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           ____________________________________________________

           August 1994       ISSN 1053-8496   Volume VI Issue 1
           ____________________________________________________

                             C O N T E N T S

           Looking Ahead...................Daniel K. Appelquist

           Altered................................Valerie Jones

           The Harrison Chapters (Chapter 16)....Jim Vassilakos

           To Touch the Stars (Part 3)............Nicole Gustas

           The Fourth Cat.............................Lou Crago

           Microchips Never Rust (Part 3)...........Eric Miller


            Editor/Technical Director....Daniel K. Appelquist
            Artwork............................John Zimmerman
            Proofreading......................Maureen Barrett
            Telecommunications Gear................Gray Jones
           ____________________________________________________

          subscription and back issue information at end of issue








___________________________________________________________________________

LOOKING AHEAD

Daniel K. Appelquist
___________________________________________________________________________

Hi there everybody! Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? I must apologize
for not putting out an issue since December of last year.  This issue
started out as a May issue and kept getting pushed back for various reasons
until it became an August issue! Absolutely inexcusable! Well, think of it
as a hiatusŠ Anyway, I'm back, Quanta is back (actually it never really
left) and better than ever.  Since December, I've been working behind the
scenes to increase Quanta's distribution. We now have an archive on America
Online where all current and back issues may be found (see the contents
page for details). Also, we're up to three thousand individual subscribers!
The method of subscribing and unsubscribing has changed slightly (all the
details are at the end of this issue) and the official email address for
Quanta has changed to quanta@netcom.com (although the folks at Carnegie
Mellon University tell me that mail to the old address will continue to be
forwarded to me here). What this means, among other things, is that the
subscription process for Quanta will now be automated. This will free up a
huge chunk of my time and will hopefully allow me to concentrate on putting
out issues. Note also that the separate lists for BITNET users and Internet
users are a thing of the past. If you are subscribed to either the
PostScript or Ascii versions of Quanta in mail format, you will receive
them as a series of mail messages. I highly suggest that those who have FTP
access switch over to the "notice" subscription list, where a notice is
sent to you. If you are subscribed to the Ascii list, you do this by
sending an email message to listserv@netcom.com with the content:

unsubscribe quanta-ascii
subscribe quanta-notice

If you are subscribed to the PostScript list, you do this by sending an
email message to listserv@netcom.com with the content:

unsubscribe quanta-postscript
subscribe quanta-notice

These subscribe and unsubscribe commands need to be in the actual message
body, not the subject line. I want to thank the people at Netcom for making
my switch-over a relatively painless process, and I want to thank all you
subscribers in advance for being patient while we settle in to this new
subscription service.

The primary archive site for Quanta is also changing to ftp.etext.org,
where issues may be found in the directory /pub/Zines/Quanta.

Starting with this issue, I will be publishing Quanta on the World Wide Web
as well as on the various gopher and ftp sites. Set your WWW client (Mosaic
or what have you) to http://www.etext.org/Zines/Quanta and you're off and
running.

Also, concerning donations, please note that I can no longer accept checks
made out to Quanta magazine. Please make all checks out to Daniel
Appelquist. This has to do with the way my new bank handles business
accounts, even for non-businesses like Quanta (I didn't request a new bank
--- the new bank swooped in and gobbled up my old bank like a horrendous
bird of prey, and I have experienced no end of grief because of it). I very
much appreciate the contributions I've gotten so far, and since I have now
switched to Netcom as my email service provider (which is a pay service) I
am in more need than ever.  Please do contribute if you can afford it.
You'll find more information at the end of this issue.

This issue marks the much anticipated end of Nicole Gustas's three part "To
Touch the Stars." I have received numerous positive comments about this
story and also numerous letters asking when the last part would be
published. I'm sure you'll all enjoy the exciting finale.

Next issue will be a special one, featuring one novella: Peter Gelman's
"Moonifest Destiny," the fantastic story of the invasion of the Moon by the
Earth during the late 1800's by air balloon. Sound bizarre? You don't know
the half of it. After that, there will probably be one more issue published
this year.

I want to thank many of you for mailing me and asking what was up with
Quanta and why you hadn't heard from me in a while. Quanta lives. I have
every reason to suspect that Quanta will be around for a long time. Well, I
think it's about time to send this issue out, so I'll leave off here.
Enjoy!


___________________________________________________________________________

ALTERED                   Jim was never certain whether Aston
                          even saw his killer. Not that he was
Valerie Jones             waiting around to ask. He dropped the
                          gun and loped away. He didn't have
                          any fingerprints, and tracing the gun
                          would only lead to a stolen shipment
                          --- a dead end.
___________________________________________________________________________

Jim Leary panted as quietly as he could as he pulled a small electronic
keypad from the pouch fastened around his waist. The dash across the yard
had been a long one... upslope, no less. With deft fingers he attached each
of the keypad's leads to the proper places inside a nondescript gray metal
box mounted against the white stone wall. White. He grimaced, showing
teeth. Terrence Aston had built the entire structure out of the same white
stone. In sunlight, the place shimmered with the colors of the rainbow as
the light was refracted by the prismatic stone. Jim knew he was going to
stick out like a sore thumb against that pale background. Often, the
eccentric displays of wealth were to Jim's advantage, and it pleased him
that the high and mighty could be brought down with the help of their
vanities. It was fitting. Unfortunately, this time, that wasn't the case.

He switched the hand-computer on with a flick of his thumb and set to work
dismantling the house security system. The heady scent of the lilac bushes
beneath which he crouched filled his sensitive nose and made it twitch.
Just don't sneeze, he reminded himself. Aston had a thing for lilacs...
they ran rampant on his estate. You couldn't walk more than four feet in
any direction without running into more of the accursed bushes. Just
thinking about it made Jim's nose itch. He wondered how the dogs could
stand it. Maybe their noses weren't as sensitive. His nose twitched again.
It was a moot point, though, since the dogs were dead. That was the first
thing he'd done, and the lilac smell was so strong their bodies probably
wouldn't be found except by a visual search of the grounds. The security
cameras were the scanning type, so they'd missed the whole show, and the
infrareds couldn't tell him apart from the canines, though some diligent
soul might notice the change in numbers as their bodies cooled. That was
just a chance he had to accept. He scratched his still itching nose with
light fingers, sniffling. They came away wet with the blood that still
covered his face, and he licked each digit clean before he reached back
into the gray box. He couldn't just say it was habit and instinct: he
actually liked the taste of blood. Though if he thought about that for very
long it would give him a case of the shivers.

Half an hour later, Jim paused and studied the grounds. Nothing moved save
for an owl that swooped low over the lilacs in search of prey, though what
it thought it could catch under the tall bushes he couldn't guess. The
whisper of its wings parting the wind was a comfortable night sound, along
with the crickets that had finally taken up their song around him. The
guards down at the gate remained unaware, intent on their caffeine sticks
and conversation. Jim couldn't quite make out the words from across the
wide lawn, but he didn't care to. The soft click as he switched the keypad
off silenced the crickets once more and their silence followed him like a
wake as he removed the wire attachments, placed the computer back in his
pouch, and crept toward the end of the house. The eighty-foot oak that grew
there would grant him access to a third-story window. The giant tree had
grown so close to the house that the branches were wearing grooves in the
stone as they swayed in the wind. The house probably wouldn't be damaged if
the tree came down on it, though, he mused. The crystal structure of the
white stone had been developed for more than just beauty.

The window was latched from the inside, Jim noted, with a plain metal hook.
Not a magnetic latch. He didn't think the house was that old, but maybe it
was just an oddity, courtesy of the original owner. He tapped the pane
gently.. The window was made of duraglass, which was actually a plastic,
and a whole lot tougher than conventional safe glass. He'd brought tools to
deal with either, since he hadn't been able to find out which one it was
before hand. The duraglass melted nicely with the application of the right
chemicals. Jim was glad for the stiff breeze that carried the acrid stench
away from him. The smell was the price he paid for a low-temperature melt.
If he were unlucky, however, that would be enough. He unlatched the window,
then oiled the window tracks down with fluid from a small plastic tube. His
claws bit deep into the bark as he braced himself and raised the window
with barely a sound. Good thing, too. A girl slept in the white, fluffy bed
that dominated the room. That would be Aston's daughter, he knew. Maybe she
liked the noise of the oak tree, or, better yet, liked lilacs no better
than he. Their saccharine perfume was not so overwhelming here. Well, she'd
be able to uproot every single one of the hideous purple-splotched bushes
if she chose soon enough, he thought as he stepped through the window. He
stood balanced on the sill to survey the room. The girl was asleep, her
breathing deep and even. She clutched an Altered Gladiators doll in her
sleeping arms and Jim had the distinct impression that the glass eyes above
the drooling snarl were staring directly at him. Nothing else stirred amid
the soft piles of stuffed toys and strewn clothes. He bounded to the floor
without a sound save the spongy crunch of the thick carpet under his paws.
The long, dexterous fingers of his hands were folded under so that he was
actually walking on his knuckles and, as he padded across the room, those
hands were indistinguishable from paws.

Shadow silent, Jim slipped through the halls. Most of the forty-two room
house was in darkness. That was good. Aston ought to be in his office
still, which was on the second floor, north end. The floor plan flitted
through his mind. There should be two guards wandering somewhere inside as
well, but those didn't bother Jim unduly. He would hear them coming long
before they heard him.

He stopped at the top of the stairs. This would be a good place for
additional security, though the plans hadn't held any mention of another
system. The staircase was isolated, walled on both sides with carved wood
panelling. Rosarian's work, he thought, though art wasn't his specialty.
The carved protuberances would provide good hiding places for laser sensors
on both sides of the stairs. Jim pulled a small, illegal aerosol from his
pouch and sprayed the air before him. A fine net of red laser beams
dissected the empty space up to about waist height on a normal human,
fading to invisibility as the mist settled. If they followed the same
pattern all the way down the staircase, he'd be fine. He could leap them.
Coming back up would be the problem. He checked once more for signs of
weapons mounted into the walls, saw none. The ceiling looked clean, too. He
stopped to listen, then backed up and took a running leap off the top of
the staircase. His compact, four-legged body sailed easily through empty
space, landing in the downstairs hallway with an unavoidable thump.
Twohundred and twenty pounds could not land silently after that kind of
jump.

Before he moved on, he stopped to sit back on his haunches. Reaching into
the pouch strapped across his stomach, he pulled out a black plastic gun.
The bulb of the silencer at the business end made it somewhat unwieldy, but
he clamped it between his jaws and loped toward Aston's office. As he
turned the corner, he heard footsteps in the distance behind him, moving
slowly. The guards were being careful. He would have plenty of time.

Light leaked from beneath the door to Aston's office, warm and inviting.
That door would hiss as it slid open, he knew, so he took the gun in his
hand and settled onto his haunches once again. That was the only position
from which he could shoot. Genetic curse, which was why he rarely depended
on guns. But in this case it just made the most sense. He reached up and
slapped the door pad, taking aim through the doorway as the door slid
aside. Terrence Aston sat behind a wide redwood desk, his attention on the
terminal screen built into the top. He looked up just as Jim fired, and Jim
was never certain whether Aston even saw his killer. Not that he was
waiting around to ask. He dropped the gun and loped away. He didn't have
any fingerprints, and tracing the gun would only lead to a stolen shipment
...- a dead end.

There would be a second set of stairs further down the hall, he knew. Speed
was his best protection, now. He found the other staircase and raced up it,
triggering a blaring alarm that filled the house. The upstairs hall was
empty, and he ran the length of it, not pausing as he streaked through the
end bedroom and out the window. He registered the white face and staring
eyes of the girl as he ran past. His head was filled with the smell of oak
bark and the drifting scent of lilacs, the metal sounds of guns being
readied, and the shouts of men. He ran headlong down the tree trunk,
counting on his claws to hold him to its rough surface, and sprinted toward
the fence at a point three hundred and four yards from the gate. He'd
actually measured it during his preparations. The floodlights lit up just
as he reached the electrified fence, illuminating the entire estate, and
blinding him. He leapt anyway, depending on natural ability to carry him
safely over.

The memory returned to Jim as a whole, filled with the scents and sounds of
that night, as he stared at the woman across from him. The little girl was
long gone, replaced by a firm, mature intelligence dressed impeccably in a
floor length blue silk skirt, yellow silk blouse, and obi. The blouse might
have been peach or even a creamy white, Jim thought absently. His vision
was based on shades of light and dark, more than color.

"Konichi wa Mr. Leary." The soft voice was very proper and melodious,
completely at odds with the black eyes that bored directly into his. "I
assume you know who I am?"

"Of course, Councillor," Jim answered, nodding. Though he had never put her
picture together with that night at the Aston estate before. Twenty years
was a long time, though the emergence of another Councillor Aston should
have pricked his memory.

Julee Lin Aston continued to stare at him, lost in private thoughts. Jim
figured he could probably guess what some of them were. No doubt she had
never seen anyone Altered so extremely before. Not even the Gladiators on
the viewer. They, at least, still resembled human beings despite the
ridiculous musculature and occasional fur. That was the standard reaction.
He glanced at his reflection in the darkened windows that fronted the
restaurant. Black as night, he was barely visible against the dark street,
save for the sheen of light that rippled across his fur. In form, he was
nearly identical to the black panther of the Asian jungles. A bit larger,
perhaps, with only his limber five-fingered hands and versatile brain to
distinguish him from his feline cousins.

"You paid a large handful of yen to arrange this meeting, Councillor," Jim
reminded her, annoyed. The words rumbled out of a throat that was not
designed for language.

"Of course." She regained her composure and took a breath. Jim noted the
effect that had on the thin fabric of her blouse with discreet interest. "I
have a proposition for you." Jim's ears twitched, though his feline face
betrayed nothing. Very few facial expressions were possible for him, which
he had always considered an asset.

"There have been two attempts on my life, Mr. Leary," she continued without
preamble. "Both occurred at my estate. Both were nearly successful."

Jim eyed her warily. It sounded like an accusation. Despite the fact that
he had chosen this meeting place, he was far from confident. There were
fifteen Councillors who governed Jap-Am, and Julee Aston was the first
woman ever to hold that position in the colony's history. She was no push
over.

He kept diligent track of the traffic through the small restaurant. Most of
the faces at nearby tables were familiar because Jim had hired them. But
that didn't mean much. A Councillor had vast resources. If she wanted him
dead, and knew who to hire, he might as well get ready to meet the man in
black. Anyone could be assassinated.

"So what do you want from me?" Jim asked.

Julee leaned forward. "I want to hire you, Mr. Leary. Your particular...
talents... would make you exceptionally qualified to handle my personal
security." She betrayed no emotion.

Jim felt his insides go cold. "I think you overestimate me, Councillor."

"I haven't," she assured him. "I'm willing to pay." She named a figure that
was generous. Very generous. But not enough to be a mockery. When he said
nothing, she continued in a sudden change of subject, "There were four
attempts on my father's life at the estate. Two never made it into the
house, and the third died in the downstairs hall. But the fourth... the
fourth was exceptional." She sat back in her chair. "I need that kind of
exceptional talent working for me." She sipped her drink, the glass
catching the light and bursting into rainbow hued stars.

"My father died a long time ago, Mr. Leary," she continued after setting
the glass down. "I'm interested in survival, not vengeance." She met Jim's
gaze squarely, as if daring him to admit it.

"As I said before, I think you overestimate me," Jim replied.

"Then you're not interested?"

Unfortunately, Jim was. He needed the money, and offers that size didn't
come by very often. But the very root of his temptation, he knew, was the
simple fact that he held some respect for this Councillor. She had made
herself the champion of the Altereds, against stiff opposition. But the
fact that she knew it was him that night was highly unsettling.

Jim sighed. "All right. Count me in." He was surprised to see her smile,
but it was somehow an enigmatic expression. "I'll come to the house
tomorrow." He stood and prepared to jump down from his chair.

"Um- Mr. Leary? There's one more thing." Now she seemed almost embarrassed.
"All of my employees swear an oath of allegiance."

Jim looked at her and shrugged. Why not? Oaths held power in a court, but,
being who and what he was, he would be dead long before he ever saw the
inside of a courthouse. Reaching across the table he laid his hand over
hers and quickly repeated the necessary words. It was somehow both more and
less than just a legal ceremony.



City towers scrolled by the car's darkened window as Julee kicked off her
shoes with a sigh. She did not notice the steady rumble of the billowing
air that held the hovercar aloft; she had ridden in hovercraft all her
life. But she did hear the sound of Jim's fur against the leather seats as
the tip of his tail twitched with inner disquiet.

"What is it?" she asked, her eyes going to the windows and the view beyond,
seeking an unnamed danger. They were on their way home from the latest in a
long series of Council sessions where Julee continued to argue strenuously
for the creation of a council seat to represent Altereds. She was making
slow headway against Councillor Tanaki's purist thinking.

"Bad feeling." Jim did not look at her. His eyes continued to roam the
streetsides visible through the bulletproof plastic of her private car. He
could see the top of their driver's head over the back of his seat, and a
portion of the snub-nosed automatic rifle mounted on the dash. Yeng was a
good man, but not as familiar with the Councillor's car as Jim might have
wished. Ned Chang, the regular driver had come in so sick that morning that
Jim had ordered him back to bed, and Yeng was the best he could find to
fill in. They were sandwiched between two armored cruisers, each carrying
three guards, but that didn't provide more than basic security. The convoy
followed the route Jim had chosen only the night before through San Louis'
crowded riverfront district, and through the buildings he caught brief
glimpses of the Mississippi off to his right.

Any information can be bought, Jim reminded himself, especially here in the
capitol. He found himself searching his knowledge of the city, trying to
guess where an attack might come from.

"Is this where you would have picked, if Tanaki had hired you to kill me?"
Julee asked curiously.

Jim froze, blindsided by the blunt question. Most people were far more
discreet when they discussed his profession. He managed to swallow his
surprise, grateful once again that his face carried little expression.

He wasn't sure why he answered with the truth. "No. I'd probably hit the
house." The "again" that belonged on the end of the sentence was left
unvoiced. "You don't know for certain that it's Tanaki," he added as an
afterthought.

"Of course I do," she snapped. "First he tried to bribe me to change my
vote. Then he threatened me. Now he's trying to make good on his threats."

Jim had no chance to respond. His only indication of trouble was the squeal
of old rubber tires on pavement as a sporty silver landcar sped down an
access ramp and slewed across the lanes toward them. Jim grabbed Julee's
shoulders and forced her down on the seat, below the level of the windows.
He held her there as their car swerved violently. They felt the change as
they crossed over the grass median, and dove into the midst of oncoming
traffic on the other side of the highway. Proximity alarms blared all
around them, then were drowned out by thunder as the silver landcar
exploded. The force of the blast tipped their car over on its side,
tumbling the two passengers in the rear compartment like rag dolls.

When Jim's vision cleared and the ringing in his ears dropped to a
sufferable level, he raised his head to look around. The car had somehow
ended right-side up. Black smoke billowed around it, searing his eyes and
nose with acrid grit. He and Julee were wedged together in the floorboard.
She held onto him with a deathgrip, fingers knotted painfully into his
short fur. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth where her
lip had split, but her eyes were open.

Heart pounding, Jim urged her up onto the seat with a caution to stay down.
Julee released him with a spasmodic jerk, then obeyed. A fleeting
expression of revulsion crossed her face. Cold inside from more than fear,
Jim climbed to his feet and peered through the broken window into the
smoke. He could see figures moving beyond the heat shimmer but couldn't
identify them. The sudden rattle of automatic gunfire decided him.

"Can you run?" he asked Julee.

She nodded uncertainly. "I think so."

"Good, then stay low and don't stop until I tell you to. Head for that
building." He pointed to a tower whose side could be seen rising above the
smoke. "I'll follow you." He studied the tower a moment more, wondering if
that was where the landcar had been controlled from. If it hadn't been a
kamikaze hit. Which it might easily have been, with a Councillor as the
target.

At his command, Julee took off across the highway, doing a credible sprint
in her stocking clad feet. Jim followed at her heels, nipping at her thigh
to urge her on as bullets scored the pavement beside them. He got an
impression of wrecked and burning cars, with several men using them as
cover from which to snipe at each other. He could not guess who was alive
and who was dead from among the Councillor's staff, nor how many of their
attackers might remain.

They reached the edge of the highway and Jim guided his charge down among
the smaller streets that ran between the buildings. The sooner they lost
themselves, the sooner they would lose the men that pursued them, Jim
thought, though he knew the area well. He had seen two figures following
them, for certain.

Julee's breath was coming in ragged gasps. She had barely slowed, but he
knew that she would have to stop soon. They turned onto a new street and
Jim spied what he had been looking for. Cracked cement stairs led down
below street level, into a basement that had been the foundation of a
building that was built before the Japanese conquest. A new building had
been raised on the site, on top of the old basement. It would give them a
shortcut over to the next street, and perhaps confuse their pursuers. The
basement was dark, but Jim's eyes used light far more efficiently than a
normal human. He guided Julee through the fallen supports and tumbled
bricks with nudges and an occasional growled word. They emerged on the
street, apparently without company. Jim turned them back toward the river.
There were some high-class restaurants in that direction. The Councillor's
face would get them in, he reasoned, and the establishment security would
keep them safe until her people could pick them up.

They reached the Tea Room just as their pursuers found them again. But it
was too late. Julee spoke a quick word to the maitre'd and they were in.
Jim watched the men on the street fade away and sighed in relief. He was
shaking from the adrenaline coursing through his system, but forced his
body to move normally.

Every eye followed them as they made their way to a table near the back of
the restaurant. It was in unspoken accord that they took a table against
the wall. Jim felt the stares boring into him. They were covert stares, for
this crowd was too polite to stare openly, but Jim felt the stigma just as
sharply. He was different. They looked at him and saw an animal, not a man.

