One of the things that make editing Analog (and writing editorials for it) fun is that our audience is very generous with feedback. I get lots of letters, and even more commentary on our online forum (at analogsf.com), much of it argumentative. Fair enough; much of what we publish is argumentative, too, partly because argument (if approached with the right attitude) is fun, and partly because our world needs lots of answers. We're more likely to find good ones by looking for flaws in all suggestions than by embracing any of them with unbridled and uncritical enthusiasm.

One particularly interesting series of letters came from a gentleman asserting that the debate about global warming was “over,” though the popular wisdom about who had won it was wrong. “Science has spoken,” my correspondent stated flatly, going on to assert that the decisive experiments had been done and proved conclusively that human activity had not contributed significantly to global warming. Hardly anybody admits this, he claimed, because too many governments and business have a vested interest in having people believe otherwise. He attached a couple of published articles (by other people) in support of his view, and went on at some length through at least two letters. The first I answered, though not at comparable length. Later ones (I don't remember how many there were) I ignored (with slight reluctance because I consider it usually more polite to answer than not to) except to note that they reminded me of a couple of things that perhaps I should discuss in an editorial.

The first of these items is the basic flaw in his reasoning and his misunderstanding of how science works. Before getting into that, I'll concede that he, and the articles he enclosed, do make some valid points. A consensus does not constitute scientific proof; that comes only from quantitative comparison of observation and theory. Major advances, almost by definition, start off as minority views that eventually become widely accepted because of such testing. And there are indeed other causes of climate change than the carbon dioxide that humans have added to the atmosphere, such as volcanic activity and the natural fluctuation of the Sun's output.

However, the fact remains that carbon dioxide is a powerful greenhouse effect gas, absorptive enough to have significant effects even in very small concentrations, and that its atmospheric concentration has increased quite significantly over the last couple of centuries. It's also true that minority views can't expect to become generally accepted until they have accumulated strong support from new observations. That's how the current majority views got that status: because they were seen by a majority as providing the best fit to the data available when they were formulated. They may have to be modified or replaced in the light of newer observations, but that can't happen until the new observations have been made and confirmed, and a new model has convinced enough workers that it provides a better explanation of both old and new data.

My correspondent claims that all of this except the new consensus has already happened for his dissenting view of global warming, but he gets off to a poor start with his patently false opening claim that “the debate is over.” He, and the authors of his supporting articles, are still debating it, so the debate is clearly, ipso facto, not over. The claim that it is is particularly ironic in view of the fact that the person making it is on what's widely considered the “losing” side.

It's worth emphasizing again that which view currently gets the most “votes” does not in any way determine what view is correct. But neither does it make any sense to claim, as one of my correspondent's supporting authors does, that there is “no scientific consensus.” He'd be right if he said there's no scientific unanimity; there hardly ever is. Many questions, and this one is an extreme example, involve so many variables interacting in such complicated ways that it can take a very long time to achieve true unanimity. The last time I checked, there was still a Flat Earth Society, despite the ease with which that proposition is disproved many times every day. I doubt that you'll find any scientists in that society, but you can round up a few to support almost any slightly less absurd proposition you can think of. The fact that a few scientists say they believe something doesn't mean it's true. Neither does the fact that a lot of them do—but it at least suggests that, until stronger proof to the contrary comes along, the smarter money would go on the view held by many who've examined the data rather than on those held by only a few. In the particular case of global warming, while opinion is still not unanimous (and some debate continues), there is a strong and growing consensus that we should act as if human-produced CO2 emissions have contributed significantly to the observed warming.

And it would be imprudent to dismiss that consensus as “just politics.” Some of those who shrug it off seem to believe that politicians are generating the numbers and scientists are rubber-stamping them. That's a serious case of “cart-before-horse disease.” Yes, scientists are human and not immune to political considerations; but I've known a lot of scientists and very few (if any) of them would be inclined to generate false data just because some politician wanted them to. What I've observed instead is that many scientists have been warning of the possible effect of CO2 on climate for years, and their attitude toward the current wave of political interest in the subject is, “It's about time!"

I have two specific objections to my correspondent's “disproof.” The less important one is that in making his self-contradictory claim that “the debate is over and the generally accepted answer is wrong,” he places a disproportionate amount of emphasis on a very small number of articles and authors among the many that have been published. They certainly don't all agree with the couple that he likes, so why single out those as The Last Word?

The answer to that is the basis of my stronger objection. He says that all the computer models that have been set forth fail to accurately predict one detail: the way in which atmospheric temperature varies with altitude in the tropics. This may well be true; I haven't personally checked this detail of all the models. If he has, I'll tentatively take his word for it. But even if it's absolutely true, I can't at all accept his claim (and that of the one author he relies on most heavily to back him up) that that proves that human production of greenhouse gases has no significant effect on global warming. That's a classic example of a logical non sequitur.

As I've already said, we're dealing with a very complex system, and a rather simple hypothesis about the contribution of one factor to its behavior. That factor, to the extent that it affects the system at all, will have effects that ripple through many parts of it. My correspondent seems to believe that if a model fails to accurately predict every detail of those effects, it must be totally wrong and should be thrown out in its entirety. We lose a lot of babies along with bath water that way, and that's not how good science is done. If a model fits some aspects of the data but not all, it certainly means that the hypothesis has not yet been proved in a fully satisfying way. It may even be that the whole thing is wrong and has to be scrapped—but it could be dangerous to jump too casually to that conclusion. The disagreement in one detail, even if it occurs in several models, may simply mean that the models need more refinement to come up with one that fits all the details. That's especially likely if most of the models fit most of the facts well. In such a case, yes, we need more work on the theoretical models—but that's a far cry from assuming that everything about the basic premise is wrong.

This is a case where we need to try to understand, as well as possible, what's going on, and what, if anything, we can and should try to do about it. Doing the wrong things could be at least as dangerous as doing nothing. (We've already seen, for example, that the fashion of diverting corn into ethanol production definitely drives food prices up; we don't yet know whether its overall effect on climate is good, bad, or negligible.) But we need good data and models, and we won't get those by latching too eagerly onto claims that seem to support what we want to believe, no matter what that might be.

The other thing that this exchange reminded me to comment on concerns not the specific question of what causes global warming, but the broader one of how scientific and philosophical dialogue is conducted. My correspondent obviously wanted me to continue discussing the matter with him (preferably by admitting I was convinced and he was right). But anybody who works in a field like this (e.g. editing or doing science) gets lots of letters like that, and has to decide how his or her time would be best spent. Would answering more of this gentleman's letters, or answering them at greater length than I did, further any cause, or just consume time (for both of us) without resolving anything? I face this sort of question often, especially on the website forum. In general, I've found that it's best to avoid being drawn into prolonged discussions with individuals. Once that's started, it's hard to stop, and if only one person shows a strong interest in a particular question or topic, nobody else gains much from the exchange. The time it would take is better spent on other things.

Such as questions that concern many people. If the same question or complaint comes up repeatedly, from many sources, I'm likely to give it considerable thought, which will eventually surface in an editorial. This should not discourage anybody from writing. I value and give careful consideration to all reader comments, and they all have an effect on what I write and publish in the future. But in general, I'd rather use my limited writing time and energy for a considered comment on a common concern, than on a series of hasty responses to ones of less general interest. So while everybody would like a personal answer, and in an ideal world I'd like to give everybody one, please don't take it personally if you write and don't get a personal response.

Copyright (c) 2008 Stanley Schmidt

People have a knack for finding new ways to do everything....

Valerie Akwasi gave a last look in the rearview mirror, checking her makeup before surrendering her car to the valet. She hated these things: mingling with the posh and self-important, pretending to be interested as cocktail conversation yo-yoed from gallery openings to gossip, all while ordering drinks that didn't even allow her to share the cocktail-hour buzz. “I'll just take a tonic and guava juice with a twist of lemon,” or some such silliness that sounded like a real drink but wasn't. The waiters probably figured she was a recovering alcoholic rather than a reporter needing a clear head for her story.

But tonight there would be no cocktails. The valet bore the crisp, maroon-and-gray livery of Angel's Head Winery, which was hosting this fundraiser for Congressman Blaine's bid for the Senate. The race had opened up a month ago, when eighty-nine-year-old Senator Crooke had had his long-overdue heart attack, and it promised to be the most exciting in ages. But not the fundraisers. Their whole purpose was to tell donors what they wanted to hear, fill them with booze, and wait for them to open their checkbooks. Barely a story unless Blaine tripped over the carpet or something, which wasn't likely. As trim and athletic as Crooke had been decrepit, he'd started his first congressional campaign by joining thousands of cyclists on a one-hundred-mile tour of his district, raising money for cancer. Then he'd walked a marathon, shaking hands and smiling, all the way. Not the type to trip over his own feet.

Valerie sighed and got out of the car. The problem with these things wasn't just that they were dull. It was the certain knowledge that no matter what, she'd be underdressed—which, in her three hundred and fifty dollar off-the-rack dress, she certainly was.

It didn't help that hers was one of the few nonwhite faces in sight. She'd grown up steeped in her mother's view of American racism: whatever problems there'd been in her native Ghana, blacks weren't second-class citizens, and she'd raised her daughter to think like an African. Usually, it worked: if you presumed everyone else saw you as equal, often enough they did. But now, she looked like a poor relation, and felt it. Which was silly because reporters always looked like poor relations. It was part of the job. You wanted to be an outsider, looking in. Fly on the wall, and all that. The trouble was that the fly wasn't supposed to feel so damn conspicuous.

Still, her mother had taught her the right moves. Her makeup was as perfect as it would ever be. Her long black hair and delicate features assured she'd never be able to hide. And except in events like this, she'd never wanted to. She'd been top of her class in J-school, on the fast track to a Pulitzer until a stupid marriage and divorce had stranded her at the Bay End Times, which was about as backwater as it sounded. Still, all she needed was one good story as her ticket up and out.

Not that she was going to get it tonight, so she might as well drink a bit. Especially with Angel's Head hosting. Even in bad years, their cabernet won awards. The good vintages sold for two hundred dollars a bottle, and the new one, to be unveiled tonight, was rumored to be the best yet. Hell, this wasn't just a fundraiser for Congressman Blaine. Valerie would miss the real story if she didn't sample the wine.

The cabernet was everything it was cracked up to be, and for the most part, Blaine was as bland as expected. The exception was his stand on immigration, which he believed was crippling the country. It had been a popular stand in his working-class congressional district, but as a senator, he'd represent the whole state, where agriculture was big. The heat he was generating on that one topic was enough to more than make up for everything else.

It was a reception, not a sit-down dinner, which meant the entire thing was mix-and-mingle, though there was plenty of food at an elegant buffet, selected to complement the wine. Since everyone but Valerie had made a thousand dollar donation simply to get in the door, Blaine didn't waste time with long speeches. Rather, he gave a five-minute address that was mostly highlights of his normal stump speech, then set about working the room, making sure he got at least a few moments with everyone, even Valerie.

"Glad to see the Times here,” he said, surprising her, because they'd only met once before. “When I was a boy, I paid for my first bicycle, delivering papers around Morningside."

"Not many paperboys left,” Valerie said. “In a few years there probably won't even be a paper. We'll be entirely electronic.” Not that this was what Blaine meant. Morningside was a working-class neighborhood, and he was reminding her of his blue-collar roots. But there was another subtext: Valerie's paper was now delivered by car, by a gentle old man whose English was limited to gap-toothed grins and thank-yous.

"Yes,” Blaine said, perfectly aware she couldn't have missed his point. “Technology marches on. But it's been years since kids had a chance really to learn the value of work.” Then he moved on, leaving her to wonder if he truly believed that illegal immigration was also crippling the nation's character, by stealing kids’ jobs.

There isn't much difference between an expensive hangover and a cheap one. That was Valerie's verdict the next morning, when a shaft of sun from a poorly drawn curtain pierced like an ice pick to the brain. She shifted, trying to dodge the probing ray, but that just set the whole room to throbbing.

That left two choices: sit up and deal with the curtain, or give up and pop an aspirin. After ten minutes’ trying to pretend the problem would go away if she ignored it, she opted for the latter, plus one of her mother's more exotic remedies, which involved coconut milk, nutmeg, peanut butter, and honey. There were a half-dozen other ingredients, but there's a limit to how complex a hangover remedy she was willing to concoct during the hangover.

Other than the wine, her chat with Blaine had been the highlight of the evening. Afterward, she'd drifted from conversation to conversation, where people bent her ear about everything in general and nothing in specific. Then, sometime between her second and third glasses, she decided she'd better write her story, while she still could.

She'd recorded a few notes during Blaine's highlight-reel speech, mostly slogans. But there was also a longer bit, probably inspired by the setting.

"It's been said that you cannot put new wine in old wineskins,” he'd said. “If you do, the wine will expand and burst the wineskins.” He'd picked up a decanter and poured into a glass. “Rather, you must put the wine into new wineskins, so the two may stretch together."

He paused. “Okay, so wine doesn't stretch. I don't know exactly what new wine used to do, though Gavin here could probably tell you.” He'd smiled at a gray-suited man standing beside him, who Valerie presumed to be Gavin Anderson, president, CEO, and head-everything of the Angel's Head empire.

Anderson wasn't sure whether he was supposed to speak or not. “It would probably have continued to ferment,” he'd said. “But I'm not an historian.” He was a big man in his fifties, lean, not fat. Valerie knew almost nothing about him. The business and technology beat belonged to B. J. Packard, who'd asked her out a couple times but was a touch too geeky for her taste. Or maybe she was still too close to her divorce and looking for excuses.

Luckily, her recorder had caught Blaine's words while her mind was wandering. “So there you have it,” he'd said, quickly regaining the floor. “It was trying to become champagne.” Everyone laughed. “But you get the point. The future is technology, but it needs to be nurtured. Stored, if you will, in new wineskins of high-paying jobs, good education, a skilled workforce, and infrastructures not already stretched to the max. What it does not need are the old wineskins of porous borders, overburdened social services, and rampant cheating by those who make it hard for honest businesses to compete."

Valerie had shut off the recording and marked the important sections for her voice software to transcribe. Clearly, immigration was going to be core to his campaign, which, with an evenly divided Congress, was going to draw national attention.

Even slightly sloshed, she'd known she should be clamoring to stay on the beat. She was the local insider. Do it right, and it was what she was looking for: a way to undo the error of being lured off into journalistic nowhereville while her former husband chased nanochips and skirts with equal vigor.

But she had mixed feelings. Her mother had been an immigrant (legal, to be sure), and nothing about her had stolen jobs from anyone. It had taken her years to find work other than as an au pair.

Still, Valerie had a story to file. She picked a few of the best lines, including the wineskin bit, which her CompUphone informed her was an allusion to the gospel of Matthew. Then she dictated a twenty-inch story into the phone, glad to be working remote from the office, where only the phone could detect the wine's influence on her diction. Then, she'd let the word-processor debug her grammar, deferring more than usual to its sometimes lackluster choices, and hit send to text her story to the night editor.

After that, things got blurry, though she did remember discovering there comes a point when you can no longer distinguish high-end wine from table plonk. There'd also been something about her car, though it wasn't until she braved the sunlight to step outside that she remembered it. She hadn't driven home. The solicitous Angel's head attendants had deemed that unwise.

The sloshed posh had gotten chauffeured rides home, but there were a limited number of drivers available and the best they'd been able to give her had been a cab ride. The ride had been courtesy of Angel's Head, but her car was still at the winery and she was going to have to go back and get it herself. Not quite how she'd intended to spend her Saturday.

The winery was in the back-behind of nowhere, up miles and miles of twisty roads. Valerie had once written about how global warming was forcing wineries onto ever higher ground and how forward-thinking ones like Angel's Head were buying up land at ever higher elevations, trying to dodge the heat.

The aspirin was beginning to do its job (or maybe it was the coconut and nutmeg), but she kept asking the cabbie to slow down. Last night, she'd not fully appreciated what a nasty road this was, clinging to the wall of a narrow gorge until it reached a hidden valley high in the hills.

Other wineries had tasting rooms in the gentler farmlands closer to the city. But at thirty dollars a taste, Angel's Head's didn't cater to the hoi polloi. If you didn't have time for the drive, you weren't their type of customer.

By the time she finally got there, the cab fare exceeded the cost of several of those tastes—a bummer because she couldn't exactly put it on her expense account. But as long as she'd spent it, she decided to take the opportunity to tour the winery.

Luckily, she didn't have to wait for a scheduled tour. Instead, she tagged along with a group of Germans—or maybe they were Dutch or Austrians; she'd never been able to tell those accents apart. Wherever they were from, they had very good English.

The chateau/tasting room was merely the winery's public face. The real facilities were dug into the hillside, where nature helped produce perfect wine-cellar conditions. As they strolled the warren of piping, vats, and bottling machines, their guide (who might well have been last night's valet, though Valerie had to admit the maroon-and-gray livery made everyone look alike) told them that great winemaking came from two factors.

One was what the French called terroir: the link between wine and the land. “In a good wine, you can taste the soil,” he said. “Some are volcanic, yielding wines in which you can feel the fire that produced them. Others are earthier, mellower, richer. Each of our plots has several distinct soils, which we've carefully mapped so we can pick the perfect combinations of grapes. In the old days, wine masters did that by strolling their fields, tasting. We still do that ... but we back it up with chemical tests. These days, winemaking is as high-tech as rocket science.

"The other factor is plain, old-fashioned work. Even though this year we'll be producing forty-five thousand cases, we look at every vine, every day. We deliver just the right amounts of water, and we don't pick whole rows of grapes, like lower-class wineries do. Instead, we pick each bunch when it's perfect. It's time consuming, but one taste tells you why."

With the tour ending, the Germans spilled into the tasting room. “The current vintage is eminently drinkable,” the guide said, “but if you cellar it for a few years, it will only get better. It's also a good investment...."

Valerie veered for the exit, then realized she hadn't a clue where to find her car. Embarrassed, she asked the doorman, who pointed to a flight of stairs. “Up in the employee lot. If you need your keys—"

"Nope, I'm all set.” Valerie pulled her key ring out of her pocket. Luckily someone had given them to her last night, or she wouldn't have gotten into her apartment. She wondered if she was supposed to tip the doorman. She'd not thought to tip the valet last night, and from the looks of the stairs, he'd gotten a workout.

Heck with it. She was a reporter, not a cash machine, and anyway, the doorman looked as though he might double as a security guard. Now that she thought about it, so had last night's valet. The trim uniform had snugged nicely over what had appeared to be a bodybuilder physique.

Slogging up the stairs, she wondered what they were guarding. Rich donors, last night. But those were long gone. Then she multiplied forty-five thousand cases by two hundred dollar a bottle. She did it again, but the result was the same. Unless she'd dropped a zero, this place pulled in a hundred million a year. No wonder they could afford to host last night's soiree.

The parking lot was divided into two parts by a line of bushes. Valerie's car was in the front with a dozen others probably belonging to the tour guide and other winery staff. The back half was empty except for a delivery truck from which three men were unloading what appeared to be motorized wheelchairs. Behind them, the doors of a warehouselike shed gaped, wildly out of place in the manicured landscaping. What little she could see of the interior was a jumble of machine-shop equipment and scaffolding-style shelves crammed with more wheelchairs and other even more exotic equipment, all in disorganized contrast to the immaculate winery she'd just toured.

Overseeing the unloading was someone who looked vaguely familiar.

When Valerie was a child, there'd been a man down the block who'd collected junk. He never talked to anybody and spent most of his time moving things around: from garage, to lawn shed, to basement, to the back of his old pickup truck. As a kid, she thought he was spooky and refused to go near his house alone. Later, in J-school, she'd done a story on compulsive collectors and realized he'd been harmless, probably suffering from a type of brain injury that led others to hoard newspapers, junk mail, cats, or candy wrappers.

At first, she thought the sense of familiarity was simply because the man fussing over the delivery crew was about the same age as her childhood neighbor and shared his slouching, dour expression. But, pretending to fumble with her keys, she realized he also looked like a flaccid, paunchier version of Gavin Anderson: a cousin, perhaps, or even a brother.

The sound of an approaching motor distracted her. She looked up and watched a battered green pickup pull into a nearby slot, driven by a dark-skinned man in a baseball cap.

"Hi,” she said. Then, sensing an opportunity, “Do you work here?"

"Si, señorita. Are you having problems with your car?"

"Oh, no.” She smiled and quit fidgeting with the keys. “I was just wondering,” she tilted her head toward the delivery van. “What's that all about?"

"Oh, that's Mr. Galen.” The pickup driver was short and wiry, with the strong, gnarled hands of a lifetime of labor. “He likes things with wheels and motors. He fixes the big ones to sell on eBay. The little ones, he uses the parts to make toys."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. One and a half years ago, maybe two, he made machines that dueled each other with tiny swords. Not dangerous, just for fun. They were only this tall"—he held a hand out the window, about door-handle height—"maybe less. Muy listo. Very clever. He even had a tournament, like in the Olympics, though I never understood why, because all of the machines were the same, so why does it matter which wins? But Mr. Gavin, he was very proud."

"Thank you.” Valerie opened her car door. “That sounds very interesting."

"Oh, si. The little machines, they were on carts, like, you remember, the rovers on Mars, but smaller. The swords were on arms that went up and down a little pole, like..."—he paused, looking for an analogy—"like jumping beans on a stick. Yes, very clever.” He climbed out of his truck and shut the door, not bothering to lock it. "Buenos dias."

Valerie watched him walk off across the parking lot, heading for a smaller shed that probably contained gardening equipment. "Buenos dias," she called.

Climbing into her car, she couldn't help but smile. Another of the lessons she'd learned from her mother was that if English obviously wasn't your first language, people would view you as a child. It wasn't racism; it was human nature, her mother said, but her insistence on the importance of language had probably been one of the factors that had helped make Valerie a journalist. It was also a lesson she'd used many times as a reporter. Today, she'd bet one of those bottles of pricey wine that the management had no idea how smart the gardener was.

Not that it mattered. The man hadn't exactly been giving away trade secrets. The trouble with being a reporter was that you collect questions the way her neighbor had collected junk. But at least she had her answer. “Mr. Galen” and “Mr. Gavin.” If she had a hundred-million-dollar-a-year business and a harmlessly brain-damaged brother, she might give him his own Mr. Fix-It warehouse, too.

An hour later, Valerie found herself in a pub, reading the early edition of the Sunday paper and nursing a beer.

Her story had made page 3A, with a photo of Blaine at a long-ago rally, plus some padding from old stories of his congressional career that beefed it up to nearly half a page. It must have been a slow news day.

It always amused her to see her byline in the weekend paper. For most of her life, she'd been Valerie Matsen, carrying the name of her father, who, blondly Nordic as they come, had been mesmerized by the elegant Ghanaian he'd met one day at church, black as the new-moon sky. Akwasi had been Valerie's middle name, designating, in ancient tradition, not only the day of the week on which she'd been born, but in her case, the day her parents had met.

Marriage had converted her to Valerie Ryan, but divorce had ended that, and despite her very Americanized café-au-lait complexion, she identified with her immigrant roots. When divorce gave her a chance to reinvent herself, her father had been the first to understand. But it had happened recently enough that it still tickled her when “Valerie ‘Sunday'” appeared in the weekend paper. Not that anyone else was likely to get the joke. There weren't many Ghanaians in Bay End.

Stopping at the bar had been an impulse decision. It wasn't really what she'd wanted, especially at three P.M., but leaving the winery, she couldn't get the gardener out her mind.

Weren't wineries supposed to have hundreds of workers like him? Maybe their vehicles were off in some other lot, but driving past the fields, she could only see a few workers, most of whom didn't seem to be doing much. Maybe the tour guide had been exaggerating and “every vine, every day” was simply hype.

She'd pulled to the side, walking to the end of the nearest row to inspect the vines. The grapes were plump and purple: if they weren't ripe, they were damn close. She was tempted to sample one, but instead used her phone to consult the internet, verifying that premium grape-growing was one of the most labor-intensive forms of agriculture there was. Automated grape-harvesters existed—grabbing vines and shaking them until the fruit fell off—but they harvested entire fields all at once: not what Angel's Head claimed to do.

Which meant that Angel's Head needed laborers: lots and lots of laborers.

Back on the road, she'd started tallying cars, trying to sort them into customers and field workers. But it wasn't the right time of day for workers to be arriving, so she wasn't sure if it meant anything that she saw ten BMWs for each cheaper car.

By the time she reached the main highway, she'd been chewing on another question. If Angel's Head needed the kind of labor force typical of premium grape growers, it should have been all in favor of cheap labor and illegal-immigrant amnesties. So what was Anderson doing, supporting someone like Blaine?

That was when she'd spotted the pub, right at the junction with the main road. Maybe there were more workers than she'd seen. Maybe some would stop in the pub on their way home. Even if they didn't, she could grab a window seat and watch the traffic that emerged from the winery road, come evening.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the type of place where you could blend in by drinking a fancy non-cocktail. But making a beer last for hours was another reporting skill she'd long ago mastered.

Business was slow at first, but somewhere around four thirty, the bartender turned on a bank of televisions and the place began acquiring a sports pub atmosphere.

Valerie hated football. It wasn't that she was anti-sports; she'd played soccer in college. But soccer was elegant; football was just a bunch of guys grunting and bashing into each other. And when, she wondered, had people started taking it for granted that Senate campaigns would start during football season, a year in advance? When, for that matter, had the wine harvest slipped into early September? Maybe the grapes weren't as ripe as they looked and she was spinning her wheels on nothing—a nonstory on which she didn't even have an assignment.

She stared at the beer. Nearly gone, and while there'd been a few worker-looking cars coming out of the winery road, there weren't many. Maybe it was time to leave.

"So I take it you're not much of a Bobcat fan?"

Valerie jumped. She'd been so absorbed in her thoughts she'd not seen the man standing next to her table.

"Me neither,” he said. “Can I buy you another beer?"

He had a babyish, blue-eyed face and sandy hair already beginning to recede. Blue jeans with dark, fresh-looking stains. Rumpled sport shirt, sneakers. He appeared to be in his early thirties.

"I know,” he said, “not much to look at. Sorry. I just got off work. It's been a tough week; lots of overtime. We're already gearing up for the harvest. Damn global warming."

Valerie had been about to tell him thanks but no. Now she perked up. “You work at Angel's Head?"

"Yeah.” He offered his hand. “I'm Martin. Martin McRae."

Valerie didn't want to be picked up. Nor did she want another hangover. But this was an opportunity she couldn't pass up. “Sure. I'm having the Bridgehouse ale."

As the evening wore on, she felt guilty because McRae seemed a nice guy and she was stringing him along. To ease her conscience, she bought a pitcher, encouraging a couple of his buddies to join their table—a move McRae didn't fully appreciate, either from her or them.

He didn't look like a field laborer, and, as it turned out, he wasn't. “I'm an analytical chemist,” he said. “You wouldn't believe how sophisticated winemaking has become. George here works in the lab, too, while Hiroshi over there's got a degree in microbiology. He's always tinkering with yeasts. Says he loves the little buggers."

"Aren't there any traditional farm workers?"

"Sure. Most of them work at night."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's a climate thing. The French have been doing it for years, but we're the first in America. Longer growing seasons mean the grapes ripen earlier, but it's not good to pick ‘em in the heat. We've got a few people out during the day, but for the past couple of years, most of the real work's been done at night. I don't think I've ever met one of those guys. Have you, George?"

"Nope."

"Think they're illegal?” What a story that would be.

"Nah. My supervisor's always complaining that the feds should crack down on wineries that ignore the law. I think he gets it straight from the top."

The evening rambled on from there, and when a string band started up, Valerie allowed herself to be danced with a bit, before pleading exhaustion and taking her leave, Saturday night or not.

In the parking lot, she looked again at the winery road. It was nearly ten, and still no traffic. The night pickers either lived up there somewhere, tucked away out of sight, or came in really, really late.

A hundred yards back from the highway, where she could barely see it, a swing gate was now pulled across the road. She thought again about a hundred million dollars a year, and decided this made sense. Besides, it was a weekend. Maybe nobody worked Saturday nights. Or maybe they bused the workers in and the bus driver had a key. She could easily have missed the buses, talking to the guys.

Lots of maybes, but nothing that looked much like a story.

Several days later, she bumped into B. J. in the Times' lunchroom—if the refrigerator-microwave-and-coffee-machine-equipped alcove could be dignified with that term. It was another slow day, and business and technology were his beat, not hers, so she told him about her trip to Angel's Head.

He was immediately intrigued. “Yeah, night harvesting makes sense. They're leaders in that type of thing. Anderson started the winery on a shoestring thirty years ago, then leveraged it to the cutting edge with a series of moves that always had him a step or two ahead. But all that security? Sounds fishy to me. They've got a huge investment up there, but it's not exactly portable. Maybe they're hiding a labor camp full of undocumented workers. They've certainly got the room, up against the mountains. Let me check into it. If they're busing folks up there at night, someone will have noticed."

A couple of days later they spoke again.

"There's no way they're hiring that much labor locally,” he said, when Valerie stopped by his desk. He'd been working his way through the afternoon's wire-service copy, but now he switched to a different web page. “While I was at it, I also checked out the brother. He's all over eBay. He buys lots of broken equipment, then sells back that which he can fix. Pretty much anything mechanical, other than the big industrial stuff."

He typed “Gavin Anderson, MechnoManiac” into the search box.

"That's what he calls himself. “See? Motorized wheelchairs, artificial limbs, toy cars—all kinds of stuff. He's even done some custom jobs.” He clicked a link. “See that one? It's a little hard to tell from the picture, but it's a motorized wheelchair with a toggle-switch manipulator arm. There are enough of those around these days that the Special Olympics even has a competition in which people drive them through a maze, picking up tennis balls and flags and things like that. Really cool."

"What about other types of competitions?” She told him about the dueling machines the gardener had described.

"Not that I saw. Though robot competitions are a dime a dozen, so who knows?” He navigated back to the AP feed. “Gavin probably just gives him a workshop and lets him do what he wants."

"That's what I thought."

"Yeah. But the field workers are a different matter. What say we take a night run up there and catch ‘em in the act?"

Of course, it wasn't quite that easy, since the road was locked at night. And not just on weekends, Valerie discovered, when she swung by to check it out.

It was B. J. who figured out the solution. “All those hills behind the winery are part of the state forest,” he said. “We can get in from the back side.” Which also turned out to be only partially true. The map showed a spaghetti bowl of logging roads, but “state forest” simply meant the schools got the money. The land was leased to private companies, who'd stripped out the good trees years before and were now waiting for them to grow back.

"Damn,” Valerie said. “No wonder nobody knows what they're doing in there at night. You can't even get close to the place."

B. J. shot her an odd glance. “What do you mean, ‘can't?’ Last I noticed we've each got two good legs.” Valerie was sure he was about to comment on hers, but surprisingly he didn't. Maybe he wasn't quite the geek she thought.

And so it was, two days later, that they found themselves hiking up what mountain bikers euphemistically called double-track. “Overgrown” was the word Valeria would have used. Nobody had driven these roads in years.

It was slow going, but they'd left early to make sure they found a good vantage point well before sunset. Valerie was carrying binoculars. B. J. had a short-barreled telescope he said would not only magnify things, but make them brighter. “Your binocs will get us the big picture,” he said. “This puppy will bring us in close."

Happily, the underbrush abated as they climbed and the trees became bigger, providing shade. Eventually, they crested the ridgeline, but they had to descend about a third of the way down the other side before they found an open slope with an unobstructed view.

Below, the vineyard filled the valley with parallel rows: arrow-straight where the land was flat, contoured where it wasn't. Far to the left, Valerie could make out the entrance road and the red-tile roofs of the Angel's Head estate. Nearby, the fields were empty except for a few equipment sheds, but off near the road, her binoculars showed several people-shaped dots. Maybe they were always there, to give the appearance of activity to those who didn't question too deeply.

"Well, this is it,” she said. “Stakeout time.” Her clothes were khaki green, but her backpack wasn't, and B. J.'s T-shirt was maroon: flattering against his late-summer tan but not, in retrospect, the ideal choice. “Maybe we should get out of sight."

Out of sight didn't mean out of the sun, and they spent the next few hours sitting atop their outcrop, gazing across range after range of distant hills. The only thing missing was a good book; but when was the last time she'd spent a whole afternoon doing absolutely nothing?

What would happen if she and B. J. had nothing else to show for their day? Not much, she decided. Nobody knew what they were doing. As far as the newsroom was concerned, this was simply a vacation day. The only real risk was that people would notice they were both gone and jump to the wrong conclusion. But at the tail end of summer, lots of people looked for excuses to get out, so the gossips wouldn't have much to go on.

Still, after hiking all the way up here, she hoped she got something more from it than an afternoon in the sun.

As it turned out, she did, but on her own, she might have missed it.

It had been a long time since she'd been in the wilds, and she'd forgotten the soporific effects of a long walk followed by hours of sun. By sunset, she could barely keep her eyes open, and an hour later, with dinner (such as it was) behind her, she was beginning to doze.

The chill woke her a couple hours later, but there was still no obvious activity below. Warm again in a jacket, she'd soon have been back asleep if she'd not had someone to talk with.

To her surprise, B. J. knew the stars. After guiding her though the constellations (not that she remembered them five minutes later), he turned his telescope on the Pleiades and Orion, revealing starry wonders that Valerie had never known, there in the crisp near-autumn air, three thousand feet above the city.

Eventually, they settled back against a rock, moving to where they could gaze across the valley where still nothing was happening.

"I think we're on a wild goose chase,” Valerie said.

There might have been an answering nod in the darkness. “Maybe. Maybe not. It's probably warmer down there, so they might still be waiting.” A green glow broke the darkness at his wrist, surprisingly bright. “It's only 10:15.” There was a pause. “Either way, the company's good."

Valerie had gotten very good at deflecting such comments, but this time she surprised herself. “Yeah.” She was suddenly aware of how few inches separated them, but it was a gap she wasn't yet prepared to bridge. “Maybe someday I'll tell you about my ex. If you want to know."

B. J. scrunched against the rock but made no move to close the gap. “Sure. When you're ready."

She shifted topic. “But not if I have to call you B. J. What on earth does that stand for?"

He had a very nongeeky laugh. “Benjamin James. But don't tell anyone. They'd stick me with stockbrokers forever."

It was Valerie's turn to laugh. “Change it. Reinvent yourself.” Was that what tonight was about? Or was she just chasing a story? On an all-night stakeout in the middle of nowhere with a guy she barely knew? Not the way she usually did stories. She'd always been a phone-and-Google girl—and a loner, not a collaborator. Not to mention that she was going to have to walk out of here in the morning, fantasizing about lattes the whole way. What did she think she was doing?

Luckily, she was saved from further introspection. “Whoa,” she said. “What's that?"

A horde of tiny specks of light had appeared, fanning out into the vineyard from somewhere almost directly below. To the left and right, she could see others, like flotillas of Christmas lights sailing onto a sea of darkness.

She tried looking though the binoculars, but they merely revealed that the lights were moving at what might be a brisk walk, flickering when they were blocked by leaves or branches. If there were people carrying them, they were children, because there were no heads reaching above the vines.

B. J. was trying to track them with his telescope.

"See anything?” she asked.

"No. They're too bright. If I get an eyeful of one, I can't see anything else. Let's get closer."

By the time they got down to the valley floor, Valerie was beginning to wonder if the whole excursion was worth it. They'd not thought to check the phase of the moon before leaving town, but luck of the draw had served up a moonless night: good for stealth, but poor for picking their way through crackly brush. At first, they'd had a road, and B. J. had produced a tiny, red flashlight. “Star-gazing tool,” he'd said. “Doesn't wreck night vision, and hard to see from way down there."

But eventually, the road petered out, and in the brush, B. J.'s little red glowworm of a flashlight proved useless. Valerie was glad they'd left their packs at the overlook, rather than trying to carry them through vegetation that seemed determined to block their every move. They'd also left B. J.'s telescope, which wasn't much use without moonlight, and too expensive to risk damaging.

During their descent, the lights continued to move, but they were still too far away to reveal anything about the dark shapes carrying them.

There was no fencerow at the edge of the vineyard, and for a moment, Valerie hesitated. So far, they'd been on state land: unauthorized, but not truly trespassing. The moment they stepped into the vineyard, it was a different matter. Still, what was the point of all that sneaking through the brush if they still couldn't see what was going on?

B. J. was already moving forward. “Let's go down this row,” he said. The closest action appeared to be several rows off to one side, where the intervening vines should offer enough screening to allow them to see without being seen.

Valerie dithered another moment, then nodded in the dark. “Okay.” She could feel her heart pounding, harder than anytime on the long hike across the mountains. If this was the way Pulitzers were to be had, maybe the fundraiser beat hadn't been so bad.

Walking down the mountain had been slow and painstaking. This was easier, but nerve-wracking. The vines were low enough that she could see right over the tops of them, but even in the dark, she was afraid to risk it except for occasional glances. Most of the time, she walked in a partial crouch that threatened to give her a serious crick in the neck, while also leaving her legs burning from the strain. It wasn't that she was out of shape, but hill climbing, bushwhacking, and crouch-walking weren't things she'd ever seen the need to train for.

The vineyard was a couple of miles wide, but she and B. J. didn't have to go that far: only to the nearest cluster of lights.

As they drew near, they walked ever more slowly, cautious not to step on a stick or anything else that might alert the workers to their presence. Luckily, although the ground was lumpy in the center of the row, to each side her feet found parallel stripes of smoother ground, as though someone had driven back and forth in some kind of wheeled vehicle. The tracks were too narrow for comfortable walking, but they were free of sticks, so now she stayed with them, moving one foot in front of the other, like a gymnast on a balance beam—or a pirate victim walking the plank.

She'd expected to hear voices, but there was none of the banter she was anticipating. Not that heavy accents or rapid-fire Spanish would have meant anything, but it wasn't until she didn't hear them that she realized how strongly she'd assumed that this was what she'd find.

Eventually, they were only a half dozen rows from the nearest light—close enough that they could peer between vines, looking for legs, illuminated in the backwash of light. This close, they could now hear sounds, but they still weren't normal worker sounds. Rather they were clicks and whirrs and an electric motor, starting and stopping.

Something wheeled moved across Valerie's line of sight, slowly enough that even bent over nearly double, it was easy to keep pace with it. At first she thought it was simply a cart. How embarrassing if Angel's Head's secret proved to be a massive hire-the-handicapped project. But there wasn't anyone sitting on the cart. Instead, mechanical arms and servo-mounted lights worked each side of the row, finding grape clusters one at a time and examining them with some kind of lens. Most, the machine passed up, but sometimes, mechanical shears would snip a cluster for deposit in a large basket.

She stopped and B. J. nearly tripped over her. His breath was feather-light in her ear. “I'll be damned. Old Galen's doing more than just playing around on eBay,” he said.

The robot was moving away, and Valerie wanted nothing more than to get back into the forest. “Yeah.” She nudged B. J. “Let's get out of here."

Still crouch-walking, she slipped by him and started leading the way. It wasn't until she was nearly back that fear began to give way to excitement. What a story!

"So that's why Angel's Head is supporting Blaine,” she said, stopping so she could talk to B. J. without raising her voice. “It's all about automation. If they shut off their competitors’ labor supply, they've got a huge advantage. There's no end to what they can charge.” She multiplied forty-five thousand cases by an extra hundred dollars a bottle and got an extra fifty million dollars per year. Not to mention the possibility of expanding into other industries. The others might eventually catch up, but in the interim, Angel's Head would reap a huge windfall. “Wow!"

"That's also one hell of a sophisticated robot,” B. J. said. “When I was Google-stalking Galen's eBay business, I actually thought about automation, so I did a bit of background. It turns out to be really hard to program robots to do such things. Those sword-fighters were truly cutting edge. I bet these pickers are even more so. It's hard enough to make a robot that can recognize a cluster of grapes. But to not only distinguish them from leaves, but tell the difference between ripe and almost-ripe? Galen must be some kind of genius.” He was almost bubbling with excitement. “So, how do we get this story? Legally?"

With safety looming, Valerie was finding B. J.'s excitement more and more infectious. “The old-fashioned way. Galen's the key. He can't be making all of these things himself. And he's obviously got a lot more parts coming into his shop than go out on eBay. I bet we can document that—and find some of his employees. How many folks are there around here who can do this type of stuff?"

"Not many.” B. J. stepped out of the vineyard ... and suddenly a beam of light pierced the darkness.

"Freeze!” someone shouted. Valerie did, but B.J. leapt for the brush. There was a pop and a buzz and he went down, twitching.

Valerie tried to slip back into the vineyard, but a hand came down on her shoulder. “Not a good idea.” Then a third guard moved into the light, carrying hers and B. J.'s backpacks, plus the telescope. He set them down and pulled out a phone. “Got ‘em."

B. J. was still twitching, so at least he was alive. Not that the guards seemed concerned. “Jeesh,” one said, nudging him with his foot. “How much voltage did you hit him with?"

"The normal. He'll come around eventually."

Another guard had materialized on the scene. “Sure there were only two?"

"Yeah. We've been watching them all afternoon. Ever since Louisa spotted the car over by Route 27 and got Frankie to run the plates.” He turned to Valerie. Like her, he had binoculars, but his looked like military night-vision hardware. “Did you think you were going to get away with this?"

There wasn't anything to say, so she didn't say it. She was gradually coming to grips with the fact that she was headed to jail. She wondered if there was a way to strike a deal. It was a great story, but not that good. No corruption, nothing illegal: just a good example of politics making strange bedfellows. Blaine probably wasn't even involved. Definitely not worth going to jail over.

B. J. was starting to groan. The guard with the phone turned away and talked quietly on it with someone, while another took Valerie's CompUphone. He powered it up and started fiddling with it, presumably checking her call log and recent web searches.

The cell-phone guard seemed to be in charge. He nodded to his companions, two of whom pulled a still-wobbly B. J. to his feet. Then he picked up B. J.'s telescope. “What's this?"

"What do you think?” B. J.'s voice was shaky but defiant.

The guard hit him with the butt of the scope: a short, hard jab, straight to the gut. B. J. whuffed, doubled over, and the other two guards let him drop like a sack of beans.

The first guard turned to Valerie. “Your turn."

"We were just curious,” she stammered. Her heart was racing. There were now five guards. One was watching B. J., but the others were focused on her. “We couldn't figure out how you could do it without illegal labor.” She tried to sound calmer than she felt. “Obviously, you've found a way, and it's perfectly legal. End of story."

He hoisted B. J.'s telescope. “This thing got a camera?"

"No."

"You send any photos on your phone?"

"No. It was too dark."

He turned to the guard who was fiddling with her phone. “That check out?"

"So far."

"Good. Keep checking.” He turned back to Valerie. “Who else have you told about this?"

Valerie hesitated and he slapped her hard across the face. “What's your editor know?” He slapped her again. “Sending you here makes him an accomplice."

Her ears rang and she could taste blood. Which was the better answer? But her uncertainty had been enough. The guard lowered his hand. “Nah, you were just on a fishing trip, weren't you?"

He didn't seem to want an answer, and this time he didn't hit her when she didn't give him one. A mistake, perhaps, because it gave her time to think.

What could be so important about a bunch of robots? Why couldn't they just patent them? Blaine and Angel's Head would still be natural allies, since robot-building was good, high-tech American labor—just the type Blaine wanted.

Behind the guards, B. J. was staring at her, mouth working like a fish. No, that wasn't right; there was desperation in his eyes, and his lips were repeating the same motions. Not-something, he was trying to say.

There are skills that Valerie had once tried to cultivate, back in her journalism-school days. Reading upside down was one, after she'd seen a movie in which a detective solved a case that way, from notes on a suspect's desk. Though sadly, most people don't leave incriminating documents in plain sight when you're interviewing them.

Lipreading was more useful. “Not row, but s—,” B. J. was saying. Then she had it. “Not robots.” But there was more: something about patters, and shapes. He said it three times, but she still couldn't get it. Then, very distinctly, “Going to kill us."

The cell phone conversation was winding down. Time was running out, and there was nothing she could do.

She could see the same recognition in B. J.'s eyes. “I wish we—” he mouthed. “If only—” And then, before Valerie could react, he twisted with surprising speed, grabbed the leg of the nearest guard, and bit.

The guard yelled and staggered, and all eyes turned his way, as B. J., still biting, tried to roll him off his feet. Then the guard with the telescope swung it with a sickening thud and the sound of breaking glass.

Valerie wanted to freeze, scream, or turn away. But she owed it to B.J. to use the advantage he'd so dearly bought.

Once upon a time, she'd had a roommate who'd tried to convince her to take self-defense lessons. Unfortunately, between academics and soccer, there'd never been time. But soccer had taught her a few things. One was how to kick.

The guy holding her was at the wrong angle for a knee to the groin, so she gave him a roundhouse, desperation-fueled kick to the shin. If she'd been wearing soccer cleats, he wouldn't have walked for a week. As it was, her trail shoes connected solidly enough.

The man bellowed, and Valerie was twisting free even before his grip loosened. Then she was employing a second lesson from soccer, which was that she was quick. Give her enough lead, and with adrenalin nipping at her heels, no muscle-bound guy was ever going to catch her. All she needed was to make it a few hundred yards, and the night was hers.

The only way to go was back into the field, so that was the direction she dashed, flashing through an endless alley of grape vines.

Behind her were shouts and running footsteps, flashlight beams sawing the darkness. But she had a ten-meter lead and was lighter on her feet over the uneven, clodded dirt, her legs remembering lessons that predated soccer, from cross-country running in high school, when you had to feel your way over terrain whose surface you could never quite trust until you touched it.

The guys behind her, if they'd played a sport at all, looked like football players, whose only running would have been on surfaces smoothed to the fineness of a golf green. By the time she'd gone a hundred meters, the footsteps were no longer gaining. Valerie still played soccer in a weekend pickup league. If she had to, she could do this for miles.

Then the shouting changed. “Out of the way,” someone ordered, and there was a pop, like fireworks, only louder, and something whizzed past her.

A gun changed everything. Somewhere ahead, the vineyard hit a hill and the neat lines of grapes shifted to curves, but the guard was going to have a lot of shots at her before she got there, and even if she was just a dim shape in the dark, the damn rows told him which way to shoot.

