One of the most dependable phenomena in our world is that as the end of a calendar year draws near, newspapers will be full of articles listing somebody's idea of “The top something-or-other of the year.” Last year my local paper had one that caught my eye, not so much for what it included as for what it didn't. It billed itself as a list of the fifty most outstanding nonfiction books of 2007—but not one of them was about any sort of science, and only a couple had even a peripheral brush with technology.

They were all about history, biography, the arts, sociology, politics, or closely related subjects. In other words, they were all about us: human beings.

As if nothing else mattered.

I found this disturbingly illuminating as yet another example of the apparent fact that a great many people actually believe that nothing else does matter. “Humanities” teachers too often actively encourage this attitude, with pious pronouncements about how great literature is distinguished by “universality and timelessness” (by which they usually mean something far more limited than the words suggest) and “human value.” William Faulkner is often quoted (or at least carefully paraphrased) as saying, “The human heart in conflict with itself is the only thing worth writing with.” I have heard English teachers dismiss science as “too cut and dried” (which, to me, only proved that they had never done any, or, if they tried, didn't understand what was happening).

Yet despite this too common, too dismissive attitude, we humans, impressed as we may be with our own importance, are a very small part of the universe. Even if we don't care about the rest of it for its own sake, if we want to make the best of our lives within it, we had better try to understand as much as possible of the rest of it.

At least we haven't (at least yet) reached the point where books about science aren't being written or published. There are plenty of them out there, but they seldom make it onto “recommended” lists aimed at the general public. Is this because it just so happens that science books are never good enough to make it into the “winners’ circle"? Of course not. Instead, the population self-selects into those who are interested in reading about science and those who are not. Those who are already interested in science read about it; those who aren't, ignore it (and write “fifty best” lists).

Which has a lot to do with why the words “ignore” and “ignorant” look so much alike and come from the same root. The people who don't read books that try to explain science and technology for the intelligent layperson are precisely the ones who most need to. They may sincerely believe that space travel, nanotechnology, ecology, Earth-crossing asteroids, genetics, biotechnology, robotics, and information technology are esoterica of interest only to a few “geeks,” but they couldn't be more wrong. These fields, others like them, and the ways they all converge and interact are already affecting everybody personally, directly, and profoundly. They will only do so increasingly, and faster and faster, as time goes on. All of us are going to have to make decisions about them, both as individuals trying to run our own lives, and as voters and consumers trying to do what we can to steer public policy in directions that will help us more than they hurt us.

The decisions we make have much more chance of being reasonable and beneficial—or at least nondestructive—if we have some understanding of the things we're making decisions about. So people publishing lists of “best nonfiction” for the general public have a moral obligation—seldom honored in practice—to seek out and recommend books from this much wider range. Some are better than others, of course, and a layman who wants to understand what he's voting on could use some guidance toward the best sources, in terms of both content and presentation.

Because everybody needs to understand at least something of how we fit into the rest of the universe, and those who believe that least are those who need it most. The anthropocentric attitude, the deep-seated idea that human beings are all that matters and the only thing worth thinking about, is directly responsible for many of our problems. It has encouraged us to multiply without regard for the consequences, to harvest resources without regard for how plentiful or renewable they are, to spew toxic wastes into the atmosphere and waterways, and to shrug off space travel and asteroid protection as irrelevant and silly.

To live successfully among other people, individuals must learn early to get beyond, “It's all about me.” Others simply won't tolerate people who think they're free to take whatever they want, say whatever they want, dump their trash wherever they want, and attack whomever they dislike or disagree with. A society can't function with members who haven't learned that—but when enough of them do learn that, practically everyone benefits. Not only can individuals then try to shape their lives in ways they like, as long as they don't encroach on others, but they also have a good chance of being offered help when they need it.

Unfortunately, too many of us have extrapolated this hard-earned and valuable lesson to mean that anything that helps people make more of themselves, live longer, and have more of the things they want is Good. But it ain't necessarily so. In the short term, sure; but the long term, and the big picture, ultimately matter more. And from that point of view, what looks like commendable altruism, defined as humans helping one another in every possible way, may ultimately turn out to be harmful to humanity—and to individual humans.

Part of the justification for learning to think about others as well as oneself is, actually, selfish. If you or I, in deciding how to behave, think about nothing but our own immediate desires, then it appears to make sense to steal whatever we covet and to cut down our enemies. But our ancestors learned through many generations of bitter experience that such a course of conduct is ultimately self-destructive. If we follow it, we will find ourselves plagued with the need to be constantly on our guard against others who would do unto us as we find it expedient to do unto them. If we all agree instead to set mutual limits, allowing each of us to follow our desires only insofar as they don't infringe on others, and placing positive value on helping one another, each of us will, on average, be better off. We adopt such values and limits not merely to serve some abstract social good, but because they tend to improve life for each of us individually.

At least, up to a point. We as a species are just beginning to appreciate that similar considerations may apply to our relationships with other species and the planet as a whole. If our well-meant desire to help our fellow humans is carried out too zealously and too successfully, we may soon find that it makes our species as a whole a higher-level equivalent of the antisocial individual looking out only for himself. Such an individual is likely to learn the hard way that such a course is self-defeating, because his fellows will not tolerate it and will take punitive action.

Such a species is likely to learn the hard way that such a course is self-defeating, because the rest of the ecosystem will not tolerate it and will take punitive action.

To live successfully among other people, individuals must learn early to get beyond, “It's all about me.” To live successfully with the rest of the world we depend on, our species must soon learn to get beyond, “It's all about us."

Copyright (c) 2008 Stanley Schmidt

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Published since 1930

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Analog Science Fiction and Fact (Astounding), Vol. CXXVIII, No. 9, September 2008. ISSN 1059-2113, USPS 488-910, GST#123054108. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. One-year subscription $55.90 in the United States and possessions, in all other countries $65.90 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within eight weeks of receipt of order. When reporting change of address allow 6 to 8 weeks and give new address as well as the old address as it appears on the last label. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. (c) 2008 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without express permission is prohibited. All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any similarity is coincidental. All submissions must be accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope, the publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork.

The bigger the gift, the more likely it is to come with strings. When, if ever, should it be accepted anyway?

The Eternal Feminine leads us upward.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

It was a warm rainy morning on Mars.

Katerina Savitskaya, the first and only woman on the Red Planet, stood barefoot in the open entrance of the habitation module and took a deep breath of the lightly lavender-scented air around her. A moist Martian breeze gently brushed her cheek like a lover's kiss. She fingered the end of her long freshly shampooed auburn hair, watching raindrops splatter the dusty ochre ground outside and kick up miniature craters like a shower of micrometeorites.

Several meters above her head, the rain pinged softly against the flat metal roof of the planet's lone human dwelling. The habitation module, shaped like a squat tin can nine meters in diameter, had been her home here for nearly three neomartian months. Though more spacious than the compact apartment in St. Petersburg where she'd grown up, the module was dwarfed by the vast desertlike plain surrounding her.

Katerina sighed, cheered by the stillness and solitude of the dawn. Mission Control had radioed a work schedule for today that included a trek northeast to the shore of the Boreal Ocean. She silently asked God if this was the day there would be a second close encounter with the enigmatic aliens who'd terraformed Mars.

Suddenly the shapely young cosmonaut sensed something large sneaking up behind her from inside the module. Before she could turn around, a pair of long hairy arms wrapped themselves tightly like tentacles around her waist. She shivered as hot wet lips with fetid breath nuzzled her throat—

"Happy birthday, Katerina!"

Martin Slayton, the first and only man on Mars, stepped back and grinned goofily at his fiancee. A maroon baseball cap with both NASA's insignia and the pale intertwined letters “S” and “L” sewn on it covered his black crew-cut hair. He wore the crimson pullover shirt emblazoned on the front with “St. Louis Cardinals 2035 World Series Champions” she'd bought for him late last October, shortly before they'd rocketed away from Earth. Dingy white shorts and dirty black hiking boots completed his non-regulation spacesuit.

Katerina kissed his bristly cheek. Then she sniffed his mouth and wrinkled her nose. “Have you brushed yet?"

Her husband-to-be sheepishly ran his tongue over filmy teeth. “Sorry. I was so eager to be the first to congratulate you on your special day that I neglected my oral hygiene."

"Well, you're too late. Someone else already congratulated me."

Martin blinked. “Don't tell me they came and brought you a birthday cake."

"Considering how unpredictable the aliens are, it wouldn't have surprised me if they had. No, your rival for my affections is the dashing Harvey Schlocknagel."

Martin struck a heroic pose. “Well, I could fight him for your love in a duel with flashing sabers, like vying suitors do in those romance novels you read. However, since he's twenty-five million kilometers away at Mission Control, we'll have to take a rain check. Besides, you know who'd win the fight. As I recall, he's about a head shorter than me, twice my age, and lacks my manly physique and bronzed rippling muscles."

He lowered his voice to a piratical bass as he reached for her. “So, my buxom wench, you may as well surrender now—"

Martin winced as Katerina's stiff index finger poked him hard in the abdomen and stopped his advance. She laughed, “No ‘surrendering’ until our wedding night, after we return to Earth early next year. Besides, today really isn't my birthday."

"Well, the chronometer inside says its March 7. Unless you're being technical with me about the International Date Line or something, we're both now thirty-three years old."

Katerina's hazel eyes twinkled. “Remember, we're on Mars. Even in its new orbit so close to Earth, a month here is about a week longer than one back home. I still have several more neomartian weeks to go before it's my birthday."

"No fair! You didn't use those rules when I had my birthday last month!"

"Is it my fault you don't consider yourself a Martian yet?"

Martin's eyes wandered over his fiancee's lovely face, curvaceous torso covered by a thin plaid shirt, and lightly tanned legs extending from rose-tinted shorts. “If Wells’ Martians had looked like you, they could've conquered every red-blooded Earthman without firing a single heat ray. You can experiment on my body any time—"

Katerina prodded him backward and giggled, “That's enough, Martin! Our space agencies expect us to earn our pay by exploring, not acting like characters in a soap opera!"

"Okay, I'll go clean up."

As Martin retreated back through the openings in the module's science laboratory and other compartments, his voice faded as he intoned, “Can a simple farm boy from Marshfield, Missouri win the love of an exotic Russian beauty? Find out tomorrow on ‘As the Red Planet Revolves'!"

A puff of wind caressed Katerina's Mona Lisa lips as her eyes returned to the world outside the module. The rain had stopped. The Sun, almost as bright and large as it shone in the skies of Earth, melted through thinning clouds and suffused the rusty sands with a golden luster. She prayed that God would let her gaze in innocent wonder at many more mystical Martian dawns.

It was a prayer that wouldn't be answered.

"Hurry up, Katerina! The pickup truck's loaded!"

Katerina's tennis shoes tapped with a ballerina's delicacy on the short ramp that led from the habitation module, elevated a meter on multiple stubby landing legs, down to the paprika-colored ground. As she ran outside, the large heavy three-barred golden cross she wore—a traditional symbol of her devout Russian Orthodox faith—swung across her chest from a gold chain around her neck.

"Sorry, Martin. I had to finish my morning prayers."

She hurried to where her crewmate stood by his “pickup truck.” The two-seater rover was a sophisticated descendent of those used on the last three Apollo missions a little over sixty years earlier. The vehicle's skeletal open-frame-with-wheels appearance like a dune buggy's was similar to its forebears.

But this rover used the latest regenerative fuel cells for power and lightweight modern alloys strong enough to endure the rocky Martian landscape. The electronics in its navigation and other onboard systems rivaled the processing power of the entire Mission Control Center in Houston during its original heyday in the 1960s. The vehicle's glossy lime-green paint job was designed to stand out against the planet's predominantly reddish-orange hues.

Martin said, “I tested the radio and packed our supplies."

He grinned and pointed his companion toward the rover's passenger seat. “Remember, it's my turn to drive!"

Katerina sighed as she settled into her black cushioned seat on the right. She secured the safety harness and leaned her head tensely against the seat's headrest. Although the rover's technical specs said its maximum speed was fifty kilometers per hour, the way Martin drove made it seem faster. And “his turn” also meant he had the choice of music.

She silently prayed for patience. After all, Martin hadn't grumbled too much when she'd been the driver on their last trip. Traveling southwest to the base of Olympus Mons, she'd played classical pieces with astronomical themes or nicknames. Holst's panoramic paean to the IAU-approved Solar System. Mozart's massive Symphony No. 41. The pianistic “moonlight” masterpieces of Beethoven and Debussy. Haydn's “Sun” string quartets, his opera Il mondo della luna, and fleet-footed Symphony No. 43.

She knew the melodies played today would be in a very different style.

Martin plopped down into the seat on her left and fiddled with his baseball cap. After activating the rover he pulled back and twisted its vertical metal control bar. As they sped away toward the Boreal Ocean he poked at their portable music player.

A country music tune replete with twanging guitars and thumping bass erupted from the small-but-mighty speakers he'd duct-taped around the vehicle. Katerina squirmed as a female vocalist lugubriously enumerated the heartaches of rural American life.

Martin mercifully turned off the player after stopping the rover a kilometer from the habitation module to check what he'd dubbed “the north forty.” It was a rectangular field ninety meters by sixty meters, used to test whether terrestrial food crops could grow in the sandy mineral-rich soil of Mars. Shortly after they landed early in the northern hemisphere's spring he'd used the rover like a tractor, pulling a long thin metal scraper blade attached to its back to level and clear the ground here. Then they'd carefully planted various vegetables and grains.

Despite Katerina's disapproval Martin had placed a plastic pole and placard reading “Garden of Eden” at one end of the field. Earth's media, who'd already dubbed them the Adam and Eve of a newly recreated Mars, loved it.

They'd harvested a crop of radishes last week. Though the red-and-white roots looked edible, the space medicine experts back home denied Martin's request for a taste. Tests in the module's science lab hadn't shown any toxic chemicals in the radishes. But even the tiniest risk he might get sick was considered unacceptable.

Both had been chosen for this mission over older, more experienced space veterans on the assumption that their youth gave them a relative advantage in resisting illness or recuperating from injuries. The limited supply of medical equipment and medications in the module was adequate to treat minor maladies. But with the nearest Emergency Room millions of kilometers away, calling 911 for a serious ailment or accident wasn't an option.

The biology experts’ fears that mice or other lab animals might escape into the Martian wilderness meant there were none in the module to use as taste testers. And so, despite Martin's pleas with the physicians back home, the radishes remained uneaten.

Martin examined the delicate yellow blossoms on his green bean bushes. “Looks like we'll have our first batch soon."

Katerina stood at the perimeter of their garden, looking out over the stubby cornstalks and verdant wheat low against the ground. “It's amazing how well everything's growing."

Her crewmate kicked a patch of powdery pumpkin-tinted soil with his boot and replied, “I wonder what the ground was like before the aliens started working on it. The hematite and other minerals on the surface aren't good for growing crops, but the clay we found digging deeper with our shovels obviously is."

Katerina sighed, “I suppose we'll never really know what the planet was like before the aliens changed the ecosystem so radically. Even with too little atmosphere and too much radiation, the ‘old’ Mars was still worth going to. But I think this new one is better."

Martin grinned. “Nice speech, but you're preaching to the choir."

The young Russian frowned. “I've never heard that expression."

"It means I agree with you. But I'd feel better if the aliens told us why they changed Mars."

As they settled back into the rover Katerina said, “When do you think the aliens will tell us?"

Martin shrugged. “The sooner the better. I appreciate what they've done to Mars, but I hate how sneaky they've been."

Katerina smiled slyly. “You're still mad about that trick they played on us with their artifact the day we landed."

Her companion started the vehicle accelerating toward the northeast. “Yes, I am. The fact that metal slab was gone the next day, with nothing but a shallow one hundred-meter-square hole in the ground where it used to be, tells me it was a colossal red herring. And I hated the way that alien—or aliens, I'm still not sure which—snuck into the habitation module with us and acted more evasive than a politician at a news conference.

"Heck, I can't even describe what the alien looked like! I heard it breathing and almost smelled it hovering over me, like it was a Kodiak bear stretched upright and ready to have us for supper. But all I saw was this vague shimmering shape—like something you'd see in a nightmare."

Katerina nodded, grateful that Martin hadn't turned the music player back on. “At least we had similar impressions about it."

Her driver scowled. “It still irks me that all the alien did was make a deal that the two of us could stay on Mars if no other humans came here. Our ‘landlords’ spent ten years moving Mars closer to the Sun, giving it a breathable atmosphere, and increasing its gravity to nearly one g. So why couldn't our visitor spare us a few more minutes to answer your questions about where they come from and what we have to do to ‘buy’ the planet from them?

"Instead all we got from ‘ALF’ before it disappeared was that oh-so-mysterious ‘All will be clear.’”

Katerina gasped as Martin angrily gunned the rover over rocks undisturbed for millennia, crushing them into a spray of gravel behind them. When he started running over the delicate lichen-like plants dotting the plain and turning them into shredded roadkill she shouted, “Martin, slow down! If you keep driving like this we'll never find out about the aliens! You'll just get us killed and show them how stupid we humans are!"

The rover slowed. “Sorry. I'm from Missouri. It's called the ‘Show Me’ state because we natives aren't impressed by fancy words and tricks. We want people—even extraterrestrial ones—to be honest and straightforward with us."

Katerina replied softly, “I'm from Russia. There's some truth to the stereotype that we're a patient people, able to quietly endure many things—including the machinations of the powerful."

The Sun peeked from behind a cloud and cast an aureate glow over them. It reflected off the deeper gold of the cross suspended from her neck. Katerina said, “Keep praying that perhaps today we'll learn the answers to our questions. And if it doesn't happen today—then tomorrow, pray for it again."

Martin murmured, “I wish I had your faith."

Katerina sighed. “I wish my faith were as strong as you think it is."

"Look, Katerina! Surf's up!"

The rover sat atop a low saffron sand dune. Katerina shaded her eyes, enthralled at their panoramic view of the Boreal Ocean. Martin's grin made her even happier.

They'd said little during the last kilometers of their journey. It was rare for the darker side of their situation to surface like that. Though they had each other, they were still strangers in a strange land, far from home or help—their lives at the mercy of powerful aliens whose intentions were still unknown.

But those worries dissipated when they reached their destination. The shallow ocean before them paled compared to the roiling, majestic Pacific or Atlantic. But, until a decade ago when the aliens began their massive renovation of Mars, its waters had been imprisoned for billions of years in the planet's north polar ice cap.

Now covering the vast lowlands of the north polar region, the Boreal Ocean rippled gently under the influence of a Sun only seven million kilometers farther than Earth's average distance from it. The fourth planet's two midget moons would never produce the powerful tides that the Moon created on Earth. But the presence of any liquid water and waves on Mars was miraculous.

Martin parked the rover near the shoreline. Carrying small packs of collection containers, they walked close to murmuring waves tinged red by rusty sediment from the ocean floor. After obtaining soil samples, they ventured to the ocean's edge and collected milliliters of its water into capped plastic vials for later analysis.

Their task done, they returned to the rover and freshened up. Martin removed a large Mylar blanket from the back of the rover and laid it flat on the ground. He extracted two foil-wrapped trays from their thermal-controlled container and grinned, “Ready for lunch? I know you love reconstituted chicken and noodles, so I packed some especially for you."

Katerina removed a bottle of water from the rover and sat on the blanket. “Martin, I told you this is the first week of the Great Lent. That's why I fasted and only drank water for two days beginning on Monday. Besides, this is Friday and I wouldn't eat meat today anyway."

Martin grimaced. “Sorry, I forgot. Wait, does this mean you're following Earth's calendar again and today really is your birthday?"

Her fiance's smile looked forced. Katerina said, “I didn't mean to offend you. I know you were trying to do something nice for me."

Martin shrugged. “That's okay. We'll work out these culture clashes eventually."

He put her tray back into the rover. After pausing pensively, he replaced his tray too and sat down beside Katerina. “If you aren't a Martian anymore, maybe I should be one instead. After all, even if it doesn't last a million years, we're having a picnic on Mars. I can change my name to ‘Martin the Martian'—isn't that lovely, hmm?"

He laughed. “Hey, I just realized my big brother and sister-in-law did me a favor by naming their firstborn ‘Timothy.’ Remember when we visited my hometown last September? After we gave that talk to his kindergarten class Tim said that ‘Uncle Martin’ was his favorite spaceman."

Katerina sipped her water. “What you said is probably very clever, but I don't seem to understand it."

"Never mind. I guess I wasted too much of my youth reading science fiction and watching ancient movies and TV shows."

Katerina shook her head. Though she was fluent in English and several other languages, her knowledge of Martin's American “culture” had yawning gaps. She'd fallen victim before to her fiance's impish exploitation of that ignorance—especially during that visit they'd made to see his family late last summer. Sitting together on the couch in his parents’ living room, he'd turned on the television and shown her what he said were old black-and-white “home movies” about his mid-twentieth-century ancestors.

She was shocked at how her future husband's relatives seemed more ignorant and uncouth than any Americans she'd ever met. Unlike the elderly woman on the television, her own sweet grandmother in Russia would never have made illegal vodka. And she didn't understand how, if his family was so wealthy, Martin himself had grown up in this comfortable but modest farmhouse.

The expression on her face after her future father-in-law walked in and scolded his son for “pulling her leg” made Martin laugh uncontrollably. His father informed her that, while the family on the television was indeed supposed to have originally come from this part of the Ozarks, the Slaytons weren't related to the Clampetts.

But after Martin shared his genuine family photos and movies with her, she'd forgiven him. Well, not at first—especially when he showed her the ones with him playing with the childhood friend and companion who, he said, she'd replaced as the one he loved most in the world. It was when Martin took her to a far corner of the family farm that she realized he really wasn't joking this time. As they visited the small stone that marked where his erstwhile greatest friend lay buried for twenty years, she felt the heartfelt joy and tears in his memories.

And when they'd driven by the replica of the Hubble Space Telescope in Marshfield, Missouri's town square—a monument to the great astronomer Edwin Hubble from the small town where he was born—she understood the man she loved even more. Before he explained how seeing that model so often as a boy had inspired and led him to the planet they now shared, she saw the dream in his face. It was the same look she'd seen in the mirror as a child after reading about her own country's achievements in space.

Martin got up and grabbed the microphone attached to the transceiver inside the rover. “Breaker, breaker, Mission Control. We're having fun at the beach and collected some souvenirs for you. We'll be moving in the monster lane to our next stop after we cut the coax. By the way, is Dr. Stone on duty? I'd like to talk to him about some radishes. Over."

The signal he'd transmitted to the transponder at the habitation module was relayed to an orbiter overhead and from there sent back to Houston. As they waited the several minutes it would take for his message to reach Earth and receive an answer, Martin laughed, “Don't look at me like that. I don't criticize you when you talk to your bosses at the Russian Space Agency."

"That's because we act more serious. And don't pester Dr. Stone about the radishes. It's his responsibility to keep us healthy, not please your tastebuds."

"Well, as head of space medicine at NASA he's also responsible for our mental health. He'll come around eventually."

"I don't know. I respect him as a physician, but he's always seemed rather cold."

"Nah, he's a Midwesterner like me, and I recognize his type. Hard and professional on the outside—soft and sentimental on the inside."

As Katerina folded the blanket a voice squawked from the rover's transceiver, “That's a big ten-four. Dr. Stone will be here soon. I'll tell him you want to ragchew about the radishes again. I'm on the side for you."

Martin handled the microphone. “Copied, Harv. I'm pulling the plug at this end."

He chuckled, “Harvey's a good guy. We may be romantic rivals over you, but he and I speak the same language.

Katerina sighed. “I wish I spoke it too."

As they drove parallel to the beach, Martin reached for the music player. Katerina quickly said, “Did you listen to the newsfeed from Mission Control before we left this morning?"

She smiled in relief as his fingers returned to the control bar. Martin said, “Yes. Nothing much new. More suicide bombers in Iran. Your country and China are rattling sabers along their border. Drug resistance to AIDS is up again. The famine in Africa is getting worse."

He shrugged. “The usual stuff."

The noonday Sun faded behind a cloud. Now Katerina regretted her ploy to keep the player off.

Martin continued, “I also heard the Chinese won't postpone their own mission here any longer. Unless our governments convince them otherwise, they're planning to send their people here at the next launch window."

"But they mustn't do that! The alien told us specifically that no one else should come here!"

"The alien told us that, and we relayed what it said back home. But Beijing thinks NASA and the RSA made up our message so they could keep Mars to themselves."

Martin frowned. “Of course, it's totally unreasonable for the Chinese to believe that. Everybody knows the American and Russian governments would never ever tell a fib."

Katerina leaned away from him. She rarely saw this cynical side of her fiance without it being softened by childish humor. She whispered, “Let's pray the Chinese have more faith in us before something terrible happens."

"Don't count on it. And it's not just the aliens who could do something terrible. Your country and China have been getting on each other's nerves for years. If my government is too ham-handed, we could get back on China's hate list too. I doubt anybody's stupid enough to start World War III. But as tense as things are back home, it might take just a little spark to start something that could kill lots of people."

Martin glanced at the golden cross around her neck. "You may have faith that things will work out okay, but most people and governments don't."

"Are you one of those people, Martin?"

"Once upon a time, when I was an altar boy, I wasn't. Now—I don't know. But I'd rather rely on what I can do rather than trust anybody else to do the right thing. Or hope that anyone more powerful than me will save the day."

He grunted. “Another thing about these aliens bothers me. It's wonderful that they've made Mars habitable for us and given the human race a chance for a fresh start. But why haven't they offered to sell us high-tech items humanity could use right away? Like a cure for cancer, a cheap nonpolluting source of unlimited energy, or a warp engine?"

"I don't know. Perhaps they think we'd misuse them."

"Maybe. If we did get a hand-sized fusion reactor, some idiot or government would probably use it to terrorize and murder innocent people."

Katerina brow furrowed. “Our own science and technology already help us lead healthier, more comfortable lives. Yet all those ideas and innovations, from fire to nuclear energy, can be perverted to cause pain and suffering. That's not because science is bad, but because we humans can be selfish, misguided, or heartless in the way we use it. We could destroy ourselves with the technology we already have, much less what the aliens might give us.

"When enough of us learn to love God and each other, perhaps we'll be ready to use any scientific miracles the aliens give us to make our world a better place. But for now, maybe its better if we're not tempted to misuse their technology."

Martin sneered, “More likely God would be used to justify killing people with that alien technology. The religion I was raised in once used Grand Inquisitors and burned heretics. There are still plenty of people willing to kill for Him or whatever secular cause they've substituted for religion."

"Don't blame God for that. Just as technology can be used well or misused, so can religion. When I was a little girl, my grandmother told me that my teacher at the state school was wrong when he said we humans are merely ‘hyperactive dirt with illusions of importance.’ She said we should let science tell us what Nature is and how to use it—but let religion and philosophy show us what Creation means and our place in it."

Martin glanced darkly at her cross. “And you think you have all the right answers?"

Katerina's eyes moistened at the schism growing between them. “Of course not. I think and hope my religious beliefs are true, but I can't prove that to you or even myself. Perhaps—God forbid—my teacher was right and what I believe is just a collection of myths, superstition, and wishful thinking. But if my beliefs have made me a kinder, more loving person than I otherwise would have been, is merely being foolish or wrong such a terrible thing? If my belief in a caring, compassionate God inspires me to love you and help our fellow humans find our destiny in the stars, is my faith really in vain?"

The expression on her crewmate's face held no humor. “Sorry, Katerina. This time the choir isn't listening."

The rover suddenly halted atop a gently sloping sand dune. Martin's eyes focused past her into the distance. He said, “What's that?"

Katerina turned her head away from the undulating ocean, following his gaze. “What are you looking at?"

"I thought I saw a flash of light—or something reflecting sunlight."

Martin pulled a pair of high-powered image-stabilizing binoculars from the small box between their seats. He stood up, peered through the binoculars—and groaned.

"Oh, no!"

Katerina cried, “What is it?"

"Those jerks!"

"Who?"

"The aliens! They must be rolling on the ground laughing at us!"

Katerina snatched the binoculars from him and focused them on the distant speck of light.

Suddenly she smiled and said, “It's a new artifact!"

"Yup."

"That's wonderful! Maybe the aliens are waiting for us there!"

"Maybe. But what's that artifact shaped like?"

She raised the binoculars again. “It's a giant pyramid."

"Right. A pyramid."

Katerina frowned. “What's wrong with that? A pyramid is a structurally sound shape. I've visited the largest ones in Egypt. They've lasted for thousands of years."

"You're missing the point. After we tell Mission Control about it, they'll have to tell the public. I can just see the high-fives those ‘aliens-gave-their-technology-to-primitive-humans’ wackos are going to give each other!"

"What are you talking about?"

Martin grunted. “My poor innocent Katerina, you have so much to learn about the silly pseudoscientific side of American culture!"

He slumped into his seat. “Could've been worse. They could've made it look like a giant human face."

Martin took the microphone. “Houston, we've got a problem. And you're not going to believe what it is."

After several unsuccessful attempts to contact Mission Control, Martin disgustedly dropped the microphone and said, “I should've known. It's just like it was with that first artifact. Deja vu all over again.

"The aliens are probably intentionally blocking our transmissions to Earth and giving us the same choice we had then. We can return to the module and try contacting our bosses from there about what to do—or plunge ahead into whatever game E.T. is playing this time."

Katerina nodded. “I think we should do what we did before—go there now and find out what they want. Doing that worked out well with their first artifact."

"True—but just because you win one game of Russian roulette doesn't mean it's a good idea to play another."

Martin snorted. “That artifact is go big the orbiters should've spotted it long ago. Either the aliens somehow shielded it from the orbiters’ cameras—or they built it this morning after we started on our trip. Either way, they're rubbing our noses in how scientifically advanced they are over us."

He shrugged fatalistically. “If they're that eager to attract our attention, let's find out why."

As they drove toward the alien pyramid, Katerina was impressed by how different it was from the largest one she'd seen at Giza. The Great Pyramid's two million stone blocks were weathered and ancient, but the steel-gray structure before them looked like it had lanced up from the Martian soil that morning. While the one in Egypt had lost the smooth limestone casing stones framing its high irregular outer walls long ago, this monstrous pyramid's four triangular walls were flat and shiny. The metal that formed its sides looked solid, with no seams or plates riveted together.

Driving alongside this towering alien artifact, their rover resembled the small green plastic car with miniature passengers she'd watched five-year-old Tim Slayton play with before Martin accidentally stepped on it. Young Tim's tears disappeared when his uncle replaced that crushed plaything with a model of the Ares VII rocket, crewed by a pair of Lilliputian figures resembling Martin and her, that would soon send the two of them to Mars. Katerina wondered if the technological giants who'd erected this gargantuan artifact would bother to remedy any damage they caused to the tiny creatures they encountered.

Martin cruised slowly around the square base of the pyramid. “Looks about four hundred meters on each side."

Katerina nodded. “The tour guide on my trip to Egypt said the Great Pyramid is about one hundred thirty meters tall. This one looks about twice that height."

Martin rounded a corner of the artifact. “Reminds me of a Mayan pyramid without the terracing. See how its top looks flat, like the pyramid on a one dollar bill?"

He shivered. “Thank goodness there's no freaky giant eye staring down at us from up there."

Katerina shouted, “There's the entrance!"

The rover stopped near a ground-level rectangular opening. It was the size of a conventional doorway and centered in one wall of the pyramid. Martin said, “I know that opening wasn't there the last time we drove around this side. Unless it's some kind of automatic door, the aliens must know we're here."

Above the opening, large purple letters from an alien alphabet writhed like snakes.

"I wonder what that says, Martin."

"'Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.’”

Martin peered into the opening. “Looks dark in there. Unless the aliens put a light switch inside the doorway, we'd better bring flashlights."

They got out and searched through their equipment and supplies. Katerina smiled, “I bet you wish we'd brought the high-voltage probe and multimeter to make sure this artifact isn't electrified, like you thought about the first one we found."

"That's okay. You convinced me last time that if the aliens wanted to exterminate us, they could do it a lot easier than by making an enormous bug zapper or a comfy motel for us roaches to check into."

Martin frowned at the pyramid. “At least I hope that's not what they have in mind."

Katerina said, “We'd better bring the medical bag, in case either of us gets hurt. I'll put some sample containers in it too, since we might find something to collect. You take the video camera and we each get a flashlight."

Martin turned his flashlight on and off. “Too bad this isn't a lightsaber. And I'd rather be holding a phaser than a video camera."

Katerina slung the strap of the large soft-sided crimson medical supply bag over her shoulder. “I don't think toys like that would work against these particular aliens. They're too powerful."

"I know. Still, I'd feel less doomed if I had a plasma rifle or shotgun."

"Don't worry, Martin. You were angry the aliens haven't answered our questions about them yet. Before the day's over, perhaps they will."

Martin snorted. “Let's hope we like what we hear."

He looked up at the towering structure and growled, “A pyramid on Mars. With our luck, we'll find Sutekh waiting for us inside."

"Who?"

Martin smiled mischievously. “That's right."

"What?"

Her fiance adjusted his baseball cap. “No, What's on second base. Who's on first."

"Why are you talking in riddles at a time like this?"

"Ever hear the expression, ‘Whistling as you walk by the graveyard'?"

Katerina frowned. “I think I understand. And that expression might be too appropriate. Ancient Egyptian pyramids were used as tombs."

"And the Mayan ones were used as temples. Just call me ‘Missouri Slayton.’”

He walked toward the dark entrance. “Come on, Lara. We've got a tomb to raid."

Katerina's eyebrows arched as she followed him. She was pleasantly surprised that Martin had read Doctor Zhivago—and glad he'd finally made an allusion she understood.

There was no light switch inside the doorway. The flaring white beams from their flashlights’ LEDs illuminated barely a few meters of the metal floor ahead of them.

Martin waved his flashlight at the low ceiling and featureless walls surrounding them in the rectangular chamber. “Looks like it's all the same dark-gray metal we saw on the outside."

He stepped forward cautiously until a blank wall reflected light back at him. “This place is larger than a college classroom. But it looks empty, and I can't find any other exit."

Katerina stood close to the open entrance, where shadowed sunlight from outside still assisted her own flashlight's survey of the room. She said, “These near walls look completely bare too. And there doesn't seem to be anyone else here besides us."

Martin's flashlight beam swept rapidly around the room. He muttered, “Unless there's something lurking in a dark corner or hanging from the ceiling ready to pounce on us—"

He spun around. The creature he'd sensed creeping up behind him blinked as his flashlight's magnesium-white glare dazzled its hazel eyes—

Katerina winced and scrunched her eyelids down. “Martin, be careful!"

"Sorry! Are you all right?"

"I will be, when I can see again!"

Katerina blinked several more times, then said, “Are you sure there's no exit along this far wall?"

"No, it's a dead end."

"That doesn't make sense. Why would the aliens build only a single empty room in this huge pyramid?"

"I don't know, maybe they—"

He whispered, “Did this room just get darker?"

"I can't tell. My eyes haven't recovered from your searchlight yet."

Martin stared back at the entrance to the pyramid. He groaned, “Oh, no."

"What's wrong?"

The flashlight's beam darted across the floor as he quickly retraced his steps back toward the outer wall of the pyramid. He stopped abruptly as white light swirled against blank unyielding metal.

With her vision nearly back to normal, Katerina peered through the Stygian darkness toward the sounds of his footsteps. Suddenly she realized what was wrong.

"Martin, what happened to the entrance?"

The clacking of his boots coming slowly toward her across the metal floor sounded like the patter of a giant cockroach. She heard him mumble “...but they don't check out."

Then she saw his face, ghastly pale in the darkness. “The entrance?” he said. “There is no entrance—or exit. No sign it was ever there. That metal wall looks like it's been pinched shut as if it were wet clay."

They stared at each other for several seconds before Katerina said, “There must be a way out of here somewhere."

Martin grumbled, “If this were a World War II-era movie, all we'd have to do is find a secret sliding panel or hidden trapdoor. But I can't picture the aliens taking notes while they watched old Republic serials on TV. And I don't feel any draft to indicate there's a ventilation system in here. The oxygen we're using up with each breath may not be replaced."

Katerina's lips started to form a prayer for deliverance—then stopped. It wasn't time for that yet—not until she and Martin had done everything they could.

She said, “Well, before we suffocate, let's spend our last moments trying to find a way out. I'll look along that wall, and you search the one over there. They may kill us, but at least we'll show these aliens that humans don't give up!"

Katerina played her flashlight slowly and methodically along the wall. The gleaming gray metal showed no sign of dust or any seam to indicate a disguised door. It didn't even show any smears from her fingerprints as she periodically pressed parts of it the way Martin advised her to do. But there was no sign of any small panel she could push to make a hidden door spring open.

Her breaths were getting harder and faster. She shouted, “Any luck, Martin?"

From the far side of the blackened room a faint “No” echoed back at her.

In desperation she stamped her foot against the floor, seeing if any part of it would give way. But all that did was make her sole ache.

After muttering something in Russian that her grandmother would've chided her for saying, Katerina heard deep sonorous breathing behind her. She turned around angrily. “Martin, there's nothing over here, look somewhere—"

The scintillating glowing lights a meter away from her twisted and writhed in a kaleidoscope of unearthly forms, as vague as the spots she'd seen when Martin's flashlight temporarily blinded her. In the span of several heartbeats they shifted from a single unrecognizable intelligent shape to what seemed a pair of entities, then into three beings that in some mystical way beyond human understanding were still only one. Another instant and the number of supernatural creatures before her became legion, yet still somehow a unity as its numbers seemed to ebb and flow between one and infinity.

From somewhere within that hypnotic swirl a voice at once timeless and without gender formed in her mind like the tiny whisper of conscience.

Explain why you asked your deity to punish us.

She couldn't tell whether she spoke or thought her reply. “You've put Martin and me in danger."

No one has been injured. No harm has been done.

"If you don't mean to hurt us, why did you trap us in here?"

This is not a trap. It is a path.

"What do you mean? There's no way out!"

There is.

She shone her flashlight at the solid wall beside her. “Then tell me how I get through—"

Katerina gasped and nearly let the flashlight slip from her hand. There was now a rectangular opening in the previously solid wall large enough for her to enter comfortably. It opened into a corridor that slanted gently upward, its end unseen past the paltry range of her flashlight.

For an instant she forgot the alien presence close to her. “Martin, come here! We have a way out!"

He cannot help you.

A twist of panic and fear knotted her stomach. Katerina ran toward the other side of the room—then stopped. She raced back and forth, swinging her flashlight wildly.

A solid metal wall now cleaved the chamber in two from top to bottom—and she was the only human being on this side of it.

You have a path. He has a path.

Then she was alone except for the groans of her own breathing.

Katerina walked slowly through the pitch-black corridor, carefully tracking how far she'd traveled from the entrance chamber by making each stride about a meter long. Though the floor kept its same gradual upward slope, the corridor angled sharply to the right or left every several meters like a labyrinth. Its bare metal walls gave no more than a meter's clearance above or on either side as her flashlight struggled to shine a path before her.

After about sixty meters of twisting turns, Katerina rounded another corner and stopped. Points of light like a swarm of ghostly fireflies flickered five meters ahead of her. As she cautiously crept forward, the lights resolved into tiny tongues of fire that reminded her of votive candles burning in a darkened cathedral.

Another step and she realized the flames did come from a compact set of stubby candles. They were stuck into the top of a brown cylindrical cake, as tall as a chef's hat, that was sitting atop a round waist-high stone pillar. Creamy white icing capped the cake and drizzled down its sides. Edging closer, she squinted through the miniature flames and saw pink frosting streaked across its top to form Cyrillic letters. She gasped at the words they formed.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATERINA.

But it wasn't just a birthday cake. Its shape and dark rich scent said it was a kulich. She could almost taste the candied fruit, rum, saffron, and almonds baked within this sugary sweet bread. Her mouth watered as she remembered those happy Easters of her childhood when her grandmother prepared the holiday feast. Her stomach, flat and empty from fasting, rumbled greedily and pined for this delicacy.

Katerina transferred the flashlight to her left hand and eased closer to the kulich. The first three fingers of her right hand reached forward to scoop out a chunk of its floury flesh and bring it to her lips—

She jerked her hand back, wiping the crumbs and icing from her fingernails onto the side of the medical supply bag she carried. Her stomach protested her decision, but she ignored its laments.

Explain why you do not eat this food. It will not harm you.

Katerina turned around, unsurprised by the scintillating entity's reappearance. “It's a tradition in my religion to fast at this time."

There is no need to fast if you are hungry and food is available. It is not intelligent to blindly obey rules that inflict unnecessary pain.

Reflexively she clutched the cross hanging from the gold chain around her neck. “My obedience isn't blind. Fasting helps me practice self-control. We humans can be tempted to indulge desires that could cause unnecessary suffering later for ourselves and others. Eating this food now wouldn't directly injure me. But by not eating it I make it easier to resist temptation when it really could cause harm."

That explains why you do not mate with your companion though you strongly desire him.

Katerina wondered if the aliens understood what a blush meant. “Yes, I want us to share our love in that way. But doing that now could put the new life we might create in danger. And if our unborn child or me died from a medical problem beyond our ability to deal with on this world, I know Martin would feel terrible pain too. As difficult as it's been to abstain, it might be far worse if we didn't."

Delayed gratification. An interesting concept.

Katerina frowned. “I didn't say those words, I only thought them!"

She gestured at the cake. “That tells me you must heard Martin's joke this morning. You must be able to eavesdrop on us and read our minds!"

We can hear your words at any time. We can decipher the electrical impulses generated by your brain.

"If you can tell what we're thinking, why are you even asking me these questions? Why are you playing these games with us?"

Your thoughts do not necessarily tell us what you are. They only tell us what you think you are. We must know what you are.

"Why?"

We have a gift for you. It is easy to manipulate matter. We will give you control over matter far beyond your current power.

"What do you mean?"

With this power there need be no harm if you indulge your desires. You can create food and eat without fear of sickness. You can mate without injury to offspring. You will no longer need self-control.

Katerina didn't answer for a long time. “No. That sounds like too much power for any human being to have. It could be corrupted so easily, even with the best intentions."

You are hungry. If you eat the food we offer, you will receive this power and may pass.

"What do you mean, ‘pass'? Is this some kind of test?"

There was no answer. The lights and voice were gone.

Katerina turned around and gazed at the delicious festive cake beckoning to her. She shook herself free of its hypnotic flickering lights and tried walking past it—

Suddenly the flames from the candles flared up in a curtain of fire that blocked her path. She stumbled backward from heat as searing as a dragon's breath.

The prickling on her face gradually subsided. There was no mirror handy to show whether her eyebrows were singed. The wall of flames that held her back burned firm and steady. She suspected that a shout to the aliens that she'd eat their cake would make the fire disappear.

But she wasn't going to find out. More than thinking it, she felt that accepting their gift of power was wrong. Even if the fire was consuming a limited supply of oxygen here in the pyramid, even if it meant she was trapped here forever, bowing to the aliens’ offer might be even worse.

Still—despite all the danger they'd seemed to place Martin and her in, the aliens had never actually hurt them. Or at least she hoped so, praying fervently for a moment that somewhere else in the pyramid her beloved was still safe. But if there was any chance of seeing him again, she had to pass through those flames without yielding to the aliens.

Then she remembered. We can decipher the electrical impulses generated by your brain. If they could do that and read her mind, maybe they could also stimulate her brain to make her see and feel things that weren't there. They could be playing the role of Descartes’ evil genie—deceiving her senses for their own purposes.

But if she couldn't trust her own senses, how could she tell if the flames were real or not?

Katerina fingered the cross hanging from her neck, meditating on that question. Then, as if by divine inspiration, an idea came to her. She set the medical bag on the floor and opened it. Extracting several wooden tongue depressors from their paper wrappings, she tied them tightly together end-to-end using a roll of cloth tape to form a wandlike extension. Then she unfastened the braided gold chain around her neck and pulled it through the eyelet that secured it to her heavy golden cross. Finally she used more tape to bind the shorter end of her cross to the tip of one of the tongue depressors.

Her impromptu testing device now resembled a child's short toy sword. Katerina held it at the end opposite where her cross formed the sword's point, hefting it carefully to make sure all the taped connections were secure. Extending her right arm, she positioned the device as far in front of her as possible and walked slowly toward the sheet of fire blocking her way. She winced as the fire tried to bake the flesh off her fingers while she held the far end of her cross in the flames. A nervous laugh escaped her lips as she imagined that Martin was here, telling her he'd get a marshmallow for the end of her stick.

After a minute Katerina retreated to the cooler end of the corridor and carefully examined the cross with her flashlight. The relic seemed unchanged—neither glowing from the heat it'd been exposed to nor melted. She knelt down and placed the flashlight on the floor so that its beam shone in front of her. Then she lowered the cross enough to keep it illuminated and cautiously brought her free hand closer and closer to its golden surface. Finally she grasped the cross itself with her fingertips.

"It must be a trick,” she whispered. “Gold is too good a conductor of heat for the cross not to have become hot no matter what temperature those flames are, even if they weren't hot enough to make the tongue depressor burn."

She disassembled her device, placed the tongue depressors back in the medical bag, then fastened her gold chain and cross around her neck. “If the cross had been hot, I would have to assume the flames are real. The fact it was cool implies the fire is really an illusion. Unless the aliens made me only think the cross wasn't hot or that I even put it in the flames—"

Katerina sighed. Relying on her reason and senses alone might not be enough to outsmart the evil genie. Then, perhaps remembering how her device had resembled a sword, she thought of Joan of Arc. The teenage heroine said one of the voices that spoke to her was Katerina's own namesake, St. Catherine of Alexandria. Whether madness or miracle, the young French peasant girl's beliefs had led to the triumph of her cause, a flaming death as a heretic—and apotheosis as a saint.

Six centuries later, another young woman wondered if her faith could be as strong.

Katerina knelt another moment, her lips moving reverently. Then, standing erect with the strap of her medical bag slung over her shoulder and flashlight in hand—she ran through the flames.

Martin coughed as he trotted up the twisting upsloping corridor, his flashlight's beam bouncing carelessly in front of him. His throat was still raspy from shouting Katerina's name and yelling imaginative invectives at the aliens after he'd discovered the impenetrable metal barrier that separated the two of them in the entrance chamber. The new opening that mysteriously appeared in the far wall had only inspired him to ever more creative pejoratives about the aliens’ anatomy and personal hygiene.

Stomping through the darkness, he didn't know or care how far he'd walked. Right now he was so worried about Katerina and angry at the aliens that he didn't care what happened to him. If any sneaky extraterrestrials jumped out at him from the shadows he'd demand she be restored to him immediately. And if they didn't like the tone of his voice, at least he'd leave them scratching their heads—if they had heads—about the meaning of the hand gesture he gave them before they zapped him.

After turning yet another corner he halted, groaning at the flaming apparition in front of him at the far end of the short corridor. “Is that supposed to impress me? If you have something to tell me, say it without the special effects! They had a better one in The Ten Commandments!"