Waiters brought saki, and a cloth to wipe the blood from Julee's mouth.
Conversations began to pick up around them. Jim tried to ignore the eyes as
he sipped his saki. The maitre'd had already made the call to Julee's
estate so they had nothing to do but wait. They did so in silence.



Julee looked up with a small start as Jim and another man entered the
office.

"Have you found something?" she asked.

Jim hopped up into the chair that was pulled up against the far side of the
desk. He carried a rolled sheaf of papers gently in his mouth, which he
dropped onto the chair seat before answering. "Maybe. Dan, tell her what
you found out."

Dan Erickson was a tall, sandy-haired man with a permanently mournful
expression. His dislike for his boss was apparent in every line of his
body, but he was loyal to the Councillor, so he made the effort to ignore
it.

"The car was driven by a Mr. Rani Nataru, age 42. He has been a member of
Councillor Tanaki's house staff for eighteen years."

Julee's eyebrows rose. "That's not something?"

Jim tipped his head to the side in a gesture equivalent to a shrug. "Not
really."

"Tanaki is claiming that Nataru was acting completely on his own." Dan
added. "And he has some evidence...- a tape of a conversation that took
place in Tanaki's suite at the Capitol building. There's no way to know if
it was a setup, of course, but I'd guess so. Either that, or he got lucky."

Julee tapped a fingernail against the glossy wood of the desk. "Well, no
help there. Are you still tracing the car?" The question was directed at
Jim.

"And the explosives," he answered, "but that'll take a few days, at least."

Julee nodded. "I understand. Thank you, gentlemen."

At a pointed glance from Jim, Dan scowled and left. Jim picked up the sheaf
of papers and laid them out flat on the desk. The logo at the top indicated
that they were printouts from one of the less reputable news services.

"I thought you might want to see this." His tone was studiously neutral.

"See what?" Julee picked up the papers and read the headline: "Councillor
Aston and Altered Lover Exposed." Beneath the caption was a picture of the
two of them at the Tea Room.

"Wonderful. More fuel to add to Tanaki's fire." Julee tossed the sheets
back onto the desk with a wordless expression of disgust and leaned back in
her chair. "Now he's going to use this to try to convince the Council that
I'm...-" She broke off, uncertain how to finish.

"A pervert?" Jim supplied.

"No!" Julee straightened abruptly. "That's not what I meant."

"But it is what you were thinking." Bitterness pooled in the pit of his
stomach. "Admit it, Councillor."

Julee said nothing, her lips pressed together in a thin white line, but her
eyes snapped dangerously. The tips of Jim's long canines showed white
against his black fur as he met the Councillor's stare. Eventually, she
looked away.

"Let me know when you learn something new, Mr. Leary." Julee's voice was
faint and her eyes distant when she looked back at him.

Jim jumped down from the chair and padded to the door. As it slid aside, he
paused and turned.

"Goodnight, Councillor." The subtle mockery in his words echoed old
memories and hollow promises. He had lived with them all his life. No
matter what people said, they always hated down deep, always feared.

He turned again and left before Julee had a chance to reply.



Jim perched on the edge of the massive work table, silent and unmoving. He
had come in his usual way (which changed every time), and waited patiently
for the man across the room to notice him. Had he possessed facial
expression, a small, mischievous smile would have played about his lips.

The man finally located the part he was looking for amid the neat trays
that lined the far wall and turned, only to do a violent doubletake and
nearly drop the intricate metal thing he was holding.

"Leary! Don' do that! You nearly gave me a heart attack, man."

"`Lo Snake." Jim held out a lightly clenched fist, claws retracted, and
Snake tapped his knuckles with a similar fist, grinning. That grin was a
sight to see, Jim thought with a private chuckle. Snake only had two
teeth...- long curved fangs that hung out of his mouth. Those, and the
colored scales that covered his body in geometric patterns, gave Snake his
name.

"You ain't been `round much lately," Snake said. The words were a bit
slurred because of the overhanging teeth, but understandable enough. Poison
sacks on either side of Snake's neck pulsed rhythmically. That was one
reason Snake didn't get much trouble. The other was his size. Even Jim
would hesitate before taking him on. The man was built like a tree. Jim
guessed that his ancestors must have been Negroid: his face had that
general cast, though it was almost lost amid the strangeness. Snake was
among the most highly Altered, like Jim himself.

"Been busy." Jim walked across the table, picking his way with dainty steps
through the clutter, to examine the mass of plastic and wires that Snake
was working on. His nose was assailed by the tangy scents of cold-bonding
glue, plastic, and carbon composite, and the musty smell of plastique. He
found a clear space and sat down. From the pouch at his waist he drew a
burned, melted tangle and held it out to Snake.

"This your work?"

Snake took the mess and poked at it, holding it under the magnifying lamp
that hung drunkenly over his workspace.

"Yeah, it's mine. How'd ya know?"

Jim shrugged. "Fancy detonator. You and Coleman are the only ones that do
that kind of stuff locally."

Snake tossed the burnt detonator onto the table. "So what about it?"

Jim laid several colorful bills down next to it. "Who'd you make it for?"

Snake fingered the bills. Then he snorted and picked them up. "Some suit."

"Did he give you a name?"

"Course not. Paid in cash, though. No credit transfer."

"What did he look like?" Jim picked up the detonator and put it back in his
carry pouch.

Snake shrugged. "Pretty tall. Lots of americana in'm. Brown hair, black
eyes."

"Is he the one that made the pickup?"

"Na. Little Japanese guy."

Jim dug back into his pouch and brought out a picture of Nataru. "This
him?"

Snake glanced at it and nodded. "That's him."



Jim shifted positions with care, trying to ease the ache in his hips. He
was lying prone on the metal bar that supported one of a row of lights that
illuminated Julee Aston on the stage below him. It was the best vantage
point he could find in the small auditorium, allowing him to keep the
Councillor in view at all times, as well as see into both wings and out
into the audience. But it was a precarious perch.

The Councillor was speaking to a group of students at Washington University
and Jim was nervous. Public addresses were scheduled months in advance, and
gave an assassin plenty of time to prepare. Not that it mattered, really.
Tanaki's people could only have had twelve hours notice, at most, for that
last attempt, and they'd nearly succeeded. The timing on that one still
bothered him, though in the month since, he had not been able to find
anything concrete with which to back his instincts.

Julee's voice interrupted his thoughts and he focused on her for a moment.
The powerful lights brought out blue highlights from her raven hair and
made the silk of her dress shimmer.

"How long, ladies and gentlemen, will we make the children pay for the sins
of the parents?" she asked the audience. "How long will we condemn the
Altered to be less than citizens? Are they inferior to us? No, they are
not. They have minds and feelings just like yours or mine.

"Are they different?" She paused, considering. "Yes, they're different. But
is that bad? I'm sure your grandmothers will tell you that they're cursed
by the gods, or some such nonsense. That's what my grandmother used to tell
me. But you and I know better.

"We know that the Altereds that we see today are the unfortunate
descendants of men and women who perverted nature. They tried to be gods,
playing with things they had no right to alter. But that was two-hundred
years ago. And the DNA codes that those careless men and women broke, we
still cannot mend.

"Is that the fault of the children? They did not choose to be what they
are. No." Her voice died to a bare murmur, so that everyone in the
auditorium strained to hear.

"It is our fault, ladies and gentlemen. Ours. It was people just like you
and I that allowed the Alterations to happen."

Jim shook his head and tried to regain his bearings. He made a quick sweep
of the auditorium and stage, amazed at how entranced he had been by the
Councillor's words. But they were words he desperately wanted to hear. He
was almost willing not to care whether she truly meant what she said, just
to hear it. Almost. A cold, cynical voice deep inside reminded him of her
reaction when they had been pressed against each other on the floor of her
car.

"Got a possibility, boss." The voice was fed to Jim by a tiny microphone
clipped to the edge of one triangular ear. That was Tony. Of all of the
Councillor's employees, Tony was the only one who really didn't seem to
care that Jim walked on four legs and had fur. But Tony's eyes were a pale
shade of lavender, without irises. He understood the stigma.

"Where?" Another microphone was attached to a collar around Jim's neck. His
eyes scanned the auditorium below him.

"Out in the hall right now. Heading backstage. He's a tall man, mid
thirties, wearing a brown leather jacket with fur trim."

"Thanks Tony. Seal off the backstage area." The last was a command directed
to all of the Councillor's guards who were linked to him via radio. "Bull,
Erickson, cut him off."

Jim watched the two men move forward to intercept the visitor who was not
yet visible to Jim because of a curtained wall that hung in the way. The
man rounded the corner at a casual stroll and stopped when he saw the
Councillor's guards. Alarms went off in Jim's head. The man below him was
named Derek Van der Voehnn. He was a walking funeral. Jim had only met him
once, years before, when they'd both been hired for the same hit by
different parties.

The alarm bells kept ringing. This wasn't Van der Voehnn's style. He was a
sharpshooter. He'd never walk backstage for a close up. And he'd certainly
never let himself be stopped by a couple of bodyguards.

Jim whipped around, searching frantically for Julee. She still stood at the
podium, oblivious to all but her audience. Jim's motion sensitive eyes
searched the room. The audience watched her in rapt silence as she drew the
speech to a close, save for one small shadowed figure in the second row
that rose to its feet and raised a hand to shoulder height, arm
outstretched. Jim didn't wait to see the gun...- he leapt from his perch,
crashing into the Councillor and carrying her to the ground behind the
podium. The gunshot was thunderous in the still quiet room.

Pandemonium broke out as Jim yelled instructions through the microphone at
his throat.

Julee groaned and shook her head dizzily as Jim staggered to his feet and
peered around the edge of the podium. The assassin had her back turned (Jim
was almost certain it was a woman), and was pushing her way through the
panicked crowd toward the doors at the back of the auditorium. She hadn't
gotten very far yet. Jim launched himself at the retreating form, claws
gouging the polished wood floor of the stage as he scrabbled for purchase.
Alerted to his approach somehow, the woman turned just as he leapt off the
edge of the stage. Her eyes widened and she squeezed off an instinctive
shot before he plowed into her. They tumbled to the floor in a tangle of
limbs, taking several others down with them in the press of bodies. Jim
knocked the gun out of her hand with a swipe of a paw, leaving bloody
welts. She yelped in pain, but didn't try to fight when she felt the prick
of the other set of claws at her throat.



"How do you feel?" Julee asked as the house physician finished the last
stitch. The bullet had sliced through the top of Jim's shoulder, leaving a
bloody, but not serious, gash. He was lying on the velour couch in Julee's
office, chin on paw, with the nap of the fabric tickling his nose.

"As good as I look, no doubt," he answered. "You?" A fair-sized bruise was
beginning to spread across her cheek. She grinned and winced as the gesture
stretched abused tissues.

"About the same." She cradled her left arm protectively. She would be sore
for a long time, though she hadn't done any real damage. "We had to turn
the assassin over to the police. The Council demanded it."

"Meaning Tanaki."

"Who else?"

The doctor interrupted to give Jim some final instructions and a sheet of
pain tabs. Silence fell behind him as he left the room.

Jim sighed and allowed his eyes to sag shut. "What about Van der Voehnn?"

"Who?" She was startled.

Jim lifted his head and turned to look at her. "The man backstage."

At her blank look he said, "Is Dan still around? I need to talk to him."

"I'll see." Julee climbed stiffly to her feet and left the room. She
glanced over her shoulder at Jim as she did, a puzzled expression on her
face.

Jim dozed until the door hissed open and Dan Erickson walked in, with Julee
on his heels. "The Councillor said you wanted to see me."

"Yeah." Jim shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "What happened to Van der
Voehnn?"

Dan looked over at Julee, who did not return the gaze. "We let him go."

"You what?"

"We didn't have any reason to keep him. He said he was looking for you."
His tone was vaguely accusing.

Jim digested that in surprise, and some alarm. "Strange time for him to
come looking," he growled. Dan shrugged.

"All right. That's what I wanted to know." Jim laid his head back down, too
tired to fight the other man's obstinacy. After a moment, Dan took the hint
and left.

Julee resumed her seat on the floor next to the couch. "Who's Van der
Voehnn?"

"An assassin. One of the best."

"Oh." She did not sound terribly alarmed.

"You should be more concerned, Councillor. He's very good." Jim raised his
head to look directly into her eyes. But whatever expression was there
remained closely guarded. He snorted in private disgust and dug one of the
bright red pain tabs out of its plastic bubble. The pill wouldn't take
effect for another ten minutes, but that was all right. He could wait a
little longer. He laid his head back down and closed his eyes. He hurt too
much to think.



"Hey, boss. Wake up." Tony's round face swam into view as Jim blinked and
moaned. He was a mass of pain, and the bright morning sun streaming through
the windows did not help his temperament.

"What is it?" He rolled onto his stomach, rubbing at the sleep that matted
the inner corners of his eyes.

"The Councillor said it'd be all right to wake you. I think I've got a line
on the guy that paid for the explosives."

Jim sat up with interest. "Go on."

Tony produced a photo and handed it to Jim. "Name's Eddie Blake. He's done
freelance for Tanaki before."

Jim took the picture and studied it. "I'll see what my friend thinks."



Unfortunately, Snake wasn't home. Jim grumbled to himself, shoulder already
aching from the long walk. But he wasn't willing to give away the lab's
location to Julee's staff, so he took to the afternoon shadows, limping and
muttering. There was one other thing he wanted to check out.

Carylon's was almost empty at that time of day, seeming stale and somehow
sterile without the mass of flesh that rippled and gyrated across the floor
during the hours of darkness. The band was onstage, practicing, and Jim
winced at the squeal of electronic pipes.

Jim nodded to the guy behind the bar and headed backstage. He was a
familiar sight at Carylon's, though not as much so recently. He padded past
cracked cement walls and felt the chill of the floor through the soft pads
on his feet. The air smelled of old smoke and old sweat, alcohol and urine,
and beneath it all, the scent of human sensuality that only Jim's sensitive
nose could pick up. It was a familiar smell, comforting simply because he
had known it all his life. Here, he knew the rules, and knew his place.

He scratched lightly on Carylon's door, taking care not to mar the plastic.
She called for him to enter and he did. She sat crosslegged on the bed,
shimmering material cascading around her and an intense look of
concentration on her delicate face as she repaired the tear in one of her
costumes. The club was hers, but she had made herself poor to buy it. Jim
wasn't certain whether he thought that was a wise move or not.

"Well, you haven't been around much lately." She set the pile of fabric
aside, clearing a space for him.

"I need to ask a favor." He leapt up beside her. The small welcoming smile
died, and he wondered if things had gone bad for her.

"What kind?"

"I need to arrange a meet. Here, preferably."

"Everybody walks away?" Her gaze was skeptical.

"It's not a hit." He knew better than that. The one time he'd tried to use
her club, he'd paid dearly for it, friends or no.

Carylon thought a moment, then shrugged. "Okay."

Jim leaned across her to punch a button on the phone. He entered a number
and spoke briefly to the man who answered.

"How long `til you get an answer?" Carylon dragged long, painted
fingernails along the line of his jaw as he cut the connection. Jim looked
into her hazel eyes once before closing his eyes and submitting, almost
involuntarily, to the caress. He still didn't know why she liked him,
except that she seemed to have a thing for Altereds. He never asked. And,
most of the time, it didn't matter, anyway.



Derek Van der Voehnn wove his way deftly through the writhing crowd towards
the small side table Jim had claimed. Jim had been honestly surprised when
he agreed to the meeting, and now had the disturbing feeling that he didn't
quite know everything that was going on.

Van der Voehnn dropped gracelessly into an empty chair and folded his
fingers together on the table before him. He seemed, to Jim, to be built
entirely of angles, with skin thrown over his frame only as an
afterthought. But his eyes were keen and belied the air of gangly
adolescence that surrounded him.

He was grinning. "I'll bet you want to know what I was doing at Councillor
Aston's speech, right?"

Jim nodded. "That'd be a good place to start." He tried to keep the sarcasm
out of his voice, not knowing how Van der Voehnn would interpret it. This
wasn't the tack he'd expected the man to take. It made him nervous.

"It was a coincidence, you know. That I was there when the hit went down. I
really was looking for you. You're a hard man to find, sometimes." His
tongue tripped over the word "man," as if he considered for a moment using
a different one.

Jim tried to ignore it. "I'm listening."

Van der Voehnn's lips quirked in a smile. He seemed genuinely entertained
by Jim's skepticism. "Well, this one's a freebie, since I got the better
end of the deal the last time." Van der Voehnn had gotten the hit, and the
money, and Jim had nearly gotten killed because of the confusion. It wasn't
a memory Jim cherished. But now he was definitely interested.

Van der Voehnn must have read it in him. His smile widened, then
disappeared. "I just thought you might like to know that Councillor Aston
tried to hire me for a job about six months ago." That would put it
approximately two and a half months before Jim had started working for her.

"Who was the mark?"

"You, of course." He grinned again, enjoying Jim's sudden shock. "I turned
it down. Too much work for the money. I don't know if she made the offer to
anyone else, but the answer would've been the same, probably. At least for
the professionals. Since you're spending so much time with the lady, I
figured you deserved a warning."

"Yeah, thanks." Jim felt like he'd just been hit with a baseball bat.
Stunned and disoriented. "You didn't exactly rush to tell me this," he
added, as soon as he recovered his wits.

Van der Voehnn shrugged. "Didn't know you were working for Aston until a
few weeks ago. And I didn't really want to let the Councillor know that I'd
talked to you. Could be bad for my health, y'know? I just picked a bad
time." He stood, though perhaps unfolded might be a better word, Jim
thought, and left without another word. The abrupt departure was the
perfect ending to the disturbing conversation, chilling Jim to the bone.



"Are you planning to ignore me again today, Mr. Leary?" Julee's voice was
sharp, annoyed.

Jim glanced at her and growled. It had not been a good few days. Snake had
identified the man who had purchased the explosives as Eddie Blake, the
freelancer that worked for Tanaki. That was no surprise, really. Now Jim
was left with the task of confronting Blake, except that he didn't quite
know how to go about it. Somewhere, there was a traitor on the Councillor's
staff, but he didn't know where to look, didn't know who he could trust.
And to top it off, the Councillor herself had suddenly become an enemy, at
least in his eyes. All of which left him in a very sour mood. Part of him
wanted to simply cut his losses and leave before he got himself killed, but
he found that he couldn't, because he had sworn an oath of allegiance and
couldn't betray it until he knew for sure.

Well, at least he could do something about Blake, though it wasn't a
particularly inspired idea. Ignoring the black eyes that remained on him,
he unfolded the portable phone in his hands and punched a number. Dan
Erickson answered.

"Go ahead and pick up Blake," Jim told him.

"Right." Dan cut the connection. He was hardly friendly, Jim mused, but his
original hostility had faded. It was an unaccustomed relief.

Dan and two others brought Eddie Blake to the estate in less than an hour.
They had kept surveillance on him since they'd learned his name, but Jim
hadn't wanted to rush into anything unless Blake tried to leave suddenly.
Letting him roam free hadn't helped, to Jim's disappointment. The man had
kept mostly to himself, except to make a nightly foray into the crowded
jumble of people and lights that filled the bars along the streets of the
Dug. He had even spent part of an evening at Carylon's.

Blake was an addict. The glaze of Silverdust was in his eyes, and his
clothes reeked from the smoke. Jim observed from behind a pane of one-way
glass while Dan and a man named Chow Fong tossed questions and threats at
the hapless Blake. It wasn't a very productive session: Yes, he'd contacted
Snake, no, he didn't know who the blast was meant for until after the fact.
Tanaki had hired him in person and paid in cash, like always. No, he didn't
know if there was another hit planned... nobody had contacted him for
anything.

Eventually, Jim turned him loose. He was fairly certain the man was too
much of a coward to have hidden anything important from them. Then he spent
a long time pacing the length of the estate's formal living room, past the
empty fireplace, while he thought.

The woman shooter had turned up dead, not three hours after the police put
her in a cell at the Justiary. Tony had brought him the news while they
were questioning Blake. He cursed again the politics that had kept them
from being able to talk to her, and himself, for not pushing her before the
police arrived.

Julee Aston entered the room with a muted swish of her long skirt over the
plush, cream-colored carpeting. She held a glass of brandy in either hand
as she came over and settled into a corner of the long couch, her skirt a
splash of bright color against its paleness. The coffee table in front of
her was carved from some black stone, with a single gray flaw staggering
artfully across the polished surface. She set Oone of the brandies on the
table's edge nearest the place where Jim paced. It clinked loudly in the
otherwise silent room. The other she sipped with the bowl cupped in both
hands. Jim paused in his pacing, watching her. With her toes tucked up
under her on the couch seat and her long hair spilling about her shoulders,
she had an oddly childish air, and he remembered the wide, terrified eyes
that had followed him through the darkness of her bedroom that night so
long ago.

"So what did I do to make you so angry?" she asked him, her gaze boring
steadily and calmly into his above the rim of her glass. Again he was
struck by how little of that child remained in her eyes.

"Does it matter?" The tip of his tail twitched spasmodically from side to
side.

"Of course it does." She set her glass down and folded her arms across her
stomach. "The next time someone tries to kill me, I don't want you
hesitating because I did something that angered you." A small, wry smile
accompanied her words.

Jim sat down where he was and curled his tail around his body. The tip of
that tail, which he could not control, thumped against the floor in time to
his thoughts.

"You tried to hire Van der Voehnn to kill me."

Surprise flickered across her face for a moment, then she sighed. "I was
afraid you were going to find out about that." She reached out and took
another sip of brandy.

"Is there an active contract?"

"No," she answered without looking up from her glass.

Jim wasn't certain why he believed her, but he did. He didn't often get
suckered by beautiful women, and hoped that he wasn't making that mistake
now. Julee Aston was far to dangerous to misjudge.

After a prolonged silence, Julee spoke. "I hated you for a very long time,"
she said softly. Her eyes touched his briefly, then shied away. "No one
believed me when I told them about you, and for a while I wondered if maybe
I hadn't made it all up, or dreamed it, maybe."