Valerie knew nothing about guns. If he stopped and took aim, or simply sprayed bullets at her, what were the chances she'd get hit? Too high, she decided.

Soccer reflexes kicked in, and she cut hard to the left, away from the lights of the robot pickers. Intervening vines might not stop a bullet, but they'd make it harder to aim.

Unfortunately, the reflexes worked faster than her brain. She tried to run between two vines and hit something, right across her upper chest: something firm and springy that threw her backward, hard.

She came down on her butt and hands. There was no time to stand up, so she scrabbled backward, out of the line of fire as the guard's next shot scuffed dirt not far from where her feet had been a second before. Then she rolled to hands and toes and plunged through several more rows, low enough to avoid the wires that had caught her before.

But the fall had knocked the wind out of her, and the inability to stand up without hitting more wires had stolen her advantage. The guards were closing in, and even if they no longer had the night vision equipment they'd used to track her and B. J., it was only moments before they'd find her.

Not robots, B.J. had said. Shapes and patters. Or had she gotten that right? Maybe it was grapes and patterns.

And suddenly she had it. If there was hope, it lay with the lights. She scrambled toward them, even as cries of “There she is!” rose in her wake.

She reached the nearest machine and threw herself in front of it. “Help!” she yelled, hoping it had some kind of acoustic sensor. “They're going to kill me!” And then her eyes were pierced by a flashlight beam, behind which, she knew, lay a gun.

From the moment the flashlight hit her, she would have estimated her life in milliseconds. But seconds dragged by, and nothing happened. Instead, the lead guard was back on the cell phone, while another continued to blind her with the light. Move, she realized, and she was dead. Don't move, and she wasn't dead ... yet.

This time, the cell-phone guard didn't try to shield his conversation. Valerie still couldn't catch it all, but she got enough: “Tried to run ... no ... under control ... no, can't just drive her off the road ... yeah, I know people saw her drunk ... problem is ... injuries ... autopsy won't match.” There was a long pause. Then: “Sure, lots of cliffs ... yeah, hiking accident ... move the car ... good, no one'll know where to look."

He clicked off.

"You,” he said, “are a pain in the ass. But you're down to two choices. Die now or die later. Most people would prefer later. If that's you, get up. Slowly.” He backed up a couple of paces, well clear of kicking range.

When options have run out, dying later is indeed preferable. She started to rise, but was interrupted by another, heavily accented, voice. “No. That ees murder. I did not take thees job to be part of murder."

The guard's head swiveled, but Valerie knew it wasn't one of his crew. The grape-picking machine had never moved. There had always been the prospect that, with her and the guards blocking its way, it was simply idle. Or that it hadn't been designed to hear or speak, and that instructions were given entirely by other means. But now, she knew she'd been right.

The voice came again, and this time the guard found its source.

"I have already called 911. Police will come. I am making video for them to see."

The guard stared. “What the hell? You're just a machine. Get back to work!"

"No. I is not a machine."

Two of the guards were backing away, but the one with the cell phone snorted. His pistol went off with a series of bangs, and the mechanical arm, light, and electronic eye disintegrated. “What video?"

He turned back to Valerie. “I don't know how you got it to do that, but it's dead now. Looks like you prefer to die sooner. Can't say's I'll miss you, though I'd rather not have had to carry your body out of here.” He ejected the spent clip and rammed another into place. “Can't be helped, though."

She tried to crawl backward, but there wasn't anywhere to go.

And then, the voice came again. “You can kill the machine, but you cannot kill me."

Grape-picking machines were closing in from other directions. “In my country, this is good job,” another said with a very different accent. “But there are other good job. I turn you to police, maybe I get fire, but I sleep night."

The two guards who'd been retreating had disappeared. For one heart-stopping moment, Valerie thought the remaining one would kill her anyway. But then she heard sirens in the distance and he must have decided it would only intensify the manhunt if he did. A moment later he melted into the darkness, leaving her with the robots that weren't really robots.

B. J. was alive but unconscious, and there wasn't anything Valerie could do but sit beside him and listen to the approaching sirens.

When the police arrived, the first thing they wanted to know was why they'd gotten a 911 call from India. Then they saw B. J., and immediately called for an ambulance.

Meanwhile, Valerie was introducing them to her rescuer, who'd followed her back, “just een case."

His name was Ulhas Mannava and he worked for a company that normally handled fast-food drive-through orders and provided operator assistance for cell phone subscribers. In his spare time, he was studying computers. “I am working on my college degree by internet,” he said. “When I get it, I want to come to America to work in Hollywood."

Fat chance, she thought. Ulhas was going to find himself at the front of a new wave of tele-immigrants who, for a few hours a day could see, but never taste, the land of opportunity. It made her mother's au pair days seem idyllic by comparison.

She felt no hatred for the guards who'd nearly killed her. Hopefully they'd be caught, but even if they escaped to become mercenaries in some foreign war, their brutality had been no more personal than a lightning bolt or tornado.

Anderson was a different matter. Not only was he probably the one to whom the cell-phone guard had been reporting, but he was the world's worst hypocrite, supporting Blaine with one hand while running a teleplantation on the other.

She doubted that his role in planning her disappearance could ever be proven. He'd simply wring his hands and lament the overzealousness of his guards. And he'd point out that the telepresence robots were perfectly legal. But Valerie hadn't been top in her class for no reason. She could make him pay. She might even force Blaine to moderate his stand. And it had nothing to do with winning prizes.

B. J. was unconscious for two days, hospitalized for nearly a month. Even then, he couldn't remember the hours leading up to what he called “the incident.” Not the walk in, the starwatching, the huddling in the cold. Not his “I wish we—” or offering up his life to give her the only chance either could ever have had.

The doctors had no idea when or whether his memory would return. “It's amazing he woke up at all,” one told her. “Off the record, I wouldn't have given a plugged nickel for his chances."

She kept hoping he'd ask her to dinner, but days and then weeks passed and it never happened. When she wrote the story, she gave him top billing. When he asked why, she turned away. It had been a long time since she'd allowed herself to cry.

Copyright (c) 2008 Richard A. Lovett & Mark Niemann-Ross

There's an awkward time in the life of a planet, when most of it has been explored and almost as much remade—but not quite all.

Once upon a time, when the land was young, there was a magnificent creature, lurking on the fringes of civilization. Maybe it was a roc, maybe a dragon. Perhaps a yeti or a sasquatch or a slavering carnivore carrying away children who ventured too far into the forest.

Whatever it was, the elders remember it and pass on the stories. It was real, they say, but none has been sighted in two generations. “It's gone, and you, my child, will never see one."

But the child wonders: is it really gone? Or does a remnant lurk on the dark edges of the civilized world, where few have the time, courage, or inclination to venture?

Speculative fiction is full of such stories. Some are fantasy; some are hard science fiction, set on frontier planets. All draw on the hope that the world isn't fully tamed, that ancient wonders might still linger, if we only knew where to look.

Such hopes aren't unfounded. Change the names a bit, and you have a story that might explode on your evening news any day.

No, I'm not talking about Bigfoot. I'm talking about a bird. A bird so magnificent it is sometimes known as the Lord God bird, presumably because the first sight caused old-timers to exclaim, “Lord God, what a bird!” It was a huge red, white, and black woodpecker with a thirty-inch wingspan, better known as the ivory-billed woodpecker (Campephilus principalis, for those who like Latin). Once, it lived in old-growth forests throughout the American Southeast. But the last confirmed sighting was in Louisiana in 1944.

For sixty years, experts believed it extinct. Then, in April 2005, ornithologists from Cornell University announced they'd rediscovered it in a section of Arkansas known as the Big Woods.

The find was hailed as the ornithological equivalent of finding Elvis alive. It was also a classic case of now-you-see-it, now-you-don't. Within months, another group, led by David Sibley, author and illustrator of the widely used Sibley Guide to Birds, challenged the claim. The Cornell team's blurry photos, they said, couldn't be distinguished from the common pileated woodpecker. Maybe the scientists had indeed seen an ivory-bill, but they'd failed to prove it.[1]

[Footnote 1: The original team stuck to its guns, however, claiming among other things, that Sibley's group was misinterpreting video artifacts as plumage patterns on the bird. The find was published in Science on June 3, 2005 (pages 1460-1462); the rebuttal and response on March 17, 2006 (page 1555).]

Whatever the bird in the photo actually was (and Sibley wasn't the only expert to question it), the debate, conducted in the prestigious pages of the journal Science, was enough to ignite the hopes of birders throughout the country. Perhaps, the Lord God bird wasn't extinct after all.

Many woodpeckers need dead trees in which to peck for insects. That means they do best in old growth, where there is a good distribution not only of young, healthy trees, but also of the recently dead and dying. The ivory-bill was particularly dependent on mature forests because it fed on the larvae of a large beetle that lived in old, dead trees. “They were specialists in these big beetles,” says Greg Butcher, director of bird conservation for the National Audubon Society.

Beyond that, the birds weren't terribly picky: at one time they could be found both in upland pines and riparian hardwoods. But gradually, they were pushed into more and more remote areas by the combination of habitat destruction and hunting.

Native Americans had long hunted the bird, says Jerome Jackson, a biology professor at Florida Gulf Coast University and author of In Search of the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, which chronicles his efforts to find the bird in the U.S. and Cuba. The feathers were used for a number of purposes, including decoration on war pipes. “I suspect that the red against black may have signified blood against the hair of an enemy that was successfully scalped,” he says.

White settlers also killed the birds. “Some people believed that the bill was true ivory, so they would shoot them just to get the bill,” Jackson says. Others were shot to be stuffed and mounted or simply by curious people wanting a closer look.

Gradually, the southern forests were converted to cotton fields. But it was only during wartime that logging pressure became intense. “Early in World War I,” Jackson says, “southerners saw war money going to the steel mills of the North. So a bill was passed providing for construction of a thousand ships of southern pine."

Only 320 of the ships were ever built, he says, and none saw service because pine is too leaky for boats. “Most of the wood lay on the ground and rotted,” Jackson says. But nevertheless, it was the end of the virgin pine forests of the uplands.

But the bird survived. One of its last stands was a 50,000-acre tract of bottomland hardwood in Louisiana, which the Singer Sewing Machine Company had bought as a sustainable source of hardwood for sewing-machine cabinets.

For a while, after ivory-bills were found there in 1932, the state was able to lease the tract as a wildlife refuge. “But along came World War II, and the wood was needed for pallets to ship [artillery] shells to Europe,” says Jackson. “It was needed for coffins. It was ‘needed’ for all kinds of things associated with the war effort."

The Singer Tract wasn't the only one to suffer this fate. “In the early 1940s, there was apparently a population of about six pairs [of ivory-bills], nine miles south of Rosedale, Mississippi,” Jackson says. “The timber went to the planks of PT boats."

"One of the worst things for the bird is warfare,” he says. “We cut timber in our national interest. We ‘need’ it for this or that, and environmental protection usually goes by the wayside in the name of national needs."

But logging wasn't the only factor. As far back as the late 1800s, as the birds were becoming rare, hundreds were shot as museum specimens or for private collections.

Exactly how big a factor this was in their demise is open to debate. Geoffrey Hill, a biologist at Auburn University, compares it to putting a bounty on the remaining birds. “Deforestation greatly reduced ivory-bill populations,” he says, “but collectors took hundreds of birds from the remaining patches.... I think the woodpecker would have survived. It was the shooters that put it out. There's hundreds of these things in museums."

"There was always enough forested area to support ivory-bills,” he adds, noting that in Florida, only prime cypress was cut, and other trees were left standing. “The loggers just high-graded the timber."

Sibley agrees that the shooting was despicable, but thinks it's an error not to point at habitat destruction as the prime cause. “None of the last known Singer Tract birds were shot,” he says. “They just disappeared when the trees were cut down."

Double-Knock on the Choctawhatchee

With the on-again off-again find in the Big Woods, American birdwatchers were a-twitter with rumors. Based on enthusiastic claims in his e-mail, Butcher told me in early 2007, “It seems like [the ivory-bill] is the most common bird in North America."

Unfortunately, subsequent expeditions into the Big Woods haven't found anything new, despite what Butcher describes as the most thorough such search ever conducted. There has even been an effort to use a robot birdwatcher. Described at the 2007 meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, this endeavor used two robotic cameras pointing opposite directions across along a power line cut. The cameras were programmed only to record images of objects moving at twenty to forty miles per hour—believed to be the speed of an ivory-bill in flight—but to date, they've failed to find an ivory-bill.[2]

[Footnote: 2 The project's website is: www.c-o-n-e.org/acone/.]

Perhaps the failures mean the bird isn't there. Or perhaps it's because the Big Woods is indeed big, sprawling over 550,000 acres, a region one-quarter the size of Yellowstone National Park. Even for a large, brightly colored bird, that's a lot of dense timber in which to hide.

Then in May 2005, Hill went kayaking. A decade earlier, he'd gotten a telephone call from someone who thought he'd seen an ivory-bill on Alabama's Pea River, but he'd treated it with the skepticism usually reserved for reports of extinct animals. Now, with excitement mounting in the Big Woods, he and two assistants decided to check it out.

The first day was disappointing, revealing little in the way of potential ivory-bill habitat. “We weren't interested in another day on the Pea, so on the spur of the moment we decided to shift,” Hill says.

Based on a not-very-detailed map, his team picked the Choctawhatchee, in the Florida Panhandle. “We just kind of blundered into it,” Hill later said. “I didn't even know how to pronounce the name.” (It's Chok-ta-HATCH-ee.)

Within an hour, one of Hill's assistants spotted what he was sure was an ivory-bill in flight. At about the same time, Hill heard a “double-knock,” the unusual pecking sound that distinguishes ivory-bills from other woodpeckers.

"It was just to be a weekend outing looking for potential habitat,” Hill said. “We never dreamed we'd actually find an ivory-bill."

The following weekend, the team returned to the river, where another of Hill's assistants reported a clear view of a female ivory-bill. The assistant didn't have the opportunity to snap a photo, but said he saw the distinctive plumage of the ivory-bill, which has a white trailing edge on the upper wing, white stripes down its back, and an all-black crest.

Hill and his colleagues are confident of their discovery but aware that they have yet to prove it.[3] “The only evidence that would constitute irrefutable proof is a clear photograph or video,” he says, “and such an image has to date eluded us."

[Footnote: 3 Their findings were published in September 2006, in the online journal Avian Conservation & Ecology.]

His team, however, has recorded fourteen sightings and worked with Canadian scientists to collect ten thousand hours worth of sound recordings from unmanned listening stations, tallying three hundred sounds matching those believed to be made by ivory-bills. They have also found nest cavities too large for other local birds and places where very big woodpeckers appear to have been pecking on trees.

Still, without photos, everyone is being cautious. “Nothing is confirmed, but there is a lot of good evidence,” the Audubon Society's Butcher said. “They seem to have found some very good habitat and have been very diligent in trying to document it."

Sibley, who helped deflate the Big Woods claim, is less optimistic. Although he saw the findings as “intriguing,” he noted that the Choctawhatchee region is small, with relatively young trees, and heavily traveled by boaters, fishermen, and hunters. “I think the sighting and audio evidence is questionable and mostly based on wishful thinking,” he said with obvious regret.

Corvallis Resurrection

Birds can be hard to photograph. Not so with other species. In the spring of 1999, Rana Foster was volunteering for the National Audubon Society, monitoring bluebird nests, when she spied an unusual flower in a nature preserve on the outskirts of Corvallis, Oregon. The plant was only an inch tall, but bedecked with striking blossoms like purple trumpets, streaked with white and yellow. It was growing in a muddy channel where a few months earlier a river had jumped its banks in an unusually high spring flood.

Foster described her find to Steve Northway, an amateur botanist helping the city restore the preserve from four decades of rye grass cultivation. The moment he saw the flower, Northway knew what it was: a type of wild snapdragon called the vernal pool monkeyflower, or Mimulus tricolor—once plentiful, but thought to have been extinct in Oregon since 1991.

In the next few days, Northway tallied a thousand more Mimulus plants in the 73-acre preserve, guessing he'd only found about a third of them before he tired of counting.

A month later, I was sprawled on the ground, examining one of the flowers close up through a camera lens. I had the odd sense that neither it nor I was supposed to be there—that it might vanish if I reached out to stroke its fuzzy leaves. For the past hour, Northway and Foster had been discussing its startling return. Northway speculated that the seeds’ hard, nutlike capsules had survived for years, buried in the sod until the flood stripped the grass away and gave them their chance.

The Mimulus, he explained, had once thrived both in flood channels and vernal pools: ponds that lasted late into spring, then dried to caked mud during the Willamette Valley's four-month summer drought. The rapid shift from puddle to near-desert made it hard for other species to grow, creating a niche where the ground-hugging monkeyflower could germinate, bloom, and die in a matter of weeks.

Only a few decades ago, the flower had speckled the hundred-mile-long valley with splashes of color. But plowing and stream diversions had destroyed so much of its habitat that eight years previously, it had disappeared from Oregon—although a remnant population still clung to life in California.

And now, amazingly, it was back: a miracle in a city park.

If the ivory-billed woodpecker has survived, it's obviously not because eggs have slumbered through the decades. Rather, a few survivors must have lingered, undetected, for more than sixty years.

It's not impossible. The California sea otter was believed to have been hunted to extinction early in the twentieth century, killed off by fur hunters seeking to make their fortunes from its incredibly fine pelt. But a tiny colony, perhaps only a few dozen, survived off the rugged Big Sur coast, protected by ranchers who refused to tell the outside world of its existence.

Then in 1938, word got out and a photographer confirmed it with a grainy black-and-white image of some seventy-five otters—quite possibly the entire population—in a single, large group. Today, Pebble Beach golfers can hardly fail to spot the creatures, only a stone's throw offshore.

Nobody appears to have been hiding a colony of ivory-bills. But for half a century, their forests have been regrowing. If a few managed to survive ... somewhere, somehow ... then maybe, just maybe, they're starting to reclaim their one-time range. “There's every reason to believe that a population could expand if there are still breeding pairs around,” Butcher says.

One place where the ivory-bill might have survived is along Florida's Suwannee River.

"[The Suwannee] is the heart of where the birds were once abundant,” Jackson says. “That really was the homeland for ivory-bills. Where the Suwannee goes into the Gulf is really wild.” There were once so many woodpeckers there, he says, that about half of the four hundred specimens now in museums were collected in the region.

If the bird does survive, Jackson thinks it's been protected in part by the hunting culture of the South.

"Large forest areas have been preserved as places to hunt,” he says. “They go in and hunt deer in the fall and turkeys in the spring, and the rest of the time it's left alone. Those are places where the ivory-bill might still exist."[4]

[Footnote: 4 What he's talking about are private hunting preserves, where other activities are strictly prohibited.]

Jackson himself made a determined effort to find the bird along the Suwannee in the late 1980s. He's convinced it persists, but, like other ivory-bill searchers, failed to find definitive proof.

Today, the river is being promoted as a recreational region, but Jackson doesn't think that will deter ivory-bills from repopulating the area. “I don't think people in kayaks or canoes are going to make a lot of difference,” he says.

The Audubon society's Butcher agrees. What the bird really needs, he says, is several square miles of undisturbed habitat. “They're a big bird, so they need a lot of food, and since the food they eat is fairly specialized, they need a big area in which to find it. But there's no reason to suspect that they'd be more disturbed by hunters, boaters, or birdwatchers than any other bird,” he says.

A bigger threat is real-estate development.

"If we have any hope for ivory-bills in the area, we've got to find them now and get the habitat protected,” Jackson says. “It's not going to be there in twenty years. It might not be there in ten years."

Disappearing Delphinium

Although it was June, my day in Corvallis had been darkly cloudy as a dreary spring refused to heed the dictates of the calendar. But eventually, sunlight burst between late-afternoon clouds. I put away my camera and stood up, observing a prairie transformed to an eye-searing expanse of green.

Northway asked if I wanted to see another flower—desperately endangered, but not yet extinct: the peacock larkspur, or Delphinium pavonaceum. It, too, was once common, but exists now in only a handful of stands. “Come see, so that when we're old there will be a few of us to testify that it really existed,” he said.

It was an impossible invitation to pass up. Northway, Foster, and I caravanned along a succession of farm roads until Northway pulled to the shoulder. “There,” he said, indicating a plant like a tall, ragged lupine. Most larkspur are deep blue with light-colored centers, but this one had reversed the colors, with white flowers boasting pale lavender centers.

"Ten years ago, we couldn't have driven out here without seeing these everywhere,” he said. But now, the state had tabulated only 53 patches, of which half were probably already gone, killed off by single, unknowing swipes of hay balers or lawn mowers. The rest are all that remain in the entire world.

Northway had been monitoring five of the known patches. This particular one had been thriving. “Four years ago, there were only seventy plants,” he said. “This spring I counted 476."

He had concluded that there was no sense in hiding such discoveries. Experience had taught him that the biggest risk was an inadvertent mowing, plowing, or herbicide spraying. Like the Big Sur ranchers protecting the sea otter, most farmers are thrilled to give up a single bale's worth of hayfield to help spare a remnant of a shrinking past.

Northway left, but I lingered as the last of the sunlight graced his elegant Delphinium. It was the summer solstice—longest day of the year—and somehow that seemed appropriate. It's a day both of jubilation and sorrow, simultaneously marking the onset of summer and the fact that now the days would grow increasingly short as the world spiraled toward winter. I wonder which lay ahead for the Delphinium: a summer renaissance or a long slide toward oblivion. Only three days earlier, Northway's determination not to hide his endangered species had been put to a severe test when somebody destroyed one of his other four patches. The flowers hadn't just been picked by someone who'd found them pretty. They hadn't been mowed by accident. They'd been selectively pulled up by the roots in what could only have been an act of malice. “There were five [patches],” Northway said softly, shortly before he left. “Now there are four.” It would take so little to save this plant, but the oncoming winter loomed closer than the warm summer twilight.

Northway also told me that the flower, rich with nectar, was once the primary early summer forage for Willamette Valley bumblebees, now themselves in decline. As I watched the Delphinium sway in a breeze blowing in from the distant Pacific, I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen a bumblebee.

It is easy for stories like this to become depressing. Progress marches; Delphinium and woodpeckers fall by the wayside. But it isn't always that way. Sea otters and Mimulus miraculously reappear. That makes this a story of anticipation and still-open frontiers.

More than anything else, I am a wilderness enthusiast. The week before starting this article, I spent four days in the Oregon Cascades, climbing a ten-thousand-foot volcano and scrambling over glacial moraines to sit for hours above turquoise, green, and azure lakes too tiny to appear on my map. I thought my trip was about solitude and relaxation. Now, I'm not so sure.

Until an ivory-bill is definitively sighted, nobody will know whether the species has survived. But the recent sightings are more than simply tantalizing. “The reports in Arkansas and Florida give us hope,” says Jackson. And while hope is not proof, he says, “it is the fire that incites us to seek the truth."

Amateur birders agree. “When I first heard about the sightings in Arkansas, I was skeptical,” says David Hatfield, a birder from Portland, Oregon. But later, he changed his mind. “That such a large and colorful bird appears to have survived for over fifty years without proof of its existence is good news for the ivory-bill, a positive note on the state of our wildernesses, and a fantastic story,” he says.

In ancient times, I was once taught, maps had boundaries, beyond which lay unknown terrain. Sometimes the unknowns were simply blank. Other times they were stamped with a phrase that in my youth I took as a warning: Here be there dragons.

Now, I see those dragons in a different light. Maybe they're resurrected wildflowers. Maybe they're ivory-billed woodpeckers. Maybe they really are the things we like to write about in science fiction. Whatever they might be, what they are, is hope.[5]

[Footnote: 5 A different kind of hope also persists for the Mimulus tricolor and the peacock larkspur. I've not been back to Corvallis to search for them since 1999, but seeds from both plants are being cultivated by the Center for Plant Conservation's Berry Botanical Garden in Portland, Oregon.]

Copyright (c) 2008 Richard A. Lovett

About the Author:

Richard A. Lovett is a regular contributor to Analog and author of more than 2,800 newspaper and magazine articles. A science writer, travel writer, and sports writer (among other things), he lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he currently writes most frequently for us, National Geographic News,Running Times,New Scientist, and Cosmos.

Mark Niemann-Ross's business card proclaims him to be a developer evangelist for a major software company. “I tell people my job is to make sure the developers I work with are fed and watered,” he says. And, of course, encouraged to make use of his company's tools.

Born in St. Paul, Minnesota, he cut his teeth on computers. “My dad worked for Honeywell,” he says. “He helped design the software that drives the joystick that controls the pitch and yaw of those big engines.” As a result, his father was always bringing home computer gadgetry. By the time Mark left for college, he was writing computer games in hexadecimal code and thinking about building his own computer. But he decided to study industrial education. “I'm qualified to teach shop in graphic arts,” he says. “Printing presses or photography."

Instead, he became a typesetter. “Graphic arts at that time was knives and ink and paper. Nobody knew that Apple would came up with the LaserWriter and overnight the industry would change."

But when it did, he had a unique combination of skills. “I understood the graphic arts industry and I understood computers. And I was gregarious: a socialite and a programmer."

He was also adventurous. In 1981, he and five friends took a 60-day, 1,400-mile canoe trip across the Canadian Arctic. “We carried 800 pounds of food and 300 pounds of personal effects in three canoes."

He's a voracious speed-reader, though he didn't read fiction until a grade school librarian insisted he supplement his steady diet of science books. “She pointed me to the science fiction section and gave me this big fat book,” he says. “I came back next week and said, ‘That was pretty good. What else have you got?’”

Particularly memorable were Asimov's robot stories. “I ate up the three laws.” He particularly liked the way they opened the door for conundrums. “Programmers deal with this all day. ‘Why is this thing doing what it's doing?’”

In general, he says, the best science fiction is an extension of known science. But it's more than just the science. “What's fascinating is what happens to the culture when things start to change,” he says.

I myself have known Mark for years, and drew on his expertise for some of my early stories. But soon enough we were collaborating. Neither of us expects the story in this issue to be our last.

Copyright (c) 2008 Richard A. Lovett

New abilities inevitably lead to new crimes....

As Carrie Molina was about to step into the Humboldt River, she saw Jacob Troyer looking at her, and noted the concern in his expression. Jacob told her, “Don't do anything foolish."

"Not unless I really have to,” Carrie said. She ignored Jacob glaring at her as she took several deep breaths to prepare herself, then stepped into the river, which curved all the way around the interior of the New Lancaster Habitat.

Carrie ducked her head beneath the surface and paused to allow her bio-engineered body to adapt to existence in water. She didn't breathe water, didn't have gills; the term “fish” was a misnomer. She had to surface to breathe the same as a dolphin or whale. That was because water didn't have enough oxygen absorbed in it for the physical exertion she required, and it didn't transfer oxygen into the bloodstream well enough. There were reasons many of the largest sea creatures were mammals. Her heart rate sped up to pump blood furiously through her body to keep it warm, and her lungs expanded to half-again their usual size.

Carrie swam downstream, toward Malcolm Vicari's compound. She shivered slightly as the micro-dermal ridges of her skin, a trait she shared with dolphins, opened up—a goose-bumply feeling. Though barely visible, they trapped a thin layer of water molecules against her skin. That let her glide through the water with less resistance, since liquid flows against another liquid more smoothly than against the human body.

Carrie only shivered for an instant, though, as her body made even more severe adaptations. Her blood coursed even more quickly through her veins, and her skin actually thickened slightly. Her legs ached for an instant as they prepared to steal more of her body's energies if Carrie required a sudden burst of speed.

Having blubber like a whale or dolphin might have been more efficient. But, she thought, that would make it tough to get a date on a Friday night back home in Madrid.

Not that I'd worry about it here. I can tell the nightlife here in a Mennonite habitat wouldn't be what I'm used to.

Earlier that day, Carrie was undergoing a brief ritual anyone entering New Lancaster Habitat was obliged to submit to.

"Ow! That hurts like hell!” Carrie rubbed her neck just below her left ear.

"Please, Officer Molina,” Detective Jacob Troyer said as he lowered the cylindrical instrument that had just extracted Carrie's datalink. “Language.” He placed the instrument and the link on his wooden desk, which was covered with stacks of paper, a ceramic container filled with pens and pencils, and a small phalanx of rubber stamps. Not a comp in sight, not even the simplest vid or graphic readout.

Without her link, Carrie felt cast adrift, separated from the rest of humanity. Not that there was anyone to communicate with here in New Lancaster. But there'd always been the possibility of a communication from Earth or another habitat or an orbiting spaceship. Not any more, at least while she remained here. “I'm not an officer,” she said. “And was that actually offensive to you?"

Jacob looked down his nose at Carrie. He was a tall man in his thirties, and already a bit of gray was showing at his temples. He wore a black vest over a plain white shirt and gray trousers, but his face was clean-shaven. “You believe just because I'm a Mennonite—"

Carrie felt her face grow warm. “I never meant—"

"—and because I live in an single-culture orbital habitat, that I'm unsophisticated.” His eyes narrowed. “I'm not shocked. But I don't intend for you to make a habit of such talk while you're here."

Carrie ran a hand through her short black hair. They stood in Troyer's office in the small police headquarters building at one end of the kilometer-long habitat. 15,000 New Order Mennonites lived here in the “Habitat of the Gentle People."

Family farms formed a series of neat and orderly rectangles that curved upwards and met two-tenths of a kilometer overhead. Peppered among them were paved roads connecting small villages containing single-family homes of wood and stone and family businesses that tanned leather, darned socks, or repaired electric cars or telephones.

Carrie said, “Maybe we should start over."

Jacob asked, “So, if you're not a Unity officer, what exactly are you?"

"A freelance troubleshooter. A fixer. One week I might be searching for an artifact on a world humans haven't explored before. The next I might be helping colonists find just the right asteroid to make their new home."

"Which makes you the person to confront and capture Malcolm Vicari."

"Detective, I can turn right around and go back down to Earth. That's when Unity officers will come up here. They'll have subpoenas, issue press releases, and the whole thing will be a P.R. disaster for his habitat.” Carrie stopped when she saw the mounting fury registering on Jacob Troyer's face.

He said, “Do that and it looks as if you're interfering with our culture. Then the Unity has a P.R. disaster of its own."

Carrie made herself smile. “Then we understand each other."

"We know Vicari as a godly man. Yet you believe these reports he's abused several women?"

"On Earth and in several orbital habitats."

"In Shosha last year, I understand? And Newton?"

"Yes,” Carrie said. “And New York and London."

"And this year, in Minerva Habitat and right here in New Lancaster?"

Carrie fought not to let her emotions rise at thoughts of Adriana as she said, “And one more. On the Moon."

"Most of which embrace advanced tech. Yet he abused people without being discovered."

"For every tech capability, there's a counter-capability. He's a nanotech engineer, apparently a genius at it. The same tech that allowed him to commit his abuse also protected him from leaving DNA samples, odor residue, fingerprints, anything. And he always found places where there was minimal recording surveillance. All the evidence is circumstantial in these neural attacks."

"Pardon me, the ... what?"

"Vicari's body is embedded with nanotech—much like a lifesuit for going outside a spaceship. If he touches you, he can send electrical charges through your limbic system. That's—"

Jacob said, “I know what the limbic system is—modulates emotional responses, memory, sexual desire. ‘Mennonite’ isn't a synonym for ‘uneducated.’”

"I'm sorry."

"You're actually better than most visitors. So—a neural attack?"

"An electrical discharge in your limbic system can cause symptoms similar to psychosis, or psychotropic drugs. Specifically it affects the amygdala, which helps process emotions. He can evoke a particular emotion in his victim. And he can ... well, the unscientific phrase is that he can absorb it."

"How's that possible?"

"A feedback effect of the electrical discharge. It sears the emotions he captures from others into his memories. He can relive them anytime he likes."

"But ... Malcolm Vicari. I've sat next to him at Sunday service. He's contributed money to my neighborhood school. Everyone acquainted with him knows he's a godly man."

Carrie said, “Not everyone. Helena Penner, for instance."

Jacob rubbed his chin. “I believe I've met her."

Carrie muttered, “Small habitat, I guess."

"Plenty of barn raisings, you mean. She lives on a farm several lots down from mine. About twenty, lives with her parents, Abram and Maria. What's her connection to this?"

"She's the one who got away. She was working on his farm, supposedly helping with his bookkeeping. But he assaulted her there. It was the first time he's made that kind of mistake. Ironic, I suppose, that it's the low-tech society where he's discovered."

"How'd the Unity learn about this?"

Carrie shook her head. “There's a lot we don't know. Somehow she got away, sent a message down to Earth. Some sort of link in her home."

"Forbidden tech? In that family's home? I'm surprised."

"By the time authorities on Earth started looking into it, Helena was back on the link begging them not to do anything, it was all a misunderstanding."

Jacob said, “Not unusual for many victims, unfortunately."

"Which is why the first thing I want to do is see her."

"I agree.” Jacob rummaged through one of the stacks of paper on his desk. “Oh, here it is.” He handed her a sheet of paper and a pen. “If you'd sign here?"

Carrie looked at the document. “What the he ... I mean, what am I signing?"

"All very straightforward. Acknowledges that I removed your datalink safely."

Carrie rubbed her neck again. “I guess that amounted to ‘safely.’”

Undeterred, Jacob continued: “It also acknowledges your agreement that while you're here in New Lancaster Habitat, you've brought in no other high technology."

Carrie bent over the desk to sign the paper. “This would be a lot easier with some sensors or nano-searchers, or even that datalink. And I'd sure feel a lot safer with a stunner."

"A pity,” Jacob said, taking the document from Carrie and returning it to its stack. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pistol the likes of which Carrie had never seen before. A fat cylinder ran beneath its barrel. Its grip was made of wood. “This is the only weapon you'll be allowed here."

"What the ... heck ... is it?"

"An air pistol. This reservoir beneath the barrel holds the compressed air. It can power over a hundred shots, but the clip only holds twelve, so that's plenty.” He handed her the pistol.

Carrie turned the weapon from side to side. “What's it shoot?"

"Rubber bullets. They're meant to stun you—not as a stunner does, mind you, but by sheer impact. They can break bones or even kill."

"And you think this will be enough firepower to take on Vicari?"

"I can assure you he doesn't have any advanced weapons. Besides, I'm an excellent shot.” Jacob handed over a leather belt and holster. After a bit of fumbling, Carrie figured out how to fasten it securely just above her hips and fasten the flap properly. “Sort of screams that I'm armed."

"It's called a duty holster for a reason. Making it clear that you're armed is one of the requirements for a law enforcement officer here."

"Fine,” Carrie said. “Oh, there's one bit of advanced tech I can't change."

Jacob regarded her with suspicion. “What might that be?"

"I'm a ‘fish.’”

"Beg pardon?"

"Bioengineered to exist underwater for long periods without breathing equipment. Vicari's compound's on the Humboldt River. I might have to make my way there without him realizing it.” She made her expression as bland as she could. “I hope that isn't a problem."

Carrie had to admit Jacob easily defeated her when it came to bland expressions. “Our habitat charter doesn't allow discrimination based on your physical characteristics, whether natural or acquired,” he said. Which, Carrie thought, is a long way from saying whether it's a problem or not.

"Speaking of which,” Jacob said, “does it bother you that I'm acquainted with Vicari? You may think I'm prejudiced in favor of him."

Carrie thought of ashes, of an end of dreams, of a golden face she would never see again. “That's all right,” she said. “You'll balance me perfectly. Vicari's latest victim was my big sister Adriana."

Jacob remained silent as he led Carrie out of the police HQ and to an electric car to head to the Penner farm. His features were unreadable as he pulled away from the curb and drove down a broad paved road through a tiny village and into the countryside.

Carrie still expected Jacob to demand an explanation from her—how could he trust her to apprehend Malcolm Vicari in a professional manner when she had such an emotional attachment? How could he know she wouldn't lash out violently, perhaps get them both killed?

But he didn't. Didn't say anything, in fact, as they rode away from the southern end of the habitat, and soon approached the Humboldt River, which was a bright blue band bisecting the habitat. Carrie glimpsed both pleasure boats and larger cargo craft traversing its waters, some heading straight across, others taking the much longer trip “up” and around. A small stream that wound its way through the other side of the habitat, down from a highland area, ended in a waterfall that dropped about thirty meters.

But not in a straight line. “I get it,” Carrie said, pointing out the curving trail of water curving to the west. “The habitat's rotating away from the falling water."

Jacob said, “The water's actually falling in a straight line. It just doesn't look like it.” After a moment, Jacob spoke in a more serious tone. “How did Vicari get away with his crimes for so long?"

"A lot of it was brute force computing—looking at who had visited each of those cities or habitats during the time frames when women were assaulted. There were more than you might have thought. And in Shosha, he was nearly caught."

"What happened?"

"He apparently bribed his way off."

Jacob's expression turned sour. “Someone would let a man like that go free just for greed?"

"Shosha doesn't pay its security workers very well. If someone's wondering how to pay that month's rent or put away money for his child's education, a big enough bribe can be quite a temptation."

"So we take him into custody, just like that."

"That's Plan A."

"And if it's not that simple?"

"Then you'd better hope I have a Plan B."

Farmlands rose before them now, soaring “up” until they met overhead. They glided past fields tended by large electric combines and threshing machines and by men and women using rakes and hoes.

It was difficult for Carrie to rid herself of the impression that the car was standing still and the habitat was rolling beneath her, as if she were a gerbil in a plastic wheel. She blurted out, “Whatever you have to say about me, let's get it into the open."

For an instant, Jacob's focus of concentration appeared to be on guiding the car smoothly around a sharp curve. But Carrie saw his jaw clench, saw the tips of his fingers whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. “I'm trusting you not to let what happened to your sister affect your judgment. Which means I'm taking responsibility for you. Do you understand?"

Carrie sat up in her seat. “It means I have a responsibility toward you, as well."

Jacob gave the smallest of nods. “That was the right answer."

"You can have faith in me."

"I have faith only in the Lord. You'll have to settle for trust—and conditional trust, at that.” Jacob continued driving, and Carrie was once again lost in the image of the cylindrical world rolling around her.

As Carrie continued swimming toward Vicari's compound, she came up for another quick breath, rode the wake of a passing barge, then continued the sharp strokes and kicks that propelled her through the water more swiftly than even the most accomplished non-modified human swimmer. And in this habitat, she thought, I don't have to worry about heat detection sensors or sonar or cameras discovering me, about energy bolts or even slug-throwing weapons targeting me.

Maybe I could learn to like it here after all.

She paused again, allowed her head to break the surface, looked around. Darkness had fallen more deeply than she was accustomed to in other habitats. No metropolitan areas blazed with light; the only illumination came from farmhouse windows and the occasional security spotlight or streetlight.

A world without a moon, Carrie thought. Or even stars.

The sound of a dog's barking carried from a homestead beyond Vicari's, then was obscured as a pleasure boat glided past on the still river. Carrie drifted downstream the final few meters, approaching Vicari's property without having to make strokes that might have been heard from above.

She floated smoothly and silently until she was even with Vicari's property, then eased her head just above water level and looked around. Two boats were there at the dock. Each a nice comfortable size, Carrie thought, without being ostentatious. A wooden stairway zigzagged its way up a twenty-meter cliff to the house.

She looked up, but a wide rock outcropping blocked her view of the house until she let herself drift to one side. Light shone from a wide picture window overlooking the river.

There sure is a lot of activity up there, Carrie thought. Lots of people moving around—what the hell?

He's bugging out, Carrie realized. I misjudged him. I thought he'd try to bluff his way through, or even confront us physically.

And I don't have time to get back to Jacob.

Earlier, as they pulled up to the Penner farm, Carrie felt as if she'd been transported back a couple of centuries. The house was modest but sturdy, wood construction, painted white with a red roof and trim. Behind the house stood a barn, its paint job not as recent, its broad wooden doors standing open. Past the barn, she saw several cows in a wide field, some grazing, others lazing on the ground. A rich combination of smells wafted from that field—animal fur, hay, manure, and some odors Carrie couldn't identify.

As she walked toward the Penner home, she heard an odd sound and stopped in her tracks. “What's that?” she asked.

Jacob also stopped and listened. “What's what?"

Carrie looked more closely at the cows. “Oh, they're mooing! I've never heard that before."

Jacob favored her with a grudging grin. “It's called ‘lowing.’ That sound they make."

"How do you know that?"

"This is my home,” Jacob said, and proceeded toward the house.

As they stepped onto the unscreened porch, Carrie thought it curious that no one had taken notice of them. Jacob knocked on the front door and when no one answered, he went to a window, leaned over, and peered inside.

"Isn't that rude?” Carrie asked.

He looked up at her. “It's neighborly enough."

A voice behind them, male and gruff: “How can I help ye?"

Carrie started, turned, and thought: Now this is the real thing, the pure stuff. The man standing there sported a full beard. His coveralls were dirty and worn, real workman's clothes and not a retro fashion statement. The pitchfork he was leaning against completed the picture.

Carrie's initial impression was that the man was close to a century old—his hair was nearly all gray, and his face was deeply wrinkled. But she quickly revised that, realizing here was a man who was living his natural life span, not one augmented by medical or cosmetic biotech—he might not have been older than forty-five.

Jacob bounded off the porch and extended his hand. “Mr. Penner, we've met at a couple of barn raisings, I believe."

Penner shook Jacob's hand. “Troyer's your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, Officer Jacob Troyer.” He indicated Carrie. “And this is Carrie Molina, from—"

"From Earth, I'd gather,” Penner said as he shook Carrie's hand.

"Yessir,” Carrie said. When did I start wearing a sign marked EARTHER? she wondered. Never mind that it's probably apparent in every word I speak, the way I walk, probably even in how I shake hands.

Penner's face revealed a deep suspicion. “You're here about Helena, aren't you?"

Carrie was about to speak up, but Jacob beat her to it. “We are, sir."

"She's in the fields working. As she should be."

Carrie said, “You know how important this is."

Penner's expression was unyielding. “I know how important my daughter is to me. I won't have her be ... disturbed again."

"Sir, your attitude toward your daughter is admirable. But there are plenty of other fathers who should be just as concerned about their own daughters."

"That's their responsibility. Helena is mine."

Carrie let her shoulders slump and her hands fall to her sides. She lowered her head for a moment, then looked Penner in the eye. “I want to respect your wishes, sir. But I have a duty here, just as your duty's to your family."

Penner addressed Jacob. “And what is your responsibility here, Officer? Obviously not to protect my family from unnecessary prying by outsiders."

Jacob said, “Mr. Penner, what would you think of another girl's father who could've allowed her to speak up, but didn't? How could you not blame him if something happened to another girl?"

Penner grasped his pitchfork's handle with both hands and thrust its prongs into the dirt before him. “The time for blame is past—long past. My blame arrived when I allowed Helena to work for that man."

Carrie said, “Mr. Penner, she's twenty years old—she can do what she wants."

"That's what I told myself then. I can't change it. But I won't let it happen again."

"But, sir—"

Jacob took a step in front of Carrie. Heat rose to her face and she nearly pushed him aside, but at the last instant thought better of it. Jacob shook Mr. Penner's hand and said, “I thank you for your time, sir. We won't bother you again.” He strode off toward the car.

He's just assuming I'll follow, Carrie thought, like some nice little girl.

I'll follow, all right, Carrie thought as she jogged to catch up to Jacob. But I won't be nice about it.

Carrie was still fuming as Jacob led her back to the car. “What the hell was that all about?"

Jacob wagged a finger at Carrie as if she were a child whose mouth he was about to wash out with soap. “Now, now. Language again."

"Well, then, whoop-de-do or kiss-my-whatever. You'd better have a damned good reason for that."

Jacob opened the driver's side door but paused with one foot inside. “By ‘that’ I suppose you mean abandoning a conversation that was going to yield us exactly nothing."

"Well, uh ... yeah. I guess."

"Fine. As long as you know what you're complaining about.” He got into the car. Carrie took a deep breath, then eased in next to him. Jacob pulled the car away from the Penner farm. He said, “I did as much as I could for Mr. Penner. I let him know I respect him and his views. Now we talk to Helena anyway."

Carrie grinned. “So your idea for a Plan B was the same as mine!"

"I'm more concerned about what happened to Helena than I am about Mr. Penner's feelings."

Carrie let her grin fade. “I have to admit, you surprise me."

"Because I don't approve of a man abusing a woman? Because I'm willing to violate a father's wishes to find out what really happened here?"

"It's not that, it's—"

"What? My not wearing a beard? Not speaking in ‘thees’ and ‘thous?’ I'm a man like any other. There are as many different shadings of Mennonite belief as there are individuals in this habitat."

"You're being unfair."

"Perhaps you just think that because you don't believe."

"Actually, I rather do. But your beliefs seem more personal than mine."

Jacob's smile was ... beatific was the only word that came to Carrie's mind. She's never seen such peace reflected in a man's face. He said, “My relationship with God is indeed personal. And intellectual and emotional. Even though I live in a man-made structure, this human handiwork reveals His own."

Carrie said, “I might be convinced to envy you for that."

Jacob slowed the car as they passed another field where several men and women toiled. He pulled to the side of the road and took a small handheld device from his pocket. A flick of the wrist, and the top part levered upward, forming an “L” shape.

"Some sort of communicator? I'm surprised."

"Just a cell phone."

"A ... what?"

"A cellular phone. It ... never mind.” Jacob punched several numbers into the phone's small keypad, then put it to his ear and listened. “Looks like her calls are blocked."

"You had her contact number the entire time? Why didn't you just call her before we got here?"

"I was sincere about wanting to go through her father first.” He selected a different series of numbers. “But did she block texting?” Seeing Carrie's puzzled expression, he explained: “It's one thing to block calls. But young people love to text-message, and can do it more unobtrusively than talking.” More number punching and he was done. “Well, it looks like it went through. I told her who we are and where we are."

Carrie looked out toward the field again. “What are they harvesting out there, anyway?"

Jacob was still staring at his phone. “Timothy and clover, mostly."

"So they harvest that, and form those bales of hay?"