Even if the burning bush in front of him had replied, he wouldn't have believed it was the voice of God. Those stories had thrilled him during his grade school religion classes, but as an adult he recognized them as simple myths. He snickered, remembering that incredibly bad Red Scare-era movie he'd shown Katerina during their space flight here about God broadcasting pious messages from Mars.

Still—as he approached the burning but unconsumed bush blocking his upward advance, he felt its heat against his skin. Maybe it wasn't an illusion. He stepped back, frowning as he tried to figure out how to tell if it was real.

Finally Martin pointed his video camera at the burning bush for a minute. He reviewed the recording—and laughed. As he walked toward the flames he muttered sarcastically, “If this were real, it would've shown up on the recording. So, no matter what I think I'm seeing or feeling, the aliens are just messing with my mind."

But as the blazing flames leapt toward him he hoped his lack of faith in this “miracle” was right.

Katerina kept her measured pace as the zigzagging corridors led her steadily upward. The hand holding her flashlight had finally stopped trembling from her excursion through the kulich's flames. At least she knew a bit more about the aliens’ power and their willingness to try deceiving her with illusions. But if they tested her again, she wondered how she'd be able to tell what was real and what wasn't.

She didn't have long to wait. For the last hundred meters she'd noticed the walls around her were becoming dimly visible, illuminated by a soft glow emanating from them. They were now almost bright enough for her to stop using her flashlight.

Fortunately the device was still on and shining downward just in time to prevent her from falling into a trap. In the middle of the corridor she'd just entered, the floor was replaced by a pool filled to the top with clear liquid. It stretched across the entire width of the floor and was longer than a half dozen bathtubs laid end to end—far too large for her to jump across. While the liquid reflecting her flashlight's beam looked like water, she couldn't tell by its appearance exactly what it was or how deep down it went.

"Well, what do they want me to do now?"

There is a way to cross it. Watch.

Before she could turn to see if the aliens were behind her again, Katerina's attention was caught by the change in the fluid before her. In seconds it turned opaque and solid—as if it had suddenly frozen hard enough for her to walk across.

We can change the amount and location of energy as easily as we can manipulate matter. It is easy to manipulate matter and energy. These powers can be yours if you accept them.

"Why do you want me to have them?"

These powers will let you guide or rule your species as you wish. You will be able to control all natural forces on your world and render it safe and secure for every one of your kind. By altering the electrical impulses of their brains you could make them think and act the way you believe is right.

"Are you suggesting I make the whole human race my slaves?"

You would have that choice. If you do not desire their service or worship, you could help your fellow creatures by eliminating their willingness to harm each other. You could make them act in ways you deem most beneficial to them.

"Any good that did would be at the expense of their free will. That would be too great a price to pay!"

You could choose what you did with the power we offer you. You would still have what you call free will.

"I don't want your power. I'm not wise or good enough to be a god. All I can do is try to be the best human being I can!"

You could do great good.

"I could also do great harm, even without meaning to!"

You only wish to be what you are.

"Yes!"

Then you must be shown what you are.

"What do you mean?"

There was no answer and nothing behind her. Katerina cautiously reached out with her foot to try walking on the frozen liquid. But as her tennis shoe neared its surface the fluid suddenly bubbled and melted, once again blocking her path.

Katerina scowled, wondering what to do next and why the aliens were treating her this way. Were they trying to help humanity through her—or destroy it? And as powerful as they were, why didn't they just assist or exterminate the human race themselves without all these tricks?

She sighed. There was more going on than she could figure out for now. Best to deal with one problem at a time.

The liquid in the pool was placid again. Though it looked like water, it could be acid or something equally dangerous. Perhaps the aliens were conducting an intelligence test, with her in the role of white mouse in a maze. If so, there must be some way she could safely cross this barrier—if she could figure out what it was. This liquid might be an illusion like the fire she'd confronted earlier. On the other hand, the aliens could be testing her to see if she was smart enough to realize that this time it was a real threat.

Katerina squatted down and searched through her bag of medical supplies, thinking aloud, “There's nothing I could use to create a makeshift bridge. Even if the fluid itself isn't dangerous, it'd have to be buoyant enough for me to swim or float across it if the pool is deep."

The young cosmonaut frowned at the medkit and pile of bandages, splints, tape, and other first-aid supplies she'd placed on the floor. The only items that seemed promising were a glass pipette and the empty plastic vials identical to the ones she'd used to collect ocean water samples earlier today.

Careful not to let any touch her skin or clothes, Katerina drew up several milliliters of fluid from the pool into the pipette, then she emptied it into a vial. In the dim light the clear odorless liquid looked like water. It didn't feel too hot or cold through the vial's walls. The fact it hadn't melted the glass pipette or plastic vial was an encouraging but inconclusive indication it wasn't too corrosive. Tiny drops of the fluid placed sequentially on small strips of paper tape, gauze, an alcohol pad, a wooden tongue depressor, and the back of one of her fingernails produced no noticeable reaction.

After rubbing a small drop of the fluid harmlessly between her thumb and index finger, Katerina knelt and unclasped the gold chain around her neck. She placed the chain on the floor, refastened it, and tied one end of a roll of five-centimeter-wide white gauze to the loop formed by the closed chain. After walking to the edge of the pool, she held the heavy golden cross, still attached to her chain like the hook on an ice fisher's line, over the liquid. Then she slowly played out the length of gauze attached to the chain, lowering the cross at the far end of the chain's loop into the pool.

The cross and chain had barely disappeared into the fluid when she felt the gauze strip slacken in her hand. She bobbed her line up and down a little to satisfy herself the cross was striking the bottom of the pool barely half a meter below the surface.

Katerina retrieved her chain and cross from the liquid and examined them carefully. Satisfied they were undamaged, she dried them with the gauze and reattached the chain and cross around her neck. As she put her supplies back into the medical bag, she chuckled. Her grandmother in Russia had sent the three-barred golden cross, a sacred heirloom several hundred years old, to Katerina to protect her on this alien world. The cross really had helped keep her safe during these trials by fire and water the aliens had set for her.

Then it dawned on her that perhaps the aliens had plucked some Mozart from her mind. They might have been testing her character by offering her unlimited power, to see if she had the moral strength to refuse it. Her golden cross had protected her just as well as a magic flute would have done.

Katerina slowly lowered her legs into the knee-deep liquid, wading carefully through it in case part of the pool was deeper. As she stepped onto the floor at the far end of the corridor she wondered if there were more trials ahead—and more importantly, where her dear Tamino was.

Martin frowned at the long pool of fluid in front of him. He didn't expect and didn't receive an answer to his questions, “Are you going to part it for me? Or am I supposed to walk on it?"

He shone his flashlight around the dimly lit area. For an instant, from the corner of his eye he thought he saw a second entrance into this corridor near the one where he'd just emerged. But when he looked at the area on the metal wall directly, it appeared as solid as everywhere else.

Martin turned his attention back to the pool blocking his path. He grunted, “If Katerina were here, she'd figure out a way to test if this liquid is dangerous and how deep it is. I bet she'd do something so ingenuous with whatever's in her medical bag that it would've impressed MacGyver. Let's see what I can do."

He hefted the video camera in his hand. “This thing has ultrasonic and infrared autofocus systems. Maybe I can measure the distance to the bottom of the pool using the camera like an active sonar device. I could put it right above the surface of the fluid and let the camera autofocus on the bottom of the pool. When I switch to manual focus the distance the camera is focusing on should appear on the display screen. Might work—"

But as he stepped to the edge of the pool his flashlight beam caught something on the other side that stopped his experiment. Martin stuck one boot cautiously into the pool, then the second. Stepping carefully through the water, he reached the other side and looked down at the wet footprints leading upwards along this length of the corridor.

Unless the aliens wore tennis shoes, Katerina must be up ahead! His wet boots squeaked excitedly as he rushed to find her.

Martin poked his head through the meter-wide square opening in the top of the pyramid. The late afternoon sunlight hurt his eyes as he re-emerged into the open air. He clutched the video camera with his left hand while his right grasped one of the metal bars lining a side of the long vertical shaft he'd just climbed. The bars were as thick as a prison cell's and as long as his forearm. They extended ten centimeters out from the wall of the shaft and were spaced like the rungs of a ladder.

Pulling himself higher through the opening, Martin laid the video camera on the smooth gray metal that stretched horizontally like a floor across the top of the pyramid. Reaching inside a pocket on his shorts, he extracted his flashlight and laid it beside the camera. Then, still squinting in the sunlight, Martin noticed a shadow dancing gracefully along the surrounding shiny flat surface.

"Katerina!"

As he finished hoisting himself from the opening and stood atop the pyramid she ran back and flung herself into his arms. Time stood still as they pressed their lips and bodies together in a passionate reunion whose description would've filled pages of purple prose in a romance novel.

Weaving gently together in a tight lingering embrace, Martin whispered in her ear, “I was afraid I'd lost you. I'd go crazy if that happened."

Katerina brushed her tears across his cheek. “You'll never lose me, Martin. Even if I died I'd wait for you in heaven."

Martin scowled. “Don't talk about dying! You're not going to die!"

Katerina stepped back from him. “Don't be angry."

Her crewmate spat, “Darn right I'm angry! When we got separated I thought something terrible happened to you. All those stories about aliens abducting humans didn't seem so ridiculous anymore. I kept imagining you lying on a table unable to move while some slobbering bug-eyed monster from a pulp magazine's cover did weird medical experiments on your scantily clad body.

"I don't know why the aliens are messing with our minds and playing games with us, and right now I don't care. All I want is to get you down from here and make sure you stay safe!"

Martin trod cautiously to the nearby edge of the pyramid. His gaze absorbed a vast vista of rolling mounds and shallow valleys spreading out like a painted desert around them. A nauseating wave of vertigo rocked him as he peered toward the hard unyielding ground far below.

A strong gust of wind against his back shoved him closer to the beckoning metal precipice at his feet. He twisted dizzily away and stumbled back several meters to where Katerina watched him with growing alarm. Wiping sweat from his face and forcing himself to breathe slower, he surveyed his surroundings again.

The top of the pyramid was a square about one hundred meters on each side. Its level surface seemed solid except for the solitary opening, centered about five meters from the pyramid's nearest edge, where they'd both emerged.

Martin frowned. “Why are those things there?"

He pointed toward the evenly spaced metal rungs jutting up in a straight row along the platform they stood on.

Katerina peered down through the opening, back into the depths of the vertical shaft below. She said, “Those bars look identical to the ones we used to climb up here. See how they line the side of the shaft farthest from the edge of the pyramid, then continue across the surface here out toward the other side?"

"I can see that, but what are they for?"

"Maybe the aliens put them there for us to grab hold to if the wind gets too strong, so we won't be blown off the pyramid."

Martin shivered. “We definitely don't want to go over the edge. It's a long way to the ground, and the sides of the pyramid are way too steep to slide down safely. Looks like the only way to get off this thing is to retrace our steps and hope the aliens have reopened the entrance. Or we could look for another opening up here that leads down to a different exit."

Katerina stepped slowly away from him, following the line of metal rungs until it ended abruptly at the center of the plateau that held them prisoners. She continued walking straight ahead toward the other side of the square, looking down intensely at its featureless sheen. “The aliens must have led us up here for a reason, Martin. Maybe they've written a message somewhere on the surface here, like they did on that artifact we explored the day we landed."

Martin started to trot toward her, but stumbled as his boot slipped. He moved toward her more carefully, shouting, “Don't get too close to the edge, this metal is as slick as a playground slide."

Katerina stopped about four meters from the rim and called back to him, “You look over there. Let me know if you find any writing."

"Okay. But I don't see why, if the aliens want to tell us something, they just don't come and say it in person."

Katerina looked up. “Didn't the aliens speak to you when we were inside the pyramid?"

"Of course not."

Martin turned around and stared at her. “Are you implying they did talk to you?"

"Yes. They said—"

Suddenly the metal beneath their feet began to tremble. The whole pyramid shuddered with a low rumble that grew steadily louder like a speeding train bearing down on them. Martin felt the same sickening dread as when the New Madrid fault triggered its worst earthquake in over two centuries while he was at college in St. Louis.

His body wobbled and fought to stay upright as the spot he stood on began tilting gradually downward like the lowering end of a seesaw. The edge of the pyramid farthest from him arced slowly skyward as its whole top surface slanted ever steeper, like someone raising the bed of an enormous dump truck. It was as if gigantic hands had dug their fingers beneath the base of the pyramid on the side nearest the sole opening in its top. Little by little they were lifting and tipping the whole structure—making the pyramid lean more and more as if they meant to topple it over and crush the tiny scampering creatures atop it.

Martin watched spellbound as the opening in the pyramid's top rose into view far away across a slippery “floor” that grew ever steeper. His brain finally registered that if the surface slanted much more he'd go sliding and tumbling down to and over the lower edge of the pyramid.

As his eyes darted desperately around for a way out of danger, Martin glimpsed the metal rungs embedded into the rising surface. Instantly he began sprinting straight ahead up an ever-increasing slope toward the closest rung some twenty-five meters away. It was like trying to run up the hill behind the family farmhouse after a winter ice storm. His boots fought for traction as he leaned forward, trying to keep his balance—

Halfway to his goal Martin stopped—paralyzed by a horrifying realization. He turned around and screamed, “Katerina!"

She was closing fast on him, her tennis shoes glancing off the slippery gray metal like an ice skater's blades. As she bounded toward him Katerina yelled, “Keep going, Martin, don't stop!"

He hesitated—then obeyed. The surface was canting so much now he had to crouch, his fingers brushing against its cold metal for a handhold that wasn't there. He barely dodged the flashlight and video camera that skittered past him like miniature boulders before they zoomed over the edge of the pyramid. Despite straining every muscle he was slowing down, his forward acceleration checked and feet slipping.

With a last desperate lunge before the rumbling surface became too steep to stand on, his right hand stretched forward and grasped the bottommost rung of the row of metal rungs that now extended like a ladder toward the opening high above him. As his left hand joined it the top of the pyramid gave one last shudder—and stopped rising, sloping at an angle about twenty degrees from vertical.

Martin's body stretched belly down against the silent metal surface, his arms extended and grasping the rung in its center as if it were a trapeze bar. He struggled to twist his head to look downward, afraid of what he'd see—

Suddenly he felt a heavy weight tugging on his right ankle, and then another hand grabbed his left foot. As he tried to ease the terrible tension in his straining shoulders Martin winced as fingernails dug into his right calf and clawed away its coarse hairs. Reflexively he reached down and shouted, “Grab my hand!"

"I can't reach it!"

He waited as many agonizing seconds as he could to feel Katerina's grasp, then his left hand's loosening grip forced him to bring his right arm back to the rung. He yelled, “Try pulling yourself up again!"

The pain was even worse this time as he felt her palms squeezing then slipping off the bare sweating skin of his legs. If only he were wearing pants instead of shorts—

"I can't do it, Martin!"

His eyes darted up toward the line of metal rungs stretching toward the opening far above them. If he could chin himself up to grab the next couple rungs above him, Katerina could seize the one that now tenuously supported both of them. Freed of her extra weight around his ankles, he could raise his legs and use that lowest rung to support his feet. Then it'd be easy to reach back down and pull her up.

Martin's arm muscles contracted in rippling spasms as his body jerked centimeters upward toward safety—then slid back down to its original outstretched position along the precariously inclined surface. His mind and heart tried to will more strength into cramped weakening hands that barely managed to maintain their grip, fighting to keep Katerina and him from sliding down and over the edge of the pyramid. At the other end of his tortured body Martin felt a pair of outstretched arms gripping his ankles. He heard a surprisingly calm voice just below his feet murmur, “This won't work, Martin. I'm dragging you down."

He shouted back, “I've got to do it! I've got to save you!"

Martin grit his teeth and forced his body upward with his last reserves of strength. Suddenly the metal bar he clung to jerked past his chin and upper chest. His right hand whipped up and grasped the next higher rung. Another heartbeat and his left hand held it too, then he swiftly repeated the process for the rung just above it. As he raised his left knee to the lowest rung for support he started to shout to Katerina to grab hold of that rung—and then realized with sickening horror why he'd succeeded in raising himself.

He looked down in time to see her tumbling body fly over the edge of the pyramid.

Katerina's arms and legs skidded across the slick metal surface, leaving scrapes and bruises there wasn't time to feel as she felt herself propelled ever faster toward the precipice below. Suddenly she was in free fall, rocketing away from the side of the tilted pyramid toward the stony ground far beneath her.

Time seemed to slow as she imagined herself on one of the jumps she'd made from high-flying aircraft during her cosmonaut training. She willed the sudden cramping in her stomach away, wheeled into a prone position with limbs spread outward to increase air resistance, and extended her neck away from the onrushing Martian surface. Her hand reflexively reached for the ripcord of a nonexistent parachute.

There wasn't time for her mind to comprehend the pain and possible death only seconds away. Her brain defensibly pretended this was a textbook problem on how to survive a fall. She remembered that relaxing her muscles and exhaling just before impact might reduce injury. Try not to hit your head or back, turn so you hit on your side. Cracked ribs and a broken arm aren't as bad as a skull fracture or spinal injury.

Maybe the medical bag still dangling from its strap around her left shoulder could cushion her fall. And because the aliens had raised Mars’ gravity to only 91% of Earth's, perhaps a fall from this height might be survivable—

The Martian wind whistling by her ears stopped. Time slowed nearly to a standstill around her as she hung suspended in space, like a fly in amber.

Explain why you deliberately let go of your companion.

Katerina sensed rather than saw the hazy lights nearby trailing her descent.

"I had to. My weight was pulling him down. If I hadn't let go, in another moment we both would've fallen."

Explain how you benefit by preventing his injury while hastening yours.

"I love him. Even if I don't survive, he will."

You will not survive this fall on your own.

Katerina closed her eyes. “I know."

You will survive if you accept our gift. It is easy to manipulate matter, energy, and gravity. We can show you how.

"Why are you doing this? You deliberately made the top of the pyramid tilt and put us in danger—just so you could offer me power I don't want and no human being should have! This must be some kind of test—but what are you testing?"

If you knew what we were testing, it would no longer be a test.

"Then I'll have to guess. You want to find out if we humans want to become as powerful as God, though we don't and never will completely know the difference between good and evil. You're trying to tempt me to receive more knowledge all at once than I could possibly handle. I can't take the chance that—even with the best intentions—I might misuse that power to do wrong. I'm hoping that what you're really testing is my character—my strength to refuse your gift, even at the cost of my own life.

"And I'm praying that you really don't wish me harm and won't let Martin or me die."

There was no answer. Suddenly the wind was shrieking against her face again and the ground was rocketing up toward her....

Martin stared downward where Katerina had disappeared, frozen like Lot's wife looking back at a scene of unimaginable horror. He didn't feel the pain from his knees digging into the lowermost metal rung as he strained to hear the distant wet thud of a body striking the ground. From the stillness and solitude of his shadowed perch atop the pyramid, he felt that whatever future and purpose his life had were dead.

Another instant and he was climbing frantically up the metal rungs to the faraway opening in the pyramid's top. Perhaps she'd merely slid down the side of the pyramid and was sitting on the ground nursing only scrapes and bruises that'd heal soon. Maybe the aliens only meant to scare both of them, like a Mercury Theatre on the Air Halloween prank, and had rescued her before she was harmed. Whatever happened, she needed him and he had to find her!

As Martin scrambled into the opening the vast alien structure rumbled again and gradually lowered itself back toward its original upright position. The shaft beyond the opening, not far from horizontal when he'd reached it, now slowly resumed its original vertical orientation as the top of the pyramid became level once more. He didn't wait for the pyramid's base to settle firmly back on the ground again before twisting and scurrying down the shaft and into the interior. As he retraced his steps downward through the pyramid's once-gloomy jagged corridors, the walls around him now shone with a soft luminescence that guided his path.

This time there were no alien-contrived distractions of fire or water to restrain his flight. When he reached the chamber they'd first entered Martin shouted in relief when his lingering fear that it was still sealed from the outside world proved wrong. As he raced out through the reopened entrance his boots kicked up tiny dust storms in the Martian soil, his eyes scanning frantically for Katerina. The rover still sat where they'd parked it an eternity ago—but there was no sign of her.

She had to be by one of the pyramid's other sides. He dashed to his right, imagining Katerina turning the corner before he reached it and running laughing into his arms—

A small bundle of flesh and torn clothing lay still within its own shallow impact crater near one side of the pyramid. As he neared the silent broken mass of limbs and tissue Martin flashed back to when he was twelve years old and found another body sprawled by the side of a busy road. He'd stupidly thought Fred, the copper-colored dachshund who'd been his best friend and companion for most of his childhood, was asleep—until he'd seen the flies and blood.

Katerina lay motionless on her back with her eyes closed, as if she too were only sleeping. Strands of long auburn hair draped her chest like a shroud. Her face and head showed no sign of injury. But her swollen upper left arm was bent at an unnatural angle and there was blood on her thin plaid shirt.

Trembling with terror as he knelt beside her, Martin heard words from old CPR training bubbling back into his brain. Check responsiveness. She may have injured her neck, so open her airway with a jaw thrust. Check breathing and circulation.

Martin quickly placed his ear near her mouth. Yes, he could feel and hear her breathing! Her breaths were shallow and the carotid pulse he palpated was weak, but she was still alive!

Katerina moaned and moved all her arms and legs weakly. He yelled, “Lay still! I'm going to help you!"

Those feeble motions of her limbs told him she might not have broken her neck or back. But she should still have a cervical collar and backboard to keep her spine protected—and he had neither. All he could do was hope they weren't really needed.

The mandatory medical training he'd received from physicians and paramedics kicked in again. He checked Katerina visually from head to foot. Her pupils were equal and there wasn't any blood oozing from ears, nose, or mouth. Besides the obvious fracture of her left arm, all he could see were scattered scrapes and bruises. Even the area on her lower left chest where blood had seeped onto her shirt showed only nasty-looking abrasions, although he suspected several ribs were fractured. He didn't have a stethoscope, but pressing his ear to both sides of her chest convinced him her breath sounds were normal, without an obvious pneumothorax.

The bag she'd been carrying lay nearby. It had burst open and the medical supplies it once contained lay scattered on the ground. Martin scooped up packs of sterile sponges and rolls of gauze, iodine swabs and alcohol pads, and material for a moldable splint. He rapidly applied them to Katerina's worst injuries, immobilizing her injured left arm with the splint and speaking soothingly to her as she writhed weakly. For a moment he considered bending the flexible splint material into a loose cervical collar, but decided not to. If he didn't do it right, his impromptu device might choke her.

There was a prepackaged syringe of meperidine in the small medkit. Katerina only moaned when he asked how much she was hurting, but what he had to do next would cause her unavoidable pain. He injected the painkiller into her upper right arm, then ran to the rover and swiftly returned with it. There was no room in the rear of the vehicle to lay her flat. As gently as possible he lifted her up, cradled in his arms like a baby, and set her in the passenger seat.

Martin grabbed the Mylar blanket from the back of the rover and draped it over her torso and lower body, trying to keep her warm. Then he quickly fastened her harness, using it to press her left forearm against her chest to keep the broken upper limb from moving. Finally he wrapped and tied a roll of gauze around her forehead and the headrest of her seat to keep her neck stabilized as best he could for the long ride back to the habitation module.

He ignored the portable blood pressure machine in the back of the rover. Even if she was bleeding internally and her blood pressure was low, the IV fluids and other items he needed to treat her were all back at the module.

Martin winced every time the rover dipped and bounced over the uneven ground, glancing at Katerina to see if it made her pain worse. She still answered all his questions with silence or moans as he raced toward the module. And there was no point checking if the radio was working again. Even if he could contact Mission Control, there wasn't anything the doctors there could tell him to do right now that he hadn't done already.

The nightmarish drive ended in the twilight of a reddish sunset. Martin carefully extricated Katerina from the vehicle and carried her to the module's science lab. He gently placed her on their diagnostic table and unpacked the most sophisticated medical equipment in twenty-five million kilometers. The pulse oximeter he clipped to her finger showed her heart rate was fast, but oxygen saturation was normal.

Katerina groaned as he inserted an IV near her right wrist. He started a liter bag of normal saline flowing and then wrapped the cuff of an automatic blood pressure monitor around her upper right arm. The first reading on its digital display was 93/60 mmHg—low, but not dangerously low. The fluid entering her vein should raise it.

It was time to try getting more advice. He operated a nearby transceiver and gave the quickest summary he could of how Katerina was injured. During the minutes he waited for a reply, Martin unclasped the gold chain and cross from around her neck. If she'd been more conscious she would have protested his violating her modesty by removing her clothes. He certainly didn't want to glimpse her nakedness for the first time under these circumstances—but he had to do it to check for any more injuries.

With her body now covered only by two white sheets too thin to interfere with the tests she needed, Martin placed EKG patches on her chest and did a quick series of digital x-rays. As the blood pressure cuff inflated and deflated periodically, he watched anxiously as the readings on the monitor drifted gradually downward.

While he worked Martin wiped moisture from his eyes. He glanced at the flat colorful icons Katerina had fastened to the door of the small locker where she stored her books and personal items. One icon depicted a smiling young woman who resembled Katerina dressed in ancient garb, her head framed by a golden nimbus. He remembered what she'd said the Cyrillic letters on the icon spelled.

St. Catherine of Alexandria. Virgin and Martyr.

As he prepared the portable ultrasound system, a voice from Earth resounded in the lab.

"Stone here. We received your report. Send us a continuous telemetry feed of all of Katerina's readings, especially her blood pressure and heart rate. Then transmit any x-rays you've done. If you haven't done one yet, do a FAST scan. When you can, give us video on her, measure her hematocrit, and insert a Foley catheter."

Martin's hands shook as he obeyed those orders. It was hard to keep the blunt transducer steady as he scanned Katerina's heart, abdomen, and pelvis. The fears flooding his mind made it difficult to perform the Focused Abdominal Sonography for Trauma study, much less interpret the shifting images on the ultrasound system's screen. But the experts back home receiving the images would know what they meant.

The blood pressure monitor read 83/50 mmHg as he got another liter of normal saline ready to give her. He dropped the plastic bag of fluid as Dr. Stone's voice returned. “Our radiologists and trauma surgeons reviewed the tests you did. The x-rays show fractures of several lower left ribs and the shaft of her left humerus. Those injuries aren't life-threatening.

"We can't tell for sure if she has intracranial bleeding since you don't have a CT scanner. Unfortunately, the ultrasound showed a large amount of free fluid in both upper quadrants of her abdomen. That indicates she's seriously injured her spleen and possibly her liver, and she's bleeding into the abdomen."

Martin screamed, “What can I do about that?"

Dr. Stone seemed to answer his question, though the physician wouldn't hear it for over another minute. “Normally under these circumstances a surgeon would do a laparotomy—an operation you aren't trained to do. For now make sure her legs are elevated and start giving her the stock of artificial blood you have. Since you both have the same blood type, as a last resort you could transfuse her with up to a liter of your own blood."

Martin shouted, “What if that doesn't work? I love her! We have our whole lives ahead of us, children to have and raise, a future to build! There must be something I can do to save her!"

Long before he could answer those latest words, Stone said softly, “But everything you do may not be enough. You must prepare for the worst."

Martin tenderly touched the pale cool cheek of the most important person to him on this or any world. Only her closed eyelids flickered in response to his caress. He placed Katerina's cross back on her chest, then rushed to pierce her left wrist with another IV and give her every last drop of blood he could.

When the reply to Martin's last words to Earth finally arrived, no one heard the heartfelt agony cracking through Stone's calm professional voice as the cardiologist whispered, “I'm sorry. We're all sorry it happened."

Martin frantically squeezed the IV bags to pump more blood and fluids into Katerina, put an oxygen mask over her face, and rehearsed the CPR protocol again in his mind. But as the blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen saturation readings drifted ever lower, a numbing realization clamped around his heart like a fist. Whatever he did wouldn't change one simple fact.

Katerina was dying.

You are dying.

The alien voice came from a great distance, muffled by what seemed like pillows pressed over her face. It was getting harder to breathe in her nightmare, but the pain in her left arm and side was fading away.

You do not have to die. It is easy to manipulate matter, energy, gravity, and time. We can show you how. You can use this knowledge to heal yourself.

Katerina tried to ignore the voice. In front of her she saw a great light at the end of a long corridor. It was like, or perhaps because of, what she'd read about in other peoples’ descriptions of near-death experiences. Soon she'd know whether it was a portal to heaven—or merely the last tiny sparks generated by brain cells starved for oxygen before oblivion enfolded her.

The light beckoned her. Her faith should have prepared her for this moment and given her peace. But other thoughts mocked and tempted her. Perhaps it was ignorance or obstinacy that that made her reject a real and tangible good—her very life—for an abstract principle. Was she really unworthy to wield the power the aliens offered? Or did her “humility” mask a sinful pride in her own boastful “goodness"? What if no person or deity cared if she became a martyr?

If she resisted this last temptation, she would never make love with Martin and bear their children, never explore the mysteries of Creation again, never feel any of the simple human pleasures each day brought. Was the tiny risk she might misuse a godlike power really worth losing all that?

There were no certain answers to those questions. In these last moments remaining to her, she could only decide what seemed right based on everything she'd ever seen, thought, and felt over her entire life. Without knowing whether it was right or wrong, she had to make one last act of faith. And it had to be based on a love that transcended only her own good.

Though you are dying, you still will not accept our gift.

Katerina's last words were the hardest she ever thought or spoke in her life.

"No, I won't accept it."

Then we must find another way.

The science lab was empty now except for the body lying on the diagnostic table. The room's smothering darkness was illuminated only by tiny multicolored lights glowing softly from the equipment lining its walls. Nothing stirred in the sepulchral silence.

The sheets covering the body fluttered, as if disturbed by a faint breeze. A hand reached up and weakly grasped the golden cross lying on its owner's chest. Then the figure slowly sat up and dangled slim legs over the side of the table. An outstretched fingertip touched a switch, and soft fluorescent light bathed the surroundings in a pale radiance.

Reflexively wrapping the white sheets around itself for modesty, the room's sole occupant studied the ragged bloody clothes, tennis shoes, and arm splint on the floor. Slender fingers brushed aside the IV tubing dangling from empty plastic bags hung on short silvery poles. Two bare feet padded softly on the metal floor, slowly wending their way out through the openings inside the dimly lit habitation module.

There was someone wearing a blood-red baseball cap standing in the module's open entrance. His face and back were turned away from her, and he seemed to be staring out into the black night. As she approached, without turning around he whispered, “How does it feel to rise from the dead?"

"The aliens. They healed me."

The man said nothing.

"I remember hitting the ground and the terrible pain in my arm and side. It was like I dreamed you brought me back here, put IVs in me, and did those tests. I thought I heard Dr. Stone's voice—and then the aliens spoke to me."

Katerina let the sheet covering her upper body fall to the floor. “Look at me, Martin! There's not a scrape or bruise on me! Not even puncture wounds from where you put in the IVs! It's like I have a new body!"

"No. Except for your memories, it's the same body you had yesterday morning, before we went on our trip."

Katerina's grip on her cross tightened. She picked up the sheet from the floor and draped it over her torso again.

Martin turned around and faced her. His expression as he spoke seemed weary. “The aliens can read our thoughts. It's easy for them to manipulate matter, energy, gravity, and time."

Katerina stepped back from him. “When did they tell you that?"

"Just before they showed me how to do it."

Martin snorted. “I knew you'd look at me like that. You don't understand yet that accepting their gift was the only way I could save you. Nothing I could have done on my own, nothing Stone or the others at Mission Control told me would've kept you from dying!"

"You could've prayed for me, Martin."

His sarcastic laughter ricocheted through the darkness. “Dropping to my knees and saying ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Marys’ wouldn't have brought you back to life. I tried that once twenty years ago, and I'll never do it again!"

"No, praying wouldn't have saved my life. But praying I had the strength to die well, without sinning, might have helped me—and you."

Martin's lips curled. “Unlike you, I don't know what happens after we die. But I do know this life is worth living—and I don't need that pitiless God you believe in to perform a miracle for me anymore! I can make my own miracles now!"

He moved toward her—then stopped as she shrank farther away from him. “Don't be afraid. I'm not a megalomaniac. I don't want to rule the Earth. The only miracle I really want to do is the one I've already done—to ‘resurrect’ you."

His face tried twisting into a goofy grin. “I'm still the same simple farm boy who loves you."

Tears trickled down Katerina's cheeks like holy water, anointing the cross she held close to her lips. “No, Martin, you aren't. And unless God grants me a miracle, you never will be again."

The dark figure in the module's open entrance turned and walked out into the night. Katerina slumped to her knees, her hands clutching the cross tighter as she tried to pray through her sobs.

Martin trod through the murky blackness, his path illuminated only by starlight filtering through tattered wispy clouds. The night was too dark for human eyes to see the ground he strode on. But it was easy to adjust his visual spectrum deeper into the infrared and let the heat from the rocks and soil, glowing like hellfire, guide his footsteps.

He didn't bother to read Katerina's thoughts. No point invading her privacy, especially when he could guess what she was thinking. Eventually she'd get over her silly streak of superstition and be grateful to him for saving her life. He could use his new knowledge and power to do nice things for her. She couldn't object to little miracles—could she?

As he walked deeper into the ebony landscape, he sneered. Heck, if anybody knew how to handle what he could do now, he was the one. He'd read all his life about characters who weren't corrupted by having superhuman powers. Superman, Green Lantern, and Dr. Manhattan never did that—unless they were victims of bad writing. Slans, Baldies—they didn't misuse their special talents.

And, unlike the idiotic “hero” in that story by Wells, he was smart enough to avoid stupid mistakes when working miracles. Besides, even if Katerina was too upset to realize it, he was still the same down-to-earth Midwesterner he'd always been. He wasn't going to become a Missouri Mule—even if he did have the power now to rule the Galaxy.

Immersed in his thoughts, he suddenly realized he'd wandered into the field they'd visited yesterday morning. His enhanced vision saw corn, wheat, and green bean bushes swaying gently in colors no human being had ever experienced. Careful not to disturb those plants in their slumber, he walked over to where a few late-growing radish leaves poked up from the ground.

Martin pulled up one of the radish plants, scraped mud away from it, and examined its scarlet-and-alabaster root. His gaze penetrated into its very atoms, analyzing it far more thoroughly than the crude equipment back at the habitation module could.

He snorted. It was a plain radish, with the normal amount of water, cellulose, and other ingredients in its cells. Stone and the other “experts” back home meant well, but they'd been stupid to tell him he shouldn't eat his own crops.

Martin reached down with his free hand and scooped up some Martian soil. As he stared at it nearly all the dirt flew from his palm, leaving a small pinch of sodium chloride behind. He sprinkled the salt on the radish and took a bite. Its flesh was crunchy and tangy—a delicious taste of home.

Suddenly he smirked, realizing what he'd done. He was standing in the “Garden of Eden” and he'd just taken a bite of the “forbidden root"!

Something moved behind him. He turned around, holding the half-eaten radish by its leaves, like a century-old Hollywood jungle movie's stereotype of a headhunter holding his victim's shrunken head by its hair.

"Want a bite, Katerina?"

She'd put on the blue jumpsuit she'd worn when they landed on Mars. Her hazel eyes glowed softly like distant stars as she looked silently back at him.

Martin said, “If you're not fasting anymore, maybe you'd like something different to eat."

Nearby, several stubby cornstalks shot upward like a movie made with time-lapse photography. Their sides swiftly bulged with green, tawny-tasseled ears.

He continued, “It's easy to change the amount and location of energy. I can heat up the ears if you'd like some corn on the cob. Or, since it's nearly time for breakfast, I could turn them into cornflakes for you."

Her wordless gaze made him uneasy. “I could listen to what you're thinking, but I won't. I won't misuse my power, I'll only use it to do good things! Say you believe in me!"

For a moment a brilliant blue dot peeked through the clouds, shining like a shard of lapis lazuli. Martin pointed at it and said, “Think of all the people there who are suffering because of violence and natural disasters. Millions more are sick or dying. I can protect the innocent, end disease and death, even make the old young again!

"Yes, I know we'll have to think through the consequences of doing that first. There'd be all sorts of social, economic, and political repercussions if I did it right away. But we're both clever enough and care enough about what happens to humanity to solve every problem that comes up."

Katerina whispered, “No, Martin. Neither of us, not even the whole human race is smart enough or good enough to handle that much power all at once. Even with the best intentions you could cause more tragedy on Earth than we already have. I gave my life rather than accept the aliens’ ‘gift,’ because I wasn't sure I could resist the temptation to remake the world in my own image. I'll do whatever I must to prevent you from remaking it in yours.

"You're a good man, Martin. But not even the best man is good enough to be a god."

His finger stabbed at the golden cross hanging from her neck. “I thought you believed someone could save the human race by being both man and god."

"He was God and became man. Not the other way around. That makes all the difference."

Martin scowled. “There's no point arguing. Let's both cool off for now. We can decide what to do later."

"I'm sorry, Martin. I'm afraid I can't do that."

He snickered. At least one of the classic SF movies he'd shown Katerina during their flight to Mars had made an impression on her. “And how are you going to keep the pod bay doors closed from me?"

When she didn't answer, he turned away and looked out over the barren plain. He pictured it lush and viridescent with vast fields of crops—dwarfing the tiny garden they'd slowly and laboriously planted themselves. Perhaps Mars could be the breadbasket for a new, immortal human race—

Then he sensed it—an alien presence nearby. He looked around for the hazy scintillating lights—listening for the aliens to speak to him a third time.

He saw and heard nothing. Then he realized where his impression of an alien presence was coming from.

It came from Katerina.

Martin stared open-mouthed as the cornstalks whose growth he'd accelerated shrank back to their original size. An alien voice that sounded like Katerina's murmured, “The only way to stop you was to become as powerful as you. And God forgive me if I've made the wrong choice!"

As the horizon slowly brightened, a cold misty rain began to fall. It splattered against two lonely figures standing far apart on a rusty plain no longer home to anything merely human. Both had survived to gaze at another wondrous, mystical Martian dawn.

But the eyes that looked out over this dawn were no longer innocent.

Copyright (c) 2008 H. G. Stratmann

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Katerina and Martin first appeared in “The Paradise Project.” [November 2007])

Our October issue features two quite different novelettes: “New Wineskins,” by Richard A. Lovett and Mark Niemann-Ross, and “Stealing Adriana,” by Dave Creek. One is chillingly plausible and close to home, about a journalist who wanders into a scene that seems a little too idyllic to be true—and it is, concealing a sinister new twist on a (relatively) old problem. The other is distant and exotic, in time, distance, and technology, a tale of new human abilities at cross purposes on an alien world. Both are thoroughly engaging, entertaining, and thought-provoking.

The rest of the fiction includes short stories by Robert R. Chase and Carl Frederick (I'll leave it to you to guess which one[s] might be considered “seasonal") and the climax and conclusion of David R. Palmer's Tracking.

Richard A. Lovett also supplies the fact article, “Here There Be Dragons: The Ivory-Billed Woodpecker and Other Mysteries of an Explored Planet.” Obviously a planet being visited for the first time will be full of mysteries and surprises; but the recent (and still controversial) rediscovery of the ivorybill is but one example of how even our own planet may still have tricks up its sleeve, even though our kind has been exploring it for hundreds of thousands of years.

Perhaps like many Analog readers, I first encountered nanotech in the pages of this magazine. The 1987 science-fact article “Nanotechnology,” coauthored by Chris Peterson and K. Eric Drexler, was a real eye-opener. I rushed to find a copy of Drexler's 1986 science popularization Engines of Creation: The Coming Era of Nanotechnology. (My haste was unnecessary—the book continues to sell well.)[1]

Two decades later, nanotech has become big business. And too important to be left to business: The federal government (and many governments around the world) invests heavily in related R&D. The National Nanotechnology Initiative has spent 6.5 billion dollars over five years, with spending continuing to ramp up. A National Science Foundation expert foresees 1 trillion dollars in annual worldwide production of nanotech-related goods by 2015.[2]

What is nanotech?

Nanotechnology is most simply defined as engineering or manufacturing performed at the scale of nanometers. A nanometer, abbreviated nm, equals one billionth, 10-9, of a meter. For those who prefer classical standards of reference, human hairs vary in diameter from about 10,000 to about 100,000 nm.

"Small stuff” is insufficient to explain the allure of nanotech, and the billions in public investment. While it's easy to find products labeled as nanotech, in categories from:

—sun block (with active ingredients in the form of 30-nm particles of zinc oxide), to

—clothing (whose fibers have been nanocoated for stain resistance or antistatic properties), to

—golf clubs (made lighter and more flexible by embedding carbon nanotubes in the composite material of the shaft), what really excites people is the potential for far more sophisticated applications.

Individual atoms are tenths of a nanometer in size.[3] The allure of nanotech is atomically precise engineering, and not merely of static materials. The title of Drexler's book speaks of engines, not golf clubs. Now imagine what might be done with truly tiny engines built with atomic precision....

The road to nanotech

I recently attended a conference organized by the Foresight Nanotech Institute (cofounded by Drexler in 1986), Battelle Labs (the not-for-profit R&D entity that administers several national labs), and the Society of Manufacturing Engineers. This article draws heavily, but not exclusively, on the conference[4] to illustrate the progress and promise in nanotech.

An ambitious purpose was reflected in the conference title, “Productive Nanosystems: Launching the Technology Roadmap.” We'll return to that curious qualifier: productive. As for “roadmap,” the allusion is to one of the most successful case histories of industrial policy, the International Technology Roadmap for Semiconductors (ITRS).[5]

Manufacturers and customers alike grew reliant on predictable advances in integrated-circuit technology, and the promise that chips will steadily grow more feature-packed (and hence faster, smaller, and cheaper). We call that forecast Moore's Law, but it's hardly a law of nature.[6] Maintaining that rate of progress takes a concerted, ongoing international collaboration among corporations, academia, and governments. Semiconductor foundries take years and billions of dollars to build—a misstep can doom a company. It's not surprising that the ITRS is actively supported and regularly updated.

Nanotech is a young field, far less mature than semiconductor electronics at the time of ITRS's conception. The nanotech roadmap is a daunting—and potentially invaluable—endeavor. Because nanotech is so young, to choose a path forward is challenging indeed.

One (tiny) step at a time

Our journey begins with nanomaterials. As we've seen, some nanomaterials have already found their way into products. Not all nanomaterials require atomically precise manufacturing.

Overview: Nanotechnology Roadmap

Nanomaterials, now/2007.

Nanocomponents, 2-10 years.

Functional nanosystems, 5-15 years.

Atomically precise productive nanosystems, 10-25 years.

Scaled APPN array systems: 15-30+ years.

And not all applications are as inconsequential as golf clubs. Nanometer-thick films enable the giant magnetoresistance (GMR) technology that crams ever more gigabytes into disk drives.[7] Denser storage is rather handy for laptops, to cite just one benefit. Peter Gruenberg and Albert Fert received the 2007 physics Nobel for their work with GMR.

Next, consider the single-wall carbon nanotube: a sheet of graphite (a form of carbon) just one atom thick, rolled into a cylinder only one nanometer in diameter. A carbon nanotube can, in theory, extend to any length. [8] A single-wall carbon nanotube is stronger and lighter than steel and an excellent conductor of electrical current.

Despite their nanoscale aspect, nanotubes are manufactured by such brute-force methods as laser ablation and arc discharge. We can hope to weave nanotubes into a super-strong cable for a space elevator, but record-breaking nanotubes are only a few centimeters long. No space elevator for us this week....

That's our starting point. Where are we going?

The roadmap leads us first to nanocomponents. These are building blocks like motors, pumps, bearings, gears, and sensors. Nature builds nanocomponents; surely we can, too. (A bit on how comes later in this article.) Over the next decade, it is expected that researchers will build an extensive library of nanoscale components.

Interesting things can be done with just nanocomponents. David Leigh, of the University of Edinburgh, introduced a surface coated with the simplest of nanoscale motors: bistable molecules. In one position, the molecules are hydrophobic (water repelling), and in the other, hydrophilic (water attracting). Ultraviolet light flipped the molecules between states. Leigh showed a video of a one-millimeter (10-3 meter: far larger than nanoscale) water droplet on this surface. UV illumination impelled the droplet across the surface—even up a significant slope.

The next stage (five to fifteen years from now?) is functional nanosystems, combinations of nanocomponents. These systems will transform materials, information, or energy. They just won't transform much. Typical production quantities are predicted to be in the milligram range.

Next up (ten to twenty-five years out): atomically precise productive nanosystems. APPNs will introduce a new era in nanotech and manufacturing. APPNs will produce (hence the conference name) other objects with atomic precision, and do so under programmable control. The programmable control need not be onboard the APPN. By reason of safety or public relations or efficiency, it may be best if the programmable control not reside in the APPN.[9]

Squinting into the metaphorical distance (fifteen to thirty-plus years out) we come to scaled, atomically precise, productive nanosystem array systems. With these we will finally build large objects, and bulk materials, with atomic precision. Carbon nanotubes are stronger than steel because they are defect free, not because of nanoscale. Atomically precise manufacturing will let us build any material without defect—and then steel will be much stronger. Many materials can, in theory, be made two orders of magnitude stronger by suppressing defects.

Why so vague?

The preceding section may seem less of a roadmap than a rough sketch of the territory ahead. Fair enough—and with good reason. Much of the conference dealt with alternative techniques for the first step forward: making nanocomponents.

Several methods offer promise. At the most abstract level, these boil down to biochemical and mechanical approaches—popularly, wet and dry.

Living cells teem with sophisticated molecular machinery. DNA encodes the directions to build complex and quite large structures (like us). Biology proves by example that nanotech is possible, and biologists and biochemists presented a fair number of papers at the conference.

Alas, nature can be a bit of a sluggard,[10] and many chemical processes yield unwanted byproducts. There's appeal to purposeful control over every step of building things.

Wet vs. dry was not an open issue at the conference, and Drexler cautioned in his address that it's too early to pick an approach. He stressed, in fact, that the different techniques might complement each other.

That does not compute

It is challenging to realistically model even simple molecules.

Our senses delude us that objects have properties that can—at least in principle—be measured with absolute precision. Attributes of objects, such as their size, position, and velocity, seem continuous and infinitely divisible.

At sufficiently small scale, our intuition ceases to be valid. Electrons and nuclei are governed by quantum effects that manifest only at tiny scales. For example, the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle tells us that location and momentum cannot both be measured to infinite precision. The more one knows about location, the less can be known—even in principle—about momentum. And vice versa.

Schrodinger'sequation describes the theoretical behavior of particles like electrons and atomic nuclei. The descriptions are probabilistic rather than determinate. Except in very artificial circumstances (like a lone electron in an infinitely deep potential well), the equation lacks exact solutions. Quantum chemists model the atomic behavior of atoms within molecules using computation-intensive approximations.[11]

Hence: The electrical forces at work among atoms (nuclei attract electrons; nuclei repel nuclei; electrons repel electrons) can be characterized only probabilistically and inexactly. The best approximations are computation-intensive, manageable for only a few atoms. Quickly enough, modelers fall back on nineteenth-century physics to do much simpler—and less precise—approximations.