"When I reached majority and gained control of the estate, I decided that I
had to find out." A cynical expression touched her small features. "You
should be flattered. I spent a lot of money trying to find you. But I
didn't have any luck. Not for years."

She fell silent once again, and Jim wisely said nothing. He wasn't certain
what he could say.

Julee drained the last of her drink. "I did finally find proof that you
existed, just about the time Tanaki made the first attempt on my life. At
first, all I wanted was to make sure you died. That's when I talked to Mr.
Van der Voehnn. When he refused, I gotŠscared. I wondered if Tanaki
might hire you." Jim found himself staring into the dark pools of her eyes
and saw fear twisting beneath their calm surface. "I knew you could do it.
So I figured I'd hire you first."

"Why didn't you have me, or Van der Voehnn, for that matter, hit Tanaki?"
Jim was acutely aware of just how openly he was speaking. If there were a
microphone in the room, he was dead. But he felt compelled to say the words
anyway.

Julee's eyes flared wide with surprise, as if she had never considered it.
And she probably hadn't, Jim reflected sourly, at least not seriously. She
didn't hate Tanaki... she only wanted to defeat him in the political arena.
Their enmity was purely business.

Jim read the truth in her expression and shook his head in disgust. "You've
got a screwed set of standards, lady." He watched anger darken her face.
"What I did to your father is exactly what Tanaki is trying to do to you
now. There's not a bit of difference."

"No." She was biting her lip, trying to control the rampage of her
emotions. "It's not the same."

"Why not?" Jim knew he was hurting her, driving the nails of truth into her
heart without regard for the wounds they would inflict. But his own anger
spurred him. He wanted to hear the words... the real, underlying truth.

He came forward and leapt up on the couch. "Why not?" He flung the question
at her again, at the face she had turned away from him. "What makes me
different from Tanaki?"

"He... he was my father," she whispered.

"And your own life isn't as dear to you as his was?" Jim's gravelly voice
was scathing.

A sob broke through the mask of her face, and she covered it with her
hands, trembling. She had finally seen the truth of why she hated Jim so
passionately, and even the real reason that she was compelled to assuage
that subconscious guilt by championing the Altereds in Council. Bitter
tears leaked from between her fingers.

"Get away from me," she ordered in a broken whisper. When he did not move,
she looked up at him, her eyes full of agonized fury. "Get away from me!"
Her voice still did not rise above a hoarse whisper.

"Why? So you can forget all about me and go on living your lie? You have no
idea what it really means to be Altered." Jim already knew that the victory
he had won was an empty one: he could feel the bitter echoes in his own
heart. But the weight of the years, the pain and anger, were boiling out of
him, and he could not stop himself.

Julee turned away from him, but he knew that she listened as he described,
in every ugly detail, what it meant to be Altered. The memories he had
tried so long to bury rose up again: staggering through the streets in the
rain, a starved, freezing kitten whose mother had thrown him out when he
was barely four months old because she could no longer bear the sight of
the child she had borne. Instinct had kept him alive until his human brain
could develop... the hunter's instinct that let him catch roaches and
beetles, and a keen nose that found the edible bits in the garbage that
sat, stinking, in the alleyways. He remembered being driven away with kicks
and curses from every place he had tried to take shelter in, either because
they thought he was an animal or because he frightened the customers away.
He remembered the government child custody house he was put in for a while.
The stern nurses had given him decent food and a warm place to sleep, and
even taught him the basics of reading and writing before the fear and
loathing behind their eyes drove him out into the streets once again. He
remembered being caught and beaten by the neighborhood gangs while he was
still too small for his teeth and claws to be much defense, and he
remembered turning tricks for the truly perverse, in exchange for a meal
and a place to sleep for the night.

When he had grown old enough, and strong enough, to hold his own on the
street, he had found it sweetly satisfying to repay the gangs, the barmen
and their bouncers, and anyone else who tried to hurt him, with teeth and
claws. When the first offer had come to pay him to do what he was already
doing, he hadn't thought twice about it. Eventually the money had gotten
him off the street, given him comfort, women, even an education of sorts.
He did not regret it.

When he finished speaking, Julee was staring at the fingers clasped
together in her lap, struggling to deny the truth of what he said. She had
winced at every description of brutality he had thrown at her, but had not
interrupted. Jim felt exhausted, drained. He had never exposed so much of
himself to anyone and wondered why, of all people, he had done so to this
one. It frightened him in a way he could not describe.

Eventually Julee looked up at him. A wan smile peeked from beneath her
tears. "We should form a club. Call it the Mutual Hate Society."

Surprised, Jim smiled back. He wasn't sure why, but he found the joke
humorous.

They remained that way for several minutes, wrapped in the silence of the
late hour. Jim could hear the tread of the security guards elsewhere in the
house as they made their rounds, and the sigh of the wind in the trees
outside the window. The breeze that came to him was filled with the smells
of damp earth and of the rain that would fall later that night. He noticed
consciously for the first time that there were no lilacs.

Julee rose in a whisper of silk. She was almost to the arched doorway that
led to the stairs before she turned. "Goodnight, Jim Leary."

He could not read the expression in her voice. "Goodnight," he answered.

She left then, and Jim followed her with his ears as she made her way up
the stairs to her bedroom. A few moments later he, too, left to seek his
bed.



"Three days left until the vote." Julee closed up the keyboard on her desk
and folded her arms over it. "Do you think Tanaki will still try
something?"

Jim shrugged. "Probably. The odds are getting long that you'll survive
another attempt. Four is pretty impressive already."

"Thank you so much for the analysis, Mr. Expert. I really didn't want to
hear that."


Jim grinned at her, showing a row of sharp teeth. The sarcasm had been
playful rather than biting. In unspoken accord they did not mention their
midnight conversation, but somehow it had shattered the formality of their
relationship. Not that they were taking long walks in the garden together,
or even working on a first name basis, but something had changed. Jim
wasn't quite certain whether he liked it.

"I was trying to point out why I don't like the idea of you leaving the
estate," he said.

"I know. But this meeting is too important to miss. An equal trade
agreement with Hyundai/Hwang would open some big doors for us back in
Japan. Tanaki surely wouldn't try to hit me there... it's bad form."

Jim sighed, defeated. "Well, the security's as tight as I can make it."

"Good." The portable phone Jim habitually carried with him rang before she
could add anything else. Jim unfolded it and listened to the frantic voice
on the other end.

"Sit tight and I'll meet you there," he said and closed the phone down.

Julee lifted an eyebrow curiously.

"Either Eddie Blake is having a really bad trip, or he's scared enough to
want to sell us some information," Jim said as he jumped down from his
chair. "He didn't know anything a week ago, so maybe he's learned something
important. He's convinced Tanaki tried to off him.

"I'm going to meet him. It shouldn't take long to find out if he's running
a game. So don't leave the estate until I get back."

She nodded and threw him a mock salute. "Take care."



He found Blake exactly where he said he'd be, holed up in a smelly dive of
a motel down in the Central West End. Blake had an old 12-gauge shotgun
across his knees, and to Jim he looked very frightened, and very straight.
Jim had spent twenty minutes watching the building, the room, and the man.
If there was a trap, he couldn't spot it.

"So what's the word?" he asked Blake while he surveyed the room from his
momentary perch on the window sill.

Blake tightened his grip on the shotgun. "Here's the deal: you give me a
plane ticket out of the colony, a little spending money, and enough
protection to keep me alive to enjoy it, and I give you the name of the guy
that's selling your Councillor out to Tanaki." His gaze darted nervously
about the room.

Jim considered him. "How do I know you've got the right name?"

Despair flickered in Blake's eyes. "C'mon, man! They killed Isabella. She
was one of Tanaki's regulars and she knew a lot about what he was doing.
Maybe she even helped recruit this guy." Isabella was the woman who had
shot at Julee Aston during her lecture.

"So why not you? That was almost two weeks ago."

"Man, `cause I didn't know anything!" Blake was squirming like a restless
child. "That's the way it's always been. Tanaki pays good, tells me what to
do, and I don't ask questions. I don't wanna know. But this time, I went up
to the big house to pick up the rest of my money for another job... it
didn't have anything to do with Councillor Aston... and I got there at the
same time this guy did. It took me a minute to figure out who he was. I've
seen him on the viewer a few times when the Councillor was on. So then I
split. I figured if Tanaki'd kill Isabella, he'd sure kill me if he thought
I knew about the guy."

Jim thought it over. The story was plausible, and even convincing. "All
right," he finally said. "I'm willing to buy. Who is it?"

Blake shook his head. "Nuh-uh. Not until I'm someplace safe."

"Will the Aston estate do? It'll take a while to arrange a flight and your
money." Jim was beginning to wish Blake was as dumb as he looked.

Blake nodded, and they left through the window and down the fire escape.
Jim didn't want to take any chances while the hairs on his neck were
bristling with unknown danger.

They reached the estate without incident. Jim took Blake to the basement
and locked him into one of the holding cells that had been built there. No
one saw Blake, as Jim had intended.

"I can't exactly let you roam about the estate," he explained to Blake when
they reached the cell. "This isn't the nicest of accommodations, but it
will keep you safe and out of trouble until I get back."

Blake submitted with the air of a doomed man. He had pretty much sold
himself, and knew it.

"Now I want a name." Jim had kept his part of the bargain, and Blake was
not in much of a position to argue.

"I don't actually know his name. He drives the Councillor's car. Short
little guy that's got no hair."

Jim clamped his jaw shut on his surprise. Ned? But as he thought about it,
it made sense. Ned had access to the gate key, and the first assassin had
come in through the gate. Security had found the gate shorted, but that
could be arranged from inside as well as out, and after the fact as easily
as before. And Ned had been sick the morning that the car bomb had nearly
taken them out. Jim himself had sent the man home, as he did anyone who was
not operating at their peak. It had never occurred to him that the symptoms
could have been faked.

With a rush of adrenaline, he realized that the Councillor's car had not
been in it's spot when he had brought Blake in. He wasn't sure what time it
was, but knew it couldn't be too late. He growled deep in his throat,
unconsciously voicing his anger. The woman had left despite his orders! And
Ned was driving her.

Jim locked Blake into his cell and then sprinted up the stairs, cursing as
the half-healed wound in his shoulder lanced him with pain. He yelled for
his staff as soon as he was out of the basement and explained the situation
in a few terse sentences when they came at a run. They were in a car and
heading out through the gate within two minutes, which pleased Jim in an
unoccupied corner of his mind. The helo crew was also alerted, but it would
be a few minutes more before they could get airborne.

Jim caught up the phone and dialed the Councillor's private number. The
phone rang twice, then Julee's voice came to him from the other end,
"Hello?"

"Hello, Councillor," Jim replied. "This is a friendly conversation. Smile
and nod, and pretend you're talking to one of your ladyfriends."

"What's going on?" Her voice was light, but her sudden concern was clear
beneath the false joviality.

"Is the divider up? Can Ned hear you?"

"No, he can't. What's going on?" She was more insistent this time.

"Laugh. Your ladyfriend just told you a joke." On the other end, he could
hear her obey. "Now," he continued, "tell me where you are."

A pause. "Fifth and Old 70. Am I in trouble?"

"Yes. Where are your escorts?"

"My car blew out its hoverfan. One of the cars stayed with it and we
transferred to the other one. I didn't want to be late."

Jim sucked in his breath. It couldn't have been an accident, could it? He
was barely aware of the deep gouges his claws were ripping in the seat as
he flexed them in response to the tension that gripped him.

"Who's in the car with you, and where are they?" The armored escorts had
two compartments: one in the front that also extended up into a small
turret from which a gunner could fire, and a rear compartment buried in the
belly.

"Ned's up in front with Dan and Xiao. I'm in the back. What is going on?
Wait a minute. We're stopping."

Jim's heart leapt up into his throat. "Where, Councillor? Where are you?"

Another pause as she peered out through the viewing slits. "We're still on
Old 70. We must have crossed the bridge: there's nothing here but ruins."
There was a note of fear in her voice.

"Put the phone down but don't hang up. Put it on the floor. We'll be there
as soon as we can." Then, "Old 70 across the river," he told the driver of
his own car.

"Hurry," was all Julee said. Then, distantly, Jim heard the door grate open
and a man's voice order her out of the car.

Jim could see the bridge ahead of them, and the blasted landscape of East
Louis on the far side. During the war, a targeting mistake had flattened
the ghetto of East Louis while leaving San Louis and her military airport
virtually unscathed. The drumming of a helo's blades reached Jim above the
thunder of the racing hovercar, and he hoped it was theirs.

They arrived in an inevitable cloud of dust and ashes kicked up from
beneath the hovercar's skirt, diving out of the car as bullets shattered
the windshield and tore holes in the upholstery. It wasn't armored, Jim
reminded himself as he tried to pierce the swirling dust. The car began to
settle with a whine, and the dust settled with it, as the two men with Jim
returned fire.

Ned had taken cover behind the armored escort and was keeping them pinned
with devastating accuracy. The shell of a building rose behind him,
covering his back. Jim had doubts about how long their own car could
continue to shield them as the withering fire slowly shredded it. Ned would
have to run out of ammunition before they could do much to him. They
weren't about to hit him... he was using the door of the cockpit as a
shield and firing through the hinge slit.

Julee Aston was nowhere to be seen. Jim peered around the edge of the open
door behind which he crouched, then jerked back as bullets whizzed past his
ears, painfully loud.

A new rattle of gunfire, deeper than the tinny sounds of hand weapons,
joined the cacophony. The helo was descending, and Jim could see the fire
that spit from her guns. The heavy slugs hammered the side of the armored
car, rocking it. Ned turned to face this new threat and raised his weapon.

Jim didn't think he'd ever get a better opportunity. The rough ground gave
him excellent traction as he bounded across the space that separated the
two vehicles and up onto the body of the armored car. The strength and
speed that made his ancestors one of the most feared predators in Asia made
Jim a dark blur as he leapt from the roof of the car and crashed into Ned
Chang. He took him from the side, throwing his greater weight into a twist
that brought Ned down beneath him. His claws sank into the man's back and
the sweet taste of blood filled his mouth as he clamped powerful jaws
around his neck and squeezed.

A flicker of motion at the corner of his eye brought his head around with a
snap. Julee Aston stared at him in a mixture of shock and horror from
beneath the car where she had taken refuge when the firefight began. Her
eyes were huge against the pale skin of her face. It was the child's face,
exactly as he had seen it twenty years before.

They remained that way for several moments, staring into each others' eyes.
The understanding that passed between them ran too deep for words. Then
Julee broke the contact and looked around.

"Is it safe to come out?" She asked. The gunfire had stilled, and only the
sound of the hovering helo filled the air.

Jim nodded. Uncertain, he offered her his hand despite the blood that
covered it. After a moment, she took it, and let him pull her out from
underneath the car.



Four days later, Jim found himself once more sitting across from Julee
Aston in the familiar environs of her study. A man occupied a third chair.
He was, Jim had to admit, one of the most handsome men he had ever seen,
with the perfect features of a Greek god. His hair fell in waves of burnt
gold to his shoulders, and he had the lean, muscular build of a swimmer,
easily visible through the loose, sleeveless shirt that he wore. Like the
rest of his clothing, the shirt was carefully tailored, and expensive.
Everything about him spoke of money and of quality. The only unusual thing
about him were the thick folds of brightly colored skin that fell the
length of his body from his shoulders and arms. When he raised his arms,
they expanded into a beautiful mosaic of butterfly markings, like a spread
cape, that stretched from ankles to wrists. And yes, he had answered Jim's
question, he could glide formidable distances, provided the winds weren't
too rough.

His name was Parker Eddings. And he was now a member of the Council,
occupying the newly created Altered seat. Julee's motion had passed by a
narrow margin the day before.

Jim was thoroughly curious why she had asked him here.

After the introductions were made, Julee turned to him. "Councillor Eddings
asked me to arrange this meeting, so I will leave it to him to say whatever
he has planned."

Eddings smiled at the light jab. Then he turned to Jim. "I understand that
your employment with Councillor Aston will soon be ending."

Jim nodded, "Yes." Out of the corner of his eye he watched Julee for a
reaction, but was disappointed. She had not said anything when he had told
her the first time, either.

"Then I would like to offer you a position on my own staff." He held up a
hand. "And not just as a bodyguard. You know what it is to be Altered
without the advantages I have always enjoyed. I need someone with that
perspective if I'm going to do anything truly useful for our people."

He was an incredible orator, this new Councillor, Jim thought. For a moment
he was tempted, drawn by the power of the man's personality. Then he shook
his head.

"I can't, Councillor."

Eddings watched him for several moments, as if debating whether or not to
try to convince him. Eventually he smiled, resigned.

"I was afraid that might be your answer. I hope you'll reconsider." He laid
a small card on the desk near Jim. "That has my private number, in case you
do."

Jim picked up the card, nodded.

After a few minutes of idle talk with Julee, Councillor Eddings took his
leave. To Jim's surprise, he offered him a hand as he was leaving, and Jim
could tell that he had not thought twice about the gesture. It was the
first time in Jim's memory. He glanced at the man's card again after the
door had closed and wondered if he might not take his offer after all.

The stillness in the room brought Jim out of his thoughts. Julee Aston sat
behind her desk, chin cupped in her hands, staring at him. It was not a
hostile gaze, but Jim could not decipher it beyond that. Surprised to find
his heart beating fast, Jim waited for her to break the silence. When she
did, it was not with anything he had hoped she'd say.

"I am formally releasing you from your oath, Jim Leary, as of this time.
Your employment by the Aston Estate is thereby terminated, without
prejudice." The words were formal, as they were required to be, in order to
be binding under law.

Jim nodded and said nothing. He didn't know what he could say, or even if
he wanted to say anything.

Julee leaned back in her chair. "So this is goodbye?" There was a note of
sadness in her voice.

"I guess it is, Councillor."

A ghost of a smile illuminated her features. "Well, it's been an adventure,
to use an old cliche."

Jim found himself smiling as well. Then he sobered. "Take care,
Councillor." Tucking Eddings card away in his waist pouch, he jumped to the
floor and walked toward the door.

"Leary, wait." Julee's voice stopped him before he had taken three steps.
He paused and turned.

"This is for you." She came around the desk and handed him a small cream
colored envelope. He accepted it curiously.

"Open it later," she added when he turned it over to examine the seal.

"All right," he shrugged, and added it to the contents of his pouch. Then,
without further ado, he turned and padded quietly from the room. Julee
watched him go, face expressionless.



When he opened the cream colored envelope, Jim found inside a reservation
ticket for two for dinner at the Tea Room. It was dated nearly a year in
the future, on the first anniversary of the creation of a Council seat for
Altereds. Jim grinned to himself and wondered if either of them would show.

___________________________________________________________________________

Valerie Jones is an engineer, although not currently working in her field,
which is the aerospace industry. She loves flying, cats, horses, gardening
and computer games. She's been hooked on science fiction ever since her
mother read her to sleep with the Dragonriders of Pern novels. She lives in
Lawerence, Kansas with her husband and sixteen month old son.
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

The Harrison Chapters            His eyes snapped open but saw nothing
                                 save for a blue dot in the
Chapter 16                       distance... He closed his hand into a
                                 fist as a beeping noise rose
Jim Vassilakos                   somewhere in the distance. Then the
                                 lights came on, and he squinted,
                                 barely able to see at all.

                                 "Good morning."
___________________________________________________________________________


He liked the sound it made, twirling on the counter top, and the way it
made her hazel eyes open wide with glee.

"Lemme see."

Mike's first impulse was to clasp his hand into a tight fist. She tried
prying back his fingers one by one, but each time she got one where she
wanted it, she'd have to let it go to work on another. "Dummy," he thought,
as it would snap back down, and she'd scream and then laugh, frustrated and
easily amused.

"Mike... please. I'm gonna tell mom."

"Tell her what? I found it."

"I just want to look at it."

He held its edge between two fingers, its coppery color reflecting the late
afternoon sunlight. Some sort of profile lay etched on the side, a man with
a beard, all distinguished and stately. She squinted, trying to make out
the details as he jiggled it back and forth, forcing her eyes to constantly
refocus. Finally giving up, she tried to grab it. "Slowpoke," he thought as
he felt a snickering smile form on his lips.

"I have all. You have none."

"Mike..." she started to whine.

"Oh, don't cry, baby. You want it?"

"Yes."

"I bet you do."

She ended up chasing him around the flat, underneath tables, through the
shower, over their parents' bed, until she finally cornered him at the
balcony, hazel eyes deadly serious.

"Gimme it or else."

"If you insist."

He made as if to hand it forward, but just at her moment of triumph, he
flicked it backwards over his head. It was over twenty stories down.

"Mike... I'm telling."

She never did, of course. She never told about anything, while he would
tell about almost anything, even the stuff he made up.

"Mommy already knows you're a big fat liar."

"Does not... uh.... Am not."

He didn't know why she held her tongue. He never really thought about it.
He knew it was a good thing though. She'd certainly collected enough dirt
over the years to put him on life-long restriction.

"Where you going?"

He froze, his lower torso hanging out the ventilation shaft. It wasn't the
first time she'd pretended to be asleep. He looked down, uncertain.

"Nowhere."

"I'll tell."

"Go ahead."

He stopped once he reached the roof. She was at his heels, hazel eyes
shimmering faintly in the starlight. Mike scowled. A tag-along was just
what he needed.

"Where do you think you're going?" he queried in his most accusatory voice.

"Where are you going?" she chirped in reply.

"Nowhere."

"I'm going nowhere too."

He gritted his teeth, walking over to the old staircase. He'd busted the
lock on the door with his father's gun while nobody was home to hear the
noise. His dad never even noticed the bullet missing.