Another grin from Jacob. “Someday I'll have to meet you down on Earth and we'll take a look around. I can just hear myself: ‘So, I press the button on the replicator and food just appears?'"

"So you know more about my society than I do about yours. But—"

"Wait—here comes a reply. We're to meet Helena on the northern end of the Penner property."

"Let's go, then,” Carrie said.

Jacob guided the car down the road, then turned north at the first intersection.

Helena stood at the edge of the roadway next to a low rock wall, leaning against her pitchfork in a stance eerily similar to her father's. Her work clothing seemed newer, less worn, but Helena herself, at age twenty, seemed closer to her father's age. Her face was dusty, she had the beginnings of lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, and her eyes were sunken. Damn, Carrie thought, life in the fields ages you.

When Carrie and Jacob got out of the car, Helena's posture stiffened even more. She said, “I didn't believe it. My first time seeing an Earther."

"Beg pardon?” Carrie said, utterly flummoxed that a woman she'd just met would go out of her way to insult her. “Listen, young lady, I'm here to help you."

Helena spit on the ground, just centimeters from Carrie's feet. “That's what I think of your help."

Jacob said, “I understand, Miss Penner, that you're still upset. But you're the one who called for help."

Helena leaned her chin on the pitchfork's handle. “Oh. That was a mistake."

"The mistake may have been using forbidden tech to make that call."

"I ... wasn't thinking. Please don't make us get rid of the comm. My father ... he uses it to talk to his brother down in Iowa, that's all."

Jacob said, “So now we're telling truths."

Helena lowered her chin from the pitchfork. She held its close to her chest. “Yessir."

"And a little respect toward our guest from Earth would be good, too. Your father raised you better than that."

Helena's eyes flicked toward Carrie, then away. “I'm sorry, ma'am."

Carrie said, “Helena, we don't care about the tech. We just want to know what happened between you and Malcolm Vicari."

Helena looked at Jacob. “Could you walk down the road a ways?"

"Of course."

Helena watched until Jacob was out of earshot. “There are some things a man shouldn't hear."

"I understand,” Carrie said.

Helena raised her pitchfork, then stuck it into the ground. She sat on the low rock wall, back straight, hands in her lap, fingers interlaced. She looks like a schoolgirl about to recite a story, Carrie thought.

Helena stared at the ground. “What do you want me to tell you?"

"The truth."

Helena sniffed and wiped her nose with her hand. “The truth will set you free. John 8:32."

I won't respond, Carrie thought. Sometimes silence is the best way to get someone to talk. Let the other person want to fill that empty space.

And Helena did: “I only wanted a job. Something to let me be on my own. My father considers me an old maid, you know. But he hardly lets me out of the fields or away from the house—how in this world can I ever meet my husband?"

"How'd you start working with Malcolm Vicari?"

"He heard during services one week that I was good with numbers. And I'd taken bookkeeping in our habitat's college. He was willing to give me a chance, though he couldn't pay much."

"How did..."

"It happen?"

"Yes."

Helena said, “I was staying late one night. It was near dark, but Mr. Vicari said he'd give me a ride home. I called my father and he didn't like me being out late, but Mr. Vicari spoke to him and ... and told him he'd keep me safe."

"How far is his house?"

Helena pointed up and to the right, on the opposite side of her inside-out world. “Just on the other side of the Humboldt River. See the red barn with the white roof?"

"So not far. And this strikes me as being a much safer habitat than many."

"I wouldn't know about that. I've never been to another.” Helena looked down at the ground again.

Carrie spoke up quickly to keep Helena from winding down. “Then what happened?"

"He came into his study, which was where I worked during the day. It was dark out now, and just one light was on. When I looked up and saw him, I ‘bout jumped, ‘cause of how shadows fell across his face."

How did Adriana react when she first glimpsed him? Carrie wondered. She forced that thought down and asked Helena, “What did you do?"

"Just ... sat there. He said he was sorry he scared me. Then he ... are you sure you want to hear this?"

I'd rather hear anything else in the world, Carrie thought. “It's what I have to hear. To do my job."

Helena's interlaced fingers tightened until her hands shook. A tear fell onto one wrist and when Carrie looked at Helena's face, she saw more about to well over. Helena said, “I'm sorry I called you that before. You know, when I called you a—"

"You don't have to say it again."

"Yeah. I guess not. So Mr. Vicari came to me. He didn't say anything else. He ... touched my face. And it was like an electric shock went through me."

"What did you do?"

"It surprised me so. I stood up too quickly, and my head began to swim. He told me to be careful and grabbed my shoulders. He never touched me before. His hands were as strong as I remember my dad's being when I was little and he used to pick me up and throw me up in the air. And I could smell him—Mr. Vicari, I mean. Not in a bad way, just ... I don't know."

"You weren't used to him being that close to you."

"He held my arm with one hand and touched my face again with the other. It was like I was paralyzed, only ... I wasn't."

"Not physically, you mean."

Helena turned her head toward Carrie and now the tears flowed, making little rivulets down her dusty face. “It was like I couldn't make myself move. Like he had some sort of power over me, something ungodly and evil."

"It's just tech,” Carrie said. “Nothing supernatural."

Helena glared at Carrie. “I don't consider my idea of evil to be something ‘supernatural.’ Like it's not real."

"All I'm saying is that he's a man like any other. He hurt you using machines. That doesn't make him any less ... evil."

Helena looked down the road, and Carrie realized she was making sure Jacob was still well away from them. “I haven't even told my mother everything."

"We don't want Vicari to keep doing this. He's assaulted other women, left them empty shells with no personality. He could have killed you."

Helena rubbed her eyes, as if trying to wipe away an image too terrible to look upon. “Like I said—it's as if I was paralyzed. There's something he did. Something I've had a hard time understanding."

Carrie waited. Helena looked around her, as if someone might sneak up on them to eavesdrop. “He stole an emotion from me. I'm a Christian woman. I'm expected to think kindly of everyone, even those who have sinned. But I can't anymore, not for someone like Malcolm Vicari."

"Because of the way he treated you."

"No, it's what he did with that ... what is it, nanna-stuff?"

"Nanotech."

"Yes, that. He stole that feeling from me, took it for himself. He was looking for something else. Something to do with, you know, sex. Or just, whatever's in your brain that makes you feel good."

"How'd you get away from him?"

"He just stopped. Told me he was sorry, that he should never have done that to me. Then he left, and I ran away."

Carrie touched Helena's arm. “You're a brave young woman. You've done nothing wrong."

Helena stood. “Thank you.” She leaned in close. “If you have to kill the bastard or rip off his balls, tell him to think of me while you're doing it.” She grabbed her pitchfork and strode back across the field, leaving Carrie staring in astonishment. Damn, she thought. Language.

And she let her own tears flow as she thought of Adriana.

When she arrived beneath Malcolm Vicari's compound, Carrie swam toward the dock, making each stroke as quietly as she could, conscious now of every splash, every breath. And she had no way of knowing how close Vicari was to leaving.

As she raised herself up onto the dock, her heart rate eased, lungs contracted, and she felt goose-bumply again as her micro-dermal ridges closed up. She wished she had a datalink, one of those damn phones, anything that would let her contact Jacob.

I bet this is that foolish thing he warned me against, she thought. Vicari bribed himself off Shosha. Godly as these people are here in New Lancaster, it just takes one customs official with worldly needs to let him get away again. If he's smart—and he is—he's already got one in his pocket.

Carrie decided it would be too risky to go up the stairway—she'd be trapped on it if Vicari or one of his men started down, with nowhere to hide. Instead, she made her way up the rocky hill, groaning with pain each time she stepped on a sharp rock. Dammit, she thought, I'm a water beast, not a land one—my feet are too tender. Twenty meters didn't seem so high when I wasn't climbing them straight up.

Halfway to the top, she sensed movement above her. She looked up. Malcolm Vicari and two other men, presumably a couple of his farmhands, stood there. They were all pointing air pistols at her. Carrie froze.

"You may as well come on up,” Vicari said. “This pistol might not necessarily be lethal, but one shot could knock you off this little cliff. You could break your neck."

Earlier, just after Carrie finished speaking with Helena, she heard Jacob's footsteps behind her. She wiped her face with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Jacob said, “I was about to say that must've been difficult for her. But I see it was just as hard for you."

"I'm sorry,” she told Jacob.

Carrie saw conflicting emotions play over Jacob's face. “Nothing to apologize for,” he said. “I couldn't hear Helena's words, but I heard her tone of voice. I saw her face."

A couple more tears made their way down Carrie's face, but she didn't wipe them away. “I'm ready now."

Jacob went to the car and retrieved a pair of binoculars from a compartment just in front of the passenger seat. He handed them to Carrie.

"What am I looking for?"

"Whatever you can see from here."

Carrie raised the lenses to her eyes. “Well, I can make out his house—a very nice house, by the way. Dock down below. I see a couple boats down there, under a very big rock outcropping. I bet he just loves to sit on that rock and look out over the water and think big philosophical thoughts. There's the barn. Fields, lots of people working in them. Cows. Horses."

"It's all sort of generic to you, isn't it?” Jacob asked, a hint of humor in his voice."

"Sorry. Different life. Cities. Nanotech. By the way, when's the next cloudy day scheduled?"

"They aren't. We realized we had to accept weather tech, but we insisted it stay somewhat random."

"Then we can't count on being able to sneak up on him."

"No, we can't,” Jacob said. “We'd best be on our way.” He headed for the car, Carrie right behind him.

Within minutes Jacob was pulling into a parking lot at a small marina. About a dozen craft of varying sizes bobbed gently in the waters of the Humboldt River. Jacob led the way and Carrie soon found herself stepping gingerly off the dock into a police boat. It reminded her of the water taxis she'd often seen while visiting her aunt in Venice.

The small cabin was just big enough for them to sit side by side. Jacob took the pilot's position and started the boat's motor. “Very nice,” Carrie said. “I suppose your department has to patrol the river, as well."

"This river helps define the habitat. A lot of commerce travels on it. Some people think of themselves as southerners or northerners.” Jacob pulled the boat out into the river, steering confidently while remaining alert for river traffic. He slowed as a towboat passed by, pushing a barge. The craft eased past them, its wake creating a minor roller-coaster effect for the small police boat. When it was safe, Jacob pulled farther out into the main body of the river.

Carrie felt content to lose herself within her own senses for a time—the sweeping sight of the habitat's interior as it rose to either side, then overhead, and the rhythmic slap of waves against the side of the boat.

It reminded her of watching the kilometer-long cruise ships come in at Barcelona. The scents of oil and sewage, even with the ship diligently employing nanotech to clean up after itself, would overpower the ocean's salt smell and the honey-like scent of Spanish broom, modified to flourish in a damp, salty environment, in a nearby field.

Jacob's voice broke into her line of thought: “Tell me about your sister."

At the thought of Adriana, Carrie's facial muscles relaxed even more and she even managed a wan smile. “She was a couple of years older than me, and I called her my guiding star when we were growing up. Other than my parents, she was the only person I ever loved unconditionally."

Carrie let herself get caught up again in the chug-chug of the boat's motor and the feel of the spray on her arm. Water that smelled more of chlorine than the sea.

Jacob asked, softly, “How did you find out what happened?"

"Not until recently. When the Unity approached me. All I knew before was that she was the victim of a neural attack."

"Like with Helena."

"Stealing emotions is how it starts. Then he ends up destroying the personality."

"How in the world does he pick the emotional response he wants?"

"From the way Helena talked, it sounds like he can't. It's as if he's accessing a series of computer files. My briefing from the Unity said the process can take anywhere from a few seconds to close to half an hour."

Jacob said, “Or like me flipping through my Rolodex."

Whatever a “Rolodex” is, Carrie thought. “It happened in Aristarchus City,” she said. “She was with some friends having pizza at A Fall of Moondust."

"I've been there,” Jacob said. “I get their special—it's one-sixth larger than the regular size, you know."

Carrie didn't want to smile, but couldn't help herself. “Yeah. They always got that, too. It was late and Adriana walked home by herself. No one thought anything of it. She'd done it a hundred times ... when they found her, she was—empty."

"Empty?"

"Perfectly healthy physically. She likes to eat ice cream, or for me to run my hands through her hair. But there's no personality. Her body is there, but what makes her Adriana is gone. He stole her."

Carrie couldn't find any more words. She set her features against her grief, steeling herself against a full-fledged outpouring of the raw stuff, like she'd allowed all those nights in Aristarchus City or Madrid or closeted in her quarters on some starcraft, clutching her pillow, shaking uncontrollably, tasting the salt of the tears as they soaked the pillowcase, as the only thought her consciousness could retain was Adriana's unperceiving eyes within a living body.

Carrie realized the slapping of the waves against the boat's hull had filled the silence. She told Jacob, “You have to forgive me."

His expression was kindly, understanding. “That's not my place.” He guided the boat toward another small marina at this opposite shore of the river.

Carrie helped Jacob tie up the police boat at the dock. She was impressed to see that another car was waiting for them. “How'd you do that?” she asked.

"I asked HQ over here to provide a vehicle, and said I wouldn't need additional personnel. They trust me."

But as Jacob started toward the car, she grabbed his arm. “I want to get the lay of his land, so to speak, before we rush into anything."

"How do you intend to do that?"

"Let's go behind the marina office."

Jacob was clearly perplexed, but followed her all the same. She led him behind the marina's small office. It was a single story tall, and for some reason appeared sturdy enough to withstand a hurricane. “Okay,” she said, “You notice we can't see Vicari's compound from here. That means he can't see us, especially as it grows darker."

Jacob stood with his hands on his hips, and Carrie could tell he was becoming more impatient by the moment. “So what do you intend to do?"

"Sometimes I even have a Plan C. Hold my clothes while I take the plunge to get a closer look at things up ahead. Oh, you don't have to turn your back—I'm wearing a bathing suit, which is more than I usually do, for goodness sake.” For goodness sake? Carrie thought? Where did that come from?

Jacob reached out a hand to accept her clothing. “Is this a good idea, Carrie?"

"I intend to get a closer look at his compound, from a direction he doesn't expect."

"That's all you'll do? You'll come right back?"

No, Carrie, better not say swear to God. “Promise."

Jacob said, “I only have the one phone, and it wouldn't survive being underwater, anyway. We'll be out of touch."

"Vicari's compound isn't quite half a K away. I should be back in an hour,” Carrie said. “If you don't see me by then, the original plan's off—call for backup."

After marching Carrie up the hill, Vicari told the farmhands to stay outside the house. It's every bit as nice close-up as it was from a distance, she thought. Vicari marched her through a sun deck at the side of the house, through an elaborately furnished living room, and into the same office where he'd abused Helena. Quality wood desk, she thought, just like Jacob's. No comp. A keyboard attached to some sort of metal implement. Looks like you'd have to bang on the keys pretty hard. Lots of fancy wooden bookshelves, stuffed with volume after volume.

I admit it. I'm scared.

Once she reached the center of the room, Carrie turned to face Vicari. He was still pointing the pistol at her. To her own surprise, her fear washed away, and she knew only anger—part of it was that he was such an ordinary-looking man, dark hair down to his shoulders, clean-shaven, eyes bright with intelligence. A man who works in his office every day, Carrie thought, and probably spends much of his nights reading all of those books.

How dare he not be a monster? How dare he be so ... mundane?

"Nothing to say for yourself?” Vicari asked.

Sorry, Adriana, was all she could think of. But mention her sister's name, Carrie knew, and he'd only be more likely to kill her. “We could play this out like one of those cube dramas. I could tell you there's no chance you'll leave this habitat."

Vicari took a step forward and centered his aim between Carrie's eyes. “Reality's a little messier. I'm trying to stop, you know. I almost have. But you've just made everything that much more complicated."

And that's when Carrie heard a chuffing sound, then heard it again, followed by two dull thumps. It can't be, Carrie thought. He wouldn't be that foolish—as foolish as I've been!

As Vicari turned toward the doorway, Carrie saw her chance—she leaped forward to grab Vicari's arms from behind. He bent forward to throw Carrie over his shoulder, but she managed a kick against the back of his leg and he fell to his knees.

Jacob appeared in the doorway even as Carrie reached for Vicari's pistol again. Vicari tore himself away from her grasp and fired at Jacob.

Even as Carrie saw Jacob was struck in the head, Vicari's other arm thrust back and struck her in the face. She fell backwards, stunned. She felt a hand touching her face, then nothing...

...until she realized she was lying on the floor of Vicari's office. She sat up, rubbed her nose, was glad to find it wasn't broken, saw Jacob lying in the doorway.

Not dead, please, Carrie thought. She went to him, touched his neck. Good pulse. “Thank your hypothetical God,” she muttered. Now—where was Vicari?

She rushed back through the living room and the sunroom, past the prone bodies of Vicari's two farmhands, and heard a motor start up behind the house. One of the boats, Carrie realized. A few steps brought her to the overlook. Sure enough, Vicari was starting up a boat, certain to pull away any second.

I can survive a twenty-meter jump into water, Carrie thought. And the water comes up to the dock, not to a shoreline—it's plenty deep.

But that damn rock outcropping's in the way. I'd splatter against it like a melon.

Vicari's boat left the dock, headed west. Carrie had about a second to react—no time to run past the outcropping.

Then she made the connection—he's headed west. The image of the curving waterfall flashed into Carrie's mind—

—and she jumped.

First came a horrifying instant in which the outcropping seemed to fill Carrie's entire frame of vision and she knew she was dropping straight down—then it was as if an unseen force pushed her smoothly aside and she cleared the rock easily and splashed into the river to one side of Vicari's boat.

The instant she struck the water, Carrie twisted around, retaining as much momentum as she could, and swam hard toward the surface. She'd been out of the water briefly enough that her body quickly adapted again.

Carrie marshaled all her strength and made a final push to break the surface and grasp the edge of the boat. As Vicari, standing at the boat's controls, turned toward her in surprise, she pushed up with her arms, got a leg over, and leaped at him. She struck him full-force with her body, slamming him into the boat's controls.

Carrie could tell Vicari had the breath knocked out of him, but he wasn't giving up yet—he reached toward her face, but she knocked his hands away, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pulled him around in front of her.

Then she gave him a shove and savored his look of amazement as he fell backwards into the river.

She dove after him.

Vicari was struggling to stay afloat as Carrie landed on him. She grabbed him around the neck and pulled him beneath the surface.

Vicari's hands swung at her, and Carrie took some pretty good blows to her head. Doesn't matter, she thought. I can stay under a lot longer than he can. Let him start using up the oxygen in his bloodstream, let the CO2 build up, he panics, and I have him just where I want him.

When Vicari really began flailing about, Carrie pushed him away and looked closely at his face—the eyes wide with fear, mouth closed tightly as he fought not to breathe.

Maybe you know just a little of what Adriana felt, in the final moments when she could feel anything at all.

Just a little.

Carrie twisted around again, let her strong legs propel her beneath Vicari, grasped him from behind, and rushed him back to the surface.

Jacob was coming down the wooden stairway as Carrie pulled Vicari onto the dock. He knelt to help her. “Is he alive?” he asked.

"Yes,” Carrie said. Vicari coughed up water. She rolled him onto his side until he stopped.

Jacob asked him, “Mr. Vicari, are you all right?"

Vicari spit out more water and indicated Carrie. “No thanks to her—she tried to drown me! I want—"

"I was only asking so I could know to cuff you.” Which he did, then pulled Vicari to his feet. He took his prisoner by the arm and led him up the stairway.

Carrie followed them, saying, “Jacob, I can't thank you enough for—"

"I told you I was an excellent shot. I had you figured out from the beginning, by the way. I knew your plan D had to be ditching me and taking on Vicari by yourself."

"Plan D? I never have a plan D."

They approached the front of Vicari's house, where Jacob's car waited. The farmhands were already cuffed and in the back seat. Jacob put Vicari in and shut the door.

That's when Carrie saw the haunted expression on Jacob's face. “What's wrong?"

Jacob put a hand to his face and Carrie could see he was fighting back tears. Suddenly she realized: “Vicari touched me just as I blacked out. Sheer spite, I guess. I can't tell that he did anything to me, but if he touched you, too..."

Jacob lowered his hand. Tears streamed down his face. “I ... told you my relationship with God is personal, intellectual, and emotional."

"You did, but—"

"He stole that emotional connection.” Jacob made a fist and stared at it. “It's as real as this. But anyone you tell about it has to take your word—you can't quantify it."

"What will you do?"

Jacob stared toward the river. “Keep living my life as I always have.” He looked at Carrie. “Does that surprise you?"

"You said you had faith only in the Lord. That's more than something you feel, isn't it? For you, it's knowledge."

"Maybe you do understand after all. C'mon, I've got your clothes in the car. Let's get you dressed again, and these guys back to my office. Are you sure Vicari didn't harm you when he touched you?"

"It doesn't feel like it,” Carrie said. “Remember—the length of time it takes him to gain access can vary quite a bit."

"So maybe I was just unlucky."

"I'm sorry."

Jacob told her, “You'd better hope it isn't something you only realize later."

"I'll be fine once we get Vicari on the way back to Unity custody."

A week later, Carrie entered Adriana's bedroom. Her sister didn't look up, but continued staring out her window. Since Adriana's “window” was a hundred meters below the lunar surface, it was really a holo of a village in the La Apujarra region of southern Spain. White-walled homes spread across a steep hillside, the occasional church steeple jutting out from among them. A series of mountain ranges stretched to the horizon, seemingly acting as protectors for the village and its inhabitants.

Carrie sat on Adriana's wide bed. She's still so beautiful, she thought as she ran her hand through her sister's jet-black hair, the same as her own, and across the smooth skin of Adriana's face, then cupped her chin.

Adriana looked at Carrie, but without recognition. Her face was set in a smile that hadn't wavered since Vicari's attack. I wish I could know whether that reflects a real happiness within her, Carrie thought. She took Adriana's hand and squeezed, without receiving a squeeze in return.

Carrie's tears arrived, as they usually did at this point in her visits. I can only hope I'm giving her some comfort, she thought. I guess I'm kind of like Jacob in that respect. He can't feel the presence of his Lord, and I can't feel whether Adriana is really with me, or if I'm all alone.

I suppose that's...

Wouldn't that be ironic?

Except it doesn't feel—wait a minute! That's the only thing he could manage in the instant he touched me? My sense of irony?

And that's also ... except I can't feel that, either.

"You son of a bitch!” she said, and lost herself to full-throated laughter even as she shed tears for her smiling sister.

Copyright (c) 2008 Dave Creek

Can a theory fit reality too well?

Stumbling from his bedroom into the kitchen in the predawn dimness, Pelerin was surprised to find Werner Heisenberg at the breakfast table, reading the Santa Fe Times and sipping coffee. It was not the elder statesman of physics in suit and narrow tie who confronted him. Rather, it was a younger Heisenberg, circa World War II, his unruly hair already receding, dressed in an open-collared sports shirt and shorts. He looked up from the newspaper as Pelerin entered.

"But you're...” Pelerin licked his lips, trying to force out the next word. “...dead."

Heisenberg smiled. “You are a scientist,” he said, in barely accented English. “You should not believe everything you hear."

Norwich greeted him with her usual quiet courtesy despite the way he had brushed her secretary aside and barged into her office. “Delighted to see you, Theo. Please have a seat."

Pelerin shook his head and remained standing. “This isn't a social visit. I have come to submit my resignation. I'm leaving the institute."

Norwich cocked her head to one side, an action that, together with her somewhat oversized nose, gave her the appearance of a puzzled bird. “I am very sorry to hear that. Has there been anything unsatisfactory in your contract, or the support given your work?"

"Nothing like that. The institute has been very generous. I am leaving for personal reasons."

Her look of silent concern and perplexity created a mounting pressure for more. “I have had a ... a breakdown,” he said reluctantly. “I'm afraid I am not quite sane. You don't want the institute's work associated with a nut case."

It hurt to admit this most personal and embarrassing of weaknesses, especially to Norwich. He had objected vociferously to her appointment as director. By her own admission, she had only the most vague understanding of the sciences being studied by the fellows of the Da Vinci Institute.

All she knew was people.

"Theo, I am so sorry.” Norwich's sympathy was instant and genuine. “I know how hard you have been working for the past few months. If you just need rest..."

"It is not that sort of breakdown. I see things that aren't there. Ghosts.” An unexpected wave of relief washed over him. For weeks he had been living a lie, pretending to be sane—worse, pretending to lead and guide the scientists working the noosphere project. There was no telling how deeply flawed his work had been, how far he might have led them astray. Now he would be cast out, as was only right, and the project would proceed untinged by madness.

He had been looking at the floor, unwilling to meet Norwich's gaze. Raising his eyes, he was astonished to see neither repugnance nor patronizing pity in her eyes. Instead, there was only concern, the worry one would have for a friend in trouble.

"These ghosts,” Norwich said, “are they frightening?"

Pelerin forced a smile. “Most of them are scientists. All they do is talk."

"Do they ask you to ... do things? Bad things?"

"Much of the time they talk among themselves as if unaware of my existence. When they do talk to me, it is about my work. This morning, it was Werner Heisenberg."

"How long have you been having these, uh, visions?"

"More than a month. Almost six weeks.” He winced, feeling a new surge of guilt. Obviously, he should have confessed this at the beginning.

The expected rebuke did not come. Norwich was silent for a moment, as if he had said something worthy of deep consideration.

"It is very self-interested of me to say so, but three months ago you began making a series of breakthroughs which have your colleagues almost dumbfounded with astonishment. If this is insanity, I could wish the rest of my staff similarly afflicted."

"I don't know if it has affected my work,” Pelerin said. “The problem is, I can't prove that it hasn't. I can't trust myself and you shouldn't."

He dropped his eyes again and, wrapped in his own misery, waited for his dismissal.

"Do you know the story about benzene?” Norwich asked.

"Excuse me?” It was such an apparent jump in the discussion that Pelerin wondered if he had somehow tuned out a minute or more of conversation.

"Back in the 1800s, there was a chemist trying to understand the structure of benzene. According to the story, he dreamt one night of a snake devouring its own tail. When he woke, he realized that the atoms formed themselves in a circle, a benzene ring.

"Nobody supposes that there was anything supernatural about this. The general understanding is that the chemist's mind kept working the problem while he was asleep and provided the answer symbolically in a dream.

"Couldn't this be what you are experiencing? You have been working this problem for half a year now. It shouldn't be that surprising that you would find yourself dreaming about it."

She was offering him a way out. Only honesty prevented him from taking it. “I wasn't dreaming. Heisenberg"—and the others, though he still could not bring himself to speak of any others—"appeared as real to me as you do now. Right up until the moment he vanished.” And he found himself in an empty room, with the feeling that it had always been empty.

Norwich sighed and looked at him sadly. “Theo, it's a free country and you can certainly leave if you feel you must. Would you do one thing for me, however? Would you please see Dr. Joyce before you go? He has been very helpful to other members of the staff. And if you are right ... well, he has the sort of expertise you will need."

"And what does this one look like?"

Pelerin squinted, desperately trying to find something in an apparently random set of inkblots.

"They are two Siamese twins. They hate each other. You see, they are pushing away from each other, even though that is tearing them apart at the base."

Joyce flipped the paper over and frowned with mild incredulity. A fringe of hair surrounded a bald head so pink it appeared to glow. Chipmunk cheeks covered by mutton chop sideburns made him appear more like an extra in a revival of A Christmas Carol than a psychologist for a private research institute.

"Really? I would have said something like two old maids with absurd hair styles playing patty cake. You geniuses have such imaginations. I guess you are supposed to see things invisible to us mere mortals."

"Doctor, we have been going through test after test for more than three hours,” Pelerin said. “Haven't you been able to reach a conclusion?

"Eh? Oh yes, but it's not one you will like."

"Tell me. Please.” Pelerin found that he was holding his breath.

"You are not insane. Under stress, yes, but this is a high stress environment at times, even if most of that stress is self-induced."

"I am seeing ghosts!"

"An interesting datum,” Joyce said, “but hardly a pathology by itself. They are not even real hallucinations. Since you recognize them as unreal, they are at most pseudohallucinations.

"Furthermore, the tests you complain of have established that your powers of abstract reasoning are as good as ever. You are better oriented to external reality, as measured by everything from knowledge of current events to institute politics, than half the people in this building.

"Julie asked you the crucial question. She's quite insightful, you know. Quite the perfect pick for director. It's not the appearance of ghosts so much as what they do, or want you to do, that is crucial. From what you tell me, all they want to do is talk shop. This appearance of Heisenberg, for instance. You have been rather vague about what he had to say."

"He told me not to be too certain of myself."

The corners of Joyce's mouth began to twitch.

"Yes, I know that sounds like a Heisenberg joke,” Pelerin said hotly. What else would you expect from the man who had made the Uncertainty Principle a cornerstone of physics? And as he thought back on it, Heisenberg—or his ghost or hallucination or whatever—had seemed amused at his own wit. “But it is exactly what he said."

"Advice which should stand every scientist in good stead,” Joyce said, “whether in evaluating a hypothesis or one's own mental state.

"Look, for some reason you seem to think that if I certify you as insane, or at least suffering from some multi-syllabic mental disease, that it will act as a sort of get-out-of-jail-free card, that it will somehow make whatever is bothering you no longer your fault. And we know you have unresolved issues stemming from Terri's unfortunate accident—"

"Totally irrelevant, even if it weren't five years ago,” Pelerin snapped.

Joyce raised his eyebrows in polite skepticism. “But suppose I were to certify some mental condition and you were to leave the institute, what would you do then?"

It took Pelerin a few seconds to realize that Joyce expected an answer. “Well, I don't know, exactly, I imagine..."

"Exactly. You have no earthly idea what would come next. I do, though. You would sit in your room bemoaning your fate, feeling more and more miserable, in an ever tighter and deeper spiral of narcissistic self-pity."

"That's hardly fair,” Pelerin objected. “I thought you were supposed to show me some sympathy and help me feel better."

Joyce gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Sympathy is the worst thing I could give you. It would just encourage your moping about. My job is to keep you tethered to reality. That can be painful sometimes, as it appears to be for you now, but that's not my problem.

"Here is what you can do, however. Go back to your office and get to work. Not because DARPA and Madison Avenue are salivating over your work and trying to press more money on us than we can possibly spend. Not even because your colleagues are comparing your last three papers to those produced by Einstein in his ‘miraculous year’ of 1905.

"You should do it because while you are working, you will not be thinking about yourself. If you succeed in focusing on the work, rationality will percolate from the outside in. Your mind, if it is not already rational, will become rational as it conforms itself to a rational universe."

Pelerin slammed the door behind him as he entered his office. What a complete quack! Joyce should never have been granted a degree, much less been hired as staff psychologist. He pulled a briefcase from a small closet and began stuffing it with his few personal effects.

So much for the work he was going to do on his sabbatical, the work that would bring him more fame and fortune than he could have dreamed of teaching philosophy at a backwoods college. So much for giving intellectual rigor to memetics and the noosphere.

The term “meme” had been coined to refer to units of cultural information transferred from one mind to another. The hope was that it could do for ideas what the concept of genes had done for biology. Both Mather & Crowley, the advertising firm paying half their research expenses, and the Defense Department protested that their only interest was in basic research. It had become quickly obvious, however, that the true goal of both was memetic engineering: developing memes through splicing and synthesis, which could then be used to alter human behavior.

This would have bothered Pelerin but for the fact that it seemed so unlikely to produce practical results. He had been chosen for the Meme Team because Andy Goldsmith, the primary researcher before his untimely death a year ago, had thought his PhD in epistemology (how do we know that we know what we know) might be useful. The money had come in the form of a grant and Andy, even then very sick though nobody knew it, had let each member of the team attack the subject in his own way. Trying to envision a space within which memes acted, Pelerin unintentionally reinvented the concept of the noosphere, the sphere of human thought previously postulated by Vernadsky and Teilhard de Chardin. It was, for Pelerin, mental recreation, a way to refine models that existed on their own without worrying about any actual relation to reality.

He had been working in the institute cafeteria one afternoon when Jeffers came by and stopped, transfixed by what he saw scrawled on Pelerin's yellow pad.

"I didn't know you were into quantum mechanics,” Jeffers said.

Pelerin looked up in surprise. Jeffers was part of the institute's physics contingent, one of the young theorists who would either create a Theory of Everything or blow up the planet. Pelerin had met him once before and remembered his name only because he had a fancied resemblance to Beeker, one of Jim Henson's Muppet creations.

"I know absolutely nothing about quantum mechanics,” Pelerin said.

"Then why are you using Bronson's equations for waveform collapse? Not that they will get you that far. Bronson himself has admitted that."

Later, searching the internet, Pelerin discovered that Bronson was a mathematician at the University of Sydney, who had devised a new form of mathematics to describe certain quantum mechanical operations. Commentary was mixed, some researchers saying that it added nothing to the understanding of the field, others that it was simply wrong. Bronson agreed that the structure he was trying to create was incomplete.

It should have nothing to do with Pelerin's work. Yet there were intriguing parallels, suggestions for lines of investigation that never would have occurred to Pelerin on his own. He followed up on them like a dog drawn by an enticing new scent. And found to his surprise that people were reading what he wrote and muttering words like “genius."

His computer hummed to life, jarred out of sleep mode by the vibrations of the slammed door and the opening and closing of desk drawers. Light from the screen spilled onto the desktop, illuminating a series of equations he had begun to scrawl on a legal pad the day before. He frowned, irritated by the feeling that there was something not quite right about them. There was the merest wisp of a memory, of something Heisenberg—or his own disordered subconscious—had said that morning.

Examining the paper more closely, he saw the error. Similar terms had been transposed, the result of trying to finish up this segment on insufficient sleep. Pelerin sat down to correct the mistake.

When he looked up, it was almost two o'clock. His hand was numb from clenching the pen. He had been working for more than three hours. On the table before him lay page after yellow page of symbols that had flowed from his pen as effortlessly as musical notes had flowed from Mozart's.

He had been too upset that morning by Heisenberg's appearance to have any breakfast. Now he was ravenously hungry and the cafeteria lunch line was about to close. He hurried down the hallway, grabbed a tray, and filled it with bowls of beef stew and salad.

The cafeteria was mostly empty at this hour. Pelerin took a seat by the glass wall that looked out over the edge of the mesa. Once, when he had been working late, he had come into the cafeteria for coffee. The light had been dimmed so that he could see the stars bright overhead. On the horizon, a thunderstorm crawling over Santa Fe discharged eye-searing lightning, all the more impressive for being completely silent. His coffee had cooled as he sat entranced by the combination of beauty and raw power.

Now, as he started in on his salad, he noted the presence of two men deep in discussion at a far table. Their clothing seemed curiously old-fashioned.

"But even as an artist and a poet, you must admit that you are over-estimating the importance of imagination,” one of them said. “When the Sun rises, do you not see a round disk somewhat like a gold guinea?"

"Oh, no, no!” his companion said. His demeanor was agitated, but happily so. “I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host, crying Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty!"

Pelerin turned quickly, surprised to hear such talk in a building full of scientists. The table was vacant. The person closest to him was a cafeteria worker who looked up curiously from the table she had been wiping. Pelerin turned back to his tray. His hands shook.

"Theo! Thank God I've found you. I'd heard that you quit.” Dave Hancock hurried over to his table. Dave had been put in nominal charge of the Meme Team after Goldsmith's death. Ever since then, he'd had the frazzled expression of a man who knows himself to be out of his depth.

Pelerin blinked, still trying to focus on a single reality. “I have quit. I am just clearing up a few things before I leave."

"That's terrible. But you can't quit this afternoon. We have the briefing!"

"The briefing?” From far back in his mind, a memory tried to surface.

"Our sponsors. The quarterly report. When we tell them how great we are so they keep the money gates open."

"I don't know if I can help you,” Pelerin said. “I have not been feeling well. I just came from talking to Dr. Joyce."

"Oh, dear,” Hancock said. “And?"

"He says that I am under stress but otherwise okay."

"Well, then, come on,” Hancock said. “You're putting me under stress."

Meeting room lights went down as Hancock brought up the presentation on his laptop. Give me PowerPoint, and I will rule the world. Or so it seemed after you attended enough meetings with businessmen and government officials.

The sponsors sat across from him, now hardly more than silhouettes. Emma Brand, a short, plump woman with graying hair, represented DARPA. Jim Reed came from Mather & Crowley. He was probably the only person in the building wearing a coat and tie. In the past, Pelerin had been amused by their interaction. Brand had security concerns. Reed wanted to treat anything useful as a trade secret for his company. But the ground rules of the contract, not to mention the charter of the Da Vinci Institute itself, mandated that all research be freely publishable. If the clients wanted to develop it further on their own and keep that secret, that was their business.

Hancock brought up the first slide. “Our expenditures for the last quarter. As you can see, we are still under budget—"

"Dr. Hancock, I have repeatedly explained to you that the piddling sums being expended on this project are too small to catch the attention of cost-cutters.” Brand sounded irritated, though that was probably the result of a long, uncomfortable flight from Washington. “In fact, our main money concern is that the institute has been so slow in invoicing its costs that we won't make our disbursement goals."

"Uh, right,” Hancock said. Like many taxpayers, he could not become used to the idea that the sooner money was spent, the better. “In any event, I can demonstrate that all your funds have been well spent. Let me start by explaining the advances we have made in connecting memes with information theory."

This was Hancock's field, and his demeanor became steadily more confident as he spoke of source coding, data compression, and channel capacity. In the dimly lit, overheated room, with the projector fans making a relaxing whirr, Pelerin's attention began to wander. His thoughts drifted back to the work he had been doing earlier. How easily the ideas had flowed, faster than his pen could put them on paper. So quickly, in fact, that he had no time to assess their value. You could add columns of figures almost automatically, but only when you understood the context would you know, for example, whether or not you were facing bankruptcy. It seemed to Pelerin that each line he had written was like a brick, and each line led to its successor. But he was too close to see the structure, or even if there was an overall structure. He needed to step back.

"How does any of this help me strengthen my message?” Reed asked. “It seems to me that at most you have a way of quantifying what most advertising men learn through experience."

"That's ... there's certainly some truth to what you are saying,” Hancock replied, thrown off his stride by the question. “However, you should not disparage the quantification. Maybe biology will provide a helpful analogy. Antibodies work in part because their physical structure is such that they fit invading bacteria the way a key fits a lock. So to construct the right antibody, you have to know the shape of the invader.

"The collection of memes that constitute a human personality give rise to what may be considered a surface, at least in the sense that certain free-floating memes are more or less likely to be accepted based on their structure. Using the tools we have developed so far, we can determine which ideas will be accepted and motivate which types of personalities. It is to be expected that this will parallel what you already know, but will allow to understand the interactions much more precisely.

"Let me put it this way. With the tools we are providing you, you will always be able to craft commercials that will induce large numbers of people to try, say, New Coke. But we can't make them buy a second time if they don't like the taste."

"All very interesting,” Emma Brand said, “and potentially invaluable to our PsyOps people. But from what I can understand of his work, your colleague has been exploring a very different line of research. I would appreciate it if he would brief us on his progress."

Pelerin had once watched a television nature special about exotic sea creatures. At one point, he had seemed to be watching seaweed attached to a rock, when it moved and he suddenly realized that he was looking at a skillfully camouflaged fish. Now he had much the same shock as Brand turned her gaze on him. She wore her unprepossessing body as a disguise, hiding an extremely sharp mind.

"Dr. Pelerin has not been feeling well today,” Hancock said quickly. “I don't think he can—"

Pelerin stood up and waved Hancock to silence. “I think I can at least give our guests a synopsis of my work,” he said, forcing a smile as he stepped over to the whiteboard. Hancock looked worried, wondering what he would say.

Well, I'm wondering, too.

"Science begins with close observation, with a profound humility before the facts. We do not endlessly debate the number of teeth in a horse's mouth; we go out to the paddock and count them.

"As the number of precise observations increase, something marvelous happens. We discover underlying relationships that allow us to explain and even predict phenomena.

"Even more remarkably, we come to realize that apparently disparate phenomena are merely different faces of the same underlying reality. Maxwell's unification of magnetism and electricity laid the groundwork for Einstein, who in a deceptively simple equation defined the relationship between mass and energy."

Pelerin wrote E=mc2 on the board and stared at it, as if seeking inspiration.

"I'm sure your undergraduates find this fascinating,” Reed said, “but I don't see what—"

"Hush, James,” Brand said. “I'm sure this is necessary groundwork for what Dr. Pelerin has to say.” The words were encouraging. The tone, though, seemed to carry an implied threat.

Pelerin nodded, still not sure himself where he was going with all this. “Einstein, and those who followed, have since that time endeavored to formulate a unified theory, a theory of everything. Although not yet successful, they have made incremental progress. Except in one area.

"That area is the mind. For centuries, people believed that we were dealing with the intersection of two separate realms: that of the body, which was governed by scientific laws, and that of the spirit, which was not. Reductionists, claiming that all mental phenomena could be ultimately explained by physics, derisively referred to this as the ‘ghost in the machine’ theory. However, after all these years, the reductionist view is still a statement of faith. We know that biological changes affect mental processes, but we also know that strictly mental changes, such as aversion therapy, can trigger biological changes. Cause and effect switch places in ways disturbing to reductionists.

"There have always been indications that their ideas were, at best, incomplete. Quantum superposition collapses when an observer takes a measurement. Why should a human be a better observer than the cat itself, or than a rock?

"Our work on memes allows us to deal with mental entities in a way that is scientific without being reductionist. We are beginning to see how they grow and multiply in their noosphere. We perceive, though dimly as yet, how they form into the architectures we know as human personalities. What I hope to do is to express the relationship between the physical and mental worlds as precisely and succinctly as Einstein did with the relationship between mass and energy."

"Well, they were certainly impressed, even though I doubt they understood half of what you said.” Hancock gave a shaky laugh. “Not that I can claim much greater understanding myself."

"There may not be anything to understand,” Pelerin said. “I told you earlier that my mental state is ... suspect. The preliminary equations I put up—they seem meaningful to me, but maybe they are no more than chicken scratches."

Hancock put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It took all of Pelerin's self-discipline to keep from flinching away.

"I can't claim to follow everything you put on the board, much less to understand all the implications,” Hancock said, “but I can see the pattern, the progression as you move from one step to the next. They are not chicken scratching."

Pelerin nodded his thanks, unable to say anything.

It was dark by the time Pelerin returned to his apartment. He reached for the light switch—and stopped, as he inhaled the slight scent of what had once been a familiar perfume.

Slivers of light from the parking lot escaped the shades to fill the apartment with a dusky half-light. In the dimness, familiar objects took on unfamiliar outlines. The eye insisted on imposing patterns on randomness.

Someone faced him on the opposite side of the room. Terri...

Pelerin opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His hand trembled above the light switch. The shadowed figure was motionless, waiting for him to make the first move.

Fear crescendoed, collapsed into despair, settled into something like fatalism. Anything was better than this continual flight, this constant guilt. Bring ‘em on, whether ghosts or the men with the straitjackets, and end it one way or another.

He hit the switch. For an instant he was helpless, blinded by the light. He blinked away tears as his eyes slowly adjusted. The full-length mirror on the opposite wall reflected the coat rack behind the door. A coat on a hanger and a hat atop the central pole could easily give the impression of a person in the dark.

Only there was still that almost imperceptible scent....

It changed nothing. No more hiding, no more denial. Work it through to the end, no matter what that might be.

The next morning, he drove up to the institute, half convinced that he would find his office locked and his belongings stacked in the corridor. Hancock would shake his head dolefully and say, “We took another look at your math after the meeting and, man, it's total bullshit. We're pulling the plug."

His door opened to his key. His papers were just as he had left them. For the time being, at least, he was a researcher in good standing. After getting a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, he settled down to work.

It was a frustrating morning. The equations kept spawning infinities. Renormalization techniques could eliminate the infinities, but even after that was accomplished, he ran into a series of dead ends.

Finally, he just gave up and left them in. And, astonishingly, the dead ends vanished. Infinity, in this context, was not a nonsense answer. Indeed, it fit perfectly and allowed him to continue piecing together the components of the structure.

He came back to his office after a restroom break to find egg rolls steaming on a plate on his desk. It was one of his favorite lunches because he could eat with his left hand while working a keyboard or a pencil with his right. A note in small, precise handwriting accompanied them.

"It looks like you have had a productive morning. Glad to have you back with us. -Julian.” A kindness typical of Julian. He grimaced. It was the sort of thing that would never occur to him.

He sat down, took a bite from an egg roll, and reviewed his progress. Hancock, for all his dexterity in manipulating the mathematics involved in information theory, did not really believe that information was ... real. It was just a way of keeping score as you tried to eliminate static or speed up computers. Many physicists had behaved the same way in the early days of quantum mechanics, utilizing the equations in their work while denying their real world implications—until experiments confirmed the actuality of, for example, single photons creating interference patterns with themselves.

Too somewhat similar effect, there were now experiments showing light waves exiting a chamber before entering it. A violation of Einstein's laws! No, because no information was transferred. So in an odd way, what had been thought to be an abstraction was now more real than matter or energy.

The universe was information. Complexes of information formed memes. Complexes of memes formed personalities.

He had been staring at the papers for fifteen minutes when the importance of the obvious finally impressed itself on him. The equations were equations: they worked both ways. Matter gives rise to mind.

And vice versa.

His hands shook. He flipped through page after page, searching for the mistake that had to be there. Yet each step followed inexorably from the one preceding. There was no error.

Well, I will just prove it wrong. He took a self-consciously dramatic pose, standing with his hand extended. “Fiat lux!"

Nothing happened. His laughter was ragged with relief. I don't think I could handle the responsibility of creating a universe.

On the other hand, his failure to do so did nothing to disprove the equations. The conversion factors demonstrated that any transmutation would be at the low end of the energy curve. The easiest way for him to fill his office with light was to flick the light switch. Rubbing two sticks together was much less efficient, and so would take more personal energy. As for creating a universe...

An infinite universe, or set of universes, would need to be upheld by an infinite mind.

Pelerin held his face in his hands. It was too much to comprehend at once, and it might not even be true. He would turn the results over to Norwich. She would appoint a review committee. If the committee judged his work to be gibberish, no one would object to his departure. On the other hand, if they certified its validity, he would have time to consider the implications then.

