level—by using their brains instead of their gonads? Is it really too much to demand that, if they advance a certain course of action, they have the minimal adult responsibility of gauging its potentially disastrous effect on society as whole?

I mean, give me a break. These people all work in the publishing industry, which means they make their living by using words, in one way or another. So they have no excuse at all, where movie producers might since there is considerable evidence that they don’t read anything except comic books and spreadsheets.

Which one-syllable or two-syllable word in the following sentence does any author, editor or publisher not understand?

Do not call for a cure that is worse than the disease.

Presumably, not one. Yet that is exactly what most publishers are demanding today—along with, I’m sorry to say, most authors and editors.

* * *

All right. Enough for the moment. In my next essay for this column, I will pick up where I left off toward the beginning of this one.

Is it true that modern electronic devices have made copyright infringement “so effortless” that it has become—or threatens to become—a serious menace to legitimate copyright owners?

The answer is “no.” In the next issue, I’ll explain why.

* * *

The Future and You February 2007

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

Listen as Elizabeth Bear, Toni Weisskopf, Walter Jon Williams, Ginjer Buchanan and L.E. Modesitt describe many of the technological and social changes which will alter your life during the next few years.

The Future And You is an award-winning audio podcast about the future which may be downloaded and enjoyed, or even copied and shared, for free. Every episode contains many interviews which reveal a wide variety of ideas and opinion from a wide variety of people.

* * *

The February 1, 2007 episode includes all of the following and more:

shares her expectations on the future discovery of earthlike planets and her ongoing involvement with SETI-@-home. She also discusses religion, agnosticism vs. atheism, buying things on eBay, non-lethal military weapons, and her reluctance to use any future version of Microsoft Windows as the primary operating system for her eventually augmented brain.

Toni Weisskopf describes several of the trends going on within book publishing such as SF&F titles crossing over into mainstream and how the shrinking shelf life of books in stores hurts authors as well as customers.

suggests there is a growing inflexibility in the world, and that cell phones are slowing the rate at which today’s teens mature. He sees the media as promoting inflexibility most prominently in politics since they will not allow a politician to learn, grow and change his or her mind. Instead, the media will hold a politician to old statements and policy positions even if those statements or positions were made decades ago. He also suggests that the media promotes conflict, since it insists that all conflicts are between polar opposites. Disagreements which are seen as small or subtle or nuanced will not draw a TV audience or sell papers. He also describes how cell phones may be slowing maturity in students by preventing them from ever being “on their own” when facing life’s problems. With cell phones, no one is ever on their own, so self-reliance becomes an option which is rarely chosen and never incorporated into the personality. Even young people’s opinions seem to be formed by a committee of friends through a consensus of feelings, rather than by cold solitary logic. And when asked about eBooks, Mr. Modesitt described how Isaac Asimov formally analyzed what would make up the “The Perfect Book.”

Ginjer Buchanan (Senior Executive Editor and Marketing Director of Ace and ROC books) names those Hard SF authors she feels have the most accurate or persuasive vision of the future. Her picks include Charles Stross (a former Linux programmer), Alastair Reynolds (astronomer), Allen Steele (journalist) and Jack McDevitt. One of these authors, she discovered herself from the slush pile twenty years ago. She also addresses the question of how well Hard SF is competing in the bookstores.

Walter Jon Williams says with assurance that “The war against Utopia has been won.” He also asserts that the fight of the 21st century will be the war against fundamentalism. He suggests that Nanotechnology is “all over the place,” and that biotechnology is likely to produce immortality within forty years. He expects the big publishers will eventually solve the problem of making money from eBooks, even if they have to use methods that appear heavy-handed. He expects wirelessly networked computers to becoming ubiquitous in most all of your household devices, even those that never before contained computers such as washers, driers, microwaves, as well as your clothes and your shoes. And that all these computers will talk to one another—about you. He also describes how consumer databases are already being used to not only market products to people but also to market political ideologies.

And as always we include another installment in our serialization of the Hard SF novel, Bones Burnt Black; and Bananaslug & Stoney do their bit to let the world at large know what’s in the current issue of Jim Baen’s Universe.