How many atoms might a nanoproduct contain, and hence might we desire to model? Even for very small items, a lot. A buckyball is a hollow carbon sphere about one nm in diameter—comprised of 60 carbon atoms. A cube (of most anything solid) just five nm on a side contains tens of thousands of atoms.

The need to work with approximation upon approximation is a significant hurdle to our understanding. Nanotech is out ahead of nanoscience.

Ramping up

The roadmap envisions eventually building macroscale objects with nanotech. Defect-free material will enable new structural applications—perhaps, finally, that space elevator. Defect-free conductors can make our power-distribution systems more efficient and reliable.

However...

A few grams of matter contain roughly a trillion trillion atoms, and we can't precisely model the behavior of two.

Computation is not the only approach, of course. David Geohegen of Oak Ridge National Labs spoke of the need for better manufacturing-level understanding of nanomaterials. Focusing on single-wall carbon nanotubes, Geohegen summarized the gaps in our knowledge of how the tubes grow and what circumstances introduce flaws. He advocated for standards (e.g., to characterize defects and purity) in nanotube production.

Fun with atoms

Manipulation of individual atoms was first demonstrated in 1990 by Donald Eigler and Erhard Schweizer. Their employer cannot help but spring to mind. To demonstrate their ability to move single atoms using a scanning tunneling microscope (STM), Eigler and Schweizer released an image of thirty-five xenon atoms set onto a nickel surface, arranged into letters: IBM.

Atoms are small (xenon atoms being on the heavy end, each massing about 1.31 x 10-20 grams). Building atomically precise products one atom at a time will take ... lots of time.

One method much discussed was atomic lithography.[12] Rather than paint design patterns with light, atomic lithography uses the very fine probe tip of an STM to dislodge individual hydrogen atoms from the silicon surface. Michelle Simmons of the University of New South Wales netted in from Australia to report having built interconnects just 2.5 nm in length. In contrast, a state-of-the-art semiconductor plant makes chips with features no smaller than 45 nm.

Moore's law suggests that industry will be manufacturing chips with atomic-scale features by 2020. Simmons’ team may be blazing the trail. They have used atomic lithography and STMs to precisely implant individual phosphorus atoms into crystalline silicon. The up/down spin states of individual atoms (rather than, today, bunches of electrons stored, or not, in tiny capacitors) may eventually encode digital bits.

The next step is to marry atomic lithography with parallelism. Thomas Theis of IBM discussed a prototype 4,000-bit read/write head for very high-density (terabit/in.2) disk drives. That's getting close to thousands of individually addressable, program-controlled probe tips.

Nature is nanotechnologists’ proof by example that matter can be organized en masse by atomically precise methods, but of course we don't find STMs in nature. For another path to nanotech, we turn next to some of the biologists’ presentations.

Nature's way

Many proteins self-assemble into complex structures, including—a very handy type of device—motors. Consider the whiplike structure called a flagellum that propels many bacteria. Amazingly, forty proteins self-assemble into a structure of bearings, rotor, drive shaft, and whip. ATP molecules (the tiny energy carriers within cells) break hydrogen bonds in the tiny engine to drive a rotary motion that flails the whip end.

Let's look more closely at self-assembly.

Diffusion brings components into proximity—within the tiny volume of an E. coli bacterium, it's been calculated that every two organic molecules meet about once per second—and then non-bonding electrostatic attraction may assemble something larger. Randomly colliding components won't always orient properly to connect, but soon enough the flagellum does come together.

As another example, kinesins are motor proteins that pull themselves—and cargo—along intracellular tracks called microtubules. The kinesin molecules exploit thermal motion within the cell to take two to three hundred “steps” per minute. This is one of nature's neat tricks: using random thermal motion to drive motion in one direction. Symmetry-breaking mechanisms—effectively like a ratchet and pawl—favor selected impacts, giving rise to a directional bias.

Biological motors can be quite powerful. Keith Firman of the University of Portsmouth (UK) showed a video of a 20-nm device, driven by a light-powered proton pump, crossing 70 microns. That's 3,500 times its own length.

Naturally occurring biomachines may serve as nanocomponents, but so might engineered biomachines. Walking and twisting motors built from DNA strands have been simulated.

Perhaps mechanical and biological mechanisms will be combined. For example, carbon nanotubes might serve as tracks for kinesins.

It's unlikely that naturally occurring proteins will fit our every need. Then what?

Custom-designing a protein is a hard problem. Proteins consist of multiple peptides—each peptide, in turn, comprised of multiple amino acids, themselves complex. A protein's function depends less on its composition—so many carbons, oxygens, hydrogens, etc.—than on the precise structure and shape of the molecule. The protein folds as it assembles, subject to the complex interplay of electrostatic interactions (and quantum uncertainties) among its many parts. On an IBM Blue Gene L, among the fastest supercomputers in the world, to model the folding of one protein can consume weeks of computing time.[13]

Rather than design proteins from scratch we may modify existing ones. Replacing a binding site(s) modifies the protein's bonding behavior without altering its overall shape—hence leaving intact the protein's structural properties.

Peptides often connect with single bonds, and single bonds can (and do) twist. Twisting is much of why peptide chains take so long to settle into a stable configuration, and why protein formation is hard to model. Christian Schafmeister of Temple University has built artificial peptides, called bis-peptides, which form double bonds. Bis-proteins assembled from bis-peptides don't twist.[14] Bis-proteins assemble more quickly than natural proteins. The behaviors of bis-proteins are more readily simulated than those of natural proteins, whose shapes remain mostly unknown.

How might protein-based components, whatever their source, be mass-produced? Schafmeister discussed an electrochemical synthesis vat, in which a computer mediates every step in the self-assembly of complex structures. The PC sends electrical activation signals to an array of catalysts. One catalyst enables each assembly step. Other catalysts drive disassembly of unwanted byproducts and excess intermediate components. Of course first we need to design and synthesize the catalysts....

So: The good news is that research offers several promising approaches. It will take a while to sort out which methods work best for which tasks. Until nanocomponent technologies are more settled, we're unlikely to see with much clarity to the later stops along the road.

Hey! What Happened to Replicators?

Chemistry (gazillions of jostling molecules) and biology (gazillions of reproducing cells) operate with massive parallelism. In that long-ago Analog article and, in more detail, in Engines of Creation, we were given another vision of parallelism: the universal assembler.

Assemblers were nanoscale machines that could build—well, anything. Anything, that is, for which: raw materials were at hand, energy was available, and directions were onboard.

Most products, like that sports car I covet, would require that assemblers cooperate. Lots of assemblers. And how would we get all those assemblers? From assemblers assembling more assemblers, assembling more assemblers ... until there were enough for the job.

Fiction has a sexier name for self-assembling robots (both nanoscale and larger): replicators. With sunlight for energy and the entire world for raw materials, it's easy to construct entertainment—or alarmist scenarios—in which replicators just keep replicating. Before you know it, there's nothing but replicators. And in these scenarios, what of humans?

Worst case, we're raw materials.

You will have noticed: Nothing even vaguely assemblerlike appears in the roadmap. Avoidance of negative press may have influenced the choice of direction, but there is a more basic reason. To reap the benefits of nanotechnology does not require anything as complex as an all-purpose, self-replicating, autonomous assembler.

Two decades ago, Drexler envisioned teams of assemblers at work within synthesis vats and tabletop factories—not in the wild. Regardless, in the wild and living off the land is how much of the public (and some fiction) perceives assemblers. Asked at the recent conference about replicators, Drexler characterized that early description of nanotech as a biological analogy and proof by example. He said he considers Engines of Creation obsolete.

Forget living in the wild—useful nanofactories won't even need vats of mobile assemblers. Chris Phoenix, director of the Center for Responsible Nanotechnology, laid out a case against mobile assemblers in a 2004 interview.[15] Stationary assemblers—think: tiny robotic arms—are simpler and more productive than free-floating assemblers. It's simpler to deliver energy and raw materials to fixed assemblers. Fixed assemblers are easier to physically orient to the task than are free floaters. Prepositioned assemblers are easily coordinated by a central computer through permanent comm lines (perhaps carbon-nanotube wires). It is much harder to maintain communications with mobile assemblers, which would not trail cables lest they tangle.

A fixed ‘bot that's taken out of its factory won't harm anything.

Basically, replicators are a hard problem, more complex than alternate nanoscale manufacturing approaches, scary to much of the public, and off the community's roadmap.

But are mobile, independent, self-replicating assemblers possible? In theory, sure.

Fear of gengineered superbugs predates most qualms about nanobots replicating. Bioengineers allayed many concerns through a program of community self-governance informed by dialogue with ethicists. Ethical guidelines, peer reviews, and funding reviews have kept genetic engineering safe and beneficial.

Nanotech researchers are taking the same approach. The Foresight Nanotech Institute and the Institute for Molecular Manufacturing have proposed ethical guidelines for the development of nanotech.[16] Among other topics, the guidelines address alternatives to autonomous, self-replicating assemblers. Should autonomous, self-replicating assemblers be developed anyway, the guidelines argue for layered security measures to counter accidental or purposeful release. A few examples of safeguards:

Replicators can be designed to be dependent—say, for their fuel—on chemicals unavailable in natural environments. This is like designing a genetically modified bacterium to starve outside the lab for lack of a rare trace element.

Material-scavenging functions can be limited to specific materials not found in nature or in living cells.

Onboard programming can defend against software errors—analogous to mutations in a bacterium—by means such as error-correcting codes.

But could someone intentionally design replicators to survive in the wild? Again, sure—given lots of money, because replicators are a tough problem. If it's any consolation, there are probably much easier ways to do us harm.

Even replicating nanobots designed with a malicious intent may not prove fatal. We manage to share Earth with a lot of ever-mutating, mindlessly replicating bacteria.

Are we out of the woods?

Let us suppose we have sidestepped, at least for the near future, the gray-goo scenario of replicators run amok. Does that mean nanotechnology is safe?

To be determined.

Nanotech's big uncertainty is a matter for toxicologists. Materials often exhibit different properties, chemically and biologically, at the nanoscale than in bulk—and yet some nanomaterials have been introduced to factories and mass-market products without performing new health tests. To infer a substance's safety from bulk-level testing while touting the differences manifest only at nanoscale ... does that strike anyone else as a gamble?

Toxicologists are starting to consider effects unique to the nanoscale. For example, it's been noted that materials long deemed safe could never before—until formed into nanoparticles—reach the most sensitive parts of the lungs.[17] The Environmental Protection Agency recently asserted the authority to regulate—as pesticides—the nanoscale silver particles some new clothes washers release to kill bacteria.[18]

During a conference lunch, an insurance-industry representative brought up asbestos. Asbestos is a useful material whose health implications (asbestosis and mesothelioma) went unrecognized for decades. Related health science was behind the curve. Insurers were taken entirely by surprise. Class-action suits bred like, well, poorly designed replicators. Dozens of companies somehow linked to asbestos went bankrupt, some perhaps deservedly, but others perhaps the victims of junk science and improper litigation.[19]

Let's hope nanopollutants aren't this century's version of the asbestos surprise.

On the sunny side of the nanotech street

I'm not an every-silver-lining-has-a-cloud sort of guy. Let's turn our attention to plucking some low-hanging fruit along the nanotech road.

The roadmap focuses on energy and healthcare as opportunities for early benefits. We'll start with a few energy-related opportunities. Fuel cells that use catalyst nanoparticles to boost efficiency. Photovoltaic cells embedded with quantum dots to extract energy from wavelengths too short to be tapped by conventional solar cells. Cables and wires with fewer molecular-level defects—less electrical resistance—to distribute power with lower losses. Ultracapacitors, using the very high capacitance of nanoporous electrolytes, to replace batteries in many applications.

Some short-term healthcare opportunities?[20] Nanoshells for improved control over drug delivery. Nanoparticle contrast agents for more sensitive MRI imaging. Engineered protein sensors for earlier detection of tumors. Engineered proteins that attack tumor cells. Engineered protein sensors that detect and report (fluoresce or change colors in the presence of) biohazards.

Nanotech is receiving a lot of public funds. It may face a headwind of public skepticism. An emphasis on applications with obvious public benefit and visibility is sound strategy.

Stronger and smarter

Let's be a bit more speculative.[21]

Fair warning: This isn't a comprehensive forecast—nanotech will change everything. That said, how might nanotech influence science fiction in the next few years, and our lives over the next few decades?

Many payoffs will come from structural nanotech: vastly improved materials.

Today's metals are rife with voids, cracks, and impurities. Metals without defects will be stronger by about two orders of magnitude. Imagine how much weight can be taken out of cars and trucks (and rockets) with no reduction in safety—and with major gains in fuel efficiency.[22]

So there you have the nanotech-enabled auto of the future: electrical, powered by ultracapacitors or fuel cells, and weighing perhaps a few hundred pounds.

An SF standby is the electromagnetic cannon. These weapons come in two variations, rail-guns and coil-guns. Their peaceful counterpart is the electromagnetic mass driver. All three use EM pulses, rather than chemical reactions, to launch projectiles. It's a very elegant notion, compellingly demonstrated decades ago.[23] So why don't we have them?

Because the harder one hurls the projectile, the fiercer the electromagnetic forces exerted on the launcher itself. Today, those forces tear the launcher apart. But defect-free copper is approximately eighty times stronger than the natural stuff. Maybe we'll yet see rapid-fire rail-guns like those on Stargate Atlantis and Battlestar Galactica.

Stronger is good, but we can also make material smarter. Materials coated or embedded with nanosensors can announce defects. Such sensors may be as simple as molecules that, when under mechanical stress, generate a voltage by piezoelectric effect or change their color. Nanoparticles may migrate within smart material to seal tiny cracks before they can grow.

David Leigh (recall ultraviolet light chasing a water droplet uphill) commented, “Nature uses controlled molecular motion for everything.” How about using nanotech to give materials active surfaces? Paint hulls with bistable (hydrophobic/hydrophilic) molecules, and the ocean itself will push/pull ships. Nothing says only UV can flip such surfaces. To steer or change speed, merely tune control fields (electric or magnetic) or heaters in different parts of the hull.

Moore's Law marches on

We've noted that a state-of-the-art semiconductor foundry makes chips with 45-nm features. We've discussed some of the experimentation leading the way to yet smaller features.

It's not a big leap to predict that our computers will use denser, higher-capacity random-access memories. But RAM in the future may not be wholly electronic. Fraser Stoddard of UCLA has demonstrated electrical readout of biomechanical RAM—an array of bistable molecular switches—with a density of 1011 bits/cm2. You read that correctly: 100 gigabits per square centimeter.

Or, as suggested by the previously cited work at University of South Wales, memory may reside in the spin states of single atoms implanted into a semiconductor lattice.

Processor chips will continue to get smaller and faster, and again not necessarily by familiar means. No more futuristic than nanotech, but tiptoeing into quite different (and also potentially revolutionary) research ... quantum computers manipulate quantum bits. A memory bit in a conventional computer takes the value zero or one; a qubit may be zero or one—or both simultaneously. In quantum-mechanical terms, that “don't know” situation is called a superposition of states.

Ten qubits, to pick an arbitrary number, all of whose states are in superposition, simultaneously encompass 1,024 (2 to the 10th power) possibilities. Thirty qubits can simultaneously encompass more than one billion (2 to the 30th power) possibilities.

It would take an entire article to properly introduce quantum computing[24] or why the spin states of single atoms implanted into a semiconductor lattice are candidates for implementing qubits for practical quantum computers.[25] It's worth noting, however, that the massive parallelism of fully realized quantum computing is well-suited to the computational challenges of further developing nanotech and to cracking the encryption schemes that underlie today's secure electronic communications.[26]

To sum up

Nanotechnology is no longer coming—it's here.

Thoughtful researchers and practitioners have attempted to predict how nanotech will—and how it should—evolve. They see several paths forward and new applications soon to come within our grasp.

Atomically precise control of matter is a very young technology. It is, almost certainly, a transformative technology. The industrial age, the computer age, and next up—the nanotech age...

The one forecast I make with confidence is this: We will be surprised—often pleasantly, sometimes not—with the changes nanotech will bring in the coming decades.

Copyright (c) 2008 Edward M. Lerner

For further reading

The National Nanotechnology Initiative: www.nano.gov

National Institutes of Health: nihroadmap.nih.gov/nanomedicine/

Department of Energy: www.energy.gov/sciencetech/ nanotechnology.htm

The Foresight Nanotech Institute: www.foresight.org

The Institute for Molecular Manufacturing: www.imm.org

Nanotechnology Now (general news): www.nanotech-now.com

About the author

A physicist and computer scientist, Edward M. Lerner toiled in the vineyards of high tech for thirty years. Then, suitably intoxicated, he began writing SF full time. His recent books are Moonstruck (2005), Creative Destruction (2006), and, with Larry Niven, Fleet of Worlds (2007). His short fiction and occasional fact article appear most frequently in Analog. His website is www.sfwa.org/members/lerner/

[Footnote 1: The concept of nanotech predates Engines by a bit. Experts cite a 1959 address by physicist Richard Feynman to the American Physical Society. (See “There's Plenty of Room at the Bottom,” a copy of which is posted at www.zyvex.com/nanotech/feynman.html.)]

[Footnote 2: www.nano.gov/html/res/IntStratDevRoco.htm]

[Footnote 3: Atoms don't have precise boundaries, due to pesky quantum-mechanical considerations. Quoted sizes for atoms derive from interatomic separations within molecules.]

[Footnote 4: Held October 9-10, 2007, in Arlington, VA.]

[Footnote 5: www.itrs.net]

[Footnote 6: Gordon Moore remarked in 1965 that the number of transistors on a chip had roughly doubled every two years. He boldly predicted the trend would continue. In 1965, cramming sixty transistors onto a chip was a research project. In 2006, Intel (an apt example, since Moore cofounded Intel) introduced its Core Duo microprocessor line with 291 million transistors on a chip. 2006—1965 = 41 years, in which Moore's Law would suggest 20.5 doublings. 60 X 2^20.5 ~88 million. Not bad, considering that virtually every aspect of transistor manufacture has changed, some repeatedly, in 41 years. Chips didn't get appreciably larger, meaning that individual transistors have gotten a lot smaller over time.]

[Footnote 7: “Giant” refers to the significant decrease in electrical resistance that can be induced in nanometers-thin alternating ferromagnetic and nonmagnetic metallic films. The GMR label dates back (at least) to a 1988 paper in Physical Review Letters.]

[Footnote 8: Not all carbon nanotubes take the single-wall form. In multi-wall forms, carbon]

[Footnote 9: Of course we'll talk about nanobot replicators. In a few pages, I promise.]

[Footnote 10: The Earth formed about 4.5 billion years ago. About one billion years later, living cells had established themselves. Nature needed about four billion years to get to multicellular life.]

[Footnote 11: For a brief introduction to quantum chemistry and the role of computation, see cmm.info.nih.gov/modeling/guidedocuments/quantummechanicsdocument.html]

[Footnote 12: Standard semiconductor manufacturing relies upon photolithography—light projected through extremely detailed masks—to expose a chemical film, called a photoresist, previously deposited on a silicon surface. Light-exposed photoresist hardens to protect the surface; unexposed regions are chemically washed away. The resistless areas can then be further treated (e.g., to deposit metallic interconnects) without affecting still covered regions.]

[Footnote 13: Vibrations between neighboring atoms take on the order of 10-15 seconds, yet proteins need on the order of milliseconds to fold. There's a lot of random bumping about before the protein settles into a stable (energy-minimized) shape. Any simulation must deal with trillions of time steps.]

[Footnote 14: “Molecular Lego,” Scientific American, February 2007.]

[Footnote 15: www.crnano.org/interview.phoenix.htm#Part%202]

[Footnote 16: www.foresight.org/guidelines/current.html. In a nod to precedent, these guidelines (presently at draft version 6) note: “The NIH Guidelines on Recombinant DNA technology are an example of self-regulation taken by the biotechnology com]

[Footnote 17: “Nano Hazards: Exposure to minute particles harms lungs, circulatory system” reports on a related discussion at a 2005 Society of Toxicology meeting. www.sciencenews.org/articles/20050319/fob1.asp]

[Footnote 18: bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/09/26/samsungs-washers-regulated-as-a-pesticide/]

[Footnote 19: www.asbestoscrisis.com/legal.asp]

[Footnote 20: Cellular-repair nanobots, should they come about, will be a longer-term undertaking.]

[Footnote 21: It's time to change metaphors. We've left the roadmap conference, to gaze instead into our (nanotech-enhanced) crystal ball.]

[Footnote 22: Big weight reductions will also come from substituting other materials for metals.]

[Footnote 23: “For Love of a Gun,” IEEE Spectrum, July 2007 (online at www.spectrum.ieee.org/jul07/5296)]

[Footnote 24: “Dot to Dot Design,” IEEE Spectrum, September 2007 (online at www.spectrum.ieee.org/sep07/5489)]

[Footnote 25: “The Diamond Age of Spintronics,” Scientific American, October 2007.]

[Footnote 26: Quantum cryptography (another subject too complex to tackle here) may make comm links secure again.]

"We leave the moon as we came and,

God willing, as we shall return, with peace

and hope for all mankind."

—Eugene A. Cernan, December 14, 1972

—

We walked on the moon in ‘69,

didn't seem like much of a thing at the time.

We had the moon and we never went back.

We forgot our dreams, or just lost track.

—

Oh, there were rockets, and wonders, and Viet Nam,

protesting the war, protesting the bomb.

Gotta take some time and just get high,

had to bust our balls to just get by.

—

We looked back on our planet from outer space,

a tiny and fragile and beautiful place.

Then we came back home, and sorta forgot,

didn't really give in another thought.

—

There were Watergate plumbers, and marches for peace,

dodging the draft and the Chicago police.

We just had to lay back and just get high;

we were busting our balls just getting by.

—

We walked on the moon in ‘69,

didn't seem like much of a thing at the time.

We went to the moon and just never went back.

Did we forget our dreams, of just lose track!

The object of virtual reality is to be indistinguishable from “real” reality. But which one?

Brody Bridges surreptitiously scanned the new arrival as his uncle made introductions over the din of jangling slot machines and the boisterous hum of the casino.

"Brody was Team Captain for the Luna U Eclipse the year they won the All Worlds Virtual Reality Championship,” Ted Bridges said. “Had seventeen solo kills."

"It was pro-am, Mr. Upshaw,” Brody hastened to add. “Uncle Ted likes to exaggerate."

"Call me Jack,” said the tourist, hand extended. “I remember that tourney well. You were good."

Brody raised an eyebrow as he took Jack's grip. He swept his sonic cane over Jack a second time. Had he misjudged the man's age? “That was a long time ago,” he said.

"Ah, excuse me,” Ted interrupted, pointing to his ear and briefly turning away. Then, “Okay, kids, gotta scoot, never a dull moment for the hotel manager.” He pumped Jack's hand. “Welcome to The Moon Dust! Brody will see to you. Anything you need, just let him know. It's an honor having you with us."

As Ted hurried off, Brody gestured at a nearby lounge. “Buy you a drink? Or maybe stake you at a table?"

"Actually,” Jack said, “I was hoping you could show me the Pit."

"Should have guessed,” Brody said. “Follow me."

The two men threaded their way through the bustling throng and into a deep alcove, over which THE PIT flashed in bright blue and white neon. A sign read “Closed for Refurbishments,” and the main doors and ticket windows were shut, but Brody thumbed a scanner to open a side door. Their escape from the noisy main floor left their ears ringing.

"The funny thing is,” Brody said as Jack followed him into an elevator, “most of that racket is unnecessary. It helps maintain an aura of excitement, I guess."

"Never been to the Moon before,” Jack confessed. “I definitely feel lighter than on Earth."

"Well, you are, of course. The hotel's grav-plates range between three-quarters and eighty percent Earth-normal. We have a large retirement community up here."

They descended in silence for a moment before Jack chuckled. “You don't know who I am, do you? I don't like to brag, but I figured what with you being a player..."

"Ex-player,” Brody corrected. “Still, I can guess why you're here. Technicians have been working in the Pit for months, upgrading systems. I'm betting there's going to be an exhibition when they're done. Uncle Ted says you play for London, right?"

"Yeah, the Beefeaters. We'd only come here for the playoffs, if we ever made the playoffs. Man, the Looney Pit! Whatever possessed them to dig a hole to build a stadium?"

Brody chuckled. “Money, what else? Turned out it was cheaper to dig a hole than build a stadium on the surface, especially since the mines gave them a pretty good head start. Once they finished boring out the Pit, all they had to do was grav-plate it and pop on a dome."

"And that was the last boring thing to happen here,” Jack said, quoting from the ad campaign. He turned to Brody as the elevator doors opened. “So you don't follow the game at all? Didn't expect that."

Brody didn't answer as they crossed a wide foyer. He thumbed a scanner, causing two towering doors to recede into the walls, and led them into the dark interior. “So,” he said, “you want the pregame show? Or should I just turn on the lights?"

"I've seen pregame shows,” Jack said.

Brody lifted his cufflink mike. “Pock, hit the house lights."

A battery of blue-tinged lights blinked on in sequence, some of them cleverly recessed, others massive photonic haloes that wreathed the inside of the steep, funnel-shaped coliseum. A low hum rose from the glowing rings as Jack walked to the rail and peered over. “Christ!” he exclaimed. “The booths are way down there?"

Jack's eyes darted across the chasm to the luxury suites on the other side, then flitted over the strata of bleachers stacked one atop the other in what seemed an almost endless procession up and down. Here and there, tenuous-looking scaffolding clung to the stadium's steep sides, abandoned for the night.

"Holds eighty thousand,” Brody said. “Specially designed sync projectors provide tiered real-time 3-D for everybody, but maximum field density and best-def proportionality make these the best seats in the house.” He paused. “But you're not really here for the tour, are you, Jack? What do you mean, you ‘didn't expect that'?"

Jack turned from the railing. “I just thought you'd still follow the game. Look, Brody, I'm here to see you."

"Really? I'm something of a hometown hero in Luna C, Jack, but I was nobody in the pros. You must've been a kid last time I suited up."

"Seven years ain't that long,” Jack said. “I sure remember the Rapiers game your rookie year, the computer malfunction. Who doesn't? You'd have been large in the pros if it hadn't been for that.” He paused. “You seem to see okay."

Brody's hand reflexively moved to a scar hidden beneath his short-cropped orange hair. “They couldn't repair the optic nerves, but I have bionic implants. I only see in black and white now—more like grainy blue and white, to be honest. Plus, they're linked to this sonic cane.” He held out his left hand to reveal a small, flat disk nestled in his palm. “Anyway, it was a long time ago, to me at least. I hope you didn't come up here looking for a mentor, Jack, because that ain't me."

"No,” Jack said. “I came here looking for a partner."

Brody laughed in surprise. “Are you nuts? Jack, I can't see! I got screwed by a freak computer glitch, and yeah, it's sad, but it is what it is."

"Maybe,” Jack said, “maybe not. Just come with me to meet someone—Dr. Yuri Rostov. He's a little offbeat, but he's a genius, I swear.” As Brody hesitated, Jack added, “You are the host, remember. Don't make me go see Uncle Ted."

With a wry smile, Brody relented. “Fine, Jack,” he said. “I'd be happy to meet your friend."

The tall, thin, white-haired man extended his sticklike finger at the projection cube hovering over the coffee table. “This happy view of dinosaur is only small replica of capability of current 3-D projector. Dinosaur looking real, yes? See as nibble leaf..."

Brody rolled his head to one side and shot Jack a wordless but quite emphatic query.

"Dr. Rostov,” Jack interrupted. “This isn't a potential sponsor. Can you skip to the new interface?"

Rostov grinned. “Of course—I have ticket for Les Folies de Lune! I hurry through good stuff for Mr. Bridge.” He leaned forward. “I have invent whole new system: new neural interface, new matrix medium, even whole new hologram projector. Making use of zero-point energy. You hear of?"

"Doc, I live in artificial gravity on the Moon,” Brody said. “I've heard of ZPE."

"Good,” Rostov said, “then knowing all about synth-mass and synth-space, yes?"

Brody frowned. “No, not so much."

"Ah,” Rostov said with obvious disappointment. “Okay. Layman explanation for jocks. Just like synth-mass is manipulation of ZPE that makes for bigger gravity on Moon, synth-space is manipulation that makes for perfect medium of supporting for sub-Planck nanoticles for virtual reality system. Old game system all numbers crunching around in computer, but Rostov system creating very dense matrix of sub-Plancks in synth-space, and these forming medium to support engram insertion into game construct.

"But most of importance, greatest news for Brody Bridge is Rostov method interfacing direct from mirror neuron, frog-leaping visual cortex, optical receptor, whole sensory shebang—get it? You play again! Great story for league! Great story for sponsor! In three year, all stadium using new Rostov system, and you big star player again!"

Brody gave Jack a wry smile. “That's the layman's explanation?"

"They tell me it's the next new big thing," Jack said. “Look, Brody, I've been in the league two years, and I've made a name for myself. Now I hear about this, and I'm thinking, here's the future. The sponsors want me to be the face of the new system, and to make the whole rollout perfect, my personal idol—The Lunatic himself!—can come out of retirement and play again. In the Looney Pit, no less! The money people have talked to the commissioner, and the league is all for it if you're willing and able. No matter what you think, Earth hasn't forgotten you."

Brody folded his arms across his chest. “Your personal idol?"

"Truth, Bro. You were my favorite player growing up. Man, I cried when you got hurt. I was young, but still, my whole family prayed for you. Now, to be honest, I'm not so sure you still got it. No offense."

Brody snorted. “Yeah, you're a player—playing me.” He hesitated. “Look, no offense to the doc here, but color me skeptical. I'm finally getting used to this life, to living this way. It's not what I expected my life to be, working here for my uncle—I have a degree in ornithology, for Pete's sake! But I've been learning to move on. I'm not sure this wild goose chase is really the best thing for me right now."

Jack shrugged. “Look, Bro, there will be an exhibition in the Pit in six months. It can be you and me, or me and someone else. It's up to you."

"Perhaps to interject,” Rostov said. “Before horses putting before cart, right now just needing Mr. Bridge consent to little unobtrusive testing. Maybe no point to whole thing. Then Yuri going to Les Folies with colleague—there is fire-breathing dragon, yes?"

"Yes, there is,” Brody said. “It's a fabulous show. I'll have a bottle of champs sent to your table. To you and ... ?"

"Helen,” said Rostov. “That would be wonderful."

Brody nodded and turned back to face Jack. “We can start arranging for tests tomorrow,” he said.

"It's like standing at the bottom of a giant sugar cone!” Jack exclaimed six weeks later, looking up from the floor of the Pit. “I'll never get used to the view."

"Can't wait to see it when the new hologram is on,” Ted said. “Hurry up, Brody, we're waiting."

"Been a long time since I've worn one of these,” Brody said as he checked the seals on the skin-tight impulse suit. “I can't believe I'm doing this again."

"You passed all the other tests, Bro,” Jack said. “Once you pass this one, we'll let the press in on the gig, while you and I get down to some serious training."

Ted gestured at a tall, silver box around which technicians swarmed, forearm computers raised as if in blocking stance or secret nerd salute. “So that's where they keep the synth-space?” he asked.

"No, not where keeping synth-space!” Rostov interjected, his voice emerging from speakers. “Synth space everywhere and nowhere, depending how viewing. Articulator manipulating only smallest frame in box."

Jack and Brody exchanged a bemused glance as Ted said, “It's big and small, everywhere and nowhere. I love scientists."

Brody took his seat in the iso-booth and began up-linking.

"See you on radio,” Jack said. “Have fun!"

Brody grinned. “To boldly go,” he said as he pulled the neurocowl over his head. “Hey, what's the program anyway?"

"It's a training mod. You might run into a cranky hamster or something, but nothing your firepower can't handle. You'll be in and out—just long enough for Rostov to show compatibility."

On cue, Rostov said, “Initial interface showing good for me. You ready for sealing booth and uploading?"

"Yeah, I'm good,” Brody said, sliding goggles over his eyes and giving Jack the thumbs up as the door slid shut.

A moment later it was as if someone had turned on the Sun. Brody found himself standing in the middle of a sprawling, green field. Green! And the sky was a vivid blue! And his mech's angular, metallic body was a lustrous gold!

"It's beautiful,” he said.

"You seeing okay, then?” Rostov asked over the headset.

"Better than okay. I didn't know how much I missed seeing color, even if it's not real. Sure is a nice place for a picnic."

"Hey, they just dimmed the lights and turned on the new hologram,” came Jack's disembodied voice. “Man, you should see it!"

"Good,” Rostov said. “Now, Brody, walking around, telling me if all feeling normal."

Brody eyed the shadowy forest that fringed the meadow as he began to walk, his thick, metal legs scything through shin-high grass. He pulled up the mech's arsenal on the faceplate reader. “Damn, Jack, this is what you guys tote these days? Plasma cannons, shoulder-mounted lasers, autoseek missiles—what, no nukes?"

Brody heard Jack chuckling in his ear. “Well, check out the defensive array, Bro. Of course, the goodies you can use still depend on the scenario."

"You walking okay?” Rostov asked.

"Yeah,” Brody said. “Everything feels fine. Should I fire off a few rounds?"

"Sure, is for kicks,” Rostov said.

Brody telescoped a distant tree and locked lasers. He was about to fire when a glint of light flickered within the deeper woods. “Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Looks like the first wave is here, but that didn't look like no hamster. What's my opponent in this?"

"Just a low-lev mech,” Jack said. “Pick a weapon and paste it."

"Wait, holding on,” Rostov said. “Having little problem, no big deal, but strange. System trying upload second mech suit. Sorry. Thought was all debug."

"Jack, that was like no mech I ever saw,” Brody said. “It looked like it was made of light."

"What?” Rostov interjected. “Made of light?"

"Yeah, in the trees."

"Okay, don't be doing nothing,” Rostov said. “What is you saw?"

"I saw a light in the trees!” Brody exclaimed. “Wait, there it is again."

"Look, should be no light,” Rostov said. “Just puny mech."

"Well, we got a problem then,” Brody said. “Maybe you should get me out of here."

"Yes, yes,” Rostov agreed. “You wait."

Brody watched the light moving toward him through the trees. A moment later, his sensors pinged movement in the woods back to his right. “Uh, okay, I've painted the training mech. It's pursuing whatever that is in the trees."

"Huh?” Rostov said. “Mech chasing light?"

"Looks that way,” Brody said. “Guess that means it's not an interface problem. I think there's a second player."

"That's not possible,” Jack said, his neck bent backward as he stared up at the enormous hologram hanging above him. “The only other impulse suit is tuned to me, and I'm standing right here."

"Maybe it's a thrill seeker,” Ted offered, “someone very smart or very rich. We get plenty of bored rich kids up here."

"Is not possible,” Rostov said. “Even if somehow someone sneaking into matrix, would be telemetry, but I showing nothing."

Brody took an involuntary step backward as lasers began filling the air between the two distant combatants. “Okay, they're exchanging fire."

"Look, is problem,” Rostov said. “I'm thinking only way could be second mech construct is from Brody optical bionics. Rostov system bypassing visual cortex, but game system good for new and old system. In trials, visual cortex saying, ‘if psyche happy, I happy,’ and don't be causing problem. But bionics not part of psyche. Maybe getting sensory data and thinking should be seeing something. And maybe system trying to give it, but without bio-indicators is only making light.” He paused. “But then why is trainer mech attacking it?"

"Really enjoying the theory here,” Brody said impatiently, “but can we talk about it after you get me out of here?"

"We must thinking this!” Rostov insisted. “We don't have stable matrix! You know extraction not instant thing. What if extracting Brody and second suit remaining? Could be much worse than cerebral bends. Could be brain damage."

"Brain damage!” Brody cried. “What're you talking about?"

"Schizophrenia, coma, not knowing!” Rostov exclaimed. “Maybe death. You wait, Brody. We thinking this."

"Well, think fast,” Brody said. “The training mech just went down, and the intruder looks to be heading my way. Should I engage?"

"No!” Rostov cried. “Okay, screwing it, I'm going to extract you."

A moment later a sharp pain pierced Brody's head, dropping him to his knees. He screamed in agony, his metal hands clutching his armored skull.

"Agh!” Rostov cried. “What is—? I—canceling!"

Brody fell forward onto his hands and knees as the pain diminished. He gasped for breath, barely aware of the damage indicators flashing on his reader.

"You okay in there, Brody?” Rostov asked.

"Yeah,” Brody panted. “I'm okay."

"Don't be worrying, okay?” Rostov said, though his voice sounded less than confident. “We thinking this."

Brody climbed to his feet in the green grass, an arm cannon targeting the flickering light moving toward him. “Yeah, let's do that,” he said. “Let's think this."

"Blame it on the phantom,” Ted Bridges whispered, ignoring the enormous hologram image of Brody's gleaming mech hanging in the air above him as he stared at the jet-black cylindrical booth containing his nephew's body.

"It's not a damn phantom!” Jack erupted, patience frayed.

"What phantom?” Rostov demanded.

Ted glanced at Jack. “It's a local figure of speech. When the first workers came to the pole to lay the grav-plate for the spaceport, they reported seeing swirls of light. Scientists say they were probably a byproduct of emissions from the plating process. The spaceport dome was completed forty years ago, but the phantom sightings continue to this day. Once or twice a year, some guest will see it. It's like The Moon Dust's own poltergeist."

"Huh,” Rostov said. “Am thinking was gas, or maybe too much cocktail. Am thinking ‘phantom’ is malfunction cause by Brody implant. Am thinking is two good option. Best is turning off second avatar."

"Then let's do it!” Jack exclaimed.

"Can't,” Rostov said.

"Why not?"

"Because not knowing how interfacing with bionics,” Rostov said. “Not knowing ‘on’ switch, so not knowing ‘off’ switch. And whole system is glitching. Right now can't even turn off training program, so more trainer mechs going to be attacking Brody any time. First must get back control."

"You said there was a second option,” Ted prompted.

"Yes, am thinking we splice new extraction instructions, making sure default to extracting all other avatar before Brody. Am thinking is maybe good idea."

"Just do it!” Jack snarled.

"Yes, Jack, but first need back control and also must check is safe. Mr. Uncle Ted, please, my colleague, Dr. Drune? Can you bring her?"

"Yes, of course,” Ted said. “What's her number?"

"You finding her at blackjack counter. Also, will be needing neurosurgeon and neuropsychologist, okay?"

"Well, uh, I don't know,” Ted said. “But I have my shrink on speed dial."

"Fine,” Jack said as he started for the second iso-booth. “You guys work on that. I'm going in."

"No!” Rostov shouted. “Matrix already jumble, you maybe making worse! Maybe you big vegetable too when extracting!"

"You just figure it out,” Jack said as he grabbed his sensor suit. “Brody's going to need help. I got him into this mess. I can't let him face it alone."

Helen was trying to have fun, trying to coax luck. Sometimes even math needed luck; she of all people knew that. The stack of chips in front of her was tall, but the chips themselves had changed colors over time, and not in a good way. Her math was right, she was certain of it. So what was wrong?

Julio's hand on her thigh felt nice. That wasn't the handsome young man's real name, she knew. At least, the odds were against it. She knew he thought he was scamming her, and she was indeed being scammed, she knew; but she couldn't help wondering, did he know that she knew? Was he scamming her smalltime, which she allowed, or hustling her big-time while she pondered distracting romantic notions?

But he was such good company, so attentive, and he had such nice hands. She focused on the one in her lap as the one on the table nipped another chip. Then a different hand landed on her shoulder.

"Dr. Drune? Please, my name is Ted Bridges. I'm the hotel manager. Could you come with me, please? Dr. Rostov needs your help. These men will gather your chips. It's quite important."

Damn, Helen thought as the warmth of Julio's hand faded from her thigh. She shifted her wheelchair into reverse, pivoting backward to face Ted and the four security guards standing behind him. What are the odds?

"Let's go, boys,” she said, shifting her chair into forward. “Try to keep up."

Brody was scanning the terrain, looking for a defensible position, when a silver-colored mech materialized beside him. The mech was rugged, sharp-edged, heavily armored. Like Brody's own, it was designed to look dramatic for the crowd.

"Hi, Jack,” Brody said casually. “Really glad you came to see me."

"Hey, what are friends for?” Jack replied. “So where's the phantom now?"

Brody pointed into the woods. “It stopped moving. I guess you scared it."

Jack peered into the trees. “Yeah, I see it. Looks like it's watching us."

"No panicking,” Rostov said. “I seeing in hologram. Is very strange. We thinking this."

Brody snorted. “You know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking I should just paste it! If I kick it outta here first, I should be okay for extraction, right?"

"As a last resort,” Jack said. “The only thing Rostov knows right now is that he doesn't know anything. If that is a projection from your bionics, who knows what killing it would do?"

Brody frowned. “But if it's coming from my implants, where does it get volition?"

"Now that's an interesting question,” Jack agreed. “What do you think, Rostov?"

"Huh? About what?"

Jack repeated the question.

"Yes, is big dilemma,” Rostov agreed. “If operating on system protocols, should be attacking players, not watching. If is second Brody avatar, should be making same movement as Brody."

"Not all that helpful, doc,” Jack commented.

"Uh-oh, incoming,” Brody said, pointing as two new mechs appeared at the edge of the forest. “Doc, we have two new phantoms. They look like the first one, but they have sort of a reddish glow to them."

"Yes, registering them in synth-field, but still no biolock."

"Yeah, they're just—hold on! They're moving toward us! Shit, they're firing!"

Thin beams of ruby light lanced across the field to strike Brody and Jack, both of whom dropped to one knee to return fire. Purple stars flashed in the meadow as their blue lasers crisscrossed the incoming red. The enemy rushed forward, and Brody's damage indicators flashed more insistently as laser light danced across his body armor.

From the corner of his eye, Brody saw the white phantom step from the woods as two identically glowing mechs appeared beside it. In shape, they were very nearly identical to Brody's own mech suit, and they seemed to move just as easily, yet they were almost transparent, as if made of smoky glass, and a white light suffused them from deep within.

Brilliant, blue-white energy beams lanced from fragile-looking lasers mounted on their shoulders. The weapons looked more like delicate curios than weapons of war, but the beams traced smoking lines across the red-hued mechs, who turned from Brody and Jack to answer the new combatants.

"Holy shit, what's going on?” Jack cried. “Brody, are you okay?"

"No, not so much,” Brody confessed. “Power's low. We need to find cover."

Jack grabbed Brody's arm and together they staggered toward the nearest wall of trees and away from the furious combat raging behind them

Ted Bridges raced to keep up with Helen as she sped across the casino floor and into the Pit, heedless of dodging tourists. He wasn't surprised to see a steady stream of them drifting into the arena, since he'd directed that the doors be left open. It had seemed like easy PR at the time, and as expected the initial attendance had been sporadic, but word was obviously spreading that something unusual was happening.

It wasn't until Ted had caught his breath in the elevator that he began to explain as best he could. “But I admit the science is beyond me,” he concluded as the elevator settled onto the stage floor. “I mean, what the hell is synth-space? Pardon my French."

"Mr. Bridges,” Helen said, ignoring his repeated request that she call him Ted, “the derivation of the word hell owes nothing to the French, it stems from Old English. But to answer your question, synth-space is a modulated perturbation of zero-point energy. It's similar to the synth-mass used to increase localized gravity, except that its properties are entirely contained within the ZPE field.” She paused. “But I fear this isn't helping you much, is it?"

"No, not much,” Ted assented, hurrying after Helen as she shot from the elevator.

Helen gasped, her seemingly indefatigable chair coming to an abrupt halt. “My goodness!” she exclaimed as she stared up at the towering hologram wherein squads of crystalline and metal soldiers competed on a smoking battlefield. “So real! The new projectors are working perfectly!"

"Yeah, the projectors are great,” Ted said, “but the rest of the system is a piece of shit, pardon the Old English! That's my nephew in there, you know!"

"Yes, of course,” Helen said. “I—"

"Helen!” shouted Dr. Rostov as he hurried toward them. “You are here finally! We are having unique occurrences!"

"Yes, Mr. Bridges has explained,” Helen said as they approached the collection of computers and technicians huddled near a cluttered table a short distance from the two sealed iso-booths. “Show me the telemetry."

"The phantoms are multiplying and not tracking on most monitors,” Rostov said as he handed Helen a laptop. “It must be Brody optic implants."

Helen studied the brainwave readings. “His readings look normal,” she said. “Jack's, too. Where are the phantoms’ readings?"

"There aren't any,” Ted interjected. “If you ask me, we should shut off the power and get them out of there now!"

"Wait,” Rostov said. “Helen, looking please at synth data. Now, telling me, what is that?"

Helen studied the information. “It shows eleven players in the matrix, counting Bridges and Upshaw,” she said. “But there's no corresponding bio data."

"Nil registry,” Rostov said. “But is there."

"You've checked for echo?” It was more statement than question, and Rostov merely squinted at her in reply. “Then I must concur with your assessment, doctor. Certainly, the implants are implicated.” She chewed her ample lower lip. “What we need, gentlemen, is a neurosurgeon."

"Thanks again, Dr. Blatt, I know you're busy. Hell, you're the busiest! I'm so grateful you make time for my regular sessions. You know I'd never ask unless it was an emergency."

"Of course, Ted,” said the immaculately dressed Dr. Blatt as the elevator descended. He rifled through the thick folder Ted had handed him. “I did have to reschedule an appointment, but it's your nephew, after all. I'm afraid I don't know much more than you do about recent ZPE experiments, however. About five years ago there was an explosion—in Quebec, I think—when some idiots tried to harness a quantum-field rift or some such, but I never looked into particulars."

"Look, doc, as you can see, I've done my homework on these guys,” Ted said. “Drune was one of those ‘idiots.’ She'll be the one in the wheelchair. Rostov is an oddball, too, if you ask me, but he's legit so far as I know. What I really need is for you to tell me we can get my nephew out of there."

The door chimed open and Dr. Blatt took a long stride forward. “Well, Ted, I'll have to confer, and then I'll give you my best recommendation.” He spared only a cursory glance at the hologram towering above him as he headed for Rostov and Drune, Ted on his heels.

"Dr. Benjamin Blatt,” the psychiatrist said, extending his hand, which both doctors took in turn. “I've skimmed the files Ted gave me. I'm not a neurosurgeon, but I'll help if I can."

Ted grew increasingly agitated as Rostov launched into a debriefing that rapidly became, to Ted's ears, incomprehensible, especially when it occasionally drifted into Russian, which both Drune and Blatt apparently spoke to some degree. Ted fumed as the three chuckled over some incorrect idiom Blatt employed, and he was furious by the time Rostov finished.

"Well, the only thing I'm sure of is that ‘zero brains’ are definitely involved!” Ted erupted. “Dr. Blatt, please, I have doctors standing by! I think we should get them out of there now, before irreparable damage is done!"

Blatt draped a long arm around Ted's shoulders and led him a few paces away. “Ted, we've talked about this in session,” he said. “You've done well by Brody, but you can't fix his life for him. What I can tell you is that Brody's bionics are essentially the same model we've used for a decade. I've seen his engrams and there's nothing abnormal there, except for the spike when they tried an extraction. But given that episode, I must agree with them that removing either man right now would be unwise if we don't have to. We need more information, Ted."