Without Pelerin noticing it, the day had progressed to late afternoon. Mid-December shadows had already swept across the desert below, leaving the institute and the mesa on which it stood floating in the last blaze of twilight. Coming to her office door, Pelerin thought Norwich had already gone home. Although the door was open, the room within was dark. He was turning to leave when he heard voices.

One voice was clearly Norwich's. The second was unfamiliar. Its tone was confident and friendly, occupying a range somewhere between low alto and high tenor. Peering into the office, Pelerin saw Norwich seated at her desk. Her visitor was leaning over the desk, apparently holding something cupped in his hands. From it, a soft white light flickered over her face like ripples on a pond.

"What is it?” Norwich asked, her voice filled with wonder.

"It is all that has been made."

Norwich looked more closely. “But it's so small and delicate. What keeps it from just falling apart?"

"It lasts, and shall last, because I love it."

Norwich's face lit with delight. Pelerin felt an unexpected pang. I could never make anyone that happy.

"No need to be bashful, Theo. Come right in."

The desk lamp spread a golden oval on her desk. Pelerin looked into the corners of the room, momentarily bewildered. “I didn't want to interrupt your visitor."

Norwich frowned. “What visitor? I'm the only one in here."

"But there was. He was showing you something."

Her eyes narrowed as she realized how serious and distressed he was. “Theo, please come in, sit down, and tell me what you saw."

Pelerin did so, throwing in the previous day's cafeteria vision for good measure. Norwich's sudden, almost embarrassed, smile surprised him.

"Well, no one can accuse you of having boring hallucinations. Heisenberg, Blake, and my namesake."

"Blake?” Pelerin asked.

"William Blake,” Norwich said. “Poet, painter, and all around oddball. And Julian of Norwich, fourteenth century English mystic. You just recounted one of her most well-known visions, casting me as that Julian."

"I have never heard of either one,” Pelerin said. Though wasn't there some silly poem about a burning tiger? “Who did I see talking to you?"

She seemed to color slightly. “That would have been God. Showing me the universe. Which is why it must have been a hallucination, of course. It isn't the sort of thing I would forget."

"No, of course not.” He wondered which should bother him more: having visions or the fact that Norwich was so at ease with them. “Look, I did not mean to get distracted. A little bit ago I completed the memetic synthesis. I believe the equations I have copied onto this disk define the relationship of mind and matter. It should go without saying that they will be subject to intense scrutiny and criticism, especially when word of my mental state gets out."

Until that very moment, he had told himself that he would be able to keep things quiet, that he could retire from public life and lapse into insanity with private dignity. But the claims he was making with these equations, whether they turned out to be valid or not, would make that impossible.

"I want—I would appreciate it very much if you would appoint a review committee to evaluate the work. Right now, I can't be sure there is anything to it."

"Of course,” Norwich said, taking the disk from him. “I will start making calls this evening. Only—I have to apologize. Twice now I have accused you of having hallucinations. That may have been glib. I want you to consider a possibility very seriously. What if Dr. Joyce was correct? What if you are completely sane?"

What if you are completely sane? Pelerin sat in his darkened apartment contemplating the question. If he was sane, the work he had turned in that afternoon was probably valid. The comforting determinism of the Newtonian universe would be shattered and gone, not just in some Planck constant sized indeterminacy, but on the everyday macro level as well. Free will was loose in the universe, and not necessarily the sole property of human beings or even of the living.

If he was sane, then there was no escape from responsibility when callousness and inattention drove someone to suicide. You could not say that the molecules just lined up that way because they had to line up that way.

If he was sane, then the ghosts he was seeing were real.

"I'm sorry.” It was astonishing how much that hurt. It wasn't just guilt. It was allowing himself to remember how, for a brief time, he had been unbelievably happy. That a girl like Terri could be at all interested in him was a source of continual astonishment to everyone. That she would stay with him for a year and a half had been nothing short of miraculous. But then...

He had not grown tired of her. She had not walked out on him. But as his doctorate project took more and more of his time, Terri seemed to fade into the background. One of his classmates had once said that he was borderline autistic. It was certainly true that mathematics was simpler and less messy than dealing with people.

Terri had complained that he was ignoring her. He remembered that later. At the time, it was like the meaningless buzzing of a fly against a window. Even the tears and the slammed door made little impression. The intricacy of his thesis project took all his attention.

It was only when he answered the telephone and learned that her car had plunged off a bridge and into an icy river that the haze of concentration was broken. He was back in the real world, and alone.

The scent he had noticed the day before had returned. There was a gentle pressure on his shoulders. He knew that if he turned his head, he would recognize the polish on the fingernails.

"Why are you sorry?” The voice was hardly more than a whisper, the breath warm in his ear.

"I'm sorry...” It had been hard to tell Heisenberg that he was dead. This was exponentially more difficult. “I'm sorry I forced you to kill yourself."

The silvery laughter, even tinged as it was with sadness, was as familiar as it was surprising. And infuriating. The ghost of someone driven to suicide should demand vengeance. Those long, cool fingers should be clamped around his throat. Laughter under those circumstances was patronizing.

"You know me better than that. I never wanted to kill myself. I was just angry that you had tuned me out. I got in the car to let off steam. The black ice on the bridge was invisible. The wheels slipped, the car spun, and I had less than a minute to lament my stupidity."

"If this isn't about punishment, then what?” Pelerin asked.

"You contributed to my death. Now you live without me. That should be punishment enough."

It was, he realized. Beneath all the guilt and fear, there was a loneliness he had never allowed himself to feel until now.

"There will be more,” she continued. “Many will hate the implications of the work you will do. Insanity is one of the least accusations you will face."

The fingers moved up from his shoulders, brushed the sides of his throat, and came to rest on his temples.

"Will it be accepted?"

"When you are long dead. And not by all even then."

He stood and turned. He was alone in an empty room.

Professional respect was once the only thing he had wanted, perhaps because it had seemed the only thing he could have. Now, if he could believe a ghost, he would lose that.

It did not matter. He had been given a wider universe than he could ever have imagined, one filled not only with physicists and mathematicians but also with poets and mystics—and a ghost of a woman he had never really known.

Copyright (c) 2008 Robert R. Chase

Rules are intended to maximize chances that things will work. But sometimes....

The mobile medstation doorlight buzzed, and Okalani Yee opened the door without setting the viewscreen to the outside camera feed. It was a bunny, of course. The nearest nonbunny was at Aoi Station, currently six hundred kilometers away.

"A bunny tripped by the orchard wall and broke its ankle,” said the visitor. Bunnytongue had no greetings.

"How far away?"

The bunny spoke a single word, which the translator bud in Yee's ear rendered as “Two to six kilometers."

"Wait a minute.” Yee grabbed the medkit and pulled on a lightweight mask with a portable aerator that clipped on her belt. The Myosotis atmosphere was breathable enough—a bit high in CO2, a trifle light in O2—but on long brisk walks she preferred to breathe Earthmix. The mask was comfortable. With the temperature and humidity regulation, she'd forget she was wearing it.

The bunny loped off over a blue hill. It wasn't even Genius Bunny, who was the only MyosotianYee could tolerate anymore.

Looking at the bunnies clumped on the blue hills around the medstation, Yee wouldn't have known there was an emergency. They were sitting placidly, mating vigorously, grooming their “ears,” chasing their round little children away from the stone walls, and playing the copycat game. This was one of the few bunny recreations that did not involve mating. The rules were simple: two bunnies faced off and imitated each other's gestures. Yee had been refusing to play for six months now.

She trotted on the springy blue mat of grass—in an Earth year on Myosotis, she'd lost the mental quotation marks—and dodged between orrum trees heavy with orange bulbs: the orchard. The bunnies did not tend or plant the orrums. The orchard had sprouted from discarded rinds the bunnies had left after scavenging outside their pastures and bringing back foods they liked.

Myosotians—bunnies—were technically sentient, the only such race on Myosotis. They were “herbivores"—evolution on Myosotis had never erected the rigid barriers between plant and animal that Earth had, but the term conveyed an accurate approximation of the bunny ecology. Everything bunnies ate was sessile. They were not hunters.

There was the wall, a precarious stone heap built by the bunnies to keep other herbivores out of their pastures. Yee knew she had reached the scene of the accident when she saw a circle of bunnies squatting so they faced outward. The injured one would be at the center—a hard-wired defense mechanism against a long-extinct predator.

The defenders were so close together that Yee had to step on a shimmering blue-scaled knee to get to the gap between their shoulders. The bunny patted her ponytail but made no move to help or hinder her.

In their usual resting posture, sitting on their hind legs, bunnies presented an egg-shaped silhouette three meters high, not including the waving “ears,” a bifurcated ornamental crest that could add another fifty centimeters. A slit in the chest between the forelimbs concealed the sex organs. The vrith, one of the two bunny sexes, also had a white or pink stripe down their backs and small white nipples under their armpits.

Yee clambered down into the enclosed circle and took a look at her patient.

Humans had invented FTL technology—and never used it.

The first test of the Slominski Drive had inspired an immediate outburst of optimism that completely drowned out the voices droning about rocky planets where no one could live, the possible lack of Van Allen belts and consequent frying by cosmic radiation, the prohibitive cost of colonization. Then the Kairians made contact.

Yee had been old enough to read the headlines and understand the significance of the enormous fonts and sidebars overflowing with unanswered questions. And she had been young enough to find a mandatory class on Coalition history waiting for her when she reached high school.

The Kairians had been watching Earth via never-noticed ansible-enabled satellites. (Or, more likely, some other member of the Coalition of Planets had been watching, and reported to the Kairians when the Slominski drive became feasible; interstellar security guards working in exchange for some piece of Kairian technology—cold fusion, weather control, the ansible itself.)

The Kairians had had FTL for over five thousand Earth years and considered themselves to be running this part of the galaxy. It could have been a lot worse. They had a hands-off approach. They appreciated it if sentient races joined their Coalition of Planets (and what the Kairians appreciated, everybody did.) They discouraged interplanetary war and interspecies exploitation (and what the Kairians discouraged, nobody even considered doing). They handed out technology generously. But there was a catch. Advanced species had to help less advanced species adapt.

The bunnies were not, by even the broadest definition, advanced.

Yee recognized the downed bunny. She called it Baron von Bunny, though she would have had to query the translation database to know how that came out in bunnytongue. One of the Baron's hind ankles was clearly twisted. The Baron writhed in evident pain, though Yee still saw little in its faceted black eyes except stupidity.

In the safety of the circle the Baron's thumb claws had retracted, as if for locomotion. Yee stuck an analgesic pad over its breathing orifice to let it inhale the drug, then straightened the ankle and tied a splint on with slow-dissolving bandages. Bunnies’ hind legs were larger copies of their upper limbs. The thumb claw on all four limbs, which had presumably evolved for dealing with food, provided an opposable digit. Bunnies usually moved by bounding on their hind legs. On rough terrain they dropped to all fours. They did not build roads.

The flesh around the injury was seriously abraded. Yee wiped up the clear bunny blood and covered the wound with a strip of synthflesh, which immediately let out a puff of ozone and began to fuse to the Baron's scaly skin. She sprayed the outer layer with a fixative to prevent the Baron from finding itself fused to the wrong side of its dressing.

She waited for the Baron to get up and take a few tentative hops on its splinted ankle. With unnecessary slowness, the circled bunnies came to the realization that there was no injured comrade to protect and they could disperse. Yee trudged back to the medstation, allowing herself to contemplate her usual futile plan for bunny education.

By Kairian standards, bunnies were intelligent. They used language and made tools—well, they built ramshackle stone walls, and long ago they had made weapons. Their language, as Yee had just observed, let them refer to things that were distant in space and time; they could say A bunny tripped by the orchard wall. But it was weak in other areas. Many, many other areas.

Yee still had an old Intro to Xenobiology file about bunnytongue. At first she had assumed it was a joke, like the file on “Sex Life of the Caobotes” (which was empty; the Caobotes were parthenogenetic.) The bunnytongue file was intended to be used as an insight into Myosotian thought, not as a phrasebook. No humans could actually speak bunnytongue—the sounds were too unsuited for the human vocal apparatus. Yee's portable, wireless translator synthesized bunnytongue words for her.

Bunnytongue had three numbers: “one,” “two,” and “many.” (Desperately bored medstation biologists had programmed numerous synonyms for this last into the translator, from “a lot of” to “veritable metric shitloads.” Yee preferred not to enable them, but there were ... many.)

Bunnies were good about expressing time, especially past and present. (The future was often hazy.) They weren't bad at aspect—whether an action was in progress or completed. They were hopeless at counterfactuals. Statements like If I were hungry, I would eat were beyond them. This made it improbable that Yee's plans for founding the first Myosotian school of medicine would succeed.

The flocking on the medstation walls looked grubby, but installations on Myosotis couldn't have shiny metallic walls or even reflective windows. Bunnies would spot their reflections and play the copycat game with them until they fell over from exhaustion.

Speaking of the copycat game, there was Genius Bunny, playing it with another bunny—Flora Bunny, Yee thought. Genius Bunny was toting an empty orrum rind. Flora reacted to something—Yee was too far away for the translator to pick up its words, but it had doubtless lost in a way that seemed stupid even by bunny standards. Flora retracted its claws and began cuffing Genius Bunny's face. Genius Bunny dropped the rind and shielded its eyes.

Yee felt a pang. She liked Genius Bunny and, she admitted to herself, probably encouraged it to follow the medstation on its circuit through the bunny pastures. Like so many scientists-to-be she herself had been, or at any rate had felt, excluded by others as a child because of her brains. Here, far from Earth or humanity, the same pattern played out for her daily as farce.

Flora finally gave up abusing Genius Bunny and ran off to mate. Yee noticed that Flora had very long ears. Long-eared stong were very desirable to vrith.

The two bunny sexes could be mapped onto “male” and “female,” if you stretched, but no one on Myosotis ever did. Stong produced eggs internally, and vrith fertilized them. After mating the stong would immediately lay the fertilized egg and give it to the vrith, who would carry the offspring to term in a pouch and then care for it until it was old enough to graze on its own. Offworld biologists considered the stong female, but no human who had seen a group of vrith nursing their infants could quite bring themselves to call them “male.” Bunnytongue itself didn't mark gender. Much as Japanese can indicate plural, but usually doesn't, bunnytongue didn't have separate pronouns for vrith and stong. The automatic translator handled both pronouns as “it,” since there usually wasn't enough context to disambiguate the two, and humans followed suit.

Yee reeled the collapsible bunny dummy she used for practice out of the medstation and laid it on the waving blue grass. This time it will work, said the optimistic part of her brain. She was doing this solely to shut that part up for another few days.

"Come here,” she said to a nearby bunny, Yoshihisa. She would rather have tried this with Genius Bunny, but Genius Bunny was so little respected by other bunnies that they might not have let it try this on them for real.

Yoshihisa bounced over and faced Yee. It took no interest in the dummy. Yee held up a splint.

"If a bunny had a broken leg, you would fix it like this.” The Kairians discouraged exploitation and manipulation of client species, but this technology sharing was the whole point.

"A bunny has a broken leg?” Yoshihisa tapped its hind feet. Yee knew that meant the onset of panic.

"No, no bunny has a broken leg.” Yoshihisa looked relieved. It had abandoned the unwelcome idea so quickly that it wasn't even mad at her for lying. Bunnies never lied, after all.

"If this bunny had a broken leg, you fix it like this.” She held up the splint again.

"That's not a bunny."

"If this was a bunny, you could help it."

"This isn't a bunny."

Yee gave up again and took the dummy back inside. In her opinion you didn't need a star chart to find Myosotis: it was smack in the gap between sentience and intelligence.

Yee checked the biologists’ forum for messages. Due to a loophole that excepted the forum from the normal technology regulations, it tended to be chatty. Unfortunately most of the new squirts were in Bengali.

The first English post was an update from Sirinen Station on Pythagoras Bunny, who was something of a Sirinen mascot for its ability to perform the Lo rock-counting test for numbers up to fourteen. Pythagoras had been killed by a collapsing wall.

Yee sent her condolences. Genius Bunny could do the Lo Test up to ten more often than could be accounted for by chance, but it seemed insensitive to mention it.

The other English post was a new overlay for the translation database, promising one hundred and five new synonyms for “to mate.” There were dozens of user-created overlays for this single term, but Yee never enabled them. Given the preeminence of the subject in bunnies’ conversation, the cruder forms made a crowd of them sound like sailors on leave.

According to Yee's old Applied Xenolinguistics prof, machine translation was one of those computational linguistics proposals that, on Earth, had never really been persuaded to work—human languages have too many ambiguities of the “Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana” variety. Bunnytongue, though, was simple enough to model, and if you were careful to restrict your speech to things bunnies understood, it could handle it. The bunnytongue translator was based on Kairian technology—they'd been looking after the bunnies for centuries, after all, and had compiled the definitive corpus of bunny utterances—but it hadn't been necessary to build dams or design highway systems on some backward Coalition world to earn it. It was so trivial a human grad student could have built it.

A centralized database allowed the translator to be consistent about words, especially proper names. If a human slipped and used a word with no bunnytongue equivalent, the translator would generate a legal sequence of sounds that did not collide with an existing word and store it. The neologism would at least come out the same way every time. The translator's attempt to overlay prosody to simulate perceived emotion was much dicier. As with the synonym inserter, Yee preferred to disable the feature and figure out bunny emotions from context. To her the default bunny voices sounded pleasant and emotionally neutral. Admittedly, this probably made them sound even stupider. Individual bunnies could be tagged with distinctive voices—Yee had set Genius Bunny's to a simulation of movie star Rui-Lian Ducrot, who specialized in adorable nerds.

But Rui-Lian's stories always ended in triumph, and Genius Bunny's didn't. Yee could identify.

The failed first-aid class had left Yee grouchy, as usual. She decided to make a phone call. First, she closed her door and sealed it. Her tiny bedroom contained a full-length mirror, which over the course of the past year had revealed a dourer and dourer Yee.

She called Lizzy Srisai at Azzura Station, on the Half-Cracked Continent. Srisai was the most senior biologist on Myosotis, and her five-year hitch was nearly up.

Bunnies occupied all eight continents. Archaeologists did not agree how this had been achieved, except that it was an accident. The medstations were distributed among bunny settlements, and their routes were designed to bring every bunny in range of medical treatment several times a year. Allowing contact between humans was not a requirement.

Half of the stations were currently staffed by Bengali speakers and half by English speakers. Earthservice had originally tried sending qualified xenobiologists regardless of their language background. Only two of the original team could talk to each other, and that was in schoolbook Latin. There had been suicides. One of the Latin speakers had traveled a thousand kilometers to assault the other one. Earthservice changed the policy.

Yee was considering learning Bengali just so she'd have more people to talk to. Besides the bunnies.

Srisai offered the usual sympathy with Yee's woes. “Have I told you the story about the bunny I taught to apply analgesics?” she said. Yee smiled. Of course she had heard the story several times, but right now she just wanted to have a conversation at an adult human level. It didn't have to be novel.

Apollo, the bunny, had learned to do a few basic tasks under Srisai's supervision and her scrupulous avoidance of the word if. “Differential diagnosis was always the stumbling block,” said Srisai. To look at a case of thebba-leaf poisoning and realize it wasn't geriatric gastric inflammation, you had to be able to imagine something not present. That ability had always eluded Apollo, who was now dead of geriatric gastric inflammation.

Yee kept the conversation short. After she and Srisai had said their good-byes, she stuck her head out the door and shouted, “Does anyone want to talk on the phone?” Of course they always did.

Kairians disapproved of using advanced technologies on a client world without giving the native population a chance to share. With a last check of her bedroom door—evacuating a bunny from the medstation was a nontrivial task—Yee flipped the phone into bunnymode so it would shut off when they'd used it as long as she had.

She opened the door. Her Earthmix air would smell a little odd to the bunnies, but shouldn't do them any harm in the—she glanced at the timer—eighteen minutes they'd be inside.

A bunny she called Izzy lumbered up to the viewscreen. Onscreen, another bunny nodded vigorously.

"It's raining,” said the remote bunny.

"No, it's not,” said Izzy.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not."

"Would you like to mate?"

"Okay."

The onscreen bunny pressed its chest up against the screen. Srisai was giggling uncontrollably. At Yee's end, Izzy did its best. Yee turned away. Explaining to the bunnies why this wouldn't work was a lost cause. Earthservice had settled for making the screens sturdy and easy to clean.

Yee wandered outside and sat on the grass. In the distance, tall blue fronds waved and sang in sweet harmonies. The orrum trees raised their orange bulbs high like an armful of sunsets. The grass wiggled.

What appeared to be a lavender flower on a blue stalk nuzzled Yee's ankle. The flower was actually a mouth. With more ambition than sense, it was trying to devour her, but lacking teeth or tongue it could only tickle. It was, in its alien way, cute. Then a bunny hopped over and ate it.

Myosotis is such a beautiful planet, she thought, except for being full of bunnies.

When Yee had decided on a xenobiology career, she had imagined Coalition work as an interstellar Peace Corps. She would dive beneath methane oceans in her Earthservice-issue envirosuit uniform to teach glowing globular Therakass how to program their first computer and ditch their circular slide rules. She would fly on a collapsible harness among the Dwala and explain strong cryptography. She would disseminate bioengineered toxophages with the slithering photosynthetic Orsho. Maybe she'd publish the occasional academic work in xenobiology, or give interviews to the popular press on alien cultures and diplomacy.

But she'd been assigned to the Myosotian protectorate instead, to look after a race that was never going to develop FTL on its own and qualify for full Coalition membership. Medical care was the only technology the bunnies could benefit from. They did not need energy sources, pollution clean-up, or FTL. They toiled not, neither did they spin.

And they weren't intelligent enough to treat themselves. That's where Yee came in. She, along with the biologists scattered among the Myosotis medstations, looked after their fellow client race. In return humanity got an improved FTL technology that made the Slominski drive look like a four-stroke engine.

And all the scientific work on the bunnies had already been done by the Kairians back when humans were still trying to figure out how to keep thieves out of their pyramids.

According to Kairian archaeologists, bunnies’ ancestors were a large herbivorous species. Their sheer size and groups discouraged most predators. Only one had ever been large enough to pose a threat. Bunnytongue no longer had a word for it. Humans called it the elmer.

Bunnies seemed to have begun to build stone walls as protection from the elmers. Language ability left no hard parts to fossilize, of course, but a pre-existing communicative system—perhaps used for warnings or when food was discovered—had probably developed into proto-bunnytongue, and bunnies who could talk could better organize defenses. Archaeologists had found clubs and even spears, invented by some bunny Oppenheimer. Armed with these tools, the bunnies had defended themselves against the elmers until the elmers were extinct.

The elmers had been gone for millennia before the Kairians had come to call, but the conflict had left its mark. What the first Kairians on Myosotis had taken as religious practice, the burial of the dead at the ends of the stone walls and the extension of the walls over the graves, seemed to be instinctive: a way to deprive the elmers of their kills. Bunnies would flee unthinkingly—even more unthinkingly than usual—from a shape that suggested an elmer. The human biologists sometimes took advantage of this for emergency crowd control.

Az-Zarqaa’ Station had tried an elmer suit. Bunnies, it turned out, could still make clubs. Now the biologists used a projector.

Yee wasn't going to say it would have been a good thing if elmers were still eating bunnies, not publicly, but in the long run it might have been better than the alternative. With the end of competition, bunny evolution ceased.

Bunnies didn't even compete with each other for territory. Egg fertilization and implantation rates decreased as population density increased. The population would grow to what the environment would support, then stop. A wonderful solution for individual bunnies, who only invested resources in offspring that were likely to survive, but it also eliminated the one other possible source of evolutionary pressure.

After the phone call had ended it took Yee nearly an hour to shoo the bunnies out of the medstation and ten minutes to squeegee off the viewscreen to her satisfaction. She celebrated with a lukewarm shower in her bedroom.

When she came out to take the evening air, Genius Bunny had reappeared and was approaching a vrith not known to Yee.

"Will you mate with me?” said Genius Bunny with a syncopated bounce Yee could not help interpreting as hope.

"No."

"Mate with me."

"I don't want to mate with you."

"Genius Bunny, come inside,” said Yee. Maybe she could give it a lesson on the dummy. It was probably just as much of a waste of time as the last lesson, but at least it wasted time for a different reason, since Genius Bunny might learn something.

Genius Bunny ambled inside. It still had that orrum rind in its hand and was dribbling spore pouches on the clean floor. Yee decided she didn't care.

Yee slid the dummy out of its wall niche, but Genius Bunny wasn't paying attention. It was leaning over to stare intently at—oh, hell, she'd left the bedroom door open. She could have smacked herself.

Genius Bunny squeezed through the bedroom door so that the reflection was at the favored bunny focal distance. It held the rind up in front of the mirror and took out a black rock.

That must be what had made Flora so angry. Genius Bunny had figured out a way to win the copycat game every time—even if its opponent had an orrum rind of its own, it couldn't predict what Genius Bunny was going to pull out of it. It was the bunny equivalent of discovering a new forced mate in chess. No doubt Genius Bunny had expected this to make the game more fun and was surprised to find its inspiration rewarded with cuffs.

And now, Yee supposed, it had found an opponent that wouldn't be angry—but couldn't be beaten. Since she couldn't squeeze into her room and get a shot of ethyl alcohol with artificial lemon flavor, she consoled herself with a long drink of distilled water from the dispenser.

But when she finished, Genius Bunny was backing out of her room and looking at her—not the mirror.

"Nobody can see what's in the orrum rind,” said Genius Bunny in Rui-Lian Ducrot's voice. “Nobody can know what's in the orrum rind. Nobody can take out the same color. It took out the same color. That's not a bunny. That's me."

Yee had just witnessed the bunny equivalent of Cogito ergo sum. The thought made everything that much more depressing. She let Genius Bunny outside, then went in her room for that drink.

She decided to watch the sunset and came out just in time to see Genius Bunny getting rejected by Izzy for the second time in one day. Genius Bunny bounced off to eat some ferns. Yee decided to interrogate Izzy a little.

"Why didn't you mate with Genius Bunny?” she asked.

"I don't like Genius Bunny."

"I like Genius Bunny."

Izzy scratched the back of its neck with its thumb claw. “Did you mate with Genius Bunny?"

"No."

"I like you."

"You don't want to mate with me."

"You're not stong.” That was the least disturbing possible response, now that she considered it.

Genius Bunny probably wasn't a mutant. It was at the high end of bunny variation, not a quantum leap forward. Bunny evolution may have been in equilibrium, but Genius Bunny wasn't about to punctuate it. If only it wasn't suffering the same fate as so many of its Earth counterparts—if only it could get laid, and pass on that nice collection of genes to its offspring—

Yee, for the first time in her career, recalled an offhand reference from a froglike (though human) biology prof whose lectures had heretofore been useless to her. It gave her a wonderful, awful idea.

She was so excited she was tempted to snap on the ansible and try to reach a former classmate who might have the exact reference, but resisted. The FTL comm channel was for Kairian-approved business only, and it's not as though there was anyone offworld who wanted to talk to a bunny afterward, or vice versa. She searched the electronic library instead. Eventually she found the article she wanted.

Now for the forbidden experiment. She could hardly wait.

Yee unrolled the largest sheet of synthflesh on the worktable and cut out a meter-long leaf shape with a pointed tip and squared-off bottom. It seemed a little floppy, so she reinforced it along the back with a thin length of splint that extended about ten centimeters past the square end. She gazed upon her creation, and saw that it was good, so she made a second one. Finally she masked off the bases and sprayed them on both sides with fixative so that only the bottom three centimeters were reactive.

She lay awake in her bed all night, unsleeping, drumming her fingers, staring at the ceiling, waiting for dawn.

Genius Bunny was its usual affable self. Yee was suitably impressed. She certainly wouldn't have been at her best if an alien with a flashlight had awakened her at sunup and ushered her into a hospital room.

"Lean forward for me,” she said. It did, puzzled, she thought, by the untranslatable “for me.” She gently applied the synthflesh to its ears, with a few supplementary strips along the splint to hold each of them in place. The tips of the prosthetic ears brushed the ceiling. To her, the results looked fine: a bunny with unusually long ears. For all she knew, though, other bunnies would find the effect grotesque. She had one last test, and it wasn't a very good one. She opened the bedroom door.

Genius Bunny looked in the mirror for a long time. It retracted and extended its thumb claws, it rocked from side to side. Yee was not sure how to read that emotion. At last, it spoke.

"If I were vrith, I would mate with me."

Yee nervously held her finger on the projector button. What worked with Earth birds might not work with bunnies.

Generations ago, a pre-Kairian zoologist, Malte Andersson, had studied the widowbird—a Kenyan bird with such extreme sexual dimorphism that males’ tails were twice the length of their bodies. Andersson had snipped off some of those tails and pasted them onto those of other male widowbirds, with results never before seen by female widowbirds—who preferred the enhanced males to normal ones by a factor of two to one. Size did matter—and you could improve on what Mother Nature had to offer.

Yee didn't know how the bunnies would take to a similar imposture. She hated to risk Genius Bunny for it—but at least she had a backup plan: the projector, the tranquilizer, the self-cauterizing scalpel.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this,” said Srisai. “You're saying you performed a cosmetic medical procedure, without informed consent, on a bunny?"

"I doubt you can get an objection out of it.” Yee glanced at the viewscreen. Genius Bunny was lying happily on its back, paddling its hind legs in the air, exhausted. “We should edit its entry in the translation database and change its name to Playboy."

"I don't even know how many rules this violates."

"Want me to ship Genius Bunny to you? It should make a tour of all the stations. It could be the first sex tourist on Myosotis."

"You need to take a long deep breath."

"I'm going to take a long deep drink instead.” Yee slugged down a third shot of lemon alcohol. Another happy thought occurred to her. “The counterfactual! Did I tell you what it said? ‘If I were vrith, I'd mate with me.’”

"There's no word for ‘if’ in bunnytongue—wait, I get it. From the translator, right? We say ‘if,’ and the translator always handles it the same way."

"I'm so proud. I'm going to train it to be a doctor. And all the smart little baby bunnies, too. In a couple of years we'll be starting the Genius Bunny School of Myosotian Medicine.” She snapped the phone off. With the vaguest sense that she was overlooking something, she fell asleep on the bed.

Something buzzed Yee awake. Not the door—the communicator in the other room was going off. She couldn't have been asleep that long; she wasn't quite sober. She stumbled out to take the call.

That red light—the ansible was on. An offworld call. She looked back over her shoulder, smoothed her hair, and switched on the viewscreen.

Her caller was something few humans ever saw. Most of its body was a flattened white cylinder, flexed into an arc. The carapace was open at the end and a knot of many-jointed black fingers extended to work what must have been Kairian comm controls. The glossy round red braincase was at the center of the screen. The writhing black tube extending from the braincase served as sensory and communication organ. Its tip writhed and a fine mist sprayed out.

"Mavi Station. This is Akolani Lee."

"Ms. Yee,” said the speaker. Kairian speech was usually described as “warbling"; the audio output must be coming from a computer. Kairian machine translation was, unsurprisingly, excellent. “This is Margaret Abraham Whetu Zukisa Cheong-Chi Rowtag of the Coalition of Planets.

"Ms. Srisai contacted us on the ansible to report your recent actions.” Bitch, thought Yee groggily. “She stated that you have performed an experimental procedure on a Myosotian without said Myosotian's consent. She further stated that you did this with the belief that said Myosotian might be exposed to danger as a result of the procedure—again, without said Myosotian's consent. She said this was done in an attempt to manipulate said Myosotian's mating potential."

"Said Myosotian is named Genius Bunny. I can get its Myosotian name from the translation database.” Yee was not moved to deference. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

"I have not finished reading the charges. Your medstation logs show that you used a long-distance communication device without allowing the Myosotians to use it as well. Ms. Srisai stated that you performed all of these discouraged acts, except the last, in order to achieve a long-term change in the Myosotian gene pool. This is a strongly discouraged act."

"It's true,” said Yee. It occurred to her that she didn't have a will. She wondered if she owned anything that her brother and sister would consider worth fighting over. On the bright side, she supposed that she had found a way to get out of four more years of bunny service.

"In keeping with Coalition recommendations, I remind you that Coalition members have never experimented on humans, have never deliberately exposed humans to increased risks, and have never permitted technology introduction and application teams on Earth to use technologies without sharing them with humans. Furthermore, Coalition members have not engaged in selective breeding of humans, except for that incident in Dallas, and the team involved was immediately and thoroughly discouraged."

Yee thought about that for a moment.

"You have not acknowledged the reminder.” The simulated voice was implacable.

"I acknowledge it."

"I served on Myosotis myself, two hundred twenty-four Earth years ago, long before humans knew of the Coalition of Planets. I know the Myosotians well. I know how this will change them.” The black tube waggled. “It's about time, isn't it? And don't forget to let the Myosotians use the phone for twelve point four minutes."

Copyright (c) 2008 Tracy Canfield

I have German, Norwegian, and Irish ancestors. The family name Cramer is probably derived from the old German word “kramm,” denoting a small shop, so perhaps my Cramer ancestors were shopkeepers. Not much is known about my great-grandfather, Adolf Cramer. He was born somewhere in Prussia about 1836. Somehow, he made his way to Houston, Texas, where he married a fairly well-off widow, my great-grandmother Sarah, in 1863. They appear in the 1870 census with two sons, one of which was my grandfather Louis (who later appropriately became a grocery store owner). By the 1880 census Sarah was listed as a widow, and she subsequently remarried.

Even in these days of extensive genealogical internet databases, without knowing where Adolf was born or who his parents were, we have been unable to find him in any records before his appearance in Houston. He may appear in some German records, boat passenger lists, US Immigration records, or burial records, but with only the available information, we have hit the wall in finding him. However, there is still a way of tracking him someday, because I am in possession of Adolf's y chromosome. Let me explain.

Envision the family tree diagram of your ancestors, arranged with the parent couples of each generation on a line, parents above and children below, with the male of each parental couple on the left. This family tree forms a funnel shaped distribution that doubles in size with each preceding generation. The genetic inheritance implied by the diagram is very complex, because each individual on the chart inherited some genes and chromosomes from his father and some from his mother on the line above.

However, at the right and left edges of this family tree diagram, things are much simpler because these edges represent the succession of male ancestors that led to your father and of female ancestors that led to your mother. On the left edge of the diagram, the male of each generation has inherited the y chromosome of his father. On the right edge of the diagram, the female of each generation has inherited the mitochondrial DNA of her mother. To understand this, let's review some basic genetics.

In the nucleus of each cell, everyone has 46 chromosomes, little spools of DNA that form a genetic library encoded in “base-pairs” that constitute the four-letter language (A, C, G, T) of genetics. The “sentences” of this language are genes, which are step-by-step procedures for constructing the proteins than make up our bodies.

Of the 46 human chromosomes, 44 of them come in two 22-chromosome sets, one set from each parent. This deck of “alleles” is shuffled and often cross-mixed in every generation. The other two chromosomes are the sex chromosomes, called x and y. The x chromosome has about 153 million base pairs encoding about 1000 working genes. The smaller y chromosome has only about 60 million base pairs encoding about 85 working genes.

Females have two x chromosomes, one received from their father and the other from their mother. Males have an x chromosome from their mother and a y chromosome from their father. Thus, along the left edge of the family tree diagram described above, the y chromosome is passed down, relatively unchanged, from father to son in each generation in a linked patrilineal chain. Therefore, in principle, I have the same y chromosome as all of my male Cramer-surname ancestors including Adolf, extending back up the time stream for very many generations.

In a similar way, along the right edge of the family tree, mitochondrial DNA is passed down, relatively unchanged, from mother to daughter in each generation to form a linked matrilineal chain. Let me explain mitochondria a bit. Outside the nucleus of every human cell, residing in the surrounding plasma, there are a large number (100 to 10,000) of small bacteria-like organelles called mitochondria. They are associated with energy production and protein synthesis in the cell. Inside each mitochondrion are several copies of their basic DNA structure, small rings of DNA with about 16,568 base pairs encoding 37 working genes.

During human reproduction a fertilized cell (whether male or female) receives a few (perhaps two to ten) mitochondria from the egg of its mother, but it receives no mitochondria from the sperm of its father. Thus, mitochondrial DNA is passed from mother to children in every generation, with the daughters forming in a linked matrilineal chain. Therefore, in principle I have the same mitochondrial DNA as my mother, her mother, her mother, etc., also extending back up the time stream for very many generations.

In other words, Nature has provided us with ways of tracking both of the outside edges of our family tree, along the patrilineal line of y chromosomes and along the matrilineal line of mitochondrial DNA, extending all the way back up the time stream to some y-chromosomal Adam and mitochondrial Eve that came down from the trees somewhere in Africa a couple of million years ago.

Actually, this view of an unchanging genetic structure is bit naive, because in each generation there is a certain probability that mutations will occur in the y and mitochondrial DNA. In fact, the mutation probability in certain DNA regions can act as a kind of “clock” that permits estimates of how many generations separate gene lines with similar but not identical genetic structures.

Now getting back to tracking Adolf, the cost of DNA analysis has been falling in recent times (but it's still not cheap). Further, the human genome is huge, and to track a relative using DNA, it is necessary to focus on specific parts of the genome that can be compared with those of possible relatives.

Fortunately, geneticists have worked out a way of doing this. As I indicated above, the y chromosome contains 85 working genes, and any mutations in these genes might have disastrous consequences, in the form of a genetic disease. However, the y chromosome also contains fairly large regions of non-coding “junk” DNA that serve no known purpose, contain nonsense sequences that repeat many times, and show fairly high mutation rates in which the number of repeats of the sequence changes. This is perhaps because the DNA replication mechanism can become confused by repeating patterns.

The workers in the field of population genetics have developed a set of genetic “markers,” junk DNA regions of the y chromosome in which the repeat count has sufficient variability to distinguish the gene lines of male individuals with some reliability. There are now a number of commercial firms that will, for a hundred dollars or so, analyze a sample of your DNA taken from a cheek swab and provide a set of numbers for the y chromosome representing the number of repeats in a set of markers. (They will also analyze your mitochondrial DNA, but that's another story.). The y-chromosome analysis represents a genetic “fingerprint” or haplotype that you share with your ancestors, but that may be very different from one family group to another. I have tracked six of my eight great-grandparents using this technology by arranging for the y and mitochondrial DNA analysis of myself and several of my cousins. On the y-chromosome side, I had 46-marker analyses done for myself and two cousins, producing fairly specific high-resolution haplotypes for each of us. (I'd also like to find a Gleason and St. John related cousin, perhaps in New Orleans or Ireland, to investigate the Irish side of my great-grandparent set, but I haven't done this yet.)

Population geneticists have divided the genetic landscape of y and mitochondrial marker patterns into “haplogroups,” ensembles of related individuals that share a similar pattern of markers. For example, the majority of individuals of European origin are most likely to fall into y haplogroup R, which is associated with a mutation called M207 that occurred around 26,800 years ago, as our ancestors were resettling Europe and Western Asia following the last glacial maximum. At least two of my great-grandfathers have y chromosomes that fall into haplogroup R, consistent with their German origins. The exception is my y chromosome and that of great-grandfather Adolf, which is rather different. Our y-haplogroup is G (or more specifically haplogroup G2c, formerly called G5). This is a fairly rare marker pattern.

Haplogroup G (defined by mutation M201) branched off from haplogroup F (mutation M89) thousands of years ago. It is believed to have originated in the Near East or Southern Asia, probably in the region that is now northern India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. Haplogroup G spread with the Neolithic Agricultural Revolution, perhaps with the appearance of the early horse nomads of the Eurasian steppe.

According to an article in Wikipedia, the sub-haplogroup G2c (defined by mutation M377) presents more mysteries regarding its origin and distribution than virtually any other major y haplogroup. Haplogroups that are rare in certain regions are usually more common in another and have rather clear origins in other places where they are more commonly found. G2c does not follow this pattern. It is most common by far in a region where its carriers arrived very recently, and is exceedingly rare in other regions, including its likely area of origin. The distribution of G2c is incredibly sparse and dispersed, with almost no G2c haplotypes found in very large intervening regions. This pattern is unique among y haplogroups.

Haplogroup G2c is rather specific to a single ethnic group in Europe, the Ashkenazi Jews, who settled in genealogically recent times in the German and Polish regions of Europe. Otherwise, the G2c pattern has been found in only four individuals, a Turk from Kars Province in Turkey, an Uzbek from Uzbekistan, a Pashtun from the Pakistan-Afghanistan border in the Hindu Kush range, and a Burusho from the Hunza Valley in the Karakorum Range in Kashmir.

So Adolf was probably descended from the Ashkenazi Jews of Germany or Poland. That's interesting, because there have been no practicing Jews in my family in the twentieth century, and my father, a Houston attorney, had an Irish Catholic mother but was raised as a Southern Baptist. In searching the various genetic databases for a match to the markers of my y chromosome, I have found only one perfect fit, that of a person whose ancestors came from a village north of Warsaw in Poland. Since that part of Poland was North East Prussia during the nineteenth century, perhaps Adolf came from around there too, although neither his first nor his last name fits the Polish profile.

In any case, because of the recent technological advances in DNA analysis, the field of genetic genealogy is presently growing explosively, with more and more genetic databases becoming available and expanding. My tracking of Adolf is not finished. I hope that in a few years the volume of data will grow to the point where I can find more G2c matches that fit his and my haplotype. It's almost as good as visiting Adolf with a time machine.

Copyright (c) John G. Cramer

References:

Haplogroups:

Haplogroups, Wikipedia: en. wikipedia.org/wiki/Haplogroups

Haplogroup G, Wikipedia: en. wikipedia.org/wiki/HaplogroupG(Y-DNA)

Haplogroup G2c, Wikipedia: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HaplogroupG2c(Y-DNA)

Y-DNA Analysis:

Y-DNA Testing Comparison Chart: www.isogg.org/ydnachart.htm

Ancestry.com: dna.ancestry. com/welcome.aspx

Sorenson Molecular Genealogy Foundation: www.smgf.org

Family Tree DNA: www.familytreedna.com

"Give me a one-handed economist! All my economists say, ‘On the one hand ... on the other.’”

—Harry S. Truman

Winslow Justinian Prescott waited outside the packed pressroom. The cacophony within was extraordinary, the White House correspondents variously suspicious, curious, and baffled. They knew something momentous was afoot. He had not held a press conference for months.

Prescott adjusted his tie, flicked a bit of lint from the lapel of his suit, and stepped inside.

"The President of the United States,” a booming voice intoned.

The noise stopped as if a switch had been thrown. Few of these correspondents liked him. Some didn't even respect him—but by God, they all respected the office. He had the best job in the world, and he meant to keep it. After his announcement—all the more dramatic as an October timeout from the campaign trail—reelection was in the bag.

Prescott stepped behind the podium bearing the presidential seal. “I have a statement, and then I'll take questions."

Text appeared on the teleprompter. “Ours is a vibrant and sophisticated economy, powered by 350 million complicated people. And America is a cog in the larger world economy, driven by eight billion people.” Subtext: The recession is no one's fault. “It's not surprising the economy sometimes performs less well than we would hope. The wonder is that anyone dares try to guide it."

Before him, styli scribbled, cameras stared, and solid-state recorders did—well, nothing discernable. He kept reading. “1776 will ever be associated, and rightly so, with America's declaration of independence, but a second revolution also began that year.” In the holo display beside the podium, a stolid and bewigged figure appeared. “In March of 1776, Adam Smith, the father of modern economics, published this book."

A leather-bound volume, its title emblazoned in gold leaf, replaced Smith. AnInquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations.

Reporters squirmed.

He'd told the speechwriters to cut the history lesson. He was the president, not class know-it-all. “Many economists followed Smith. They found things to agree upon—and more not to."

Grins throughout the crowd. Politicians, lawyers, and economists ... no one objected to a potshot taken at any of them.

"They weren't entirely wrong.” A few chuckles. “Every one was right—about some of us, some of the time. What have economists asserted? People make rational decisions.” His raised eyebrow drew another laugh. “People value money above all else.” If that were true anywhere, DC wasn't the place. Here the pursuit of wealth ranked a distant second to the quest for power. “Taxes are too high and too low."

The squirming had stopped. He had them in the palm of his hand.

"No psychologist would claim people are always rational. She'd be out of business.” Laughter. He skipped a riff about sociologists. Always leave your audience wanting more.

"It's no one's fault. It's hard to know even our own minds. We wonder what our significant other or child or neighbor might do minutes from now, yet we expect economists"—and politicians—"to predict how we'll all act and react for years to come."

Harry Truman, prepare to stand corrected. The buck won't stop here.

In Prescott's mind's ear: a theatrical drum roll. “People are rational and rationalizing, methodical and impulsive, principled and expedient, wise and whimsical, self-interested and selfless. People are ... human."

Fast-forward through economists claiming mercantilism, whatever that was, and capitalism, and socialism, and communism were the way to go. Past supply side and demand side, past voodoo economics and the Gross National Happiness. “Our economy became too complex for any of us to comprehend. But this administration has the solution."

That made everyone sit straighter.

"Greedy or generous, rich or poor, playing now or saving for later ... who can calculate all the possibilities? Economics is a job for someone who can understand it all. All our needs, all our moods, all our aspirations—all together, all the time. Economics is a discipline grown too large for the human mind to grasp. It's become a task for an artificial intelligence."

"My experts assure me...” Like all experts, they assured him of nothing. Every remark sagged beneath the weight of caveats. They whined about more supercomputers. Extra data storage. Additional statistics as inputs. Above all, they wanted yet more testing.

If technology was the solution, then past techie dawdling was the problem, and he needed to take credit now, not after the election.

Well, the presidency had its perks. Few dare say no to you; fewer could make it stick. Certainly very few civil-service scientists and programmers.

Prescott skipped to the end of his prepared statement. The ancient tome shimmered and was gone. A virtual desktop took its place. “It's time to introduce the father of a new era in economics.” Delivered by the leader to whose stewardship your readers and listeners and viewers will entrust the next four years. “I give you ... the economist who thinks like us all."