Mike told her to go back at least twenty times on the way to the ground
floor. It wasn't that she'd get him caught. Sneaking past the security-bot
wasn't a problem. The thing was stupid, and he'd learned long ago how to
distract it with a pebble. It was just the idea of her company which
irritated him.

She walked behind him once they were outside, picking up funny shaped
stones or bits of metal. She even found a coin, probably the one he'd
tossed over the balcony. They ended up going into one of the deserted
buildings at her insistence. She wanted to find something hard and flat to
spin it on. Mike suggested her head, which she didn't find funny.

They must have sat there for hours while she twirled it with glee and
wouldn't let him touch it for all the false promises in the world. He
watched her, his eyelids growing increasingly heavy as he reminded himself
that they couldn't fall asleep. Without her in the room, there would be
nobody to cover for him in the morning. Still, she seemed too happy to
budge. She finally looked up, waking him from his pseudo-slumber.

"Remember Dana?"

Mike looked at her and yawned, "Haven't seen her in awhile."

"Mom said her family must've moved, but I went over the other day, and her
older sister answered the door. Said she wasn't living there anymore."

"Maybe she got the bug."

That made her pause, but then she looked up again, "I don't see how she
could have. She hardly ever went out. Her dad wouldn't let her."

Mike sat upright on the floor, crossing his legs.

"Sounds almost like Jason."

Lei twirled the coin again.

"Yeah. Before his parents moved, he said they were leaving because of him
and that I should go too. Because we were both second-born."

"Second-born?"

"I know. I asked mom what he meant. She said they were really leaving
because his parents couldn't face their chores."

A goo-spitter crept beside her leg while she was talking. Mike flicked a
string of pebbles at it until it got the hint and crawled away. She didn't
seem to notice and just kept twirling the coin.

"Mom said some people just hide from real life. Isn't that weird?"

"I guess."

She was quiet for a while after that, and Mike closed his eyes wondering
what the big people were up to.

                           ____________________

"Mike. Wake up!"

His eyes snapped open but saw nothing save for a blue dot in the distance,
jumping like the beat to a really slow song. His mouth felt strange, almost
swollen, and his body felt warm and numb, as though he'd melted into the
concrete. It took about a minute before he realized there was something in
his mouth. He spat it out gently, feeling it brush by his arm several
moments later. With considerable concentration, his hand found it somewhere
in the darkness. It was about the size of a walnut, cold and metallic. He
closed his hand into a fist as a beeping noise rose somewhere in the
distance. Then the lights came on, and he squinted, barely able to see at
all.

"Good morning."

It was a woman's voice, detached yet strangely familiar. She sounded a
little tired as her face blurred in and out of focus.

"How are you feeling?"

She wiped his eyes with some sort of sticky, gauze pad, and Mike could see
her short, dark hair as she leaned forward again, looking into his eyes
with an elongated, metal instrument.

"Do you know where you are?"

Mike thought about it.

"No."

"You're on the Crimson Queen... Royal Fleet passenger liner. You're safe."

She put something on his head and then pressed a few buttons. A twisted red
line appeared on the display, sparking to mind images of floating bubbles,
crimson and boiling. Mike blinked as she turned back around.

"Do you remember anything?"

"Umm..."

For some reason, he found himself imagining her with long, white hair. Her
eyes were light brown, like a tiger's. Not silver, like Sule's. He blinked
again as the memories came rushing with neither heed nor invitation.

"Do you know who you are?"

"Mi..." he bit his tongue. "My head feels... kinda woozy."

"It's okay. Just rest. If you need anything," she tapped a red button
beside his fist. "Lights dim," she commanded.

They obeyed, and she seemed to have to play with the door, making it beep
several times before it would open. A man wearing a holster stood on the
other side, smiling and sneaking a peek. Then the door closed again, and
Mike saw a small number pad nested into the wall beside it.

The object in his hand was metallic with two small holes set into one face.
A moon-shaped etching lay beneath them, making a smiling face of the trio,
and the words "try me" were carefully etched along the adjoining side.
Frowning, Mike raised it carefully to his head, using his fingers to find
the appropriate jacks. His arm felt strangely disconnected, as though half
the nerves were deadened, and it took considerable fumbling before the
device agreed click into its proper place. The lights seemed to stutter for
a moment, and sitting somewhere within one wall, he could see the pair of
dancing yellow lanterns.

"Cecil, what's going on?"

"Speak with your mind, my friend. You are in the gravest danger yet."

Mike tried to shrug, but his shoulders barely responded, so he just sat
still as the lanterns continued to swirl, beckoning attention.

"The Imps believe you are working with ISIS. They think it is you who
summoned them to Sule's rescue. It is only a matter of time before they
learn the truth."

"Where am I?"

"The cage, the Crimson Queen's high security section of sickbay."

"Are we in hyperspace?"

"En route to Tyber."

Mike took a deep breath, "No wonder I'm having weird dreams."

The lanterns halted their dance, mid-stride.

"Dreams?"

"Realistic, actually. Ever hear of delayed action re-play?"

"Ah... understood."

Mike sighed. Cecil knew him too well.

"What's our ETA?"

"Fifteen hours."

"Anybody with you?"

The lanterns danced again, "The whole team, Pooper-dumper included."

"Does anyone have any ideas for getting me out of here?"

"Brain cells be burning over it. Trust in that."

"Could you be more specific?"

"Locks on doors, for starters. Codes to enter, unknown."

Mike smirked, "Unknown? To the ultimate hack?"

"Hack Cecil could, but not quietly. Not on this boat, and certainly not
concerning their prize jewel."

Their prize jewel. Mike savored the sound of it as his smirk decomposed
itself into a sullen stare.

"I'll get the combo. You guys figure out how to use it. Okay?"

"Agreed."

Mike disengaged the radio from his jacks, using several minutes debating
where to hide it. Precious little was sacred in a hospital null,
particularly one in which your every bodily function was monitored by
various medical gadgetry. Even a woman doctor would have to get intimate
from time to time. He finally settled on wedging it beneath the upper-torso
sheath between his armpit and the castfoam, pressing the red button almost
as a after-thought. A young man entered the room a minute later. He wore a
white coat with snake insignia and had a soft, friendly face.

"Ah... Lieutenant Feso Sosrodjojo at your service."

Mike tried to grin, "Lieutenant, I can barely move."

"That's just the regen compound doing its work. It contains a mild
paralytic."

"Take me off it."

"Ah... I can't do that."

"Lieutenant, don't make me pull rank here. Can you at least take me off the
paralytic?"

He sighed, "If you don't mind pain, sure."

Mike nodded, "I'd also like to see myself. If you have a mirror
somewhere..."

"No problem. I'll be right back."

A minute later, Mike discovered the nurse true to his word.

"Why are you being so nice to me, Feso?"

"Ah... you're Mr. Important, right? I see Lieutenant Torin always asking
about you. He's very tight with the Commodore, I hear." He grinned
knowingly, his eyebrows arching as if to say "nudge nudge... wink wink."
Then he smiled, sort of shyly. "No, I'm always nice to the patients. It
helps people heal, and you need all the healing you can get."

"What I need is to be able to move."

"Ah... you can move your arm and head."

"I want to be able to move my body. I want to be able to do my own
digestion and defecation instead of these machines. Can you take me out of
the body sheath?"

"Ah... I don't think that would be such a good idea."

"Please?"

                           ____________________


Erik knew he'd overslept even before he was moderately conscious. He'd
woken at his usual time several hours earlier, and recalling the previous
night's excitement, promptly closed his eyes. It was a nice change, he
decided, though a little too habit forming.

"Computer. Reinstate program wake-me."

"Done. You have messages waiting."

"Say messages, list."

"Commodore's quarters. Medical department, check-in desk. Custodial
department, laundry section. Done."

"Laundry?"

"Illegal command ignored."

"Say messages, all."

"Lieutenant, I am eagerly awaiting a report concerning you-know-who. Make
sure I am fully briefed by the time we arrive at Tyber."

He groaned.

Blip

"Hi. Lieutenant Torin, this is Sosrodjojo over at sickbay. In case you
haven't gotten word yet, I figured I should let you know before my shift
ends. That patient of yours has woken up, and he seems completely cognizant
as far as I can determine. You know, because the first thing they do
usually is to start complaining. Anyway, I just thought you'd want to know
as soon as possible. Bye now."

Blip

"Hello. This is Chief Ater. We had an interesting time removing those
seal-it patches off the fleximesh you sent us. I just wanted to let you
know, Lieutenant, that there was a Draconian service insignia underneath.
Showed up on the computer as external intelligence branch. I took the
liberty of forwarding a memo up the chain of command, but I figured I
should at least clue you in as well. Oh, and by the way, we figured out
that we can't repair it on-board, but I'd like to shuttle it down to Tyber
when we arrive and see what we can do with it on planet."

Blip "There are no more messages."

"Erase messages, all."

Erik crawled out of the null tube and showered, whipping out his clearance
badge as he entered the cage's guard room scarce minutes later.

"Hold it there, Mister."

Hunter's hair was slicked back from perspiration, and Erik guessed that she
probably just finished her mid-morning workout. Rumor had it she kept a
pair of grav-weights in her desk, and though he'd never confirmed it one
way or the other, he'd read that some of the new-school, hands-on surgeons
were taking up martial arts for their nerves. Either way, she looked
pumped-up enough to belt him one.

"Where do you think you're going?"

He put on his best smile, "Where's it look like I'm going?"

"It looks like you're trying, rather foolishly I might add, to sneak into
the cage."

"How observant of you."

"Don't even think it. I have a patient in there who needs his sleep."

"Doctor, this will only take a moment. Open the door."

"Don't open it. Lieutenant, the answer is emphatically no."

The guard looked between them, obviously befuddled. Erik knew she
out-ranked him, but he also knew that he had the power of God to call upon
for all the guard was concerned. He pulled the writ from his shin pocket.

"You see this?"

"Yes sir."

"You see the seal?"

"Yessir."

"You recognize it?"

"Yessir!"

"Open the door."

Dr. Hunter stood behind, her mouth gaping open with a string of saliva
ready to spill to the floor.

"Nobody ever told me that ISIS was involved!"

"You never asked, and keep your voice down."

The guard began punching in the access number once they reached the cell.

"The door can only be opened from this side. The number is
two-four-one-five-three. You key it in from the other side, and it'll tell
me that you've entered it correctly. Then I key it on this side, and the
door opens."

"Keep it open until I say otherwise."

"Yessir."

The cell door slid into the wall, and Erik entered, followed by a pair of
irate footsteps. Her patient was reclining diagonally in the gravitic null,
his body sheath laying along the wall behind him. A short, folded chair
rested against the near corner, a mirror propped against one of its legs,
and another chair, unfolded, sat facing him directly as though he were
fully expecting the intrusion. He smiled, his head jacks gleamed in the
eerie, turquoise light.

"Lieutenant Torin, I take it."

Erik sat down, Hunter preferring to stand and look threatening.

"Why are you out of your body sheath?"

The patient shrugged, a pained wince traveling the length of his face, "I
no longer required it."

"I'll be the judge of that. I can't believe Feso didn't tell me he did
this. Has he been administering the regen compound?"

"More or less."

"More or less?"

She examined the playback for all of two seconds.

"What happened to the paralytic?"

"I needed to move."

"Moving is exactly what you don't need. Mister... Mister Doe, you have been
shot several times."

"Twice. Only two got through."

"Only two?! Look Mister... whoever the hell you are! If you saw yourself
yesterday dripping in blood..."

Erik broke in, "Doctor! Please."

"Lieutenant..."

"Doctor, this is a very unusual patient. Please allow him a moment or two
of insanity. I can assure you, it comes with the territory."

"I will not put up with..."

"Due to security matters, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"What?!"

"I am asking, Doctor. Please, don't force me to go further."

Tiger-eyes glared down on him, "I don't care what kind of connections you
have, Torin. This is coming around. You hear me?"

"Fine. Get her out of here."

She left before the guard could muster the courage, and Erik made a toothy
grin, the sort he used to practice in front of a mirror just to break up
his buddies during oral exams.

"Guard, you can close the door now. So..."

"So..."

"How was Calanna?"

Mike frowned, "Difficult."

"Really. I would never have guessed."

"Lieutenant, why am I being locked up?"

"Precautions. For your own safety, mainly. After all, how often do we get a
genuine ISIS operative on board? And that's not even considering the
valuable information which you carry... yes?"

Mike nodded, "Yes, but you may be under a misconception. I'm not an
operative."

"Who are you?"

He took a deep breath, hoping his scratchy, wounded voice sounded
convincing.

"The name's Mikaelis Caiton. I was originally one of John Clay's men."

"DSS?"

"No. Far from it. I was working only for John. He brought me over from
Tizar to keep an eye on Ambassador Kato, but somehow one of your
operatives, her name was Sule... no last name, I guess... somehow she found
out about me and basically made an offer I couldn't refuse."

"What sort of an offer?"

"Initiation into ISIS."

"She doesn't have that authority, Mr. Caiton."

"Call me Mikaelis."

"She lied to you."

"I'm not surprised. Do you want to hear the rest or not?"

"Please."

"First, what are you willing to offer me?" Mike grinned, his question a
little too direct. Erik grinned back.

"Look, Mikaelis. If I wanted to, I could just burn the information from
your brain."

Mike dropped his grin, "Well, if you put it that way... I started working
as a liaison between Clay and your people and managed to escape when things
eventually went down on Calanna."

"What happened?"

"Clay turned triple agent on us. He sacrificed his own life in that nuclear
incident you no doubt heard about and managed to kill Erestyl and destroy
the ISIS headquarters in a single, calculated strike."

Erik sat back, utterly befuddled.

"How did you escape?"

"Luck. Sule dumped a copy of our mind scanner readings to crystal. I then
accompanied her to the starport to deposit them into an interstellar postal
envelope. She doesn't like to take chances; that's one thing I liked about
her."

"How did you get wounded?"

"Two of Clay's goons tried to make short work of us at the starport. They
were locals. Real temporary hires. They didn't even know their source of
income had already reduced himself to a jumble of sub-molecular particles.
Really tacky way to go, if you ask me."

"And what about Sule?"

"She was wounded also. We managed to get to a starship, but its occupants
weren't too crazy to have us there. She fought well, but..."

Erik took a deep breath, trying to digest the story as quickly as Mike had
made it up.

"Where's the envelope addressed to?"

"If I tell you that, what keeps you from just killing me?"

Erik shrugged, "Nothing. You're going to have to trust me."

"I don't think so."

"Perhaps you should. It could be your last opportunity... to think I mean."

Mike nodded, "I'll take you to it, but not until I have a chance to at
least introduce myself to your superiors. If you find that unreasonable,
then take your chances with the mind scanner, and I'll take mine."

Blue light shifted along the Lieutenant's features as he considered the
offer. He finally stood up.

"I should warn you that insolence is not tolerated in ISIS."

"Neither is stupidity," Mike countered, "at least according to Sule."

Erik keyed in the combination as he reached the door, oblivious to the
shift in his prisoner's gaze. After the door closed again, Mike stumbled
over to the folded chair, taking the mirror and placing it flat against the
metal deck. Amidst all the gleaming silver, it had either gone unnoticed or
been disregarded as trivial. He took a deep breath and re-attached the
radio. It took a minute before Cecil's dancing, yellow lanterns returned.

"Greetings."

"Greetings yourself. I got it. It's two-four-one-five-three."

"Copy that. You'll be out in no time."

The lanterns disappeared, and Mike disengaged the radio from his jacks,
hiding it again while wondering how long "no time" would take.

                           ____________________


It was just a little blinker. To anyone else on the bridge, it would have
been beneath notice, but Tabor knew what it meant. He'd just barely
finished re-configuring his display for that one little light. His personal
message board began scrawling letters almost immediately. "There. See
that?"

He opened a channel to engineering. Nakaguchi was talking on the other end
even before the line opened.

"...just like I said. Did you catch it?"

Tabor smiled, "I see it," though he had to admit to himself that he could
scarcely believe it. "What do you think is causing it?"

"You're the communications genius. You tell me."

Tabor imported the section of hyperfield fractometer readings which his
configuration had obligingly saved narrow seconds before they would have
been consigned to electronic oblivion with the rest of the computer's
standard erasures. With a few key strokes, he converted the data to a
graph, and his eyes grew wide at the puzzling image. Nakaguchi was right.
It was pure chaos, except for those few seconds where a series of peaks and
troughs appeared with perfectly equidistant delays.

"You see it?"

"Yeah. I see it, alright. I just don't know what it is."

"I do."

"What?"

Nakaguchi laughed, "It's the slogs of space."

"You're doing this, aren't you? This is a joke."

"A sick and dangerous joke."

"Well, somebody's doing it. This does not happen naturally."

"That's what I've been telling you. You should have seen it last time. It
went on for more than a minute. I wish I was ready for it. I would have
saved it."

Tabor nodded, "I wish you had. A few seconds isn't much to go on. I'll get
back to you if I figure anything out."

"You do that."

The line closed with a fitful pop, and Tabor began running the standard
code-cracker routines. Lish looked up, yawning contagiously. They'd both
got on duty less than an hour ago, and her sleepiness had been infectious
until now.

"What's up?"

"Got a little mystery."

                           ____________________

"Well, it's no mystery to me. I know how men are. Oooh, you think you're
tough, don't you?"

Carla retaliated with a full round kick, knocking Hunter back at least four
feet. The doctor didn't even seem fazed.

"I'm telling you, it was infuriating."

"Well, don't take it out on me, sister."

"Why not?!"

Carla had to duck and then some, finally retreating to her safe corner.

"Alice, you bitch, you are in a bad mood."

"Don't call me that."

"Hey, it's okay. I'm one too. I freely admit it. Now if only we could get
all men to admit they're assholes, the universe might be an honest place to
live."

"No... I mean don't call me Alice."

"It's your name, ain't it?"

"Stop gabbing and fight."

Carla kept to the defensive. She could tell her favorite karate student was
out for bloody, no-holds-barred aggression, and it was a beautiful sight.

"You keep on like this, and I'm gonna have you in the tournament. Talk
about focus. The only problem is that you're so pissed, you aren't
thinking."

She dished back just what the doctor ordered, except that Hunter didn't
know it until she was already on the floor, dazed, Carla's foot scrunching
down on her nose.

"Damn."

"Ha! And you thought you had me. Didn't you?"

Hunter stood up, rubbing the leg which took the brunt of the take-down.

"For maybe half a second."

"Longer than that. You were getting wicked, woman."

"I have good reason to be wicked."

"Yeah, well... you have to think and be wicked at the same time. Once you
have that down, all men better run and hide."

Hunter smiled. It had taken a while, but Carla was finally getting to her.
She always knew the doctor's weak spots.

"I didn't say all men."

"No, but that is what you mean. C'mon girl. You don't have to pretend
different. I know."

Hunter shrugged, picking up a towel, "It's just that they're so stupid."

"Ain't that the truth."

"They refuse to listen to reason. They're pig-headed."

"I heard that right. Hey, where's that come from, anyway?"

"What?"

"Pig-headed."

"You never heard of pigs?"

"No."

Hunter started to laugh, except that she was too angry and couldn't sustain
it, so it just came out like all wrong, like a pig's snort. Carla watched
her, a hurt scowl crossing her brow.

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm stupid or something? Listen girl, just
because not everybody goes to college for ten years..."

"No... I didn't mean it like that. Pigs are proto-slogs. That's just the
sound they make."

Carla looked at her again, that strange sort of smile forming along her
lips like she figured she was being lied to for the fun of it.

"I can do that. Listen..." snort "Hey, this is great." snort snort

"You're a real natural."

"I've always been able to make that noise. That's a pig noise?"

Hunter nodded, "I friend of mine was doing her dissertation on some of the
old DNA samples. They were supposedly brainy animals for their time."

snort snort

"You should have been a science major, Carla."

"I'll pass on that. The closest I ever got to science was a psychology
class they made me take. It was real cheesy. For the final project, we had
to find some sort of phenomena and explain it, okay?"

"Uh oh..."

"So, this guy in our co-op, he was my subject, except he didn't know it.
See? Every time he got hungry, he would go over to the cold food locker,
open it up, and just sort of stare inside like some meal was going to jump
out at him all of a sudden and make itself. You ever see men do this?"

"Not really."

"Well, they do. If you ever bothered to just watch people, you will notice
a lot of men exhibiting this sort of behavior. And it wasn't like it wasn't
his food. It was everybody's food."

"Okay. So what was your explanation?"

"The cold."

"Huh?"

"The cold air hitting his stomach caused it to shrink, and so by standing
in front of the thing while it was open, he actually reduced the amount of
free space in his stomach. How ya like it?"

Hunter smiled sympathetically, "What grade did you get?"

"It went down as an incomplete. The professor advised me to forget about
the sciences and take some trig to cover the slot. Can't say I'm sorry. I'm
pretty damn good at what I do."

"When do you use trig?"

"When is your friend ever gonna meet a pig?"

Hunter pondered Carla's eccentric sort of logic on the way back to sickbay.
It was already an hour into her sleep shift, but she felt determined to
immobilize her patient even if it meant chaining him to the wall and
whipping him with warm squash, and ditto for Lieutenant Torin if he was
unfortunate enough to still be loitering in the general vicinity. Her
thoughts were cut short by the door, however, or more specifically, by it's
remaining closed as she tried to walk through it. She picked herself off
the floor, holding her bruised nose in one hand as she looked around to see
if anybody had witnessed her comedic display of dexterity.

Sickbay was never locked. She slid her ID through the scanner slot, but the
door refused to budge, defiant and imposing as never before. She considered
kicking it, but buried the notion in her list of unspent aggressions.

She finally hit the white comm-switch on the right.

"Can somebody open the door, please?"



The security button beckoned. She hit the white switch again, closing the
line and hit the red switch with an angry jab of her thumb.

"Security?"

The door slid compliantly into the wall, and a tall, lanky figure stood
before her. Behind the black face mask, soft blue eyes seemed to rotate
within their sockets. She didn't even feel the two darts hitting her
stomach until a pair of gloved hands caught her fall and carried her gently
inside.