"You'll stay, then?"

"Of course, Ted. Rostov has discovered ... something. I don't know what yet, but something important, and I intend to find out what. In the meantime, you should probably contact the governor."

"You think so?"

"Ted, if you want to protect your nephew, I suggest you shed as much looney light on the situation as possible. You control the cards right now. Don't give up the deck or you'll regret it."

Wisps of smoke swirled from the muzzle of Brody's forearm cannon as he looked around in disgust. Charred blotches of blackened ground and reeking husks of twisted metal marred the once pristine landscape, and fires blazed in the trees.

"So how many was that?” he asked.

"I've lost count,” Jack said. “The phantoms disappear when they fall. Only the trainer mechs stay where you kill them."

"How many phantoms are there now, Uncle Ted?” Brody asked. “The damn things breed like rabbits."

"They're impossible to count, the numbers change all the time,” came his uncle's voice. “But I can tell you that the next set of trainer mechs will be Vipers. The manual says they're very aggressive."

Brody laughed. “Trainer mechs are the least of our worries."

"Yeah, but, uh, Brody,” Ted said. “Look, we have another problem."

"Of course we do."

"I've been looking ahead to level two. The manual says it introduces ‘new world concepts.’ Scenario one is called ‘The Aviary.’”

"Hey, flying!” Brody said. “Haven't done that in years!"

"Yeah, only Dr. Rostov and his colleagues say they're not sure what's going to happen when the world shift occurs. Actually, there's damned little they do seem to know!"

"Look, shouldn't be no problem,” Rostov interjected. “Could be good thing. Recalling, Rostov method is total different system. Change to new matrix could erase phantoms, or..."

"Or what?” Jack and Brody asked simultaneously as Rostov paused.

"Or will take form of Eagle Glider Mech II, like you! Or maybe will stay stupid glowing lights, I don't know!"

"That's not good enough!” Ted shouted. “That's my nephew in there—"

"Okay, cool down, Uncle Ted,” Brody said. “We'll find out soon enough. Right now, Jack and I need to keep moving."

Governor Cho wasn't happy, and listening to Ted wasn't improving her disposition. “That's enough,” she finally interrupted. Her voice dropped to an intense whisper. “Ted, you know I don't give vac about synth-space or mirror neurons! And why are all these people in the Pit? This is not the kind of publicity we want!"

Ted let his sharp retort die on his tongue as Rostov, Drune, and Blatt approached. “Drawing quite the crowd,” Blatt said, gesturing at the bustling stands above. “Good."

"You think so?” Cho asked.

"I'm more certain than ever, in light of Dr. Rostov's new theory."

"What new theory?” Ted demanded.

"Please, Mr. Uncle Ted,” said Rostov. “Is hard putting in layman terms."

Ted glowered across the table. “Try,” he said.

"Perhaps I might attempt to explain,” offered Helen.

"Yeah, you've been a real font of useful information,” Ted muttered.

"Yes, please,” said Cho, with a sidelong glance at Ted. “I'm very concerned about those two boys, as well as about our reputation, as you might expect. Word of what's going on here has reached Earth Authority. They're asking questions and beginning to make noises about intervention. I haven't much time and I lack specific education in these exotic corners of science, so please, make it simple."

"I'll do my best, honey,” Helen said. “First, you should understand that quantum physics has long dealt with the possibility of alternate universes. Many scientists now consider zero-point energy to be a sort of ether that runs through all of the universes. In fact, it was the idea that vacuum fluctuations might be a sort of gravitational bleed between universes that led cosmologists back to a reexamination of Maxwell's original equations, which in turn led to our improved understanding of ZPE. By now everyone knows that ZPE can be manipulated to affect localized gravity, and the energy we've been able to extract so far is just a drop in the bucket. Personally I believe we'll eventually be able to achieve over unity energy ratios—"

"Excuse me,” interrupted Governor Cho. “What?"

"You thinking maybe perpetual motion machine,” Rostov said. “But second law of thermo—"

"Okay,” said Helen, with a sharp glance at Rostov. “That's an argument for another time. Moving on. This next part isn't really my field, but I'll try. Dr. Rostov has discovered that ZPE manipulation can be used to support a matrix of Zero Planck nanoticles. Think of them as gazillions of very tiny, very limited individual machines that can form a powerful microcomputer when assembled in a modulated ZPE field. Yuri's interface creates a game world within this system and transmits the players’ consciousness into nanoticle constructs. Of course, maintaining a nanoticle matrix that dense takes enormous energy, but the real genius of the method is that most of the energy is drawn from the ZPE field, where the energy supply is theoretically limitless."

"I'm sure that's all fine,” said Cho. “But are we approaching an explanation as to why we can't just end this thing?"

Helen shot the woman a brittle smile. “Of course,” she said, “but I'll let Dr. Rostov explain. It's really his theory."

"Ah,” Rostov said. “Actually, perhaps Dr. Blatt is explaining, was his idea same as mine."

Blatt cleared his throat, taking a moment to straighten his tie. “Yes, of course. You see, I'm just not convinced that Brody's implants can account for the events we're seeing, though Dr. Rostov believes that his system's attempt to create a second construct for Brody might have paved the way for what's happening. But we all agree that the only explanation is that somehow someone else has accessed the matrix. Except that Dr. Rostov and Dr. Drune both assure me that that is impossible. That is, they say it is impossible from this universe."

He let his last words hang in the air as he studied Cho's face. The Governor did not look happy.

The battle rolled helter skelter through the sprawling forest, leaving a chaotic maze of burning trees, shattered mechs, and charred earth in its wake. Brody and Jack continuously fled the main engagement, but always the combat pursued them. They were the prey, it seemed, with three sets of enemies dogging their heels, and the Vipers had an annoying habit of appearing out of thin air right in front of them.

Brody continued firing as an energy bolt knocked Jack from his feet. “You all right?” he yelled. “Uncle Ted was right. These Vipers are more aggressive."

Jack swore. “Better aim, too,” he said as he climbed to his feet. “I've got serious damage. Let's keep moving."

The dense foliage melted away before their battered suits as they retreated, and soon they found the air growing heavy with smoke. Brody cursed. “In this stuff, they could be anywhere. How's your recharge?"

"Getting there. C'mon."

Their slow, zigzag retreat led them through thick underbrush and at last into a small, open tract. At the center of the clearing stood a tall, red-tinged phantom, swiveling at the waist to face them.

"Brody, get down!” Jack yelled as the phantom's plasma cannon spat. A rippling orb slammed into Jack, hurling him backward into Brody. The two fell in a heap.

"I can't move!” Jack cried. “My suit's froze! Damage overload!"

Brody hurried to extract himself from the tangle, but as he turned, still on his knees, he found the phantom already looming above him. He knew the short-range lasers it was bringing to bear would slice through his armor like a hot blade through ice cream, but he raised his arm to return fire nonetheless, even as two blood-red Vipers stepped into view at the tree line.

"Fire in the hole, Bro!” shouted Jack.

Brody shifted all energy to shields and leapt away as a massive sonic pulse rippled through the air. He was flung upward, arcing skyward to land in a crash of splintering trees. The phantom and Vipers fared worse, the phantom shattering in the wave front and the Vipers falling prone, stunned by the dissipated pulse.

Brody climbed to his feet, attention lights flashing. He looked down at the remains of Jack's ruined mech. He'd recognized his partner's kamikaze warning just in time, a moment before Jack had directed all remaining power into one last, desperate assault.

Brody turned a vengeful eye toward the two Vipers struggling to rise nearby. “Jack is dead,” he reported icily as he started forward.

"He's fine, Brody,” Ted said. “They're pulling him from the iso now. But we've got other problems."

Brody directed all remaining weapons energy to pulse cannons, firing again and again until the trees were awash in flames and the two Vipers were glowing fragments. It was overkill, he knew, but it sure felt good. He took a deep breath. “What other problems?"

"Computers are going crazy. We're not sure if it's connected to Jack's suicide, but we won't be able to send him back in. And there's an EA colonel here. He's demanding we shut down. Governor Cho is stalling him, but I'm worried they may try to seize the Pit."

Brody turned at the sound of machinegun fire, then started forward at a run, ignoring the damage readouts that blinked like a Christmas tree on his reader. A grim expression on his face, he tore past skeletal trees, arriving at the rim of a shallow clearing just in time to see the first of two Vipers crumple to the ground under a barrage of lasers.

Turning toward the source of the assault, Brody saw three phantoms, looking as if they had been carved from crystal and spitting beams of blue-white fire. Their combined assault was more than the remaining Viper could withstand. It exploded, raining shards of twisted metal across the lush, green grass.

Brody quickly scanned power levels, learning nothing new: shielding was almost exhausted, and he lacked the reserve to power a weapon. At such low levels, his only sane option was to run, but Brody was tired of running. He took a step forward as the phantoms turned to face him, but stopped dead in his tracks when they began to speak, their words clear in his headset.

"Brody,” said three voices in unison. “You are Brody Bridges."

Then the world blinked.

Tree limbs, leaf covered and impossibly long, jutted from rock outcroppings to span the Pit at various heights and angles, and to Brody it seemed no inch of space around him was unoccupied. Scores of crystalline birds, large, small, and in between, some pure white and others tinged with red, perched on every nearby limb and ledge, above and below.

Brody recalled a version of this scenario from his playing days, but there were many big differences—and one enormous one: He had not assumed the form of an Eagle Glider Mech II. Instead, he had become a very large and utterly non-mechanized bald eagle.

He had no data screen. There was no radio. Nor, he realized, did he have a human voice to use one. And yet, to Brody, it was an unimaginable thrill. He'd studied all about birds. He knew their tibio-tarsal articulations and mantles, their wingspans and metabolic rates, but all of that meant nothing compared to actually being a bird.

Still, he realized he wasn't really a bird. For one thing, his vision was normal, not the telescopic perspective he would have expected from an eagle. This was a construct, just like his mech suit had been, and while this suit was far more bizarre, it was not entirely unfamiliar. Slowly he found himself settling into the raptor suit's sensorium.

In many ways, it wasn't unlike accessing standard data feeds, except that he didn't read the output, he felt it. When he thought about viewing the status screen, he experienced a feeling of strength and fitness, a desire to be in motion. And when he asked for a battlefield schematic, he got a sense of exactly where he was and how every nearby limb was positioned.

He was perched on a broad branch in an insane crystalline aviary, surrounded by hundreds of twittering, squawking birds, each as unique as an ice sculpture. From nearby, a ruby red pterodactyl cast a baleful eye on him, and somewhat farther away what looked like a large dragon, glowing white, spat fire as it bayed.

As if in response to some unheard signal, the entire flock took wing, and Brody suddenly found himself under attack. Sharp talons tore at his feathered flesh as red-hued attackers swooped down on him. Leaping upward, he slashed back at his attackers with razor-sharp claws, but he could see it was no good. He was greatly outnumbered, taking two blows for every one he delivered, and despite his generally greater size, his body was all too vulnerable, and his counterattacks had little apparent effect on the phantoms’ glassy hides.

As hope faded, a flurry of screeching white birds dropped into the fray, talons slashing. Some swarmed around Brody as others rammed themselves into the red phantoms, seizing them in their claws and dragging them downward and out of sight. Brody found himself encircled by protectors who seemed dedicated to repelling all attackers, including the single, ill-fated trainer mech that flew mindlessly into destruction.

As Brody collected himself, he became increasingly aware of an enigmatic coherence in the birdsong that filled his ears. Gradually, he began to draw meaning from the cacophonous screeches, whistles, and clacks. He realized that he could understand more if he focused on listening to different songs together, and that the more songs he could bring into his ken, the more meaning he could glean.

He soared upward as the battle raged in the space around him, and at the same time he climbed a ladder of comprehension as he drank in the overlapping songs, growing ever more amazed as understanding dawned. What he was hearing—what they were asking—seemed impossible. Yet, in another way, nothing seemed impossible anymore. And as he considered their offer, it began to make an odd kind of sense to Brody.

He'd been in a state of limbo, he admitted to himself, ever since the accident. He was a tragic hero in Luna C, made all the more tragic by the looneys’ well-meant pity. He'd had such big dreams! How had he ever convinced himself he could be happy spending his days in the charity job Uncle Ted had arranged for him? Now, amazingly, he was being offered a chance to reclaim his life—albeit in a most unusual way.

He opened his beak to speak, and while the sound that emerged was a wholly nonhuman squawk, he had no doubt that his meaning was crystal clear.

"What the hell is going on!” Governor Cho demanded loudly enough to be heard over the deafening birdsong. “Can't we at least turn them down?"

"No, is no controls!” Rostov shouted back. “Is all wire hay!"

"Governor!” Ted shouted, his finger on his earphone. “I'm getting calls from all over the hotel reporting computer malfunctions! This could be citywide!"

"Ted, get the EMTs ready!” Cho ordered. “As soon as they're in place, I'm pulling the plug!"

"Wait a second!” Helen shouted. “Listen to the birdsong!"

"Birdsong!” Ted spat. “Are you—?"

"No, wait!” shouted Blatt. “She's right! Do you hear? Those are words! Hear? You have to listen to the different songs together!"

Ted looked up into the vast hologram, finding it hard to believe his eyes or ears. So many birds, all made of glass—how could it be? But as he concentrated on the bedlam of their combined songs, he began to detect in the blend snippets of recognizable sound, like words heard through a chattering crowd.

"Yes!” he shouted. “I hear it, don't you? Oh my god, they're saying ‘Brody!’”

The crowd was also picking up on the recurring word, and soon they were echoing the birdsong in a roaring chant. “Bro-Dee! Bro-Dee!"

"Listen to them!” Jack cried.

"It's too late!” Cho shouted. “I have the whole colony to consider! Ted, get your medics ready! Dr. Rostov, prepare to shut off the power!"

"Bro-dee! Bro-dee!” the crowd chanted.

"You gonna pull the plug on that?” Ted shouted, gesturing upward. “They'll riot if you do!"

"Hotel security is your concern!” Cho shouted back. “Ted, I have no choice!"

Ted frowned but hurried toward the medics waiting near the iso-booths. A moment later, Cho turned to Rostov. “Doctor, the order is given! Shut it down!"

Absolute darkness descended as Rostov threw a switch, and the chant of “Bro-dee!” quickly gave way to a confused susurration that threatened to become an angry roar. The audience turned its attention to the flat screens that showed medics hurrying to extract Brody from the iso-booth on the stadium floor.

Jack pushed his way forward. “Where's Brody?” he demanded.

"They're bringing him out now,” Ted said, close to tears. “He's not breathing."

The two men watched as Brody was lowered onto a gurney. A medic leaned over him, injecting something into his throat. “There's no reaction,” she said with maddening calm as she shoved Ted aside and began CPR.

Another medic rushed forward to insert a trachea tube as the first medic continued pumping Brody's chest. The thousands ringing the walls above watched in silence broken only by the frequent sob and expletive. Then, slowly, the chant began to build once more.

"Bro-dee! Bro-dee!"

"Is he going to be okay?” Ted demanded, as an EMT attached a pacemaker to Brody's chest.

Blatt took hold of Ted's arm. “Let them do their job, Ted,” he said, pulling him away. “But I feel I should warn you. I'm afraid it doesn't look good."

"Oh no,” Ted said weakly, tears rolling from his eyes. “Oh no."

There was an explosion of light, and a symphony of screams pierced the air. As the initial brilliance faded, a vast column of light remained glowing in the center of the Pit. Shadowy figures darted through shafts of shifting light, and the air was filled with the sound of atonally musical birdsong growing in volume. Then, one by one, small crystalline birds began to emerge from the hologram. Soon, feathery flurries of white light flitted throughout the stadium.

As the view into the new hologram continued to clear, it revealed a beautiful, sun-filled meadow. At its center was Brody Bridges, standing enormously tall in the midst of an avian tornado. He smiled as he glanced about.

"Did you do this?” Cho demanded, facing Rostov.

"No, system is off! Is not us!"

Brody laughed. “Don't worry, they're not here to hurt you,” he said as the crowd ducked and swatted at the ethereal flocks that flew about their heads. “They're just trying to make a point. They want you to know they're real; that they're not a game to be turned on and off."

Slowly the birds began to light, some on railings, others on the shoulders and heads of nervously laughing people.

"I can explain,” said Brody, his voice carrying clearly throughout the coliseum. “At least, maybe I can.” He looked down, as if at his own feet. “Hi, Jack, Uncle Ted,” he said. “I don't see me down there. I guess I didn't make it, huh?"

"You're, uh, on life support,” Jack said.

"You can see us?” asked Rostov. “That's impossible!"

"Ah, Dr. Rostov,” said Brody. “After today, you're going to need to rethink that word ‘impossible.’ Where to begin? It turns out the alien theory is correct, or almost. The guardians—that's what they say to call them—exist in a world between universes."

"That's impossible!” Helen said. “Life could never evolve in that stuff!"

"You're right,” Brody said. “The guardians were built to live here. They're made up of nanoticles very much like those you and Dr. Rostov use, although they're much more complex. Mostly, they traffic in information across the known universes. They discovered us when Dr. Rostov's system tried to create a second mech-suit for me. Somehow this opened a door and announced our existence to the multiverse. Fortunately, the guardians are peaceful."

"They didn't seem all that peaceful to me,” Jack said.

Brody nodded. “Well, the guardians weren't the only ones to react to our presence. Lots of civilizations have nanoticle constructs in the multiverse. The red phantoms were created by nanoticle beings built by a different, more aggressive species. They came through the same door we'd opened. The guardians have been trying to defend us from them while they tried to figure out how to talk to us. In the end, communication was sort of a fifty-fifty thing. Once I figured out what they wanted, I knew what I had to do."

"And what was that?” Ted asked nervously.

"The only way for me to end the war was to pass from our universe to theirs so they could establish a seal between the two sites. The Pit hologram isn't actually in the multiverse—it's like a room that opens into it. The guardians were able to enter here by emulating Dr. Rostov's nanoticle designs. For them to create the seal, I had to pass through the multiverse and into their portal, and the only way I could do that was to let them alter my nanoticle structure to match theirs. Now that we have the seal, it will keep out the bad guys until we can build our own guardians.

"But, Uncle Ted, look, I have some news that might be hard for you. See, I'll never be able to leave here again. When they changed my pattern, they changed me. Right now, I'm emulating the pattern I used to be, but this isn't really me anymore. At least, it's not a me that could ever fit in my old body."

"You mean you're trapped there?” Ted asked, horrified.

Brody's laugh echoed throughout the coliseum. “No, not ‘trapped'! It's a great opportunity! Look, Uncle Ted, I always wanted a life of adventure and travel. I thought I'd lost that, and I was trying to get used to the idea of a quieter life. But this is better than any adventure I've ever dreamed of! I'm sorry, Uncle Ted, I know you're upset, but believe me, this really is what I want."

"Yeah, Brody,” Ted said, “but it sounds like a pretty violent place."

"You know,” Brody said, “they thought we were too violent at first. They didn't realize the trainer mechs weren't real. I'm told there's always some friction in the multiverse, but no outright war. We got a lot of attention for a while, but everyone is feeling a lot better now. I've received an invitation to visit the guardians’ home world, and I can't wait! If anyone feels like contacting the U.N. Secretary, I'm willing to deliver a message. Oh, and thanks anyway, Jack, but you'll have to find a new partner. I've got a better offer."

Jack laughed. “I hear you, Bro,” he said. “I think the competition just got a whole lot tougher anyway."

Copyright (c) 2008 William Gleason

We've all experienced deadline pressure, but never quite like this....

It was just after dawn when a voice calling Noelle's name insinuated itself into her sleep.

Noelle. Wake up.

"Unnnng,” she protested, trying to squirm deeper under the covers.

Noelle. You must wake up now.

"Whaaaat?” Her cry was muffled, muzzy, more reflex than proof that she was awake enough to frame a coherent question.

Wake up now. There isn't much time left.

She shoved herself upright in bed, staring in blank-eyed confusion around the softly-lit confines of her cramped one-room apartment, realizing that the voice was more in her head than in the room. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—and mostly inside. It carried an undertone of tightly-leashed urgency that was hard to miss and even harder to refuse.

"Who's—who's there?” she asked uncertainly.

A friend. Someone who has come to rescue you.

She frowned, baffled and uneasy by the strangeness of what was happening, but not quite awake enough to be afraid. “Rescue me from what?"

Dying. I have come to save you.

That had her pulling the covers up to hide the fact that she slept wearing only a pair of panties—and pretty ratty ones in the bargain. “Are you—are you God?” she stammered. She didn't believe in God, but she'd been wrong about more than her share of things in her life. Men, mostly. And more than a few sure-fire diets.

No, just a friend. There is little time, Noelle. You must get up and get ready.

"Get ready for what?"

Get ready to leave.

"You mean, like, leave my apartment?"

No. I mean you must get ready to leave your world.

She shook her head, then pushed her hair out of her eyes, irritation rising from being dragged from a sound sleep to play some sort of crazy game of Twenty Questions with this weird voice. “What the hell are you talking about?"

This is difficult. Forgive me. I bear bad news. Your world is about to be destroyed, Noelle. Completely destroyed. I want to take you away from there before that happens.

Noelle kept shaking her head, utterly confused and unable to comprehend what she was hearing. She struggled to get her mind working, her gaze swinging longingly to her coffeemaker, wishing she could suck down at least a couple of cups. She was not a morning person, and had never been able to rise and shine. Her brain was still foggy, and this inexplicable voice wasn't making sense. “Come on, this is some sort of joke, right?"

No joke, Noelle. I wish it were. Time is short, so I will try to be brief. This is the situation. A black hole with the resting mass of your moon is headed toward your planet at very nearly the speed of light. Such phenomena are rare and dangerous. When it hits, your planet will simultaneously explode and ignite. Nothing on it will survive. There is nothing we can do, or you can do, to avert this cataclysm.

That was too much, too strange, too unbelievable. Unable to wrap her mind around what she had just heard enough to question it, she could only ask something simpler. “Who the hell are you?"

We are people from another place. Researchers. We search for and attempt to track these deadly missiles. That is how we happened to be close enough by to render what small assistance we can offer. It was decided that we would try to rescue a few of you in the brief interval before all is lost.

Once again, this was too much to absorb. “Wh—why me?"

You are able to hear me, your mind open enough to accept this communication. I know that none of this makes sense to you, and for that I apologize. There is little time left, not nearly enough for any of the explanations you deserve. This is what we can do: in five minutes you must be ready to leave. You are permitted to bring three things with you. Three things only, and they must be things you can carry.

At least she was able to grasp the frightening subtext of what she'd just been told. “You're saying I can't bring, you know, other people?"

To our everlasting regret, we cannot permit that. Our space is limited, and already the size of the evacuation we mount puts us all at risk. So choose carefully, Noelle, and choose quickly. Already part of the time remaining is gone. I suggest that you get up and get started.

Noelle obeyed, scrambling out of bed. “How can I believe you?” she wailed, grabbing the jeans and t-shirt she'd worn the night before and struggling into them.

I can only beg you to trust me. Were there more time we might have been able to find a better way to do this. But there is no time. We are merely mortal. We do what we can, as best as we can. It is too little, but all we can manage. Now choose what you will bring with you. I will leave you now, so as not to constitute a distraction. Pick your three things and be ready before this construct I am providing has counted back to zero. Each number is a second. You have 247 seconds left.

A set of foot-high glowing red numerals appeared on the wall. As she watched, 247 changed to 246.

"This is crazy," she whispered hoarsely. The world and everything on it destroyed? It didn't make sense. It couldn't be possible. That sort of shit only happened in books, and in movies.

The numbers counted back, reached 240.

"Rrrrowl?"

She might just have stood there for the whole time she'd been given if it hadn't been for Late Fee, her fixed male tortoiseshell coming over to bump his head against her ankle as his way of saying, You're up? You should feed the cat!

Habit and reflex had her bending down to pick him up. She stared at the cat. The cat stared back, whiskers twitching.

"You're the first thing I'm taking,” she told him, giving him a squeeze before settling him down on her bed.

Her gaze went to the numbers on the wall.

223 seconds left.

The next thing that came to mind was work.

Not many people, facing the end of the world, would think about their jobs. But Noelle did, because she had one of those jobs that for some became a vocation. Maybe even an identity.

The pay was so low as to verge on the insulting. The benefits—as most people counted such things—were mostly intangibles. But it was one of those jobs that quite often swallowed up the people filling them.

Noelle worked at the library. Assistant Director, which sounded like a pretty exalted title until you learned that there were only four people on paid staff, and she made less than an entry-level municipal garbage technician. The end of the world meant the end of the library—the end of all libraries. When she thought about that she almost had to sit down before she threw up.

This left one thought in her head, sounding as loud as the trumpets of Doom, as loud as an entire planet exploding.

I have to save the library.

And the heartbreaking realization that followed.

There is no way I can carry a library.

Or was there?

She allowed herself the three seconds it took to run to her fancy pod-type coffeemaker and hit the on button, then raced to the corner of her apartment where she kept her tiny home office.

The library didn't pay enough to bring her lifestyle up above the poverty level. So in her spare time she moonlighted as a geek for hire, building websites and editing online materials for a few small companies.

Her trusty laptop was in hibernation mode, just as she'd left it around midnight the night before. Precious seconds ticked by as she waited for it to wake up. The moment it did, she went online with a vengeance.

Seconds later she was at a site where she could download books that were out of copyright. Once there the enormity of the task she faced made her gut twist yet again. There was only time enough to save a few books, even with her fast broadband connection.

She had to pick which books lived, and which books died.

Who was she to make such a choice?

The answer to that question carried its own special freight of horror: she might just be the only one to know there might be such a choice to make.

She grabbed the mouse and went to it, searching out names and titles, first checking the Most Popular list.

Dickens. She clicked on the first three titles, moved on. Conrad. This time the first two titles. Twain. No picking and choosing there, she chose everything. Shakespeare. She selected a complete collection of plays and poems.

Even the big pipe her cable connection provided needed a few seconds per choice, and there was a download queue started. She lurched out of her chair and ran to the coffeemaker, grabbing the quarter cup that had been made. By the time she made it back to her computer more authors had raised their hands inside her head, begging to be saved. Tolkien. Baum. Austen. Poe. She hunted those four and a couple others down and started them downloading.

The works of Shakespeare were safe, but that reminded her of her own personal favorite playwright, Thornton Wilder. If this wasn't a The Skin of our Teeth moment, nothing was. And what about poetry? Oh shit, Rumi! And Whitman! Dickinson!

Once again she ransacked the virtual stacks, racing the clock to find and save the best of the best—or at least her personal best of the best. She knew her choices were not the same ones someone else might make; it took her less than a second to pick the Bronte sisters over the Bible, and Aesop's Fables over Aristotle.

In the back of her head a voice was gibbering that not only were there so many authors and so many books being left behind, there was all that music: the symphonies and operas and folk music and pop music. And art! Movies! The downloads she'd chosen so far included no histories, no biographies.

Then she realized that there was at least a taste of the broad spectrum of what humans were and had done already on her laptop. It had come with a digital encyclopedia pre-installed. She'd always meant to remove it, but never had. Now she was glad she'd procrastinated.

The words climbed into her machine and onto her hard drive like passengers into a lifeboat, and the time left sank inexorably away under her.

The numbers on the wall made her heart skip a beat. 72 seconds left.

A dozen downloads were streaming in at once. She didn't dare try to get more for fear of losing part of the ones she'd started.

Besides, she had just over a minute left to pick one more thing.

She gazed around her apartment feeling helpless and overwhelmed. Just one more thing was not enough. No matter what she chose, it couldn't possibly be the right choice. How could she pick one thing for a life, a way of life, a whole world? She knocked back the dregs of her coffee, hoping it would make her think better and faster.

61 seconds.

Inspiration struck. She could grab her purse and stuff it full of CDs and DVDs, both of which could be played on her laptop! She hustled over to the shelves holding her music and movie collection and began ransacking it, but had barely grabbed the first handful of jewel cases when her gaze fell on the red and white paperboard box on the floor under the shelves.

Family pictures.

Her hand hung in the air as she was suddenly torn—no, ripped—between the two. How could she choose? It wasn't fair, it wasn't possible. Her lips drew tight, and a frustrated tear broke loose to roll down her cheek.

You have forty seconds left.

She jumped, startled, realizing that she had just been standing there, impaled on the horns of dilemma. Her eyes darted toward the numbers on the wall.

39 seconds left.

"I can't do this!” she shouted. “I just can't!"

You must. Or you can come with two things, or with nothing. Or you can choose to remain behind.

"To die."

Yes.

"What is anyone else bringing?"

I cannot say. We are too busy to communicate amongst ourselves about such things at this point.

"Too busy trying to save some of us."

Yes. Twenty-three seconds left.

Noelle stared at the box of pictures, the memories of her late parents, her grandparents, and sepia-toned images of her ancestors, the place she'd grown up, snapshots of the life that had led up to this moment. She raised her eyes to the commercially packaged memories above, the movies and music. How could she let any of it go? How could she let a whole world go?

Her feet were moving before her mind knew where they were taking her. Out through the door and out onto the small balcony that was one of her favorite parts of the apartment.

Dawn was breaking, the landscape lighting up for this, its final day. Birds sang, greeting the new morning. Early traffic was a muted sound, a low organ note under the bright melody. The air was fresh with dew and sweetly heady with the scents of the flowers growing in the pots and planters taking up most of the balcony floor. The sun was a flaming crimson ball bisecting the horizon, and she could feel its heat on the skin of her face.

The vista was nothing special. Just what you would see from the back of a cheesy apartment on the second floor of a small house in a small town of no particular note.

Ten seconds.

This was her world. She tried to drink it all in, to soak it in so deeply it would fill her very cells, get it written into her memory as indelibly as the bits and bytes comprising the last of the books being downloaded.

Nine seconds.

Maybe it would be better to just stay. To meet whatever was to come as part of the life of this place. Go back inside and sit down. Coffee by her elbow, cat on her lap, a beloved book open to a favorite passage.

Eight seconds.

Goodbye to her friends, goodbye to the library, goodbye to this town that had always felt so hopelessly confining, but which now seemed as magical and luminously perfect as Kansas had felt to Dorothy.

Seven seconds.

Maybe this was what it was like to die. To be taken away from everything you knew with no recourse, and so many things left undone. Sights unseen, dreams unfulfilled, laughter never heard, love untasted—

Six seconds. So you will bring nothing?

Her arms were empty, the time all but gone. She looked around wildly, searching for something—anything—that could be salvaged. Some piece of this great green wonder she could take with her.

Five seconds.

The planter nearest to the door held the rosebush she had fussed and sweated over the past two summers. She reached out, grabbed a stem. Thorns stabbed into her palm as she snapped the stem off.

Four seconds.

She whirled and rushed back inside. Snatched the network plug from her laptop, slapped the cover shut.

Three seconds.

She yanked the cord to pull the power block from the wall socket, tucked the computer and wadded cord under her arm.

Two seconds.

She scooped Late Fee up off the bed. He struggled and squirmed at the sudden rough handling, claws raking her chest.

One second.

She could barely hold the cat. The laptop kept trying to slither out from under her arm. The thorns cut into her palm, and she held the stem so tightly that a drop of blood leaked between her clenched fingers, hung shimmering, about to fall.

Three things, and a fourth: memory.

Feel no fear—

Then she was gone, a drop of blood falling from where she had stood. There one moment, translated elsewhere the next.

The numbers on the wall reset themselves.

Now ten seconds remained.

A single rose petal that broke loose as she was taken away drifted slowly, lazily down toward the floor.

The door out onto the balcony hung open. Through it came the sound of birds, of traffic, of someone calling their dog. Sounds of life going on as if nothing was wrong, and this day was just one more in the endless ordinary parade of forever.

Nine seconds.

The rose petal landed on the floor, next to the fresh wet drop of blood, never to dry and wither in the natural order of things, fragrant and like memory, a small piece of something greater now forever departed, never to return.

Eight seconds.

Still, memory did linger, bright and vivid as a rose petal, as a drop of blood, as even the fire to come. Held tight so the intoxicating sweetness of what had been could in some way still endure.

Somewhere.

Seven seconds.

Copyright (c) 2008 Stephen L. Burns

My introduction to flat-panel TVs came when I was in elementary school, in a beginner book called You Will Go to the Moon by Mae and Ira Freeman, and illustrated by Robert Patterson. Written in 1959, it describes a typical ‘50-era scenario for how travelers (in this case, a young boy) would eventually go to the Moon, not on the first trip, but shortly after we'd established a permanent presence there.

Even if you've never seen the book, almost every Analog reader already knows the story. First comes the blast-off in the large multistage winged rocket, the description of the stages falling away, and the arrival of the top stage at the space station, a classic “big wheel” with four thick spokes connecting it to the hub. The top stage docks and you, the intended young reader, are treated to a discussion of weightlessness in the hub, and then an explanation of how the rotation of the station “keeps things down” inside the wheel.

Inside the station you see men (there are no women) reading, watching movies, even drinking coffee at a lunch counter, just like ordinary daily life on Earth. The Moon ship—a squat, blunt cone with four spindly legs—arrives to continue your journey. You transfer aboard, the engine fires, and you begin the three-day trip.

Inside the Moon ship there is no gravity. The men are floating, yet some are playing chess or reading a book. You are watching a baseball game on a flat-panel TV set that looks very much like the monitor I'm typing this article on (and at the moment, also watching a news channel).

Finally the ship reaches the Moon and lands. Moon buggies arrive to transport you and the other passengers to the base, going through a crater on the way. At the end of the story you and other men in thick rubber spacesuits are bounding about in the low surface gravity. You easily scale a rocky hill, and at the top, look down upon the Moon base.

Even at the time I first read this book in the mid ‘60s, it was clear this particular futuristic vision was old-fashioned, that this was not how it was going to be. It was still possible to dream that, maybe in the far future of the 1980s and ‘90s, journeys to the Moon for ordinary people might indeed take place. But as the years go by, it looks less and less likely that even my children, now a half century since the book was written, will get to go into space (unless they grow up to be astronauts).

A few years ago I came across a later edition of You Will Go to the Moon updated by the authors to recast the story in terms of the then-modern Apollo Moon mission scenario. I find it ironic that today the updated Apolloesque version of the story seems more old-fashioned than the original. Even though we've already been to the Moon, our current understanding of how we will eventually send ordinary people there is the older one. The Apollo approach, though successful, is now seen as an aberration, a means to a political end, but no way to conquer space.

The future unfolds in fits and starts, and sometimes doubles back on itself. The way things are trending today, it looks once again like future visitors to the Moon will first take a flight to an orbital station or hotel of some kind (at the cost of an arm and a leg), and then board a ship for passage to the Moon. I do doubt that they'll get to low Earth orbit via multistage rockets. Indeed, though not prescient about the actual date, 2001: A Space Odyssey may still yield the best image of what our near future in space will look like. Despite the passing of decades, as long as we're stuck with chemical rockets at the bottom of a gravity well as deep as the Earth's, the old-fashioned and the modern views will never differ by anything other than cosmetic details. So science fiction writers should avoid becoming too obsessed with the up-to-date, or too quick to discard the outdated.

On the other hand, some old-fashioned ways and things are always going to remain outdated, and this brings me back to modern flat-panel HDTV.

How to do high-definition TV has been a no-brainer since the days of Farnsworth—you just add more scan lines. Half a century ago even the most amateur of futurists could predict that sooner or later HDTV would become available. Not so easy, though, was seeing how a picture tube (or CRT, for cathode ray tube) would eventually be made slim enough to hang on the wall like a painting. Illustrator Robert Patterson was projecting well beyond the state of the art when he put that flat-panel TV in the Moon ship.

Back in the ‘80s, serious work was underway to produce an economical video screen that worked on some other principle than CRT technology. The research was soon successful, for by the ‘90s the now ubiquitous laptop computer came on the scene. After that it was just a matter of scaling the technology up to TV size, and LCD screens joined high-definition CRTs and plasma-screen technology as HDTV options. You can see what happened next just by going to the nearest Best Buy or Circuit City.

But suppose Armageddon of some kind comes, and we find ourselves knocked back to a level of technology circa 1900? As we rebuild, could the classic black-and-white TV set of the 1950s ever make a comeback?

I don't think so. Vacuum tube technology had its start in an era that didn't even know about electrons. Even after it was recognized that cathode rays were electrons, the explosion in electronics that followed the invention of radio consisted mainly of improvements and refinements in ways to manipulate cathode rays. The CRT, in principle, had a fairly straightforward evolution from the Fleming valve. But today we do know what electrons are, and we have a tremendous knowledge base involving solid-state electronics. Sometime in the last fifty years or so, our deeper knowledge of the physics underlying electronics reached a point where recapitulating the pioneering techniques of the past in the event of a civilization-wide disaster became unnecessary. We wouldn't start over with vacuum tubes; we'd start over with transistors. We wouldn't make TVs with picture tubes. Even if we had to settle for low-definition black and white, we'd go straight to a crude flat panel with light-emitting diodes.

Hopefully, sometime in the next fifty years or so, a deeper knowledge of physics will make jaunts to the Moon on a Sunday afternoon in the family RV a possibility. Maybe by then we will have reached the point where chemical rocket technology will also become forever obsolete.

Now let us consider a piece of technology that has changed how we go about our daily lives and that looks like it will be with us forever, and ask if it really will be. I'm talking about the cell phone.

SF essentially missed the development of the cell phone. I don't mean that we missed the idea of a portable communication device—wrist radios certainly go back at least as far as Dick Tracy. And when I was a kid, transistorized walkie-talkies were all the rage. So the idea that eventually people would be carrying telephones along with them was no great stretch. Still, a lot of SF stories set in the near future, even those written in the ‘90s, mine included, neglected cell phones altogether. In my case, it was simply a matter of a general unfamiliarity with them. I just didn't think about cell phones when writing my stories. It wasn't until 2000, on a trip to San Francisco, that I first encountered an environment where the cell phone was as common as it has become countrywide now.

What is particularly amusing, and should give pause to any writer of SF, is how rapidly the development of the typical feature-rich cell phone of today outstripped our imaginations. Maybe somebody predicted it in a story a decade or two back, but I don't think we writers generally accepted as likely the idea that cell phones would also come with cameras, both still and video, TV screens, music players, calculators, qwerty keyboards, organizers, games, and internet access. If Kirk and Spock (or Picard, if you wish) had beamed down to a planet with communicators as feature-rich as a cell phone or Blackberry, we wouldn't have bought it. Warp drive and the transporter seemed as likely.

What SF also missed is the change to everyday society brought by the cell phone. Did any writers predict that along with the cell phone would come the “need” to use it constantly to stay in touch with friends and family and coworkers even while driving? If there is a scene in any SF story pre-1995 or so where the protagonist of the twenty-first century pulls up to a stop light, notices that half the drivers in the cars around him are using cell phones, and thinks nothing of it, I missed it. I never would have written that scene and I would have criticized anyone who did. I would have wondered whom these people were talking to, and why.

Call me old-fashioned, but I wonder that today. I do own a cell phone, but I seldom use it. I like to have it with me if I'm driving in bad weather “just in case.” And now, unfortunately, I feel like I'm tempting fate if I don't. And I think that's the most insidious change wrought by the cell phone—that so many of us feel like we're being negligent and foolhardy if we leave the damn thing home when we go out.

There's also the matter of privacy. Isn't it ironic that in a society that gets all up in arms at the idea of the government inspecting our reading habits, we willingly accept that absolutely anyone can photograph us with their cell phone whenever we walk out the door? A picture is worth a thousand words, but the right picture can be supporting evidence to sustain a million lies. Also with the ability to be instantly available comes the notion that we all should be so. Sure, we can turn the phone off, but then there will be messages to wade through when we turn it back on.

Call me a curmudgeonly iconoclast, but I think it's possible, and hope likely, that this excess of capabilities will lead to an excess of nuisance and annoyance; that the assault on our privacy and liberty brought by the cell phone may eventually prove too much to bear. Maybe then the old-fashioned idea of leaving the phone at home will make a comeback.

The inspiration for this column came from a rejection letter I got from Stanley Schmidt, in which he said of my story: “(T)he human relationships had a very 1950ish flavor, with little feeling of the cultural differences that would surely develop between now and then.” That got me to thinking about what makes some ideas and technologies permanently old-fashioned, while others only temporarily so.

However, I do not think human cultures ever become permanently old-fashioned. That “1950ish flavor” was deliberate, and I will justify it in my next column with a discussion of a book called The Fourth Turning by William Strauss and Neil Howe.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jeffery D. Kooistra

Most people could use a little help. But how much is too much?

Jimmy's ear hurt and for an instant he thought about crying, then clenched his lips into a rigid line and fought back the tears.

"That's my big boy,” Hal said, patting Jimmy's shoulder. “Look at our little man, Marge, not even a tear."

"Of course he wouldn't cry, Hal. Today Jimmy's taken the first step to becoming a young man.” Belying her words, Marge gave her son a big hug.

"How's your ear, Jimmy?” Doctor Bob asked, squatting down so that his face was only a foot away.

"It hurts, a little.” Jimmy struggled not to let the pain show.

"You did great. You should be proud. Not many boys get their first Advisor at only seven, and most of them cry."

Doctor Bob affectionately ruffled Jimmy's hair and then stood and shook Hal's hand.

"If he has any problems—” Doctor Bob said, turning to Marge.

"How—” Jimmie began but was overwhelmed by a new voice in his ear.

Don't interrupt when adults are talking! the voice ordered.

Marge and Doctor Bob turned toward Jimmy. For a moment he thought about blurting out his question, then, heeding his Advisor's orders, he clamped his mouth closed. Doctor Bob gave Marge a little smile.

"As I was saying, if Jimmy has any problems, call me right away. Not that I expect him to."

"Well, son,” Hal said, slipping his arm around Jimmy's shoulder, “Doctor's offices always give me a craving for ice cream. How about you?"

"Chocolate? With sprinkles?"

"Sure, chocolate with sprinkles."

A few minutes later, dad led Jimmy up to the counter and told the clerk, “My son would like some ice cream."

Except for the pain in his ear, which was now almost gone, it was one of Jimmy's bestest days ever.

"I want a double—"

Ice cream isn't good for you. Only one scoop! his Advisor ordered.

For a moment, his mouth hung open in mid-word and Jimmy stared at the waiting clerk, then he gave his head a little nod.

"One scoop of chocolate, with sprinkles."

No sprinkles! They have too much sugar! The Advisor ordered.

Jimmy paused for a moment, then set his lips into a determined line and pointed to the bin of red and black candy dots.

"Those sprinkles, right there."

No, no, no, no! the Advisor shouted so loudly Jimmy couldn't understand why nobody else seemed to hear her.

"My dad said I could have them,” Jimmy insisted.

"You gotta listen to your dad,” the clerk said as he scooped up the candy.

You're a bad boy! the Advisor complained, but Jimmy diligently ignored her.

"What are you going to have, dad?"

Hal Wilkens looked hungrily at the multicolored tubs, then paused as if listening to a distant voice.

"No-fat orange sherbert on a tofu cone,” he said in a resigned tone.

"Mom?"

"Nothing for me, Jimmy. Ice cream is bad for me."

"But mom—"

"You don't want mommy to get all fat and squishy, do you?"

"No..."

Don't argue with your mother, Jimmy's Advisor warned him.

"We'll stop at the market and I'll get a nice crunchy apple. That will be my treat. Okay?"

Answer your mother, Jimmy.

"Yes, mom,” he agreed in a sullen voice. For now the Advisor let it slide.

The next year most of Jimmy's friends got their Advisors and Jimmy noticed the changes right away. By the second day Jason Evers had stopped making poop jokes. Twice in the middle of starting a fight Ralph Amicci suddenly lowered his fists and walked away. And Bonnie Blumstein stopped eating everybody's leftover lunch. She said she wasn't hungry, but Jimmy figured that it was her Advisor telling her that she'd get fat and ugly and have heart attacks and terrible diseases if she didn't get control of her diet right away.

A couple of times Jimmy tried to ask his friends about their Advisors, but he barely got the first few words out before his own Advisor shouted in his ear:

It's very rude to mention someone's Advisor! Advisors are the most private things there are in the whole world.

Jimmy persevered and finally blurted out “Advisor” to Brad Reynolds, but a terrible siren went off inside his brain. He clamped his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the noise. Brad gave Jimmy a look like I know what happened and turned away without saying a word.

For the next three years Jimmy ignored his Advisor as much as possible without triggering the awful sirens, bells, shrieks, and explosions that it seemed to be able to set off in his brain as the punishment for disobedience. A couple of times his parents sent him to Dr. Maggie, some kind of a counselor, who asked him if he ever had strange dreams or impulses.

"Do you ever want to hit people, Jimmy?” she asked with a fake smile. Jimmy wasn't fooled. “How do you feel about your Advisor? Do you wish sometimes that you could turn her off?"

"No,” Jimmy said, wise beyond his years. “My Advisor helps me with lots of stuff. I don't know what I'd do without my Advisor."

A few minutes later Dr. Maggie gave him another phony smile and let him go. It didn't take Jimmy very long to figure out that if you disobeyed your Advisor often enough it sent a message to your parents or your school or the government that you were not cooperating. Disharmonious. Unmutual. The only good thing was that the Advisor apparently couldn't figure out what you were thinking. It heard stuff, but could it see stuff? Jimmy decided to find out. He went to a crime-stoppers website and scrolled past a picture of a box of cigarettes. Nothing happened. He wrote “I want to try smoking cigarettes” in big looping script and got no response. Then he opened an e-mail to Len Schwimmer and typed: “I've been wondering what it would be like to smoke a cigarette."

How long have you been thinking about smoking cigarettes? his Advisor asked an instant later.

Okay, apparently it could read typed stuff, but not your handwriting. Maybe it was just monitoring the computer's electronics. His Advisor encouraged age-appropriate reading and Jimmy got all the Spy Child books by Wolf Schimmerman. The hero, Alan Wayne, was a fifteen-year-old boy who, after school and before his normal bedtime, trapped spies and hunted down terrorists. The books were chock-full of useful spy-type tricks. Jimmy decided that eventually he would need to communicate with the members of his “cell” by handwritten messages, preferably printed on highly flammable flash-paper. He wasn't sure exactly how to recruit members for his cell or what they would do or, for that matter, where to get the flash-paper, but he decided that when the time came he would figure it out.

On his twelfth birthday Doctor Bob downloaded an update to Jimmy's Advisor. This one had a masculine voice and sounded like one of the cool guys on the vids, which, of course, was no coincidence. Over the years Jimmy had gotten a pretty good idea of what his Advisor could and couldn't do and he wondered if this new one was any smarter than the old one. He decided to test it by detouring from his normal route home. Right away the Advisor detected the variance based on Jimmy's GPS implant, but instead of issuing a stern order, he merely said, Getting a little off base, aren't you, Jimmy?

"I want to stop by the bookstore on Walnut,” Jimmy subvocalized. There was a slight pause and Jimmy felt kind of a mental shrug after his Advisor checked the web listing of bookstores against a map database.