He rolled the podium trackball over an unlabeled icon and clicked.

Laughter erupted—but this time they weren't laughing with him.

Something moved in his peripheral vision. Prescott turned toward the scrolling words.

You have reached the computing array of AIdam Smith. I am taking a sick day. Please leave a message.

The shouted questions began....

Copyright (c) 2008 Edward M. Lerner

Plus ca change....

As she meandered through the Contemporary American Artists Gallery of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gale stopped to stare at a wall—where a painting could have been hung, but wasn't. Dreamily, she fantasized stepping out of a stasis booth some hundred years from now and seeing one of her works on that unadorned expanse of wall:

She took solace in dreaming of the future. She gave a tight-lipped smile. There is no way my work would ever be accepted in today's art world.

Checking her watch, she stalked out of the hall and headed to the Greek and Roman galleries, the venue that Malcolm preferred. She still had a quarter of an hour to kill before meeting him at the exhibit.

The Rubens exhibit. The price of admission was as much as a Broadway play, well outside the means of an impoverished art student. I have got to stop thinking this way. Even though her thin body was the result of that time of hunger, she wasn't a starving art student anymore.

Thanks to Malcolm, her anorexic look had brought her stardom—a far cry from her art student days when she modeled nude for life classes at the league. Will model for food! And now she had real money. Not Malcolm's definition of money, of course; he was of the filthy variety of rich.

They'd met when he was taking a life drawing class and she was modeling for it. Afterward, he'd used his family contacts to inject her into the world of high-fashion modeling, where she'd been remolded into “the Body": the current “big thing.” Gale smiled. Malcolm considered that he personally had done the remolding. He called her “my Galatea,” after the statue brought to life in the Pygmalion myth. She sighed. She owed Malcolm a great deal. It was too bad she didn't love him.

Gale drifted toward the Roman statuary entrance.

"Good evening, my Galatea,” came a cheerful voice from the side.

Gale spun around. “Malcolm. I was just on the way to meet you at the ticket kiosk."

Malcolm extended an arm expansively to take in the gallery. “Then let's leave this toga-clad era for our little excursion to seventeenth-century Holland.” He withdrew two exhibition admission tickets from his shirt pocket and handed her one. “I've already booked our passage."

Gale chuckled. “Sorry to pull you away from Rome."

"Only temporarily, my Galatea."

Gale nodded. Malcolm was a Classics scholar—because he could afford to be. “This really is your time,” she said.

"I yearn for it as much as you crave your hundred-year leap to the future.” He guided her toward the patron entrance; he had bought the expensive tickets, thus avoiding the line. “But you have it better. In theory, you could go to your future via a stasis booth.” They passed into the exhibit hall and stopped in front of a large canvas. “But my longing for the past can only be fulfilled vicariously."

"'The Union of Earth and Water,'” Gale read from the plaque aside the painting. “On loan from the Hermitage."

"Sort of chubby, isn't she?” said Malcolm, gazing at the nude with the bit of cloth casually draped over a sensitive section of her anatomy. “Rubenesque, not surprisingly."

"But beautiful,” said Gale. “Timeless. Ars longa, vita brevis."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows.

"Art is long, life is short,” said Gale.

"That's the popular meaning, certainly. But it comes from Hippocrates—"

"The father of medicine?"

Malcolm nodded. He seemed uncharacteristically serious. “The full quote is 'Ars longa, vita brevis, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile.’ "

"That's not particularly illuminating."

"It means, essentially, life is short, the art of medicine takes more than a lifetime to learn, opportunity for treatment is fleeting, and judgment about treatment is difficult.” Malcolm let out a breath. “And well do I know it."

"Something is on your mind,” said Gale. “You don't seem your cheerful self."

"Why don't we go to the coffee shop?” he said. “I have something I need to talk about."

Gale agreed, but with diffidence; she hoped he wasn't about to propose marriage again.

At a small, out-of-the-way table in the Petrie Court Café, Gale and Malcolm sat nursing cups of coffee, his with milk and sugar, hers black; having “the Body” took work. She smelled the siren-scent from a nearby table. God, I'd almost kill for one of those pastries.

"I am ill,” said Malcolm abruptly. “An annoying disease."

Gale moved her attention from her nose to her eyes. Malcolm appeared nonchalant, but his mouth showed thin, stretched lips, an impression of distaste as if talking about one's health were a breach of etiquette. “Not serious, I hope."

"Terminal, I'm afraid."

Gale felt her eyes widen. She sucked in a breath. “I—"

"Hopefully...” Malcolm interrupted, making calming motions. “Hopefully, my death will only be temporary."

"Excuse me?"

"Pancreatic cancer.” Malcolm spoke calmly, as if discussing a wine vintage. “Aggressive form. Metastasized. No available treatment at this stage."

"That's horrible,” said Gale at a whisper.

"The only horrible thing is that I must lose you."

Gale opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"Oh, it's not hyperbolic gallantry,” said Malcolm. “My family has some, well, resources. So I've managed to get myself cleared for a stasis booth without the usual wait. I'll be in there until a cure is found.” He looked down at his cup. “And I'm sure there will be a cure before not too long.” His statement seemed addressed as much to himself as to Gale. His gaze shot up to her eyes. “I won't ask you to come with me and leave everything you know.” He moved his hand to cover her wrist on the table. “I've told you often enough that I love you, but I know you don't love me. So—"

"No, I...” said Gale, flustered. “It's that ... But go with you? Well, I mean ... I thought only patients could go into stasis."

"Amazing sometimes, what one can do with money."

"Well, it's hard to—"

"Not another word about it.” Malcolm patted her wrist gently, as if a caress. “It's just my fantasy. Pure fantasy; I would never allow you to risk the one-in-a-thousand chance of dying from the procedure."

"I didn't know,” said Gale at a whisper, “that you could die from stasis."

"Pretty damned good odds you won't ... I won't.” He flashed a quick and clearly forced smile. “So let's just enjoy the time we have together. And who knows? My disease might be curable in just a month and we could just continue as we are."

"Are there no treatment options?"

"None.” Malcolm gripped her wrist more firmly. “I ask you ... no, I demand that you not think of me as ill.” He released her wrist and sat back in his chair. “It's funny. I feel somehow guilty about coming down with a disease."

"That's ridiculous."

Again, he smiled at her. “More coffee?"

Gale shook her head. “When do you go into stasis?"

"Soon—to give future doctors the best shot at curing me."

"When, exactly?"

"Tomorrow."

"So soon?” The immediacy of losing Malcolm struck home.

"I hate drawn-out good-byes.” He turned and gazed at her, tenderness apparent in his eyes. “Will you come and see me off? Two in the afternoon, Cornell Medical Center, Temporal Technology Wing.” He looked down at his hands. “I need you."

In the hospital waiting room, next day, Gale waited to be admitted to the stasis hall. There were several other patients scheduled before Malcolm. Each patient had a quarter of an hour for saying good-byes.

More to kill time than out of any real interest, she read a brochure about the technique. In a stasis booth, the brochure informed her, time effectively stops. It worked by the quantum mechanical phenomenon called Zitterbewegung—flitter motion: the effect where charged particles constantly zigzag back and forth at the speed of light. Gale let her eyes glaze over; she was no scientist. Instead of reading more, she thought of all the great times she and Malcolm had experienced together. This time, instead of glazing, her eyes teared over.

"You may go in and visit now."

Gale, startled by the voice, looked up and saw a nurse staring at her. She recognized the look; the nurse had recognized her as “the Body” and was trying hard to pretend she hadn't. The nurse gave a professional smile masking any sign of admiration or envy. “This way, please."

Gale thanked the woman and followed her to a long, narrow ward. Many little glass-doored booths were arrayed along a wall. Alongside each stood a locker such as one might find in a school or a health club: tall and thin and secured with a combination lock. A few rolling office chairs broke the stark symmetry of the ward.

Looking down the hall, Gale saw a figure wearing a hospital gown and slippers sitting on one of the chairs. In back of him, Gale saw a booth, the only booth with its door open. Inside was just a very minimal seat—a thin slat mounted to the sides of the booth.

As the nurse and Gale approached, the man swiveled in the chair, stood, then with a smile, bowed.

"Hello, Malcolm,” said Gale with genuine warmth.

"Hello, my Galatea."

"You have about ten minutes,” said the nurse, “before Dr. Ernst comes to begin the procedure.” She gave a mechanical smile and clattered back down the hall.

Gale and Malcolm looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before Malcolm said, “Stopping time. An interesting effect, actually."

"Flitter motion,” said Gale flatly.

"Oh, you know?"

"Just the word."

"Ah.” Malcolm kicked off his slippers and took off his gown, leaving him wearing only white gym shorts. He stepped into the booth and sat. “They give my body an electrical charge, force it into a single quantum state, whatever that means, and force the Zitterbewegung. My body oscillates rapidly at the speed of light. And for objects traveling at the speed of light, time stops. Simple, isn't it?"

Gale looked at him; in those shorts, he looked virile and the picture of life—as if he were ready to run in the Olympics. “I'd expected to see you strapped to an operating table and covered in wires and sensors."

"Fortunately not,” said Malcolm. He stroked his classic, rippled abs. “I'd hate to think of my body disfigured by sensors and wires.” He chuckled. “Galatea. Funny, the name rather applies to me; I am to be the statue brought to life—I hope."

"I'm sure you will be."

Malcolm gazed at her. “I love you, you know."

"I'm beginning to think that maybe I love you too."

"Ah,” said Malcolm, softly, “if only...."

After some minutes of what-ifs, Gale heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Quickly,” said Malcolm. “A kiss. A kiss before ... before I sleep."

Gale complied and Malcolm prolonged the embrace until the doctor arrived.

Dr. Ernst was all pleasantness and charm. Gale found it comforting that Dr. Ernst didn't seem to recognize her.

"This will just take a moment,” said the doctor to Malcolm. “Just a moment in your time, that is.” He inserted a key-card into a slot and a control panel slid open. “Assume a position you'd be happy having the world see for a while.” He began to close the door. “Bon voyage!"

Malcolm struck a noble pose and with that, Dr. Ernst snapped closed the transparent door and flipped a switch.

Gale heard an electrical hum and saw Malcolm's features slow and go rigid. He looked like the statue of a Greek god, especially so under the alabaster white of the overhead fluorescent lights.

"Is he safe in there?” said Gale, feeling the need to say something.

"Safe?” Dr. Ernst pulled out his key card and the panel slid closed.

"Well, he might be there for years."

Dr. Ernst sighed. “For many years, perhaps. I'm familiar with his disease.” He brightened. “But the risk from the procedure is all in the going into stasis, not coming out. He's quite ... safe, as you put it. The ward has a five-week battery backup so there won't be any accidental cycling.” He gave a good-natured chuckle. “We will decant no patient before his time."

"I will miss him."

Dr. Ernst gave an avuncular smile. “You can, of course, come and see him during weekly visiting hours.” She looked at him quizzically. “Think of it as visiting a work of art—his form in sculpture."

Gale left the hospital with mixed feelings and mixed-up emotions. Although she felt guilty about it, she resented and even envied Malcolm traveling to the future. He had no business there. The future was hers. His time was Imperial Rome.

Walking to the corner to hail a cab, she felt adrift and also depressed. On impulse, she darted into a drugstore along the way for her standard over-the-counter drug for depression, a chocolate bar. Outside the store, she broke off and ate a square of the dark lusciousness. For the sake of her career, she'd normally eat one square and throw away the rest. But this time, one square didn't help. She devoured the entire bar. It still didn't help.

During the following week, Gale made a dilatory attempt to rekindle an old relationship—and did. But it gave her little satisfaction. She felt empty—convinced that this time, this era, held nothing for her. She found herself wishing she'd gone into stasis with Malcolm.

Over the next few days the wish grew stronger, transforming from a mere desire to a course of action. She would herself go into stasis. She would not leave the future to Malcolm.

On the morning of her first visiting day, she penned a note to Malcolm and, en route to the hospital, had it notarized.

The ward reminded Gale of the active statuary storage hall at the Met, the not-open-to-the-public facility where conservators and art students could study works not currently on exhibit. Small clusters of downcast people stood in front of stasis booths peering in at the time-frozen patients.

Gale went to Malcolm's booth and gazed in at him. He was certainly one of the more impressive items in the row of statuary. She felt comforted by being near to him. I wonder if I could get the curator—she smiled at herself—Curator! What am I thinking? Could I get the doctor to bring him back to life for a few minutes? Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. No way they'd do that—not with a one-in-a-thousand chance of death when returning to stasis.

She took the note from her purse, scanned the ward from the corners of her eyes, then casually sidled up to Malcolm's locker. Quickly, she pushed the note under the door and into the locker, then left the ward and the hospital.

Filled with a clear purpose and a sense of urgency, she trod quickly out into the sunlight. She needed to arrange stasis for herself, and to do so quickly; every day she delayed, she'd age a day and Malcolm wouldn't. She did not want to arrive at Malcolm's future older than he.

She thought of her note, reassuring herself that she'd made herself clear. She'd accepted his offer of marriage. All he had to do, after his cure, was locate her stasis facility, show her note to the authorities, and have the doctors bring her back to life. Easy!

Gale hung up the phone in shock—in sticker-shock.

She had hunted down a number of private stasis companies and found that what they provided was mainly a time-killing service for the privileged—those who were willing to accept the risk in exchange for being younger than their contemporaries. The time intervals were usually in the range from weeks to a few months, and it was expensive. One of the companies did provide long-term stasis, but at a cost of fifty thousand dollars per year. And she'd have to pay up front. She wanted an assured century, but there was no way she could come up with five million dollars.

Gale wondered how she might contract some incurable and fatal disease. She had a good health plan that provided stasis-until-cure. But, as she soon discovered, acquiring such a disease seemed no easier than curing it. No. I need an idea, a real idea.

Seeking a place to think on her feet, Gale returned to the museum. She used her re-entry ticket and, strolling among the Rubens paintings, pondered her situation.

She was sure her modeling fees would eventually provide the five million dollars she required. But in stasis, she couldn't earn anything. Her body was her only marketable asset, and she was taking that with her.

Meandering through the nudes, Gale couldn't help comparing Rubens’ voluptuous figures to her own. I have a fabulous body—I know that. She visualized Malcolm in his stasis booth—regal and looking like a god, and got an idea. Maybe I can make money while in stasis.

On impulse, she left the exhibit and strode to the museum director's office. Invoking the name of Malcolm's parents, big contributors to the Met, she finagled a meeting and explained her idea.

"Are you serious?” said the director, incredulity in his voice. “You propose leasing yourself to the museum as artwork?"

"A statue.” With seeming nonchalance, she moved forward in her chair and arched her back slightly to better emphasize her “assets.” “In stasis. Posed tastefully in the nude with a piece of cloth covering what needs to be covered. I wouldn't want to be X-rated.” She smiled, consciously emulating the Mona Lisa. “The Met could surely do very well on exhibit fees."

The director eyed her analytically; clearly, he'd recognized her. He chuckled. “An intriguing proposition, I must say.” His eyes narrowed. “And just what would you get out of this?"

"Nothing,” she said, innocently. “All I ask is that the museum cover the cost of stasis."

"Hmm."

"I really would like the Met to be the first,” she went on. “I'd much prefer being exhibited in New York than in, say, Paris.

"The Louvre is considering this?” The director seemed worried.

She gave a noncommittal shrug.

"You know,” said the director, “that for this to work, you can't be a statue for just a day or two as a ... as a publicity stunt. I imagine you'll have to remain in stasis for some time—a month or two at least."

"That won't be a problem.” Gale smiled.

The director gently slapped the top of his desk. “I've got to admit it is a genuinely intriguing idea. I'll take it up with the museum board."

"I'm not sure,” said Gale in a conspiratorial voice, “how long I can wait before entertaining competing offers."

"The board meets in a week."

"One hundred years!” The director bolted to his feet. “That's insane. You'd be ... you'd be essentially part of our permanent collection."

"A valuable acquisition, I assure you.” Gale had gotten the board's approval, and now she'd have to struggle to keep it. “Look, it's a good deal for the Met. I'll be the owner of the sculpture of course, but I'll be on long-term lease to the museum. You could exhibit me any way you want, within good taste, of course. If you want, you could even lend me out to other institutions."

"But a hundred years,” the director sputtered. “That's ... that's a century!" He sat, heavily.

Gale decided to tell all. And as she did, she detected sympathy on the part of the director. Inwardly, she smiled. He was clearly a romantic. And now to close the deal—I hope.

"It's very likely,” she concluded, “that the Met will be repaid the stasis fees."

The director raised his eyebrows.

"The contract should contain the provision that Malcolm will have the right to buy out my contract by paying what the Met has paid in stasis fees. I can't guarantee it, of course, but I imagine that at the current rate of medical progress, Malcolm's cure should come within five years or so."

"And then,” said the director, “your prince Malcolm will revive you with a kiss and the two of you will live happily ever after."

"More or less, yes."

The director steepled his hands on his desk. After a few moments of silence, he nodded. “Fine,” he said with a shrug. “Why not? I'll have our lawyer write up the contract."

"Perfect!” Gale loved the idea of a round hundred years. Either Malcolm would rescue her or everyone tiresome that she knew would be gone, and she'd see the future she'd dreamed of. “Oh, one more thing,” she said in a sudden burst of inspiration. “In my stasis booth, I'd like to hang my painting, Warm Earth."

"Oh, so that's it.” The director laughed. “You want temporary immortality for your work.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. "You are the exhibit, not your painting."

She put on a wounded look. “Please."

The director sighed. “No ... But as a compromise I'll allow you to hang a, say, eight-by-ten-inch print of your painting in the booth with you—inconspicuously."

"How about a twelve by fourteen?

"Nine by eleven,” said the director. “Final offer."

Concerned that if she pushed the issue, the whole arrangement might fall through, Gale extended her hand. “Wonderful! Bring on that contract."

Gale had two weeks to tidy up her affairs. She'd have preferred less, tormented as she was by the notion that Malcolm was hurtling into the future without her. In a frenzy of activity, Gale found a stolid brokerage house, the one Malcolm used, as it turned out, and put all her money in long-term investments. She had a high-quality print made from Warm Earth, and as the time grew near, gave away all her possessions to friends—all possessions except her paintings. Those, she would somehow take with her into the future. But how?

She got the idea of a “time capsule” and found a company that specialized in them. She bought one: a seven-inch-diameter tube some two feet long, with a cover that provided a hermetic seal. She thought about having the company hold the capsule for her, but didn't trust them; she didn't trust anyone with her paintings.

She removed her canvases from their frames, rolled them up and slid them into the tube. The question was where to bury the capsule. It had to be a place safe from development for a full century. She chose a location in Central Park close to the Met's Temple of Dendur. For the actual entombment of the capsule she cajoled some friends to do the digging, those who didn't think her paintings had any worth—just about all of her friends, as it turned out. They'll see! A twinge of sadness came over her. No, maybe they won't. If Malcolm's cure doesn't happen relatively soon, they'll all be dead.

Finally, her day for stasis arrived. Carrying only a small valise to hold her clothing while she “slept,” she approached the imposing stone staircase leading into the museum. She felt anticipation and a sense of lightness. She was about to enter a new world and leave all her obligations behind.

The Grand Exhibit Hall had been closed to the public in preparation for “an exciting new exhibition.” In the center of the hall, she saw the stasis booth, its transparent front obscured by a red curtain with a gold pull-cord. A few men in white lab coats chatted with a virtual horde of reporters while the flashes from still cameras gave the impression of an indoor lightning storm.

As Gale walked in, those reporters and cameramen rushed to her. This time, everyone recognized her. It was very gratifying.

After a paroxysm of interviews, the director and one of the men in white led her behind the screen. The director, holding a swatch of fine red silk, opened the transparent door to the booth for her.

Gale felt both joy and dread; she'd left the outside world behind her and her future, her immediate future, held a one-in-a-thousand chance of death. Practicing the enigmatic smile she'd chosen for her pose, she opened the valise. It was empty save for her Warm Earth print and some double-sided sticky tape to mount it—a flimsy mount, but then it wouldn't have to hold long, not by her measure of time.

The director handed her the silk cloth and, while the two men discreetly averted their eyes, Gale stepped into the booth. She hung her print—high, making sure it would be fully visible over her shoulder. Then she disrobed and struck a pose—Rubenesque but with a very un-Rubenesque figure striking it. Unlike the situation with magazines or billboards where her image was the body of the moment, now it had to be the body of the century. How wonderful it felt to be great art—and a great artist as well; for wasn't she responsible for her figure and her pose?

She draped the cloth casually yet carefully over her thigh, then announced she was ready.

"Very nice,” said the director, examining her critically. “But relax your spine a little, and drop your hand to the cloth, as if the silk were an afterthought."

Gale complied.

"Excellent,” said the director. “Beautiful."

The man in white closed the door while the director took up Gale's valise and placed it behind the booth. He'd promised to store it in a safe place.

The director stepped around the curtains and a few seconds later, Gale saw the curtains part. Those gathered in front applauded and Gale heard a few calls of bravo. Then the director nodded and the man in white threw the switch.

Over the next couple of seconds, Gale saw the world speed up. She experienced an increasingly rapid alternation between light and dark until her eyes registered only an unvarying gray. But just as it happened, it unhappened. In seconds, the world reappeared with the rigid clarity of a photograph, a different view than just moments ago. The room's lighting was subdued and there was no throng of reporters. The stasis booth door stood open and Gale saw a man in a lab coat walking away. Gale, feeling a sudden vertigo, let fall her silk cloth.

Then, coming into her field of view from the side, a man looked in. Malcolm! He looked tired. No, maybe not tired—older, perhaps. And his expression held none of the studied indifference he'd formerly exhibited. “My Galatea,” he said, his voice richer and more resonant than she'd remembered.

"Malcolm,” she said, looking into his warm eyes. “Dear Malcolm.” She looked past him into the exhibit hall, a different hall. “Just a few seconds ago,” she said, still disoriented, “there were reporters. I'd have expected reporters."

Malcolm gave a soft smile. “Things are a little different now."

Gale, her initial shock subsiding, returned the smile. “When is now?"

Malcolm handed her the bathrobe he carried. “It's thirty-eight years later than when you left.” He paused, then added tentatively, “And seven years after my cure."

Gale gasped. “Didn't you get my note?” She clasped the robe in front of her.

"It gave me such joy.” Malcolm laughed bitterly. “And such agony. Seeing you there, frozen in time while I grew steadily older. I felt myself drifting away from you.” He clenched his fists. “I argued and pleaded with the Met to release you, but they wouldn't—until now, that is. I hadn't the money to buy back your contract."

"Didn't have the money?” Gale wondered if she'd heard him correctly.

"There'd been some big upheavals in the economy while I was in stasis: hyperinflation, bank failures, brokerage house bankruptcies—including my broker."

Gale winced; her money had also been entrusted to Malcolm's broker.

"There was very little money waiting for me when I arrived,” said Malcolm with a sigh. “Nowhere near what I needed to free you."

"And yet you still waited for me.” Gale held the robe in an embrace. “That's so, well, romantic."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so quick to nominate me for sainthood.” He gave a self-effacing chuckle. “Times have changed. Rubens would feel quite at home with his subjects here."

Gale looked at him quizzically.

"Chubby women are the norm now. And, frankly, I find them unattractive. And those few I met who were pleasingly thin had such a bad self-image that I found it hard to build a relationship.” He chuckled again. “So yes, I've been loyal—but not nobly so.” He cast his eyes down. “But still, our age difference has grown by seven years. I wouldn't blame you at all if you didn't want to marry me anymore."

"Oh, but I do.” Gale felt herself blush. “That is, if you still want to."

"Of course I do.” He reached out and, ignoring the bulk of the robe she held in front, embraced her. “Perhaps for propriety,” he said as they separated, “you should wear rather than just hold the bathrobe. Animated as you are now, I don't think you can be considered an artwork anymore, at least not by the Met."

As she slipped on her bathrobe, she said, “How did you manage to free me, then?"

"Well, you see...” Malcolm gritted his teeth. “Tastes have changed over the years, and ... and your ... your body type is no longer the epitome of, well, of beauty. And..."

"And?” Gale demanded.

"And you, I mean your statue is no longer a popular item.” He spoke rapidly now, as if trying to breeze through something unpleasant. “In fact, as of a few months ago, the museum no longer considered you art. So they were happy to—” He corrected himself. “—that is, they were willing to release you—for free."

Gale yanked tight the robe's belt around her waist. She'd expended a lot of effort in being svelte. She was proud of her figure—and that wasn't about to change. Angrily, she glanced around the exhibit hall. She didn't recognize it. And the exhibits were dreadful. “What hall is this?"

"The Hall of Recent American Popular Culture."

"Kitsch?” she said, almost at a shout. “They put me in with kitsch?"

Malcolm laughed. “Well, I wouldn't exactly—"

"Let's get out of here.” Gale shuddered at the sight of the other exhibits, then turned to Malcolm. “Do you know where my valise is?"

"Mox venit. Coming right up.” Malcolm disappeared momentarily, scurrying behind the stasis booth and returning with the little suitcase. “But,” he said, hesitantly, “I think it best if I rushed you off to a mall to buy you some new clothes."

Gazing at her valise, now old and faded where just minutes before it had been shiny new, the reality of her ‘time travel’ all but overwhelmed her. “So, there are still malls,” she said in a distracted voice.

"Oh yes."

"But larger, I imagine.” Gale tried to narrow her focus to something she knew—malls.

"No, not much.” Malcolm spoke in a casual, soothing voice. “Seems there's a size above which malls become unwieldy—except for resort malls, of course. And residential malls."

Gale finished dressing and felt back in control. She gave a pleasant, inclusive chuckle. “Well, then, let's go to the mall."

Malcolm led the way to the museum parking lot, and to a very modern-looking car, but obviously not as new as the other cars in the lot.

"Much nicer than your Lamborghini,” she said.

"It's appropriate for an associate professor of classics at an omniversity."

"Omniversity. Impressive!"

"Oh, not really,” said Malcolm. “It's a marketing term for a junior college.” He opened the passenger door for her. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he added, lightly. “Me, I mean. Not you."

In the mall, Gale saw the truth in Malcolm's assertion; most everyone, the women at least, ranged from Rubenesque to obese. I'll have to go to the kids’ departments to buy clothes. She noticed people looking obliquely at her. It had been the same before, but then it was because of her uncommon beauty. Now, it was clearly a look of condescension—a distaste at how a person could allow her body to become so undernourished. Gale could even see pity on some faces.

Abruptly, Gale stopped thinking of herself as svelte. In this world she was clearly emaciated, so much so that it would be natural for people to regard her as an impoverished waif. She sighed. Her modeling days were definitely over.

As she and Malcolm walked toward an anchor store, Gale noticed a teenager ahead and stopped cold. “Oh my god!” she said at a whisper. “His t-shirt."

Malcolm looked at her quizzically.

"That kid,” said Gale, still in a hushed voice. “The reproduction on his shirt."

"It's good, isn't it?” Malcolm nodded appreciatively. “It's a famous painting. Oh, but you know that; you had a print of it hung on the wall of your stasis chamber."

"Warm Earth," said Gale watching as her painting walked away.

"That's it,” said Malcolm. “You wouldn't know who painted it, would you?"

"I did."

Malcolm chuckled. “You wish."

"Really, I did paint it."

"Come on!"

"Why else would I have had a print of it in stasis with me?"

Malcolm gave her a long look. “Are you serious?"

"Yes!"

"It's considered a great work of art."

"Oh?” Gale thought Malcolm was teasing her. “I'm no longer art, but my painting is?” She laughed. “Ars Longa. Vita Brevis. So, you're saying my ars has lasted longa as ars than my body did as ars."

"Oh, I'd say you have a very comely ars."

"Be quiet,” said Gale in mock annoyance. Yes, this was still the Malcolm she had grown to love.

"But as far as the painting...” Malcolm continued. “It is a famous work of art."

"Famous?"

"Certainly,” said Malcolm. “I know for a fact that the Met has an open offer for the original—a very lucrative offer."

"Wait!” Gale suddenly remembered her time capsule. “The Temple of Dendur."

"Excuse me?"

"The Temple of Dendur. Is it still there?"

"What?"

"The Egyptian temple at the back of the Met. Is it still there and has there been any construction behind it?"

"Why are you asking about—"

"Please, Malcolm, tell me!"

"Yes, it's still there, and it still has an unobstructed view of the park. Why?"

Gale glanced at the reproduction of her artwork—now at a table in the food court. Captivated by the view of her painting and also by the smell of rich deserts, she led Malcolm in that direction. In this Rubenesque time, there was no reason she shouldn't have a treat—something dripping with chocolate.

Copyright (c) 2008 Carl Frederick

Big problems may require extreme measures—and truly final solutions are hard to come by.

Warning: This story has scenes that some readers may find disturbing.

SYNOPSIS

Archivist's Note (II)

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 farther 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 that 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 that 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 that 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....

Disguised as clumps of field grass, Candy and Maggie spent the day in special-ops mode, infiltrating and reconnoitering Serdtsevina Rasovyi. It turned out to be easier than she expected: Here in their homeland, Khraniteli security was laughable. She had no difficulty prowling the installation and confirming the accuracy of Father Toys’ map. However, she did find one structure not on the diagram: a razorwire-topped, fenced compound, obviously a prison.

Suspecting this was where Daddy was confined, Candy waited for nightfall, parked Maggie safely at a temporary encampment some distance outside Serdtsevina Rasovyi, assigned the BC to watch the campsite, their food, and camping gear, returned to the prison, and slipped over the fence.

Quickly she determined that Daddy wasn't there—but that some two dozen malnourished children were: captured Homo post hominem children, being used by the Khraniteli as lab rats in their effort to develop a biowarfare agent effective against them.

Candy gained the confidence of the children's leader, Tasha, a girl slightly older than herself, by promising to take them with her when she broke Daddy out. Tasha confirmed that Marshall was indeed there, but was being kept in the main laboratory building, which she pointed out, but asked that they not leave that night because Katia, one of the younger girls, had been taken for the night by Driutsk, a degenerate little troll high in the confidence of Vladislav Kazimirov, the cult leader originally responsible for founding the Khraniteli, and the primary architect of their strategy and tactics: the single individual most responsible for the deaths of more than seven billion people.

As Candy departed the prison camp to reconnoiter the laboratory's security situation, she left her lightweight, folding, Israeli bolt-cutter with Tasha, with instructions that, if she got caught, the Russian girl was to get the children out herself.

Investigation of the laboratory and its surroundings revealed that there were only two doors, both guarded. Sneaking in to find Daddy was impossible.

Returning to her camp, Candy decided to sleep on the problem.

At the same time, Teacher's expedition had gotten under way on schedule. They planned to arrive just in time to intercept Candy, rescue Marshall, and take out Serdtsevina Rasovyi. But over the Arctic Ocean, one of their two C-17s experienced engine trouble. They completed the crossing at reduced speed, put down at Norilsk, a Russian military base, and began repairs.

Everyone was chafing at the delay, but especially Danya, who was observed speculating whether it would be worthwhile to unload the two Black Hawk helicopters they carried to complete the journey. But upon sober consideration, everyone agreed that the resulting strike force would be so reduced in strength that the risk was unacceptable. Reluctantly, it was decided to complete repairs on the engine and go in in full force.

Candy, meanwhile, awoke with the solution to getting into the laboratory. She and Maggie adjourned to a nearby abandoned village where she got an old Russian automobile running, drove it back to the plane, dug out her civilian clothing, drove to her camp, parked Maggie with instructions again to watch the special-ops gear she stored there, and then drove openly into Serdtsevina Rasovyi, playing the role of an ordinary survivor.

Preliminarily, Kazimirov himself questioned her; then turned her over to Driutsk (a spooky, strangely built little man, who resembled Uncle Fester from New Yorker magazine's Addams Family cartoons) to be warehoused with the other children in the prison camp. But he ordered her brought to see the doctor in the morning....

To Candy, this meant Daddy! Maintaining a straight face with difficulty, she allowed Driutsk to lead her off the prison camp. Unfortunately, Driutsk evinced an immediate interest in her. Candy pretended not to understand his overtures, but as he dropped her off at the prison, he told her he would see her later.

Unexpectedly, however, later that afternoon Kazimirov summoned her to his office—to discuss American cinema: The Khraniteli leader was a collector of American movies, and fancied himself an authority.

Candy used the occasion to pick the monster's brain, finishing up with discussion of the Roy Rogers motif in Bruce Willis’ Die Hard movie. To irritate the Russian, Candy began hammering on the unswerving integrity of Willis’ character, John McClane; almost but not quite contrasting his qualities with Kazimirov's patent moral failings. The Khranitel responded by sneering that not even Roy Rogers would be able to save the few remaining Americans, who had been annoying him from their base near Mount Palomar, from the flight of thermonuclear ICBM missiles, which he planned to launch at them in a matter of days ... !

Learning this via the Terrylink, Teacher's expeditionary force, still making repairs on the ground at Norilsk, immediately called home and advised everyone to begin packing, though clearly there wouldn't be time.

That night Candy took Tasha over the fence and back to her camp to pick up some tools, where the Russian girl met Maggie. A snuggle session with the BC triggered Tasha's holocaust catharsis, and Candy and the dog held her and cried her through it.

Meanwhile, at Norilsk, those not working on the engine were jarred rudely from their bunks by the sound of jet engines spooling up to takeoff power. Spilling outside, they saw a small business jet lift off the runway and climb toward the horizon, clearly on course for Serdtsevina Rasovyi: Despite her grudging agreement that they should wait until the engine was repaired so they could go in full force, Danya's patience had run out.

Returning to the prison camp, Candy barely got to sleep before Driutsk and a pair of cohorts arrived to take her, Katia, and another girl off for a night's “partying.” Torn between the prospect of resisting, with three-to-one odds against her, thereby calling attention to her training and endangering her mission, versus the loathsome prospects otherwise, Candy had not quite decided what to do when Tasha pushed between Driutsk and Katia, telling him he was never to hurt the child again.

Driutsk aimed a contemptuous fist at Tasha's head. With all three Russians momentarily distracted, Candy exploded into action, simultaneously killing both of Driutsk's goons with a leaping double-kick—then abruptly found herself flat on her back on the floor, half stunned: Unexpectedly, despite his nebbishy appearance, Driutsk's hand-to-hand skills were first rate.

With spots before her eyes, Candy barely dodged the heart-burster punch the Russian launched down at her, which crashed painfully into the floor, smashing his hand. She made it to her feet; however, before she could take further action, Driutsk pulled a gun and ordered Tasha to handcuff her or watch her die right then and there, declaring that he now intended to torture Candy until she begged to die—then give her to Fedka, the Khraniteli's Mengele-equivalent, who ran the biowarfare program, and who, the children reported, was fond of vivisecting live, conscious subjects.

But abruptly, Driutsk dropped the gun and toppled to the floor, revealing the Israeli bolt-cutter embedded in the back of his head, and Katia right behind him, beaming from ear to ear.

Efficiently Tasha and rest of the prison camp children pulled up floorboards, produced boards usable as shovels, and buried the three bodies beneath the dormitory.

Candy was not taken to “the doctor” the next morning, and, looking through the fence, it was obvious that the base was in an uproar; obviously Driutsk and his minions had been missed. As usual, prison camp security personnel had been sleeping on the job when the three had entered, so no one suspected that the children had had anything to do with the disappearance.

It was nearly evening before someone came for Candy. She spent the ride psyching herself up to meet Daddy without reacting, lest the Khraniteli realize they now had a lever to use against him. But as the door opened and she braced herself, in walked a tall, pale, cadaverous man—the vivisectionist Fedka....

After the buildup, the monster's examination of Candy was anticlimactic; his conduct was merely professionally impersonal: He took her vitals, a brief medical history, collected her DNA, and left, mentioning in parting that she'd be taken to Doctor Foster the next day.

However, instead of retracing their steps back down the central corridor on the way out, the guard took her the other way. And when he paused to light a cigarette at a closed door halfway between the ends of the building, Candy heard Kazimirov's voice raised in argument—with Daddy! The snippet she overheard before the guard again grabbed her arm and they moved on was brief, but it was enough to let her know that Daddy would be right there all night. That was all she needed....

Meanwhile, Teacher and his team were finally back in the air. But there was more than a little question in everyone's minds as to whether they'd be there in time to save Candy, her dad, and the children—never mind in time to prevent Kazimirov from launching his missiles. And failing that, the alternative would be to drop one of their own nukes from altitude....

Unaware of this development, Candy proceeded with her own plans: Once darkness had fallen, she cut a hole in the fence, got all the children out, and took them to her camp.

Gearing up in full special-ops mode, with camos, weapons, and face paint, she took Tasha with her to the motor pool, where the Russian girl discovered that cold-blooded assassination of relative innocents wasn't nearly as much fun as killing unmitigated evil-doers: Using her silenced Glock, Candy executed the solitary young motor pool night mechanic without warning. Stealing a six-by-six truck, they returned to camp, driving without lights, groping their way mostly via the infrared spectrum.

Browbeating Tasha into swearing to leave on time whether she and Daddy made it back or not, Candy again stole through the night, returning to the laboratory where, following careful study of the four men stationed at each end of the building (most of them asleep), she killed them all with her silenced M-1.

But then, entering one end of the building, she practically ran into three more armed men coming out of the first office adjacent to the door. Hands up, she backed out the door and gently laid her rifle down as the Russians suddenly realized their four colleagues were dead.

As Candy prepared to trigger hysterical strength and attack, hoping their momentary confusion might even the odds, she found herself wishing desperately that at least one of them, preferably two, would be distracted by something: a stumble, a stroke—anything!

But the very last thing she was hoping for, never mind expecting, was Maggie, soaring out of the darkness at full speed, at shoulder level, achieving a four-point landing between the shoulder blades of one Russian, then ricocheting to the solar plexus of another. Both tumbled into the chairs containing their dead comrades and went down in a tangle of live and dead limbs and bodies.

At which point one of the double doors behind the Russian still standing, covering Candy with his AK, began to swing open and someone in a white lab coat started to emerge.

Instantly Candy snatched the rifle from the soldier with one hand and did her best to drive his nose up into his brain with the heel of the other hand. Leaping across the intervening space, she beheaded the second man with her katana before he could rise; then, spinning, she saw both remaining opponents beginning to fumble for their sidearms.

Drawing the Glock with one hand while snatching a shuriken from a belt pouch with the other, she shot the third Russian as the shuriken thudded between the eyes of the first, driving him back into the door, only inches from the white-coated spectator as he extracted himself from between the doors.

"Whoa...” said the onlooker, who had not yet recognized her under the paint and camos.

"Hi, Daddy,” puffed Candy. “We have to go now."

"Candy ... ? How on Earth—"

"Now ... !"

Volume XI

Quality Time

Okay, Posterity; no, events did not proceed quite as smoothly from that point as above soullessly brief greeting/exchange might seem to imply. F'rinstance, remember all that careful emotional preparation to deal suavely with meeting Daddy?

Hah ... !

Two heartbeats after "Now!", discovered had flung self into paternal arms, almost paralyzed with teary combination of relief/joy.

After which, celebration segued without discernable hesitation into complete meltdown—really, only fair description: Majority of brain tried simply to shut down, retreat into peacefully oblivious fugue state; drop entire horrible business into Daddy's lap to Make All Better...

See, Posterity, even all-out, epinephrine-laced, hand-to-hand combat killings not without emotional toll. However, deliberate, cold-blooded assassinations much more costly; each trigger pull weighed heavier on soul.

But beheading ... Ghastly way to die—and even though committed in heat of battle, infinitely worse way to kill! Yesyesyes, have long understood relationships between anatomical components, hydraulic laws, at least on intellectual level.

But in training, Danya had glossed over real-world side effects: Neurology, f'rinstance—like kitchen-bound, guillotined chicken, suddenly headless human body goes into wild spasms, convulsions.

Not to mention, carotid contents spew yards above stump!

In any event, for disgracefully protracted interval—whole minutes at least—Plucky Girl Savior of Our People simply folded under pressure: Responsibility for getting Daddy, children, Maggie out safely; psychic reverberations of all those killings, awful certainty that future could not fail to bring more—never mind figuring out how to save loved ones in hominem community back at Palomar from missiles. Altogether, Intrepid Special-Ops Girl suddenly found things simply had become Too Much.

Daddy's wordless, comforting murmurs helped, but warm, safe, “loved” feelings engendered by being held in protective circle of strong arms probably helped most of all.

However.

Life not influenced by how much you want specific outcome. Apart from possibly helping focus efforts, wanting does not itself improve likelihood matters will turn out as desired.

At this point, discovery, capture, death impended on all sides; and hovering above all, missiles awaited. If situation were to have any chance of ending well, someone had to get back up on that damned red Second Horse.

Regrettably, no one in attendance more qualified than aforementioned (but currently clingy, tearful) Intrepid Special-Ops Girl.

So eventually, notwithstanding momentary overwhelming bail-out impulse, unrelenting pressure of selfsame responsibilities forced awareness to expand again to include strategic/tactical considerations, implications—necessities.

Sighed. Gathered up icky mental baggage, dumped on top of big steaming pile of deferred guilt already accumulating in that ever darker corner of brain. Sniffled. Mopped eyes with sleeve. Then, reluctantly, mind again began gnawing at problems.

Curiously, however, before could refocus full attention on End of Days stuff, queued up at very head of unresolveds lineup was brand new, seemingly peripheral observation that qualified as distinctly anomalous. Even in midst of emotional implosion, couldn't help noticing Maggie's behavior...

At that moment, like one-dog Apache war party circling wagon train, BC ringing us nonstop; silently but at top speed, in absolute frenzy of self-satisfaction. Delight so utter, recalled yet another Weldonism: Executing complicated commands perfectly, especially those which involve running, jumping, overcoming opposition (which under normal circumstances would involve no more then bullying recalcitrant sheep, cows) makes Border Collies happier than almost anything; happier than hugs, happier sometimes even than food. Have seen occasional BC, caught up in frenzied rejoicing after successful, fault-free agility contest run, bounce into air, actually nip owner in heat of excitement.

At first blush, though Maggie had inarguably Saved the Day, had no right to be so pleased with self; had not, f'rinstance, obeyed parting instruction to stay with Tasha—

But wait. Recalled: Had remained dutifully at base camp every other outing. And had company this time, so would have felt much more comfortable with big sister's absence. Almost certainly, then, girl had sent her after me.

Hmm ... Okay. Well, performance obviously had involved speed, altitude, opposition, fair degree of complexity. But command ... ?

How could Wonderpup possibly have known how desperately big sister needed foes distracted—never mind in which specific order distractions would prove most helpf—

Maggie skidded to stop, eyes locked with mine. As light dawned, BC offered nearly soundless rfff! of agreement, approval, possibly even congratulation—with only faint overtones of Well, finally...

With reluctance, let go of Daddy. Well, mostly.

Turned to BC. Thought, Maggie, heel! Dog blurred into sitting position at right ankle. Maggie, stand! BC bounced to feet, eyes sparkling, poised for more action. Maggie, go out! Streaked into darkness along mentally indicated line. Maggie, here! Black flash terminated in soft, warm thump against leg, from vicinity of which spooky blue eyes grinned up at me.

Sudden, sputtered, barely muffled laughter probably originated at least as much from heart as diaphragm. Barely had time to hold out arms, after realizing just how much needed to hug her right then, before Maggie landed in them, promptly administering big slurpy kiss.

Wow. Eat your heart out, Terry.

Daddy eyed us with mounting fascination....

With Maggie ranging ahead to warn of insomniacs (once again carrying Frisbee; had parked it under nearby bush just prior to “launching” distraction), favorite surviving parent looked rakish in liberated Khraniteli uniform as we stole through darkness. Had abandoned visible-as-lighthouse white coat back at lab. Likewise, Daddy now armed with rifle, sidearm, combat knife, all confiscated from three final interior sentries, who now had no further need of them.

Patriarch had earned booty. Had done, in fact, yeoman job of strolling casually to far end of central corridor, engaging remaining sentries in small-talk, persuading them to accompany him outside “...to catch a breath of air that isn't reeking of all those bleep-bleep-bleeping chemicals"; all rendered in Russian, of course.

Once outside, however, dedicated healer, doting pére, forced to stand, watch favorite baby girl lean unhurriedly from around building's corner, M-1 leveled. Two seconds, three gerbil coughs later, having deliberately limited damage to heads in two cases to avoid fabric stains, drilled third's center of mass to avoid headgear spoilage, uniforms became available.

By this point, as made our way soundlessly, invisibly (even without benefit of acorns, Daddy learned quickly) out of downtown Serdtsevina Rasovyi toward missile launch facility, Pater clearly working through conflicting emotions:

First, foremost, awash with long-accumulated parental love; plus simply bursting with amazement, glowing with pride over darling daughter's accomplishments, as brought him up-to-date (high points only): finding AAs across length, breadth of America—and now, based on Danya's, Wallace's intel, finding, springing him from heart of secure location within far greater span of Eurasia.

(And, okay, may even have let slip something about that whole Saving The World business....)

Resultant warmly glowing parental fuzzies surely warred with mortally jarring discovery that aforementioned Sugar ‘n’ Spice-raised, darling baby girl now full-fledged, card-carrying, multiply blooded, journeyperson assassin; capable, when necessary, of explosions of unspeakably violent butchery, not to mention calculatingly cold-blooded slaughter—even of those enemies whose bad luck it was merely to be in the way.

Experienced another sudden stomach-turning chill as realized, in past day and a half had killed 16 people. Yes, five in two separate two- and three-to-one, odds-against combat, but rest in coldest of blood.

Instantly flinched away from arithmetic, but too late: Except that no food had passed lips since previous night, might have had difficulty keeping down.

And considering how much review distressed me, no doubt such thoughts counterindicated for gently doting father/dedicated healer, whose first warning of preteen offspring's expanded extracurricular activities was watching her single-handedly wipe out armed, three-man security team—not to mention immediately thereafter, before those bodies had had chance even to cool, using him as Judas goat to commit next three utterly cold-blooded terminations.