"Who... what..."

The doorway began to spin and blur, and as the walls closed quietly upon
her, she heard a grainy voice reverberate somewhere in the hazy distance.

"This is security.... Please identify yourself. Hello?"

                           ____________________


The Commodore leaned back, seemingly impressed with the story, and Erik
hoped she wouldn't ask about specifics. He was still fuzzy on the details,
himself.

"Let me get this straight. He wants an interview?"

Erik shrugged, "He wants into ISIS... or so he purports."

She frowned, glancing at the wall image of Roxanne's Palace on Tyber.
Computer generated banks of orange, acid smog blew past the structure's
summit, somehow clouding her eyes with memories of the sunrise on Calanna.

"Commodore?"

"Even had I the clout, I wouldn't use it. It's not like the Navy. ISIS
doesn't take applications. Besides, he's too attached to Clay, who already
proved himself a traitor after we had trusted him."

"According to Caiton."

"The more I think about it, the more difficult I find it to believe this
Mikaelis Caiton. Why did Clay expose his entire network on Tizar if he was
never with us? As a sacrifice?"

Erik nodded, "Perhaps."

"No. Even were they all discards, what did he have to gain by risking
Erestyl?"

"He managed to destroy the operation of Calanna."

"A minuscule victory entirely beneath mention. He won nothing. This
prisoner would have us believe that he sacrificed his life and risked
Erestyl for nothing. Preposterous."

"Maybe Clay had second thoughts. That's the only explanation."

Reece cast him a cool stare, "There is another. He could be making the
whole thing up."

"Too many pieces fit. He knows a great deal. He must have been on the
inside."

She nodded, "That is all he has told us. Nothing more."

"Still, given the possibility that he's telling us the truth, shouldn't we
at least humor him?"

"Yes. We should. Regardless, I do want to meet him. If nothing else, a more
thorough questioning might serve to reveal who he really is."

Beep

"Reece here."

"This is Dunham. There's been an incident at sickbay. Your John Doe has
escaped."

Reece looked up, eyes cold as ice.

"On my way."

                           ____________________


Hunter awoke in the infirmary, a swarm of stewards and part-time medics
darting frantically from null to null. They dressed the patients with
neurogram napkins and monitored pulse rates, such was the extent of their
training. She heard Feso's voice somewhere in the back of the room,
delivering instructions while donning a white service coat over his red and
pink striped pajamas, the only calm voice amidst a babble of cacophony.

"Well look who's among the living." He quickly stepped over, reaching for
her arm as she tried to sit upright. "There, Doctor. Just let it pass."

"The living?"

"Don't worry. Everyone seems fine."

"What happened?"

"You tell me. I just got here."

She glanced over his shoulder as the haze slowly dissipated from her mind.
Commodore Reece stood with the Captain and Lieutenant Torin near the main
desk, a first-class power-huddle if she'd ever seen one.

"You didn't tell me we had guests."

"Doctor..."

"C'mon."

She tore the napkin from her forehead and began traversing the distance
with Feso's shoulder in tow, not a mean task considering his reluctance. It
wasn't that he minded substituting for a pair of crutches. On the contrary,
he'd do anything to help a patient. His hesitation was founded in
cowardice, the prospect of interrupting an impromptu executive conference
rating somewhere between jamming his finger in an iris valve and taking a
long walk out a short airlock.

"Doctor, this is not such a good idea. You should lay back down and rest."

"Steady, Feso. You drop me and it goes on your permanent record."

The Commodore was spitting out orders left and right, her voice crisp and
determined and more than a little peeved.

"I want his image circulated among the crew. Also, post armed stewards at
the lifts and escalators. Shoot to maim."

Shoot to maim?

"Excuse me, sir. Might somebody tell me what's going on?"

"Your patient has escaped, Doctor. What do you last remember?"

Hunter took a deep breath and let go of Feso's shoulder.

"I was trying to enter sickbay, and the door was locked for some reason. I
opened a channel to security. Then the door opened and... everything went
black."

"Hypo darts. You took a double tap in the belly. Did you get a look at
him?"

"I... remember a face mask."

"We found this in your hand."

Reece handed her a flimsi, glowing pink letters scrawled across its face:
"If you ever want to see me again, don't conduct a search. It's tacky, and
you'll only inconvenience the passengers, particularly if you get too close
to me."

Erik broke in, "Commodore..."

Reece put up a steady hand.

"Do you have any idea why this was left in your hand, Doctor?"

"I was the ranking officer."

"Did anyone besides the medical staff and guard have access to the
prisoner?"

"Lieutenant Torin."

"Any passengers?"

"No sir."

Reece pressed her lips together, "One more question, Doctor. Is he well
enough to survive without medical attention?"

"That depends, sir."

"Give me an educated guess."

"Assuming there are no complications, yes."

"Complications?"

"He's very weak. When the regen-compound wears off, his condition will
worsen. How badly, I can't say."

"How soon?"

Hunter glanced toward her thumbnail chronometer.

"He's already past due, but there's a two to four hour grace period on the
compound."

Reece nodded, "There will be a meeting in the executive conference lounge
in two hours. I want an account of inventory losses."

"Aye, sir."

Hunter about-faced as well as her wobbly legs would allow before the
Commodore's words hit her.

"Inventory losses?"

The medicine cabinets hung open, boxes of various drugs and chemicals
scattered haphazardly on the floor. Feso pulled a chair out of the mess,
offering her a place to sit down. She ignored the gesture, bending over to
sort through the contents of some of the emptied boxes.

"What did they take?"

"Haven't had time to check."

She sat down in the middle of the floor, starting to pick up and sort the
miscellaneous bottles, jars, and canisters into tight, alphabetical rows.

"We'd better find out then, Feso. We've only got two hours."

                           ____________________


Johanes administered the injection with all the delicacy of a marsh slog in
heat.

"Oops, missed the vein again."

"Ow... you sure you know you're doing?"

"Don't worry."

If not for Cecil and his bottle of miruvor, Mike figured he'd be heading
back to sickbay on account of his health.

"Told you you'd be out in no time."

Mike shrugged as Johanes withdrew the hypo, placing the empty plastic
capsule in his pocket.

"You're certain about Sule."

"Positive."

"You saw her dead."

"To put it mildly."

"And what about the body?"

Mike accepted a highbowl by way of congratulations, pausing before taking a
sip.

"The body?"

"Anything on it?"

"I don't know. She was wearing a vacc suit."

Johanes shot Cecil a worried glance as he caught the next highbowl, its
course erratic as it teetered, languid, from side to side. Spokes received
the next, and Cecil finally sent his own spinning on a collision course
with the others until it clinked gently against each in consecutive
sequence.

"To freedom."

"To freedom," everyone concurred, everyone except the Draconian.

"I don't want to disappoint you all, but we're not out of the asteroids
yet. We have about enough time for one drink."

"Two drinks," Spokes took another sip and started reattaching his headgear.

"One drink. If they decide to conduct a ship-wide search, I'd like to know
about it before it's too late."

"That would be uncouth."

"That never stopped ISIS before." Johanes gulped down the last of his drink
like a man stranded in the desert. Then he smiled. "I hereby conclude this
celebration. Cecil, you stay here and monitor their communications.
Michael, go to sleep. You've got six hours until the next injection."

"Terrific."

"Don't bitch. Spokes, you're with me."

"Okay, just a sec."

Mike poured himself another highbowl.

"Thanks. Everyone."

"Save your gratitude until we're dirtside. C'mon, we haven't got all
millennium."

"Okay... jeeze."

Mike floated his half-drained highbowl toward the corner of the room as the
door closed behind the dynamic if ill-disciplined duo. Cecil, meanwhile,
leaned calmly beside his multi-wave radio, sipping miruvor and warming a
left-over chili pita in the portable cooker. When it came out, the cheese
oozed between the cracks in the flat-bread like a wad of snot leaking out
the folds of an overused hanky.

"Want some?"

Mike winced, "I'll pass."

"Suit yourself."

"I'd rather stick to liquids for now."

"As in miruvor?"

"Whatever's being served."

Cecil's single camera danced a bit, the cat taking notice and pouncing on
it with claws outstretched, "Your problem is you don't know when to quit."

"Untrue. I haven't gotten drunk for over a week... unless you count being
force-fed by psychopaths."

"Well, congratulations," Cecil said, almost like he meant it.

"Give me a break, Cecil. I'm on my second highbowl which is nowhere near my
face."

"Why the sudden fit of restraint?"

Mike shrugged, "Maybe seeing that old weasel Gardansa slurping it down..."
he grunted, crawling into the null-tube, "I dunno. I was shot recently,
okay?"

"Good excuse as any."

"Besides, I want to keep clear-headed for a change. You check this place
for bugs?"

"You calling Cecil a fool?"

Mike sighed, "Just do me a favor. Check again."

Setting the pita beside his multi-wave, Cecil dug a small box out of his
suitcase. It's antenna telescoped out, and he proceeded to wave it around
the room, switching off the light and then his multiwave as he scanned.

"Light on. You see. Nothing here but us chickens."

"Meow?"

"What's it key on?"

"Electrostatic emissions. Do us a favor and switch off the sleeper."

Mike complied, and Cecil waved the antenna over the null tube.

"Interesting," his friend commented, as though he'd found a strange insect
on the bottom of his shoe.

"What? Something on the sleeper?"

"No. On you."

Cecil poked him with the antenna a few times, finally stopping at the belt
by which Mike's loose-fitting robe was held shut.

"Johanes find this for you?"

Mike untangled it from around his waist, inspecting the stiff fabric until
he found what he was looking for. The bug was flat and circular, like one
of those old coins he used to find in the barrens, only a little thicker
and without a stately, bearded profile on the side.

"One down."

Cecil kept looking, this time even more diligently than before, but the one
was all they found. Cecil finally cracked it open.

"It's just a recorder. Looks like cheap crystal."

He put it back together and dropped it into the portable heater.

"Cheap crystal fries easy."

Mike smiled, "Now that we're alone, you can start by telling me
everything."

Cecil sat down, his camera taking a thoughtful, sidelong pose as it dumped
Pooper-dumper back to the carpet in a fitful of snarls and hairballs.

"Not much to tell."

"Humor me."

Cecil sighed, leaning himself backward until the multiwave became a
makeshift pillow.

"Spokes showed up at the Sintrivani after you left, and we heard about the
air strike over the three-vee. Assumed you were somehow involved, knowing
your aptitude for mischief."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. One of the offworlders waiting for transport must have
sneaked near the landing platform with a camera, because next thing we see
is Tizar's favorite gatherer hanging out the airlock of an orbit-bound
vessel. Then some explosions in the sky. Made for an amusing show."

"I was on three-vee?"

"More or less. The back of your head was, at least. We knew who it was.
Johanes dropped by a few hours later and basically confirmed what we saw."

"And so you guys decided to rescue me... just for kicks."

Cecil thought about it before answering, as though he was deciding whether
to be polite or honest.

"Johanes gave you less than even odds against Sule. He wanted our help to
finish her off."

"Assassination. This is getting even better."

"One might remind you that you're hardly virginal, Michael."

"I wasn't in it for money."

"Neither was I!"

Cecil spat the words out, pronoun included, pausing briefly to regain his
composure. The cat darted to the corner of the room, certain a voice of
that volume could only be directed at four- legged personages.

"We agreed to aid him in what he wanted, provided that he aid us in what we
wanted."

"Which was?"

"Your rescue, given the unlikelihood that you would still be kicking after
a confrontation with Sule."

Mike smiled meekly, a little embarrassed.

"That's it?"

The camera nodded, "In verbose totality."

"If it was just you, I'd buy it. Why's Spokes here?"

"Like Cecil said before, he seems to like you. We chipheads stick
together."

Mike smirked, "That's pretty weak."

"Then call Cecil a liar. It won't be a first."

"What are you giving him? Free wedgies?"

Cecil chomped another bite from his cheese pita as he pondered the
question. In the hackers lingo "free wedgies" equated to a gratis
apprenticeship, master to novice, wizard to user, or between any other
combination of disparate proficiencies: in short, Cecil to just about
anyone. Before, Spokes was just the aspiring pupil. But now, given the
risks involved, he was encroaching to the point of earning his keep, making
the so- called "wedgies" not entirely free.

"What's it to you, Michael?"

"Well... I guess I'm just curious how this all came about. I've never known
you to team-up with people, much less take on a long-term student."

"Life brings newness."

"Is that what you told Spokes?"

"Not precisely."

Mike laughed, then coughed.

"Try me."

"Get some RL." Real life, he meant.

"C'mon Cecil. Just the main points. You can spare the slogshit."

Cecil smirked, "Courage as an aspect of knowledge. Necessity of the will to
seek. Proof of intents..."

"You waste my time, I waste yours?"

"Stop whining. It got you out, didn't it?"

Mike shrugged defensively, "I'm not whining. I don't really care that
you're using him. It's merely a transaction as far as he's concerned. I
just wanted to know here everyone stands. For some reason," Mike tried to
laugh, "I just couldn't picture you three guys coming all the way out here.
You maybe. I mean, now we're more or less even again. Right?"

"More or less."

"But Johanes and Spokes... I thought I was dreaming."

"Maybe you are."

"No... I've got other dreams. I guess we both do."

Cecil was silent for a bit after that, finishing the pita and sucking down
the last of his miruvor. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Mike tried
closing his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.

"Y'think we're gonna get out of here, Cecil?"

He didn't answer. Mike wondered if he'd even heard the question. With eyes
glossed over, Cecil was already in the other world.

                           ____________________

"See `em? Self-replication detected. Zoom."

Chief Tuto looked from one monitor window to the other, his brown eyes
narrowing on the detection pings as they appeared, divided, and vanished in
short order. It was just as before, only quicker, as if they knew they'd
been spotted.

"Where are they coming from?"

Dira shrugged, a tangle of amber hair falling over one eye.

"Tracer says medical, but look at the entry log."

"Could be stealthing. Run a CPU verify."

One hand danced over the keyboard, "Yeah... no... well, something was
there. A difference of two percent detected for about... half a second."

"Run a full heads on exit channels, quick."

It was a waste of time, of course, and by the time they got around to
checking out the entry logs, there were no entry logs. Tuto studied the
blank screen with an equally blank expression, finally releasing an
irritated grunt.

"This is getting rude."

"Maybe not."

Her hand did another dance. "Port 129 shows simultaneous closure."

Tuto glanced toward the wall-chart. 129 was one of the public aether ports.
It could be accessed via wireless terminal, open to virtually any person on
board.

"Entry logs?"

"Nope."

"He's not taking chances. And he's too fast to lock in place." He chewed on
the thought. Speed usually bred sloppiness. "Do a frequency comparison on
the ports."

Dira tapped a few more keys, her dark blue eyes scanning the row of
frequencies as they scrolled off the monitor window. "Got it. Here's the
band they were using, and here it's being used on Port 182. Same exact
frequency."

Tuto nodded, not terribly surprised bytheir trespasser's lack of
precautions. Too bad. The game had just started getting interesting.

"Feed in a command stop. We'll lock him in place and check the entry logs."

Her fingers complied, and the keyboard locked up as though somebody had
yanked it off the desk.

"Huh?"

Tuto went to another console. Same story. He slammed a fist on the keyboard
in frustration. Dira put a hand on his shoulder.

"That won't help."

"It makes me feel better."

"Look at the port display."

One-eight-two flashed all the way from the command console to the security
desk, as cruel a set-up as he'd ever witnessed. Dira seemed to smile at
their predicament.

"We got re-routed, sir."

Tuto pushed the air from his lungs and began pacing around the room,
re-booting each of the consoles in turn. It would be several minutes before
they were back online, and somebody out there was making the most of the
time, probably laughing hysterically.

"This is getting very rude."

                           ____________________

It felt a little like free-ditching off the Aerial Palace, the rush of
adrenalin and anxiety clawing at the will's outer shell. He could break a
sweat just thinking about it, because every time the possibility of fate
catching up was both real and expected. They had a place called "Gyron's
Fall," named after some poor sap whose grav-restrainer failed. Not his
fault. It just suddenly decided to up and quit in mid-air. Became the
biggest joke halfway across the Realm. Gyron ended up bouncing, and they
dug a little crater and buried him head-first, his feet sticking up with a
pair of boots that had foggers in their soles, such was the Draconian sense
of humor. Johanes remembered laughing out loud at the time, wishing he
could have been there.

"It's locked."

Spokes waved his hands in an apparently arcane gesture as the door slid
open. Johanes regarded his triumphant expression with all the amusement it
deserved.

"We're on a schedule here, okay?"

"Sorry."

Spokes followed him inside with a casual waltz, a sharp contrast to his
crisp-collared maintenance uniform. That was okay. It made him look like he
knew what he was doing. Johanes paced about the room, flipping a power
screwdriver end over end.

"There are fire sprinklers in here."

"So there are."

"Here, hold this."

The chiphead still regarded the canister with a mixture of curiosity and
ambivalence. All he knew was that it held clear liquid sandwiched between
white powder and a fan, each separated by a sheet of impacted polymer with
radio-controlled shutters. Enough information for the average ten-year-old,
Johanes figured, opening a vent.

"There's a sensor in here also."

"So?"

"Tell Cecil we'll need to deactivate it just before this is triggered. All
of them. This has to work perfectly or we all get caught. Understand?"

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

Johanes bit his tongue. Spokes knew, all right. He just didn't want to
admit it, the perfect conspirator, hedging all bets by feigning ignorance.

"Relay the message. Can you do that much?"

The tall one sighed and finally nodded, soft blue eyes seeing no ready
alternative.

                           ____________________

"First of all, we're going to find the escapee. There are no alternatives.
There will be no excuses for failure."

Reece stared around the chamber, slowly taking in all their expressions.
Every officer in the room knew that organizing a ship-wide search on a ship
the size of the Crimson Queen was no mean task. The deadline only increased
the challenge.

"As you all know, we'll be dropping back into normal space in about nine
hours. The traffic situation at Tyber will be enough of a problem without a
fugitive to worry about, so it would seem that time is of the essence. Keep
that fact in mind while you make your reports. Captain?"

Dunham leaned forward, nodding to the Commodore as his broad mass shifted.
With the press of a button, Mike's image materialized over the conference
table in three dimensions.

"This is the man we're looking for. Pictures have already been distributed
to the crew, several of whom have noticed a likeness with this man."

He pressed the button again, and the jacks were replaced by an unkept mane
of long brown hair.

"His real name is Michael Harrison. He's a gatherer with the Tizarian
division of Galactic Press. We believe he has two allies on board. They
used hypo guns with a short-duration sedative in order to incapacitate the
guard stationed at the cage. They also tranquilized Dr. Hunter and two
specialists."

Reece interrupted, "Has the hypo compound been identified?"

Hunter nodded, "Senthinol-3. It's a consumer product made at a number of
systems in this sector. Been in circulation for the past three centuries."

The Captain looked around slowly, drawing presence from the silence before
continuing.

"Harrison is wanted for homicide on Calanna. He is also suspected of
impersonating an ISIS operative in order to get aboard, a felony under
interstellar law."

"He's wanted for homicide?"

Dunham nodded, "Apparently, but we don't have any details."

It made sense. The Calannans were generally private about such things. But
that didn't explain why he wasn't caught.

"They must have sent us his image recognition code."

"Yes, but because of the unusual way he attained passage, he was never
checked out."

Reece bit her lip.

"Any idea on how his associates got the cell combination?"

"We have a theory. Security ran a level two diagnostic of the ship's
computer after the break-in. They found a number of recon---worms. We've
been attempting to trace their source, but so far, no luck."

"You're saying they broke into the system and just read the combination?"

"So it would seem."

Reece bit her lip again.

"Those combinations are well protected. Why wasn't an alarm activated?"

"We don't know."

"How are they avoiding our trace?"

Dunham turned toward a petty officer at his right. "Chief Tuto?"

"They're using a variety of means. Stealth, entry-log erasures,
misdirection tactics. They've also found out how to slip into unused
frequencies unobserved."

"I thought all unused frequencies were observed continuously."

"They've managed to draw out our observation routines and are sending data
packets between the check points. We also believe they're using above-board
frequencies for voice transmissions."

"Have you conferred with communications about this?"

"Actually sir, they were already aware of it." He nodded across the table
to another officer. Tabor shifted in his seat, realizing he was suddenly
on-stage.

"Uh... six hours ago..."

"Who are you?"

"Tabor. Ensign. First Class. Communications Officer, sir."

He looked raw, like a typical navy recruit, the coppery-orange hair cropped
so close to his head that his appearance reminded her of a turnip. She
guessed that his problem had more to do with nerves than hair. He seemed so
scared it made her jitter just to look at him.

"Go ahead, Ensign."

"Six hours ago, one of our engineers noticed some very interesting readings
from an instrument which measures fractures in the normal-space bubble
around the ship. The device operates by bouncing a short-wave signal along
the bubble's area perimeter."

"Excuse me, Ensign," Reece waved from the other side of the table. "Is this
going to take a while to explain? We don't have time for a lecture in
astrophysics."

"Umm... I'll be brief, sir."

"Very brief."

"Yes sir. The gist of it is that this radio frequency is being used
continuously while we are in hyperspace, but to someone unfamiliar with
engineering, it looks like normal line noise between usable bands, thus
qualifying it for exploitation by a tight frequency transmission."

"You're telling me that they're using a voice frequency which is already in
use?"

"Anyone sufficiently skilled in communications can compress transmissions
into data packets, fire each one off several times, then decompress the
packets, check for inconsistencies caused by the line noise, correct, and
presto; they're using a frequency which also happens to be in use by a
non-sentient system, and their transmission goes through entirely
undetected. But in this case, it didn't."

"I think you just confused me more. Try the gist again."