News items in the February 1, 2007 episode include:

An artificial intelligence programmer has just released a computer version of the strategy board game Death Stacks which was invented by the host of The Future And You, Stephen Euin Cobb. No word yet if the programmer intends to enter his heuristic software to compete in the—so far, human-dominated—Annual Death Stacks Tournament which is only a few months away and will be held at the Marriott Executive Hotel in Charlotte NC as part of the SF&F convention ConCarolinas. The curious may download this freely available, and freely improvable, Death Stacks computer game, as well as its C# source code. (However, as of this writing, the program will only run under Microsoft .Net 2.0).

During 2007 your host is scheduled to visit with the fans at RavenCon in Richmond VA (April 20-22, 2007) ConCarolinas in Charlotte NC (June 1-3, 2007) LibertyCon in Chattanooga TN (July 27-29, 2007) and DragonCon in Atlanta GA (August 31-September 3, 2007).

All the cons are great fun, but I have a special fondness for ConCarolinas. Maybe because it’s where I get to award tournament trophies, or because it was the first con to put me on the bill, or maybe it’s just because the Klingons of Dark Star Quadrant are mysteriously convinced that I can karaoke.

If you do spot me at one of these conventions, however, try not to be too shocked by my new appearance. On January 3, 2007, for the first time in my life, I shaved my head. I still have my mustache, goatee and eyebrows, but that’s about all.

* * *

And if the current episode’s ideas and opinion are not enough, check out the previous month’s episode of The Future And You which contains Kim Stanley Robinson, David B. Coe, Jay Lake, Sarah A. Hoyt, Catherine Asaro, and John R. Douglas (editor for scifipedia) discussing all the following:

Is our world already changing too fast for our cultural headlights? And in the future will those who don’t benefit from The Singularity at its very beginning be forever left behind? (author and anthologist) discusses this as well as Wikipedia, Google and global warming.

Do large segments of the American population have various vested interests in not looking at the future’s potential dangers? John R. Douglas (an editor for scifipedia) believes that Americans would rather be happy consumers than listen to the scary predictions from scientists. He also says that too many business people plan for the future only as far as their company’s next quarter, and not one second farther. He also suggests that the first immortal is already alive, and his name is Bill Gates.

Is the internet killing used bookstores? Sarah A. Hoyt (author and voracious reader) was surprised to discover long after she changed her book buying habits that others had simultaneously changed theirs.

Does POD publishing (Print-on-demand) have a future? And are there times when it makes sense to use it now? (author and former president of SFWA) uses concrete examples from two of her friends. She also talks of eBooks and electronic rights.

Professional grade digital photography: David B. Coe (author and nature photographer) says the advantages are legion and the future is here now.

Is our civilization in a time crunch? Have we reached a crisis point in history? Or has every generation seen themselves this way? Kim Stanley Robinson talks of this as well as nanotechnology and his doubts about The Singularity and artificial intelligence.

And, as always, another installment in our serialization of the Hard SF novel, Bones Burnt Black; and the official segment from Jim Baen’s Universe in which Bananaslug & Stoney take us inside the greatest online science fiction and fantasy magazine in the world.

* * *

This podcast about the future is at http://www.thefutureandyou.com.

Commentary February 2007

Written by Barry N. Malzberg

Here is the third incarnation of this column of commentary; there were eight in Pulphouse in the early 90’s and then a couple in Ellen Datlow’s online Event Horizon in 1998. Now my little traveling whore’s cubicle—Salinger’s phrase from Seymour: An Introduction has come to uneasy perch in this venue. Still on the run and full of fun! or perhaps I mean Lord Weary’s Castle.

Long before my Pulphouse adventure, I had abandoned most belief in the effectiveness of continued commentary on science fiction. (Frank Rich in the New York Times, for instance, seems to have had little effect upon the Iraq adventure beyond collecting slurs from the Administration and this is our government’s obsessive collective adventure being anatomized in the New York Times.) It is such a marginalized field now, almost as marginalized as it was in the forties, and so few of us care about the issues it raises or fails to raise. Those of us who do really care of course, but I would measure my effect in changing science fiction as writer or commentator over these 40 years as nil. “Criticism in music has, I have decided, absolutely no function whatsoever and changes nothing” Deryk Cooke wrote a long time ago and he was likely to have known. I have come to approximately the same position vis a vis science fiction.