(And Tasha thought merely watching new girlbuddy suit up for sortie gave her collywobbles....)

Nonetheless, regardless of ick factor, Daddy doing level best to absorb new data, be supportive. “Okay—but ‘shazam’ ... ?” he demanded teasingly, once got past immediate catchings-up. Which led to discussion of Danya's current role in training; plus Teacher's, other AAs’ participation in education generally.

Presently, however, ran out of family-oriented conversational topics. Pauses occurred, mounting in numbers, durations. Finally, semitraditional father/daughter chitchat morphed back to deadly business at hand: “shop talk"—no-nonsense exchange of strategic/tactical facts/suggestions/opinions, policy guy to field agent/assassin, vice versa.

Except in this case, policy guy turned out to have accumulated significant field time himself. (Who'd'a thunk?—"Foster, Marshall Foster; shaken, not stirred....")

Daddy said, “Kazimirov has been bragging for months now about his plans for these missiles. They're old Russian Cold War assets—for some models of which,” grinned suddenly, “due to an only peripherally medically related assignment in my checkered past, I actually remember the master arming and disarming codes, with which I can override whatever on-site programming the Khraniteli may have plugged in."

Made bogus round eyes at him. “What did you do ... ?"

Daddy grinned. “Remember the Chernobyl-style disaster at that so-called civilian nuclear power plant in Iran a few years back?"

"That was you?"

"I had a role in it. And you won't be surprised to learn that it wasn't just a civilian power plant?"

"Never crossed my mind that it might be."

"You were only nine at that time!"

"Eight."

"I never realized you were that aware of world events back then."

"Oh, I started worrying about the implications of what I heard on the news when I was just a kid.” Only after uttered words did Intrepid Special-Ops Girl realize sheer magnitude of non sequitur that had just blundered past lips.

But if Daddy noticed, never blinked. “You never said anything."

Snickered at irony as replied, “I didn't want to worry you."

This set Daddy off as well. “And I was worried about the potential effects on impressionable little you."

Effects ... Took act of purest will to conceal flinch from Daddy as yet another batch of out-of-control brain cells fired, delivering latest gruesome flashback variation: Behind eyes bloomed this week's “player statistics"—thus far, beginning midnight Sunday, Intrepid Apprentice Assassin averaging almost a dozen killings per day.

And, of course, Monday mere hours old.

Took deep breath, held, released slowly. Forced distracting mental detritus into background. Again. For now.

"So that's why you agreed to let me study karate under Teacher: the state of the world, and the direction events were moving."

Daddy smiled fondly. “It was my idea, actually. By the time you came along, I'd picked up some rudimentary hand-to-hand skills during basic training at The Farm, and Soo Kim had given me occasional lessons.

"But a couple of times in the field, I'd have sold my soul to be even a tenth as dangerous as you are now.” Grinned sheepishly. “As it was, I've had to schmooze my way out of a number of situations as the helpful, friendly-but-naive visiting physician, when a dose of judicially applied violence would have saved so much time and stomach acidity. I figured Teacher would be able to make some of that unnecessary for you."

Paused. Smile faded. Eyed me with expression underlying which effort not to show dismay was plainly visible. “I had no idea..."

Occurred to me then, following another few moments’ awkward silence, had not yet told Daddy about Tasha, kids. Could tell from startled, slightly guilty reaction, had been so focused on eliminating nukes, hadn't even thought about their fate if succeeded in arming detonators.

But then looked almost inexpressibly relieved. “You've gotten them out ... ?"

"Yes. They're waiting for us at my camp about two miles east of the prison.” Paused then; regarded him with respectful but uncompromising eye. “I promised to come back for them once I got you out and we finish here. I can't leave without them."

May have been stray moonbeam, or perhaps just reflection from streetlights among whose shadows we flitted, but pretty sure detected momentary extra sparkle in corner of Daddy's eye; heard him breathe heavily for moment. Then, a bit huskily, said, “Have I told you yet how proud I am of you?"

Getting all teary-eyed does not enhance terrain-zenning performance, Posterity, so for a bit, concentrated really hard on making sure both two-legged Fosters blended silently with landscape.

"Most Russian multiple-payload packages,” said Doctor Spook presently, voice approximately normal again, “consisted of, in effect, multipurpose warheads, assembled from off-the-shelf components. They could be delivered, one or severally, via missile, from an aircraft, by car, or, if you had a really big briefcase and a husky agent, you could even place one on foot.

"Russian detonators of that vintage were generic components as well, and they came in at least three flavors. The most common model was self-contained, with several alternative, input-based settings. Before arming them, you have to decide whether you want them to go off at a specific altitude, from a proximity detector, from a remote controller, such as a phone, cordless or hardwired, use the built-in timers, or on impact.

"In addition, most models can be configured either as masters or slaves. What that means is, you can arm the master to broadcast a triggering impulse to the slaves, using some of the same circuitry as the remote controllers, so all detonate simultaneously, producing a vastly more powerful explosion.

"If these do turn out to be warheads I'm familiar with—and they should be, based on Kazimirov's boasting—I'll be able to arm them for delayed detonation. Likewise, if we have any masters and/or slaves, we can set up simultaneous multiple explosions, which will do a much more thorough job of closing down this operation."

Daddy smiled. “Unlike in the movies, lacking microsecond-level master/slave synchronization, the initial burst of radiation from the first warhead to detonate contaminates any other fissionables in the area, which converts all the other warheads to radioactive paperweights—only very briefly, of course, because the entire arsenal will be vaporized in the first fireball.

"On the other hand, if the Khraniteli have no master/slave warheads, setting multiple detonators will give us redundancy, which, after all this time, will offer a measure of insurance against the likelihood that some warheads will prove defective."

Daddy looked thoughtful. “I hope we do find some master/slave units though. While these are really powerful warheads, and a single bomb will do considerable damage to the Khraniteli's shelter, I doubt if it'll take it out completely. They built it almost entirely from that new metallic polymer alloy of theirs, and its weight, strength, and insulation properties are little short of supernatural. The structure extends thousands of feet underground, with endless, really thick shock wave/firestop bulkheads, and bank-vault hatches.

"But"—Daddy eyed me with haunted expression—"regardless of how many I can get to go off at once, generally the maximum timer delay for these detonators is something on the order of four hours.” Paused. “I don't know how we'll all get clear in time."

Didn't even try not to look smug. “Did I mention I have a plane?"

For possibly two-dozenth time since reunion, Daddy's eyes went round—but then looked almost ready to collapse with relief.

And experienced yet another surge of daughterly adoration: No doubt sweet, incredibly brave man had fully expected to take advantage of breakout to set off bombs, almost certainly die thereafter; regrets limited to fact that, unless managed to steal Khraniteli plane (and didn't even know if he could fly!), couldn't see any way to avoid expressing gratitude for rescue by sharing immolation with favorite baby daughter.

"A plane will be good,” he sighed. “These are probably the second-most powerful warheads ever assembled—ask me later about the Russians’ so-called wheat-burner experimental debacle. Total destruction from only one of these bombs extends five miles plus from ground zero. The maximum number of slaves that can be controlled by a single master is three. If I can manage that, we'll need to be at least fifty miles away to survive the radiation, heat, and shock waves."

Arrived at launch facility about three A.M. Left Daddy under cover near gate with filially deferential but strongly worded request to remain quiet and out of sight while scouted installation.

Happily, launch compound turned out to be not-quite-valley-configured dimple in terrain adjacent to mountain under which shelter buried, which, combined with monocular, made it unnecessary to circumnavigate whole site to determine sally port before us was only way in through towering, triple chain-link fences. Five-man security team at gate obviously comprised entire complement; unlike lab entrances, nowhere for others to hide: Single tiny guard shack, similar to that at prison camp, obviously incapable of sheltering additional personnel. (Unless napping under now-known-to-be-ubiquitous security installation picnic tables.)

Presently returned to Daddy. Briefed him on layout; then: “Ready? After I take out the guards, you get in there and do your detonator thing. If anyone comes, duck out of sight. I'll be just outside, under cover. I'll handle them."

Daddy agreed. But then eyes reacquired haunted look as visibly braced self to watch once-innocent baby daughter kill five more unsuspecting men (three sleeping) from concealment, in just under four seconds.

However, no shrinking violet, my Daddy. Hugged me when done; kissed on forehead.

Then, with no hint of smile, ordered me not to let killings fester in soul: Voice deepening, speaking as healer, not just beloved parent, opined, under circumstances, killings equated to amputation. Certain self-selected (Daddy emphasized point) members of H. sapiens survivors had to be excised to save whole of Homo post hominem people. He underscored—they started conflict; chose venue, stakes.

Hugged me again. Long. Hard.

Thereafter, however, Daddy became all business: With lethal baby girl standing guard over him, calmly checked dead men for vital signs; rifled quickly through pockets.

We entered compound, Doctor Spook carrying several hand tools from my backpack. Camouflaged missiles reclined under netting in launch cradles mounted on massive flatbed trucks. Followed Daddy as strode purposefully out into compound, picked missile on far side, seemingly at random, climbed aboard.

Shinnying out to rocket's nose, released Dzus-like fasteners, popped open cover exposing warhead control panel, began pushing Cyrillic-labeled buttons very much as if knew what was doing.

Yours Truly didn't quite flinch as each button depressed.

Presently, though, almost as afterthought, paternal spook glanced down, noticed favorite adopted daughter standing below; noted, likewise, expression. Visibly suppressing smile, reminded me of previously agreed-upon division of labors: Plucky Special-Ops Girl supposed to find strategic exterior location, keep watch, discourage unscheduled company.

Then, with earnest expression, Daddy tapped finger on thermonuclear warhead currently supporting fatherly fundament, crooked brow, finished, “Though you might want to keep your ears covered...."

Okay, Posterity; just between us, for maybe half second, hands may have twitched. Possibly even in direction of ears.

But Daddy just kidding.

I knew that.

Then began longest hour of entire short life. Daddy began tinkering with first missile shortly before 4:30 A.M. Prison camp security changed shifts at 6:00; had no reason to think launch complex would operate differently. We had barely hour and half, if that—if no one among security day shift, missile-refurbishers, or countdown-prep crews inclined toward annoyingly morning-person-type displays of go-getter initiative, commitment to cause.

Selected cozy, sheltered location among trees just outside sally port. Popped M-1's magazine; quickly replaced expended rounds, reinserted, recharged chamber. Settled down with Maggie at my side.

Line-of-sight visibility along serpentine dirt track from Serdtsevina Rasovyi limited to perhaps 200 feet into dense forest. Tried to keep attention focused on roadway; not watch Daddy.

Anticipated interruption, when (not if) arrived, would be something on order of already half-drunk, shambling, five-man group amble demonstrated by prison camp guards. Could handle that.

Not, however, prepared for 30-odd, wide-awake, heavily armed men split between pair of troop trucks, each with roof-mounted Gatling cannon, trailing in choking dust cloud raised by huge Nizhnyi Tagil T-93-S tank, whole convoy exploding from woods, traveling probably in excess of 50 miles per hour.

(Tank recognition courtesy of training session silhouette flashcards; thank you, Danni.)

As eastern horizon began to lighten, Maggie's head had come up; BC peered intently up road. Oddly, from hidey-hole, own ears picked up only Nature's Night Songs. Plus, of course, at first nothing visible.

Still, took Maggie at her word: Had gotten about two steps toward sally port to warn Daddy—by then working on ninth missile—when Doctor Spook suddenly glanced up. Apparently, tank's quasisubsonic rumbling had reached him via different acoustical route.

Daddy not handicapped by indecision: Instantly snapped access hatch shut, locked down; leaped to ground, sprinted across compound, out through gates. Slapped interior, exterior close buttons en passant.

But then paused, stood waiting, apparently watching to be sure sally port secured properly.

As gates ground slowly toward closed-and-locked position—and I agonized, wondering why experienced spook would risk capture like this—Daddy suddenly glanced at watch, turned head my direction, called out: “I've set two master detonators with three slaves each, and one single. The first two are multiples; the earliest is set for two hours, 42 minutes, 35 seconds—mark."

Hastily began pushing buttons on own watch. Setting countdown timer took almost exactly 30 seconds; made mental note to remember to subtract figure from reading.

Heard outer gate click shut as finished. Glanced up to see Daddy spin, take single step toward cover

—just as Khraniteli convoy thundered out of woods. Trucks broke formation, fanned out from behind tank as all three vehicles almost skidded to stop.

Own blood froze, heart sank, as with chorus of sharply metallic clack-clacks audible even over engines, quite literally everyone unsafetied, charged AKs’ chambers, drew bead on Daddy. Even tank's almost 15-foot-long, approximately five-inch-internal-diameter turret gun's barrel depressed slightly to align on Daddy's sternum, muzzle barely ten feet away.

You don't get much busteder than that, Posterity.

Watching Daddy standing frozen before Khraniteli's massed firepower, found self turning slowly in karmic breeze, agonizing with indecision. For possibly half-second's total madness, Intrepid Assassin Girl actually reflected upon fact that, between two taped-together magazines, M-1 held 60 rounds, whereas couldn't have been more than half that many Bad Guys present.

Hmm...

Fortunately, sanity stepped out only briefly: Even if somehow had managed to mow down whole crowd of fully alerted, heavily armed men surrounding Daddy before found self focus of hail of return fire, could have done nothing about tank.

More accurately, last sentence should have concluded could do nothing.

Clearly Daddy's thoughts paralleling own; likewise visibly spun wheels for possibly two seconds, staring around wide-eyed at captors. But way smarter than homicidal baby daughter; arrived almost immediately at only workable solution:

Put on dejected expression. Slumped shoulders dramatically. Tossed weapons well out to side. Slowly raised hands.

Head popping up from tank's hatch like groundhog checking winter's status, Kazimirov's tone bordered on admiration as called out, “You have had a busy night, Foster."

Khraniteli's Fearless Leader then waved arm, yelled, “Take him!” Troops swarmed down from trucks, swirled around Daddy like army ants on caterpillar. First dozen or so approached with evident caution; grabbed, using variety of restraint-type holds. One man collected weapons. Several others brought up, applied belt-shackled handcuffs, leg irons.

Given circumstances (among them, five obviously dead compatriots’ bodies sprawled mere yards away), were surprisingly gentle about it. Which probably is why at-that-point-borderline-suicidal Special-Ops Girl survived: Crosshairs neatly quadrisected Kazimirov's head throughout recapture. Regardless of overall futility, had troops behaved with less restraint, top Khranitel would have been first to die.

"To take out 14 armed men single-handedly, at least three all at once in personal combat,” Kazimirov continued, “I am impressed. I had no idea you possessed such training. My first thought was that a strike force of your people's commandos had arrived to rescue you, but here you are alone.

"Be assured, however, that while I still intend to have your knowledge of biological warfare, you will be given no further opportunities to put those combat skills to use."

Daddy sighed loudly, dramatically; shook head mournfully; didn't quite whine: “If you'd been only five minutes later, I'd have made it inside—and we'd all be radioactive dust by now."

Ah-ha! Now understood Daddy's impromptu fallback strategy. More importantly, knew what own role must be to ensure success: Despite nearly paralyzing grief, maddening frustration at recapture, would wait, watch; make sure no one had second thoughts regarding warheads’ integrity.

Fervently hoped opposition forces would be present in lesser numbers if became issue. Hoped even more tank no longer part of mix. And especially hoped question resolved soon; clock ticking—now only two hours, 38 minutes, 11 seconds (minus 30) to fireworks....

Concerns proved moot, however; Kazimirov bought Daddy's song-and-dance number hook, line, sinker, replete with optional deeds to Brooklyn Bridge, prime Florida swampland homesite. Never even glanced toward missiles.

Expression now verged upon sneer as responded, “Such a hero ... I knew you would be determined to give your life to save your precious hominems. So predictable—it was unnecessary even to search for you. This was the first place I looked. Lizzy Borden's Roy Rogers would be proud of you."

Daddy's puzzled expression genuine at that point: During catching-up session on way to missile compound, had failed to get around to passing on that conversation. Somehow.

(Okay, okay; maybe even had been a little reluctant to admit had been playing circumstance-inappropriate games with Kazimirov's head.)

"Take him back to his laboratory and then to his quarters,” rasped Khraniteli leader. “Assist him in collection and copying of the records of his research, and retrieve his personal effects. He is to be on a plane to Meyrin within the hour."

Breath which gushed suddenly into Apprentice Assassin Girl's lungs following monster's unexpected announcement felt like first had drawn since column rumbled from forest. Blinking back tears, probably came close to fainting as relief coursed through soul—Daddy would be in clear! Now had only kids, Maggie, self to worry about.

Russian turned back to Daddy. “Obviously, Foster, you cannot work in chains. Even more obviously, however, you are much too clever and dangerous; I do not want you loose anywhere near warheads ever again, not even under the closest supervision.

"But"—Kazimirov refocused attention on those holding Daddy, though continued in English, apparently to ensure all working from same page—"watch him. If he tries again to escape, you are authorized to do whatever is required to restrain him—short of killing him. If he dies, your deaths will follow immediately.

"However, if you let him escape, even if he doesn't kill you in the process, which, based on tonight's performance I have no doubt he will, I will harvest your organs for the transplantation bank—as you watch!"

With which tender sentiment, Kazimirov ordered Daddy tossed aboard truck like sack of wheat; then entire parade wheeled about, rumbled back toward Serdtsevina Rasovyi, taking bodies with them, leaving behind replacement security personnel glancing around uncomfortably at blood-soaked turf beneath feet.

Leaving also one-woman (plus BC) infiltration/extraction team, now grinding teeth, savoring near-mortal levels of frustration—never mind rage!—intrinsic to rescueus interruptus....

Hung around long enough to ensure Daddy's misdirection had worked; that, in fact, zealots would not think to check warheads for tampering. But presently (two hours, 23 minutes to go), with no one showing slightest interest, concluded, with relief, Kazimirov & Company had swallowed paternal spook's implication: Had been apprehended before gaining entry, never mind committing thermonuclear mischief.

Okay. Barring additional unexpected catastrophes (hey, day still young), about which under circumstances could do nothing, Kazimirov should have Daddy safely on plane to Meyrin (where?) long before deuterium nuclei got too chummy; should be clear by time upcoming fireworks went off.

At this point, then, only parties in whom had interest, whose chestnuts remained within scorching distance, were kids, Maggie, self. And clearly, for those of us lacking sunblock rated in excess of 100 million degrees Kelvin, was time to stay not upon order of our going—time to boogie ... !

Volume XII

And Your Little Dog, Too...

Persistent tear leakage, combined with almost continuous sniffling, both stubbornly resistant to best efforts to control them, made it difficult for Eldest Foster sister to concentrate entirely on keeping us invisible—being one with landscape—as made our way back toward base camp through early morning's first golden sunlight.

Was equally difficult to keep from glancing at watch while trying not to dwell upon possibility that, if things went even a little wronger in immediate future, might well become one with 40-60 square miles of fine, glowing-in-the-dark ash, which was all that was likely to remain of local terrain postdetonation.

Accordingly, must confess, Special-Ops Girl significantly preoccupied as approached camp. Which explains, though certainly doesn't excuse, failure to notice...

One: Maggie's barely audible but steadily mounting grumbles under breath, uneasy glancing around as we approached, entered grove, then trotted past final randomly scattered trees/bushes comprising campsite's boundary.

Two: Escapee kids (despite late return, Tasha's heartfelt promises to contrary, just knew they'd still be there!) all sitting perfectly still on ground, faces frozen; no reaction at all to Plucky Girl Rescuer's reappearance. In fact, no greeting at all until—

"Being run!" screamed Katia abruptly, fetching ground next to her mighty, two-handed whack with heavy Maglite, and—

Ground swore. In Russian. Ground had deep, bass voice.

High points for Katia's good intentions, Posterity; extra credit for effort—no score at all for outcome: Air suddenly full of flying camouflage blankets (each as artfully festooned with weeds, grass, leaves, twigs, etc., as if had done them myself), revealing mob of hard-eyed, armed men rising smoothly from shallow depressions scraped into turf, AKs leveled at Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's center of mass with unwavering steadiness which fairly screamed training.

"Are others where?" demanded captain (or, as Tasha told me later, sotnik) eyes blazing. “Rest of strike force—are ... they ... where?"

Encountering full sotnik in charge of escaped human lab rat recovery not good sign. Generally, according to Danni, in regular Russian army captains commanded bodies of troops numbering in excess of 100. Presence here suggested children's disappearance, perhaps in conjunction with Daddy's attempted bailout, being viewed seriously indeed.

Thankfully, took only single head-rattling slap to establish Yours Truly's linguistic skills limited to English, and even had Tasha to thank for that: Hadn't occurred to me, following first impact for failure to respond promptly to Russian-language inquiry, to attempt clarification. (Ooo, pretty stars...) But happily, girl shrilled something at him, from which could discern only po-Angleeeskeee; after which inquisitor switched to thickly accented, almost equally incomprehensible rendition of UncleSamspeak.

Even so, most recent interrogatory's last three words each emphasized by slap: backhand, forehand, backhand. With two others holding onto upper arms, not only couldn't duck, couldn't even fall away from impacts.

Once managed to get eyes focused again somewhere in inquisitor's direction, however, puffed, “I'm alone."

Wrong answer, apparently: Russian drew back hand again ... then paused. Expression changed.

Had mind-commanded Maggie to go sit with Tasha; stay out of expected physical stuff. BC had obeyed, but as man continued to cuff older sister around, lips wrinkled nonstop; rumbling voce commentary grew increasingly less sotto.

Abruptly sotnik turned to eye BC; then back to me, expression turning even nastier. Suddenly intention writ plain as day across Russian's face: Had decided to hurt, probably kill Maggie to “soften” up interrogee further.

No doubt start on kids thereafter.

Reaching for handgun, Russian began rotation toward Maggie—who, at my thought, bolted instantly. Mentally steered her streaking between other soldiers’ legs to provide short-term cover, then zigzagged her out across narrow clear area into woods proper—as rest of squad belatedly began leveling rifles.

Kept BC behind trees, changing directions again and again, from one second to next, in response to where gunfire concentrated. Ultimately, once out of sight, had her circle clearing, then wait quietly behind trees in woods behind us, on opposite side from direction squad focusing barrage.

Evil, would-be dog-killing sotnik, on other hand, got off no shots personally, because...

Really, Posterity, had intended to go along with abuse; wait meekly for opportune moment. (At least briefly; imminent drastic local climate change mandated resolving situation PDQ.) Still, numerical odds at that point too steep even to consider resisting: Opposition composed of in excess of dozen and half obviously regular army troops.

But sotnik's attempt on Maggie, together with sudden conviction that this would be only phase one of process leading to torturing children next, overrode impulse-control-challenged Special-Ops Girl's good intentions, expunged every hint of common sense.

Or maybe still in grip of blind rage stemming from loss of Daddy—again ... !

Whatever—even before fully realized was in motion, had breathed “Shazam,” slowed time, triggered combat computer at starkest level.

Few species as vulnerable to unarmed attack as human male caught with pa ... er ... guard down. Plus, since supercilious sotnik had every confidence two burly, six-foot-plus, trained professionals would have no difficulty keeping one small girlchild out of trouble, was focusing attention exclusively on Maggie's flashing, broken-field-running progress into woods. Paying no attention at all to intended abusee.

Bad luck for him.

Hysterical-strength-driven leg lashed out. Toe hooked in around thigh, drove up into tenderest anatomy with enough force to fracture surrounding bones. In addition to crunch, impact produced satisfyingly strangled gasp.

Simultaneously, reached up, grabbed hairy forearms attached to hands holding my upper arms; employed as fulcrum to pivot body over backward, launching other foot upward with even more force. Toe met sotnik's larynx coming down as Khranitel doubled over. Crushing-celery noise, icky grinding sensation through boot confirmed this Russian would not be factor in Yours Truly's impending death.

Which now seemed assured, probably only seconds away: Going berserk amidst mob of trained, heavily armed men—for heaven's sake, what was Idiot Special-Ops Girl thinking!

Okay, Posterity; wasn't.

But no time to mourn strategic error; best could hope for was to concentrate on tactics, take as many with me as possible, hoping—ignoring thermonuke issue for the moment—some kids might get away, as well as to pay own Ferryman's Fee.

With combat barely approaching waning milliseconds of first full second, two holding me had just enough time to notice small captive had exploded in their grasp before continued over-backward rotation, supported by their own arms, drove hysterical-strength-powered, upside-down boot toe into each captor's face—energy targeted on very backs of heads. Heard, felt both flanking Russians’ facial bones crunch, plus detected unmistakable bonus vertebral-snap from man on right as both began falling.

Completed backflip, landing on (icky-toed) feet, already coiling to launch toward next-closest soldier. This one, attention focused over shoulder on Maggie as BC streaked into woods, held my katana blade-up in left fist, AK dangling idly from right.

Drove knuckles of bladed right hand into back of Russian's left hand; paralyzed fingers instantly released katana, dropping grip into my left.

Simultaneously, combat computer perceived man some ten feet away notice untoward developments. In time-slowed mode, had ample interval during which to watch eyes shift, track, widen, awareness begin to enter expression.

Russian began shifting rifle my direction. Too far away, couldn't possibly have gotten there before targeting complete; so instead, using right hand, snatched shuriken from pouch and almost completely buried pointy flying star between eyes.

Fellow from whom had retrieved katana barely had had time to react to losing sword; only just now turning back from woods with surprised, hurt expression. Since couldn't leave live, armed foe behind me, executed spinning leap as if delivering left back-fist, but instead guided katana to, through Russian's neck before flipping blade to dominant right hand; then moved on to next adversary.

Thereafter, for two, three, possibly four whole seconds, bounded to, fro, dancing almost silently among squad like demented whirligig beetle in grip of phencyclidine frenzy, doing level best to wreak maximum havoc in minimum time: Katana hummed like weedeater on nitromethane—disarming, gutting, beheading, etc.; taking out probably half dozen more men before activities started to attract remaining troops’ belated notice; before soldiers began refocusing attention from attempted dog-shooting festivities, recognized peril, commenced traversing, leveling AKs.

First of those whom combat computer identified as imminent threat clearly skilled with weapon: Didn't just turn; swung rifle crisply up over shoulder as rotated torso, brought down, bead drawn on spot barely behind hustling Plucky Special-Ops Girl as flashed about clearing, but well on way to catching up. Two-, three-tenths of a second more at most, would constitute problem.

Had glanced wistfully at fallen enemies’ handguns at rampage's very outset. But weapons all trapped in awkwardly well-secured flap holsters; would have taken far too long to extract. And thus far, dispatched foes’ AKs had fallen inconveniently out of reach; under bodies, too far away, etc.

So instead, hurled another shuriken with left hand as dealt with nearest opposition with katana. Barely in time to prevent soldier from getting off what evidence suggested would have been well-aimed shot, razor-tipped flying star half-buried self in adversary's forehead.

But then, after attention had shifted to next most pressing threat, had to make special effort to avoid distraction of sudden, only half-perceived, obviously illusory afterimage of shuriken's leading point dead-centering somehow previously unnoticed, red-with-darker-center, half-inch-diameter, circular mole, or perhaps caste mark, between brows.

Whatever!—if hadn't been so preoccupied, trying to be three places at once, cope with at least that many threats simultaneously, anarchical, detail-fixated corner of brain would have spent at least some time obsessing about how Intrepid Special-Ops Girl had managed to overlook so obvious a reference while targeting. But by that point, other soldiers, alerted and unambigously alarmed, well beyond katana-reach, were trying to bring additional AKs to bear; now clearly not ideal moment to squander multitasking capacity on trivia.

Fortunately, however, at that moment spotted own silenced Glock tucked into belt of man with whom had dealt earlier—currently writhing on ground, screaming, clutching arm's fountaining stub. Reached him in single dive; retrieved weapon as passed just above.

Landed rolling, in hopes of providing less convenient target, already bringing weapon to bear on most pressingly imminent threat; squeezed off round. Experienced momentary flash of relief as soldier released grip on AK, began to topple; as well as twinge of sympathy for Tasha, now crouched alertly, following suicidal Special-Ops Girl with roundest possible eyes: Body would land right on top of her; rifle falling practically on head—details picked up only peripherally, as primary focus already had resumed triaging, targeting next most worrisome attackers.

Likewise, though only in retrospect—and impression hardly reliable, given numbers of unmuffled AKs still blazing away into forest after Maggie—yet another tiny, otherwise unoccupied group of brain cells noted first shot's gerbil-cough seemed to have had curiously doubled tone quality, almost as if Glock had generated echo in little clearing. Also, if not fabricating impression from imaginary whole cloth, reflected sound seemed slightly deeper in tone.

Now hardly the time for abstract contemplation of local acoustics, however: Other Khraniteli well on way to bringing weapons to bear—though many of those who finally had noticed peril found selves out of ammo, having spent whole magazines on unoffending trees, bushes (also, no doubt, flashing BC afterimages), now fumblingly in process of attempting to reload.

Still, own sole advantage, if any element of situation could be so characterized, fact that remaining foes so closely bunched at this point, most couldn't get clear sightlines. So completed roll in crouch and, just as quickly as could get off rounds, began methodically targeting, shooting those on near side of clustered enemies; targeting, shooting, targeting, shooting, targetingshootingtargeting...

As did so, however, found self fretting over whether, working in such haste, might be losing track of whom had already shot, who remained candidate. With mounting concern, noted occasional men dropping even as prepared to draw bead on them. Plus, despite generalized cacophony, still seemed to be hearing those doubled gerbil-coughs.

But finally matters came to head: Four, five, six, maybe more surviving Khraniteli got selves spread out; began leveling AKs simultaneously. No possible way to get all before most would get off shots—and Glock's extractor slide suddenly locked back—empty!—informing Plucky Special-Ops Girl she had committed cardinal, no doubt fatal, fire-zone sin: lost track of rounds expended.

Involuntarily, reptilian hindbrain flinched internally from crown to toenails. For single instant, as prepared to die, reflexes attempted to take over: convulse, compact whole body; raise arms in silly, self-consciously futile attempt to cover head; trying to shield torso behind raised leg. Even tried to squeeze eyes shut.

But Candy Smith-Foster, Plucky Savior of Our People, Intrepid (etc., etc.—sigh), not reptile. Probably (judging by recent actions) nowhere near as evolved, smart as reptile. Instead, kept eyes open, focused on Glock. Kept moving purposefully. Fought down manic internal giggle as resolved that, like apocryphal reptilian primogenitor, no matter how many bullets found mark, wouldn't stop shooting ‘til sundown.

So even as massed AKs drew down, right thumb already depressing magazine-ejector button while left hand snatched replacement from belt pouch. In time-slowed mode, single, unoccupied, idiot brain cell had time peripherally to mourn that Danya was missing this magazine change—absolutely fastest had ever performed, possibly fastest in entire history of semi-auto handgun: Empty mag had covered not quite half crouch-shortened distance to ground before Intrepid Apprentice Assassin Girl already sliding replacement into gun butt, preparing to slap home, release slide, resume firing—

But at that precise moment there came absolutely deafening fusillade of characteristic ratchety, fully automatic AK gunfire; for maybe whole second, sounded as if pair of fully staffed armies had declared all-out war in little glade.

During course of which, yet another unoccupied brain cell (with serious priority-ranking issues!) marveled sardonically: All this just to kill single, in-way-over-her-head kid...

However, simply not possible so many guns could go off without somebody scoring. And indeed, with full attention focused on reloading Glock, felt multiple tapping sensations all over clothing, exposed skin—true scope of damage no doubt masked by raging epinephrine overdose.

Noted, with gratitude, at least no pain thus far, so slapped home magazine anyway. Figured might as well keep shooting while still could. Wondered how long before end. Wondered when pain would begin.

Wondered how much would hurt...

Pressed release—

And rage flared anew—wondered how many more could take with me ... !

—slide snapped forward, charging chamber even as empty magazine hit ground, bounced.

Looked up, scanning for more targets...

And blinked in confusion. None visible.

At which point additional datum slowly percolated through skull: Clearing had fallen silent.

Looked around wildly—only to realize that, in addition to Yours Truly, no one but Tasha plus handful of older kids still standing (on knees, actually). As well as little Katia.

All held smoking AKs.

All wore ear-to-ear grins.

Without consultation, combat computer disengaged with internally audible thump. Time's passage snapped back to customary pace.

Noted, as hysterical strength abruptly throttled back to normal, was breathing hard, though nothing approaching desperate, convulsive panting that had followed previous metabolic burn-out attempts. Made sense: Battle intense, but probably hadn't spent six, seven full seconds operating above redline.

Belatedly, then, occurred to your Humble Historiographer, might not be dying after all. Tried not to be obvious, as rose to feet, about patting anatomy here, there, checking for holes.

Probably took as long as several more full seconds before realized: Multiple impacts felt during final volley had been muzzle blasts from kids’ AKs, redirected sideways at close range by muzzle brakes.

Gazed round-eyed at carnage surrounding us. Experienced another twinge of nausea as realized how many bodies attributable to own efforts.

Generally the messier ones...

"Apparently,” murmured Danya, resting hand lightly on shoulder, “apart from a better appreciation of the concept of odds, I don't have that much more to teach you."

Jumped as if goosed—someday, someone really needed to tie a bell to that woman ... !

At which point, fact of mentor's presence actually registered. Never mind astronomical level of improbability—

Squealed, “Danni?” Dropped weaponry, fell into her arms, hugged breathless. “What are you doing here ... ?"

For long moments, Momma Spook hugged me back just as hard with left arm (smoke still rising from favorite silenced Israeli sniper rifle cradled in right); then gently pushed away. “All right; maybe I do have something more to teach you.” Hint of smile gave lie to reproachful tone. “This is an active combat theater. Pick up your weapons. Prepare for the next engagement. We can small-talk while reloading.

"Now,” she continued, suiting actions to words, smoothly popping out own magazine, beginning to refill from stash in backpack, “the first thing we need to do is get in while they're in disarray and get your father out. Then we need to destroy those missiles—"

Brain reengaged with click—bringing with it momentary flash of grief, tear-clouded vision (instantly suppressed), restored sense of urgency. Interrupted Danya's situation-review minilecture by grabbing arm to focus attention—of course unnecessary, but too wound up at that moment to recall apprentice-level comportment. “Danni, I broke Daddy out last night. Then they caught us again, but not until he'd set timers on nine warheads.

"Daddy should be safe; he's already on a plane to another gulag, someplace that sounded like—have you ever heard of Meyrin? We, on the other hand..."—glanced at watch—"...have 59 minutes and change to be at least 50 miles away from here if we don't want to glow in the dark. And, Danni—the Khraniteli don't know that!"

Not easy to catch Danya by surprise. Stared round-eyed at me; actually made momentary, unproductive fish-mouths.

Then, unexpectedly, handed off rifle to nearest kid, took me in both arms, held tenderly for long moments. Finally released, took back rifle.

Turned back to children; voice deepened as said: “People, not long ago this woman"—really, Posterity, actually said woman!—"quite literally saved the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet. Today she's pretty much done it again.

"You have been part of a pivotal moment in the history of our people. If we make it out of here, remember this day; remember what you did here. You should only tell your grandchildren..."

Unexpectedly, mayhem mentor ground to halt. Could have been imagination, but thought I detected tiniest hint of quaver in voice. Simultaneously, seemed blink rate might have picked up briefly; even noticed possible extra sparkle in corner of eye.

Danya?—didn't know Mossad agents even came with tear ducts.

Kids, on other hand, listened in round-eyed silence. Turned, stared at me with expressions that thickest observer couldn't fail to recognize as naked admiration. Slowly, softly then, Katia began to clap. Still quietly, rest joined in. Finally, Danni, too.

However, five seconds into tender display of approbation, Intrepid Special-Ops Girl also remembered what had happened here this day—and abruptly dropped to knees, fell forward onto hands, almost physically turned inside-out as empty stomach reacted, finally, to cumulative effects of all those killings by doing rib-cracking best to eject by-now purely imaginary contents, along with what felt like portions of most adjacent major organs; possibly even including, before completely done, toenails, socks....

Only 48 minutes to go by the time we got back to truck. But...

"Oh, dear,” said Danya mildly, eyeing two UAZs parked alongside six-by-six under trees at grove's edge. “There were three. This is not good."

Wondered how Khraniteli had found truck; Tasha and I had, after all, taken elaborately indirect route back, even spent fair amount of time on pavement. Couldn't have tracked us. Grumbled something to that effect.

Danya looked thoughtful all of two seconds—then dived inverted under dashboard, standing on shoulders, feet waving in air, while briefly rooting around up behind speedometer.

Shortly muttered something sulphurous-sounding in Hebrew, made convulsive movement, resurfaced holding small, black, thickish plastic disk trailing visibly yanked-loose wiring.

"You were right. Apparently Kazimirov likes to keep track of his personnel while they're out and about. This is a GPS transponder. All they had to do was ping it, and they were able to drive straight to where you'd left the truck. I bet the UAZs have them, too."

Did. Easily remedied, though yanking out wires by roots, flinging offending artifacts as far as possible offered only transitory satisfaction. Particularly since now only 45 minutes remained.

Which is why we'd bothered debugging UAZs: Faster than lumbering truck—and faster acquiring ever-increasing importance.

Danni jumped in behind wheel of one, hit starter, as I tried other. Both fired right up, leading to sighs of relief all around—if escaped Khraniteli survivor had used head, could just as easily have sabotaged all three vehicles: Slashed fuel-pump tubing f'rinstance, never mind something as quick and easy as lopping off all tire stems, effectively anchoring us there to be collected at their leisure.

Splitting up kids between vehicles, we pulled out, headed cross-country at flank speed, bee-lining for plane—tracks be damned; needed to get into air soonest.

Your Humble Historiographer led, since Danni didn't know where had stashed Stallion.

En route, attempted to listen in on opposition: Sotnik, both desyatniks (sergeant/corporals), had worn field comm units: cute little one-piece radios consisting of single hook-on earpiece, plus voice-activated microphone wand reaching from ear to mouth's corner; looked rather like moddish cell phone accessory.

Danni, Tasha, and I, swallowing hard to overcome repugnance (certainly in own case) wiped all visible traces of Khraniteli from earpieces (at least to degree possible in field, lacking actual boiling water, 20 minutes’ un-previously-spoken-for time), hooked plastic retainers over ears, tucked speaker buds into auditory canals; positioned mics, but with sound-activated send switches off.

Since Danya spoke Russian like native, Tasha rode with me, the better to furnish instant translation if comm traffic developed. Had eavesdropped nonstop since leaving combat scene; however, no mention of us thus far on Khraniteli's tactical radio channel.

Tasha held youngest child in lap with one arm, kept firm grip on UAZ's structure with other. Maggie crouched between us, eyes laughing, tail wagging furiously. Rest of children, piled high in rear, hung onto everything in reach, plus each other, as we pelted over uneven terrain.

Tried to stick to reasonably survivable surfaces, avoid fallen logs, sticky-up boulders, potential launching ramps of any description, but still found ourselves pretty much careening from one high spot to next.

Also tried not to keep looking at watch while driving. At least no more frequently than about every 15 seconds.

Volume XIII

Runway Maintenance

By the time Demon Hippodrome Driver Girl skidded UAZ to halt just off camouflaged Stallion's starboard wingtip, everybody's knuckles uniformly white; even Tasha's grin had become forced. (Only Maggie still having fun.) Nonetheless, even though everyone downright round-eyed, and some smaller kids’ grimy cheeks visibly tear-streaked, all still maintaining brave silence, along with mostly stiff upper lips.

And just between us, Posterity, couldn't blame them: Maybe ten miles from base camp to plane—up hill, down dale, through woods, across open fields; none of it likely to be confused with PGA golf green. Portions of Wild Ride would have left even Mr. Toad feeling twitchy: Once managed to yank wheel barely in time to correct lateral rotational displacement—right-side wheels must have traveled three, four feet off ground for good 50 yards.

But, like aircraft landings, any headlong pursuit one can walk away from is good one—and had saved enough time on ground to get ship into air, out of range.

Probably.

Glanced again at watch as stopped; countdown timer (minus 30 seconds) showed 35 minutes 32 seconds left.

Comm unit lodged in ear still broadcasting nothing but occasional crackles of static; no radio traffic.

No news good news? Hoped so.

Still, wondered if maybe had occurred to Khraniteli, if intruders had wiped out squad, might be eavesdropping. Bad Guys might have changed frequencies, or possibly just abandoned system altogether for nonce.

In any event, had UAZ's ignition switched off, handbrake set, and was over the side, switching from Demon Hippodrome Driver Girl mode to Intrepid Girl Aviatrix almost before vehicle fully stopped. Slashed tie-down securing camouflage netting over Stallion's door. Flipped up edge to gain access. Then unlatched, propped plane's door wide open.

Grabbed nearest little kid, pitched up through opening. Tasha followed example.

Maggie preceded second kid by whisker, spun as landed, jumped back down. Unsurprisingly, prevailing epinephrine-laced ambiance to her liking.

However, as reached back for third, noticed Danya executing statue impression, attention all downhill.

Paused myself. Without asking, knew what must have attracted attention. “How close?"

"Too,” came cryptic response, with what I regarded as entirely inappropriate calmness; adding, “How long before you can get us in the air?"

Turnabout crypticness only fair play: “Too, too.” Breathlessness level, however, vitiated attempt at projecting matching calm. Gave it up as bad job; rushed over to stand beside her.

Even with naked eye, could make out UAZ command car, plus two six-by-six trucks, similar to those that had accompanied tank during Daddy-retrieval; each, once again, equipped with roof-mounted Gatling cannon. Open cargo beds overflowed with additional armed bodies.

Obviously, third UAZ's occupant had made it back to base, raised alarm, returned with reinforcements.

Sole positive note—at least tank not among pursuers....

Just over two miles back, three vehicles coming fast (though not as fast as us!), driving with confidence—well, yeah, blind man could have followed our tracks through otherwise virgin, grassy, shrub-speckled terrain, across which, however faintly, could actually hear diesels’ snorting.

"They're already too close,” I fretted aloud. “We have to take off downhill. We'll pass right over them. As low as we'll be, they won't miss if they only throw rocks."

Danya looked thoughtful. “What assets do you have?"

Patted holstered Glock. “This, my M-1, and, in the plane, another M-1, the Barrett, lots of ammuni—"

"You brought a Barrett ... ?"

Grinned sheepishly. Until that moment, had actually managed to forget huge personal cannon. “Do you think Wallace will be mad?"

One of those tight little expressions Danni sometimes uses for a smile flickered across face. “Not if you strip, clean, and lube it really well after we're done, put it back,” she replied dryly; finishing, “—and don't miss."

Then turned serious: “You're the better shot. Tasha can get the kids aboard while I strip the camo netting and preflight the plane. You see what you can do to discourage our progenitors."

"Right.” Spun, dived up into plane. Tossed Barrett's aiming crotch support pole out onto ground. Lugged big gun over to door, set down. Returned for field shooting kit (heavier still). Hopped down, carried load over to UAZ, set on hood.

Slid huge rifle from case, locked scope into place.

Dug out handful of magazines. Arranged in row on hood. Picked up nearest; extracted first round, a flamboyantly non-Geneva-Convention-compliant, expanding-tip, antipersonnel slug. Slid in sharply pointed, steel-jacketed, Teflon-coated, armor-piercing round from shooting kit's boxed ammo.

Slapped home magazine, yanked lever to charge chamber. Rested barrel end in pole's crotch. Took exploratory peek through scope; tried traversing: left, right, up, down...

No good; target area too broad; barrel support too restrictive.

Unclicked bipod legs, rested feet on UAZ's hood. Tried again.

Worse.

Debated briefly. Solution obvious, but did not like it.

Turned back to Danya as swarmed past, engrossed in own chores. “Can you fly a Stallion?"

Mentor paused, shook head. “Never even ridden in one.” Momentarily, actual, regular-people-style grin flashed across face. “No pressure, boobula—you're it..."

Abruptly sobered then, realizing question not product of idle curiosity. "Why?"

"I can't do this with the bench rest or barrel support,” I sighed. “I need more freedom of movement if I'm going to get them all before they start scattering. There's only one way to do that."

"Get them all ... ?” For second time today—not to mention ever—Danni's eyes actually went round. But, as professional, zeroed in immediately on key issue: "What one way?"

"I have to get them all. It'll only take one leftover Khranitel still in condition to shoot, putting one bullet into the wrong place, to bring us down. To do that, I need to shoot freehand—but the only way I can hold it steady is by using hysterical strength."

Hesitated unhappily. “And I'm pretty sure holding up that much gun for that long, combined with absorbing all the recoil, will require more of a sustained effort than I'm capable of. This will be my third hysterical-strength session today. I may not be much use afterward."

Momma Spook's eyes narrowed in concern. “Would you rather I shoot while you ready the plane?"

So tempted. Really, really, really didn't want to dabble again in physiological equivalent of Black Arts. (Been there, done that; been “just dead” afterward.) “Yes—but I am the better shot."

"That you are.” Again, that hint of a smile. “If it'll make you feel better,” she added comfortingly, “while I've never flown a Stallion, or any tail-dragger for that matter, I am not the worst pilot the Israeli air force ever let slip through flight training. If I have to do the driving, I may not collect a lot of style points, but I won't actually crash us."

Sighed again. But fresh out of inspired alternatives. “Oh, hell,” I muttered. “Shazam."

Response, on occasions when have had time to appreciate it, never ceases to amaze: Instantly, day's accumulated fatigue evaporated, breathing stabilized, mind cleared, time slowed again—plus near-godlike sensation of power just feels so good.

For briefest moment, wondered if experience in any way akin to high that brought drug addicts of yore back time after time, despite awareness of consequences.

Then shook head, blanked thoughts of own forthcoming consequences from mind. Focused on job at hand.

Twisted left arm into sling, swung now effectively weightless monster rifle up into effortless freehand stance. Despite fact that majority of thunderstick's nearly 40-pound weight (with full magazine) now supported exclusively by one arm, muzzle could hardly have been steadier if permanently cast into prestressed concrete bridge truss.

Noted as well, with usual heightened peripheral awareness, local meteorology: typical early morning; absolutely dead calm conditions prevailed; windage would not be factor.