Tabor took a deep breath, "Okay. Prior to jump, they must have been looking
for an above-board frequency with residual noise. Something that wasn't
being used, but that had enough random noise on it that it wouldn't be
scanned like a clean frequency where their transmission would be picked up
in an instant. This frequency qualified perfectly. The computer was running
tests on it by generating random noise, transmitting it externally to the
sensor, and making comparisons to see whether or not the sensor was
operating within its safety parameters."

"So you're saying this particular band was ideal for their purposes?"

"Very much so. If this had been an older craft where the comm system isn't
as tight and clean as it is on this ship, they would have had a lot more to
choose from, but on this vessel we don't really have any junkie above-board
frequencies, so their choice was very limited."

"And our engineers caught them when their transmissions interfered with the
operation of the sensors."

"Correct."

Reece nodded, "I understand, but why wasn't this reported immediately?"

Tabor took a deep breath, "I didn't learn about it until I came on shift
about three hours ago, and at that point I didn't believe it. By the time
the second transmission rolled around, I was convinced, but..."

"There were two?"

"Three, sir. The first six hours ago which lasted for a minute or two. The
second, a little over two and a half hours ago, which lasted only few
seconds. And the third began a little over two hours ago and has been
continuous since then."

Reece bit her lip yet again, this time hard enough to make her reconsider
the action.

"Let me get this straight. Harrison has been using a restricted frequency
for the past six hours, the past two hours continuously, and this is the
first I hear of it?"

"Sir, we didn't even know what we were dealing with until news of the
prisoner escape started to circulate. For all we knew, it was some sort of
localized hyperspace phenomenon or even a prank."

"A prank?"

"Yes sir."

Reece regarded Dunham with a sinister stare, and the Captain's dark cheeks
grew rosy under her scrutiny.

"Well, it's a relief that the crew has grown proficient at entertaining
themselves. We wouldn't want morale to suffer. Ensign, can we pinpoint the
signal source?"

"Not with the equipment on board."

"Can you at least tell us what it's saying?"

"The instrument's readings are used and removed from computer memory in a
continuous cycle, so we lost the first transmission entirely. That's gone
forever. The second one lasted only for a few seconds, and I've already
tried around a thousand standard decryption routines, none of which has
worked. I wouldn't put too much hope on us ever deciphering its contents,
at least not any time soon, and certainly not without very powerful
computer support. The current transmission is still being saved, but I
expect that we'll find the same problem we're having with the second."

Reece took a deep breath, "So in other words, no."

Tabor just sat there looking pale.

"In the future, Ensign, when I ask you a question, don't give me a speech.
A yes or no will suffice."

"Aye, sir."

"Can you jam the frequency?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do it. Immediately. You're dismissed."

"Aye, sir."

He saluted and exited.

"Chief Tuto, I want all passenger access to the computer stopped and aether
port access restricted to pre-verified frequencies. You're dismissed."

"Aye, sir."

Reece waited for him to leave as she studied the stony expression on
Dunham's face. He seemed to be waiting for some comment, or perhaps a pat
on the head. She might have obliged him had she a sturdy club.

"Pranks?"

"They do happen, sir."

"We could have spotted this hacker hours in advance if there hadn't been
such leniency. Now that they've had hours to feel out our system..."

"It makes them all the more dangerous," he took the luxury of completing
her thought.

"I want one of your people to run through the passenger lists and see who
looks like they might qualify. Unless those have already been erased."

"Will do, sir."

"Also, see if any of the passengers are mentioned in our library records as
being associated with this Mr. Harrison."

"Of course."

Reece leaned back, seemingly examining the ceiling.

"I'd like to order a re-boot as well."

Dunham smiled, "Not a good idea, sir."

"No, not while we're in hyperspace," the Commodore reluctantly agreed.
"Lieutenant."

Erik snapped to attention, "Yes, sir."

"Give me a scenario."

He took a breath, "Gatherer in search of a story. He learns more than is
wise; breaks some planetary laws. He decides to turn tail but gets cornered
at the starport. He calls us, pretends that he's an ISIS agent, and we
obligingly offer him a ride. His friends figure out what happened easily
enough. They rescue him."

"A great deal of risk on their part. And what about Erestyl? What about the
information we so ardently desire?"

Erik bit his lip. "More than likely it is gone, blown to bits by Clay.
Perhaps he wasn't lying except about his own role."

"If he is simply a gatherer, then how did he happen upon Draconian
fleximesh?"

"Bought it at a Calannic yard sale?"

"Right," Reece smiled, then frowned again, looking back across the table at
nobody in particular. "It seems to me this whole thing reeks of the DSS,
and who more willing to take such a risk, provided the pay-off is right?
Which would suggest that Harrison is important to them alive. All the more
reason for us to take him alive. Commander Simms?"

"Sir."

He had broad-shoulders and a square jaw, the sort that made her wonder if
he spent his free time doing push-ups in three-gee while chewing down
carrots and ironweed.

"Are we prepared for a top to bottom?"

"Yes, sir."

"Word to the troops?"

"Shoot to maim, sir."

"I don't want him dead."

"Aye, sir."

She began to wonder if there was a half a brain in there. Then she noticed
the look on Hunter's face, half way between fear and urgency.

"Doctor, you look like you have something itching up your backside."

"Yes, sir."

"Spit it out."

"Well, first of all, I think this Mr. Harrison is in trouble... to put
things mildly, sir."

The Commodore's eyebrows arched playfully.

"Enlighten me."

"We found several vials of Torogon-66 missing from our stores. It's a
wide-spectrum regen-formula common to the outer worlds. We've kept it in
stock for patients who are unsuited or prove allergic to the in-house
compound."

"So?"

"The Torogon formula is never injected directly following use of our
in-house compound without an intervening stabilizer and a twelve hour
waiting period. If this isn't done, the interaction of the formula and our
compound will cause a high-potential for misreads of the patient's DNA."

"What, he mutates?" said with a smirk.

"I doubt he'll live long enough for that. It'll begin by wiping out the
delicate systems, two critical ones being the immune and nervous systems.
He'll lose control of his lungs in a day or two, and he'll have to invent a
new way of fending off opportunistic viruses sooner than that."

"Did they take any stabilizers?"

"I haven't found any missing."

Reece nodded, "We can only assume that our thieves are pharmaceutically
inept. They have probably already injected him. Is there any treatment?"

"Yes, there's a compound called Anamesa."

"Go on."

"It'll stop the interaction between the regens and boost the immune system
so the body has time to restore itself, but if it isn't applied within the
first six to twelve hours, you can forget it. It'll be too late to do
anything without extensive medical resources, much greater than we have
onboard."

Dunham sat upright, "How soon until he gets sick?"

"Like I said, it varies, though usually by the time the patient is
seriously ill, it's too late to apply the Anamesa. You can still
artificially boost their immunity to specific diseases, however, the damage
to their system, per se, is already there."

"And restoring it is not easy."

Hunter shook her head, "Some might say impossible."

The Commodore grinned from ear to ear, "I hate to be celebrating another
person's misfortune, but all in all, that's excellent news. I want our
supply of Anamesa destroyed, and I want our mind-scanner readied for use."

"Sir?"

"You have moral reservations, Doctor?"

Hunter averted her eyes. "Sir, we have never used the mind-scanner."

"You don't have trained staff?"

"No, it's not that. I just... it's over ten years old. I don't even know if
it'll work. And as for destroying the Anamesa, if you do capture this Mr.
Harrison, that may be the only thing you have to bargain with."

"Oh, don't worry Doctor. We'll capture him. I just have no intentions of
serving him the opportunity to live, and besides, this way it isn't
anyone's fault." She smiled, then frowned.

"What is it, Doctor?"

"They took more than the Torogon-66."

"Such as?"

"Hydrochloric acid and potassium cyanide."

"Enough to pose a threat?"

"Not to the entire ship, but to a small section, yes. I would like poison
filters circulated to the crew and passengers."

Reece shook her head, "We don't have enough except for the senior officers.
I wouldn't worry about it too much Doctor. It's a lame threat. He's asking
us what its worth to catch him. The answer is yes... it's worth a few
lives."

"I am prepared to declare quarantine."

"That won't be necessary." Reece shrugged. "They probably won't use it.
They would have nothing to gain and everything to lose. I could see them
smuggling it to Tyber, but..."

"And that sits well with you?"

"The Tyber Corporation is just barely Imperial aligned as it is. We owe
them no favors."

"Sir, the Tyberian population is extremely impacted. In such an
environment..."

"I know, Doctor. Look, cyanide gas is easy to make; its components are easy
to come by. Nobody will trace it to us, and even if they do, we can simply
deny involvement."

"Commodore..."

"Don't argue with me, Doctor. There's more at stake than you may realize."

"Sir... with all due respect, human life is at stake."

Reece felt her cheeks flush red with anger. What did she think this was? A
playground?!

"Doctor, I can see that you've been under a great deal of stress lately. I
don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'm relieving you of your
post until we leave the Tyber system. I want to you get some rest, and
under no circumstances are you permitted to discuss any of this with
anyone. Understood?"

"You're relieving me of duty?"

"Affirmative."

"Sir..."

"Don't argue with me, Doctor. I'm made up my mind. Now go to your quarters
and get some rest."

"But sir..."

"That's an order."

Hunter took a deep breath. "Yes, sir."

                           ____________________


The bridge seemed imersed in slumber as Tabor exited the lift. The reason
was fairly apparent. Most of the officers took their sleep shift during the
ship's final hours in hyperspace. It was a common practice. Everyone wanted
to wake up and be ready for sightseeing. That was the real attraction to
working on board a liner.

Of course, somebody had to stick around. The Captain didn't want people
calling the bridge to end up talking to a computer. It would leave a bad
impression, and people would start wondering if anybody was ever up there
in the proverbial nerve center. It was such a joke. The computer was in
charge while in hyperspace, and everyone knew it. They just refused to
accept it.

So while everyone else was dozing, he and Lish often had the whole place to
themselves. A communications officer had to be there. Communication still
went on, hyperspace or normal space, it didn't matter. But she was a sensor
operator. She could go to sleep, though she seemed to prefer the solitude,
fiddling with the equipment during the wee hours, programming new image
recognition routines, skimming library files, and generally being a
nuisance or a quiet companion as the mood suited her.

"How'd it go?"

"Oh... not so well."

She grinned, turning back to her work station.

"Lots of questions?"

"Yeah. A few too many. Oh, terrific. What are they doing now?"

She turned around again.

"What is it?"

"These bastards. I don't believe this. Just when I'm about to jam their
frequency..."

Lish studied the monitor from over his shoulder, "Why is everything
blinking?"

"They using the clean bands, must be switching continuously. They're not
even trying to disguise it anymore."

He hit a switch, listening for the familiar pop signaling a channel
opening.

"Bernie?"

"Huh? Oh, hi."

"Bernie, have you been watching the free lanes lately?"

"Yeah. Did you just freak the system? I think it's space sick."

"It's working fine. Look, I'm gonna need you to hook up our wide-band
transmitter."

"The shouter?"

"Yeah. We need to jam all the free lanes."

"All of `em? What's up?"

"Freeloaders."

"Ah... so we've got a little war on our hands, do we? Just gimme a minute
or two to get it online, and we'll have `em sending smoke signals."

                           ____________________

"Okay, open sesame."

The door complied, and Johanes peeked inside, spraying a canister of
air-freshener from ceiling to floor. The Lieutenant's cabin was decked out
more nicely that he probably deserved. Queen-sized null tube, a full length
wall monitor, and the sort of fluffy red carpet that suggested Imperial
royalty.

"Hmmm... cozy. A trifle insecure but very cozy."

"Don't you think you're over-doing it?"

Johanes turned around, "One can never over-do it."

*Beep*


"Attention all personnel and passengers. By order of the Commodore, all
radio frequencies are to be restricted for the remainder of this voyage.
Obtain clearance for all vital transmissions through channel two. This
order takes effect in one minute."

Johanes breathed a sigh of relief, "Important corollary. One may always
count on the enemy to over-do it. Contact Cecil for me. Tell him that's his
cue. Also have him jam channels one and two."

Spokes leaned against the wall, his long, lanky arms dropping to his sides,
head tricks gleaming in the steady, white light as he seemed to concentrate
on nothing in particular. Then in a hollow voice, "He says we have to get
something for Mike."

"What now?!"

"Anamesa. Difference between life and death."

"This is getting tiresome."

"It's in sickbay."

"Later. Tell him we're busy."

"Now or no deal."

Johanes grunted and kicked the wall, "We don't have time to discuss it."

"He says this is a dead end. It was never mentioned. They don't seem to
know it exists. What's he talking about, Jo?"

"They must!"

"He says it probably got trashed in the air strike. Or they left it on the
Louise."

"I don't believe this. Look, just tell him to activate the canister or
it'll be too late. We'll get this Anamesa now. Tell him... ummm... tell him
to change the computer records on it... make it a lust-potion... but he has
to activate the canister now."

Spokes shook his head, "Everything's jammed. He was saying okay, but I
don't know if he had time."

Johanes smirked, "If he said yes... he had time."

                           ____________________

"...and at that point, Harrison's only alternative will be to turn himself
in. We'll have a mind-scanner readied for when he arrives at sickb...
what's that sm..."

The odor was overpowering, like a strong whiff of almond extract. She'd
breathed several gulps before the bubbling noise and the gentle hum of the
fan even registered, and then her head throbbed as though a vice were
pushing on both sides. When she looked back up, Dunham was busying himself
by body-slamming the door. His heavy mass finally crumpled to the ground,
limbs still thrashing spastically as gunfire ricocheted against its metal
frame and into the locking mechanism. Simms was already at the IC, hitting
his fist against the audio pick-up and switching channels wildly.
Presently, the room began swirling, and she felt herself drop from the
chair, her communicator miraculously in one hand. She switched it to
channel one.

"Anybody..." Static.

"Help..." Channel two. More static.

"Need help..."

                           ____________________

Hunter didn't know which peeved her more, getting force-fed an unsolicited
sedative or being relieved from duty, by the Commodore herself, no less.
The perverse politics they were playing was only upstaged by their
thoughtless endangerment of human life. Hunter shook her head, disgusted
with the whole mess. At least there was a bright side. She was no longer
responsible. Whatever happened would be on their heads, and as soon as she
was back in bed, this awful day would be over.

She let a yawn escape as she glanced at her thumbnail chronometer, ignoring
the minor sparks of pain her bruised nose loved so much to scream about. It
was already the middle of her sleep shift, and her body was aching from a
recent workout which bordered somewhere between spirited and raging.
Sickbay was just around the corner. She decided she could stay up for a few
more minutes, squinting her eyes shut as another yawn muscled its way down
her throat. After all, what more could happen in a few lousy minutes?

Boxes were everywhere, reds, blues, yellows, all falling in different
directions, their long, curly ribbons waving gleefully from the impact. She
picked herself slowly off the floor, looking amidst all the colorful,
geometric shapes as a red, sticky liquid dripped to the white, hexagonal
tile. The culprit's head tricks had to take the prize for conspicuousness.
They rose from his head like long, thin, needles, clearly illegal on many
worlds not only for their self-destructive properties but also for their
ability to skewer innocent bystanders should he suddenly flip-out and go on
a bloody, head-butting rampage. He looked up slowly, the soft blue eyes
strangely familiar as she helped his long, lanky body back to its feet.

"I'm terribly sorry." She mouthed the words, obedient to the ship's policy
code. It was his fault, of course, but he was just another stupid
passenger, oblivious to the world around him. She felt like telling him
that in so many words, but his blue eyes and gentle hands, still shaky from
the impact, helped stay her tongue.

"No," he smiled as she helped him up. "It was my fault. Are you okay?" Then
he dropped his look of shame. "Alice?!"

Hunter nodded, wiping the blood from her nose with the back of her sleeve.

"Do I know you?"

"What, you don't remember me?"

"Umm..."

"IASM, class of `43."

"I'm sorry, I don't..."

"Hanson's microbiotics."

"Umm," she stared back into his eyes, soft blue pinwheels coasting vaguely
in her head. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"

                           ____________________


"Well well... if it isn't Mr. Smyth."

Johanes grinned shyly as he walked into sickbay. Feso was with a patient,
one of the food service workers probably. The crew had their uniforms color
coded according to section, the only problem with the system being that
there didn't seem to be enough distinguishable colors to go around. Feso,
of course, had found the perfect solution.

"You always wear your pajamas to work?"

Feso laughed, "I've been getting comments on this all day. No, we had a
little bit of a... how shall one put it..."

"A busy morning?"

"Very busy."

The patient looked very frigid, but whatever Feso had given him seemed to
be warming the blood. Johanes followed the nurse back the main desk,
looking over his shoulder as they passed the office. Several boxes were
still scattered about.

"What's with the mess?"

"Ah... just been taking inventory."

"I love your system."

"Yeah. Well, we're sort of disorganized at the moment. So what can I do for
you? That drug been giving you a bad aftertaste?"

"I just wanted to say thanks. I don't know what would have happened to me
if you hadn't been here."

"Awww..." Feso grinned, "you just got to beware Calannans bearing gifts.
Oh... what's this?"

"A tip. "

"Five hundred credits? I didn't know they printed denominations this high.
This is very nice of you, but I couldn't."

"Please. I made a mess. I feel bad. Please take it." He looked like he was
on the verge of being mortally wounded.

"Okay. You twist my arm, how can I refuse?" Feso pocketed the waxy bill
with a grin. "This is a very big tip. You sure that drug isn't affecting
your brain or something?"

Johanes laughed, "I think that's what she had in mind."

"She?"

"The woman who spiked my punch. Actually, she's part of the reason I'm
dropping by."

"Oh?"

"I didn't really know who else to ask, but I need something."

"What?"

"Anamesa. Just a few grams."

"Anamesa? I've heard of that somewhere."

"Can you... you know..." Johanes motioned his glance toward the boxes in
the office.

Feso shook his head, "Not a chance. I don't even think you can get Anamesa
without a prescription. What's she need it for? Isn't it some sort of
immunity enhancer?"

Johanes laughed, "You call yourself a nurse."

"What? It is, isn't it?"

Johanes leaned over the counter, lowering his voice to a bare whisper.
"It's an aphrodisiac."

"No..."

"Would I lie?"

Feso turned to the medical console, bringing up a description from computer
records. He blinked at least twice when he saw the classification. Johanes
just smiled.

"See. What'd I tell you?"

"Wow. Learn something new every day."

"So can you?"

Feso looked back towards the boxes. The A's were long since reorganized.
Finding it would be a snap. Still, he didn't like the idea.

"You know, it says it's non-restricted. You can probably get it from the
pharmacy."

"Already tried. They're out. I guess a lot of people have been partying."

Feso smiled, "Guess so. Wait... what's this for? You're not thinking of
getting that Calannan back, are you?"

"Hey, she drugged me. She said I could drug her back."

He laughed, "That's immoral."

"I'm going to propose."

"Then it's extremely immoral."

"Please?"

Feso smiled, "Just because I'm wearing pajamas doesn't mean I'm a
push-over."

"Look... the proposal is sincere. We've been talking about marriage for the
past five years."

"Five years?"

Johanes nodded, making his best honest face. Feso pondered the request for
a moment. The Captain always did say to bend over backwards for the
passengers.

"I never did this for you. Okay?"

"Thanks. I knew I could count on you."

"Yeah yeah... sheesh."

Feso watched him leave, trophy in fist, and not a moment too soon. Hunter
came through the door two seconds later, holding her nose and looking
mildly irate.

"Wasn't that our resident stoner?"

"Naw... you mean Mr. Smyth?"

"Yeah. What are you so happy about? He give you a roach to go with the
jammies?"

Feso smiled, "I take it the meeting didn't go as well as planned."

"It was horrible."

"What's wrong with your nose? The Commodore smack you one?"

"In a manner of speaking. She relieved me of duty."

Feso's jaw dropped, "Why?"

"Various reasons."

"Ah..."

She forced a smirk. Feso had long since learned when to keep his mouth
shut, even when it looked like his boss was defying a direct order.

"I'm just getting a bandage, Feso."

"I didn't ask."

The infirmary had all the good ones, not like the flimsy retail bandages
that held just long enough to soak through with blood. She taped one under
her nose, giving herself the little- moustache look. It suited her, Feso
decided, going back to check on the food service worker who still sat
wrapped in a warm blanket, a layer of frost melting along his eyebrows.
Hunter came in, maybe to ask a question or give an order. He could never
tell which was coming. Then she looked at Mr. Frosty, whatever was on her
mind apparently stolen by the spectacle.

"What happened to you?"

"Huh?"

"Anyone tell you that you resemble an ice cube?"

The man looked up, a slow sort of smile crossing his face.

"Accidentally locked myself in a meat locker."

"How come?"

"Just happened."

Hunter smiled, heading back to the office with her nurse in tow. Feso felt
somewhat confused.

"What now?"

"I thought that since I'm dishonorably relieved, you'd like to know that
you're hereby conferred the honorable title of boss until I'm back on the
job."

"Me? What about Dr. Pendelton?"

"He's a techie, Feso. He doesn't know anything about running the shop. You
do. Besides, you know how he is when he gets a gram of power."

"Yeah. He likes to take charge."

"He'll be in charge... of the mind scanner."

"Mind scanner?"

"Better not to ask questions."

"Yeah, but I don't think he'll like..."

Beep

"Attention all personnel and passengers. By order of the Commodore, public
access to the computer is disallowed until we reach Tizar. Requests for
waivers must be made in person at the computer security center on Deck
Four."

The line popped shut, and Feso shot her an incredulous look, "Jeeze... this
is getting ridiculous. First the comm-system. Now the computers. What's
going on?"

"Politics. Go get Pendelton and tell him we need the scanner."

She went to the office and shuffled through the stacks until she found the
carton of Anamesa. The tiny, yellow bottles were the size of her thumb, and
one by one, she opened them over the sink, washing their syrupy contents
down the drain. Her joints felt grainy and brittle, her skin growing
increasingly coarse with every new bottle. As she reached in for the last
one, her fingers met only vacant air. Feso was coming back in, a dismayed
expression now transforming to the epitome of innocence.