Still, eternity beckons—for some of us a whole lot sooner than we might like, for others unfortunately not soon enough—and in the vast, diminishing light I cannot resist the lure or even the urgency of commentary or perhaps this is another way of saying nothing left to lose. One thousand words at a time, I will cautiously engrave my own handwriting on the wall, remembering that this time it is not you but I who have been weighed in the balance and found wanting.

So, then, and as John Cheever wrote, “To begin at the beginning”, I evoke John Updike’s New Yorker review 25 years ago of that massive David Hartwell anthology. “Science fiction,” Updike wrote and I paraphrase at some distance and I hope fairly, that science fiction could never be a first rate, a significant literature, because it necessarily works at a double remove from reality. What we call realism or satire, historical or contemporary fiction, is at a single remove. It recreates the real, posits other versions of the shared or historical reality. But science fiction imposes upon that reality extrapolation. Adultery on Venus, Marry Me A Romance with auto-erotic, programmed devices. Not Rabbits but Martians running. Not a month of Sundays but a scrimble of Thursdays. The displacement bespeaks an essential frivolity or fatuity; great science fiction writers can circumvent or disguise, but they cannot dispel those qualities. Even the most rigorous science fiction (like Updike I will pass here on the allied but quite different issue of fantasy) is then incapable of true gravitas.

Is it true? Hesitantly, on a convention panel some years ago, I endorsed the essential point; like Meg Ryan’s dead horse on the road leading to her 40th birthday, it simply lay there, it would not go away. The other panelists reacted with the anger we all know so well (and which in other circumstances I have expressed myself): the real scam, the real fatuity is the mainstream itself, its limitation, its denial of the awful light of possibility. Realistic fiction as scrim between its audience and the implications of the material. Not hard to make that argument, and Jonathan Lethem did so with particular eloquence. I used to do the same, still am capable. Science fiction forever! The true quill, the arc of human (and inhuman) possibility. Updike’s angst, adultery and swimming pools for the euchred middle class; Godwin’s “The Cold Equations” for the tough-minded.

But there is a problem here and post-Campbellian science fiction (which I would deem that published after about 1960, Campbell himself essentially outlived his own editorial credibility, his magazine outlived its centrality and become under Campbell’s later editorship marginalized) has increasingly enacted that problem over the succeeding half century. Inexorably arcane, the contents of the science fiction magazines and original anthologies and so many of its novels forced readers to cross rickety and casually engineered bridges. Science fiction in the 1970’s, like classical music composition in the 1920’s, was ever more insular, ever more separated from its audience. Much of it became so specialized that it seemed to have been written in a kind of code. Compare any volume of the annual Best From Fantasy & Science Fiction from the 1960’s to the Gardner Dozois Year’s Best of the 1980’s/1990’s and this argument becomes clear.

Updike’s conclusion was based upon his reading of an anthology compiled in 1980 and consisting largely of work from mid-century … a time when science fiction, in the process of evolution and in the penumbra of a couple of Golden Ages, had not reached the age of Stross, Macauley, Baxter or Egan. His point—that science fiction was for intrinsic reasons always to be an ersatz secondary form—has even more resonance in 2007.

Is this necessarily a bad thing? Perhaps it was always meant to be a specialized form of literature; perhaps like chamber music it was never intended for a wide audience (and only became debased, Raymond Palmer-style, when it was). But the grim commercial imperatives of the new millennium have left little room for marginalized work of any kind. “We began in the fan press and tiny-circulation books in the mid-1930’s” a friend wrote me, “and 70 years later, it looks as if we’re going to end there too.”

It was Steam-Engine time in the 1940’s, we found ourselves soon enough in a science fiction world … and perhaps a science fiction world makes science fiction itself obsolescent; makes it one of those childish things which that world must put aside.

But what a magnificent instrument it was! Oh, the fun we had! Ah, Arcadia! Alas all thinking! Oh, we happy few in the land of Thunder and Roses.

Barry N. Malzberg

24 January 2007

THE END

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