The next step was to see if he could get into the adult magazine section and sneak a peak at some naked women without the new Advisor noticing. Not that he really cared much yet about naked women, his feelings being more ones of curiosity rather than any hormonal desire. He had tried this gambit with the old Advisor and everything had been fine until he got close enough for it to read the magazines’ RFID chips, another confirmation that it couldn't actually understand what he saw but had to depend on electronic signals to get any information beyond spoken words.

Jimmy had just reached the bookstore's front door when a young guy threw it open and knocked Jimmy to the pavement. Wild-eyed, the man stared at Jimmy for an instant, then regained his feet and raced off down the street with two men in black suits running after him.

Jimmy watched them all the way to the end of the block where another man in black sprang from an alley and tackled the fugitive. A fourth man in black emerged from the store.

"What—” Jimmy began.

Don't stick your nose into things that aren't any of your business, dude, his Advisor warned. The man in black turned toward him. Jimmy closed his mouth and, hunching his shoulders, scuttled away. As he rounded the corner, he slipped his hand into his pocket and felt a smooth metal cylinder. It hadn't been there a minute ago. Obviously, the fugitive had put it there. Praying that he was right and that his Advisor couldn't really see what he saw, Jimmy pulled the thing out. It was about half an inch in diameter, three inches long, and dull, metallic gray with a black plastic button near the top. Jimmy looked at it end-on to see if it was a death laser or something, but the concave end seemed to be solid metal. Jimmy pointed it at a parked car and pressed the button but nothing happened.

Zap! Jimmy clenched the cylinder and pointed it at various targets. Zap! Across the street he spotted Larry Krieger swaggering down the block. Larry gave Jimmy a big smile followed by an upraised middle finger. Asshole, Jimmy thought and pointed the thing at Larry's head. Zap! Instantly, a voice filled his mind.

I know when you make that gesture, Larry.... The only person you're hurting when you insult people is yourself. It's stupid to make an enemy when you don't have to.... Wave to him and tell him it was only a joke!

Jimmy paused in mid-step and, open-mouthed, stared across the street.

Go on, tell him you were only kidding.

"Hey, Jimbo,” Larry shouted. “Just clowning, man.” Larry gave Jimmy a tense smile and hurried away.

That's it. Now he thinks you're his friend. You never know when that will come in handy. Everybody needs friends now and—

The voice cut off when Jimmy released the button.

—listening to me?

"What?"

I said tuning me out is not cool, Jimmy. I'm your Advisor, dude. I'm here to help you.

"Yeah, sure, sorry, I was just thinking."

About what?

"Oh, nothing."

"Why are so quiet, Jimmy?” his mother asked halfway through dinner. “Is there something wrong?"

"No, I'm fine. I was just thinking about ... my history report."

"Do you need some help with that, Jimmy?” his father cut in, a worried look on his face. “We could download a history pack to your Advisor if you want. Then all you would need to do is ask him questions and he could—"

"I know how—"

Dude, don't interrupt your dad. He's only trying to help you.

"Sorry, dad."

"Well, okay, but if you need help, just ask me or your Advisor. That's what we're here for."

Jimmy nodded and then went to his room and pretended to do his homework, all the while thinking, I wonder if this thing works through walls?

Cautiously, he aimed the cylinder in the direction of the living room. Suddenly a female voice filled his head: You're talking too much. Be quiet and listen to what Hal is saying.... Yes, that's better. Men like to feel as if their wives respect and appreciate them.... Tell him he's right about Jimmy.

Jimmy flinched and suddenly a new voice echoed inside his head: You're talking down to her. Women hate to be treated as if they're idiots. Ask her what she thinks and don't interrupt her.

"Shit!” Jimmy whispered before letting go of the button. Had his Advisor caught any of that?

"What were the causes of the War of 1812?” Jimmy sub-vocalized.

They're laid out in Chapter Six, Jimmy.

"Why don't you just tell me?"

Because I'm not writing the report. You are. Look them up for yourself. Remember, when you grow up nobody's going to do your work for you. Right?

"Yeah, right."

Okay, not a clue, Jimmy decided. Cool.

Over the next month Jimmy learned more about how the world really worked than most adults outside the government learned in a lifetime. First off, it wasn't just kids who took orders from their Advisors. It was everybody. And it wasn't just about being polite or not telling stupid jokes or eating healthy food. It was about everything.

The Advisors coordinated cops and firemen to work together during emergencies. They told doctors which medicines to give and which tumors to cut. They told businessmen which employees to discipline and which to praise. They listened to teachers giving lectures and corrected them when they made a mistake and supplied dates and equations when they had a mental lapse. They warned politicians of pitfalls when they foolishly sought to depart from their prepared remarks. They gave ham-fisted boys advice on how to ask a girl out and warned reckless girls when to say no. Jimmy found a Pedia article that explained how the Advisors had gotten started.

Apparently they had been invented by a company called KnowMax Technology in Santa Clara, California. The first ones had essentially been language recognition computers connected to an earphone. The user would set the unit for the desired type of help—dieting, quitting smoking, becoming a better conversationalist, whatever, and the computer would secretly utter helpful advice and encouragement into the user's ear. From there it just kept growing.

Jimmy's finger became calloused from pressing the black button. I wonder what it would be like, he thought one day, to be able to do more than just listen. What if I could press a button and talk into people's heads and they would think that I was their Advisor? Wow! I could tell them to do anything. If Jimmy's Advisor had been able to eavesdrop on that thought, a bunch of men in black suits would have dragged him off to the hospital for a prefrontal lobotomy within the hour. Luckily, Jimmy kept that speculation to himself.

For the next month Jimmy was the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. It was as if, literally, he could read anyone's mind with the press of a button. And that was the sort of ability that no twelve-year-old boy would have been able to keep to himself. For Jimmy, the day of reckoning came during an argument over whether or not he was old enough to go with the older boys on a ninth-grade ski trip.

"What if he hits a tree and breaks his neck?” Marge demanded.

Hal gave her a pained expression and started to say, “That's the dumbest thing...” until his Advisor cut in: Respect her emotions, respect her, Hal.

"Yes, I understand that there is some risk, and you're a good mother for bringing that up. Let's talk about that."

"Come on, dad! You know that's not what you think!"

"You don't know what I think, Jimmy."

"Respect her emotions, respect her? What a crock!"

The room went deathly silent. Then a high-pitched whistle filled Jimmy's brain.

Emergency! Emergency! His Advisor's voice echoed and the room began to hum. The last thing Jimmy did before he lost consciousness was shove the little gray cylinder down between the cushions on the couch. When he woke up, he was lying on Dr. Bob's examining table.

"How do you feel?"

Jimmy swayed into a sitting position and looked around, his eyes widening when he caught a glimpse of the black-suited man guarding the door.

"Oh, don't worry about Fred. He's just here to make sure we're not disturbed. Fred, why don't you wait outside while I complete my exam?"

The black-suited man stared blankly as if communing with a higher authority, then, wordlessly, left the room.

"What happened?"

"That's what we're going to find out,” Doctor Bob said as he slipped a chip into a music player.

"Okay, let's check you out,” the machine said while Dr. Bob held his index finger in front of his lips. In the background his recorded voice continued its monologue of “Cough” and “Follow my finger."

Checking the closed door with a nervous glance, Dr. Bob held up a picture of something that looked like a gray hockey puck with a deep indentation on the top. Doctor Bob lightly tapped the photo and Jimmy shook his head in confusion. Another picture appeared. This one showed a device with a flared end like a mini-flashlight. Again, Jimmy shook his head. The next picture was dead-on and Jimmy nodded.

Dr. Bob turned off the player and announced: “Okay, I'm going to check your Advisor now.” He swung a dinner-plate sized disk on a metal arm against the side of Jimmy's head. He felt an internal snap and his skull seemed suddenly empty. Dr. Bob relaxed and gave Jimmy a relieved smile. In the background the player resumed its fake monologue.

"We don't have much time,” Dr. Bob whispered. “How do you feel about the Advisors?"

"I hate them!” Jimmy whispered.

"If you fight them and get caught, well, it wouldn't be good."

"I don't care. I want it turned off. I want them all turned off."

"Being a revolutionary is not an easy life. You know what a revolutionary is, don't you?"

"I know,” Jimmy said, thinking about Alan Wayne in Spy Child Number Three, The Terror From Tomorrow.

"I'm going to fix your Advisor so that you can turn it off with a code phrase. Meet me at the Candy Shack at the mall after school tomorrow. Before you speak to me, say the code phrase and then I'll tell you what happens next. Okay?"

"Okay!” Jimmy agreed in a hoarse whisper.

"I'm going to turn your Advisor back on in a moment. When I do, here's what you have to say.” Doctor Bob took thirty seconds to coach Jimmy in how to explain what had happened, then he reached for the kill unit and paused.

"One last thing. What do you want as your code phrase?"

"Thomas Paine Jefferson,” Jimmy said.

Doctor Bob nodded, reprogrammed Jimmy's Advisor, then pointed at Jimmy's ear and flipped the switch.

"Well, Jimmy, as far as I can tell you're fine. I understand you told your father you knew what he was thinking. How does that work?"

"I figured it out. He's had this book in his closet ... What Women Want or something like that. Whenever he and mom have a ‘discussion’ he starts spouting stuff from that stupid book. It's supposed to keep him from upsetting her."

"Of course, that explains it.” Doctor Bob opened the door and ushered the black-suited man back inside. “Everything is fine, Fred. I'll send in my report before I leave. Jimmy, this is Mr. Smith. He'll take you home."

Jimmy followed the black-suited toward the door.

Say thank you to Dr. Bob, Jimmy, his Advisor's suddenly mechanical voice ordered.

"Thanks, Dr. Bob,” Jimmy said, then followed the black-suited man out into perpetually quiet, orderly, polite, well-behaved city. But not for long.

Copyright (c) 2008 David Grace

Much of history, either biological or cultural, is an arms race. And as knowledge and abilities grow subtler and more sophisticated, so do weapons and defenses....

When he regained consciousness, Surgeon-at-Arms Roald Vik of the 3rd Armored Biomedical Brigade, Affiliated Planets Unified Defense Force, was only moderately worried by his initial view of the room. Unadorned pale-blue ceiling and walls. Institutional, glossy-surfaced armchair. On the wall opposite his bed, a curtain that he assumed covered an observation window. So: a typical jail cell.

But then he noticed the faint stinging scent, like rubbing alcohol—and his bed's railing bore an impressive control panel. Frowning, he sat up and looked over his shoulder. Though he didn't recognize the particular connectors on the wall behind him, in his brief career he'd seen enough monitor and life-support fittings to recognize the overall configuration.

But what sort of hospital bed lacked restraining straps?

Vik's apprehension increased further when he discovered an excruciatingly tender, fist-sized swelling above his right ear. Had he crash-landed?

"Ah, you're awake,” said a woman's voice from somewhere near the curtained window. Vik couldn't see a loudspeaker. But though he still had no idea why he was in a hospital, now the knowledge of his location and mission flooded back to him—for the woman had spoken in Flemish.

A bit over two centuries ago, an Affiliated Planets automated probe had discovered the world of Nieuw Vlaanderen orbiting a star about fifteen light-years from Vik's homeworld, Eiriksson. Like all human colonies, Nieuw Vlaanderen was still recovering from the Collapse; like most in this region, its recovery had lagged Eiriksson's by several generations. By the time of its discovery the planet's leading civilization had regained a technology level averaging late-eighteenth-century Europe—well behind that period in physics and engineering, though significantly ahead in chemistry and biology.

As usual in such cases, after the probe's initial reports had been received and reviewed, a message was sent instructing the probe to release a stealth depopulating agent into the planet's biosphere. The A.P. in its patient conquests sought resources and territory, not opponents; no truly civilized society, surely, would prefer the untidiness and sufferings of war.

But in the century following the agent's release, the probe failed to detect any drop in the local birth-rate. This unprecedented development, so potentially threatening to the A.P.'s longstanding strategy for expansion and regional domination, demanded urgent on-site investigation. And so sub-lieutenant Roald Vik, recently commissioned UDF Surgeon-at-Arms, was crammed into a cold-sleep pod and fired off on a seventy-year voyage to Nieuw Vlaanderen.

He could remember waking in orbit, seven decades of hypno-lessons in the probe's observations—plus copious Earth history of possible relevance, including four dialects of Flemish—still echoing in his head. He remembered reviewing update summaries from the old but still-functioning probe, which in the two hundred years since its original report had identified a number of anomalies that didn't match any previously recorded patterns of post-industrial cultural or technological development.

He'd chosen his first site to investigate. There'd been no crash-landing—he recalled his on-target arrival during an overcast night when neither moon was up. After ensuring that his ship was well camouflaged, he'd walked out of the forest to the nearby village. He could even remember the sickly-looking fern-like plant sitting on the bar beside him as he sipped a beer and struck up a conversation with the bartender.

But then—? Vik touched the swelling above his ear. Had he fallen? Been attacked?

"Would you mind,” asked the woman's voice, “if I opened this curtain?"

"Alstublieft," he replied. Please. He tried to mimic her accent.

Motorized, the curtain slid open to reveal a large pane of glass. In the dimly lit room beyond stood a pale, dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a pastel blouse and white coat.

She leaned toward the glass. “How are you feeling, Mr. Boeykens?"

So she'd seen the identification papers he'd been carrying. He wondered what she made of their vagueness.

"My head, how—?"

"You don't recall? Ah, well that's not surprising—I'm afraid you struck it against a table when you fell. According to our investigator, you tripped over the leg of a chair as you followed him out of the tavern."

Vik frowned. “Investigator?"

Her eyebrows lifted. “From the provincial Department of Health. Exactly what do you remember?"

"I was drinking witbier ... a man sat beside me....” He struggled unsuccessfully for a clearer image, then shook his head in frustration.

"Please, don't worry. A bit of amnesia is quite common with head injuries."

Yes, of course, he thought—but how frustrating! What if he had discovered the newcomer's association with the health department, and managed to steer the discussion to an aborted infertility epidemic of nearly two centuries ago? Maybe this “investigator” had already given him the answers that the A.P. required!

"In any case,” the woman continued, “what we really need to learn are some facts about you. Your papers are quite incomplete—we don't know where you're from, how long you've been visiting our province, who may have come into contact with you..."

Vik refocused his attention. He'd taken her for a local physician, but now he wondered. Slowly, he said, “I'm sorry, but I don't understand ... why all of these questions? And why are you standing in another room? I don't even know your name."

She pursed her lips. “My apologies. I am Dr. Steibs, head of Infectious Diseases for the Department of Health. And you, Mr. Boeykens, are quite the mystery."

"I'm sorry, but—"

"You are in an isolation room. If that bartender hadn't been so observant, I shudder to think how many more people you might have exposed. It's urgent that we trace your movements since your arrival."

"Exposed?” Alarmed, Vik pulled up the sleeves of his loose pajamas in search of rashes. He felt at his face, tried to listen to his own breathing for wheezes.

"Please, Mr. Boeykens, calm yourself! We've already started you on the appropriate antibiotic. You'll be over the infection in a few days."

Some local bug, then—he must have picked it up in the forest. “What sort of infection?"

"Besnoitia speecki.” She spoke the name with careful enunciation and then leaned away, as if she had just delivered news of great portent and now awaited his reaction.

Besnoitia. The genus didn't sound completely unfamiliar. He rummaged through his memories of General Microbiology.... Some sort of protozoan parasite? Not one that caused any human diseases, though, he was reasonably sure. And certainly not an organism that the UDF had ever weaponized.

"I'm sorry,” he said. “But I'm not familiar with that—” He caught himself before using any terms that might reveal his medical training. “—that germ."

His statement apparently surprised her. “Surely you must have taken some classes in biology and history? Where did you grow up, Mr. Boeykens?"

He was afraid to reply—having planned for a casual evening in a pub rather than an inquisition, Vik had prepared only the sketchiest of cover stories. Now he wished that basic spycraft had been part of the standard medical curriculum.

But, he realized, Dr. Steibs had already provided him with a perfect evasion.

"Why, I grew up in—” Drawing on his training in interrogating patients, Vik did his best to mime Sudden Unexpected Uncertainty. “In—” He moved on to Mounting Confusion, followed by Increasing Concern. “I can't—” And now: Apprehension ... and then, Alarm! “I can't remember!"

Dr. Steibs frowned. “Please, Mr. Boeykens, this is very important. Try to focus on just the past few days. Can you recall entering our province? Our town?"

He shook his head in what he hoped looked like Fearful Misery. “No. I don't remember a thing. I was sitting at the bar, but before that ... it's all a blank!"

"I see.” She crossed her arms before her chest and clucked her tongue a few times, looking thoughtful.

Vik, whose grades in neurology had not been among his highest, began to wonder whether he'd picked such a clever stratagem, after all. Outside of adventure stories, how common was global amnesia?

But finally Dr. Steibs said, “All right, please try to remain calm. I expect that your memory will return over the next day or two. Don't push too hard; just let it come on its own.

"In the meantime,” she continued, “I've got a different sort of question for you. One moment..."

Relieved that she'd accepted his performance, Vik watched as Dr. Steibs pulled a stylus of some sort from her pocket, and turned to the side. She leaned over as if writing or drawing on a table. He could see her make a large circular movement, and then several smaller strokes. Then she pushed something aside and drew a series of straight lines and curves.

Dr. Steibs straightened up and briefly examined her work. Then she lifted a white page and pressed it against the window; it remained affixed when she removed her hand. She smoothed a second sheet onto the glass beside the first.

She looked over the pages at Vik. “Tell me what you see."

The first sheet bore a large circle containing three irregular shapes. At a glance he recognized the three distinctive continents of Nieuw Vlaanderen.

"A map of the world,” he said, wondering what she was after.

She nodded. “Very good. And what else?"

He turned his attention toward the second page stuck to the glass. But then he remembered his still-unexplained infection.

"This Besnoitia—” he forced himself to stumble over the syllables—"you haven't told me its symptoms. Is there anything I should be watching out for?"

She shook her head. But Vik thought that she looked pleased about something.

"Just take your medication with each meal, and everything will be fine."

"But the symptoms—"

"I won't be able to explain those to you for a couple of days.” Before he could respond, she added, “I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow, Mr. Boeykens.” She touched the wall beside the window, and the curtain glided shut.

Meals arrived through a slot below the window. On that evening's dinner tray, and again at breakfast, was a small paper cup holding a pair of pink pills, each embossed with a tiny “KM.” Vik swallowed the dinner pills. But at breakfast he set the cup aside when he returned his tray to the slot.

As soon as Dr. Steibs opened the curtain, maybe an hour later, he held up one of the pills. “What are you giving me?"

She pursed her lips. “You really do need to take your medication on time, Mr. Boeykens."

"Just tell me what it is."

She sighed. “That is koningmycin. A very old, very reliable antibiotic. Though if you don't know about Besnoitia, then I don't suppose koningmycin is familiar, either."

He studied the pink pill, no wiser than before.

"Please,” she said.

He looked up to see her pointing at the paper cup. He shrugged, and then fetched a glass of water from the lavatory. He swallowed the pills.

Dr. Steibs gave him the smallest of smiles. “So—how is your memory this morning? Anything coming back yet?"

She didn't seem particularly perturbed when he shook his head. “Well,” she said, “then we'll just have to accept another day of mystery.” Vik wondered at her newfound lack of urgency. “Otherwise, I trust you're feeling well? No headaches, dizziness? Blurry vision? Good. Could you take another look at my artwork here, and tell me what you see?"

Baffled, he approached the window to view the two pages still stuck there. “This is Nieuw Vlaanderen,” he reported. The second sheet held some uninteresting cross-hatching. He looked back at the map, then to her. “I told you that yesterday. What is the point of this? Some sort of psychological test? Or are you just curious about my knowledge of geography?"

"I think,” she said, “that I'll be able to answer your questions tomorrow. In the meantime, try to dredge up any memories you might happen to have regarding lancet flukes. Or Toxoplasma."

The curtain closed before he could respond.

When the curtain reopened the next morning, Vik again had something to show Dr. Steibs. Holding up an empty juice glass from his breakfast tray, he demanded, “Are all of your isolation rooms infested?"

Dr. Steibs peered at the tumbler as he brought it to the window. He thought he saw her lips quirk into a fleeting smile.

"Where did you find that?” she asked.

"On my leg!” He pointed at the tiny insect lying motionless at the glass's bottom. “Look how swollen its abdomen is—it was sucking my blood! Probably infected me with some horrible new germs."

"No,” she said. “I don't think it has.” She bent down to squint into the glass. “Dermanyssus speecki.” Her voice had softened, as if she were fascinated at the sight.

He glanced at the bug. Maybe half a centimeter across, its many legs and antennae crisscrossed each other to form a peculiar, asymmetric pattern. He'd been trying to puzzle out that pattern for the past hour, but couldn't seem to keep himself focused on the task.

"Say,” he asked, “your koningmycin doesn't have any cognitive side-effects, does it? I've been having trouble with my concentration."

Dr. Steibs looked up to meet his gaze, but before she could answer he recalled her apparent familiarity with the blood-sucker in his juice glass. “So, this is a common bug around here?"

"It used to be.” This time she didn't try to hide her smile. “Nobody's seen one in two hundred years."

He gaped at her in confusion. Then she held up a finger, and swung it downward to point at her two drawings.

Where yesterday he'd seen only a dull jumble of lines and curves, today he saw a peculiar, asymmetric pattern. Very slowly, he rotated his juice glass until the bug matched Dr. Steibs's sketch.

Vik stepped back from the window until he bumped against the armchair. He let himself fall into it, still holding the tumbler and its cryptic occupant.

"This,” he said, “would be a good time for explanations."

Apparently she had a chair on her side of the window, too; when she sat, Vik could see only her head and shoulders.

"Are you familiar,” she began, “with the lancet fluke?” At his blank expression, she continued. “A parasite of cattle, back on Earth—it's described in one of the library data crystals we discovered ten years ago. The fluke larvae take over the nervous system of their carrier, a particular species of ant. Every evening they force the ant to leave its colony and climb to the top of a blade of grass; it hangs on until dawn, then returns home and leads a normal day. This cycle continues until eventually a cow happens along and eats the blade of grass, thus delivering the fluke to its definitive host."

Vik had had instructors like this—you asked them a straightforward question and they responded with what seemed like a complete non sequitur. When you fell into their trap by pointing out their failure to answer your question, they pounced with their prepared rant on the inadequacy of students these days. Only then did they finally provide the missing information that connected their initial response to your original question.

Vik had learned to deal with such teachers by looking attentive and waiting. He did that now.

After a few seconds, Dr. Steibs continued. “How about Toxoplasma? Normally, of course, mice and rats become extremely anxious and fearful when they smell a cat. But infect them with Toxoplasma and not only do they lose their fear, they actually find themselves attracted to cat odors. Rather inconvenient for the rodents, as you might imagine—but Toxoplasma can only reproduce within the gut of its definitive host, a cat."

Vik looked nervously at his juice glass. “So this insect—"

"It's a mite, actually."

"—this mite, it's the carrier for the Besnoitia parasite that infected me? And the Besnoitia makes the mite want to suck human blood?"

Dr. Steibs looked quite disappointed in him. “No, Mr. Boeykens. The mite is the parasite's definitive host. You are the carrier."

The tumbler slipped from his fingers. Vik watched anxiously as it rolled across his lap and fell to the floor. He leapt to his feet. The unbroken glass was rolling toward the dark space beneath the bed; just in time he bent over and grabbed it. Letting out a breath, Vik lifted the glass for another look at its occupant. The tumbler was empty.

Vik jumped backwards, banging an elbow on the wall. Then, frantic, he scanned the floor all around the chair. After several long seconds he finally saw the mite, near where the glass had initially landed. On its numerous legs it was advancing, very slowly, toward Vik's bare foot.

He slammed the inverted juice glass to the floor, trapping the bug inside. Then, with great care, he slid the glass and its prisoner toward the middle of the room. Keeping his eye on the glass, he stepped backwards until he could once more lower himself into the armchair.

As Vik began to catch his breath, Dr. Steibs raised an eyebrow. “Shall I continue?"

"Alstublieft," mumbled Vik.

"These mites, we assume, are ubiquitous wherever humans live. Although of course we can't prove it from only Nieuw Vlaanderen observations, the degree of specialization evolved by both Besnoitia and the mite strongly suggest that they have been living with our species for thousands of years. Perhaps since before the earliest civilizations."

"But—"

She held up her hand to head off any interruption. “The mite acquires Besnoitia from an infected human's bloodstream. The parasite reproduces in the mite's salivary glands; its larvae then escape into another human when the mite next feeds. From there the larvae travel to their carrier's brain, where as they mature they exert an exceedingly subtle cognitive effect."

Vik had regained enough composure to want to reassert his own cognitive abilities. “The human,” he hazarded, “loses the ability to see that pattern.” He pointed toward Dr. Steibs's drawing.

"Nearly correct.” She tilted her head, apparently not completely unimpressed with him. “Infected humans can still see the mite; electrophysiological studies have confirmed this. But the sight becomes remarkably uninteresting. One glance dispels all awareness of the mite—including not only its image but also the tickle of its feet, the pinch of its bite. Anyone who discovers one of the mites immediately forgets that discovery.

"Koningmycin,” she continued, “was chanced upon quite accidentally. But once people could see the mite, it didn't take long to also uncover the parasite and work out the details. We thought we had long ago eradicated both organisms worldwide—until you came along, Mr. Boeykens."

Not wanting her to pursue that line of thought, but also genuinely curious, Vik asked, “Getting rid of the Besnoitia, what health effects has that had? Besides allowing people to notice the mite."

Again her head tilted. “A very perceptive question. Indeed, there have been three beneficial effects. Five percent of schizophrenia cases had lacked a known cause—now it's known, and eliminated. The same for half of all previously unexplained epilepsy."

"Impressive."

"But it's the final effect that has had the greatest impact. What would you say is the defining aspect of life?"

The question took Vik off guard. But this was merely another familiar variant of instruction by non sequitur—how he answered the apparently irrelevant question wouldn't actually matter. So he offered the first response that occurred to him. “Reproduction?"

She dismissed his reply with a wave of her hand. “No, Mr. Boeykens. Pattern matching."

Vik was intrigued; none of his instructors had ever suggested such a connection.

"Consider: a rabbit detects a certain canine aroma, or hears a distinctive padded footfall; immediately it recognizes a pattern of danger, and flees. Just as the same rabbit will dig up the root of a plant whose leaves it has learned to associate with food. And that plant, too, is a pattern-matcher, responding to lengthening periods of daylight by developing flowers."

"So,” Vik asked, “then computers are also ‘alive'?"

She snorted. “Computers are merely tools of human pattern matching. But it's pattern matching that's behind every intelligent, conscious human behavior, from language to music to science to interpersonal relationships.” She paused and looked at him expectantly.

"What's this have to do with Besnoitia?"

As Dr. Steibs shook her head in apparent pity at his intellectual shortcomings, Vik cursed himself for falling into her pedagogic trap. She really was very good.

"The patterns recognized by humans,” she said, “are often exceedingly abstract. But anyone infected with Besnoitia loses the ability to work with an entire class of abstract patterns—those that share any significant features with the image of that mite. It's as if they lived in a world of geometry problems but could never grasp the concept of angles."

At Vik's obvious confusion, she said, “I'll give you an example. About thirty years after the discovery of koningmycin, a clerk in a provincial Vital Records department felt there was something odd in recent birth numbers."

Vik tried to hide his surprise. Could Dr. Steibs be describing the A.P. probe's attack? The timing would be about right.

"The clerk couldn't point to any specific discrepancy, but when she visited the neighboring provinces and reviewed their records, again she felt there'd been a change from past trends. We had no computers then, of course, and statistics was still in its infancy. So it took her several weeks of poring over her records to pin down the strange pattern she had sensed.

"The clerk found a very slight increase in the ratio of female to male babies. But not all mothers were affected equally; those who had been the first-born of their siblings were spared."

Vik swallowed. This was exactly the first-generation effect designed into the A.P.'s engineered bacterium, to help mask the initial assault. Of the few other attacked worlds that had identified this pattern, none had ever managed the feat before the bacteria's secondary effects were already well established.

Dr. Steibs continued. “The clerk published her findings. Nearly simultaneously, so did four other clerks from four other countries. Still, it took a couple of years to isolate the bacteria responsible, an oddly mutated form of Wolbachia. Heard of it?"

Vik worked to keep his expression blank as he shook his head. He didn't know how much of this incredible tale he should believe; not a single previous planet had even confirmed that a bacterium was the cause of their fertility problem—let alone isolated it.

"No? Well, Wolbachia normally infects invertebrates, so this was a bit of a surprise. Even more surprising, this particular strain—which proved remarkably challenging to grow in culture—was resistant to all the usual classes of antibiotics. In the end it was a bit of a race, coming up with a new antibiotic before the bacteria could spread widely enough for its other effect to matter."

"Other effect?"

"Ah—should both parents carry the infection, all of their offspring would be female. I see you recognize the inevitable consequences."

Vik's expression of horror, though, reflected not sympathy for the aborted genocide Dr. Steibs described, but rather fear of what these people could one day do to his own.

Freed of humanity's millennia-old parasitization by Besnoitia, apparently Dr. Steibs's forebears had—in just a couple of years—not only detected, but correctly analyzed and then neutralized a weapon whose mere existence had eluded most of its previous targets, a weapon whose effects had never before proven less than catastrophically fatal. Once Nieuw Vlaanderen regained space travel, how long until its people threatened the Affiliated Planets? With such superior pattern-matching abilities, how likely were they to lose any kind of interplanetary battle?

His superiors had been correct to send an investigator here!

But, Vik realized, he now held the power to even those future odds. Once he transmitted a description of Besnoitia and its mite back to Eiriksson—even better, what if he managed to carry home a sample of koningmycin for analysis?—then his own people could free themselves of the parasite, too. Who knew what insights and breakthroughs might follow? And what accolades for the humble soldier who'd brought his people such knowledge?

He was picturing himself at the christening ceremony for a battlecruiser bearing his name, when he realized that Dr. Steibs had risen from her chair.

"Now that you can see the mites, you can assist in your treatment. After feeding, the mite disengages for 48 hours, until its next blood-meal. You'll find them lying in your bed-sheets, or hiding in corners. Kill them as you discover them."

"And then I can leave this room?"

She smiled. “72 hours after the last sighting, yes. Though you'll still need to complete a full two weeks of the koningmycin to guarantee the eradication of your Besnoitia."

Even as the curtain slid closed, Vik approached the inverted juice glass on the floor. He bent over and lifted the glass, leaving its inhabitant behind. Then he returned the glass to the floor right-side-up—with, as his therapeutic pathology instructor had been fond of saying, extreme prejudice.

Vik's clothing, fumigated and laundered, had preceded his breakfast through the delivery slot this morning. While the maroon turtleneck sweater, black denim trousers, and lightweight boots were barely familiar to him—he'd chosen the ensemble from his ship's extensive wardrobe, and worn it for less than a day—he found their weight and varied fabrics reassuring after a week of flimsy hospital pajamas.

When Dr. Steibs opened the curtain he told her, “I'm going to miss our little chats."

She granted him a slight smile. “I'm sure that you'll find your doctor in the rehabilitation clinic at least as entertaining. Or have you recovered your memory since yesterday?"

Vik hurried to don an expression of Deep Concern. “No, nothing at all."

"The Hollebeke clinic has a very good reputation; they've managed tougher cases than yours. Stil...."

"What?"

"The train to Hollebeke doesn't come through until late this afternoon. You might want to spend the next few hours wandering around town. See if you can stir up any recollections before you leave."

Vik nodded. “We're done, then?” He stood.

"Apart from some paperwork, yes.” She wagged a finger at him. “And you must finish all of your antibiotics."

He patted the trouser pocket that held his bottle of pills. “Don't worry. I'm not going to lose these."

Vik turned toward the room's locked door.

"One last thing,” said Dr. Steibs.

He turned back. She pointed to her drawings.

He had to laugh. “Believe me, Dr. Steibs—after three days of hunting and squashing mites, I'm never going to forget that pattern!"

She smiled politely. “Humor me."

With a sigh, Vik glanced at the drawings, then back to her. “Still the same pattern. Really."

She reached toward the wall beside her window, pressed some control there. Vik heard a click from the door's lock. As he turned again toward that door, Dr. Steibs said, “Good luck, Mr. Boeykens."

One day, Vik thought, Dr. Steibs's descendants were going to wish that his luck had been a good deal worse.

"All right. No, don't follow him any further. Yes, okay. Good.” Steibs hung up the phone. She clucked her tongue as she stared out her office window.

After strolling apparently aimlessly through the village for over an hour, Boeykens had abruptly headed straight for the pub where he'd originally been picked up. But he spent only a few seconds loitering outside that pub before turning and marching into the nearby woods.

The woods where last week they'd found his spaceship.

Until the ship had been discovered, Steibs hadn't been as convinced as her colleagues of her patient's otherworldly origin. But after that discovery—not to mention the analysis of his genetics—she'd relinquished any doubts.

Steibs sighed. No one could be sure that “Boeykens” came from the same world that had sent the infertility plague. While his DNA did bear many of the same engineering residues as that of the modified Wolbachia, this was at best circumstantial evidence—some other world might have happened to employ the same splicing enzymes. She'd hoped to get a rise out of him when she'd related the story of the discovery and analysis of the Wolbachia plague; if he'd been surprised by her tale, though, he had covered his reaction immediately. He really was very good.

Steibs turned back to her computer, where her unfinished report waited.

They'd been fortunate that the bartender had recognized the mite crawling along his counter, and that he'd so promptly called the health department. She'd already written a commendation for her assistant's quick thinking in knocking out Boeykens and hauling him to the hospital. Even so, two-dozen people had needed prophylactic koningmycin, and the bar had to be closed for intensive fumigation.

Wherever he came from, Boeykens would presumably soon be flying home to share the discovery of koningmycin with his people. In that, at least, she could take some professional pride—she was a public health officer, after all.

Steibs lifted her two drawings from the desk. She winced at the clumsiness of their execution; still, she felt that she'd captured the mite pattern rather nicely.

She had not enjoyed the heated arguments over teaching Boeykens about Besnoitia and the mite. The military had been against treating him at all, not to mention educating him and handing over samples of koningmycin. In the end, though, it was her colleagues’ plan—conceived, engineered, and put into a freezer half a century ago, against the possibility of someday receiving just such a visitor as Boeykens—that had carried the day.

Yes, Boeykens's people would rid themselves of Besnoitia. And yes, they would therefore gain pattern-matching skills to rival those of Nieuw Vlaanderen. But those skills would never be used to attack her world.

Twice a year, for the rest of his life, Boeykens was going to develop a mild respiratory infection. His sneezes were going to expose his colleagues to a very special pair of viruses, both of which should spread quite widely in just a few seasons—unimpaired by koningmycin or any other antibiotic. Then, once a given populace developed a high enough prevalence of the viruses, a very specific side effect would kick in.

As a test, Boeykens's isolation room had been sprayed not only with the two viruses but also with an aerosol mimicking the virus-induced pheromones of an infected population. The side effect had worked perfectly, leaving Steibs confident that her descendants would never meet anyone from Boeykens's world—unless it were her descendants who took the initiative.

She looked again at her drawings. The image of a mite that humanity hadn't noticed for millennia. And the image of her own planet.

An image that Boeykens hadn't noticed for days.

Copyright (c) 2008 David W. Goldman

It's wisely said that “violence is the last refuge of the incompetent"—but sometimes even the very competent have few alternatives.

SYNOPSIS

Archivist's Note(I)

Quoting some of her own favorite self-deprecating, self-descriptives, Candy Smith-Foster is a “Plucky Girl Adventurer,” a “Spunky Girl Aviatrix,” an “Intrepid Special-Ops Girl,” an “Apprentice Girl Assassin,” and, last but certainly not least (and, factually, the absolute, literal truth), the “Plucky Girl Savior of Our People.” (Not to mention, as she is too, too fond of saying: “etc.")

An eleven-year-old Homo post hominem child, like the rest of us she is (we suspect) the product of evolution's genetic engineering, courtesy of the great influenza pandemic of 1918-1919, which killed at least fifty million people worldwide, and possibly as many as a hundred million, during its approximately two-year rampage.

We speculate that what happened is that, at the moment of conception, the flu virus invaded either or both of the participating gametes before or during formation of a very few female zygotes. Something in the virus mutated the DNA content of the target cells, which thereafter gestated, were born, and grew up to contribute, as mothers, half of the new matrix which fitted together two generations later to produce Homo post hominem: Man who follows Man.

Immune to all “human” disease; smarter, stronger, faster; with visual perception extending further into the ultraviolet and infrared spectrum; possessed of more sensitive hearing and olfactory senses; even “breeding true” when crossed with Homo sapiens; emerging finally from concealment within the population which produced it to inherit Earth after our predecessors eliminated themselves in a brief, efficient, radiation-triggered biological war, Homo post hominem is apparently destined to replace Homo sapiens.

Soo Kim McDivott, himself, as it turned out, a “typical” overachieving hominem, with doctorates in pediatrics, psychiatry, and anthropology, and a Tenth Degree Black Belt in karate, known as “Teacher” to hominems worldwide, had discovered the new species while exploring the question of “nurture versus nature": whether the actions of “normal” (i.e., mediocre or worse) parents might tend to keep intrinsically genius-level children from achieving their potentials, inadvertently, or possibly even due to resentment.

Orphaned when her birth parents were killed in a traffic accident months after she was born, Candy was adopted immediately by Marshall and Megan Foster ("Daddy” and “Momma,” in Candy's lexicon), Teacher's long-time friends, and, in Marshall's case, in everyday life an internationally well-regarded pathologist, but actually a top-secret government biowarfare consultant.

Following several years’ preternaturally rapid intellectual growth, possibly contributed to by the whipsaw effect of Momma's quietly clandestine encouragement and furnishing of any reading matter the child indicated a curiosity about, while Marshall, unaware of Megan's educational supplementation, worked to raise a “normal” girlchild, full of “sugar and spice,” Candy was revealed at about age five to be a Homo post hominem, and rather an advanced one at that.

Shortly thereafter, Megan died of leukemia. Teacher moved in next-door and assumed her role as Candy's apparently clandestine educational facilitator and mentor, while Daddy, now aware of the situation, continued in his role as brake. Teacher also took her on as his personal karate student.

By the time Khraniteli zealots struck, wiping out all unprotected Homo sapiens on Earth, Candy, at age eleven, had absorbed substantial elements of a college education and achieved a Fifth Degree Black Belt in karate.

Home alone at the time (Marshall had been summoned to Washington, which was in effect carpet-bombed during the attack), Candy rode out the holocaust in the huge shelter complex which Daddy had had built in secret deep beneath their small-town Wisconsin home. Thereafter she and Terry, her “retarded adopted twin brother,” a Hyacinth Macaw and her closest companion nearly from birth (with a history of never having been wrong about whether a new acquaintance was really friendship material), emerged into a depopulated world.

Learning of her Homo post hominem heritage from the letter Teacher had left her, Candy set off to search for others of her kind. The first person she met during her travels was “Adam,” a thirteen-year-old hominem boy (actually named Melville Winchester Higginbotham Grosvenor Penobscot-Jones, IV, by his parents, who had died in the holocaust), whose brashly obnoxious, rich-kid persona concealed astonishing electromechanical, musical, paramedical, and culinary talents. Ultimately, these qualities, as well as his compulsion for outrageous puns, helped endear him to her almost as much as the fact that, within hours of meeting, they had saved each others’ lives:

Initially, during their first encounter, Adam was unconscious, trapped in a burning car. Employing conscious control of hysterical strength, which Teacher had taught her as part of karate discipline, to extract him, she then had to overuse it further to remain conscious long enough to complete the necessary trauma treatment, which included stitching a nicked femoral artery (she had acquired advanced paramedic training “at Daddy's knee"). This cost her a metabolic burnout and, ultimately, cardiac arrest. However, her treatment had been adequate: Adam woke shortly afterward, found her unconscious and fading, was able to restart her heart when it stopped, nursed her back to health, and they've been together since.

During their search they encountered Rollo, an adult hominem physician with years of worldwide survival skills, who turned out to be a sociopath, living with his dead wife's cat, Tora-chan, who hated him. Rollo offered Candy his loyalty, skills, and experience in exchange for access to her bed. Candy deliberated and concluded, objectively, the benefits to Adam and herself outweighed the cost, and was on the point of accepting when Terry, who had disliked the man on sight, bit him severely. Rollo went berserk, tried to kill the bird, and, when Candy used her karate skills and hysterical strength to intervene, he turned on her. Strong and fast, he hurried her; she was forced to kill him. Thereafter, of course, Tora-chan joined their party.

Later, in California, while chasing on foot after a half-glimpsed child, Adam tripped and broke his arm; then taught Candy to fly his ultralight aircraft to perform a grid search, which turned up Kim Mellon, a young computer engineer, and her daughter, six-year-old Lisa, who joined them in the quest.

A subsequent engine failure forced Candy down in the Sequoia National Forest and separated her from the others. Repairing and restarting the engine, she observed a contrail that led her to the Vandenberg Space Shuttle Launch Complex, where she found Teacher and his community of hominems in the process of readying an orbiter for launch.

They had learned of a huge strontium-90 bomb left in orbit by the Khraniteli, programmed to descend and render the Earth uninhabitable for unprotected human life for the next two hundred years. Because the bomb lay in geosynchronous orbit, far above the shuttle's normal operating range, the necessary modifications meant the launch would be a one-way, suicide flight: The three-person crew would neutralize the weapon and die.

Almost at the last moment, the robotic device with which the hominems had planned to disarm the bomb proved inadequate, and Candy realized that only the unique combination of her diminutive size and hysterical strength could save what remained of humanity, so she volunteered for the mission.

Once in orbit, however, crewman Kyril Svetlanov turned out to be a Khraniteli agent and killed the third crewmember. And while Candy managed to kill him and then successfully disarm the bomb, in the process she learned that the Khraniteli were alive, well, and still actively plotting to kill off everyone who wasn't one of them, which meant all her newly found hominem friends and unofficial family members such as Adam, Teacher, Kim, and Lisa still were in danger.

At about the same time, Adam and Kim, searching the sequoias for Candy's downed plane, were coming to the unlikely conclusion that Terry's endless blatherings, reminiscent of CNN's spaceflight coverage, might actually be connected to Candy; that perhaps she was not where they thought she had crashed; that, unlikely as it seemed, she really might be in orbit, and in danger.

Belatedly, Candy realized that, with the detonator pulled, she could send a warning back down to Earth in the bomb-delivery vehicle; she could reprogram it to land at Edwards Dry Lake air force base—then it occurred to her that maybe she could ride down in it herself. But the vehicle was far from man-rated, and, by the time it touched down, she was again clinically dead.

However, having become convinced by then that Terry's continuing spaceflight monologue was in fact a direct, realtime link into Candy's mind, Adam and Kim made it to Edwards just in time to extricate her from the smoking hot reentry vehicle, and for Adam again to resuscitate her.

Thereafter, Candy, Adam, Kim, Lisa, Terry, and Tora-chan moved in with the hominems in Teacher's growing community near Mount Palomar, where, following Candy's recuperation, he and his colleagues resumed her education.

To Candy, however, the most enjoyable part was special-operations training under Danya Feinberg, an ex-Mossad field agent, and number two among Teacher's pseudomilitary operatives. With her karate Black Belt as a departure point, Candy progressed rapidly, achieving proficiency in the most advanced levels of hand-to-hand combat, use of nonstandard weapons, plus the more arcane skills which form the basis of special operations: infiltration, taking out sentries, undercover work, interrogation, ultra-long-range sniper marksmanship, and the like.

Several months into this idyllic existence, one of the hominems’ recon expeditions brought back word from the Russian/Kazakhstani Urals that Candy's adoptive father had not died in the bombing of Washington; that he might in fact still be alive, a prisoner of the Khraniteli in the laboratory at their main base, Serdtsevina Rasovyi. But, Teacher told her, regretfully, it would be at least another six months before the hominems could mount another expedition into the area.

The delay simply was not to be borne. Within hours Candy had gathered copies of the hominems’ expeditionary recon reports, weapons, clothing, supplies, and equipment, left a note assigning Lisa Terry-sitting duties, and was in the air in a “borrowed” bushplane, bound for Serdtsevina Rasovyi.

Her absence was not discovered until day's end. However, little detective work was required to figure out where she was headed.

At which point Teacher reconsidered: It was time after all, he announced, that they went on the offensive, and the hominems began preparing an all-out invasion. Their primary objective was elimination of the base and cleaning out the Khraniteli living there; but rescuing Marshall and intercepting Candy before she got into trouble were next on the to-do list.

Unaware of these developments, of course, Candy flew on.

Cognizant of the Candy-Terry mindlink, Teacher asked Lisa to listen for and take down anything the bird said which sounded as if it might be from Candy.

During her first stopover, at Klamath Falls, Oregon, Candy encountered Maggie, a Border Collie, preternaturally intelligent, typical of the breed, who had been surviving on her own since the Khraniteli's attack. That night the BC awakened Candy with snarls—holding a pack of wolves at bay. Candy drove them off with warning shots. This ended Candy's indecision: Maggie was on the plane when she departed the next morning.

Crossing into Asia via the Bering Strait, Candy encountered no one until the morning of the eighth day, when she met a likeable, white-bearded, slightly rotund, older gentleman who went by the nicknames, Igrushka Izgotovlenie or “Toymaker,” and Otets Igrushkayami or “Father Toys.” In pre-armageddon days Toymaker had been a manufacturer of high-end, high-tech games and toys. He had once attended a technical conference at Serdtsevina Rasovyi, and was able to furnish Candy with a detailed, hand-drawn map of the base.

The following day Candy landed in the wilds just outside Serdtsevina Rasovyi, pulled up under trees, tied the plane down, covered it with camouflage netting, and went to bed early, prepared to begin infiltration of the Khraniteli's headquarters in the morning....

[Footnote 1: Lisa's note: Blanks? Hah...!]

Volume VI

Unseen, Unheard, Uneasy

Day X

Subtle difference exists, Posterity, between practice infiltration runs back home, where penalty for getting caught limited to abrupt stinging sensation courtesy of Wrist Rocket-driven acorns impacting whatever piece of anatomy presents—versus reconnoitering real enemy installation, populated by genuinely murderous hostiles, folk who sincerely want everyone with H. post hominem DNA dead.

Not that have ever been blase about practice penalties: Danni seldom fails to spot something sticking up; never misses with damned slingshot. Training consequences leave red, burning welts to aid memory, encourage improvement.

In current milieu, however, suspect failing test would make one nostalgic for acorns.

Debated odds of infiltrating at night, under cover of darkness, versus invisible ninja/zen approach: Becoming terrain, slipping in in broad daylight, right under Bad Guys’ noses.

Obviously, under normal conditions, darkness preferred venue. But depending upon Khraniteli's paranoia level, security personnel might well be using infrared-based night-vision gear. If so, regardless of care taken, skill level employed, Plucky Girl Infiltrator's body temperature would stand out against crisp night air like light bulb. And that, experience suggests, would be bad.