"Feso, I'm not sure, but I think we're missing a bottle here."

"A bottle?"

"Yeah, of the Anamesa. When I counted them this morning, I'm sure there
were six. There are only five here."

"Ah... that's interesting. What do you want with Anamesa?"

"I'm trying to get rid of it."

She tapped a few keys on the medical console, and the database's query
prompt popped into view at the bottom of the screen. For a moment, Feso's
blood froze cold. Hunter finally looked up at him, her eyes sullen and
tired.

"I guess I was mistaken. It says five."

"It does?"

"Feso... is something the matter?"

"Yes... I mean no... I'm fine. What's all the concern with Anamesa. People
getting too horny or something?"

"What?"

Feso gulped, "Why was the Captain ordering you to destroy an aphrodisiac?"

She laughed, "Anamesa is not an aphrodisiac. Where'd you get that idea?"

"I thought it was."

"Well, it's not."

Feso looked her over like she was crazy, and she imagined she was staring
back the same way.

"You don't believe me?"

Feso shrugged, "With all due respect, sir, I just happen to know for a fact
that you're wrong."

"You do, do you?"

"Yes. I'll put five-hundred on it right now."

"You're on."

He hit a few keys on the medical console, staring dumbfounded at the screen
when he saw the result. Hunter regarded him with a cheerful smirk.

"Pay up, buddy."

He figured that either he was going nuts or he was being toyed with, and
luckily, the latter was the more likely of the two.

"This is a prank, right? You and Mr. Smyth. Very clever. Okay, here you
are." He didn't care. He was tired and just as rich as when the whole thing
started.

"What's this about Mr. Smyth?"

"Oh... nothing I'm sure the two of you can't figure out. Tell him thanks
for the tip when you see him. It provided me with so much joy and
happiness."

"What?"

"I'm going to sleep. It's the middle of my sleep shift."

"Feso, what's the matter?"

But he was gone, leaving her alone with a half-frozen patient in the other
room. Two security guards emerged at the entry portal a minute later, both
puffing anxiously.

"Dr. Hunter?"

"Yeah."

"Need you at the EC-lounge. Medical emergency."

___________________________________________________________________________

Jim Vassilakos (jimv@ucrengr.ucr.edu) works part-time as a programmer at a
place so cheesy that he declined to mention the name. He says that if
anybody has any job prospects for a semi-computer-literate MBA who likes to
write, he's ready, willing, and able to scoot his butt for decent buckage
and good experience.

"The Harrison Chapters" will be continued in the next issue.
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

To Touch the Stars                 Tamsin crept into the guard booth and
                                   grabbed the soldier on duty from
Part 3: `Burning the Ground'       behind. She wrapped one hand around
                                   the corporal's mouth, and with the
Nicole Gustas                      other pressed on the woman's throat
                                   to cut the flow of blood through the
                                   carotid artery.
___________________________________________________________________________


Tamsin and Kalin squatted in the bushes near the gates of the Killian
Research Facility. As Tamsin pulled on her black gloves and adjusted the
hood of her black jumpsuit, tucking her copper hair into it to make sure it
wouldn't give her away, she was thankful for the Naridian love of shrubbery
and ornamentation.

Kalin touched Tamsin's knee and counted under her breath. "Five, four,
three, two, one." As they watched, the gate of the facility opened
slightly, then the lights flickered and went out. The compound soon came
into focus for the two women, who had used eyedrops that briefly increased
their ability to see in the dark. Tamsin crept into the guard booth and
grabbed the soldier on duty from behind. She wrapped one hand around the
corporal's mouth, and with the other, pressed on the woman's throat to cut
the flow of blood through the carotid artery. In a few seconds, the woman
passed out, and Tamsin stuffed her behind the bushes, trussed with a gag
stuffed in her mouth.

She quietly ran up to Kalin, who was almost at the entrance to the research
facility. "We have thirteen minutes," Kalin subvocalized. They were both
wearing throatmikes and earphones so they could speak to each other without
anyone overhearing.

"I know. I took too long. But I don't want to kill anyone if I don't have
to," said Tamsin just before she slipped inside the open double doors. She
spun as she entered and kicked the guard waiting behind the door in the
stomach, then grabbed his gun and cracked him on the back of the head,
knocking him unconscious before he had a chance to cry out. She waved Kalin
inside. "Remember to thank Layten for opening all the doors for us."

"I already have," said Kalin. "Take a right, here."  They jogged down the
hall silently, Kalin leading the way. The faint emergency lighting gave an
eerie glow to the halls. They took another right, then jogged down a flight
of stairs. Kalin flattened herself against a wall, and Tamsin followed
suit. They listened to the voice around the corner. "Wir muss'n wirschaff
hab'n," he shouted into a wrist communicator, in Staatsprache.

Tamsin translated for Kalin. "He's trying to find out what's wrong with the
power. He's alarmed. He says all the doors are open."

"Well, all the prisoners are being held two floors below," said Kalin.
"It's only a matter of time before they realize what's going on and come up
here."

They continued down several flights of stairs and entered the corridor.
Tamsin skidded on the floor and nearly fell. She smelled the coppery scent
of blood. She turned and saw Kalin squatting near the body, now a bloody,
unrecognizable mass inside a uniform. "Looks like they're out," Kalin said
grimly. "Come on ... Jaysen's this way."

They ran quickly down the eerily deserted halls, turning left, then right,
then left again. Tamsin picked up the lead as they neared Jaysen's cell,
skidding inside seconds ahead of Kalin.

She could see him clearly. He was gaunt and pale, curled up asleep on his
side in a corner of the cell, wearing nothing. Tamsin knelt beside him and
shook him. "Jaysen, wake up! We've come to get you out."

He sat up and backed further into the corner. She could see him shaking.
"Get away from me. Don't touch me." His voice was filled with loathing.

"Jayce, it's me, Tamsin." She reached toward him and he shrank back. What
was wrong with him? Her stomach clenched tightly. "Come on. We have to
hurry."

She watched his hands clench into fists. "You'll have to drag me out of
here. I'm not walking willingly into your trap."

Tamsin stared at him in consternation for a moment, then heard movement.
She and Jaysen turned as Kalin came through the door. "Hurry up! We only
have nine minutes left."

"Kalin?" Jaysen said, startled. He stood up hesitantly, wincing.

"Are you hurt?" asked Tamsin, reaching to help him. He twitched away from
her and nearly fell.

"No, I'm fine, just sore. Just get me out of here," he said.

Tamsin could see him pale as he began to move, but was afraid to try to
touch him again. "I'll take point and clear out anyone in your path. Kalin,
stay with Jaysen." Kalin pulled a dark shirt and pants out of her
shouldersac and quickly handed them to Jaysen.

She hurried down the hall and paused. Kalin and Jaysen followed soon after,
Jaysen now clad in black from neck to toe. Tamsin waved them around the
corner. The dim halls were frighteningly quiet. She jogged up the stairs
and slammed through the doors at the top of the landing, to find a gun
pointed straight at her head.

Tamsin stared at the face behind the muzzle of the gun as a delicate white
hand ripped the throatmike off her neck. She shuddered as she looked into
her own green eyes.

"So," said her twin holding the gun, dropping the throatmike to the ground
and crushing it under her heel. "You're the illustrious Tamsin."



Kalin put one arm around Jaysen's waist, supporting him as he limped down
the hall. She let her consciousness drift lightly across the surface of his
mind, with a feathery, nearly invisible touch, testing the walls that
normally held him together. It was like skipping across a broken bridge
after a bad earthquake; she could feel holes and gaps, with Jaysen's strong
force of will barely holding it all together. She felt the surface shiver
and begin to fall.

Her light touch became an iron grip as she threw up her own wall around
his, shoring up his disintegrating protection in an attempt to keep him
from complete collapse. He was stable on the surface, but she could feel
the fierce storm roiling beneath, and knew she had only bought him time.
She also knew her control was being bought at a high future cost to him,
but knew she couldn't get him out if not under his own power. She did a
quick check on his physical injuries and was relieved to find they weren't
as bad as his mental damages.

She looked up at him and he gave her a weak, shaky smile. "Thanks," he
said.

"Don't say that until we get you out of here," Kalin said, as they walked
toward the stairs. She watched Tamsin barrel through the doors at the top
of the stairs, and could feel some of the tension in Jaysen's mind ease as
she left his field of vision. She couldn't quite grasp the tangled,
contradictory emotions his copper-haired friend inspired, but knew Tamsin
was a flashpoint that should, for now, be avoided in discussion. "I think
you're going to be spending a lot of time with me after we get out."

"I'm supposed to object at the prospect of spending a lot of time with a
beautiful woman?" asked Jaysen, with his former flirtatious humor. From
inside his mind, she could feel how forced it was.

"I'm afraid I'll be sharing you with Chas," she said, keeping up the
illusion. She narrowed her eyes at the doors and pulled Jaysen to a stop at
the bottom of the stairs as she listened to the empty hiss in her ear where
Tamsin's voice should have been. She quickly switched to mental speech.
Wait. We need to take another route.

Why? asked Jaysen. It was more of a feeling than the word; Jaysen had never
mastered the art of speaking mind-to-mind.

Tamsin should have waved us through by now. She must have walked into a
trap. She felt waves of concern from him, but didn't bother to spend the
energy to soothe them as they walked in another direction. She looked at
her wrist. They had seven minutes.



Tamsin looked desperately for an opening, knowing that every second she
waited gave the woman standing across from her an advantage. She watched
her own face break into an icy smile. "Here for Jaysen, are you?" asked the
woman.

Immediately Tamsin knew what had been going on, knew why Jaysen had reacted
with such hatred for her. "I tried. He refused to leave with me. I had to
leave him behind," she lied, as she tried to adopt a defeated pose. She
tasted bile at the back of her throat, and tried to control and channel her
fury.

"Now he won't be the only one stuck here," said her counterpart. "Up
against the wall; I want to check you for weapons."

Tamsin stood spreadeagled against the wall, hands above her head. She heard
the rustle of fabric as the woman stuck the gun into a holster. Tamsin held
her breath steady and waited. Not yet, not yetŠdon't give anything
awayŠ

Her flesh crawled as she felt the woman's hands pat her down, starting at
her collar. The hands moved down, toward her waist. Not yetŠ

An explosion quietly echoed down the corridor from the distance. She felt
the woman behind her start slightly, and took her chance. Tamsin pushed off
from the wall as much as she could manage and twisted as she kicked out
with her right leg. She felt her foot connect with something solid, and
heard a crunch as she began falling. Time began to slow with the adrenaline
rush.

"A fall does not have to be a bad thing," her combat instructor had told
her, "as long as you know where you will land, and your enemy does not." As
she began to fall, she snapped her right wrist back. The blade shot out,
and she felt it score. As she fell to the floor, she saw the cut across the
other woman's face, and saw drops of blood spatter. The woman was falling;
the kick had landed on one of her knees. Tamsin pulled her knees toward her
chest and used the momentum of her fall to roll backward over her right
shoulder. She sprang up as her feet touched the floor.

Her double had fallen to her hands and knees and looked up at Tamsin
through blood and copper hair. "They forgot to tell us about the knives,"
she said. She tried to push herself up, but fell as the right knee gave
out. Tamsin saw her reach for the gun and kicked her in the head. The blow
cracked her counterpart's skull against the wall and she fell, unconscious.
Tamsin stripped off the woman's gun and holster and quickly strapped them
onto her leg. She began running down the corridor as she looked at her
chrono.

She had five minutes.



Kalin and Jaysen had climbed to the top of the staircase. For security
reasons, no staircase went all the way up or down the complex, and now,
Kalin remembered, they had to cross several corridors before they would
reach a stairway which would take them to the entrance. She tried to reach
out and feel whether anyone was in the corridor, but her mind was too
involved in holding Jaysen together and finding their way out to be able to
take on another task. All she felt was a wash of many people's emotions ...
mostly anger and fear. Many of the sensations were highly controlled, the
feeling of a well-trained Gifted mind. She pushed open the door slightly,
hoping to peer out and see whether anyone was in the corridor before they
crossed. The door handle was suddenly ripped from her grasp as the door was
flung open, and a gun was aimed at her head.

The gun muzzle dropped as soon as the short woman behind it saw she wasn't
wearing a uniform. Kalin looked around at the crowd of people, some armed,
dressed in light blue cotton ... the garb of a patient.

Or, in these strange times, of a prisoner.

Next to the woman with the gun, a man with red hair and a mustache stepped
forward. "You're not one of us," he said. "Have you come to get us out?"

A wave of helplessness washed over Kalin. Jaysen felt it and squeezed her
shoulder. She took a deep breath. "We don't have enough people to get you
out. But we can help you take over this place."

"How?" exclaimed the man as the fifteen or twenty people behind him
murmured in surprise.

"There's a central control room one floor up. From there you can control
the power, the doors, the lights, the intruder control systems, everything.
And the armory's right next to it." The map of the building had been burned
into Kalin's mind. "But we'll have to move quickly. The power comes on in
..." she looked at her chrono and winced ..."five minutes, and when it
does, you'll lose your only advantage."

The woman with the gun, curly blond hair cropped short, stared at her with
hard blue eyes. "How do we know we can trust you?"

Kalin took a deep breath to calm herself and held out her hand, palm up.
"Look and see."

The man with the mustache put his hand on top of hers. She felt his mind
probe quickly through hers, and felt him turn over her memories of her own
stay with the government. His eyes locked with hers and she felt
understanding ripple through the link. "I don't think there's anyone we
could trust more, Talia," Tomas ... for she had read his name in the link
... said to the short woman. "Let's move ... follow Kalin."

Kalin led them down the corridors and up the stairs, still helping Jaysen,
the focused energy behind her supporting her. Before they went through the
doors at the top of the stairs, Kalin said to Tomas, "Do you sense anyone
in the corridor?"

He concentrated for a second. "Not right in front of the doors," he said.
"Further away, two, maybe three people." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm
not good enough to tell where they are."

"I'm fairly sure I know where they are," she said. She turned and spoke to
the group, reinforcing her speech by sending out images to those who could
receive them. "About halfway down this corridor, just after the first
juncture, there's a door on the left. Behind that door is the control room.
There are probably two or three people in it. If you go right at the first
juncture, the armory is the first door on your left. It should be
unlocked."

The group looked grimly determined. "People with weapons should hit the
control room," said Tomas. "The rest of us will hit the armory. When the
power comes back on, we'll clean this place out." Then he said four words
Kalin knew very well from her work in the underground. "Now is the time."
He looked at them once more. "Let's go."

Now is the time. The words known through the underground as the signal for
full-scale revolt. Kalin shivered, trying to shut out a sudden mental flash
of blood and fire. The people ran out into the corridor and split at the
juncture. Talia was the first at the door to the control room, and opened
fire as soon as she reached it. Tomas, even though he was unarmed, was
right behind her. Through the fading link, Kalin glimpsed the control room.
Three soldiers were dead in the room, one sprawled on the floor in a pool
of blood, one face down on a console, the third staring at the door with a
surprised expression still lingering in his dead eyes, his face slowly
turning red from the blood running down. She sensed no regret from Tomas or
Talia.

She understood why they felt they had to strike first, but was still
ashamed. If we don't offer them mercy, she thought, carefully shielding
herself from Jaysen, who was again semiconscious, how are we any better
than them? She continued up the stairs, leading Jaysen, looking quickly at
her chrono.

They had three minutes.



Tamsin vaulted up the final flight of stairs and pushed the door slightly
ajar, not wanting to make the same mistake twice. She saw a tall, thin
figure standing near the exit, holding a gun, and wished they'd planned to
leave by the same doors they'd arrived by. Then she remembered her double
downstairs, and smiled.

She pulled the hood off her head, shaking her hair out, entered the
corridor and walked toward the exit quickly as if she had every right to be
there. The man at the door looked at her, registering the copper hair and
relaxing slightly. Then he saw her black clothing and began to stiffen, but
it was too late. Tamsin grabbed his hand and gave his wrist a vicious
twist. He dropped the gun and she kicked it down the hall. He recovered
more quickly than Tamsin, throwing her hard into the opposite wall. She
felt the concussion reverberate through her whole body, and barely kept on
her feet. She had badly underestimated the man. He might be thin, but he
was strong, and he was almost half a meter taller than she. She nearly
laughed. Gentle Goddess, this man could kill meŠ

They stood face to face in the corridor, a few feet from the door. She eyed
him carefully, trying to find a weak spot. Even his knees are a pretty high
kick for me. No way can I aim for his throat. She looked at her face and
her breath caught in her throat.

His face belied his height. He looked young --- far too young to be there.
And those intense blue eyes; surely she'd seen them before. But where?

He spoke, and everything fell into place. "What are you trying to do here?"
he asked, speaking in the soft, blurred tones of the city she'd grown up
in. She could almost see him, younger, playing in the streets with the
other children.

"I'm trying to fix a terrible wrong that's been done here," she said. She
saw him flinch as he recognized her accent.

"How can you do this?" he asked, angry and bewildered. "You come from the
West, from the same place I do. You know how bad it was for us. People were
starving. They killed each other on the streets for drugs or a few credits.
You go there now and it's changed. The streets are clean. People have jobs.
They have hope! How can you try to destroy everything we worked for?"

Tamsin felt as if she'd been slapped. His words brought her most buried
feelings to the fore, the thoughts she held back when she listened to her
friends in Ground Zero talk. She remembered what it had been like growing
up, remembered walking by burnt-out buildings, remembered running away from
the gangs. When she was lucky, she'd managed to run away from the gangs.
She still bore the scars from when she'd been unlucky. And the government
had done nothing about it. How could she work for the old one that had done
nothing to help them? Even if the desire was to form a new coalition, some
of the strongest supporters of Ground Zero were powerful members of the
old, deposed government who had escaped Narid.

The desire to believe in a government that could make such improvements in
the West was almost overpowering. But how could she not try to bring down a
new one that had done such violence to her friends? "The things that you've
worked for have been built on a lie!" she shouted, as much to herself as to
him. "Look at what's been done to the people here! They've been tortured,
forced to betray their friends and family."

His fierce blue eyes snapped fire down at her. "What did they do for us
when we were in need? They ignored us. They just sapped our resources to
improve their lives, then restricted us so we couldn't better ourselves."

Tamsin saw two figures dressed in black moving toward the doors from behind
the guard. She had to keep him occupied until Jaysen and Kalin got through
the door. She had to keep him talking. She didn't want to kill him.

"Those laws were made to protect the environment! Or would you have us be a
planet of desert and sewage, like Old Earth?" she said.

"If the laws were to protect the environment, why was only the West subject
to them? Why was the East free to do as they would with their resources?
The laws were made to keep us down!"

Tamsin clenched her fists. He was voicing many of her own thoughts,
thoughts she had rationalized away again and again. Worse, she was
beginning, in some small corner of her mind, to believe in him. Kalin and
Jaysen were almost through the door. She had to keep him talking, and came
back to the one point that had kept her fighting against the new
government. "None of that excuses what is being done here! How can you
support the way these people are treated. They aren't being treated this
way for what they've done, but what they are. If you'd been born Gifted,
you'd be down there instead of up here."

She saw him flinch, saw his jaw clench, and saw those intense blue eyes
grow opaque. Suddenly she knew. "You are Gifted. You hid it all your life
to keep yourself safe, and now you're helping them hurt people just like
you." Jaysen and Kalin were right behind him, about to go through the door.
"How can you not hate yourself for that?"

She knew how he loathed himself for turning against people like him. She
knew quite well. She felt the same way, because she'd done the same thing.
She saw him begin to turn, and saw his eyes catch the motion behind him.

She reacted before she could think, before she could let him hurt her
friends. She rushed him, and her right wrist snapped back just before it
hit his chest. The blade slid between the ribs, through several inches of
flesh. She felt the warm blood gush out over her hand and body as her other
arm wrapped around him. She held him as he began to crumple to the floor,
met his eyes and saw the shock and despair there. He tried to speak, but
blood dripped out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him, tears threatening to spill out. "I'm so
sorry." She held his hand as he died a few seconds later, and closed his
eyes. Then she ran out the doors, covered in blood. She stopped,
stone-still, as light exploded all around her, momentarily blinding her.

Their time was up.



Kalin saw Tamsin rush the tall guard, but didn't wait to see the results.
She moved Jaysen out as fast as she could, aware that she couldn't maintain
his barriers much longer. She had seconds, a minute at best.

She got him into the courtyard, but stopped for a moment when she saw the
two military aircars sitting there, with Layten between them. She rushed
forward. What the hell are you DOING here? she sent, as forcefully as she
could.

He gave a little shrug, the one she found most infuriating. I believe it's
called hijacking. Get in.

She shoved Jaysen into the rear of one car, sitting down beside him and
fastening the safety harnesses, and took his hands. She knew Layten was
waiting until the last possible second to take off. Do you know how to fly
these things?

No, not really, he replied. But I'm interfaced with a computer that does.

Kalin sighed, then put it out of her mind. She would not worry about things
she had no control over. Suddenly, the lights flashed on around them. She
heard Layten call Tamsin's name. Beneath her hands, she felt a twitch, and
felt something crumble in his mind. His body went limp as she felt his mind
collapse.

She began probing his mind, trying to patch him together as she dimly heard
the engines roar beneath them. She touched a recent memory, a painful one,
and probed deeper. The whole event was flung into her mind, as strong as if
it had happened to her.

He tried to take a deep breath and couldn't. "What do you want from me?"