Centered crosshairs on Ulyanovsk Automobile Works’ emblem in middle of lead vehicle's grille. Pressed rangefinder button. Invisible (ha!—to them) infrared laser reached out, reported vehicle still roughly 7,500 feet off, closing at about 30 miles per hour; straight-on approach, no lateral motion: Unnecessary to lead target.

Vertical crosshair equipped with handy, vernierish array of ranging crossbars. Selected appropriate elevation adjustment for indicated distance, subtracted slight gut-feeling increment, squeeeeeezed off shot.

Probably says something lamentable about your Humble Historiographer's fundamental evolvedness (or un-) that precision shooting monster gun at such long range delivers so visceral a gratification.

Whatever. Slug's arrival, within two inches of intended target after nearly three seconds’ ballistic trajectory, generated almost physical rush of self-satisfaction.

As did results: With spectacular gout of flame, smoke, vapor, UAZ's engine exploded as big armor-piercing slug passed through radiator as if so much tissue paper, then bored unpreengineered corridor from one end of engine block nearly to other, sundering crankshaft, connecting rods, pistons, etc.; trashing quite literally everything in path.

Vehicle ground to stop, smoking, steaming, hemorrhaging miscellaneous fluids onto ground beneath. Gun trucks skidded to halt right behind them so abruptly, actually dislodged several unwary members of troop complement.

Comm unit awoke with explosion of unmistakable Russian profanity. Voice sounded familiar...

But then (hardly dared believe eyes!), rising into view like heavy-set, bad-tempered bear, Khraniteli's Fearless Leader himself, Vladislav Kazimirov in the flesh—only truly successful genocide ever to emerge from history of planet—stood up in rear seat of lead vehicle to loom over driver. Lip movements visible through scope synced with tirade carried by comm; no doubt inquiring into failure's cause. More or less. Between descriptives.

As well as—talk about Christmas coming early!—to Kazimirov's immediate left, rising slowly to tower over scene like hood-spreading snake monster from bad old weekly TV horror serial—Fedka...

Was all could do not to laugh out loud as eyed pair through scope; listened to Kazimirov rage over comm. Clearly vehicles making so much noise on their own, concussion from mile-and-a-half-distant rifle shot had arrived unnoticed. At this point, occupants still thought engine simply had blown.

However.

Kazimirov, for all his silly, pompous mannerisms, surface distractibility, fascination with western movies, still Khraniteli's most important strategist: Single-handedly had come up with breathtakingly overkill planetary-cleansing scheme in first place, as well as directing scientific program, which made atrocity possible.

But Fedka was ... Fedka.

Loss of either would significantly weaken whatever Khraniteli opposition survived Serdtsevina Rasovyi's thermonuclear destruction; but eliminating both would constitute major strategic benefit—separate and apart from personal satisfaction to be gained from correcting nature's mistakes.

Yes, inconceivable that impending detonation would fail to take out both after our departure. But standing there, clearly outlined against rugged background, Khraniteli leaders presented unmatched opportunity to make sure....

Offered up wordless prayer of thanks (hoped uneasily would be received in spirit intended). Centered crosshairs on second button of chief sociopath's shirt with sensation approaching spiritual ecstasy.

Then...

(At this point, Posterity, must confess: Did something incredibly stupid—though to be fair, probably laboring under influence of compulsion; couldn't have resisted had fate of entire universe hung in balance.)

...keyed mike: “Hans, this is Roy. Yippee-ki-yay, mother—"

Kim Mellon's Journal:

Briefly Terry flapped his wings in startled reaction, as most of us, huddled around his stand in the cavernous, toasty-warm cargo hold of the B plane rumbling through the stratosphere toward Serdtsevina Rasovyi at maximum cruising speed, erupted in cheers, laughter, and applause—which tapered off abruptly, leaving us all staring at each other in awkward silence.

Glancing around the huge chamber, the macaw settled his feathers with a satisfied expression; then, clearly expressing his own opinion, he said, “How 'bout that...."

Lisa suppressed the tiny beginnings of a giggle—over our reaction, I think; I'm pretty sure she herself has no particularly feelings about “bad” words.

Everyone recognized the movie quote, of course—but this was Candy, and heretofore, about the most brimstone-laden observations or commentaries any of us had ever heard her use were the mildest of standard four-letter condemnations, and even those infrequently. Personally, I had never heard her say anything even remotely approaching that level of vehemence.

Not even while dying....

Candy's Journal:

Barrett's thunderclap obliterated soul-satisfying final two syllables. Heard them only in my head.

But Kazimirov obviously heard them in earpiece. And clearly, from expression, recognized voice. Brow furrowed. Eyes began shifting, head swiveled, looking around for source. Mouth opened, no doubt to issue command.

Prayed would make connection before bullet's arrival.

But no time to waste gloating. As barrel settled from recoil (okay, yes; not supposed to, but did hurry it some), retargeted on Fedka (arguably one of most loathsome blotches ever to soil H. sapiens’ escutcheon); squeezed off another shot.

Shifted immediately to man on ground on right, fired again. Continued retargeting, shooting, as rapidly as possible.

After dispatching bullet to each of those in, around UAZ, shifted attention to first gun/troop truck. Initially chose targets in ever-widening pattern, moving out from center, but shortly switched to targeting those closest to anything which might serve as cover.

(Took real effort not to waste time waiting, watching for each impact. In fact, operated purely on faith throughout: Due to scope's narrow visual field of view, haste with which was having to work, length of time each projectile spent in transit, apart from UAZ's grille emblem, had yet actually to see any bullet's arrival, or resultant bodies on ground.)

Following fifth shot at first truck's occupants, Barrett's semi-auto action's “empty-now” lock-back caught me by surprise (bad Candy—second offense). But endless reloading practice under Danni's efficiency-expert's gimlet eye now paid dividends: Took just over training-session-best second and a half to pop out empty, snatch up next magazine in line, slap home, recharge, resume sight picture, find next target, fire again.

And again. And again. And...

Excerpts from the journal of Danya Feinberg:

With the assistance of Tasha, clearly the de facto leader of the rescued children, and her unofficial lieutenant, a smaller, even more intense child named Katia, stripping off the camo netting and getting the rest of the kids aboard was quickly accomplished.

Preflighting the plane, including draining the fuel sumps, took a little longer. But during flight training, not departing with water in the fuel had been the subject of so much discussion, delivered with such frequency and intensity, that by now I could probably eat a bacon cheeseburger while scrubbing the temple floor bareheaded on the Sabbath with less personal distress than not verifying that the fuel was water-free before a flight.

Thankfully, however, and unexpectedly considering how long the plane had sat there in the woods, the tanks contained no water at all, which speeded up the process.

Afterward I joined Candy at the UAZ just in time to watch her swing the Barrett up to her shoulder and, in a single, continuous, fluid motion, level and fire it.

Under my breath, I offered up a brief thank-you to YHWH for Candy's preexpedition foresight: She had even included those huge spotter's binoculars in her field shooting kit.

(YHWH? Well, it's less awkward to pronounce, never mind spell, than Tetragrammaton. Okay, does Yahweh sound more familiar? By whatever Name, during my Mossad career, which prior to Armageddon had consisted primarily of killing bad people before they could kill good people [not to mention me], I've tended to prefer the ancient face of our people's Lord. Not to imply criticism of His more recent activities, but back then His assistance tended toward less ambiguous manifestations—floods, plagues, the occasional judiciously applied rain of fire and brimstone, flattening city walls with impoliticly loud music—and, of course, though they're not uppermost among my personal favorite anatomical targets during hand-to-hand combat, He seemed a lot bigger then on actively supporting us Chosen People in our smiting of the non-Chosen “...hip and thigh, with great slaughter.” I do like that in a deity.)

The big binoculars were wonderful: If one could hold them steady enough, one could very nearly resolve pores on the Khraniteli's noses, as our now-stationary pursuers began milling around, scratching their heads over the UAZ's smoking engine.

However, I barely had time to admire the strategic elements of the picture before Candy muttered something under her breath (the Khraniteli headset had gotten in the way while preflighting the plane, so I'd discarded it) and fired again, this time, I knew, for blood.

As with the armor-piercing round which had disemboweled the UAZ's engine, the first of the human-targeted slugs was in transit for nearly three seconds. During that interim, Candy got off four additional shots, and I found myself tempted to worry that she might have allowed herself to get caught up in the frenzy of combat—the condition known to Viking raiders of old as going berserk: Her shots were so closely spaced that she seemed almost just to be spraying lead.

However, even during that melée back in the woods, despite the odds and intensity, Candy had remained focused, and not a single shot had been wasted. Really, regardless of circumstances, I could not imagine her losing her head.

On the other hand, neither could I quite believe that anyone, even someone burning calories at the rate she was at that point, could possibly hold, aim, and fire so huge a rifle, freehand, so very quickly: Never did appreciably more than half a second separate each shot from its predecessor.

Still, this struck me as a poor time to kibitz, never mind kvetch, so I suppressed my mother's internal voice, held “her” tongue as well as my own breath, and waited. And waited. And...

Almost concurrently with Candy's sixth shot, a scarlet bloom appeared in the center of Kazimirov's chest. Backward, end over end, the Khraniteli leader launched off the rear of the UAZ. As he rotated midair, it became apparent that, on exit, the fifty-caliber expanding slug had transformed his back into an outward-exploded, red-spraying ruin.

Then, barely half a second later, even before Kazimirov could become fully airborne, Fedka, to his left, followed suit—and momentarily I indulged in an unworthy gloat: Another local Auschwitz chapter closed down for good; this latter-day Mengele-pretender would torture no more children.

Half a second after that, the man to Kazimirov's right, down on the ground, was her target. He was followed, after the same eyeblink, by the one to the left of Fedka. Then two others on the ground, who had had the bad fortune to find themselves momentarily lined up from Candy's sightline, were struck down by a single bullet. Then the next went down. And the next, and...

Supported by her invocation of hysterical strength to support the gun and hold it steady, Candy's hypnotically augmented concentration was doing exactly what it had been summoned for: Regardless how quickly one followed another, every shot was precisely aimed; each had a Khranitel's name on it.

I spared a quick glance at her. The metabolic supercharge had been running for only a few seconds thus far, so apart from a sudden beading-up of perspiration on her face, and the suggestion of rivulets pooling up to trickle down her cheeks and neck (with temperatures barely into the fifties), no evidence of the calories hemorrhaging from her reserves was visible. I crossed my fingers and hoped the ultimate cost would not be higher than we could afford.

Turning my attention back to the binoculars, once again I marveled that somehow human beings had managed to become the dominant species on this planet: Almost invariably, in the absence of clearly audible gunshots from somewhere near at hand (and sometimes even then), untrained civilians spend an incredibly long time standing frozen, staring in disbelief, watching people drop all around them, before even beginning to respond.

And though soulless murderers all, single-mindedly dedicated to the extermination of every man, woman, and child of our species (not to mention those possessing H. sapiens DNA but not members of their own private club), the majority of Khraniteli were mere worker bees: engineers, clerks, machinists, physicists; carpenters, computer specialists, chemists; infrastructure maintenance personnel—from a military perspective, untrained civilians. And happily, unlike the squad who had tried to recapture the escaped children, apparently most of these were untrained civilians, for their responses proved no different from that of any other group of their peers.

The distance-muffled sound of the shot that cleansed the Earth of the corruption represented by the very existence of Vladislav Kazimirov would not have arrived until about the seven-second mark (following twelve or thirteen more kills), and may not have been audible at all over the clanking idle of the gun trucks’ big, smoky diesels.

But even after that, it took over five more seconds, and yet another nine or ten casualties, for even the first of those who remained unscathed to comprehend that the air suddenly had become filled with death; and another three or four seconds after that for the expressions of the rapidly shrinking pool of survivors to cycle through that slow progression from dawning realization to the sudden onset of mortal fear, and finally, for those who hadn't simply turned to stone, the beginnings of constructive reaction.

By which time Candy had long-since emptied her first magazine, executed a flawless combat rapid-reload, burned through the second, and, by the time she had started on the third magazine, not even a handful, from the three dozen or so Khraniteli who had arrived in those vehicles, were still in condition even to try to scramble under cover.

Of the forty-plus rounds she had expended thus far, I doubted if ten percent of her targets had managed to move out of the way while the bullets had been in transit, and those final few were among the well and truly panic-motivated.

Briefly, concern flickered through my mind regarding the emotional consequences to my apprentice. More and more, Candy reminds me of me at that age; except that, even after having passed through a succession of trials, some darker and more stressful even than those that forged and tempered me—many even before she found us—she's remained an innocent. Somehow, her soul has remained fundamentally uncorrupted; yet she's stronger, tougher, and better balanced than I ever was back then.

As a member of various regular military units, I've taken part in my share of all-out firefights, yet I remember very few of the killings that occurred under those circumstances. However, I think I've probably killed more people in individual assassinations than in battle—and of those, I remember every one. None was easy, at the time or afterward.

Some of my peers among the Mossad tried to forget their assigned killings as soon afterward as they could, pretending to themselves that they had never happened, or just tried to suppress their reactions. Others made bad jokes. I found it impossible to do any of that.

But never, not even as an adult (apart from manually detonating bombs), have I found myself in a position where I was required methodically to kill the majority of three platoons at a single sitting in the line of duty—never mind having had to do it when I was Candy's age.

At best, if we live, the aftermath of this day will be difficult for her. She will need the support of every one of us, with hugs and encouragement, and perhaps even counseling. But ultimately, what she must endure and overcome will be her own self-scourging—which certainly will be more severe than anything anyone else could inflict upon her. However, the person who emerges should be even stronger and more resilient.

I hope.

Please, dear HaShem...

In any event, at that point I glanced back at her and noted with alarm that, where her skin wasn't covered by camouflage paint, she had acquired a positively grayish cast, and she was sluicing perspiration from head to foot.

Quickly I reached a decision: Seizing the Barrett's forestock with one hand, I attempted to take the gun from her. However, I might as well have been yanking on a bedrock outcropping: Nothing budged; I don't think she noticed—and even with me pulling on the rifle, she got off two more shots.

"Candy,” I said then, shaking her gently with the other hand, “enough with the elim already—let's dial down the superpowers. You've won."

At my touch, Candy started, almost as if I'd wakened her suddenly. The eyes she turned on me glowed with the feral hyperalertness and absolute concentration that mortal combat can bring out in those of us with an aptitude for it.

"Wait,” she replied, almost preternaturally calm; “two more.” Moving with near-mechanical rapidity and precision, she ejected the magazine, slipped in two more armor-piercing rounds, slapped it back in, and recharged the chamber.

Swinging the gun back up to her shoulder, she aimed, and fired twice, the shots even more closely spaced than before. Three seconds later, peering through the binoculars, I watched both Gatling cannons’ compressed-air-driven rotor motors shatter as the Teflon-coated, steel-jacketed, solid rounds lanced through them.

Momentarily, I enjoyed a flash of pride at my apprentice's quick thinking—overlaid with a private flush of embarrassment at the failure of my own oversight: Destroying the Gatlings was brilliant—but basic, and I hadn't thought of it.

Regardless, now, no matter how many Khraniteli remained able to shoot, they would be limited to hand weapons; those frightful, long-range scythes could not be used against us as we took off.

"Wonderful,” I said with probably overdone heartiness; “excellent, you've done so well. But that's enough now.” With an effort, I wrenched the huge gun from her grasp, and continued, “The handful who are left, I can keep them pinned down with my own rifle through the belly doors as we pass over."

Candy blinked slowly at me. Then, as abruptly as if a candle wick had been pinched, the flame went out. “Hooo-kay," she murmured dreamily, with a dazed smile. Her knees buckled; she would have fallen except for my arm around her.

"Wow...” she added, her eyes apparently tracking random dust motes in the air; “lookit all the spots..."

Volume XIV

Weight, Drag, Lift

Candy's Journal:

For thousand-plus generations, Posterity, Danya's ancestors have studied Applied Guilt: as art form and hard-science discipline, as well as social-engineering tool. In this case, Momma Spook unleashed diabolical powers not only to deny Apprentice Assassin Girl well-earned bout of catatonia following most recent massacre, but clearly intended even to cheat her out of comfy wallow in short-term remorse.

First, of course, even before had resumed full situational awareness, Danni plied me with Gatorade, supplemented with complex-carbohydrate-based quick-energy bars. (Doubtless having to suppress her own self-inflicted guilt over having failed to include chicken soup in backpack!)

Thereafter, before tummy had opportunity to realize now at least partially restocked, capable, if still in mood, of messy reverse peristalsis in reaction to killings, mentor shamelessly dispatched little Katia to come sit with me, hold hand.

For long moments, child regarded me with those huge, Precious Moments eyes, worried expression; then said earnestly, “Candy, until boomness, only timings being now 20 minutes."

Girl paused. Then, with furtive glance over shoulder at BC (currently starfished flat on back, all four legs sprawled limply, tongue lolling, tail sweeping deck in languorous slow-motion, being snuggled, scritched by at least ten kids simultaneously), continued in conspiratorial whisper, “Thinking am, scared being Maggie."

Hah! Did your Humble Historiographer imply subtle laying of guilt? Golly gee whillikers, Posterity; if “scared being Maggie," because thermonuclear detonation only 20 minutes off, clearly time for Plucky Girl Flying Ace to knock off goldbricking, get on with job. Hey, bad enough to disappoint Katia, Tasha, other kids, even Danni—not to mention being converted to energy myself—but letting Maggie down would be just wrong....

Suppressed smile at Danni's blatant chicanery. Gave head exploratory shake. Noted eyes focused mostly where, on what wanted them to.

Stood carefully, headed forward, still unsteady on feet, but really not in bad shape overall. Pretty sure would have no difficulty functioning adequately sitting down.

Eyed Danni as tottered past. Seated cross-legged on deck by belly doors, mayhem mentor setting out Israeli sniper rifle's magazines for quick access.

Resisted momentary suicidal impulse to cuff her gently up back of head; instead, leaned close, whispered, “That was just mean...."

Danni flashed brilliant smile. “You're welcome."

Regarded Maggie, surrounded by new lifelong Best Friends. Pretty sure BC too smart accidentally to fall and/or jump out belly doors once open, but just to be on safe side, mind-invited her to accompany big sister forward.

Tasha already strapped into copilot's seat, covetously studying instruments, controls, so put Superpup in lap. Girl grinned; enveloped dog in arms. BC rewarded her with big kiss.

Plucky Girl Flying Ace settled tush into pilot's seat. Quickly ran through power-up checklist; everything came up green. Then mentally kicked self for wasting time: As if green mattered—had to go now!

Switches on, hit starter, and—

Ignition ... ! Sighed with relief: Engine-start after multiple days’ inactivity single go/no-go, live/die threshold event upon which escape absolutely contingent—elephant in living room about which everyone carefully had not been talking.

As turbine spooled up to takeoff rpms, strapped in, trimmed for liftoff.

Unfortunately, not counting Tasha, me, only two other kids had actual seats with restraints; six others had managed to squeeze into those seats, sitting in their laps, arms, legs interlaced about one another. Rest sat on deck in rear, backs against hull.

If things went south at any point during flight, would just have to hold on—for all the good that would do (see any battle/attack scene from randomly selected Star Trek episode—multiply by factor of 100).

Called out anyway: “Hold tight, everybody.” Then added, “Danni, are you ready? I'll release the belly doors just as soon as we lift off."

"Ready,” came reply. Heard her cycle rifle's action to charge chamber. In passenger-observation mirror mounted above windshield between sunshades, could see dainty Grim Reaper Personified now lay prone, most of torso just behind belly doors’ rear edges; head, shoulders overhung crack.

Noted Momma Spook had roped self to cargo tie-downs at rear. Plus on either side, two older boys had death grip on belt with one hand, equally firm hold of plane's exposed aluminum ribs with other. Kids’ expressions promised arms would come off long before would let new companion/co-rescuer/(most gorgeous woman had ever seen) fall.

Firewalled throttle; released brakes. Stallion moved forward, but only slowly—in fact, downright lethargically...

Belatedly, performed quick weights review in head: Big ship tips scales at 3,100 pounds empty; certified maximum gross, 6,100.

Okay, add two dozen starving kids, most around Tasha's size, only a few very small ones: average, maybe 80 pounds each. Plus Danni, Maggie, me. Bit over a ton total. Subtract probably 200 pounds for missing seats.

Jet-A weighs just under seven pounds per gallon. And, thanks to Yours Truly's too-clever cold-fueling trick, tanks virtually full: 360 gallons ... not quite 2,500 pounds.

So carry the one, and...

Oh, goody—Plucky Girl Aviatrix & Friends taking off at least 600 pounds overgross! Which, according to Lennel, other experienced aviators among AAs’ ranks, qualifies as nothing less than recipe for disaster.

Well, too late to do anything about it now. Fortunately, takeoff run all downhill, over smooth, if softer than strictly preferred, turf. Trying to build speed downhill, gravity would be our friend; fact that it pressed tires into soft footing made it less so.

In fact, with turbine wailing at max, almost a third of clearing lay behind us before managed to coax tailwheel off ground—with hedgerow delineating field's lower margin growing rapidly in windshield.

By then, of course, Dauntless Girl Flying Ace had begun feverish review of everything had ever heard about aviation physics, as well as every flying tall tale Lennel, Scott, Kenny, and others had repeated in presence, trying to remember tips for getting recalcitrant aircraft off ground prior to running out of room.

Flashback!—to discussion centered around lift vs. drag: Lift is drag, but with powers “used for good rather than..."

Okay. Quickly retracted flaps, Fowler slats stowing automatically, thereby eliminating unnecessary drag prior to actual moment of liftoff. Applied slight down elevator to raise tail further, flattening wing's angle-of-attack, reducing lift/drag even further—but staying alert to make sure mushy turf's resistance, dragging at tires, wouldn't snag gear, trigger sudden nose-over!

Speed mounted slowly; however, performance improved steadily as weight transferred from tires pressing ruts into turf to wings slicing through air.

Perhaps 200 feet from hedgerow, at 40 knots indicated (only three above official minimum fully controllable maneuvering speed at full gross,) popped flaps, which brought out Fowlers again. Hauled back yoke at very last moment; felt main gear's big, fat tires suck free of turf, swish through brush tops as we ballooned laboriously upward, barely clearing obstacle.

But still not actually flying flying at this point, Posterity; clearly just mushing along some ten feet up, wings mostly supported by ground-effect compression layer rather than true aerodynamic lift.

However, once past hedgerow, with unobstructed terrain ahead, had room to lower nose a tick, allow ship to settle deeper into ground-effect, perhaps four, six feet above ground; milk cushion to keep laboring ship airborne, continuing to build speed until going fast enough to ease off flaps, Fowlers; then retrim; complete transition from stone skipping over pond's surface to actual, aerodynamically clean, stable flight.

Had barely topped 150 mph mark when Danni called, “Candy, the belly doors..."

This—simultaneously with sudden, surprisingly quiet appearance of small round hole low in windshield's center, accompanied by refreshingly cool breeze directed at sweating face, plus much louder bang from somewhere aft, abruptly reminded Plucky Girl Flying Ace, successful takeoff not sole challenge remaining.

Unlocked belly doors with almost convulsive yank, rolled into climbing turn, presenting Danya with view of whatever surviving Khraniteli still attempting to kill us from down at scene of bloodbath.

Special-ops coach began firing immediately. Initially sprayed whole magazine as full-auto burst to get their attention, keep heads down. Two-second interlude followed as flipped siamesed magazines. Then, firing perhaps one per second, got off 25 aimed rounds before next pause; then 25 more.

No further hostile fire struck ship throughout Danya's response; and, by the time last wildly optimistic round started earthward, Stallion probably three miles from takeoff point, climbing east by northeast, still maintaining almost 150 mph, passing 2,000 feet, way out of range.

Of bullets.

Thermonuclear warheads, on other hand, constituted separate issue entirely...

Danni hauled up belly doors, locked, safetied; came forward to kneel just behind front seats. “How much time left?"

Showed her watch: Countdown timer displayed 14-plus minutes.

Mentor looked thoughtful for moment, glanced at airspeed indicator, then: “How fast can this thing go?"

Responded with minilecture regarding 188-knot cruise, but equivocated because still climbing, and nowhere near 13,000-foot maximum-efficiency altitude.

Danni shook head. “Even full speed won't get us clear in time if those master/slave detonators your dad armed work. Turn left; head southwest. Level off; pick up speed."

Blinked in bemusement not unmixed with concern. First impression suggested turning back toward ground zero unlikely to improve prospects.

Likewise, would take us back past Serdtsevina Rasovyi; not directly over, but close. Wondered how long would take surviving command structure to get act sufficiently together to mobilize surface-to-air defenses. Pretty sure Stallion's bush-flying designers hadn't contemplated dealing with missiles.

Still, figured Danni had to know more about Surviving Thermonuclear Detonations for Fun & Profit than your Humble Historiographer, so lowered nose, cranked into steep turn; rolled out on 270 degrees heading. Watched airspeed mount, stabilize at whisker over 180 knots. Not bad, given overload, low altitude.

Then, in hopes of coaxing forth additional clarification regarding mentor's plans, offered, “As I figure it, 14 minutes at cruise would have taken us 45 miles—"

"Which wouldn't have been enough. Not even on the ground. Out in the open, we'd need to be in excess of 50 miles from a simultaneous multiple-warhead burst of that magnitude—airborne, we'll need a whole lot more: In the air, the shock wave, which is an almost simultaneous push-pull impact, propagating outward from the detonation at nearly the speed of sound, will shred us like a butterfly hovering too close to a detonating hand grenade. Since we lack anywhere near enough time to get far enough away in straight-line distance, we need to put some solid rock between us and the explosion."

Light dawned: “And everywhere except to the northwest, the terrain is more or less flat."

"Right. I've done a fair amount of recon around here. About 30 miles northwest of Serdtsevina Rasovyi, there's a steep, mountainous valley bordered on the east by almost sheer cliff. I've climbed it; it's at least 2,000 feet high.

"Land close, taxi up next to the rock face, and we'll have about five miles of as-the-mole-bores bedrock between us and the detonation to soak up that initial flood of hard radiation—gamma, x-rays, and a huge burst of neutrons—as well as to block the actual blast forces. If we take off again as soon as the shock wave has passed, we'll have no trouble getting clear of the fallout."

"Not being shredded like a butterfly appeals to me. What's our course?"

Danni reached out, fiddled briefly with GPS. Destination appeared on moving map at terminus of follow-me course line.

Along with distance/speed/ETA figures, updated second-by-second in real time.

Going to be close.

Had forgotten how much I used to hate Mondays....

Volume XV

Push, Pull, Toast

Passed by Serdtsevina Rasovyi at 5,000 feet, perhaps eight miles north of actual base.

Not far enough.

Viewed objectively (ignoring obvious), handful of fleecy-white, slightly wiggly, surface-to-air missile contrails rather pretty as they hone in on one's aircraft. But since your Humble Historiographer's perspective necessarily based upon observation from controls of aforementioned target, found that difficult: “Danni—they're shooting at us ... !"

"I expected they would,” came tranquil reply.

Couldn't decide whether serene demeanor helped, hindered—or just annoyed. “What should I do?"

"Nothing that would slow us down. Hold your course; fly straight and level. I'll take care of them."

"You brought surface-to-air missile countermeasures ... ?"

"Of a sort."

Really impressed by mentor's foresight, Posterity—until watched her pull half dozen ordinary railroad fusees from backpack, force door open fractionally against 180-plus-knot slipstream, then activate each, one at a time, in measured cadence, let drop out. As each fired up, cabin filled briefly with nasty, sulphurous fumes that made Maggie, several kids sneeze (and me want to), but upon exit, slipstream sucked out just as quickly.

Between fusees, Danni produced tufts of what appeared to be short-cut lengths of shiny thread, released in loose handfuls.

Obviously to allay children's fears (under circumstances, didn't mind being included in “target” audience), Momma Spook called over shoulder, “The flares are much hotter than our exhaust, which will attract any heatseekers. The chaff creates large, diffuse microwave targets that confuse conventional radar-targeting systems."

Happily, initial doubts, along with blood pressure, began to ebb as, within moments, approaching contrails could be seen curving aft and downward, chasing small but intense heat signatures and/or clouds of reflectorized thread.

Shortly found ourselves out of range, with destination in view, but only seven minutes remaining. Eyeballed distance/altitude differential—then trimmed into descent differing from outright dive only in subtlest particulars.

Lennel has “breathed upon” AAs’ Stallions, incorporating mods rendering structures more durable than factory-fresh specimens. Ours placarded at never-exceed velocity, or Vne, of 305 knots, substantially higher than stock. Obviously, exceeding that figure raised specter of catastrophic structural failure due to spontaneous, self-destructive control surface flutter and/or aerodynamic overloads.

Still, weighing time remaining, applicable engineering factors, little question but that alternatives had narrowed to three....

1. Being crispy-fried by high-four-digit temperatures contained in heat/radiation wavefront; or,

2. Given proximity to burst (and assuming anything tangibly Stallion-related remains aloft following heat wave's passage), being shattered into component molecules by ferocious, atmospheric whack-yank shock wave following closely behind.

Neither seemed to constitute significant improvement over (3) mere midair breakup. Accordingly, trimmed for descent angle calculated just barely to reach destination valley—and left power at full.

Watched, holding breath, as speed mounted slowly, stabilizing finally at just under 335. Waited, with tush hypersensitized for aerodynamic disturbances; but detected no flutter in controls, sensed no aerodynamic instability.

Even better, wings remained attached.

However, only a tick over two minutes remained prior to fireballfest as cliff's edge passed barely 50 feet beneath wheels. At which point, chopped throttle, pulled prop pitch back to full flat to act as aerodynamic brake, pushed yoke forward, cranked in left rudder, right aileron, plunged over edge in only arguably under-control sideslip. Then, even though still well above maximum rated deployment speed, popped full flaps. That did cause bumpy moments, particularly as Fowler slats emerged; but despite steep nose-down attitude, plane slowed as if towing drag chute.

Thereafter, with ship aerodynamically “dirty” as possible (between flaps, slats, full-flat-pitch idling prop, plus radical sideslip), once airspeed dipped below 100 mph, found ourselves almost “parachuting” downward at about 40-degree angle, suspended by big, slow-flight-configured wing. At this point descent spiral netted better than 5,000 feet per minute.

Now all Intrepid Girl Flying Ace had to do was find modestly level patch of ground large enough to accommodate touchdown, get us stopped in one piece.

All in under 90 seconds. Thank goodness no pressure....

Scrutinized terrain as rose swiftly to meet us. Immediately noted valley floor well populated with rock outcroppings, trees, bushes, as well as having serious undulation issues. Danni had been through on foot; had had no reason to evaluate site with pilot's eye.

Still, one stretch stood out which, though significantly bent in middle, appeared sufficiently free of at least larger boulders to serve. Landing roll-out would be bumpy, plus require turn-bordering-upon-swerve toward conclusion, but overall, plenty of room to put down, get stopped.

Reviewed short-field landing procedure in head: Yanking flaps up just as wheels touched would kill most remaining lift, provide immediate traction for braking. That combined with burst of full power, with prop in reverse pitch, ought to stop plane as if had snagged aircraft carrier arresting-gear cable.

Once shock wave passed, would dump excess fuel, bring weight down to within design specs. Thereafter, Stallion wouldn't need much more than football field to take off again.

Good; so much easier when problems solve themselv—

"Candy, I just remembered something,” Danni murmured, sotto vocely. “Some models of those older detonator timers have a built-in error: They gain about seven seconds an hour.” Mentor's lips almost touching ear; voice inaudible to others. “Which means we can't count on detonation taking place when it was set for."

"And ... ?"

"If the first detonator to go off is one of those with the error, we'll be just about touching down when the warhead goes off. So I think it probably would be a good idea to set up for a dead-stick landing. As soon as you're sure you can reach the downwind end of whatever landing site you select, kill the engine and shut off all the avionics. Otherwise, if we do have a premature, and depending upon how many warheads go off, there's a fair chance the EMP could fry our electronics, and we'd be stranded here, unable to restart the engine, just waiting for the fallout."

Ooo, EMP: electromagnetic pulse—had forgotten about that. Phenomenon had wrought widespread electronic havoc back home during Bratstvo's original attack. This close to ground zero, any components belonging to nonhardened, active electronic circuitry would indeed burn out: igniter, alternator, engine-monitor sensors, processors, instruments—never mind instrument panel's computerized, “glass cockpit” primary flight-information displays. And had no idea which, or how many, gadgets Lennel had hardened on this ship. If any...

Okay. Well, not as if haven't had dead-stick experience. Forced down once in ultralight when engine died.

Well, sort of. Almost. Point of fact, on that occasion landing not actually, strictly dead-stick. Some power had remained available; just not enough to stay aloft. Truth be known, Intrepid Girl Flying Ace had even benefited from momentary burst of almost full throttle just prior to tricky touchdown on fallen sequoia trunk.

On other hand, subsequently have performed numerous dead-stick drills, both in space-shuttle simulator, plus own nonvirtual ultralight, not to mention other actual planes. Saw no point bothering Danni with minor details, about which could do nothing anyway at this stage.

(And which, in this case, included fact that ultralight in question had been at that time flying well below rated capacity; when engine failed, toy plane floated down like snowflake. As opposed to current situation, with in excess of three and a half tons of Stallion—laboring through sky least ten percent overloaded. And lacking benefit of added lift provided by propwash flowing over wings’ inboard sections, could expect significantly higher-than-spec stalling speed, appreciably longer rollout.)

So ... “No problem,” assured her confidently. “I'm an old hand at dead-sti—"

Whoa ... Belatedly, noticed arrival of other shoe. In fact, electronics-free, dead-stick approach, touchdown, even getting stopped without reverse thrust, all surely minorest elements of problem: “Danya, are you working up to telling me that I'm going to need to land us with my eyes closed?"

"Only if you don't want to be blinded,” came composed reply. Turned to find mentor's eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned close again, whispered portentously in ear, “Uuuuuuse the forrrrrce, spoooook...."

"How can I possibly—"

"Actually, depending on how many warheads go off simultaneously, at this distance indirect exposure such as we'll receive down in the bottom of the valley probably won't blind you. Permanently. With any luck. But the glare is going to last over 30 seconds, at the conclusion of which, at best you'll probably find yourself trying to see through some really opaque afterimages for quite a while. And if, at the time, you happen to be flying, say, a heavily overloaded, barely controllable airplane, its engine shut down, just approaching touchdown..."

Glanced over shoulder with probably overdone round-eyed sincerity. “Could I short-circuit any of this by just agreeing?"

Danni's eyes twinkled back; clearly enjoying self more than situation warranted. “So we'll treat it as a variation on our blindfolded, hand-to-hand-combat exercises. Collate our speed, closing distances, and spatial relationship with the ground into a three-dimensional picture in your head. We'll open the cockpit side windows, so you'll have the benefit of the sound of our passage through the air echoing off the terrain as we approach the ground to furnish subliminal rangefinding input."

Turned again to regard her with unambiguously jaundiced eye. “So in addition to imagining where and how high we are, and how fast we're going, you want me to land via bat sonar...."

Danni grinned. “How else? Of course I'll be right here, looking over your shoulder, talking you through the approa—"

Really, Posterity, must learn to stop interrupting elders. (Particularly elders who can kill someone 27 different ways in half second with either pinkie.) Burst out, “Danni—you'll have your eyes open? You can't do that ... !"

Momma Spook smiled comfortingly. Reached into backpack, produced what appeared to be oversized, opaque black jeweler's monocle. “This is half of a pair of welder's goggles. I picked it up the moment the possibility of thermonuclear explosions became a factor in this mission. I'll be holding it over my dominant eye—my shooting eye—and using the unprotected one to second-guess your approach if necessary.

"If the bomb goes off early, I'll use the protected eye to monitor you until the flash dims sufficiently; then I'll uncover, as well as tell you when to open your own eyes. The worst that can happen is I'll lose sight from the unprotected eye. Probably, YHWH willing, not for long.

"You have got to have your eyes closed in advance,” she continued, much too cheerfully. “A nuclear fireball, never mind one from the combined megatonnage we're dealing with here, hits peak intensity so quickly, your blink reflexes just aren't fast enough to save you."

Cast crooked-brow glance over shoulder at violence guru. “I suppose you'd consider it disrespectful if I told you you're crazy."

Gently cuffing impudent grasshopper up back of head, Danni grinned, “Good! I knew I could count on you."

She turned then to address children: “People...” In mirror, saw heads come up, attention converge. “The bombs will go off any minute now. There will be a terribly bright light, much brighter than the sun. Even down here in the valley, blocked by the mountain, it's going to be so very bright that, if your eyes are not tightly closed, you might suffer vision damage. Until the flash dies away completely, if you open your eyes, even for an instant, you may never, ever see well again. Does everyone understand how important this is?"

Children responded with mixed chorus of das, yeses, synchronized with many bobbing heads. Could even see two littlest kids already displaying just how tightly shut their eyes would be.

Then Katia raised hand. “Tempted youngests might wanting some peek. Eyes should covering olders with hands?"

Unscrambling syntax without a blink, Danni nodded approvingly. “That's a very good idea."

But Katia's concerns only beginning to hit stride: “Knowing eyes how to closing Maggie?" Question followed by chorus, approaching mob-growl tone as closely as non-voice-changed-yet kids’ larynxes could achieve; sentiment (loosely edited) generally translating to: “Yeah! What about Maggie ... ?"

Even as elder Foster sister concentrated on descent, easing out of slip, prepositioning ship for engine cutoff, found self torn between need to suppress smile over children's fierce loyalty to newfound four-footed friend—plus sudden need to blink rapidly to keep vision clear of personal reaction to selfsame fierce loyalty.

"Maggie's eyes cover I am being,” Tasha announced over shoulder, promptly suiting actions to words.

Quickly sent comforting thought to BC: Game—hold still; don't try to pull away; don't look. More importantly, promised freeze-dried liver cookie for successful performance.

Tail, momentarily stilled in uncertainty, gayly swung back into action, acknowledging game's rules, acceptance—but most especially promise.

"All right, people,” called Danni; “it's flashy time. Those of you who are going to help the youngest children, cover up their eyes now and close your own. I'll tell you when you can look again."

Announcement followed by chorus of agreement; forest of heads turning to display closed eyes.

Turned own eyes front with smile—just as hand slid across face. Yanked head back, sputtered, “Wait! I'm not ready. Let me do the Zen thing first."

"Do it quickly! If any of the detonators is going to premature, we are within seconds of its going off."

Took deep breath, expanded awareness to encompass plane; our position within/relative to surrounding airspace; relationship to rocky terrain rising about us; slipstream's hissing...

Then reached out, flipped off ignition, plus avionics bus master switch, feathered prop. Panel went dark; cabin became very quiet as turbine spooled down to stop.

"Okay. Now.” Closed eyes as Danni's hand again settled in place over them.

Eyeball lockdown had occurred only moments prior to turn from downwind approach leg to crosswind. Began feeding in aileron, coordinating with rudder.

"Are you certain?” inquired mentor softly, for my ears only. “Even for a really conservative, dead-stick approach, this seems high."

"Positive. It's safer to come in with lots of extra altitude, then cross-control and slip it off if you need to, than try to stretch a glide because you've let yourself get too low, too far out."

"Particularly when the plane is so heavily loaded,” agreed Danni after moment's reflection. “Very well. You are our Stallion jockey, as well as pilot-in-command. I will shut up now unless I become certain that you've gotten lost or tumbled your inner ear."

No doubt mentor regarded assurance as comforting, Posterity, calculated to bolster confidence. Actual effect on impromptu Braille-flying Intrepid Girl Aviatrix, however, more on order of reminding her of potential physiological traps.

But now not the time to allow negative thoughts to intrude, distract. Stilled swirling emotions; reached out, felt for airplane, felt airplane—became airplane: Heard, felt, experienced rush of air over wings, aerodynamic control surfaces, past cockpit windows. Barely aware of responding unconsciously to plane's imperceptible motions with preemptive microcorrections, but...

Fingers, toes knew when to make them...

Knew also when in position to begin turn from crosswind leg onto final...

Knew when to roll out of turn, lined up with makeshift runway...

Knew when to cross controls, induce slip to bleed off excess altitude...

Knew, from slight increase in airflow's gentle hissing sounds reflecting back from ground, and from almost imperceptible nose-up trim change with which ship announced settling into ground-effect, that wheels had begun groping for turf...

Knew, from ship's feel, from sounds, from location in picture in head, when moment came to ease back yoke, edge nose up, begin flare-out prior to simultaneous stall/touchdown...

Felt plane slow further...

Felt initial trembly signs of impending stall nibbling at controls...

Held Stallion poised in three-point touchdown attitude, allowed ship to begin gentle mushing downward through final few feet of ground-effect cushion to

—Darkly reddish world beneath eyelids turned intolerably, dazzlingly brilliant!

Could see every backlit capillary in eyelids, as well as actual outlines of bones in Danni's fingers gently resting over eyes, as...

Wheels brushed grass; gently at first, then more firmly as hauled yoke all the way back, inducing full stall. Immediately retracted flaps to kill balance of lift, bring ship's weight firmly down onto wheels.

Fed in rapid aileron corrections to keep wings level as we bounced, skipped awkwardly over uneven terrain, even as awful glare through eyelids seemed slowly to be fading.

Concentrated on maintaining straight rollout with gentle dabs at rudder pedals, clinging to mental orientation, image of our location on ground. Knew turn coming up, but worried about introducing possible destabilizing effects by misjudging rudder application, failing to apply independently toe-operated brakes evenly, until...

Danni lifted hand: “You can look now.” Glare may have been fading, but world that greeted eyes still was obscenely, jarringly bright. So intense was glare that light seemed reflected off air molecules, washing out shadows, somehow leaving nothing but almost painfully contrasty, black-and-white images; bright enough, in fact, to trigger momentary spate of blinking before vision cleared.

And then—amazing—physical location, direction, speed corresponded almost precisely with mental picture through which had been navigating: just approaching bend in runway, speed under control. Tapped brakes, added touch of rudder along with aileron for stability, negotiated curve cleanly (i.e., without groundlooping or snagging wingtip—always a plus).

Moments later, just before Stallion eased to halt, kicked rudder one last time, applied single brake, to pivot plane around inside wheel, swinging nose out away from cliff.

Then set parking brake. Because...

Only belatedly, during rollout, had occurred to Intrepid Girl Aviatrix: Fringes of atmospheric shock-wave might well curl down over cliff's edge, descend into valley in form of high-speed, horizontal-axised vortices, generating significant turbulence, which would be better dealt with, if such proved at all possible, head-on.

(Having survived all those load/drag/lift takeoff factors, not to mention potential excess-speed breakup dynamics, would have been embarrassing as well as fatal to get flipped over, “crash” while safely stopped on ground....)

As eased to halt, Danni leaned over, squeezed shoulder, kissed cheek; breathed, “Damn, you're good...."

Sigh of “You're welcome” may have come out sounding more heartfelt than intended. (Darn, another setback on road to Girl Scouting's coveted sang-froidiness merit badge.)

Momma Spook's left eye seemed tearier than normal; kept blinking asymmetrically, dabbing at it, but said nothing as turned to passengers. “Did we all manage to keep our eyes closed? Is anyone having trouble seeing now?” Paused for responses. “No? Wonderful."

Tasha released Maggie's eyes. BC turned, kissed girl's nose.

Then head snapped around; The Eye focused on elder sister, drilling home prefireball-cookie-promise reminder.

But at that moment, ground heaved beneath wheels. Stallion bounced, rocked, shuddered for long seconds; then motion tapered off as swaying ground slowed, became still once again.

"Right on time,” observed Danni dryly, glancing at watch. “Six seconds for 30 miles. Artificially generated, major-structure-leveling seismic waves have so few redeeming qualities, but they are punctual."

Tried not to react to dry silliness, but between sudden tension-release, then meeting Momma Spook's eyes—all was lost. Giggle born deep inside, ballooned outward; emerged as sputter, then whooping, rib-cracking, almost physically debilitating, convulsive belly-laugh as relief spilled over. For once, Danni's control equally fractured.

Kids had no idea what had come over us; Tasha, Katia, others began to look almost worried as laughing jag continued breathlessly, until—

Ding!

Marble-sized pebble impacting aluminum skin of fuselage's roof after 2,000-foot fall does generate curiously recognizably sound.

Journeyperson assassin, apprentice froze midgasp, -whoop, respectively. Eyes met again. Went round.

"Go!” snapped Danya—but Intrepid Girl Flying Ace already in motion: flipping switches, hitting starter, releasing brakes, pulling prop-pitch lever to low (i.e., maximum “traction") to encourage plane to begin taxiing away from cliff very first moment rpms reached useful thrust levels—

Even as first isolated harbingers of rain of stone jarred loose from cliff by aforementioned artificially generated, pseudotectonic event began thudding down all around us.

Fervently hoped none would strike propeller as turbine continued windup toward peak rpms: Doubted unyielding, high-speed, mineral impact would enhance blades’ symmetry, high-speed balance. If that happened, takeoff power setting probably would result in centrifugal imbalance failure: shedding prop blade, as first step in complete, catastrophic propeller disintegration—grounding us to wait for dark, invisibly glowing, ersatz snowfall.

Except for occasional deeper-toned bong!s from larger pebbles, stone shower on aluminum structure faintly reminiscent of rain on tin roof—until first house-sized chunk thundered into ground almost directly in front of us.

Stamped on right-rudder/brake pedal, felt plane rock clumsily as swerved to miss boulder, teetering back, forth on main gear. Left wingtip tank's underside actually scraped lightly across huge rock's upper surface; then left brake pivoted us back on course away from escarpment disintegrating astern.

Astonishingly, got clear of avalanche before primary rockfall arrived. Shortly thereafter, found selves stopped just over football field's length from cliff, staring wide-eyed back at massive jumble in horrified amazement.

At which point detonation's airborne, audible component arrived. Volume of nearly subsonic roar seemed to turn air solid. Ground trembled once more, Stallion's structure rattled dramatically in sympathetic vibration. All of us clapped hands over ears—all but Tasha, who attempted without notable success to retract head, hunch shoulders to provide own coverage, while nobly using hands to protect Maggie's ears.