So chose daylight. Spent whole day stalking installation from various directions, costumed largely as clump of field grasses, with single sickly bush adhering to fundament, clump of sod gracing crown. Shiny nose, exposed skin generally, rendered less noticeable courtesy of handful of nearly dead-black goo from perimeter of convenient puddle. Good-quality stuff, too; had to remove only single leech before applying. (Chose to use “local color” for preliminary recon in interest of saving real special-forces face paint for actual, for-blood Daddy-extraction sortie.)

Maggie regarded her own veggie disguise with amusement: mostly weeds/grasses woven into coat; though did blacken white patches by rubbing in locally grown organic makeup. But BC seemed to grasp premise; managed to limit joke's celebration to sparkling eyes every time met mine. (Amazing, how that seemed to be every time I glanced at her; Border Collies so alert.)

However, stalking wily Khraniteli on own turf turned out easier than expected. First, no one on Bad Guys’ payroll in danger of being mistaken for fussy English groundskeepers: Not big on neatly cropped, weed-free lawns; converting bushes, hedges into mulch or topiary.

In fact, without exception, surrounding fields downright unkempt: Acres of knee- to waist-deep grasses, weeds; dotted with innumerable scraggly bushes, actual thickets, even occasional hedgerows running here, there. Danya would have displayed someone's head on pike for negligence on this scale.

Sneaking-up challenge nearly laughable. Well-motivated Daisy Scout troop could have conducted infiltration, accomplished objective, made escape, been home in time to present freshly washed, sparkly clean faces, hands at lunch.

Periodically employed tiny Mossad-surplus multipurpose detector/tester to reassure self no antipersonnel radar in use. Of three-dozen Danni brought back with her for AAs’ use after World Ended, had borrowed only two. (Redundancy good; greed bad.)

Eyeball survey, employing tiny, U.S. special-forces-supplied, folded-optics monocular tentatively classified various structures; also confirmed accuracy of Father Toys’ map. Rows of boxy, prefabish-looking, industrial-style, metal buildings, neatly aligned proximate to shelter's hillside entrance, likely housed research/manufacturing facilities. Variety of barracks, obvious infrastructure buildings (kitchens, chow halls, common rooms, motor pool, etc.) more informally scattered around periphery.

However, first real estate to seize attention not on map: Prison camp near southern fringe apparently had come into being since Toymaker's visit.

And no mistaking enclosure's purpose: tall, razor-wire-topped, chain-link fence all the way around. Guard shack at double-gated sally port on north side. Interior structures all ramshackle, southeastern U.S. chicken coop-style, clapboard dormitories. Supported by concrete pylons instead of foundations, with at least 18 inches’ wind-tunnel air space between floors, ground—heat loss on cold nights must have been ferocious.

Doubtless where Daddy kept.

One leg of unseen prowlings took us through motor pool. Having recently discovered own propensity for grand theft motor vehicle, occurred to me, should haste become issue, liberated vehicle might well facilitate exit with Daddy.

(Though given Stallion's original price tag, "spectacular theft motor vehicle” probably more accurately reflects offense level.)

En passant, snooped interiors of several Humvee-looking things known as UAZs, automobiles, trucks of various classifications. Verified that not only were all vehicles unlocked, keys apparently left in ignitions as matter of course.

(Danya would have fashioned necklace from teeth of those responsible. While they watched!)

Nightfall eventually found Foster sisters enjoying field rations, cozily ensconced at heart of apparently impenetrable hedgerow behind conveniently located hummock just over hundred yards laterally from prison camp, waiting to see if security forces would trot out night-vision goodies as light faded.

If so, would spend night there.

And if so, promised to be long night....

We overprepared, Posterity. Here at very heart of their own territory, never mind continent, on fringes of Russian/Kazakhstani border Urals, not only are Khraniteli not obsessing over local security, substantial numbers of those charged with actual, physical safeguarding of primary base not, in fact, even remaining awake over security.

Such, at least, was case at prison camp: At about six, night-shift crew wandered out in ones, twos, loaded down with baskets of food, liquor bottles. Settled down with day-shift folk at picnic tables outside sally port guard shack (no other guard stations, no gun towers, etc.); then all fell to, enjoyed leisurely, comradely dinner.

Multiple food courses comprising jolly double-shift get-together lasted from almost sundown to good two hours after complex's lights came on. Libations ran out around midnight.

Stumbling a bit, slapping backs, laughing like loons, day people finally lurched to feet, weaved imprecisely down trail toward residential area, leaving substantial majority of crack p.m. security squad (about whom had been worrying self into hissy-spaz all day long!) snoring in chairs.

Have seen The Great Escape, Posterity (okay, several dozenteen times—youthful James Garner, Steve McQueen seriously ogleable specimens of Homo sapient males).

However, after watching Khraniteli guards’ Sergeant Schultzly performance, failure to encounter battery of endlessly probing searchlights scouring fence, grounds beyond, evoked little astonishment. In fact, prison camp nightlighting consisted of bare half dozen examples of same electric-eye-controlled blue-white iodine vapor lamps most farmers used back home.

In short, Stalag Luft III this is not. In fact, at first impression, may not even rise to level of Stalag 13....

Initial phase of storming castle consisted of feeding Maggie, giving hug; telling her “Watch,” indicating camp, supply cache; walking (okay, worming along through ground cover a little) to darker section of fence located equidistant between most widely separated iodine vapor lamps.

Used Danni's gimmick to test fence, rule out fry-the-burglar-level voltage/amperage, contact alarms, or fabric-integrity-interruption detectors monitoring chain-link fence's structure.

Razor-wire along very top limited to single lonely strand, coils stretched so far apart to span distance, promised to serve less as barrier than minor inconvenience.

Oozed silently up chain-link mesh like Spider-Man, propped razor coils even farther apart with stick brought from thicket. Wormed past pointy bits without significant blood loss, removed stick, dropped to ground inside.

Tah-dah.

Now all had to do was find Daddy.

Oh, and get us out.

Hey, what could go wrong...?

Now, Posterity, notwithstanding known tendency to knock wood while crossing fingers, legs, on occasion even eyes, while yielding to black cats’ right-of-way under stepladders resting on sidewalk cracks on triskaidektic Fridays, am not superstitious person. Really, do not believe previous question received, interpreted by Powers That Be as dare. Quite.

Still, answer not long in coming: Daddy not bleeping here!

Which isn't even worst part...

Recon leading to these conclusions would have made Danya proud, Posterity: Switched on ninja mode; ghosted in, out of dorms like wraith, checking for occupants. First eight buildings empty; no one home at all.

Wondered for briefest moment, exiting Dorm 6, whether whole camp would prove empty; but then common sense reemerged—regardless of personnel's blood-alcohol levels, surely Khraniteli wouldn't bother guarding empty prison.

But not until last stop—Dorm Number 9—did answer materialize. Eased in through door, closed softly behind me, and, as floated silently down central aisle, realized some third of bunks at far end contained shapeless forms huddled under ragged blanket scraps.

Edged closer, took look at sleepers.

And jaw dropped.

Children. All children. Nothing but children.

Quick census revealed about two dozen kids, genders indeterminate. Appeared to range in age from maybe four to a bit older than self. All skinny, filthy. Some showed bruises, healing abrasions, even cuts.

But children? Why children? And why on earth would anyone imprison, starve, abuse pack of kids?

Gee, let's review...

Here we all were, in heart of Khraniteli Central—primary base/research center. Danya had mentioned Khraniteli trying to develop pathogens capable of affecting hominems. Straightforward research; but how to test bugs’ effectiveness as study progresses, without risks attendant to keeping group of really ticked-off grown-up hominems around?

Gosh, I'm stumped...

Took deep breath then, held it, let out slo-ow-ly.

Undoubtedly these kids all Homo post hominems,l being used as culture media/test subjects—multiply condemned, imaginatively described Khraniteli using my people as lab rats!

Forced anger down. Now not the time.

But made solemn promise—with overtones of blood oath: Time would come....

However, this complicated matters: Regardless of whether found Daddy, had to get kids out; simply no choice there.

But spoke no Russian, nor any of dozens—possibly hundreds—of Slavic/Baltic languages/splinter dialects that could form mother tongue for any/all these kids; and certainly no reason to expect any to speak English.

Absence of which left informal sign language—hardly most efficient tool for communicating subtle concepts like, “Be-very-very-quiet-I'm-getting-you-all-out-of-here-follow-me-duck-through-the-hole-in-the-fence-stay-low-crawl-over-to-that-thicket-don't-be-scared-of-the-nice-doggie-you-meet-there...."

Original plan, if term could be stretched to cover it, had been to slip in, find Daddy, get him out, killing bloody hell out of any-, everybody standing in way, fly home; scenario which, as stated, involved minimal reliance on Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's linguistic skills.

But even as mulled problem, became aware of round, distinctly non-sleepy-looking eyeball peering up from one of larger, shapeless, huddled lumps.

Barely had time to speculate about chances of leaping across distance separating us quickly enough to clap hand over mouth to prevent outcry—when kid raised finger to lips, breathed softest possible, “Sh-h-h."

No doubt own eyes round as nodded agreement.

Slowly kid eased out of bed, tiptoed over to me, moving pretty quietly for untrained civilian. Cocked head toward dorm's empty far end. Again I nodded.

Led to enclosure built into corner. Eased door open, slid through, beckoned to me to follow, closed door behind.

Small room turned out to be minimally equipped but surprisingly clean, relatively odor-free “comfort” station, illuminated by small window, tiniest of plug-in nightlight LED glows.

Once inside, new acquaintance peeked out window, then turned back to me. Noted at this point, new acquaintance also of distaff persuasion, half a head taller, possibly a year or two older than self, though, due to emaciation, surely outweighed her by good ten pounds (and my nonexistent curves farther along than hers, though malnutrition surely gave me unfair edge).

Momentarily girl's eyes performed head-to-foot flicker, taking in camos, mud-darkened face; lingered briefly, thoughtfully, on katana grip projecting above shoulder, various web-belted utility pouches, low-slung Glock, conspicuously nightscope-, silencer-equipped M-1 in right hand.

Then—surprise!—whispered Russian turned out even more difficult to understand than spoken-from-diaphragm version. Shook head regretfully. “Sorry. I'm an American. I don't understand. Do you speak English?"

Girl's brow rose. “Eeengleeess?” came hesitant reply.

I nodded.

"So very bad I little spikking Eeengleeess. Under you stand?"

Tiny shiver of relief warmed cockles of my worrywart. Communication solved. One problem down.

(At this point couldn't be more than thousand or so to go.)

Replied gratefully: “Yes, American. Your English is much better than my Russian."

"Hokay. Eeengleeess we spikking. You who are? Here why?—Here how?"

Nearly blurted was looking for Daddy; had she seen him?—as if locked-up, starving, effectively condemned kid would have knowledge of, interest in, problems beyond own immediate survival.

So took metaphorical step back; briefly allowed opening elements of Danya's incremental, information-gathering matrix to flash through brain: Quickest way to get information from people, she opines (apart from, where necessary, judicious applications of flexion, torsion, tension, compression, blunt, sharp, hot), generally involves identifying, then applying leverage against fulcrum comprising interviewee's self-interest.

Given circumstances, motivation obvious; solution even more so: “Hi, I'm Candy. I'm going to get you out of here..."

"Tasha.” Declaration accompanied by universally self-identifying finger tap to yclept's own chest. Then, clearly not proponent of empty conventions, irrelevant small-talk, girl got down to fundamentals: “You too kid. Got how you in? Get how us out?"

Replied, “I came in over the fence."

Girl's expression fell. “Maybe can I do this. Bigger also one, twos, threes. But weak littlests being; not can climbing."

Had solution to that: Unslung backpack, reached in, pulled out lovely, ultralightweight, Israeli special-forces-surplus, telescopic-handled, titanium bolt-cutter; handed over with smile.

Tasha expanded handles to full three-foot length; opened, closed jaws. Nodded approvingly. Recollapsed device, handed back. Crooked brow. “Guards ... ?"

Tucked bolt cutters back into papoose pack, closed flap; shrugged back into straps. “They probably won't be much of a factor; they seem to prefer spending their nights in postparty comas."

Tasha's brow lowered in obvious noncomprehension. Mmm ... given our combined cross-linguistic skills, probably needed to dial down syntax, never mind customary ambiguity level, if hoped regularly to be understood. Dick-and-Jane-emulation time.

Mimed tossing back drink. Crossed, rolled eyes up into forehead; lolled head, jaw saggy, tongue drooping to side. Never been fond of, good at charades, but here performance sufficed.

Girl almost laughed at impression; then smile acquired overtones of contempt. “Guards many so stumbling p'yanitsa. Such duties assigned being too stupid, too lazy real workings for. Time most spending vipivka.” She returned my tossing-back gesture perfectly.

(Whee, new Russian words, at least one unmistakably pejorative in context. Hoped would remember later, when had more time, to have Tasha clarify which meant drunks vs. drinking.)

"But others,” she added expressionlessly, with sudden shiver which snapped full attention back to here-now, "not stupid. Very smart. Very also bad. Some very, very, very bad-smart. Evil-smart."

Well, so much for any lingering doubts about whether both of us on same side. Nice also to have own opinion of Khraniteli confirmed. Nice in scary way.

"But out gettings after?” she continued, tone anxious. “Littlests not can far walking. Khraniteli searchable; trucks, UAZs. Escaping so how?"

Found was warming to Tasha. Not for single moment had girl implied leaving smaller, slower kids behind might be acceptable solution.

"I have an airplane.” Clarified with universal hand gesture.

Tasha's expression lightened—then just as quickly darkened; brow crooking dubiously. “You? Kid? Airplane?"

Could not repress grin. “Yes, a kid with a plane. I'm a pilot. I started young. It's a pretty big plane; it'll carry all of us."

After another moment's thoughtful hesitation, girl nodded, accepted assurance at face value. Ghost of smile returned. “Good.” Then looked worried again. “But tonight please not ... ?"

Okay, that went better than expected. Had foreseen at least some debate over that very point. Had to find Daddy first, but if positions reversed, I'd have wanted out soonest.

Shook head regretfully. “No, we can't leave tonight. First I have to find someone."

"Good. Katia tonight here not. Driutsk ... has her.” Tasha paused bleakly, but behind eyes glowed something reminiscent of vulcanism. Girl took long, slow, shaky breath; continued in almost rasping tone, “Katia nine. Not can leaving her. Not must leaving her. With him."

Hmm ... Clearly, subtext operating here, but passing right over head. “Who's Driutsk?” Glanced at watch. “It's past one; why on earth would a Khranitel have a nine-year-old girl with him at this late whoa..."

Blissfully wheel-spinning, blank moment concluded much too quickly. Suddenly understood. Too much.

Have read expression, “Her eyes flamed.” Never actually seen it done before, but at aborted question, Tasha's expression metamorphosed into mask of ... well, never actually seen such loathing on any human face before, never mind kid's.

Still had no clue who Driutsk was. But at that point didn't care. Didn't matter. What overrode interest in whom: Monster, beyond peradventure of doubt. Needed killing in worst way, earliest opportunity.

Made mental note, if at all possible, to take care of that little detail before leaving with Daddy. And kids.

And especially Katia.

Remarkably, given obvious depth of bond with victim, Tasha came down first. Voice nearly steady when asked, “Looking you who for?"

Before answering, performed moment's breathing-discipline exercise to restore own semblance of poise. “Another American. A doctor."

"American Foster doctor?"

Posterity ... ? Please, whatever you do—never ever let me succumb to temptation (granted, currently nonexistent) to try to earn living playing poker. Thought, for briefest moment, had weathered shock of hearing stranger say Daddy's name out of blue without turning so much as a hair.

But at that point, curious expression stole across Tasha's face. Looked oddly like sympathetic smile. Still quivering inside over sudden, blindsided, Daddy's-name impact, probably spent several whole seconds speculating about cause.

But then girl reached out fingertip, brushed tear from Plucky Stonefaced Girl's cheek. “More to here you than just broking us and doctor out of tyur'ma." Statement, not question.

Sighed. (Okay, probably sniffled.) Didn't know if daddy even had Russian equivalent (subsequently learned counterpart pappa, of all things), but irrelevant; ignored genetic issue altogether as responded, “He's my father. I thought he was killed in Washington during the Khraniteli's attack. Then I heard he might be here."

"Ah...” Tasha's expression cleared. “Out sticking butt to finding him no wonder.” Paused; eyed me cryptically. “Reminding me of him you."

Smiled absently. Russian girl's sidewaysly inverted/mismatched syntactical elements reminded me of Kyril, before true colors surf

—So deafening was internal click triggered by dots’ belated connection, would have sworn must have wakened kids out in dorm: Tasha had not just heard of Daddy—"You've met him? Is he here ... ?"

She nodded. “Main building laboratory kepting in Foster doctor. Kazimirov"—another shiver—"very, very top evil Khraniteli boss, tellinged Foster doctor new germs making us being for sick—being for die."

Girl paused then; expression softened, hint of smile crept across features. (Suppressed own smile: Clearly Tasha had met Daddy; inspires those feelings in everyone.) “But does small-of-hand, Foster doctor,” she continued, with hint of mischief. “Fooling eye, switching needles. Tricking Kazimirov—even Fedka, evil, evil, evil doctor supervising. First sticking day, Foster doctor whispering on ear, kids telling, ‘Don't being worry'; vitamins water just sticking. Sick making never, promise."

Yes, that would be Daddy; die thousand times over before harming child—but smart: If simply refused, died nobly, Khraniteli would have turned project over to someone else. Obviously someone less knowledgeable, less likely to succeed—but certainly less principled.

Found self smiling. Could just see him: laboring away in lab (with earnest, utterly absorbed expression) like wholesome, ruggedly handsome version of Ming the Merciless, formulating compounds whose sole purpose, notwithstanding long list of ingredients, centered on emission of noxious vapors—while actually turning out vitamin cocktails, probably occasional real medicines, too, where judged appropriate, to help malnutrition-ravaged children.

Pulled out, unfolded Toymaker's map. “Can you show me where they're keeping him?"

Tasha eyed sketch; indicated oblong almost adjacent to underground shelter entrance. Then grinned; glanced up, pointed out through window: Dark shape visible looming at mountain's base. “There,” she breathed in barely audible whisper. “Main laboratory, there kepting Foster doctor."

Nodded, thanked her; but, as turned to door—

"Foster doctor father being,” Tasha blurted suddenly, tightly. “Of course must him getting out.” Lip quiver barely visible, final word hardly audible: “First."

Stopped in tracks. Spun; fixed her with what hoped would be regarded as resolute eye. Declared, “I will come back for you. All of you."

Struck by thought. Again unslung backpack. Extracted bolt cutters, handed over. “Hide them inside a mattress or somewhere. If something bad happens—if I don't get back, you get those kids out of here.” Told her about sloppy motor pool discipline; should be easy to steal vehicle, get away cleanly.

Finally, recalling again Danni's lessons in people-management techniques, put arms around Tasha, administered big, deliberately lingering hug in shamelessly manipulative attempt to bolster spirits, boost confidence. Told her firmly, in mock-Austrian accent, “Ah'll be bock."

Should have known better, Posterity. Terminator impression drew not so much as eyelid flicker—but shamelessly manipulative hug ended with both of us leaking tears.

Amazingly, back at hidey-hole in heart of thicket, Maggie managed to confine delight at big sister's return to persuasive rendition of leaping joy without actually moving muscle or making sound. Almost as if understood reason behind need for silence.

Shared snuggly quarter hour with fuzzy sibling, gave her stingy partial handful of freeze-dried liver, topped up water dish; then, with night still young, again told her, “Watch,” headed off for further snooping.

Glided past installation's peripheral elements, with which already familiar, straight into heart of encampment; object: Acquaint self with interior layout, particularly area of big laboratory building in which Tasha felt Daddy imprisoned. Must have circled structure half dozen times, edging closer each time, until aware of every bush, leaf, blade of grass which might furnish cover, as well security details.

Vexed to discover lab security relatively tight, by Serdtsevina Rasovyi standards. Even pretty darned tight. Both entrances boasted four-man squads—

Hey, Posterity! Just realized something else: Have seen nothing to suggest women play active role in Khraniteli's plans, operations. Both shifts of prison camp guards comprised exclusively of men; likewise, all personnel guarding lab. In fact, every single soul have seen Out & About during day's prowling has been male.

Unless women begin turning up (at all, never mind in significant numbers, responsible roles—regardless of intensity with which I oppose them), current growing suspicion likely to mature into conclusion: Khraniteli “society” borrows from “world-is-a-male-playground” cultural bias enjoyed by (at least males of) oil-rich, middle-eastern countries prior to Mankind's End.

Actually, wouldn't surprise me at all to find casually genocidal ideology emerged in toto from that zealot-nourishing environment, with its oddly hypnotic belief structure. Certainly ample history for it in those parts.

Just ask Danya....

All right—enough philosophical gnat-straining; more than ample selection of real problems ahead just making sure right people emerge from this encounter with skins intact.

Wait ... Isn't that pretty much a casually genocidal ideology, too...?

No! Stupid notion—stupider still to have ping-pong moral debate going on inside own head while reconnoitering. Issue could not be simpler: My people didn't start this; didn't strike first—particularly didn't cheerfully snuff 7 billion people just to provide fresh start for own exclusive membership. That single fact provides sufficient distinction to differentiate sociopaths from those whose refusal to be victims includes doing whatever takes to solve problem.

Solve for good. Solve, as Danya is wont to observe, for never again....

My job simple: Get Daddy, children, self, Maggie the hell out of here, alive, minimizing risks in process. Shan't go out of my way to kill anyone (except Driutsk, of course, if opportunity arises—okay, maybe Kazimirov, too), but don't plan to waste energy, sympathy keeping any opposition members alive who insist on getting in way.

All the while keeping in mind Danni's more relevant combat maxims, most of which boil down to some version of “Never leave live enemy behind you,” which distills down further to perennial catchall: “Dead guys don't get back up...."

Okay. With that nonsense settled—out of mind, out of the way—got down to reconnoitering in earnest: identifying specific lab security installations, how manned, equipped, how alert various members appeared to be.

Even employed Wrist Rocket from extreme long range to sample startlement reactions by exploding iodine vapor bulb suspended practically over heads of lab's front entrance security team.

Results mixed: Learned several intriguing new Russian words, phrases, about which intended to ask Tasha later.

More importantly, however, determined which team members reacted constructively; i.e., instantly taking cover, bringing up weaponry, while scanning vicinity from behind solid objects; as opposed to those who merely jumped up swearing, brushing glass fragments off clothing with expressions of offended dignity. As with any population, competents in minority.

All in all, night's stalking concluded on generally successful-but-unsatisfactory note: Lived through adventure; but no possible way to get past security, gain unseen entry to lab, look for Daddy.

Finally called off recon as bad job; and by sunrise Foster sisters had adjourned to more remote, better concealed location in heart of mature copse, where we pitched semipermanent base camp, ate proper meal, mourned absence of shower (okay, that part limited to self), conducted brief, short-range Frisbee session amongst trees; thereafter, somehow, managing to get to sleep.

Not, however, most restful of slumbers. First mulled over (okay, worried, fretted, brooded, agonized about) strategic/tactical dilemma of getting inside lab, finding Daddy. Finally dropped off into troubled sleep, during which subconscious picked up baton, kept chewing on problem, causing serial bad dreams, until—

Oh! Of course. How obvious...

—awoke with answer.

Kim Mellon's Journal:

Well, we're a full day behind schedule now, at least.

Some weeks ago, Adam dropped a wrench through and out the bottom of the engine compartment of the truck he was working on. It bounced to the exact geometric center of the vehicle's mass, thereby making it equally difficult to reach from every direction.

As he climbed under to retrieve it, he offered his personal theory of the mechanism underlying Murphy's Law: Ages ago, he explained deadpan, after the ancient Norse Gods had retired, Loki, the God of Mischief, grew bored and decided He needed a hobby...

We all laughed, then. Now I'm not so sure.

In any event, regardless whether the responsible party is supra-Norwegian or merely Irish, about halfway between Anchorage and Norilsk, our karma reserves ran dangerously low.

Adam, Lisa, Terry, and I were traveling on the B plane with Danya. Teacher, Peter, and Wallace were aboard the A plane.

At the specific moment when Chaos elected to descend, Danni and I were in the cockpit, visiting with the pilots: Scott London, an “active-duty” Air Force pilot...

("Hey, I haven't retired, and the Pentagon has yet to notify me of my release.")

...with thousands of hours of C-17 pilot-in-command time, and Lennel Palindrome, who's second-chairing for Scott. They were swapping that-reminds-mes, I-learned-about-flying-from-thats, mixed with patent, blatantly outrageous there-I-was-upside-down-in-the-clouds-with-both-engines-on-fire-style whoppers, when Lennel broke off midhomily with, "Oh-oh..."

Hearing such sentiments expressed by a member of one's flight crew at midnight, eight miles above the full-moon-lit Arctic icecap, possibly four hundred miles from the North Pole, will clear away one's cobwebs.

Lennel's exclamation was followed almost instantly by Scott's terse comment on the short-range walkie-talkies we're using for interplane communication (under some conditions—sunspot-induced signal “skip” among them—normal aviation radio transmissions could be picked up by Khraniteli electronic eavesdropping even at this range): “Kenny, is your number two on fire ... ?"

Happily, it wasn't, quite, though the fifty-foot-long orange flames and the volume and density of black smoke gushing from the jet exhaust surely would have fooled me.

Still, as a precaution, they shut it down and we crippled the rest of the way across the Arctic Ocean at three-engine speeds.

Landing at the sprawling military base at Norilsk, we taxied up to the largest of the service hangars, shut down, disembarked, and all our aircraft-oriented people rolled up their sleeves.

Including Adam, of course—whose eyes are positively smoldering at the delay. While he has no background whatever in jet engines, he understands the theory, he's a preternaturally quick study (Cameron, Lennel's second-in-command, says Adam absorbed the engine schematics in a single glance, as if by osmosis); and, of course, in matters mechanical, his instincts approach the level of extrasensory perception. In addition, hand tools in general seem to become extensions of his nervous system.

Accordingly, he has been welcomed with open arms by our aircraft tech people; both for the assistance he might furnish, as well as the opportunity his involvement provides to keep an inconspicuous eye on him.

If only Danya were as easily distracted—or supervised: Even during the most tranquil of times I've never heard anyone describe her as mellow, but the more tightly wound she becomes, the quieter she gets, and for the past few hours she's been so quiet that I positively fear for her.

A little while ago I encountered her stalking thoughtfully around the Black Hawk helicopter stowed in the A plane, its rotors folded for transport. Operational manual in hand, she was calculating how long it would take to fly it from here to Serdtsevina Rasovyi, if we can't get the C-17 back into the air really soon. The answer, she told me, ever so softly, is about ten hours, not including fuel stops.

Actually, we could get there lots faster in the B plane alone; however, standing policy has been always to fly the C-17s in pairs, in case of situations exactly like this: Between them, these ships carry enough spares and trained personnel almost to build another Globemaster, never mind repair one.

Still, these practical considerations are not sitting well with Danya, to say nothing of Adam....

Candy's Journal:

Day XI

There. Wasn't even all that difficult to get antediluvian People's Vehicle running—ancient Volva, Mulletov Couptail, or whatever long-gone rural Russians called this 1940s American POS clone. No idea of actual brand, of course; can't begin to read Cyrillic lettering on hood, trunk. And while retaining bright colors, ceramic-coated manufacturer's emblem offers even less insight.

Found vehicle in parking lot of what passed for gas station hereabouts, in little, not-quite-town/crossroads settlement just east of lake.

Tracked down gasoline generator in nearby (sorta) farm/general store. Hauled over to station, gave it pro-est, most forma tune-up in history of infernal combustion engine repairs: Wire-brushed carbon-embalmed sparkplug; filed corroded points; removed, pitched gunk-obstructed in-line fuel filter altogether. Thereafter, generator actually started on first pull (fortunate, since probably wouldn't recognize replacement parts even if had been sitting right on counter).

As machine began charging Mulletov's battery, dealt with car's similar operational bits at least as unceremoniously as had treated generator's. Clearly unaccustomed even to such cursory attention, vehicle demonstrated gratitude by firing right up once reassembled.

At least mostly; five of six cylinders responded, ran smoothly; sixth chimed in with occasional counterpoint as spirit moved it.

Withal, getting expedition on wheels not difficult, but was time-consuming. Started at sunup. Three hours’ trek to town (chasing Frisbee nonstop en route, Maggie probably covered 20 times distance I did; regarded entire trip as lark, excuse to frolic) followed by another almost three hours’ labor, which she regarded as pleasantly boring excuse to explore, sample local olfactory palette.

Thereafter, mere 15-minute drive took us to within half mile of Stallion's hideout; at which point left car, went rest of way on foot. Judged leaving fresh tire tracks close to plane would have been less than scintillating tactics.

Changed back to civvies—but not before spending five minutes scrubbing clothes into ground to eliminate any suggestion of freshly-laundered, colors-brighter-than-new/whites-whiter-than-white appearance. Similarly grimed own hair, following irregular snipping back bangs to give coiffe that practical, spontaneous, “just-haggled-off” look. Then pulled off scrunchy securing ponytail, gathered hair into two separate little-kid-type ponytails departing head just above, behind ears—gambit which alone probably took three years off apparent age, underscored innocent, harmless appearance.

However, most convincing detail required no added attention: After nearly two weeks’ shower-free life on road, personal ambiance had acquired sufficient authority to bolster illusion of travel-weary wanderer beyond any challenge.

Finally, after applying smudge of dirt to forehead, another to back of hand, dragging fingernails firmly against hard ground to pack with dirt, headed back to “base” camp—but again, as with Stallion, and for same reason, came no closer than about half mile.

Have brought journal up-to-date. Wrapped camouflage clothing, weapons, equipment in weatherproof plastic sheet. Shall tuck this volume in there, too.

Fed Maggie, told her, “Watch,” and (without Austrian accent), “I'll be back."

Thereafter, plan calls for walking back to car, firing up, and driving openly, unarmed, right into Serdtsevina Rasovyi....

INTERLUDE

Archivist's Note (b)

Up to this point, these chronicles have been transcribed directly from Candy's daily journal entries. Hereafter, however, this record has been assembled by merging her far less frequent, personally written, after-the-fact entries with other participants’ contributions, as well as the stream-of-consciousness account that she transmitted in real time via her mental link with Terry.

By far, most of the labor of taking down the bird's almost incessant chatter was performed by Lisa Mellon. Relieved by her mother and others only long enough to catch a few hours’ sleep, even eating on duty most of the time, the child spent virtually every waking moment with Terry, pen and steno tablet in hand, making a verbatim record of Candy's thoughts in real time, as events developed.

Apart from combining the various accounts, the bulk of my editorial participation as Candy's chronicler during this segment has been limited to transmuting the present-tense text, which emerged from the Candy-Terry-Lisa link, to the more conventionally comfortable past-tense format.

Volume VII

Parlor, Fly, Spider...

Opportunities to update journal likely to be few, far between during this phase of operation, Posterity. Going to have to rely upon Terrylink; hope someone back home making notes of birdbrain's rambling adequate to fill in blanks later1.

Because obviously dasn't carry journal with me—not even James Bond, at peak of Roger Moore-tenure cluelessness, would go undercover with detailed account of actions-to-date, future plans, carried physically on person.

True, Pitman nearly as archaic, arcane as classical written Latin. However, if Loki's sense of humor should manifest in form of Khraniteli capable of deciphering your Humble Historiographer's unique version of pothook shorthand (in English?), sure would put crimp in strategy.

Oh, well, if not, assuming I live through this, can always reconstruct events from memory; then merge personal record with whatever AAs have preserved from Terry's stream-of-consciousness blathering. After all, not as if haven't possessed near-eidetic recall practically from birth.

At least I think I have.

I forget....

Drive took barely long enough to lash self into heartstring-yanking rendition of pitiful-little-match-girl, oh-so-happy-finally-to-find-someone-else-alive! level of hysteria. Initially, tears began to flow almost too easily, raising worries about peaking too soon, particularly since encountered no one to play to between settlement fringes, laboratory.

However, as rounded last corner prior to lab, played final method-actor card: Quite deliberately dredged up, dwelled upon, wrenching image of Lassie Come-Home's return through village after months-long cross-country trek to meet Her Boy at three o'clock as left school at movie's end: staggering, limping, all but collapsing, driven onward by almost inconceivable depths of unconditional canine love, loyalty...

Image ensured rivers of tears flowing as, shortly after noon, slammed on brakes, skidded Mulletov to stop yards from security post. Streaming tears, stared wide-eyed out open window at guards. Deliberately released clutch, lurching vehicle clumsily as engine killed.

Flung door open, burst from car, squeaking inarticulately. Sprinted across intervening neglected lawn, hurled self into nearest Russian's arms, sobbing, “I can't believe it! I thought everybody else was dead!"

My targeted Khranitel glanced around at comrades with slightly embarrassed air, patted me awkwardly on back, said something incomprehensibly Russian in borderline-kindly tones.

Pulled back slightly to look up into mark's eyes. “Oh, darn,” I blubbered; “you don't speak English, do you. And I don't speak Russian."

"English ... ?” inquired cold voice from lab doorway behind “my” Russian—who almost physically leaped clear of me, so quickly did he remove comforting arm from shoulders, step back. Then turned, delivered brief, uncomfortable-sounding burst of Russian; saluted, positively quick-stepped back to post.

"I speak English,” said new arrival, eyeing me coldly down nose.

Took every ounce of control I possessed, Posterity, not to blow cover; to remain in character as almost deliriously relieved/overjoyed, unlost-after-all-this-time, unquestioningly trusting waif. Because, based on AAs’ intelligence report, Tasha's pithy description, new acquaintance emerging from doorway could be none other than Vladislav Kazimirov—Hitlerian cult-leader-analog responsible for formation of Khraniteli, primary architect of Grand Plan, plus most of their strategy, tactics.

In short, single individual most responsible for butchering more than 7 billion souls.

Clearly belonged on list with Driutsk. By rights, on line above...

Monster eyed me disapprovingly. “I am Kazimirov. I am in charge. You will answer my questions or you will be punished severely. Where did you come from?"

"Always remember who you are," Danya cautioned repeatedly, when discussing finer points of undercover work. “Keep your false identity's persona and history in mind at all times. However, never try to lead your interrogator to the facts you wish him to learn; a pro is almost certain to notice. Instead, let him coax it out of you at his own pace.

"But,” she added with one of those rare, quick, genuine grins, “don't be too quick to understand. If you're not bright enough to comprehend what they're asking, simplifying the questions down to your level will make them feel all superior. Superior people"—eyes twinkled—"are sure they can tell when they're being lied to...."

Responded with shy smile: “I'm Elizabeth Borden. You can call me Lizzy."

All right, yes, I know, I know—foolish impulse; but odds Russian might comprehend joke far outweighed by satisfaction contained in subliminal threat's delivery.

(Yes, Danni warned me about that, too.)

"I did not ask your name,” Kazimirov snapped rudely; “I asked you where you came from."

"A big factory farm,” responded helpfully, with only slightly puzzled distress at hostility.

Kazimirov's brow darkened further. "Where ... ?"

"It's in Plas-Plastinov-Plastinovskaya,” I stuttered, allowing growing dismay to show, “in Ipolitoff, just north of the Caucasus mountains. Mr. Ivanov gave my family a whole suite in the workers’ dormitory there on the farm."

(Lawsey, lawsey ... Ivanov's suite in Ipolitoff, near Caucasians?—Ipolitoff-Ivanov's Caucasian Suite, of course. But just knew Kazimirov not classical music buff. Okay, yes, still playing with fire; yes, still dumb—but simply couldn't help self; pulling supercilious dragon's whiskers was like drug!)

"Why were you in Plastinovskaya?"

Radiating round-eyed, earnest helpfulness: “We were visiting Russia."

Khraniteli leader's breath departed with sound like big truck's air brakes. Tone acquired distinct menace. “Why were you in Plastinovskaya?"

Still helpfully, but a bit worried; dialing in slightly protesty tone: “It was part of our tour."

"What was the purpose of the tour? Why were you staying on a factory farm in—wait.” Paused. Head genocide eyed captive sternly. Could see wheels turn as tried to figure out how to dumb down question sufficiently. “Before you were in Russia, where did you come from?"

Expression cleared—at last, question little Lizzy could answer: “Germany."

"So you are German?"

"Oh, no."

"What were you doing in Germany?"

"It was part of our tour."

Slightest touch of pink brightened Kazimirov's cheeks. Entrance security detail personnel found occasion to focus attention elsewhere. “Why did your family go there?—And do not tell me it was on the tour."

Hesitated, eyed monster with confusion, distress bordering upon renewed tears. “But it was."

Russian regarded Plucky Secret-Agent Girl with undisguised contempt, but paused for further thought before trying again: “Before the tour started, where were you living?"

Added slight nervous stutter for artistic effect: “Wau-Wausip-p-p-pi."

"What ... ?"

Repeated answer with very most earnest demeanor, obviously doing best to clear up pronunciation.

"Where is this Wausippi?"

"Waushara County."

Kazimirov shook head as if trying to dislodge gnat. Could see wheels turning: How could anyone be that provincial! For slow provincial's benefit, in slightly less threatening tones, clarified, “What country is Waushara County in?"

"America."

"Hah. I thought I heard the contamination of that vile American accent in your English. Never mind, never mind; what was your family's interest in the factory farm?"

"We were part of a farmers’ tour. We were exchanging farming techniques and advanced ag-agri-agricultural t-technology."

"Where is your family now?"

Made silent fish mouths, as if trying to speak. Allowed tears to resurge in earnest, broke into silent sobs; finally gasped, “R-right after we g-got th-there, my family, Mr. Ivanov's fa-fam—eh-eh-everybody got all sick and they died ... !"

Abruptly Kazimirov looked pleased. “But you didn't die..."

"N-n-no, sir,” I blubbered, mopping eyes with filthy sleeve, while admiring Russian's mastery of obvious.

"You did not get sick,” he repeated thoughtfully. Then snapped grimly, “Have you ever been sick? Have you ever had colds, the flu, measles, tonsillitis?"

Shook head; concentrated on keeping expression textbook study in silent, puzzled, tear-streaming misery.

By now Russian looked positively delighted, in own ominous fashion. Turned then to strange-looking specimen just emerging from lab entrance behind him. “Driutsk, here's another one for your collection. Put her in with them. The doctor can test her tomorrow."

Heart sang, but strove to control features, as “The doctor can test her tomorrow” echoed, reechoed in head: doctor!—doctor!—DOCTOR!—tomorrow would be reunited with Daddy! On top of controlling features, maintaining grieving appearance, suppressing reaction to prospect of seeing Daddy, was running pretty close to multitasking limit—

Until Driutsk stepped forward, eyed me up, down, sideways; gently took hand, started leading me off.

Abruptly, then, attention snapped to, refocused exclusively on, escort. Had been so excited at infiltration strategy's success, Driutsk's presence—who, what he was—failed at first to register.

Returning recollection, realization, brought instant chill, sobriety. Almost forgot necessity to dial down tragic affect progressively.

Glanced at captor through residual tears. Noted was studying me in turn, with entirely too much interest: Wet, almost runny, unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes lingered here, there, every—

No. Mostly just here, there.

(At least to degree here, there actually discernable on someone my age...)

At no time, Posterity, has partying with Driutsk, or anyone else for that matter, ever been first-choice element of Daddy-rescuing strategy. Never have felt so uncomfortable in presence of any man—not even Rollo, whose intentions, though unambiguous, were at least arguably honorable. (To degree would-be wife-beating sociopath comprehends honor.)

Risked another glance at Driutsk. Strangely constructed little man. And “little” appropriate adjective: really short for adult male; no more than half head taller than self.

Overall, features disturbing: small, round, utterly bald head (lacking even eyebrows) mounted, apparently without benefit of neck, directly on steeply sloping shoulders; almost nonexistent, piggish nose with slitlike nostrils; aforementioned pale, fast-blinking eyes; big, slack lips; no chin to speak of.

Realized, upon reflection, Driutsk bore eerily close resemblance to Addams Family's Uncle Fester—original New Yorker magazine version (Adam has entire NY cartoon collection on CDs), not TV series or movies.

Still, intel is intel. In hopes of ascertaining hint of degenerate's schedule, agenda, preferably in time to avoid them, tried to get him talking. Began hesitantly, “Do you speak English?"

"I speak seven languages,” Russian answered smugly. “I am a much decorated soldier and an accomplished electromechanical engineer. I have killed many, many of our enemies, and our leader depends upon me to solve many, many technical problems. I have served our cause in many, many ways, with great distinction."

Well, so much for trying to get repulsive little slug talking. But abruptly, despite situation's patently skin-crawly aspects, found self having to fight down impulse to laugh: Like nerdiest, least appealing boy in school trying clumsily to overawe new girl on whom Has Designs, Driutsk clearly trying to impress me.

Suppressed shudder. Based on Tasha's summary of Katia's situation, would have thought was too old for him. Apparently refugee disguise's twin-ponytail “angel-wings” hairdo had achieved too much success in “rolling back years."

Yay.

Regrettably, at least from Driutsk's perspective, conflicting duties, no doubt based on “many, many” talents, apparently required presence elsewhere that evening, eliminating opportunity to follow through with flirtation. (Oh, darn.)

However, during approximately mile-long promenade through settlement, from laboratory to prison camp, little troll worked hard at being charming. This involved stilted version of sightseeing guide's patter: pointing out, describing functions of various significant buildings, recounting Khranitelis' plans for world, accomplishments thus far (though skipped lightly past that whole genocide thing). Plus guiding captive, by means of “many, many” touches from soft, pallid, flutteringly busy, helpful little hands.

Actually, though little degenerate certainly blurred line, never quite crossed from annoying to overtly offensive contact during walk. Got impression was fishing to see whether “importance” within Khraniteli ranks, coupled with friendliness, might encourage new girl to show interest, meet him partway (perhaps before other kids could warn her what a thundering, creepy dweeb he was). If so, must have found me disappointingly obtuse: Never noticed roaming hands; comprehended what was up to.

Still, as departed, Driutsk intimated would see me later—underscoring point, intentions, by actually wiggling single hairless brow suggestively.

Disinterested prison camp guards reluctantly broke away from picnic table, cycled new capture unceremoniously through sally port's double gates. Didn't even bother patting down inductee first, never mind conducting actual weapons/contraband search. Apparently eagerness to return full attention to food, drink (or vice versa; clearly each individual possessed own view of how God intended him to celebrate evening) overrode minor considerations such as institutional security.

Once inside, briefly maintained cover identity behavior: Stood looking mournfully out through fence long enough to impress any observer with fact new prisoner found situation distressing. Then, with big, theatrical sigh, slowly turned around—

To find Tasha leaning against nearest dorm wall, surrounded by rest of kids, regarding me with cryptic expression. After moment, girl pushed away from wall, strolled up, draped arm around shoulders, led away. In process, mouth grazed past ear and, without moving lips, she breathed, “Having violet special lamp selling on bolts cutter...."

Already high regard for Tasha rose further still when, before we exchanged first words beyond original, barely audible wisecrack, girl gathered balance of kids around us; had them begin singing traditional Russian children's/grownups’ folk songs as we strolled around enclosure's open areas, apparently by purest coincidence never coming close to light/utility poles, structures generally, as swapped gossip, bringing each other up-to-date on developments.

Singing? Could not resist asking.

Amazingly, despite complete lack of spook training, formal or in-, Tasha had figured out, all by self, Khraniteli might have hidden microphones around compound. Had kids perform inconspicuous, inch-by-inch scan. Ultimately located over dozen bugs concealed in yard, determined were monitored by guards in sally port guard shack; then came up with low-tech, white-noise solution to conduct unmonitorable conversation in case had missed some.

Likewise had turned up microphones in dorms. Curiously, only tiny, one-per-dorm, unisex restrooms unbugged. Apparently, with only one commode, tiny sink, no shower, never crossed Khraniteli's minds that non-hygiene-related business might be transacted within. Which of course explained girl's invitation to confer there previous night.

At every turn, Tasha's foresight, perceptiveness, inventiveness, sheer native intelligence leave me more in awe. No kidding, Posterity; Danni simply going to love her.

"Caughted by accident not, yes?” she said in mock-prosecutorial tones, once amateur antieavesdropping chorus had reached full volume.

"No; I checked out the area. There's no inconspicuous way to get into the laboratory to find out where they're holding Daddy. I finally decided that the simplest way in is—"

"Them you letting take in,” Tasha finished, eyes mirroring wonderment, “to be sticking by Foster doctor. Together then brains putting; talk, plan,” she guessed—"escape."

Eyed me with concern. “Obviously, over getting fence, choosing you whenever, or bolts cutter making hole. But if so tight laboratory security, how Foster doctor getting out after you finding?"

"I said there was no low-key way to get in,” replied darkly. “I can get in. In fact, unless I come up with something really clever—or even marginally less stupid—after I talk to Daddy and we decide on timing, I'm going to slip over the fence, collect my gear, go back to the lab in the middle of the night, take out all the guards, go in and get Daddy, take a truck, and pick up you guys on the way out of town."

"'Take out'?” Tasha sputtered, round-eyed. “Meaning kill? Guards kill intending you all—all killing you can... ?” Expression with which girl regarded me combined astonishment, disbelief, hope.

Horror, on other hand, conspicuously absent. Sole expressed reservation practical: “All killing guards how? Not gun. Whole base waking."

Suppressed smile; explained: “My guns are extremely quiet. Mossad silencers make a tiny noise, hardly louder than a gerbil's cough."

Tasha brightened; no shrinking fialka, she.

I continued: “The lab building's over a hundred yards long—meters to you, I guess. There's an entrance at each end. They're out of sight of each other, and there's no way anybody at one end will hear silenced gunfire from the other. There are only four men on duty at each door; at least half are asleep most of the night. And I'm a really good shot."

"Good only coming from kill Khraniteli," Tasha stated thoughtfully. “Helping I can how?"

Eyed her, deliberated momentarily; then reached decision: “Can you drive?"

Girl crooked brow. “Badly.” Then smiled. “Also dislegally, since nine. But things not hitting. Mostly."

Didn't even try to repress grin at Tasha's patently spurious self-deprecation. “Good. Assuming they take me to Daddy sometime tomorrow, and unless he has other plans, let's schedule the great escape for tomorrow night, say just after midnight. We'll cut a hole in the fence for the little kids and take them to the motor pool, and I'll liberate a truck for you.

"At about the two-hour point, drive past the laboratory and look for us. Don't try to be careful or sneaky; as lax as they are around here, if you act as though you're supposed to be there, no one will even notice."

Tasha nodded scornfully. “From my watching, rankings-low Khraniteli inflicted by not too many awareness of surroundings or ons-going."

"That was my impression, too.” Paused; turned serious. “Okay now, listen—this is important: If Daddy and I are out there waiting for you, great. If not, or if there seems to be a commotion going on, it's a pretty good bet that things haven't gone well. In that case, you'll need to get those kids out of here—put as many kilometers behind you as you can. Get them clear and keep them safe."

Tasha's expression darkened. “Without you leaving not."

Stuck out own lower lip, mustered frown. “You damn well better. If Daddy and I haven't made it out by then, the Khraniteli undoubtedly will have caught me red-handed. Those who survive the experience will have learned that dealing with a kid isn't necessarily safe. If Kazimirov is as smart as I think he is, I'll be dead by then or shortly afterward, and he'll have a whole new attitude toward you guys. Getting yourselves caught again will not be a good idea, and won't help anyone."

Then realized had overlooked vital detail—and abruptly found self unsuccessfully fighting back tears: “And Tasha? Take care of my dog ... ?"

Kim Mellon's Journal:

Terry settled his feathers and looked around at us with a self-satisfied expression.

"She's a little scared,” Lisa confirmed, her expression uncertain, “but she's really excited and ... and she's happy."

Adam stood. At that moment he looked taller than usual. “I think we're all agreed,” he stated, “that it's going to take another day to get the A plane back into the air.” Uncharacteristically, he seemed calm.

Even more uncharacteristically, Danya seemed less so. Long before the discussion had begun, even as we eavesdropped on Candy via Terry, she had begun to pace—or perhaps stalk would be a more appropriate descriptive; her movements were reminiscent of a caged panther. “I do not think we can wait,” she offered softly.

Teacher's nod was thoughtfully. “The only question is whether we should risk getting you there quickly, in the operational C-17, or whether it would be preferable to unload and assemble the Black Hawks."

"I vote helicopters,” said Wallace regretfully. “I'm as worried about Candy as the next hopelessly besotted male, and I'm just as eager to rescue Marshall Foster. But if we have a failure on the B plane while the ships are separated, it would leave our forces stranded, divided in hostile territory. All personnel involved would be jeopardized, as well as the entire mission, which means increased risk to our people back home."

Astonishingly, the awkward silence that followed was broken by Adam. His expression somber, he took a deep breath and said, “I agree with Wallace: We should not risk separating the C-17s.” He paused, clearly forcing himself to continue. “Candy would never want us to endanger our people just to pull her and her dad out.

"Sending in a strike force in the Black Hawks is risky, too—however,” he added, in tones which brooked no argument, “if we do, I am going with them."

"The problem with the helicopters,” Danya mused, apparently thinking aloud as much as speaking for our benefit, “is that, even after we unload everything stored between them and the cargo doors, and get them out, and assemble them, and preflight and fuel them, then, counting the three fuel stops conservative cross-country operation calls for, it's still going to take us fifteen hours’ flying time to get there.

"And the fact is that, once we're there, we won't really even be there there: With only two ships, we can't just fly in openly, guns blazing. We'll have to land twenty, thirty miles out, find usable local vehicles or walk to make our way to within working distance. We face a minimum of thirty to forty hours before we can begin even a simple extraction, never mind actual support of Candy's operation.

"Much as I hate to say it, I think it makes more sense to wait for repairs to be finished on the C-17, and then go in as a fully assembled strike force."

The silence that followed this summary was painful; but, slowly, beginning with Teacher, one after another, everyone nodded.

Including Adam.

Candy's Journal:

Late that afternoon, just prior to “dinner,” guard/messenger/probably just nearest available warm body showed up (with no appointment—what kind of gulag is this?) with nonoptional invitation to accompany him “...now."

Unscheduled constitutional wound up at massively armored entrance to Khraniteli's huge underground shelter. Followed escort along endless series of corridors to doorway, which opened to reveal...

"Ah,” rasped Kazimirov, from behind broad desk, “Lizzy Borden, the American...” Tone turned country of origin into pejorative.

Instantly Plucky Special-Ops Girl's internal “battle stations” alarms went off; combat computer engaged. This definitely not on schedule. Inconspicuously (I hoped) adjusted balance, stance.

Then, full-bore chainsaw mode held in abeyance by thinnest of hair triggers, but ready to explode at slightest hint that jig might be up, made round, mystified eyes; said, in meekest, most submissive tones, “Hello, Mr. Kazimirov. Is everything all right? Why am I here ... ?"

Russian's face contorted in odd fashion; in someone else, might have been mistaken for attempt at friendly smile, but on Fearless Leader, looked almost painful.

Unexpectedly, waved me into chair; opened with, “Borden, you are young; you must have gone to many movies in America. I collect movies. What American movies have you seen, and which have you found most enjoyable?"

Inquiry registered so high on non sequitur meter, “sense” of question almost eluded me. Must have taken whole seconds to collect, refocus wits—then pull back from edge, throttle down homicidal response matrix to idle.

Decision not to toy with monster's brain this time around arrived at separately, but no less emphatically.

Conducted quick review; decided own personal favorites list offered sufficient variation for opening response: “I've always preferred older, funny movies. The funniest movie of all time is The Gods Must Be Crazy. Have you seen it? It was made by some people from South Africa. They were completely unknown in America at the time.

"Of kids’ movies, my favorites would be any of The Pirates of the Caribbean series; they were almost as funny. Of more grownup movies, the non-Disney version of Peter Pan, with Rachel Hurd-Wood, and, not funny but I love it, the original Lassie Come Home, with Roddy McDowall.

"However"—occurred to Intrepid Apprentice Spook at that point that by employing reverse variation on Scheherazade strategy, if didn't overdo it, possibly could learn something useful about opposition. So changed final answer, tossed in off-the-wall ringer for bait—"I think my all-time favorite action movie is the first Die Hard, with Bruce Willis."

There, own list should suffice to undermine head sociopath's mundane preconceptions about preteen American girls; but Die Hard so anomalous, so violent by comparison, perhaps would trigger revealing questions.

And worked. I guess. Whatever.

Monster looked pleased (to degree that face capable of expressing pleasure); rose to bait like hungry toad to big, fat fly. “Yes,” he almost enthused; “the Die Hard movies are particularly enjoyable; they are among my own favorites."

(Oh, goodie, Posterity; massest murderer of all time thinks airheaded ingenue refugee shares his cinematic tastes. Daddy will be so proud.)

"For a male,” he continued, expression softening further, “the appeal is obvious. But what about that first film caused you, a young girl, to enjoy it so?"

Double-goodie—Fearless Leader fancied self movie critic. Perhaps even intellectual. Hadn't anticipated cross-examination regarding motives; hadn't, in fact, ever particularly thought about which nuts, bolts, specific structural bits make one movie more enjoyable than another. Might as well ask, “What specifically do you like about the taste of chocolate?” Don't know; just do. Movies largely similar: Ring bell or not.

Yes, have heard discussions among normal (i.e., nonsociopathic, nongenocidal) people generally centering on what bits each found exciting, funny, touching. However, only movie critics publicly pretended interest in motivations, subliminal messages.

On other hand, had dropped Die Hard into discussion while fishing for reaction. Okay, had it. Be careful what you wish for—now what...?

Debated briefly. Apart from Die Hard (which actually had enjoyed, on unabashedly primitive, viscerally combative level), list basically truthful. Safest approach, therefore, probably to limit observations to truth, or at least cautious variations based on truth.

—So instead blurted, “I liked Bruce Willis’ character in Die Hard. John McClane was intelligent and brave. But...” paused as if thinking, then delivered jab: “...most important of all, he had absolute, unswerving moral integrity."

There—see how that goes down, you soulless, homicidal ghoul.

But ethical belly-kick fell flat. Kazimirov simply disagreed—intellectual superior to noncomprehending, lower-order being—"McClane is a predictable hero; this makes him boring. I feel more kinship with Hans Gruber."

(Hah, big surprise there.) Made wide, round eyes. “The terrorist?"

Kazimirov offered superior smile at my simple-minded (deliberate) missing of point. “The ‘exceptional thief.’ He was a villain only in the eyes of screenwriters genuflecting to conventional Hollywood morality. McClane emerged victorious only by virtue of repeated convenient accidents and several clever tricks.

"Hans’ scheme to loot the money-grubbing Asians’ vault was well researched, thoroughly planned, and soundly grounded in human psychology. Except for the screenwriters’ morally bankrupt tilting of the playing field, he would have succeeded."

Really, Posterity, had meant self-promise not to play with monster's head this time. Really. But—

"Oh, no, sir,” I burbled brightly, projecting ingenue so shallow, was incapable even of remembering surroundings, captive status. “What really happened is, Hans had the bad luck to run into the King of the Cowboys. John McClane identified with Roy Rogers because he's just as incorruptible—and Roy never loses.” Paused, eyed him solemnly, finished emphatically, "Ever."

Kazimirov's expression darkened slightly. “Hah! Roy Rogers—a mere icon of American naivete."

"Of American optimism,” I demurred, projecting my best young Shirley Temple earnestness, “and personal integrity."

As continued to hammer blithely on integrity theme, good humor began to ebb from Russian's eyes. Perhaps had begun to occur to him, was having philosophical debate with patently air-headed enemy preteen ... and losing.

Still, completely bereft of self-respect (soulless genocidal ghoul union has rules),Khraniteli unhesitatingly chose low road to regain points lead: “Neither the Americans’ optimism nor their so-called integrity saved them, did it."

Performed one of his apparently patented boiler-venting exhalations through nose. “With the exception of you, our American doctor, and a small, troublesome group, all Americans are dead now. And soon those few annoying survivors will join the rest."

Required major effort, but managed to keep expression from changing—at least Kazimirov failed to notice anything untoward—as, trying for natural, childlike curiosity, replied, “What do you mean, sir?"

Pretty sure was beginning to get handle on Khraniteli's primary personality disorders and, if reading him correctly—if seriously bad mojo for AAs truly afoot—Fearless Leader would enjoy watching helpless young captive's distress upon hearing terrible news. Still, required all available concentration not to show was holding breath until...

Kazimirov smiled again. Unambiguously bad smile. “There are something approaching 2,000 Americans gathered in a single location in the mountains of southern California. We had arranged to eliminate them previously, but something went wrong. Since then they have regularly caused us problems."

(Suppressing flash of private smugness cost major effort: Wondered how revelation that the “something” which had gone wrong stood before him would impact “Hans'” opinion of “Roy Rogers.")

"However, I have wearied of them and their interference,” continued head sociopath. “Accordingly, we have searched across Eurasia, located, and brought back a number of very large, multiple-warhead, thermonuclear, intercontinental ballistic missiles. Today is Saturday. Tuesday, barring some unprecedentedly widespread problem discovered during the countdown, we will launch them en masse.

"Even with the significant percentage of mechanical and/or electronic failures which we can expect due to age and lack of maintenance during storage, the very numbers of missiles make it certain that more than enough will get through to carpet-bomb a hundred-kilometer radius around their headquarters."

Monster leaned back then; eyed me smugly. Smile metamorphosed into nameless projection of almost satanic satisfaction. “Three days from now, you and Marshall Foster will be the last Americans...."

Required little acting skill to reward sociopath with slow, horrified tears (but required lots of multitasking effort not to react to ghoul's confirmation Daddy was indeed “other American").

Kazimirov chuckled. “I don't think Roy Rogers will save them this time, do you?"

(In point of fact, “Roy” already juggling options—of which most triggered horrid hollow feelings in belly: Clearly only way to be certain of ending missile threat for good would be to wipe out warheads. Only way to be certain of that would be thermonuclear detonation. Hoped against hope setting off fireworks would not require personal, on-site attention. Notwithstanding primary mission's patently suicidal odds, pushing thermonuke's built-in Red Button with own finger had never figured into plans....)

Chewed over what had learned about Kazimirov's psyche thus far; concluded hint of spunk might be appropriate reaction at this point. Rose, glared down nose at fiend; declared, “None of the back-shooting, cowardly villains he faced ever thought so either."

Spun wordlessly, stalked haughtily out door. Experienced bad moment, wondering belatedly whether imputation of cowardice, never mind exit without permission, might have overstepped bounds, would bring down inconvenient, possibly even dangerous, wrath; but after only moment's hesitation, Kazimirov's scornful laugh followed.

Then, amazingly—"In a few days, you will have come to a clearer understanding of reality in this new world. We will speak again of American movies."

Reality? From perspective of worst sociopathic butcher in all history—who cheerfully identifies with Hans Gruber? Pretty sure that word didn't mean what he thought it did....

As followed guard back toward entrance, mind whirled with rush of sudden complications, conflicting thoughts, considerations—not to mention barely restrained homicidal impulses...

Kim Mellon's Journal:

Just what we needed—another Khraniteli threat to the precarious foothold our too-vulnerably incipient species is trying to gain. Wide eyes were in evidence all around at the conclusion of Candy's second Terry-relayed encounter with Kazimirov; and before its conclusion, Kelli Watts was already on the satellite phone, giving the people back at Palomar the unsettling news. If we can't stop the launch, they'll need to evacuate, and there's an awful lot of data and equipment that will need to be relocated as well.

However, work on the A plane's engine is already proceeding with the utmost haste, and nothing can be done to shorten the time required for completion.

In any event, Wallace is confident that, though the timing may be tighter than strictly comfortable, we'll get there in time to deal with this latest threat, and, of course, to rescue Candy, Doctor Foster, and those captive children.

Candy's Journal:

Once sally port security personnel settled back down after clearly unwelcome interruption represented by Yours Truly's return to camp (i.e., refocused attention back to bottles’ contents, as God intended), Intrepid Special-Ops Girl draped arm firmly over Tasha's shoulder, dragged girl off for brief stroll around compound. Maintaining separation from microphones, quickly brought her up-to-date on Kazimirov's fireworks surprise.

Except for prior demonstrations of intelligence, might have wondered whether girl comprehended situation's gravity: Seemed supremely unimpressed. Response limited to sanguine, “So before escaping, we stopping them."

Glad Tasha's confidence high; impending missile launch, together with own possible personal involvement in solving problem, left stomach so tied in knots, couldn't force down gourmet offerings children had saved me from evening meal. (To be fair, while primary appetite deficit grew out of tension-induced acid stomach, suspicion that entree's meat content probably started life as card-carrying member of Rodentia was less than helpful.) Divided up my portion amongst youngest campers, who clearly needed it more than I, regardless of source.

Later that night, showed Tasha how to use stick to keep razor wire out of mischief while eeling over fence. Adjourned together to base camp, where girl, Maggie hit it off instantly—in fact, within moments of arrival, Tasha found self snookered into moonlight Frisbee. Watched them briefly with smile: Clearly girl had proper doggie-parenting instincts; would take best care of BC possible, In The Event Of...

Once Maggie sufficiently frisbeed out (our opinion, not hers), fed, watered, BC diagnosed Tasha as snuggle-deprived, set about rendering treatment.

However, with dog in arms, girl found herself reliving Russian perspective on Mankind's End, replay centered on fact that her beloved, fiercely protective Dobie, out of town with father when plague, panic, riots started up, had never made it home. Flashback soon deteriorated into silent, convulsively whole-body-racking sobs, clearly born of pain beyond capacity to contain or express.

As involuntarily self-taught, rule-of-thumb psychologist (like all H. post hominems, been there, done that, understood suffering's dynamics all too well), could tell Tasha's determined focus upon long-lost dog classic grief-substitution syndrome: Yes, dog's loss almost too painful to contemplate, but intensified by transference mechanism: Dog's loss represented family, friends—whole of her world. Like most of us, girl was, in fact, to best of her knowledge, community's sole survivor. Also like most of us, had spent terrible protracted interval fearing was all alone on planet.

From appearances, this was first time Tasha had let anyone, anything get past barriers behind which bottled-up pain had mounted steadily, festering, well on way to turning septic.

Holding her tightly in my arms as she clung to Maggie, we helped her ride it out. By time emotional purge slowed, ground to quivering halt, girl was limp, barely responsive, but catharsis finally behind her. Based on own experience, that of friends', new family members', knew girl would be all right now.

(By rights, TD on Maggie's collar should have read, CTD, for champion therapy dog; never so much as twitched muscle to pull away as long as Tasha needed her.)

Outing concluded finally with gathering selected tools; swallowing couple mouthfuls of C-rations, accumulating balance to take back for kids; returning to prison camp; divvying up food. Finally made it into filthy beds shortly after one, both still red-eyed, borderline sniffily.

Kim Mellon's Journal:

At dawn's first pinkish glow this morning, those of us not already awake and working under the lights on the A plane's engine were rudely jarred from our bunks by the mounting shriek of jet engines—not ours—spooling up to a full-throated roar.

Stumbling blearily en masse down the C-17s’ ramps to the ground, we saw what appeared to be a small, business-class jet, something on the order of a ten-passenger Gulfstream, accelerating briskly down the nearest runway. In the dim light, it was just possible to make out the Cyrillic lettering on the hull.

Banking steeply the moment it left the ground, the small jet climbed out rapidly toward the still-dark southwestern sky, clearly on course for Serdtsevina Rasovyi.

Teacher watched in silence, his face a poster portrait for the phrase, enigmatic expression. Next to him, Wallace shook his head and grumbled something which, if it had come from anyone else, could have been mistaken for a sarcastic observation about the special personal satisfactions of being included in precision operational choreography, as well as left and right hands each sharing what the other had in mind.

Adam, who had been up all night working on the engine, said nothing. Briefly he glared after the plane, but then turned and went back to work.

For myself, the burst of relief I felt when I saw that plane, and realized what was happening, was so profound that I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry, and ended up doing a little of both simultaneously.

On the other hand, Danya's actions have reinforced my growing impression that, as a young girl, she probably was very much like Candy; and that, as our favorite problem stepchild grows up, it's going to be increasingly difficult to tell them apart.

Which contributes a somewhat less comfortable overlay to those feelings of relief...

Volume VIII

Candle, Moth, Flame

Candy's Journal:

Day XII

Achieved little sleep that night, Posterity, and even that not restful: Tossed, turned, obsessed (consciously and sub-) about morrow (okay, technically, today), not to mention Kazimirov's thermonuclear plans for (actual) day after tomorrow.

And when finally did manage to nod off, however briefly, promptly found self once again fleeing in slow-motion, inches ahead of polar bear—this one with recognizable elements of Kazimirov's face superimposed over, blended with ursine features.

But worse, bear allied this time with weaselly looking, bald-headed hyena—with slopey shoulders; almost nonexistent piggy nose with slitlike nostrils; wet, almost runny, unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes; big, slack lips; no chin to speak of.

Just behind us as we fled—me pulling Daddy, him towing Tasha, rest of kids strung out behind her, all bouncing along like linked balloons—carnivores pursued, moving in synchronized, slow-motion bounds.

And as usual, no matter how steeply forward I leaned, or how glidey managed to make strides in effort to speed progress through syrup-consistency air, we gained no ground on anthropomorphically featured mobile appetites.

Worse, Daddy kept trying to pull away, turn back; kept muttering something about having forgotten to leave water running in stove, turn on electricity in bathtub, light fuse—whatever!

By two o'clock, when dormitory door banged open, jarring me blearily awake, was ready to smack him.

But adrenaline surge, upon opening eyes, cleared out blearies in short order: With no attempt at stealth, Driutsk, accompanied by two other men, marched up center aisle, stopped at foot of bed; stood regarding me: licking big, slack lips; unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes shining even brighter....

Kim Mellon's Journal:

At breakfast this morning, about seven, Lisa suddenly dropped her utensils and began writing furiously in the ever-present steno tablet.

"Hello, Mr. Driutsk,” said Terry, from her shoulder. “Gee, it's late; it must be the middle of the night. What are you doing here?"

Lisa glanced up at me, her eyes worried. “Mommy,” she murmured, “Candy's scared..."

Candy's Journal:

"I told you I would see you later,” said Driutsk, making visible effort to suppress smirk. “Get up, child. Come with me."

Eased from beneath ragged blanket; rose cautiously. Switched on combat computer's peripheral hyperawareness, the better to watch all three simultaneously.

"Where?"

"With me.” Driutsk's big, wet, loose-lipped smile raised goosebumps up, down spine's full length.

"At this hour? Why?"

Breathily, Russian simpered, “It is time for you to cross the threshold into adulthood. I am going to expand your horizons...."

Kim Mellon's Journal:

I found myself standing, staring at Terry, my feelings no doubt apparent in my face. But I wasn't sure whether I was more afraid for Candy or worried about how eavesdropping telepathically and/or empathetically on what appeared to be about to happen might affect Lisa.

Around the table, others had begun to notice. Adam, too, was on his feet, his face pale, eyes flinty.

Her pen never missing a word as they cascaded from Terry's bill, Lisa's eyes flickered up and around at us uncomfortably. But then, after a moment's visible deliberation, her expression firmed. “If hearing things like this is going to affect you this much,” she said sternly, her tone and delivery unmistakably my worried voice, “I'm not sure I should let you listen..."

Candy's Journal:

"No ... !” Unexpected little voice shrill, angry, but curiously unafraid.

All eyes turned to see tiny Katia on her feet, eyes blazing, marching up aisle, bearing down on Driutsk. Child glared up monster's nostrils from vicinity of furcula; poked him firmly in chest with stiffened index finger. “Be her leaving alone. Not she knowing. With you I am being go—is enough!"

Irrelevant-but-analytical-detail-obsessed corner of brain enjoyed momentary internal dialogue over surprise at noting: First, Katia spoke English; second, marveling at how well—and only then, belatedly, realized just how smart tiny girl really was: Extra effort just to keep me in loop!

In response, Russian's smirk became, if possible, even more palpably loathsome. But then laughed; said (in English; repellant little dweeb lacked strength of character to resist being led—by child), “Yes, you will come with us.” Pointed at another girl, about Katia's age, shrinking back under blanket. “You too. My friends wish to experiment."

"But you...” Turned back to me; leer faded to horrid caricature of smile whose contrived friendliness somehow more disturbing than unambiguous lechery; “...you I think may be special. You are for me."

Double bunks abutting wall on either side of unscheduledly Kitten-in-Cage Girl formed cul-de-sac—tactically, situation could have served as dictionary definition/illustration of cornered.

Carefully, stepped past trio out into aisle, furiously evaluating unexpected strategic/tactical complications...

First, quite apart from obvious negatives, situation strategically inconvenient: Still hadn't found Daddy; could not afford to attract attention at this point.

And tactically, even with theoretical advantage conferred by momentary startlement paralysis inherent in what Danni likes to call exploding baby bunny factor, three opponents, all staring fixedly at me, almost certainly too many to dispose of. Certainly not quietly.

True, Driutsk himself clearly easy meat: soft-bellied little desk-jockey; hardly significant factor.

Associates, on other hand, typically robust six-foot-plussers; strapping, healthy young Russian males. (One actually kind of cute, if preferences run to sexual deviates.) Grown men both; plus stance, movements suggested at minimum some training. Not to be taken lightly.

All of which highlighted question: Go quietly? Cooperate? Or blow cover in biggest possible way, thereby imperiling mission?

What would Danya do...?

But before could come up with answer, Tasha forced herself between Katia, Driutsk; hissed, "Enough! Be taking me!—never Katia you hurting again!"

Words barely cleared lips before Driutsk's expression turned contemptuous; launched casual, roundhouse fist at Tasha's head.

And suddenly, strategic considerations notwithstanding, tactical situation reshuffled: Like jackals circling crippled baby antelope, all three degenerates’ attention now focused exclusively on Tasha. For all intents, purposes, rest of us became invisible.

"Shazam....” Muttered trigger word came almost as surprise—but relief, too: Worrying phase now behind me.

Combat computer kicked in fully, time slowed...

Was already some five feet off floor, approaching apogee of leap, rotating to horizontal, as Driutsk's fist converged with Tasha's cheekbone. Time passing so slowly now, even had time for flash of apologetic empathy for girl: Had to leave easiest adversary for last, which meant Driutsk's blow no doubt would land before I finished with other two. Desperately hoped would do no permanent damage...

Arriving at targets’ shoulder height, legs coiled, cocked, then initiated half bicycle-pedaling motion: two almost simultaneous, hysterical-strength-driven kicks, one for each opponent. Left heel slashed in under number one's chin, crushing larynx, separating cervical vertebrae.

Impact provided fulcrum, leverage to drive ball of right foot inches deep into number two's temple, which—

Details of how Cross-Eyed Special-Ops Girl came to be lying flat on back, staring up through clouds of spots swirling about Driutsk's mask of rage, had been obscured by sudden, blinding explosion of light behind eyes.

Still, from this perspective, could hardly fail to notice: Heretofore-assumed-soft little slug's posture now epitomized textbook karate stance. Driutsk must indeed have been soldier; perhaps even “much decorated.” At very least, possessed first-rate hand-to-hand skills.

Obviously picked up my attack via peripheral vision; reacted automatically. Judging from pain location, had back-fisted me along cheekbone, just below ear, while my attention fixed on other two.

(Hey, no fair!—blindsiding my idea...)

Fortunately, blow delivered off-balance; target horizontal, floating. Majority of force glanced off unproductively due to angle. If had connected solidly, would have been in coma, if not dead.

Now, Homo post hominem reflexes intrinsically faster at peak efficiency than Russian's, but as lay there blinking to clear vision, combat computer seemed to be experiencing momentary bout of low-grade-concussion-induced off-peak efficiency—condition not all that easily distinguishable from paralysis.

Barely enough time-slowing function remained operational at that point to permit impact-crossed eyes to admire Driutsk's technical form as Russian drove right fist straight down toward Smith-Foster cardiac central—technique affectionately known among kung-foo movie aficionados as “heart-burster.” In fact, lying flat, with back supported by unyielding floor, if punch had landed, consequences no doubt would have justified blow's nickname.

All of which takes much longer to tell than do. Despite flickery vision, pain thundering inside skull, conditioned reflexes managed to slap weakly at Russian's fist, deflecting slightly; simultaneously, combat computer twisted torso—barely out of harm's way.

Recombined vectors, targeting parameters caused fist to brush sternum only lightly in passing, graze ribs hardly more firmly—then crash squarely into floor. Using excellent karate form, Driutsk had delivered simply devastating blow: Quite literally, whole building shook.

Unquestionably, if Russian had been performing karate demonstration, fist would have driven straight through plywood.

Except for presence of heavy joist, located directly beneath impacted floorboard.

Also unlike usual exhibition stunt, appeared to hurt like the dickens. And certainly, from expression, Driutsk's disposition not improved as scrambled to straighten up, reestablish balance, stance.

However, since intended target's block-slap had morphed into grabbing firmly onto attacker's forearm as fist blurred past, was able to use it for leverage to yank/swing self up past him. Even had time to inconvenience Russian further by planting audibly rib-cracking elbow en passant. Actually made it to own feet slightly ahead of him.

Not that mattered.

Because as both came fully upright, blood turned to ice in belly: Noticed small, black, semiautomatic pistol in Driutsk's undamaged hand, aimed precisely at Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's favorite center of mass....

If time had slowed before, now stopped altogether for oxymoronically significant interval. Only sound in dorm was rasp of Driutsk's breathing, as eyes momentarily flicked, in purest, flaming rage, from me to broken, bleeding knuckles, to bodies on floor, then back to me.

Really surprised, Posterity, degenerate didn't just shoot me out of hand. Sure thought was going to. (Certainly would have had roles been reversed.) Undoubtedly would have been terrified, if had had time.

As things stood, however—gun hand fractionally beyond kicking range, ruling out disarmament attempt—only hope remaining was attempting legendary karate masters’ fabled twist/wiggle/sidestep from bullet's path at precise moment trigger pulled, followed by all-out, banzai-mode attack before opponent could get off second shot.

Regrettably, reputable authorities—Teacher, Danya, Gayle among them—uniformly agree such stories really are fables....

Still, in absence of alternatives, cranked up hyperalertness/focus to highest levels; tried to divide attention between ghoul's unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes and trigger finger.

Wondered if dying would hurt a lot...

Instead, Driutsk dipped single functional finger of bleeding hand into pocket, extracted pair of handcuffs. Eyes never left mine as tossed restraints at Tasha—

Who, astonishingly, still was on feet; apparently blow aimed at her hadn't quite had time to land before monster shifted attention to me.

"Put them on her, or I will shoot her right now,” he snarled, “and then I will shoot you."

To me, in rage-filled whisper: “Now I will expand your horizons until you beg to die—then I will give you to Fedka..."

Have no doubt, every detail of tableau's next few seconds will remain fresh in memory until dying day—scene may well replace slow-motion polar bear chases as favorite nightmare hangout: Tasha, handcuffs dangling from hand, frozen in indecision. Horrified expressions of children standing around us. Brutally efficient-looking little gun, whose muzzle looked big enough to park UAZ in. Driutsk's rage-, hate-filled eyes blazing at me over pistol sights

—Rage-, hate-filled eyes abruptly losing focus, as crushed-watermelon sound broke silence, carrying softly but distinctly throughout dorm.

Russian blinked. Looked puzzled. Lowered gun. Dropped heavily to knees, swayed briefly, then pitched forward onto face...

Revealing tiny Katia, right behind him, eyes sparkling with expression of almost spiritual satisfaction.

With own head still ringing like cathedral bell, took several moments’ labored thought to realize Driutsk probably not born with semipointy, business end of Mossad bolt-cutter embedded several inches into occiput.

Own functioning level immaterial at that point. Tasha already in motion; situation well in hand: Briskly, girl grabbed nearest ragged blanket, doubled once, and again; then matter-of-factly used conveniently projecting, newly installed handles to lift Driutsk's head as slid pad underneath; thereafter allowed to thump back onto floor. As blood began to leak out around tool, pad neatly caught, absorbed.

Simultaneously, other kids also shifting smoothly into gear: One sprinted to window facing sally port, peeked out; then turned back with smile, pantomiming sleep, with tilted head resting on nested hands.

Experienced momentary, threefold flash of horror/relief/guilt, as realized Unthinking Special-Ops Girl had undeservingly dodged another bullet: Had entirely forgotten intradorm microphones, possibility that commotion could have been overheard by crack security troops manning sally port.

—Okay, never mind, Posterity; even I can't say that with straight face. Odds that prison camp personnel might have been listening at that hour...

But even if I had remembered, undoubtedly would have rolled dice, responded in precisely same fashion....

Hastily, other children pushed several bunks to one side, lifted heretofore unnoticed loose flooring section. Swarming like ants around bodies, kids dragged/pushed to opening, rolled limply over edge, where fell between joists, landing bonelessly on bare soil paving crawlspace beneath pylon-supported building. Jumping down after them, children produced improvised shovels from under edges, began digging furiously.

Vaulting lightly down into hole, Tasha used foot to hold Driutsk's head immobile as wrenched at bolt-cutter handles. Took only couple yanks before audible crunch announced tool's release. As blockage vanished, blood, pureed brain tissue gushed forth in earnest, soaking into earth.

Wiping majority of scarlet evidence from bolt-cutter with corpse's own shirttail, Tasha tossed unsuspectedly multipurpose tool up to smaller girl, who first brandished aloft in wordless triumph, grinned at me, then skipped off to bathroom. Shortly, sounds of washing could be heard through open door.

Once disposal project underway, functioning smoothly, Tasha paused momentarily. Our eyes met; she offered worried little smile. “Head how?"

Before could round up, coordinate enough brain cells to respond, felt warm little fingers take hand. Looking down, found Katia's almost worshipful expression looking back. With other hand, child offered borderline-filthy communal scoop filled with rusty water.

Clearly not the time to fuss about hygiene; obviously Katia needed to share, to help. Steeled self, took brief sip, handed back; mumbled, “Thank you."

And discovered forming words made head hurt even worse.

Abruptly, Katia hugged me—harder than would have believed emaciated little frame could manage. From somewhere in vicinity of wishbone (little head's crown didn't quite reach chin) came whispered, “Thanking you."

Dully wondered why Katia thanking me; girl unquestionably had just saved life. Hugged her back, though almost gingerly, in deference to prominent ribs.

Tried not to think about horrors child must have endured. Hoped staving in monster's skull would prove as long-run beneficial as actual moment of revenge seemed to have been short-term.

Unsurprised to find internal dam crumbling at that point. Tried, with little success, not to dribble tears all over little girl's head.

Presently Katia drew back slightly, blotted my face on grimy sleeve. Led to nearest bed, made me sit.

From bottom of rapidly deepening hole beneath dorm, Tasha smiled, whispered, “Resting you; out we being take musor—garbage."

Kim Mellon's Journal:

Both Lisa and Terry were looking terribly pleased with themselves by the time Candy's immediate life-and-death crisis had resolved.

For Terry, of course, showing off is its own reward.

However, I suspect Lisa's sense of personal contribution to the expedition (ego has such negative semantic implications) was particularly well fed by the uniformly thunderstruck expressions worn by everyone present—who, by the event's conclusion, had comprised the entire crew: All work on the plane had ground briefly to a halt; everyone was listening with, depending upon personal inclination, angry or horrified eyes.

Not a few were blinking back tears. As usual, I'd given up even trying to blink them back....

Candy's Journal:

Once pounding behind eyes had eased, vision mostly cleared, joined kids taking turns digging. Not as difficult as sounds; goal turned out to be three-foot-diameter, round hole straight down about six feet.

Reshaped boards proved remarkably efficient shovels. Head still hurt too much to ask when, for what purpose kids had made them in first place. Maybe later...

Finally rolled corpses in, dovetailed on excavation's floor like limp Chinese puzzle components. Shoveled dirt back in; finished up by artistically smoothing surface to match previously undisturbed condition.

No one paused to Say Words per se over grave. Yes, many words spoken throughout, but though all in Russian, majority almost certainly unrepeatable, even in rude company.

Withal, less than most classical of entombments, but sufficient unto our modest needs. And much better than disposees deserved.

No one got any more sleep: Interring Khraniteli degenerates took much of remaining night; restoring dorm's interior to cozy, prepervicide squalor ate up balance. Plus superelevated adrenaline levels not that conducive to drowsiness.

(Hmm. "Khraniteli degenerates” ... Redundancy? No, don't think so. “Normal” Khraniteli [yes, clearly an oxymoron] merely characterized by active pursuit of genocidal impulses—not rampant psychosexual deviance.)

What passed for breakfast at prison camp served couple hours after sunup. One look at offerings revealed why children all skinny.

Almost incidentally, sometime between fight and breakfast, picked up on fact that kids all understood, spoke at least some English. In recognition of fact that only friend beyond fence was Daddy, Tasha had been doing best to teach kids, in hopes improved communication could enhance odds.

Danni really going to love her, Posterity....

Judging by appearances, bored food-delivery guards not overburdened by curiosity (or even much in way of self-awareness); failed to notice that, despite continuing horrible food, conditions generally, kids all seemed oddly buoyed-up this morning: full of everything's-funny giggles.

Given our night's activities, came as little surprise that, despite Kazimirov's announced intentions, no one came to collect Lizzie Borden for trip to lab. Nor that by midmorning, even new kid, peering dispiritedly through fence, could tell Khraniteli Central appeared preoccupied: Multiple groups prowled, on foot as well as in vehicles, weapons in evidence. Clearly, Driutsk & Company's absence noticed; Khraniteli in all-out search mode.

However, no one so much as glanced our direction. Obviously, following previous evening's collective postdinner blotto session, guards all had slept straight through night; unsurprisingly, hadn't related sleep habits to cohorts’ disappearance, nor (big surprise this) bothered to mention night's alertness level to Powers That Be. As a result, Driutsk's late-night tiptoe in through sally port remained Our Little Secret.

(Is helpful, when karma squishing up through toes occasionally turns out to be positive variety....)

But then, from deeply buried (even more deeply stupid) corner of brain, unworthy thought trickled out: Would give almost anything to be fly on wall, watch Kazimirov's face, when finds Driutsk. Preferably after several weeks’ ripening. Especially if figures out who cost him his favorite “much decorated soldier ... accomplished electromechanical engineer"...

Lapse brief, however; clearly, once explanation surfaces (ooo; sorry), best to be somewhere emphatically else.

Serdtsevina Rasovyi community's upset so generalized, so intense, wasn't until evening, just prior to feeding time (again!), that bored guard wandered by to collect Yours Truly for ride to lab. Functionary so disinterested or stupid (distinction appeared subtle among lower-ranking security personnel), didn't even notice spectacularly multicolored bruise now brightening just below ear, from point of cheekbone to well back into hairline: lingering memento of Driutsk's back-fist.

Happily, as rainbow-hued souvenir intensified, concussive symptoms had faded. At this point, vision clear, brain again functioning at what serves me for normal.

And good thing, too. Because had more than enough to worry about without impaired neural connections: About to meet Daddy for first time since day before World Ended, and found self needing to exercise maximum control to avoid getting into “quite a state."

Okay, bald-faced lie—already in state, well beyond quite, actually, which was growing rapidly more intense, and becoming more and more worried about it: If couldn't control reactions upon meeting Daddy after all this time, would put him, not to mention self, in danger.

Because no doubt at all: If Khraniteli tumbled to relationship, would use me as lever to try to control Daddy.

Which could only end badly for both: Daddy loves me as much as I do him, but understands ultimate stakes. If push comes to shove, if forced into Needs of Many situation—if has to choose between my life, his life, either/both—versus survival of our people, his answer not in question for single minute. Or mine. Though unquestionably, Daddy would be more manly about it.

Personally, if torture involved, his or mine, intend to cry a lot.

Accordingly, had zenned self almost into stupor by time guard pulled car to stop in front of lab building. Stopped, got out, walked around. Opened door, seized collar, yanked me out without comment, marched us up walk to lab door.

Brief Russian conversation ensued as driver logged me in with security. Then situation got ugly:

Among gun-totin’ staff present, recognized guard whom had hugged previous day. Object of affections recognized me as well—and immediately set about being extra-nasty in front of superiors to overcompensate for prior momentary display of humanity. Seizing arm, twisted painfully. Then barked ugly laugh, grabbed hair, angled head to display bruise to admiring colleagues. Even demonstrated mastery of what passes for physical humor among Khraniteli by thumb-jabbing well-known nerve ganglion just behind jaw—well within bruised area.

Required no acting to reward bully's efforts with authentic, agonized squeak—poke there hurts even without bruise.

(Made note to return favor, if opportunity presents—with interest...)

Thereafter, barely able to maintain feet as bully propelled me roughly through door, down corridor, to, through second door on left. Slammed me down into chair next to empty reception desk. Pounded on inner door, shouted something in Russian.

One last time, braced self not to react to Daddy's appearance, as door opened and—

In walked Dead Man....

Volume IX

Paging Dr. Zombie

Not making this up, Posterity: Man who stalked into room, stared down at your Humble Historiographer with interest level barely appropriate to receipt of yet another uninteresting biological specimen, was cold-sweat-inducing, prickles-all-up/down-spine-triggering, sinking-feeling-in-belly-inspiring, barely-can-breathe-in-presence dead.

Okay, not horror-genre-comic-book dead: Hair clean, fingernails groomed; both neatly trimmed. Skin, though well toward pale end of normal range, grossly ordinary. But eyes...

From first glimpse, Kazimirov's eyes had suggested Khraniteli's Fearless Leader had emerged from womb with chip already permanently affixed to shoulder.

Driutsk's, until challenge from mere children sent him frothing over edge, much too bright, too jolly, too excited—and spent way too much time staring, with politically incorrect intensity, at key components of intended object of affection's anatomy.

Dead Man's eyes, by contrast, empty. Not so much devoid of emotion as simply no hint that anyone dwelt in there.

Or more accurate characterization perhaps might be ... seemed not even to be any there in there.

Gaze of great white shark, circling thrashing, bleeding swimmer, positively grandmotherly by comparison.

Balance of appearance superficially odd but medically unremarkable: NBA-caliber tall; lean, just short of skeletally so; thinning, more-salt-than-pepper hair. Unusually broad, slightly rounded shoulders surmounting tall, thin frame invited comparisons to king cobra, hood spread, reared up to strike.

However, as studied walking cadaver, word “ascetic” came unbidden to mind, though seemed, somehow, inadequate...

"You are an American,” enunciated Dead Man, as led way into next room, which proved to be garden-variety doctor's exam cubicle. “What is your name, American?"

Diction almost inhumanly precise; English lacked any detectible trace of accent—or emotion, for that matter; have heard computer-synthesized speech containing more warmth, animation, humanity.

More chilling, however, facial expression utterly without affect.

"Elizabeth Borden, sir.” Prompt, scrupulously responsive (however fictional) answer on my part popped out almost involuntarily, triggered by realization that, unlike Kazimirov, Dead Man inspired no temptation whatever to engage in head games.

In fact, within moments of meeting, had arrived at utter conviction that, if somehow managed to trip Dead Man's alarms, would have no choice but to kill him (conventionally, all the way, really, really, really dead), right then, there.

Or probably die. Right then, there.

Because in Yours Truly's brief but intense experience in life, real fanaticism expressed in two ways: noisy vs. silent.

Adherents of loud variety tend gather in multitudes, rage in streets en masse. Regularly expend vast amounts of live ammunition upon unoffending sky without hint of thought for anyone who might find self beneath hail of bullets when “what goes up” arrives at logical conclusion. Hordes of noisy extremists usually audible miles off; plenty of time to make appropriate preparations.

Silent type, on other hand, tends to work alone, observe opposition without objection, argument, without even detectible interest—until stealth analysis completed; then strikes without warning, hesitation, mercy, regret. Sole objective: dead unbeliever.

Tends also to be more intelligent, disciplined, better trained.

Dead Man impressed me as especially quiet zealot exemplar.

Which prompted realization that, under circumstances, even exploding baby bunny factor inspired less than customary brash confidence in outcome.

Exam commenced; and though preliminary medical history interview cursory by any standard, conduct otherwise irreproachably professional. Began with obvious: “Where are you from?"

"Wausippi, Wisconsin, Amer—"

"Are you the only survivor of your family?” Chop-off seemed less exercise in control, dominance, than simple disinterest.

"Yes, sir.” Only belatedly, realized had made no attempt to wrap inherently trauma-loaded question's response in appropriate emotional overlay, as might be expected from “normal” grief-stricken kid suddenly reminded of tragedy's details.

But Dead Man seemed not to notice. Suspected was accustomed to flattened affects from children he dealt with—most, at least on short-term basis, probably more traumatized by his mere presence than recounting loved ones’ demise.

"I am Fedka,” continued Dead Man. “I am director of medical research. First I will take a DNA sample from you. Open your mouth."

Did so. Instantly. Wide.

Fedka produced package of Russian-cloned Q-Tip-ish swabs. Tearing open wrapper, used them to scrub inner cheek surfaces thoroughly, meticulously: up, down, up, down; six firm scrubs per side. Dropped samples into tray, set to side.

Then reached out hand; astonishingly long, spiderlike fingers enveloped head as completely as I would grip tennis ball. Fedka tilted, rotated cranium; eyeballed jumbo, rainbow-hued ecchymosis. Palpated with surprisingly gentle fingertips.

"How did this happen?” Inquiry lacked any hint of sympathy, animation, but professional in context; could almost delude self into believing question motivated by normal healer's desire to help.

Deliberated briefly; concluded sprinkling of truth over mix might help deepen confusion currently gripping community. With only hint of self-pitying, lower-lip projection, replied, “Mr. Driutsk hit me."

Disinterest with which Fedka greeted news quickly evaporated any illusions about motivations. Dead Man made no effort to treat, even palliate; merely jotted note on medical record, moved on.

(Assumed was medical record; Cyrillic does befog such issues.)

Thereafter Russian performed cursory physical exam: Checked pulse, blood pressure. Employed otoscope to examine eyes, ears, nostrils; stethoscope to listen to lungs, heart, bowel sounds. Checked reflexes, joint range-of-movement, etc.

Happily, Dead Man displayed no interest whatever in X chromosomes’ primary/secondary expressions. Only garment removed during exam was jacket. Thereafter, shirt-sleeve rolled up to take blood pressure; shirttail pulled out, drawn up minimum distance necessary to accommodate stethoscope; top button opened to facilitate eavesdropping on heart, upper lung lobes.

Breathed private sigh: At least Fedka not another Driutsk. Immense relief, that; notion of physical interest from zombie somehow even more disturbing than that of unambiguously Depravedly Departed.

Presently, as Fedka appeared to be wrapping up, I ventured, “Excuse me, doctor, sir. The other children said there was another American working here. Another doctor? Do you think I could meet him?"

Fedka paused. Or froze, actually, almost lizardlike. Soulless eyes traversed as if mechanically operated, came to rest on me. Stared for long moments, still without expression; but gained subliminal impression of low-grade surprise, as if unaccustomed to children actually speaking to him, ever, apart from responding to direct questions in fewest possible words, then shutting up, trying to resume invisibility.

Dead Man inclined head; not quite nodding. “You speak of Doctor Foster. He will see you tomorrow."

Response encouraged Little Lizzie to essay further behavioral research. Pasted on small, cautiously grateful smile. “Oh, thank you, sir. I haven't met another American since...” allowed hint of lower lip quiver, “...since my family all died."

Depths of ennui with which this bid for sympathy was greeted left me almost breathless. Closest Fedka came to responding was on way out of exam room: “Doctor Foster insists upon taking all his samples personally. You will be brought back tomorrow.

"He will need fasting blood.” Empty eyes again traversed to mine. “Eat nothing after midnight until your blood sample has been collected. You may drink water, nothing else. If you violate this order you will be punished.” This last delivered without emphasis, almost without interest, but somehow set off stampede of goosebumps up, down spine.

Replied earnestly, “Yes, sir. I understand about fasting.” Paused; then, added fawningly, “I'll see you tomorrow, sir. Thank you."

Fedka's response limited to opening anteroom door into corridor, hissing something in Russian, turning, gathering up DNA sample swabs, exiting in unhurried silence through doorway whence had emerged. Guard apparently waiting just outside; back within seconds.

However, instead of returning to doorway through which we'd entered lab building, went other way, headed for far end. Happily, in absence of audience, Bully-Boy contained enthusiasm; merely kept firm controlling hand on upper arm.

Halfway down hall, guard paused, parked me against wall with stern, warning glare, incomprehensibly Russian muttered phrase. Released grip, fumbled through clothing, extracted cigarette.

At which point, from adjacent doorway, raised voices became audible: Kazimirov's unmistakably arrogant Russian, followed by testy-sounding reply in English—

Daddy's voice...!

"You realize, of course, if I begin the process right now, it will have to be watched closely all night."

Kazimirov's reply, in English this time, dripped sarcasm: “You will need much caffeine then. For by tomorrow, I want it finished, operational, ready for testing."

"What, no threats? Don't you feel well?” Clearly Daddy's opinion of Kazimirov mirrored Lizzie's.

Even through door, Russian's steam-vent sigh was audible. “Must I couch every deadline in terms of a fresh threat? All right; the word, deadline, contains the word, dead. Disappoint me and I will give another child to Fedka to take apart for his ... studies."

"You do know,” said Daddy, tone so chillingly conversational, was barely recognizable, “that someday I am going to kill that aberration, don't you?"

In context, genuine, unaffected merriment ringing in Kazimirov's laugh rendered it all the more disturbing. “That is between you and him. Do your job and neither of you will have to worry."