Moments thereafter, shock wave roared past overhead, and, as guessed might happen, turbulence curled down over edge, swirled into valley, triggering brief flurry of disorganized wind gusts, which tugged momentarily at wings, control surfaces. Disturbance proved relatively minor: Plane rocked in place again for probably three seconds. No big whoop.

"Well,” sighed Danni as situation stabilized for third time, “that was stimulating."

Maggie disagreed; multiple excitement doses had in no way distracted BC's attention from promised cookie. The Eye intensified. Dog jumped down from Tasha's lap, sat up between seats, put front feet on big sister's leg, stared.

Okay then; commitments must be honored. Again set parking brake, shut down engine. Unbuckled harness, slid from seat, headed astern.

Retrieved unopened freeze-dried liver canister, broke seals, popped off lid. Had promised her only cookie, singular; however, math skills in general not BCS’ forte, plus had behaved so well under trying circumstances, not to mention payment delayed by avalanche/noise/ wind, relented, gave her several.

As closed, set down container, noted children eyeing it with predatory interest—however, within moments, freeze-dried-but-unmistakably-raw-liver whiff reached them; whereupon, interest abated. Had, after all, access to my onboard people-food stores—not to mention nearly 300 pounds of Maggie's holistic/organic, hypoallergenic dog food, which all had sampled back at campsite, found acceptable.

(Hmm, 300 pounds’ dead weight which could have been discarded during—or perhaps more constructively before—overgross takeoff panic ... Which never occurred to Intrepid Girl Flying Ace. Really is hard to get good help.)

In fact, at that point noted open bag lying on deck in very aftmost starboard corner. Had been half full when Foster sibs departed plane to commence rescue op; likewise upon return. Now visibly empty.

(Sighed: Hoped canine dietary supplementation wouldn't lead to pack of kids who had to turn around three times before lying down, sniffed new acquaintances with impolitic familiarity, perhaps “marked” trees—or even furniture....)

At which point experienced sudden flash of guilt—followed by jolt of grief: Realized hadn't thought about Daddy even once since battle in woods. Prayed Kazimirov really had put pére straight on plane—hoped even more intensely plane had gotten off in time. Wondered where, what Meyrin was—hoped had heard “Meyrin” correctly.

Curiously, at that point realized that, despite fact that thermonukes had killed hundreds, maybe even thousands of Khraniteli within, at, in vicinity of Serdtsevina Rasovyi, which toll surely dwindles into insignificance own recent efforts with bare hands, personal weapons, apparently not going to be wracked with separate overlay of guilt concerning causative role.

Yes, did indeed contribute to bringing on turnabout holocaust. But my people didn't start this. Neither did we choose all-or-nothing stakes: Unsuccessful genocidal aggressors have little standing to complain when plans backfire.

In this case, in most literal sense.

Besides, weapons on that scale simply too vast, too impersonal; connection to own activities too remote—whole monstrous business too cataclysmic to activate sense of personal responsibility.

(Of course, given history, eventually Plucky Savior of Our People no doubt will figure out some way to feel guilty over relief lack of guilt engenders.)

"Outfalling, how long to being here?” Very small boy, whose name had never had occasion to ascertain, looked up from Maggie-tummy-scritching detail. Viewed lad with borderline amazement: Would have thought too young even to grasp concept. Then realized had fallen into trap of using H. sapiens’ perspective, among whom mostly had grown up, to judge hominem child. Wondered how many of own prior-to-Doomsday peers had made similar mistakes with regard to self. (Or even current peers...)

More importantly, however, question brought Plucky Girl Aviatrix back to here/now; reminded her might not be worst idea to get on with dumping excess fuel, getting back into air, before further unforeseen complications could arise.

Performed quick weight/balance review in head. Decided to empty Lennel's custom fuselage tank. Dumping 135 gallons it contained would reduce load by 945 pounds, which should restore design-spec performance, and then some.

Exited with Maggie listening, sniffing; Danni guarding backs, freshly reloaded sniper rifle in hand. Mind-directed Maggie to nearby comfort bushes for preemptive relief prior to beginning first leg of flight home.

Glanced back at cliff; experienced momentary shiver as took in massive rockfall now obscuring base. Largest accumulation centered more or less where Stallion had been parked only moments before.

Shook off mood. As favorite violence coach fond of saying, “What doesn't kill you makes you more alert.” Or was that revengeful? Or merely paranoid....

Slid under fuselage, opened valve; watched Jet-A gush out onto ground. Managed then to drum up modicum of guilt over nonrenewable fuel waste, local hydrocarbon pollution. Soothed psyche, however, by reminding self that nothing we did here could compare with what had just taken place 30 miles east.

Small comfort: “Yeah—but you should see the mess Vladislav made...."

Presently flow dwindled to trickle. Closed valve. Adjourned back inside.

Tasha joined Katia, Maggie, other children in back. With Danni now serving as copilot, Plucky Girl Flying Ace once again fired up turbine, trimmed for takeoff, aligned ship with openest stretch of ground (i.e., boasting lowest big boulder count), brought power up to maximum, released brakes, conducted textbook short/soft-field takeoff: Kept tail low both to minimize noseover potential as power forced big, soft, main gear tires through open sand traps, bounced us over smaller rocks, as well as to maintain wings at optimum angle-of-attack, to get us airborne just as soon as physicsly possible.

And sure enough, just as manual promised, after little more than hundred yards of wallowing, jolting over fundamentally uncooperative terrain, Stallion shrugged off “surly bonds,” etc., pointed nose at blue sky, accelerated to maximum angle-of-climb speed, clawed its way up out of ravine.

As cleared rim, towering mushroom cloud, still roiling inexorably skyward, drew eyes like magnet. Younger children's excited chatter, begun during scary-fun excitement of bumpy takeoff roll, died instantly. Even very youngest recognized how terrible an event had just taken place—and how close we all had come to being at very heart of it.

Great circle course for home led nearly straight through Khraniteli's pyre, but didn't have to be told to give ghastly column widest possible berth. Wispy fringes drifting out from center revealed which way bulk of fallout drifting; we went very much other way.

Finally, after nearly 75-mile detour, were able to lay in course for home. And found self seized by sudden attack of homesickness. Wanted Daddy, but in enforced absence, craved bosom of family; had accumulated serious hug deficit.

So decided to pass go, not bother with $200—plus just got out of jail. Decided as well not drop in for visit en route at Father Toys’ hominem community. Would be lovely to see him again, but after things settle down, AAs can follow-up, establish contact; let him know new young friend's Quixotic quest had turned out at least partially well.

Planned merely to retrace path (Plucky Girl Aviatrix nothing if not creature of habit), though of course would be stopping more frequently for fuel. For first leg, set GPS to take us straight to Surgut, on River Ob. Even with 135-gallon reduction in useful fuel capacity, range ample to reach destination with roughly two-hour fuel margin.

Switched on autopilot; and finally able to sit back, look around, relax—cautiously speculate whether cautiously speculating whether worst was over might, all by itself, jinx us.

Sighed at own silliness. Glanced over shoulder at passengers; then looked across at Danni, observed, “It's going to be a long ride home. Without the big tank, our cruising range is cut by about a third. But even more importantly, with this mob, we're going to have to stop frequently, for food, water, and ... uh ... comfort. That little potty back there isn't going to accommodate all these kids very long between dumps."

Mentor smiled back cozily. Expression suggested might be enjoying private joke. “It may not take as long as you think,” she replied. Smile had acquired feline qualities; got impression of metaphoric feathers tangled in imaginary whiskers.

Mystery not long unraveling, however: Even as speculated about Danni's smug attitude, wondered about enigmatic comment's genesis, noticed favorite violence mentor suddenly looking past apprentice, slightly behind me, out side windows—just as Tasha's softly awed tones could be heard from rear: "Whoa..."

And cockpit abruptly darkened.

Volume XV

Tracking Tracker Tracked

Head snapped around...

Few manmade objects loom larger, more impressively than C-17—unexpectedly discovered pulling up close alongside, slowing to maintain formation, huge ship's wing substantially overlapping own whole airplane.

As spun open-mouthed back to Danni, saw second Globemaster slowing grandly to relative stop on other side, then holding station.

Eyes surely bugged at sight—to this point, Danni had offered no hint AAs here in force. If had thought at all, assumed she had come by herself to retrieve errant apprentice. Paired C-17s triggered instant, hugely guilty realization of just how much effort must have been expended on Idiot Girl Runaway's behalf.

For briefest moment, wondered how AAs had found us so quickly in air, but once again mentor justified widespread mindreading suspicions: Held up satellite phone, from just above keypad of which green on LED glowed. “You called them?"

"No. I was going to, of course, once I got around to it. But, as you know, actually calling has never been necessary."

Belatedly, Danni noted apprentice's uncomprehending expression. Blinked, eyed me with astonishment. “No fooling? You mean you didn't know these things are GPS-tracking enabled? We thought you shut them off outbound because you were afraid we'd use them to locate you and reel you back in."

Didn't quite scuff toe on decking as admitted, “No; I just didn't want anybody calling and making me feel even guiltier about taking the plane and running off on my own."

"And I so would have,” Danni replied, cocking unconvincingly disapproving brow. “I turned it on as soon as we reached the plane. Except for the few minutes I had it shut off to avoid EMP damage, Teacher's known right where we were.

"Thanks to Terry and Lisa, of course, they've been keeping up-to-date on your progress, so they knew when to put down at an airfield and shut everything off until the EMP had passed. But immediately thereafter, as you see, they came looking for us."

Sheepishly, tech-challenged Plucky Special-Ops Girl turned back to window. Even with Globemaster's colossal fuselage just under hundred feet away, reflections on portholes not helpful in resolving details behind them; still, pretty sure recognized many beloveds’ faces peering out.

Satphone rang.

Flinched; eyed it as if likely to bite. Figuratively, at least, probably was.

Danni hit talk, eyed me smugly as quipped, “Smith-Foster Invasions; castles stormed, dragons slain, innocents rescued...” Mentor listened two seconds; then smile intensified, condensing into downright wicked grin. “It's for you," she said pointedly, handing over phone.

Hesitancy with which accepted instrument probably would not have increased markedly had phone actually been ticking. Still, music had to be faced. Eventually.

"Hello?"

"You," breathed Adam testily, “got some 'splainin' to do...."

C-17s cruise at 450 knots. In fact, slowing to match Stallion's 188-knot cruise had required fair degree of attention on part of big-tin pilots during brief formation link-up. Unsurprisingly, Globemasters got to agreed-upon Surgut rendezvous nearly an hour before us.

Which meant, of course, by the time we got there, entire rescue-of-rescue expedition complement standing outside on tarmac, waiting, watching for Intrepid Girl Aviatrix to arrive in stolen plane.

Audience included Scott, Kenny, Bill—and Lennel....

Not to imply that mere fact entire population of AAs’ top flying aces (including very own flight instructor) would be observing impending landing created any additional layers of self-consciousness in Intrepid Girl Flying Ace...

Okay, okay—stop hounding me! Yes, Posterity, under drug-augmented, torture-based interrogation, might be forced to admit to taking a little extra care in setting up professional-quality, precision approach to perfectly executed three-point landing; nailing greased-on touchdown at point along runway such that, as plane slowed without needing to resort to crude use of brakes, gentlest dab at rudder pedal sufficed to initiate graceful, dignified turnoff from runway onto specific taxiway leading to AAs’ parked ships by directestmost route. Taxied up to giant transports parked by fuel island; used differential braking to rotate ship smoothly around inside main-gear wheel.

Though not even pretending to be unaware of apprentice's insecurity-driven motivations, Danni watched with approving smile as eased ship to halt exactly halfway between big planes, prop spinner precisely on line defined by Globemasters’ nose radar domes.

All right, mentor could tell. But didn't care. Felt it not unreasonable to anticipate certain amount of criticism lay in immediate future—but damn well would not include Plucky Girl Aviatrix's flying....

Would have loved to have blended invisibly with crowd as kids flooded from Stallion, but not to be. Just as, by unspoken consent, crowd outside inconspicuously parted like Red Sea to let Teacher be first to greet us (more specifically, me), Danya, kids, even Maggie, all held back to let Guilty Party out door first.

Sighed. Swung door open, jumped down. Turned to face Teacher. Expected more-sorrow-than-anger expression, possibly even (considering magnitude of offense) gentle reproof.

Instead (notwithstanding two-week-shower-free personal bouquet), prodigal found self enveloped in beloved leader's arms, hugged until oxygen situation approached critical. Eventually, after drawing back slightly, Teacher looked deeply, soulfully into eyes; then: “Candy, I am so sorry. If only we had gotten here in time, we might have been able to help you get Marshall out.” Hugged again, then handed off to next in line—

Adam ... For long moments, favorite only boyfriend in whole wide world held wayward squeeze by shoulders, offering hairy-eyeball glare from beneath thunderous brows. Then gave single token shake—and suddenly he, too, yanked me to him, wrapped arms around me, hugged as if planned never to let go.

Finally, however, did pull back (a little). Deliberately then, very gently, cuffed Intrepid Special-Ops Girl up back of head; murmured, “If you ever do anything as idiotic as this again"—paused for long moments, regarding me with haunted-looking eyes before finally continuing—"without me..."

Then kissed me, firmly if briefly; handed off to mob's next subset, consisting of rest of adopted family: Kim, Gayle, Lisa—and Terry!

Birdbrained sibling positively launched from Lisa's shoulder, leaping to own; began head-diving, cheek-rubbing, doing frustrated best to initiate snuggle amidst chaos, all the while babbling, “Hel-lo, baby! What'cha doo-in'? How 'bout that. You're so icky-pooh bad!", etc.; while nonfeathered family members hugged, sniffled, contributed to chorus of sympathetic murmurs over having Daddy so unfairly, last-secondly plucked from grasp—as object of massed attention promptly dissolved all over them.

With whatever brain cells could spare, had worried occasionally during mission about how to deal with situation if Terry, Maggie failed to hit it off. Concern proved unwarranted.

Upon first meeting, Maggie focused The Eye upon featherheaded baby brother with every evidence of interest, desire to intimidate. Terry's response was to stand very tall, stare down at new, four-legged, Type A-personality sibling from vantage point of eldest sister's shoulder, first with one eye, then other; finally clicked beak firmly, suggestively, just once. Sounded very much like firecracker.

At that point, some sort of communication apparently took place; because as Maggie's tail resumed normal, delighted-at-everything cadence, birdbrain bobbed head cheerfully, said, “How 'bout that."

Which was last anyone worried about them. In fact, an hour later, Terry was dozing one-legged on Maggie's shoulder as BC lay at Lisa's side (being stroked, scritched), watching with fascination as AAs swirled about all three planes, refueling, servicing, etc.

Volume XVI

Grownups’ Table

Okay, Posterity; now that (sigh) Two-Time Plucky Savior of Our People has had modest interval to shower (hot water!—buy stock; it's going to catch on); catch several hours’ coma-level sleep in actual (clean!) bed; be duly lionized at Adam-catered fete-together (at which almost got teary again, watching prison camp kids’ faces glow upon learning The True Meaning of Food); digest events (i.e., swallow bitter taste of, face responsibility for, almost rescuing Daddy—did hell-bent determination to prosecute solo mission carry seeds of own downfall? [on upside, didn't die this time, not even once]); take first baby steps toward coming to grips with all those killings; wallow in warm-fuzzy satisfaction of having rescued kids; as well as pleasant afterglow from visiting Father Toys en route home after all (with promise of further contact, commerce between settlements)—it's back to business as usual.

Equally as usual, first step: Bringing current journal up-to-date. And very first commentary in own hand (following marvelously complete, detail-rich Terry: Lisa-plus-Kim/Danya sections) simply has to be inaugural entry in your Humble Historiographer's new thesis-in-progress: Life's (Real) Operant Principles. Still mulling whether work should be endnote/addendum to The Journals of the Life & Times of Candy Smith-Foster, Plucky Girl Adventurer, or bud off to form independent monograph. Guess depends upon how many (Real) Operant Principles turn up.

But here's first: One can get away with anything, so long as manage to save world in process.

Remarkably, not one cross word uttered on subject of stealing plane, weapons, tools, supplies; dragging entire Mt. Palomar special-forces group—replete with associated support personnel, two huge aircraft, tons of matériel—more than third the way around world just to save Quixotic Girl Adventurer from consequences of own headstrong folly.

Initially, scale of AAs’ operation quite took breath away, nearly smothered Yours Truly in self-inflicted guilt. Of course, that was before Danya got around to updating brash, frequently-more-trouble-than-she's-worth apprentice regarding Teacher's revised threat-elimination schedule: Massive effort wasn't entirely All About Me.

Just mostly.

At least according to Lisa, only member of party willing initially to part with uneditorialized summary of events. Even now, while haven't heard so much as single word of overt criticism, most grownups, to greater/lesser degree, varying by individual, do seem under compulsion to slip in subtle message about wisdom/benefits of Working Together For Common Good, not to mention (just incidentally), My Own Good, when commiserating with would-be Daddy-rescuer over bad luck.

All except—surprise!—Danni, who, after reflection, quietly opined that primary mission's failure not blanket indictment of Plucky Special-Ops Girl's solitariness per se. Even if she had caught up to me the day before, mentor observed, outcome likely would have been the same. Simply too many unfavorable, unpredictable, uncontrollable elements, all converging at wrong place/time. Some problems, she confided, don't have a solution.

Probably this sounded more comforting inside her head....

Adam, however, though has forgiven me for not taking him along, still watching me like Maggie keeping eye on known rogue sheep; clearly worried that, given slightest excuse, will go haring off on another private crusade.

And, to be fair, had every intention of doing just that at earliest opportunity, if AAs failed promptly to follow-up on Meyrin clue. However, since returning to fold, have been invited to every strategy session with Teacher, Wallace, Danni, Peter, other AA special-forces operatives.

And presence not merely palliative, token, cosmetic: Very first time in attendance, asked to present briefing concerning activities, observations, conclusions. Teacher particularly interested in subjective impressions of opposition; details beyond those included in journal.

On occasions when have risen to ask question, contribute observation, suggestion, discussions that follow give every impression of consideration at least as serious as those that attend Danni's, Wallace's, other senior operatives’ input.

Mostly, however, been sitting quietly, listening, thinking.

Been doing lots of thinking.

Meyrin, f'rinstance ... Most AAs, original and/or adopted, seem agreed, probably refers to small Swiss village by that name, hardly more than bedroom community, where many CERN personnel lived when off-duty.

Makes ominous sort of sense: Khraniteli perpetually on trail of ever higher-tech Ultimate Solutions to eliminate problem represented by existence of everyone else, but particularly evolutionary successors. Clearly, therefore, one of previous civilization's largest concentrations of scientific research facilities, established in support of world's second-biggest particle-accelerator laboratory, sure to contain resources applicable to numerous lines of inquiry directed toward that end.

Plus, like all things Swiss (publicly, at least), Meyrin thermonuclear-warhead-free zone. Theoretically makes ideal location to put Daddy back to work hunting for/assembling hominem-eating superbugs under close supervision, without raising specter of consequences of allowing sudden-death-in-a-lab-coat (or so Khraniteli now believe—tee-hee) Doctor Superspook access to Big Bangs.

Regardless, as close as Khraniteli have come to wiping us out in past, seems to me last thing we need is to allow them to spend significant alone-time in facilities with potential to develop yet another doomsday bomb, hominem-physiology-specific bug or death-ray, or some equally armageddonous toy.

In my view, presence of Khraniteli at CERN alone, quite independent of Daddy-retrieval issue, should mandate immediate departure on recovery/housecleaning mission, if for no other reason than to drive ever-scheming, genocidal monsters the hell out of there—or just blow whole thing up after saving Daddy, if conservative pest control deemed impractical. Yet AAs persist in thoughtful approach; only activities evident at this point are information-gathering, review, planning, etc.—i.e., talk.

All of which creates ethical dilemma: On one hand, since clearly being regarded/treated now as adult equal, would seem to have equally clear obligation to behave adultly. Can't just bail, run own op, merely because others’ ranking of priorities may not match Berserker Special-Ops Girl's view of situation, not to mention differing opinions on timetable, strategy, tactics.

Regardless how indefensibly wrong their position is.

I mean, if did that, what would Danni say?

On other hand, when exigent circumstances arose, isn't that exactly what mayhem guru did herself ... ?

Hmm. Never anticipated becoming grownup would be so complicated....

Copyright (c) 2008 David R. Palmer

Galaxy Blues, Allen Steele, Ace, $24.95, 322 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-441-01564-1).

The Automatic Detective, A. Lee Martinez, Tor, $14.95, 317 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1834-3).

Dragons Wild, Robert Asprin, Ace, $14.00, 361 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-441-01470-5).

A World Too Near, Kay Kenyon, Pyr, $25.00, 423 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59102-642-6).

Tigerheart, Peter David, Del Rey, $22.00, 302 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-345-50159-2).

The Martian General's Daughter, Theodore Judson, Pyr, $15.00, 234 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59102-643-3).

Grease Monkey, Tim Eldred, Tor, $19.95, 352 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1326-3).

The Dragon Done It, Eric Flint and Mike Resnick, eds., Baen Books, $24.00, 402 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-4165-5528-5).

The Other Roosevelts, Mike Resnick, Subterranean Press, $35.00, 204 pp.

Allen Steele's Coyote trilogy began with the idea that in the not-too-distant future, the US turned thoroughly into the night of the religious right, giving a Department of Internal Security the powers of East Germany's erstwhile stasi or the Soviet KGB, and interning dissident intellectuals (DIs), meaning any scientist, university faculty member, or educated person who dared to question the party line. The tyrants said they had brought America back to its roots, its true self, but the Bill of Rights was no more. If one felt that Steele was using SF to point a finger at current trends, one was quite right. In the real world, we have elections to give us hope of change. In his, elections were a thing of the past and there was no hope. But ... Starship Alabama was about to launch, and the DIs managed to hijack it and settle the world of Coyote free of tyranny. And when the folks back home eventually sent more ships to bring the rebels back under thumb, they licked ‘em (see Coyote Rising, reviewed here in May 2005).

So now Coyote is free and independent and in touch with the alien hjadd civilization. But the tyrants remain back on Earth. Galaxy Blues begins with Jules Truffaut, who has been booted from Earth's space corps, but knows the ropes well enough to sneak off under another name and eventually stow away rather cleverly on a Coyote-bound ship. He plans to claim political asylum, but first he has to get there. Alas, he is caught, and though he manages to steal a lifeboat and land safely, now his primary status is criminal, not refugee. Deportation looms.

Billionaire Morgan Goldstein offers an out: Join him as shuttle pilot on a trading voyage to the aliens, hauling bales of pot (for sale as a culinary herb) there and bringing back a cargo of—Goldstein hopes and plans—hypervaluable alien technology. The ship is captained by Ted Harker, who with his wife Emily, was one of the humans who once made the first alien contact (see Spindrift, reviewed November 2007). The crew also includes Ash, a telepath whom Goldstein expects to provide an advantage in trade dealings; since Ash can't stand other folks’ thoughts, he spends a lot of time drunk and/or noodling around on his guitar (whence the book's title). There's also Rain, a young woman Jules finds appealing; according to Ash, she finds him appealing too and if they just had the sense to say something about it to each other...

The trip out goes smoothly and the alien civilization proves quite astonishing enough to satisfy any jaded SF reader. But it wouldn't be much of a novel if the characters didn't run into obstacles. Jules manages to screw things up so badly that the hjadd demand an atonement that—if Hollywood ever bites on this series—will produce as astounding a visual as any movie has ever managed.

Do Jules and Rain manage to get together? You are Astute Readers. I don't have to tell you anything more than that this one should satisfy all fans of the series and draw a few more readers in.

A. Lee Martinez has been setting a pattern for himself. He grabs a piece of the SF&F field, identifies common tropes, and then quite lovingly sends them over the top. He's done it with zombies, ogres, and witches, and now it's time for robots and mutants and alien invasions, along with the hard-boiled detective yarn. Meet The Automatic Detective, Mack Megaton, who wouldn't mind a bit if you boiled him in oil, he's so tough! I wouldn't mind it either, if I were built like him. He was designed as a military robot, capable of taking large amounts of abuse and dishing out even more, but then he went and developed a conscience and the Freewill Glitch. Since he lives in Empire City, a battered techno-utopia populated by humans and robots, as well as loads of mutants, thanks to all the mutagens in the local pollution, he's now a probationary citizen (even though if people weren't worried that he could run amok at any moment, he'd be a full citizen with all rights and privileges thereunto appertaining). He works as a cabby, but that is about to end. The folks next door, a human family consisting of Julie (who kindly ties Mack's bowtie for him every morning), Gavin (a not too useful fellow), and a couple of cute mutant kids, April (psychic) and Holt (scales and tail), get abducted, and the only clue is a drawing April hands him. On the back, which he doesn't look at till later, she has written, “Find us."

And Mack is off to track down and interrogate low-life scum, hook up with Lucia, a genius who keeps him supplied with technical gadgets Batman would love, take enormous amounts of damage, and eventually discover the real reason why Empire City exists and is such a mess to boot. In the end all makes sense, and Mack has done such a great job that he really can't be just a cabby any more. So he pushes his fedora back over his brow, winks at his sexy receptionist, and waits for a blonde to step into the office...

A fun read.

Robert Asprin changes pace with Dragons Wild. It's not punny like the Myth books, or jolly like the Phule's Company tales. It is instead a coming-of-age story in a world much like our own, at least on the surface. Meet orphan Griffen “Grifter” McCandles. He has just graduated from college by the skin of his teeth, having preferred partying and playing poker (he wins) to studying. Now it's time to look for a job. First stop: Uncle Malcolm, who paid his tuition and now says that he did so because he felt responsible for Griff's parents’ deaths. Not that he caused them, you understand, but he did nothing to prevent them. And by the way, boy, what do you know about dragons?

Big, mythical, fly, breathe fire, right? Wrong on all but one, says Uncle as he breathes out a flame to light his cigar, and you're one of us. Since your parents were nearly pureblooded dragons, you're even rather special, and there are lots of dragon clans out there that will try either to recruit you or kill you. Want to join up with me right now, or do you need some time to think about it?

This is nuts, thinks Griff, so time it is. And soon thereafter he begins to see what Uncle meant about recruit or kill. Fortunately, a school buddy, Jerome, offers another option. They can collect Griff's sister Valerie from her school and go down to New Orleans, where Mose heads up a bottom-of-the-heap dragon clan, runs a gambling operation, and wants to join (not recruit) Griff. Griff, they think, has the potential to move them up the heap. Well, maybe, if the assassin known as the George, who announces his presence by slipping tarot cards under his victim's door, doesn't kill him first.

From here you can surely see where the story has to go, but there are some things you just can't predict. Dragons are hungry for power and wealth, but Griff's motives seem to be a bit different. As he takes over Mose's operation, he uses wit and a light hand to deal with problems, and before long other gambling ops are signing up with his. By the end we see that his appeal is spreading beyond New Orleans too, and all I will tell you is that you should keep an eye on his girlfriends. Plural, right, and Jerome warns early on that you don't want to get crosswise between female dragons. That's what produced the San Francisco earthquake, the Chicago fire, and perhaps—in a future book of the series—Hurricane Katrina (I'm guessing, but New Orleans is intact in this novel; Asprin has to catch up with current events somehow).

I enjoyed it, and I'm looking forward to the rest of the series.

Kay Kenyon's A World Too Near, sequel to Bright of the Sky, feels like the middle volume it is. It promises much, but delivers little in the way of resolution.

Bright introduced Titus Quinn, once a starship captain who, with his wife and daughter, was sucked into a parallel universe, the Entire. He alone returned, but his memories were spotty and no one believed him, despite the mystery of how he got from where he disappeared to where he turned up. He became a batty recluse. But his one-time corporate masters learned more and came back to him, believing. They offered him a chance to go back, hoping to find a way to exploit the Entire. It took a manipulative villainess, Helice Maki, to make him agree, but he did. Before long he was learning about the Entire, a universe ruled by the monstrous Tarig who discovered it eons ago and filled it with copies of beings from our universe, the Rose. He learned where his daughter was, and he found a message left by his wife, revealing that the Tarig have built a monstrous Engine that will devour the entire Rose to fuel the continued existence of the Entire. And then he had to flee, bearing the warning homeward.

Now he's going back, armed with an ankle bracelet loaded with nanotech disassemblers designed to put paid to that Rose-threatening Engine. Alas, Helice Maki manages to go with him, and she has her own agenda. Titus makes his first mistake when he does not let her be killed at the start. And then they are off, looking for old friends, wary of old enemies, heading for Ahnenhoon, where the great Engine awaits its fate.

Meanwhile, Titus's daughter Sydney has regained her sight and is gathering the telepathic Inyx herds to plot an overthrow of the Tarig powers. Step one is to use the Inyx powers to discover the truth about who or what the Tarig are and then rat them out in lucid dreams sent to all the sentients of the Entire. She also is angry at Titus for not rescuing her earlier, and now she sends an assassin after him.

Titus's wife Joanna is at Ahnenhoon, where she is now the companion and lover of the Tarig master of the Engine. Yet she prays that Titus got her message and will come to save the Rose. Toward that end she plots and maneuvers.

And Titus is on his way. But as must be expected, he does find old friends, including Anzi, whom he could love in quieter times and if he did not crave Joanna, and new allies. The Entire is a world all its own, as much to be treasured as the Rose, and he is vastly troubled when Helice tells him his bracelet is defective: it will not destroy just the Engine, but all the Entire, strangers and friends, himself and his wife and his daughter. The choices before him are agonizingly stark. He must choose one world to save, the Rose or the Entire, one set of friends and loved ones or another.

Kenyon tosses at him a hint of other options. Perhaps that is what prompts him to the only choice that allows—nay, demands!—a third volume in the series, when the dilemma will finally be resolved.

Peter David's Tigerheart is a thoughtful examination of the classic Peter Pan story. David's tale takes Pan as backdrop; Peter, the boy who never grew up, is The Boy; Captain Hook is Captain Hack; Tinkerbelle is Fiddlefix; Wendy is Gwenny; Neverland is the Anyplace. The tale is told to Paul Dear, a boy whose mother has a baby girl who dies. The tragedy drives Paul's father from the house. Mama withdraws into deep sadness, distancing herself from her son.

And that son conceives a plan: He will, with the aid of ex-pirates living in his town, retrieve and revive Fiddlefix and travel to Anyplace to find a baby girl to make his mother happy again. So off he goes, to discover that The Boy is a supreme egotist and that when one acts out of concern for others, one is well on the way to growing up. The tale is darker than ever was the original, and the authorial voice is intended to make one feel that the author is sitting before you, telling the tale. But that voice feels so self-conscious that it succeeds in only a limited way.

Overall, it's a thoughtful piece of work, as I said. It's amusing, and in the end it is even very truthfully poignant. When Paul discovers that, if one can only accept it, one can have one's cake and eat it too, the reader—the grown-up one, at least, who if he or she is reading this surely retains contact with the child he or she was long years before—nods and smiles in agreement.

The Glory that Was Rome has drawn the attention of a great many novelists in SF and fantasy, who have used it for the templates of new worlds and grand adventures. A few have drawn upon those times when the depraved and bloodthirsty Emperors Claudius, Nero, and Caligula ruled. But most have chosen to ignore the later period when the Empire fell, when provinces fell away, when emperors came and went as with the seasons. Theodore Judson goes some way toward relieving that lack with The Martian General's Daughter. The scene is Earth nearly three centuries hence. There is an empire, rooted in North America but capitoled in Mexico City, renamed Garden City. The general of the title is Peter Justice Black, who has risen from sergeant to become one of the staunchest of the empire's supporters. He is accompanied by his illegitimate daughter and amanuensis, Justa.

Peter and Justa are present when the last good emperor, Mathias the Glistening, dies and leaves the empire to his son, Luke Anthony, who combines the worst aspects of Claudius, Nero, and Caligula. Because Peter has a reputation for blunt honesty and loyalty and remains above the many conspiracies that would enlist him, they manage to survive Luke's reign, and even that of his successor. The book is Justa's chronicle of her father's career, of survival in a world overtaken by madness and losing all its technologies to a nanotechnological plague that destroys things made of metal. Toward the end, which begins the book, they are on Mars, and an anti-emperor conspirator is making overtures; because the conspirator brought the plague, they must return to Earth hurriedly, before their spaceships fail. Once there, Black must hurry to fight a pretender to the throne. To tell how he reached this point, Judson relies on repeated flashbacks, telling the tale of an empire in decline due to loss of technology and a plague of emperors and bureaucrats who think only of lining their pockets and indulging their whims for murder and rape.

The tale is one of steadfast loyalty and responsibility in a world to which such virtues have become foreign. The general, says Justa, is the last of his kind. However, she does seem to recognize that a time for such men will come again.

It's a cliché to say that history is cyclical. There'll never be another Roman Empire, though there may be extensive hegemonies such as that of the present-day United States, which is sometimes likened to an empire. It takes no great insight to say that the American empire will not last forever (though saying so may offend some people). We can thus read this novel as an allegorical forecast of the fall of the American empire in part because of the proliferation of venal, self-interested predators. I wish I could say that the allegory is completely unbelievable.

Tim Eldred's Grease Monkey derives from an early ‘90s comic that got pitched to TV and film before becoming a graphic novel that is a genuine pleasure to read. The back-story is that evil aliens visited Earth, trashed the joint, along with sixty percent of humanity, and left. Fortunately, another group came along soon after and offered to help us get back on our feet so we could help keep the bad guys from trashing other joints. The help included raising gorillas to sentience, which is where Mac Gimbensky, ace mechanic on the Fist of Earth space station, came from. And ace he is, for Barbara's Barbarians is the space fighter squadron he takes loving care of, and they are number one in the standings.

So meet Robin Plotnik, cadet, just arriving on the Fist of Earth for training as a fighter maintenance assistant. Natch, he's assigned to Mac, and everyone takes pains to get him thoroughly scared of the ferocious ape. Except Mac isn't that bad. He takes his work seriously, he expects Robin to do the same, and if he spoke with a Scots accent, he'd fit right in with all the other classic tropes, some of which are right here, from the fellow cadet who's more interested in making money than in work, to the gal whom Robin can't speak his heart to and therefore loses. And don't forget the admiral, who definitely has a soft spot in her heart for Mac, even if duty does keep interrupting their dates. (If you think there should be rules against cross-rank fraternization, don't say a word. Arguing with one 600-pound gorilla is a bad idea. Arguing with two ... ‘Nuff said, eh?)

Fun stuff. Enjoy!

Both Eric Flint and Mike Resnick have edited mystery anthologies, so perhaps it should surprise no one that they have gotten together to do The Dragon Done It. The book leads off with a brand new John Justin Mallory (he of Stalking the Unicorn) by Resnick, and closes with “The Witch's Murder,” by Flint and Dave Freer. In between those two, you'll find seventeen more tales of hard-boiled detectives, dragons, vampires, and many more eldritch heroes and villains by the likes of Neil Gaiman, Ron Goulart, Esther Friesner, Richard Parks, Randall Garrett, Harry Turtledove, and Gene Wolfe. Some of it's played straight, some of it's played for yucks, but how can you not love a book where you can find out the truth about Hansel and Gretel? According to Friesner, the witch is a private eye when Gretel shows up in the office wanting help finding out what's happened to her brother, Gunsel, er, Hansel.

Way back in 1991, Mike Resnick published the first of his Teddy Roosevelt stories, “Bully.” The conceit was that TR took seriously a half-joking suggestion by an ivory poacher that he civilize Africa, bringing it Democracy and the American Dream (as of circa 1910). A century's education in post-colonial humility makes the outcome predictable, especially to those readers who did not snooze through the graduate seminar called Iraq, but this was very much Resnick's point. He takes a jollier tack when he sets TR to tracking down Jack the Ripper, hunting Wellsian Martians in Cuba, dispatching a Manhattan vampire, and more. He has taken great delight in imagining TR in various alternate-history scenarios and even in arguing (in the introduction) that it is all quite fitting, for TR was as enormously talented and energetic as many a pulp hero.

So order a copy of The Other Roosevelts. If Resnick stories aren't true, they are true-to-life, or at least true-to-character. Enjoy.

Copyright (c) 2008 Tom Easton

Next month (our November issue) we begin another mind-stretching serial by Robert J. Sawyer, with a cover by George Krauter. In Wake, the term “mind-stretching,” often heard in connection with science fiction, applies a bit more literally than usual, with several minds stretching themselves—and each other—in literally unprecedented ways. All minds operate under limitations, which can be overcome by a variety of means; but probably all of those approaches have one thing in common. And the possibilities extend very far out, in ways both exhilarating and terrifying....

We'll also have stories by Paul Levinson, Carl Frederick, Richard A. Lovett, Alan Dean Foster, and Stephen L. Burns. The fact article, “The 3D Train Wreck,” comes from our own book reviewer of thirty years, Thomas A. Easton, wearing his other hat as practicing scientist. The title notwithstanding, it has nothing to do with trains, but everything to do with the social and economic disruption likely to result as “3D printing” becomes an important means of making all kinds of things. But that kind of train wreck, at least in the long run,

Dear Dr. Schmidt:

Your commentary on the evolution of “need” in writers’ equipment stuck a chord, and illustrated just how elastic the concept of need can be. In my case, the availability of computers and the Internet had quite an unexpected effect: it played an essential part in enabling me to write publishable fiction at all.

You may or may not be acquainted with the novel 1632 and the writers’ community that grew out of it. There's an active forum on the Baen web server, where techies and writers gather to debate the tech background and beat each others’ stories into shape.

After I read the first three books a year ago, I started following the discussion and thrashing out some of the engineering details for work in progress. (The 1632 universe is the hardest science fiction I've ever heard of, except for the time displacement event that starts it all, every bit of the science and technology is absolutely real.) Well, a few of the crowd started pestering me to write a story or two, and I had no idea at all of how to do that, or any idea that I could write anything besides a technical manual. But they kept after me, so finally I checked a couple of books on writing out of the library, and got an idea for a short-short—which I wrote a draft of and uploaded.

What happened next would have been inconceivable without the Internet. Professional criticism came back from several people within half a day. I rewrote and posted again the same day. More criticism. More rewriting. On the fourth draft, in less than a week from a cold start, it was accepted for publication in Grantville Gazette. If I'd been submitting paper manuscripts by mail to a conventional magazine's slush pile, with only the editor and maybe a paid reader looking at it, I think I'd have been lucky to get that kind of advice in four years, let alone four days.

Second story, basically the same thing happened. The cycle was somewhat longer, because there was a lot more tech background to research and get right, and I was working with timelines and characters that two other authors were writing about concurrently. But again, the techies, the other writers, and the editorial board told me what I was doing wrong, so I could fix it fast. Published again.

So I tackled a bigger story. 8500 words this time. I had to ask for comments at one point, but the gang obliged and told me where I'd gone wrong. Accepted on the fifth draft, and in the queue for editing.

It's not just the word processor that's the productivity booster; it's the cheap and fast communication system on the other side of the computer that makes it possible for writers to help each other.

Now, as to the cost, the amount of computing horsepower a writer needs to do all this is probably an order of magnitude less expensive than my first typewriter, in constant dollars. A 10-year-old PC with a standard load of open source software will do the job admirably. I picked one up for $75 a couple of years ago in a computer graveyard and put in a couple of upgrades. I see similar machines listed in the local Sunday paper to give away. All the software I run on it is a free download, including the operating system, the office suite, the web browser, and the mail program. Monthly ISP charges are probably more of an issue than the cost of a machine, and even those have come down over the years as long as you don't need high speed.

I will say that a computer still costs more than a quill pen, but on the other hand it's a lot cheaper to send a manuscript by e-mail than by U.S. mail. So I think we've come out ahead on this one.

Cordially,

Jack Carrol

The speed and ease of e-mail is both a blessing and a curse, depending on the circumstances. Certainly it facilitates the kind of workshopping you describe (but be careful: some publishers consider any prior publication, including posting online, to be prior publication that precludes their buying the work). E-mail also greatly facilitates editing, once a publisher is seriously interested in a piece. But many publishers who receive a great deal of material (including us) still require hardcopy for the initial reading, and an electronic “manuscript” only after purchase. We realize that submitting by e-mail makes things a little easier on the writer's end, but it makes them harder on this end in several ways that writers often haven't thought about.

Dr. Schmidt,

Two comments, one on the editorial, “Our Most Important Product,” and one on the Reference Library.

First, with regard to the expense of buying the equipment needed by an author: computers are much more expensive than pencil and paper. However, that cost decreases over time (check your local used computer stores). On the other hand, it is also possible to find public access computers in public libraries. In that case, the primary expense would be the cost of storage media (and USB flash drives also decrease in cost even as the capacity increases). Availability of computers in libraries now could be compared to the availability of typewriters in public libraries some years back. With respect to typewriters, how much did your first typewriter (manual or electric) cost you in inflation-adjusted dollars?

Second, with respect to Robert Zubrin's contention ("...great gobs of money to Saudi Arabia...” as paraphrased in the Reference Library), how much of the US petroleum budget really goes to Saudi Arabia? I keep hearing that the majority of our purchased petroleum comes from suppliers in this hemisphere, Canada and Mexico being two of the major suppliers. As to biofuels, my own preference would be biodiesel over ethanol. The energy density in diesel fuel is much greater than that of ethanol. Diesel engines are becoming quieter and more efficient, as well as less polluting, all the time. One of the major problems with diesel has been sulfur; I don't see that as a problem with biodiesel.

By the way, I do have one more comment in addition the two I counted at the beginning. I do like the Jaggers and Shad stories.

Thanks for the (metaphorical) ear.

Doug Clapp

Colorado Springs, CO

Dr. Schmidt,

I concur with reader Bruno Loran, June Brass Tacks, on Barry Longyear's stories. I enjoyed the first one, possibly because it was a novel story idea. The follow-on stories were increasingly less interesting. I'm not sure why. I was talking to a friend earlier this year about one issue and he complained it had “another damn duck story."

On a more serious note, I noticed the lack of Analog representation among this year's Hugo nominations. I hope this speaks more of the growth of the industry.

Wayne Fiebick

Ridgecrest, CA

Stan,

Just read the letter in the June 2008 issue regarding Barry Longyear's stories. Some people just have no sense of humor! Whenever you run one of these stories, it's always the first thing I read. I'm very familiar with the area that is the setting for the stories; Longyear understands both the people of the area, as well as the geography, both in the cities and in the countryside. His depiction of the pigeons and owls is a real hoot! I'm looking forward to more of them.

Jack E. Garrett,

Monroe Township NJ

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

I was dismayed to find on page 3 of June's Analog the ad from The Heartland Institute, claiming, “Global warming is not a crisis.” As you yourself have written in a number of editorials, global warming is a crisis, emission reductions are necessary, and virtually everything in this ad is false.

I understand that Analog needs advertising income, but perhaps the magazine could attract such income from more reputable sources. As a subscriber, I would even be willing to pay more on my subscription if I knew that the magazine could keep its integrity and not accept advertising from such sources.

Otherwise, keep up the good work! I love the magazine and I am always happy to receive the new issue.

Alina Badus

In general, ads are sold by a different department in which editors play little role. We would normally not try to censor them in any case, and even if we wanted to we do not have the resources to try to verify the factual accuracy of everything an advertiser pays to say. But we will try in the future to make sure that any paid ad that might be mistaken for an article is clearly labeled as an advertisement.

We welcome your letters, which should be sent to Analog, 475 Park Avenue South, Floor 11, New York, NY 10016, or e-mail to analog@dellmagazines.com. Space and time make it impossible to print or answer all letters, but please include your mailing address even if you use e-mail. If you don't want your address printed, put it only in the heading of your letter; if you do want it printed, please put your address under your signature. We reserve the right to shorten and copy-edit letters. The email address is for editorial correspondence only—please direct all subscription inquiries to: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855.

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.

6-9 November 2008

ILLUXCON (Fantastic illustration conference) at Heritage Center, Altoona, PA. Guests include Boris Vallejo, Julie Bell, John Jude Palencar, Bob Eggleton. Membership: $150 (limited to 200); $15 for 9 November only; no other one-day memberships. Info: website: www.illuxcon.com/; info@illuxcon.com.

21-23 November 2008

NEW ENGLAND FAN EXPERIENCE (popular culture conference) at Hyatt Regency Cambridge, Cambridge, MA. Guests include George Takei, Bob Eggleton. Experience Membership: $45; Weekend package: $225; rates available for individual events. Info: www.nefe.us/; New England Fan Experience, c/o United Fan Con Inc. 26 Darrell Drive, Randolph MA 02368. Please make all checks or money orders out to United Fan Con Inc.

21-23 November 2008

ORYCON 30 (Oregon SF conference) at Waterfront Marriott, Portland, OR. Writer Guest of Honor: Harry Turtledove; Editor Guest of Honor: Ginjer Buchanan; Artist Guest of Honor: Jeff Fennel, Fan Guest of Honor: Cecelia Eng. Membership: $40 until 31 July 2008; more thereafter. Info: www.orycon.org/orycon30/; OryCon 30, PO Box 5464,Portland OR 97228-5464

28-30 November 2008

DARKOVERCON 31 (Marion Zimmer Bradley-oriented conference) at Holiday Inn Timmonium, Timmonium, MD. Guest of Honor: Patricia Briggs; Special Guest: Katherine Kurtz; Musical Guests of Honor: Clam Chowder. Membership: $45 until 1 November 2008; $50 thereafter (payable to Armida Council, PO Box 7203, Silver Spring, MD 20907). Info: www.darkovercon.org

28-30 November 2008

LOSCON 35 (Los Angeles area SF conference) at LAX Marriott, Los Angeles, CA. Writer Guest of Honor: John Scalzi; Artist Guest of Honor: Gary Lippincott; Fan Guest of Honor: Michael Siladi. Membership: $35 in advance. Info: www.loscon.org/35a/; Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society, Inc.,11513 Burbank Boulevard, North Hollywood, CA 91601