Glanced up, down hall to get feel for location within long corridor; then memorized Cyrillic characters adorning door ID plate. Waited as guard completed light-up, enjoyed several apparently luxurious, vile-smelling puffs. Thereafter moved on, dragging unresisting charge behind him.

Of course unresisting—now knew where Daddy would be all night. Needed to get back to prison camp, tell Tasha, start wheels turning.

Developments thereafter, of course, conditional upon Daddy's situation, input—and what to do about missiles...

Withal, promised to be long night.

Tasha's eyes went round, expression clearly horror-stricken as said, “Meeting you did Fedka ... ?"

Assured her had indeed. “Why?"

Girl's reply accompanied by headshake generated mostly as side effect of whole-body shudder of purest revulsion. "Chudovishche!—worsest, evilest, most monster here!” Paused, as if mentally comparing checklists, then: “Even Driutsk so bad not as Fedka. Children slicing up, organs he being study—still while alive ... !"

With own sudden shiver, recalled Kazimirov's gibe to Daddy about giving Fedka another child “...to take apart..."

Shivers stopped abruptly. Rage bloomed in soul, grew like something alive. Ground teeth. Nazi/Khraniteli super-race parallel now complete: Genocidal Russian zealots boasted very own Mengele.

Yet another entry for Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's “little list"—on its way to accumulating more names than Mikado's hapless executioner's.

And “they'd none of ‘em be missed...."

Kim Mellon's Journal:

Finally, the engine's fixed, and we're back in the air. But I find myself still chewing my nails. Clearly, based on Terry and Lisa's latest information, we're going to get there slightly too late to help Candy try to retrieve Marshall Foster and save the children—and maybe even too late to do anything useful about those nukes.

Which latter problem scares me spitless: If we run out of time, I can foresee Teacher and Wallace, with tears in their eyes, concluding that the only way to save our people might be just to drop one of our own thermonuclear warheads from altitude.

With Candy, her father, and all those children still there.

I haven't said anything about this. I don't have to. Adam has become a mobile statue for the moment: He's working in the galley, his expression pale, towering rage and mortal fear obviously arm-wrestling just beneath the surface. I'm not certain that we'd be able to drop a bomb on Candy as long as he's alive. I pray we don't find out.

Even Teacher's expression is little more than a death mask from the strain. He, Wallace, and Peter have transferred to the B plane to listen to Terry with us and update their planning in real time.

The special-operations members of both planes’ complements are double-checking field equipment and practicing their hand-to-hand skills.

If all that weren't enough, we face yet another complicating factor: Given our starting time, the time zones and distance involved, we're going to arrive before sunrise—in the dark, no runway lights.

When I worried aloud about that, Lennel explained soothingly that quite some time ago they'd installed very, very bright infrared landing lights on the C-17s (so hot, in fact, that they almost qualify as energy weapons). Partly this was to take advantage of the broader hominem visual spectrum for night operations; but mostly it was to keep the other side in the dark (sorry) when we drop in for a night's reconnoitering, intelligence gathering, and general marauding.

So at this point, Teacher, Wallace, Peter, Lisa, Terry, Adam, the flight crews, our equipment-maintenance people, and all the combat people have something to do.

But it's not as if I'm completely useless; along with the Kellys, I'm helping listen to absolutely dead air with the electronics-sniffing equipment—and someone has to do the jittering....

Candy's Journal:

Cautioned Tasha, “You understand, even though I know where Daddy is, we still may not be leaving tonight. He's very, very smart, and resourceful. I have no idea whether he's aware of the missiles yet. But once I tell him, he may have an entirely different idea of how to deal with the situation."

"Silly duck,” retorted Tasha with grin.

By now didn't even bother correcting girl's syntax; just heard it as “goose."

"Shooting laboratory way into—tomorrow thinking then conditions ever never again being feasibility for trying? Hah! Complex full on toes being whole personnels will."

Um ... Girl had a point. Again. Irritating quality in new comrade-in-arms/friend-for-life. Only way into lab will be over bodies of security detail. First shift change thereafter...

Heck, even if could dispose of so many corpses, somehow eliminate forensic evidence, sudden disappearances on that scale sure to trigger reaction comparable to lobbing rock into big, round, paper wasp nest: full-blown alert—all-out, real panic (perhaps even prison camp security personnel remaining awake)—uproar lasting for days, probably weeks.

Okay, yes, may well be taken to Daddy tomorrow, as Fedka promised. But know where to be found tonight.

And day after tomorrow, missiles launch.

No choice: Must go in tonight. Can't risk missing Daddy connection. Just have to trust that between Daddy, me, plus Tasha, rest of kids, combined improvisational talents up to challenge.

Night promises to be Chinesely interesting as well as long...

Volume X

Checkout Time

Really, Posterity, given fact that earlier that day Khraniteli had been in throes of major swivet over Driutsk's disappearance, wouldn't you expect night-shift prison camp security detail at least to pretend to pay attention? Figured would have to wait until late to slip out again.

But could hardly believe eyes: Well before dark, guards already deep into cups. By sundown, entire prisoner population probably could have exited via sally port itself, strolled openly through guards’ midst without being noticed.

By final stages of dusk, those still technically awake appeared to be engrossed in sleepy word game, whose every question/answer seemed to trigger gales of uproarious, if muzzy-sounding, laughter. Game's volume level ebbed as evening progressed, participants dropped off one by one.

Seemed to take forever for darkness to settle in in earnest, but finally time arrived to bid adieu to Serdtsevina Rasovyi Hilton. Gathered kids at previously selected darkest area along fence, deployed Mossad bolt-cutter, made neat little horizontal slit in fence right at soil level, plus two vertical cuts extending up about two feet. Carefully, quietly, flexed resulting top-hinged chain-link mesh panel out minimum distance necessary for egress, supported as children all slithered through. Then swung fabric back into place, readjusted cut ends to degree possible. When finished, unless looked closely, opening really not all that noticeable.

Ushered mob straight to base camp.

Oops, sorry, Posterity; forgot to mention revised schedule. On further reflection, could see no profit having Tasha expose kids, herself to risk of discovery by trying to collect Daddy, me at lab.

Yes, still planned to liberate vehicle to carry children—given numbers, something on order of covered troop truck called for. Thereafter would have kids stand by at base camp, waiting for us. If, however, not there by specified hour—made Tasha promise—would be on their way.

Maggie greeted us with silent but joyous hysteria. Prewarned, even smallest kids got through introductions without panic. And shortly thereafter, all had become Maggie's new Very Best Friends.

Tasha experienced (happily brief) teary flashback, then settled down. We fed Maggie—yes, “we"; lots of help: BC allowed as how meal delivered via children's one-nugget-at-a-time, repeat-as-necessary, handfeeding technique at least as acceptable as elder sister's boringly impersonal, twice daily cup-and-a-half-filled dish. Of course, with dog's subtle positive reinforcement, children's “assistance” probably resulted in bigger meal than I would have set out.

However, shortly found self back in tooth-grinding mode as noticed starving children first smelling, then gingerly sampling Maggie's food themselves—finally scarfing down in earnest. Sighed. At least holistic/organic canine diet fundamentally healthful: wholesome, balanced; protein content from good meat cuts (as opposed to ground-up noses, hooves, etc.); plus all ingredients hypoallergenic.

But Khraniteli have so much to answer for....

Had been operating in Intrepid Girl Infiltrator mode during first night's dorm visit; hence, Tasha already familiar with no-nonsense alter ego. But other children watched transformation with round, wondering eyes: camos; real face paint this time; web belt adorned with pouches stuffed with extra magazines, as well as nonstandard weaponry such as shurikens, Wrist Rocket, sheath containing Camillus combat knife, etc.; plus, of course, low-slung, tied-down Glock holster, scope-equipped M-1.

Kids particularly taken by gleaming length of katana, whose saya, or scabbard, rode between scapulas, grip projecting conveniently just above right shoulder.

(Nigel Kuluwara, AAs’ self-described “token” Aussie [full-blooded Aborigine, Oxford physics Ph.D. by age 18, but tribe-raised as kid in Outback until 13 (better even than Danya at wraith-in-darkness stuff—way better than Yours Truly)], delights in referring to it as “Now, that's a noyf.")

Still, as Tasha watched new kid sister preflight equipment—cycling extractors on M-1, Glock to ensure actions still clean, well lubricated, all smooth and glidey; securing silencers to muzzles; thereafter verifying chambers primed—got impression girl might be realizing for very first time that this was no theoretical exercise: Dead-Serious Special-Ops Girl really did intend to enter lab over bleeding bodies (no doubt quite a lot of bodies), extract Daddy, plus (somehow) permanently cancel threat posed by missiles.

Notwithstanding last night's exploding baby bunny demonstration, pretty sure Tasha had begun regarding me as spiritual sister/girlfriend/confidante first, fellow prisoner next; weapon-studded, rescuer-girl/stone-cold killing-machine persona having faded with time to dim, distant, unlikely future figment of imagination.

Reality can be jarring: Driutsk & Company's deaths had resulted from classic, sudden-combat, heat-of-battle, them-or-us battle dynamics. Further, little troll was evil personified (not to mention way ugly). As for cohorts, encounter too brief to learn anything substantive; but arrived at destinies fatally tarred by association, intentions, which eased, if not eliminating entirely, potential guilt arising from killings. Accordingly, like fellow gulagees, Tasha had emerged from experience positively glowing with satisfaction, ready to kill ‘em all again, dozen times over.

In combat.

However.

Necessarily cold-blooded, flow-silently-in-from-dark, shoot-carefully-at-pointest-blank-range-with-no-warning, out-and-out assassination which enabled truck theft provided girl with experience of very different flavor; left her looking more than a little green around edges.

Night-duty motor pool mechanic nothing like Driutsk: pink-cheeked, wholesome-appearing lad of perhaps 25.

Looked even younger dead.

At very last moment, must have sensed something amiss; glanced around with mild-mannered, startled expression, highlighted by sad, remarkably blue eyes, barely in time for 40-caliber Hydra-Shok bullet, announced by Glock's gerbil-cough, to open small, dark, red-rimmed hole just above eye, spray most of skull's contents out through huge opening in opposite rear quadrant, coating wall behind workbench at which had been rebuilding starter with mostly reddish mix of jellylike lumps of lighter-colored materials and bone splinters oozing down surface.

And must confess, Posterity: Even Danya's favorite Apprentice Assassin had to steel self to maintain professional aplomb at moment of truth.

Even more so afterward.

Became necessary, in fact, to issue stern internal reminder that victim was Khranitel, one of those who had massacred all of H. sapiens without warning; who, in addition, single-mindedly wanted Tasha, me, all her people, all mine, dead; who had already made serious attempt toward that goal, which, but for good luck on our part, plus own small contributions, surely would have succeeded.

Clinging to that thought, almost managed to get through killing's initial aftermath without wondering whether boy had had any idea what was getting self into—or whether, f'rinstance, might have been one of those clinically depressed outsider/loners who gravitated to hate groups seeking kinship, support, adulation of equally crippled “peers” to compensate for overwhelming misery inflicted by onion-layered, multiple inferiority complexes.

(Whoa, how's that for breathtaking psychiatric concept?—support group whose therapeutic modality-of-choice is total obliteration of everybody else. Makes horror stories from Olden Tymes, about sociopaths who yearned for scope-equipped high-powered rifles, while casting longing glances at tall clock towers in crowded locations, sound almost normal....)

Never mind; told self didn't matter. Told firmly.

Had to repeat admonition. Twice.

Okay, maybe more.

Thereafter confiscated dead man's watch, synchronized with mine; required Tasha to take it—so would have no excuse not to leave when time came, regardless whether Daddy and I had made it back.

Selected truck; verified fuel tanks full; engine oil, coolant topped up. Cheat-checked tires using Adam-taught quickie shortcut: Whacked treads with hammer. Favorite cuddly knowitall says when resultant bonks all match within ear's limit to discriminate, tire pressures usefully identical. (Tasha watched test with ill-concealed concern, but held tongue; and was too preoccupied at the time to think to explain.)

Finally slid underneath, located air brake master valve, yanked off stoplight wires. If Daddy and I failed to get out, meet them, children would need to run dark, relying on infrared vision extension to improve chances of undetected escape. Last thing kids would need would be brake lights giving away position to airborne observers.

Hadn't had occasion to check out Khraniteli's airfield thus far, but arrow on Father Toys’ map showed which direction located, noted was some three miles “out of town,” so genocides surely list aircraft among assets. And at night, from helicopter, brake light flare no doubt visible ten miles or more.

Started engine, tiptoed truck gently, quietly (for military diesel) out into night. Returned to base camp by circuitous route, spending substantial portions of trip on pavement to avoid telltale tracks.

Had left Maggie babysitting kids (or vice-versa) while engaging in Grand Theft Six-by-Six. Children greeted us with rapture, particularly in case of youngests, rivaling BC's.

Delivered final strategic review/pep talk, mostly for those younger children's benefit; then hug-and-go time. Briefly, second element proved problematic, but presently managed physically to unwrap Tasha's, Katia's arms, blot tears—only to be swept up in group hug as balance of kids suddenly realized also needed to wish godspeed; safe, successful castle-storming; many happy killings. Tender sentiments generated need for additional blotting all around before sendoff wound down.

Finally extricated self sufficiently to gather up gear, tell Maggie remain with Tasha, ease into night. Kids appeared impressed when became effectively invisible only about ten feet out, in what common sense told them should have been plain sight. “Later showing how doing that,” Tasha whispered after me. Smiled privately as contemplated girl's introduction to Zen of Wrist Rocket-Driven Acorns.

Made it possibly 50 feet out before saw Maggie whack Katia smartly in shins with Frisbee. Grinned. Wondered whether, with two dozen kids on hand, BC might actually get frisbeed-out for once before arms all fall off.

Day XIII

Settled down to traveling invisibly, floating soundlessly, as one with darkened landscape. Using infiltration discipline, return to Serdtsevina Rasovyi lab took longer. Slightly after midnight before could begin final both-ends lab recon, identify luckless-of-draw security targets at doors.

As before, eight: four at each door. Three at east end snoring in chairs; fourth also seated, but awake. Of west-enders, split was two-two; again all in chairs. After observation, deliberation, concluded eastern crew likely to generate least commotion.

Curiously, found self hoping bully who thumb-poked bruise earlier wouldn't be among either group. Second day's bad conduct obviously result of embarrassment over first day's momentary display of compassion, which suggested potentially decent human being lurked in there. Somewhere.

Don't know; never found out. Took care not to look closely enough thereafter to identify individuals.

M-1's gerbil-cough slightly deeper-toned than Glock, though no louder. Results, however, identical: On-dutiest sentry twitched slightly at impact; then head nodded slowly forward onto chest. Victim remained unmoving in chair. Two seconds later, without waking, other three had joined comrade in final stillness.

Experienced briefest flashback to motor pool kid's sad blue eyes, which had focused on mine just as squeezed Glock's trigger; but quickly froze those feelings, packed tightly into small, horrid bundle along with new batch, tucked away in quiet, darkish corner of brain to deal with later. Pretty sure dealing will require many teary hugs in bosom of family. No doubt fair amount of throwing up, too. Hope will get opportunity.

Glided back to west end. Studied wakeful pair briefly. One seemed more alert than other. Beginning with him, then, put ugly business behind me as efficiently as on east.

Nearly succumbed to shakes at that point, but simply too much to do, no time to indulge human frailties. Besides, reminded self, technically not human; Homo post hominem—at war with humans. At least these humans.

Edged up to door, peeked in through window, saw no one. Eased open, took first step inside

—And almost bumped into Three Bears: two sturdy young Russians, first barely shaving; plus third, older, harder, more aware-looking; all with rifles in hand—emerging from office door immediately adjacent entrance on left.

Plucky Girl Infiltrator may not have understood actual word, but little ambiguity to youngest Bolshevik's hissed "Stoyat'!", accompanied by actual view of rifling lands visible inside hollow end of latest-model Kalashnikov. By whatever name, object of exercise abruptly had become immobility.

One step behind, Middle-Sized Bear slightly older; but his follow-up "Brosajte oruzhie!", particularly coupled with unmistakable drop it gesture with AK muzzle, required no translation either.

Unfortunately, however, on the heels of this command came emphatic upward twitch from Baby Bear's rifle, followed by even more insistent "Ruki vverkh!"Hands up indeed. (Dammit, guys—make up minds!)

Behind them, older man hadn't bothered to contribute or raise AK, but already busy looking around; clearly, from expression, Pappa Bear sentry trained, thinking.

Blood ran cold. Presence of additional personnel inside doors unlikely to be coincidence. Apparently Driutsk's disappearance had impacted security—at least in areas Khraniteli regarded as key. Evidently Daddy, or at least something inside lab, so qualified.

Worse, since outside security had been symmetrical, three interior guards here suggested three more at far end.

Whatever—this had to be concluded quickly, quietly.

Somehow.

And before any of them thought to sound alarm...

Moving slowly, one hand in air, keeping left side toward unanticipated uniformed complications in wan hope might not have noticed Glock yet, backed out door, squatted, laid rifle on walkway, gently so as not to disturb lovingly sighted-in scope alignment.

Three unscheduled Lab-Mart greeters followed outside—then froze as noticed comrades’ telltale limpness, sprawled in chairs. Baby Bear continued to cover me with AK in one hand as shook nearest dead sentry's shoulder with other. Of course head merely lolled.

Glanced wildly back at cohorts, said something that sounded like, “On dokhlyi!” Gun trained on me suddenly trembled as other two comrades moved forward quickly to check others.

Looking ever more distressed, my young sentry glanced back and forth between me and live, dead comrades, paying ever more attention to them, devoting less and less to keeping unblinking eye on baby bunny, despite patently caught-red-handed situation: camos, face paint, visibly silenced M-1—dead bodies...

At which point, noticed Baby Bear's AK safety still in on position; clearly young Russian didn't know or had forgotten. Despite moment's fundamental desperation, had to suppress impulse to shake head sadly: Idiot amateur genocide truly poster boy for untrained.

Couldn't tell about other two's weapons—not that mattered: Though not looking at Intrepid Special-Ops Girl at that very moment, tactically, both too far away...

Never mind; at this point had no choice: Could not afford to throw away opportunity merely because odds patently suicidal.

Figured angles: Tried to analyze which opponent likely to respond quickest, most constructively, versus how far out of reach.

Focused inward. Controlled breathing. As gathered, focused ki, found self experiencing momentary wistful longing for distraction. Any sort of distraction, however brief. Perhaps no more than momentary loss of balance for even one of more distant pair. Though if had druthers, would have preferred first to see alert-looking Pappa Bear stumble, trip, have stroke—whatever. Wished hard...

Still, last thing would have occurred to me to wish for was blur of darker blackness flashing out of night into iodine vapor lamp's cone of illumination. Detected flicker of gleeful, spooky blue eyes as shadow passed me at about shoulder height.

Then 45 pounds of spring steel and joyous spirits, traveling at least 40 miles an hour, landed squarely between older man's shoulder blades with all four feet. Impact very nearly forward-flipped Russian midair.

Without slowing—without even touching ground—Maggie ricocheted from initial target to another four-footed landing in Middle-Sized Bear's solar plexus, knocking victim gasping, heels-over-head backward, weapon flying from hands.

By which point older man had completed midair arc, landing on face, feet in air, then got all tangled up with two previously dead associates as further rotation, collision, spilled both from chairs.

And at that precise moment, right behind Baby Bear, left-hand door cracked, began to swing open; caught initial glimpse of white-coated figure beginning to emerge.

But even with new arrival to complicate equation, still obvious in which order sentries would get acts back together, become threats again. Time to go.

"Shazam!" Time slowed; hysterical strength surged through body. Effortlessly yanked safetied rifle from youngest Russian's grasp with one hand, flung far out of reach. Simultaneously rammed heel of other hand upward into underside of young man's nose; object: driving nasal and/or ethmoid bone splinters straight up into brain.

Impact sent opponent stumbling backward against half-open door, momentarily pinning lab-coat—

"What the hell—"

—between door halves.

"—is going on here!” came muttered complaint.

In English.

Sudden, unexpected, on-the-fly recognition nearly derailed concentration as traversed distance to oldest sentry in single bound, katana leading way.

Half-hoped Middle-Sized Bear would be so stunned thereafter by sheer messiness of Pappa Bear's demise, might pause for helpfully fatal half second, allow time enough to get back to him, treat similarly. But no; was in fact already groping for sidearm.

Flicked glance then back at Baby Bear, who by rights should have been dead on ground from bone-splinter-induced brain hemorrhage. Instead, backward momentum interrupted by door, young Russian still upright. And notwithstanding fact that lower half of face now masked by blood cascading from shattered nose, despite eyes almost crossed from pain, he, too, clawed at holster, trying to pull handgun.

From where Special-Ops Girl had landed, would have had ample time to get to either separately. Two clearly impossible—time to shift gears: Left hand flipped back selected belt-pouch flap, extracted contents. Simultaneously, right hand dropped katana, snatched Glock, index finger ticking retention release in passing, reminding self to lift extra high to ensure silencer's added length cleared holster. Right hand brought up, leveled Glock even as left already drawing back, sweeping forward, ending in smooth, Danni-schooled wrist-flip just as gerbil coughed once again.

Mere inches from white-coated, inadvertent spectator's nose, Baby Bear again bounced off door, then began downward slide, shuriken embedded between brows. Simultaneously, new buttonhole appeared over Middle-Sized Bear's right ventricle. Russian staggered half step back from impact, expression went blank, then fell.

"Whoa," said onlooker in wondering tones, extracting self from between doors. Stared wildly around at scene; then turned speculative gaze on camo-clad, weapon-festooned, height-challenged Second Horseman, whose metabolism was only just beginning to slow after feverishly plying trade. Obviously recognition had yet to set in.

"Hi, Daddy,” I puffed, holstering Glock; retrieving katana, using victim's uniform to wipe off blood, zipping blade back over shoulder into saya without looking; wrenching embedded shuriken free from kid's skull, scrubbing bone bits, blood off in grass, tucking back into pouch, securing. “We have to go now."

Announcement followed by seconds'-long silence, which could have served as training-film exemplar for term, pregnant; then: “Candy ... ? How on earth—"

"Now!"

To be concluded.

Copyright (c) 2008 David R. Palmer

Singularity's Ring, Paul Melko, Tor, $24.95, 316 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1777-3).

Spider Star, Mike Brotherton, Tor, $26.95, 448 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1125-2).

Sunborn, Jeffrey A. Carver, Tor, $ 27.95, 384 pp. (ISBN: 978-0312864538).

Starship: Mercenary, Mike Resnick, Pyr, $25.00, 323 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59102-599-3).

Valley of Day-Glo, Nick DiChario, Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 240 pp., $28.95 hc (ISBN: 978-0-88995-410-6), $19.95 pb (ISBN: 978-0-88995-415-1).

Identity Theft and Other Stories, Robert J. Sawyer, Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 386 pp., $28.95 hc (ISBN: 978-0-88995-411-3), $19.95 pb (ISBN: 978-0-88995-412-0).

The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy, Ellen Datlow, ed., Del Rey, $16.00, 402 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-345-49632-4).

Nano Comes to Clifford Falls and Other Stories, Nancy Kress, Golden Gryphon Press, $24.95, 324 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-930846-50-0).

Paul Melko's very readable first novel, Singularity's Ring, adds some new thinking to the idea of the Singularity. Melko begins with something many contemplators of the Singularity have managed to overlook: technological progress is not an unbroken upward curve. It advances by fits and starts, marked by stumbles and even reverses. Given that thought, the change from pre-Singularity to post-Singularity may very well not be as sudden as many expect. Indeed, the leap from pre- to post- may fail, even catastrophically, and the attempt may have to be repeated, perhaps even many times.

In Melko's world, the Earth is girdled by a Ring, a vast construction once inhabited by the Community, a sizable portion of humanity who had elected to have brainjacks implanted so they could share access to each other's minds and to the artificial intelligence that ran the Ring. Some decades before the story, all members of the Community dropped dead. The Ring lay fallow, for non-members of the Community, lacking jacks, couldn't get in. The remainder of humanity figured that they had made the posthuman transition and vanished through a rift in space on the border of the Solar System. However, the folks left behind had other things to think about, for they were enmeshed in the Gene Wars. When that was over, a new technology developed, using genetic engineering to remake humans from individuals into small groups or pods linked together by pheromonal communication. Most pods are two or three. There are some quads. Apollo Papadopulos is a quintet—Quant, Strom, Meda, Manuel, and Moira—being trained to captain a starship intended to go through the rift and perhaps find the Community.

The tale begins when they are on a survival exercise in winter mountains. An avalanche threatens their camp, and there is a single clue that must rouse the astute reader's suspicions about whether the avalanche is natural. With a bit of good fortune and heroism, they survive. As they trek out of the mountains, they encounter a pod of bears. Such a thing is unheard of, as is their ability to communicate pheromonally with them (such communication is only within the pod, so far as they know). After their return to civilization, they encounter considerable suspicion of their report and searches fail to find the bears.

While waiting for their next training exercise, a last remnant of the Community (he was on ice at the time) seduces Meda and gives her a brainjack. Once in space, they encounter sabotage and an attempt by a military duo to kill or capture them. They escape, but now they have a long trek ahead, through the Ring (remember, Meda now has a jack), up the Amazon, past more attempts to do away with them, through the mountains, and more, to discover their own origins, the nature of the factions in their society, and the path to a second attempt at the true Singularity.

There is of course a great deal of detail and incident on the way to the conclusion, but I'll leave that for you to discover and enjoy. The book is a thoughtful addition to the genre and well worth your attention.

Mike Brotherton's Spider Star has an interesting premise marred by main characters who can't get their noses out of their navels long enough to think ahead, leaving subordinate characters to make things happen. And yes, I do complain from time to time about characters who just plunge ahead and never have an introspective moment, but sheesh! Brotherton's heroes are something else again. (But see below for my moderating admission.)

As I said, the premise is interesting. It may even be the best part of the novel! We begin with a colony on the planet Argo, which once had indigenes. The prologue shows us an archeologist, Virginia, who is finding two-million-year-old things in a remarkable state of preservation. When she opens a box, it seems to be full of toys, demonstrating that in some ways the “Argonauts” were rather like humans even if they did look like big furry spiders. One of the toys activates and begins to tell a story. Later we will learn that the story had to do with the Spider Star, a mysterious place light years away, not a star, not a planet, where one faction of Argonauts obtained a superweapon to use against another faction.

Years later, meet Manuel Rusk. He is a mission specialist in training to lead an exploratory voyage. As part of the training he and his crew are looking for Argonaut remnants on Argo's moon, and of course they find some. It looks like a base, and here's the remarkable state of preservation again. There's a door, and when he lightheartedly knocks, he triggers something in the sun that sends a fireball heading his way. They have just time enough to cherry pick the base before it is destroyed. And then the fireballs start flying toward Argo.

On Argo, Virginia is now married to Frank Klingston. He's the only one around who has ever met aliens, for as an explorer he once ran into one and brought back a new space drive. Eventually we learn just how weird things can get when two lonely sentients meet a long way from home, but that is not germane at the moment. He gets offered the job of leading a mission to the Spider Star, rather annoying Rusk, who expected to fill that slot himself. The mission, of course, is to find the folks who supplied the superweapon and ask them how to turn the damned thing off.

And off they go. Once they reach the Spider Star—which is really quite an interesting place—they run into a variety of kinds of trouble, lose a few folks, and almost literally stumble into the answers they need. Rusk (especially) and Klingston are the navel-gazers, and to be fair I should grant that they are in over their heads and they do have some right to obsess over their inadequacies. Rusk was not trained to deal with aliens; he also feels unfairly bumped from the Numero Uno position he expected to have. Klingston was tapped because he got lucky once; he's left his wife and kids behind and knows he may never see them again; he also knows that his chief claim to adequacy as a leader is his age and whatever wisdom or patience he may have acquired over the years. It works fairly well, considering, and Rusk actually winds up learning a lot from him.

I didn't count up how many pages of the book were devoted to the navel-gazing, but it felt like the book could easily have been ten percent shorter and as a result fifty percent better. As it is, it's really better than adequate, and if you don't mind the navel-gazing, it's better than that.

Jeffrey A. Carver began writing about living stars many years ago, with From a Changeling Star (1989), introduced the robot character Jeaves in Down the Stream of Stars (1990), and began the Chaos Chronicles with Neptune Crossing (1994), in which John Bandicut discovered an alien device, the “translator,” on Triton, acquired a resident quarx, and was sent off on a mission to save Earth from a malignly targeted comet, leaving his girlfriend Julie behind. Next stop was Shipworld, floating above the galactic plane, new friends, and missions to save the galaxy from the schemes of ancient artificial intelligences who—like Saberhagen's Berserkers—crave the destruction of all organic life. Now we have Sunborn, and Bandicut and his friends are off to stop an engineered hypernova in the Trapezium, which, if it blows, will destroy stars and worlds—including Earth—for 2,000 light years around. They have a desperate appeal from a hyperdimensional creature named Ed and help from a pair of sentient gas clouds escaped from a parallel universe. And the plot leaps quite madly from pot to kettle to frying pan to fire. The pace never lets up, except to revisit Sol System, where Julie is serving as intermediary between the translator and the humans who see this ancient device as a fount of technological wealth. But the translator has other ideas, for the threat to Earth is hardly over. Look yonder, and there is a tiny alien device aiming to divert more comets toward Earth, and only Julie is in a position to intercept the threat. Will she follow Bandicut's course to Shipworld and beyond? Will she ever meet Bandicut again? If she does, how will she and Bandicut's current love-interest, Antares, get along? Since Antares is a Thespi Third-Female, a mating facilitator of sorts, is Carver about to get kinky? And what of the ancient foe? The current battle is only a battle, not the war, which has been running for eons. Is there any long-term hope?

Carver isn't done yet. In fact, he has several more volumes to go to wrap up his remarkably expansive vision.

Mike Resnick's Starship: Mercenary follows Starship: Pirate and Starship: Mutiny as space opera in the classic vein, but with plenty of touches of pure Resnick. The earlier books introduced Wilson Cole as an officer of the Republic's space navy. He is extraordinarily competent and honorable to boot, which is just what got him stuck on the Theodore Roosevelt, a superannuated warship staffed by misfits and screw-ups. When the ship's captain tried to destroy a world and its people just to keep the enemy Teroni from seizing a fuel dump, Cole intervened and saved the day. For his efforts, he was court-martialed. But since he had long since earned his crew's loyalty, they busted him out of jail, stole the Teddy, and took off to play pirate.

But Cole is far too honorable to make a good pirate. Once that becomes clear, and he has enlisted a couple of appealing characters—one a Pirate Queen straight out of the old pulps, and one an alien who collects Dickens books and pretends he is David Copperfield—he becomes a mercenary. Copperfield is his business manager until he comes too close to biting off more than Cole can chew. Cole manages, but the ship takes enough damage to need repair, so they visit Singapore Station, a big space station, where they meet the Platinum Duke. More mercenary missions ensue, and Cole acquires ships and a few ex-navy sorts who quite agree that the Republic is a wickeder entity than the Teroni.

As we've known from the beginning, the next book will be Starship: Rebel, followed by Starship: Flagship. The line of progression is clear. Cole is building a navy of his own. We know where Resnick is going with this; the fun is in the details (such as his Pirate Queen). And perhaps in a bit of speculation...

According to Resnick's timeline of the Birthright Universe, Flagship will be set in 1970 G.E., and his first tale of the post-Republic Democracy is set in 2122. That's a sizable gap, and we may be forgiven if we choose to speculate that in it Wilson Cole gets to be emperor.

Nick DiChario's Valley of Day-Glo is an absurdist curiosity that should appeal to anyone whose sense of reality is a bit off center. The scene is centuries in the future, long after Hed'iohe, the Creator, destroyed the whites, yellows, and blacks—the Honio'o—with environmental catastrophe, leaving only the descendants of the Iroquois Indians, one tribe of which, the Gushedon'dada, has but three members left. Mother Who's Afraid of Virgina Woolf?, Father The Outlaw Josey Wales, and their son eunuch-boy Broadway Danny Rose have taken their names from icons of Honio'o culture.

In the heat of argument, alas, Mother strangles Father. Then there is nothing to do but bundle up the body and go a'questing for the rumored Valley of Day-Glo, where death may become life. Alas again, they run into the Senecas, who are big on reviving pre-Honio'o ways and show a disturbing tendency to cannibalism. Fortunately, revolution overthrows them just in time for the last two Gushedon'dadas to find the valley. In due time, Broadway Danny Rose even becomes a hero, stops being a eunuch, and discovers the giant talking coffee pot that holds his fate.

Definitely absurd. But DiChario has made it make an amazing amount of sense. He comments on many foibles of the modern world and even explains himself by saying, “It's not the truth that's important, Danny, it's the story, and it's what we discover about ourselves in pursuit of the story that makes all the difference."

Why else do we read fiction?

Robert J. Sawyer's Identity Theft and Other Stories offers seventeen tales from various sources, including this magazine. I'm not going to take time to describe the stories—you're familiar with his work—but the publisher is not one familiar to many US readers. Fitzhenry & Whiteside is a Canadian house that deserves cross-border attention. I've mentioned it in the past in connection with some of Julie Czerneda's work, and here it is again with two books of very different flavors that are both worth your time and money.

If you want absurdity, go with the DiChario. If you want a more traditional, accessible approach, grab the Sawyer.

Ellen Datlow has a long history of editing SF&F magazines and anthologies behind her. Now she brings us The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy, filled with sixteen great stories by old writers (Elizabeth Bear, Carol Emshwiller, Maureen F. McHugh, Barry Malzberg, Pat Cadigan) and new (e.g., Margo Lanagan). It's a varied mix with a number of excellent and moving tales. Christopher Rowe's “Gather” offers a nice new twist on the post-apocalypse tale. Gather is a young man who dwells in a community ruled by priests who consult their bibles about everything, including things that could not possibly be in any ancient scripture. But then he gives us a glimpse of a bible, with its glowing blue screen, and a piece of paper shows the face of God, who dwells apart from people on the other side of the river. Except that on the paper God is surrounded by people. And that is enough to start Gather on an adventure; don't be surprised if the story turns out to be the first chapter of a novel. Lucy Sussex's “Ardent Clouds” concerns a woman who loves to photograph volcanoes, often under the direction of a distant man who often seems to know just when things are about to pop; fortunately, she respects folk customs. Barry Malzberg's “The Passion of Azazel” bends the folktale and ritual of the scapegoat into a tale of rapture in a quite astonishing way.

A varied mix, and excellent. If you cannot find enough enjoyment here to be worth the price of a trade paperback, the fault lies not in the stars, nor in Datlow's editing.

Nancy Kress has written some remarkable novels but her shorter works are just as grand. To see why it's those shorter works that have won all her awards, order a copy of Nano Comes to Clifford Falls and Other Stories. More than one story here is a tour de force. Consider “Ej-Es,” of which she says she “got to do something I've always wanted to try. I wanted to introduce the words of a made-up language, one or two at a time, and then write the final paragraph entirely in that language.” It's a short paragraph, but it works in a uniquely powerful and eloquent way. “Product Development,” one of the Nature shorts, is a remarkably deft short study of media dependence. She also likes to explore the future of artificial intelligence, as in “Savior,” in which an alien spacecraft parks itself in Minnesota for centuries, completely ignoring human beings. And there are ten more for you to enjoy.

The National Academy of Sciences recently released the third edition of Science, Evolution, and Creationism, “written to serve as a resource for people who find themselves embroiled in debates about evolution. It provides information about the role that evolution plays in modern biology and the reasons why only scientifically based explanations should be included in public school science courses.” It also discusses the evidence for an Earth much, much older than 6,000 years. To anyone with some science background, it is a clearly written and even eloquent review of modern science. However, it seems unlikely to convince those who take their various scriptures so literally that they reject the validity of scientific evidence and scientific thinking. It insists that science and religion are not in conflict and cites many religious thinkers who agree that the two fields are not incompatible. But—admittedly in the interest of not antagonizing an important segment of its potential audience—it downplays the truth that for some sects, scripture is the only admissible explanation for the origin of the universe, Earth, life, and humanity. Scriptural explanations definitely do conflict with scientific explanations, and to the extent that religion and science endeavor to explain the same things, they do conflict. Only when religion confines itself to discussions of the nonexistent (the supernatural, or the spiritual), does it not conflict with science, which can only say about such things, “No evidence.” And as Carl Sagan once said, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

Does that seem harsh? So be it. The only value of religion that I have ever been able to discern is that it helps people live amicably together, and that tends to work best in religiously homogeneous societies. In pluralistic societies, it far too often breaks down. Indeed, the very fact that this book is necessary provides an example of that breakdown. Evolution is not debated by most religious groups. It is an issue only because in our society, with its profusion of religious groups, there is a minority of very vocal extremists, some of whom have actually said that their ultimate aim is to throw modern science—biology, paleontology, astronomy, physics, anthropology, psychology, and more—out of the schools because it leads people to reject traditional modes of thought. Civil rights, feminism, the Pill, equal opportunity, TV and film, modern music, and any kind of liberal thinking are anathema to them. The decadent modern world must be restored to the God-fearing, hymn-singing, patriarchal status of yore.

Fortunately, there are only a few such extremists. Most on the creationist side of the debate are more focused. I would like to think that this little book had a chance to reach them, but I am skeptical. On the other side of the debate, you may find yourself trying to convince a school board to resist the creationists and refuse to damage science education. This book could provide you with data and arguments to help.

Copyright (c) 2008 Tom Easton

Dr. Schmidt,

I found your editorital (sic) “Mirrors and Might-Have-Beens” in the April issue of Analog disgusting and repugnant. Have you no knowledge of history and did you spend more than 10 seconds before coming up with your “therepy (sic) by matchmaking” theory. What you are suggesting is self-segregation at best and reservations, penal colonies or concentration camps at worst.

I can imagine your future society where a misfit or loner-type is brought up before a “Committee of Cultural Matchmaking” and told that they don't fit into the culture here and that they will be shipped off to a colony somewhere else with other misfits and outsiders where they will be much happier. Do you not see any problems with this? Ideally this movement would be voluntary but if history is any guide it is likely to be cumpulsory (sic) “for the good of both societies."

This is exactly the kind of thinking that justifies segregation. It is these kinds of arguments that White Americans in the 19th century used to push natives off their lands and into reservations. The argument was that native and white cultures could not peacefully coexist so it was better to seperate (sic) and isolate the two cultures so they would not have to interact. Of course no one really asked the natives if they wanted to be isolated from the rest of society and the fact that the lands they were moved to were generally poor in resources was just an unfortunate coincidence.

This “therepy (sic) by matchmaking” theory would also probably be heartily endorsed by Adolf Hitler. Before Hitler decided on his Final Solution, he thought he could improve German society by simply removing the unpleasant and disagreable (sic) types who just didn't fit in to the Aryan ideal. If you could simply remove the Jews, Gypsies, Homosexuals, Communists and others who just really didn't fit in and who made others uncomfortable, both sides could live in peace. You can see how that theory worked out.

I am sure these scenarios are not what you were envisioning when you wrote the editorial, but the implications of the “therepy (sic) by matchmaking” idea seem pretty evident to me. Societies need some level of conflict and uncomfortableness for them to grow and adapt. The Japanese culture you observe isolated themselves completely for 400 years from the mid 15th to the mid 19th centuries. The result was a relatively peaceful and stable society, but also a society that stagnated and fell way behind technologically and economically from the West. If not for a careful importation of new ideas and new technologies in the latter half of the 19th century I imagine Japan could have been dominated by European countries and it's (sic) economic resources exploited like most other countries in Asia in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

Dr. Schmidt, next time you write an editorial suggesting how to improve society, you might actually think for a minute what these changes might actually bring about. It is ideas like “therepy (sic) by matchmaking” that have led to some of the grimmest chapters in human history.

Cameron Blackford

El Cerrito, CA

I find the ideas that you (not I) suggest disgusting and repugnant, too, and I marvel that you think you found them in what I wrote. But then, how careful a reading could I expect from someone who consistently misspells a key word in his topic, even though I spelled it correctly in the article he's criticizing?

I neither said nor implied anything about forcing anything on anyone. What I had in mind was more like a voluntary service that would educate individuals about the existence of cultures into which they might fit more comfortably, enable countries that wanted them to find potential new citizens who could contribute something valuable, and facilitate bringing the two together. Obviously there are practical and emotional problems in implementation—e.g., some individuals would be reluctant to move far from friends and family, even if they spend much of their time feeling like misfits in their society at large, and not all countries are equally welcoming of outsiders. Just as obviously, this kind of tool, like any other, could be abused—but that doesn't mean that the abuses are inevitable, or that the tool has no worthwhile uses. Your suggestion makes about as much sense as saying that surgery and anesthesia should be banned because they can be used to kill people.

I hope someday you'll reread carefully what I actually wrote, spend more than ten seconds thinking about it—and try to refrain from reading into it things that just aren't there.

Stan,

After reading “The Beethoven Project” (Analog, April 2008), I went to my third floor storage vault of time machined CDs and found the world premiere of Beethoven's Symphony No. 10, with the London Symphony performing, Wyn Morris conducting, recorded September 8, 1988, with an illustrated lecture by Dr. Barry Cooper.

Now I can read “The Beethoven Project” again while listening to Beethoven's 10th!

Harry V. Wilkinson

Shaker Heights, Ohio

Well, sort of ... What Mr. Wilkinson refers to is actually Dr. Cooper's attempt to construct from Beethoven's sketchy notes the first movement of such a symphony. While the result may be, in Dr. Cooper's words, “fairly close to what he [Beethoven] had in mind,” it is at most a quarter of an actual tenth symphony, and includes a considerable amount of (admittedly educated) guesswork.

Dear Analog editors and readers,

I am approaching my fifteenth year as an Analog reader and I am looking forward to the next fifteen years with great anticipation.

I am one of your many visually impaired readers who receive Analog in one of several pre-recorded audio formats. In the past, this consisted of 8 & 1/3 RPM flexible disks and 15/16 IPS four-track cassette tapes. As I write this, more contemporary formats are being developed.

Over the past years, it became obvious that I would require alternate realities to survive the insanity of the college classroom. Unfortunately, my appreciation of Analog developed slowly. In fact, there were scores of issues that I did not read attentively. I am now interested in revisiting past issues of Analog.

In recent years, I have developed a fascination with the concept of extra-terrestrial life arising from creatures that are analogous to some contemporary life forms, primarily aliens with strong similarities to the modern Carnivores, especially the Felids. Over the past years, I have read scores of interesting stories with themes involving anthropomorphic pseudo-felids. Novels, including Allen Dean Foster's Ice Rigger and C. J. Cherryh's Pride of Chanur exemplify the genre. Unfortunately, I have not preserved the hard copies of these issues in the form of an audio archive. This makes it impossible for me to revisit any of the works featured in past issues.

Consequently, I am writing to Analog in order to ask if any of the present or past employees of Analog are aware of any archival material consisting of past issues of this magazine in some audio format, preferably one of those of the Library of Congress. I am writing a similar letter to your sister publication, Asimov's Science Fiction, with a similar inquiry. If those of you at the magazines are unaware of such material, I am requesting that this appeal be published in an upcoming issue so that any of your readers, visually impaired or not, might be able to inform me as to the existence of the archival material.

I am essentially asking whether any fellow readers still possess past issues of either Analog or Asimov's in Library of Congress flexible disk or cassette format. If anyone is aware of such material, I would appreciate being informed of its disposition and whether it is possible to borrow or purchase such materials. The discovery of back issues in audio format would provide me with the opportunity to listen to some of the best stories once again. More ambitiously, I would appreciate the opportunity to transcribe some of the best felicentric science fiction into a compendium of works for possible future publication, something on the order of “Felids in Science Fiction."

Any assistance that any of you can provide would be greatly appreciated.

Chris Tromborg, Ph.D.

Davis, CA

tromboc@scc.losrios.edu

26-28 September 2008

CONTEXT 21 (Ohio conference focused on speculative fiction literature and genre games and films) at The Midwest Hotel & Conference Center, Columbus, OH. Guest of Honor: Tanya Huff; Editor Guest of Honor: Paula Guran; Horror Guest of Honor: Brian Keene; Science Guest of Honor: Jeannine Davis-Kimball. Membership: $35 until 15 August 2008; workshops extra. Info: www.contextsf.org/; contextsf@gmail.com; PO Box 163391, Columbus, OH 43216

3-5 October 2008

ARCHON 32 (St. Louis, MO area SF conference) at Collinsville Gateway Center, Collinsville, IL. Guest of Honor: Laurell K. Hamilton; Artist Guest of Honor: John Kovalic, Fan Guests of Honor: Rich & Michelle Zellich; TM: Vic Milan. Registration: $55 until 15 September 2008; $60 thereafter and at the door. Info: archonstl.org/32/index.php; (636) 230-9481.

3-5 October 2008

FENCON V (Dallas/Fort Worth area SF conference) at Crowne Plaza North Dallas, Addison, TX. Guest of Honor: Gregory Benford; Music Guest of Honor: Three Weird Sisters; Artist Guest of Honor: Real Musgrave; Fen Guest of Honor: Gerald Burton; Special Guest: Jay Lake; ORAC Special Guest: Doris Egan. Membership: $35 until 1 September 2008; $40 at the door. Info: www.fencon.org/; P.O. Box 701448, Dallas TX 75370-1448.

10-12 October 2008

ALBACON 2008 (New York State capital region SF conference) at Crowne Plaza Albany City Center, Albany, NY. Guests of Honor: Anne & Todd McCaffrey; Artist Guest of Honor: Barclay Shaw; Fan Guest of Honor: Gary S. Blog. Membership: $45 until 15 September 2008; $60 at the door. Info: www.albacon. org/; Albacon 2008, P.O. Box 2085, Albany, NY 12220-0085

11-12 October 2008

WALDEN WEST FESTIVAL (Celebrating August Derleth) at Sauk City, WI. Keynote Speaker: David Drake. All events are free of charge. Info: www.derleth.org; August Derleth Society, P.O. Box 481, Sauk City, WI 53583

17-19 October 2008

CAPCLAVE 2008 (Washington, DC area SF conference) at Rockville Hilton, Rockville, MD. Author Guest of Honor: James Morrow; Critic Guest of Honor: Michael Dirda. Membership: $50 until 30 September 2008, $60 thereafter. Info: www.capclave.org/. Capclave 2008, c/o Barry Newton, P. O. Box 53, Ashton, MD 20861

30 October-3 November 2008

WORLD FANTASY CONVENTION at Calgary, Alberta, Canada. Guests: David Morrell, Barbara Hambly, Tom Doherty, Todd Lockwood; TM: Tad Williams. Membership: Attending USD/CAD125 (GBP62/AUD146) until 30 April 2008 (limit of 850), Supporting: USD/CAD35 (GBP17/AUD41); additional for Awards Banquet USD/CAD50 (GBP25/AUD58). Info: www.worldfantasy2008. org/; info@worldfantasy2008.org; World Fantasy 2008, c/o The Story Box, 1835-10 Avenue SW, Calgary, Alberta T3C 0K2 Canada.