Tamsin's damp, warm voice whispered in his ear again. "Only the answers to
a few questions." He heard tearing cloth as the knife traced down his
spine, felt the blood following it. He didn't dare move, feeling burning
where the blade cut him, on his arms, then again across his back and down,
knowing even the slightest shift could mean worse damage. He knew the woman
wasn't Tamsin, but it didn't matter. The shock of the image of his best
friend hurting him held him frozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear and
betrayal. He felt the tickle of her tongue again on his ear as he tried to
lose himself in the pain, and ignore the knife. "There's no reason I can't
have fun while I ask," the voice laughed, as the knife traced down his
spine, then lower.

Kalin traced one hand over her friend's brow, moving the hair out of his
still-closed eyes. "Oh, Jaysen," she whispered.



"You're hurt!" Layten exclaimed.

Tamsin was aware that the grin on her face was probably maniacal at best.
At some point in the past minute, she'd become very detached. She didn't
really care what happened next. "Don't worry, it's not mine. Can you cover
us?"

Layten nodded. "We're going to Kerna N'tali's compound. Once we get within
those walls, the military won't dare touch us."

Tamsin felt the smile grow broader across her face. Someone inside her was
screaming ... she told it to shut up. "But first we have to get there.
Leave your radio at 1430 megahertz - they don't usually monitor that
channel. Good luck." She flung herself into the aircar, glancing quickly at
Jaysen and Kalin in the back before she started it up. The car lifted
quickly, and she brought it as high as she was willing to push it.

A bass voice came over the radio. "These are aircars, not suborbital
vehicles."

"Yeah, I know, Layten. I'm just pushing it a little high."

She heard a hiss, then Layten spoke again. "The records say it's not rated
to go this high."

"Well, the records lie. They'll safely go a lot higher than the
manufacturers say they will. It's a safety precaution against people like
me." Tamsin banked sharply and made a beeline for the N'tali compound.
Layten followed behind and at a somewhat lower altitude. Only one of the
five moons were full, making them harder to spot.

There was silence for the next few minutes as both pilots concentrated on
reaching their goal. Then Layten's voice crackled over the intercom. "A car
is coming at us from Capus. It'll be intersecting our path in two minutes."
He paused, and Tamsin could almost hear the computer he'd interfaced with
whirring. "It's not hostile yet. It's coming to check out why we're
traveling on an unscheduled flight path."

Tamsin let out a hiss of air between her teeth. Even though those back at
the Killian Research Facility who were capable of warning the military of
their theft probably weren't inclined to do so, transponders were placed on
each car to make them traceable. She'd been hoping that, by the time they
were noticed, they'd be in the N'tali compound. "Layten, you do the
talking. Audio only, if you can manage it. Find out the most plausible
excuse from that computer, and use it. I'll be listening."

A few seconds later, the radio shifted to the standard military frequency
as the other car matched course with theirs. "Ships S93-0760 and S93-0931,
please state your course."

Layten's voice sounded, deep and authoritative, over the radio. "We're
traveling to the N'tali compound."

"For what purpose?" asked the other voice sharply.

"Our flight path and details of our mission are contained in memo dated
13/12/28, timecode 16:32."

The radio hissed. "I can't access that file. It's protected ... Code
Indigo," said the other car.

"Exactly. Your superior officer can check our orders."

There was another pause. The voice came again, less sure. "I'd like a
visual, please."

"I can't do that. Check Code Indigo procedures. No visual allowed."

"What are ---"

Layten's voice interrupted. "I can't give you more information. I suggest
you return to your base. And, soldier, I suggest you check Code Indigo
procedures. If I wanted to, I could shoot you out of the sky right now for
interfering."

Tamsin's finger itched over the trigger for the car's guns, but she held
her fire. After a few seconds, the car banked and turned south. She spoke
to Layten over their low frequency. "That was close."

"Hopefully I intimidated him enough that he won't check that order."

"Why?" asked Tamsin.

"Code Indigo orders come from a general. I could forge an audiovisual
message with retina prints in two days, but not in thirty seconds. It's an
empty message."

"ETA to N'tali compound is twelve minutes. Keep your fingers crossed."

Tamsin took a moment to look over her shoulder at Jaysen and Kalin. Jaysen
sprawled, comatose, on the seat, his head on Kalin's shoulder. Kalin's
ebony hair had fallen forward, obscuring both their faces.

Tamsin turned back to the console, and tried to quiet the thoughts that
were filling her mind. How can you try to destroy everything we worked for?
The guard's voice rang through her head.

They were within three minutes of the compound when she heard Layten's
voice again. "Our luck just ran out. There are three cars coming at us.
They're big, they're armed to the teeth, and they'll get to us in
forty-eight seconds."

"Scheiss'n," said Tamsin shortly. She checked her sensors. "They're
Enigma-class. Aim two meters ahead of the engine at the top of the car. The
shielding's weak there, and the fuel line goes through it. One good hit,
and it'll blow." She paused, and only heard static from the other end.
"Layten, please acknowledge." She switched bands, but still heard nothing
but static. "So they're jamming us," she said to herself. "Well, they won't
be able to hear each other, either." She hoped he'd heard her last message.

She put the car in a steep, fast dive and came at the lead car from above,
feeling gravity tug against the safety harness. As the other car began to
bank, she targeted ahead of the engine, fired and continued to dive below
the wedge-shaped Enigma, plotting her course to come up behind the other
two cars. Her shot hit dead on. The first car began losing altitude
quickly, spitting a trail of smoke that quickly became flame. It exploded
about four hundred meters from the ground. Tamsin tried to hold her car
steady against the concussion waves buffeting it. She saw the forest below
burst into flame.

One of the two remaining cars went briefly into a spin, then recovered. The
other, further away from the blast, stayed steady and turned to intercept
her. Tamsin looked at her sensors for Layten's car. The boxy vehicle was
bobbing and weaving erratically. "Layten, what the hell is wrong?" she
shouted, without hope of a response. She'd been lucky against the first
car; they hadn't expected her to attack so quickly. She wasn't too sanguine
about her chances against the other two.

She sent the car up as fast as she could, knowing the only way she could
damage either of the other two cars was by an attack from above, where they
were less heavily shielded. She also knew the cars would be expecting such
an attack. She dove again, firing. This time the Enigmas moved quickly,
dodging her shots. She scored a glancing shot against one of them, and
completely missed the other. The fight was drifting, she noticed, coming
closer and closer to the N'tali compound. If she was lucky, she'd soon be
close enough to make a run for it.

Layten was firing, too, with less luck than she was having, staying barely
in range to do any damage. Tamsin pushed the car up again, tearing in a
steep left-hand turn around and above the two cars. Both began firing at
her, and her car bounced in response. She began to lose thrust. She swore
loudly as she arced back toward them, preparing to fire once again.

Through talent or sheer blind luck, she didn't know which, Layten fired a
shot which passed perhaps a meter below her car and hit one of the two
remaining Enigmas. The car immediately began to list to one side. After a
few seconds, it banked away, turning back toward its base.

Tamsin was jolted as another shot hit her from the remaining Enigma. She
heard the engine hesitate, then continue, but with an underlying disonant
hum. Her sensors were down; she was relying strictly on visual. She tried
to gain altitude but didn't have the power. She braked sharply and the
Enigma shot by her. She slammed her finger on the trigger as her car began
to drop from the lack of momentum.

Nothing happened.

She slammed her hand against the console hard in frustration, and cursed
the makers of the car as she accelerated quickly, making a beeline for the
N'tali compound. The car responded jerkily, accelerating in fits and
starts, slowly losing altitude. She had no idea where Layten was. The
Enigma dropped out of sight in front of her. When she looked over her
shoulder through the back window, she saw it coming up from below. It
loomed behind her. She saw it shake, and shake again. Layten was firing,
without much lasting effect. The N'tali compound was within sight, but she
knew she didn't have a chance of reaching it. She braced herself for the
Enigma's final shot.

She saw a bloom of fire come from the rear of the Enigma, then another. It
crawled up the car, turning the black hull to red and gold. Then it
exploded.

Tamsin's car tumbled forward end over end. She tried to adjust the spin,
turning it into a side roll that was bringing her directly toward the
compound. The ground below her revolved more and more slowly as she
stabilized the car. The blue-green blur below her resolved itself into the
lake and trees within the N'tali compound. As she pulled the car back to a
stable, slow descent, she heard the engines sputter.

"Don't you dare stall yet!" she shouted at the engines. Unlike the Enigmas,
which could glide for quite a distance without power, her car was not very
aerodynamic, and would drop like a stone when the engines cut out.

She was ten meters above the ground when the engines cut out. The car
continued its gentle downward glide for a few seconds, then dropped. Tamsin
heard a crash as the dark closed around her.



She woke to hands brushing her body. She instinctively grabbed for them.

"Tamsin, it's Chas! Don't hurt me!" he exclaimed. "I'm just brushing the
glass off you."

She opened her eyes. Everything was blurry, and her stomach began to heave.
Chas moved to the side and pulled her head forward as she began to vomit
all over the shattered console. When she was done, he gave her a sip of
water. She noticed, in a detached way, that the cloth he was wiping her
face with came away red. She also saw three of them. "How are Kalin and
Jaysen?" she asked.

"They're fine ... a lot better than you, as a matter of fact. They're being
brought inside now. You destroyed Kerna's flower garden."

She could smell gardenias, roses and violets all around her. "Whoops. I was
aiming for the landing pad."

"You missed," said Chas. "But the trees to the side of the garden broke
your fall. You were lucky."

Tamsin felt very remote, as if she were dreaming. Her eyes began to sag
shut. She felt a sting against her cheek and realized Chas had slapped her.
"Don't you dare go to sleep," he said. "You've got a bad concussion."

"What happened to Layten?" she asked.

"I lost contact with the computer when they jammed the radio signals," a
bass voice said. "And I really have no idea how to fly those things."

"So we threw you in the water and you learned how to swim. Great," she
said, closing her eyes.

"Don't shut your eyes!" Chas yelled at her, and her eyes snapped back open.
She stared at the green shadows above her and heard voices rumbling in the
background.

"No, she can't be moved, it's too dangerous. We'll have to do it here," she
heard as the green patterns in front of her began to swell and change
shape. She felt herself slide down a tunnel.



A few days later, Chas walked on the green path by the lake, escaping
momentarily the visuals of the standoff at the Killian Research Institute.
A copper-haired figure stood at the edge of the water, throwing rocks at
the glassy surface. She tossed him a wave as he came closer.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her.

"I feel fine," she said. "The upper third of my vision is still gone,
though. It's like I'm wearing a hat all the time."

"There isn't any permanent damage. It'll come back soon," he said.

She stared at him. "What?" he asked.

"You saw me just this morning. What do you really want to talk to me
about?" she asked.

He stared out at the water and tried to form his words carefully. "It's
about Jaysen."

She walked away from him a few steps, keeping her back to him. "I don't
think I want to hear what you're going to tell me."

"Kalin's been working with him steadily. He's holding together now."

"So why can't I see him?" asked Tamsin angrily, turning around.

Chas hesitated. "How much do you know about what they did to him?"

"Enough," she snapped. "I had a run-in with her."

"Kalin feels that it would be best if Jaysen didn't see you for a while,"
said Chas.

"How long do you mean?"

"We don't know. But she thinks that if he saw you right now, it could do a
lot of damage."

"You mean it would send him over the edge again." She laughed bitterly and
threw a rock into the lake. "It's like he's still locked up there.
Sometimes I wish he was dead. Then I'd have a reason to grieve, to miss
him. Even if I do get to see him again, it won't beŠhim."

Chas walked toward her and put a hand on her arm. He hesitated, then
decided to tell her. "Tamsin, Jaysen was in love with you."

She shook his arm off. He looked at her face. Her jaw was clenched and her
eyes were burning. Her breath came fast. "Chas, please go away."



"Tamsin ---"

"Chas, I have an overwhelming desire to hit something repeatedly," she
said. Her voice was like brittle glass shards. "I'd rather it wasn't you."

Chas walked back up the path. Before he went between the trees, he looked
back toward the lake. Tamsin still stared at the water, an alarming lack of
expression on her face.



Chas went to the house, intending to ask Kalin to check on Tamsin, not sure
what she might do next. Layten was sitting in the middle of the room,
holograms all around him.

Chas stared at the flickering images of fire and blood. The research
facility wasn't the only building in dispute now. "What's happening?" he
asked.

Layten's voice was triumphant, yet bleak. "Revolution."

___________________________________________________________________________

Nicole Gustas (ngustas@hamp.hampshire.edu) just got accepted to American
University and is now frantically searching for a job and housing in
Washington DC. She has so far successfully avoided the flesh-eating virus
that has invaded southwestern Connecticut. She highly recommends the TV
show Animaniacs. "Badda-bing!"
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

The Fourth Cat                    ...there were rich and poor, regal
                                  and common, even diplomats, all
Lou Crago                         accepting, or enduring, each other in
                                  the haze and music. She sat in a
                                  scallop along one wall and the big
                                  black cat lay at her feet with its
                                  head raised and its huge yellow eyes
                                  watchful.
___________________________________________________________________________


Kiko lost her big cat somewhere between Jin Place and home. It was the
third one she'd lost in a month. Tito was going to stop making them for her
at this rate ... he was generous, but he didn't like to see his art wasted.

The last time, he had said, "It's not just a matter of waste. It's that now
they're out there!"

"But they won't live long," she had said in defense. "You said yourself
they don't stay constabulated."

"I said," he answered, "but that's if nobody else gets hold of them."

She didn't know what that meant. Tito was an Artist. She didn't know for
sure what that meant either. He could make awesome things, like the cats
... things far beyond mere tech ... but he wouldn't even sell them. He
could have made a gigantic fortune! But he just gave them away ... to her,
and to one or two others. She had never actually seen the others; they came
on foot probably, while she came in the Embassy car.

She wanted to be able to come on foot also, to slip through street shadows
and show up at Tito's like an anonymous. Except her Grandmother, who ruled
everything ... at least everything in this capitol city of an occupied
nation ... wouldn't allow it. Every time Kiko went out, it was the car, and
the chauffeur, an d the personal guard. There was no way she could live a
life of her own choice, like everyone else. Wear black clothes, and not
sleep, and prowl the streets, and march in foolish demonstrations.

Her Grandmother was, of course, Dylete Mikyo, the JapaChine Ambassador.
She'd had the post for at least 60 years, but had been fixed repeatedly, so
that she looked 30, maybe 40 in sunlight. She'd had Kiko's mother and
father eliminated ... so Kiko suspected ... and now the only blood-relation
she would tolerate i n the Embassy was 17-year-old Kiko, thin and frail. It
meant Kiko wa s constantly attended by tutors and guards, and had the
surveillance cameras on while she slept.

At 16, Kiko had threatened suicide if she wasn't given some personal
freedom. She demanded one six-hour stretch every fortnight, with the
bracelet monitor off, and freedom to leave the Embassy. She won that,
except that she had to be driven to where she wanted to go in the car, then
picked up six hours later and driven home. Kiko chose eight p.m. to two
a.m. Dylete was hard to sway, but finally agreed when she saw that Kiko was
perfectly serious about the suicide.

The first time out, Kiko found Jin Place. The second time she followed a
bizarre red animal like a fox along the shadowed street, and it led her to
Tito's alley, and to his door.

It was open. That, in itself, was strange. Nobody left doors open. She
stepped in. He turned from a table where he stood working and stared and
stared at her without a word. He was old! You scarcely ever saw old-looking
people ... not when it was so cheap and safe to get fixed. He was small and
thin, with very intense eyes.

She let him look. That was what diplomatic life, and being rich, meant ...
your gear was the most beautiful, sleek, and costly that was available.
Even in diplomatic circles, they looked. Then you looked back at them.
Something unspoken was decided. Dylete, her Grandmother, had been coming
out on top for 60 years in these contests; now Kiko had the knack also.
Maybe because she didn't think anything when the looking contest was in
progress. She just waited calmly, knowing she would win. Or maybe she'd
inherited something from Dylete.

Tito said, "Presence without mind. I like that. Maybe I'll give you a gift
to go along with it."

Kiko was used to that too; diplomats gave gifts to make up for having lost.
She held out her hand, expecting some rare object. But he turned and opened
a door, and out came a big cat. It was big and orange, striped with black.
She'd never seen anything like it. The only animals she'd been allowed to
have were little and with white fluff all over. They died after a year or
so, looking sad.

This one came and stood beside her, lazily switching its long tail. It paid
no attention to her, but followed when she went out. She couldn't make it
get in the car, but it loped along beside. Before the car pulled into the
Embassy gates, however, it had disappeared.

On her next free night, she went back to Tito's and informed him about it.
He stared at her again, and then gave her another cat. This one was the
same size, but sleekly black all over. She took it back with her to Jin
Place, where nobody would be surprised by anything. There, there were rich
and poor, regal and common, even diplomats, all accepting, or enduring,
each other in the haze and music. She sat in a scallop along one wall and
the big black cat lay at her feet with its head raised and its huge yellow
eyes watchful.

She drank an exotic drink, smoked a hookah, and watched the people watching
her. The diplomats bowed when they passed her scollop; they knew who she
was, what rank. It was a very satisfying evening. But when she tried to
force the cat into the car, it turned and loped away into the shadows of
the street.

The next time, she actually talked to Tito ... the way you talk in private,
the way she remembered talking to her Mother long ago.

"They won't come home with me. What's wrong?"

"Maybe the breeding isn't right," he said.

"I never assumed you were breeding them ... there's no breeding stock left.
I thought you were making them."

"No breeding stock left? Ah, so they've educated you a little."

"I've had the very best education!" she said haughtily. "Subliminals every
night since I was six."

"Ah, so you have stored in your head all the world's factoids?"

"Certainly," she said.

Then he explained that "made" creatures were outside that paradigm.

That made it strangely exciting to her. She wasn't sure exactly why, except
that anything beyond tech was exciting because it was forbidden. In any
case, she wanted another one.

"All right, one more," he said. "But see you don't let it get loose."



Now she had lost this third cat, a blue-grey one. Again she and Tito talked
privately, and she became so engrossed that she sat down, no doubt creasing
her rich dress, and clasped her jeweled hands together passionately like a
child or an anonymous. "If it could come home with me," she said, "and be
in my suite. And maybe even ... this sounds bizarre ... even sleep on my
bed. Make it to do that."

"Why?" he asked.

She thought about it. "I want to hear its purr in the night. Or growl, or
whatever it does."

"And what will you do?"

"I willŠlisten."

As an incentive, she told him to bill the Embassy, but he sneered at that.
Nevertheless, he gave her another cat. It was deep gold with black spots on
its flanks. And around its neck was a leather collar studded with chunks of
amber. He also gave her a narrow leather leash, which he snapped onto the
collar.

"No more after this," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Keep this one, or don't
come back."

She didn't even go back to Jin Place. She waved forward the unobtrusively
following car, and when the chauffeur had opened the door, stepped in. The
lea sh made it possible to pull the big cat in too.

On the ride home, she let it lie on the seat beside her, and she used the
tips of her fingers to stroke its silky head. The guard at the Embassy gate
ma de as if to refuse the cat admission, but she stared at him, and let him
look at her staring, so he backed down. Naturally.

She took the lift up to her suite. The big cat sat on its haunches, not
disturbed by being in the mechanism ... it even lowered its lids slowly
once or twice, as if contented.

She went through to her bedroom. There, she had the sudden and remarkable
desire not to wear any of her sleep robes that night. She slid into the
satin naked, and even unplugged the subliminal unit at the headboard. The
cat leapt lightly up on the bed, stepped around for a few moments, then lay
down. It's head rested on her stomach. She lay very still, waiting to hear
its purr.

There were alarm shriekers going off somewhere, and people shouting.
Footsteps running. She sat up, threw back the satin, and went blindly
across the carpet a dozen steps before she even knew she was awake.

The double doors burst open. Security guards and male secretaries came
pouring in. Kiko watched them look at her with shocked eyes and realized,
looking down, that she was still naked. She stood quite still and let them
look, thinking nothing. And within a few moments, she had won. They began
to make the brief, obligatory bows, and to edge backward out the doorway.

Dylete's Chief of Staff came forward, moving through them and, with his
hand trembling slightly, held out a precious object. It was Dylete's Seal
of Office.

"The Ambassador has met with ... an accident. Which precludes her
fulfilling her post. I am now at your service, as you assume the post by
heredity."

Kiko said carefully, "How was the Ambassador accidented?"

The man hesitated. "By laceration s to the throat. The jugular vein was...
shredded. There was a great deal of bleeding."

"Who did this?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"We have not apprehended the....the intruder," he said. "The alarm system
was not tripped. We will continue to investigate."

"Very well," said Kiko. She did not look around for the cat which no one
was supposed to know was in her suite. She sensed that it was no longer
there.

"Attend to the body of the former Ambassador," she instructed.

The Chief of Staff made a formal bow. "And shall I bring her robe of state
to you now?"

"Yes, you may do that."

He backed out.

Kiko stood waiting. Even in nakedness, she was totally enrobed by presence.
But her right hand, unaccountably, lifted slowly to her throat. There was a
leather collar studded with amber around her neck.

And there was a taste in her mouth: something strange that she had never
before tasted.

She suddenly knew much more than factoids. Very much more, all in a rush!

She knew about Tito. And why "made" things beyond tech were forbidden.

And something about what it was going to be like, being Ambassador, when
she was so young and unaccustomed to politics. With four lost cats prowling
somewhere. Out there in the shadowed streets, where the great mass of
people were anonymous, poor, wore black, and didn't sleep.


___________________________________________________________________________

Microchips Never Rust             "I was here for at least six months
                                  after the bombs were dropped. One of
Part 3                            the steam tunnels under the Student
                                  Union led to a suite of storerooms.
Eric Miller                       About 150 of us were able to hide out
                                  there. Hotter than fresh roof tar in
                                  August."
___________________________________________________________________________


 I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
 hysterical naked, dragging themselves throughout the negro streets at dawn
 looking for an angry fix, angle-headed hipsters burning for the ancient
 heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who
 poverty and tatters and hollowed-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
 supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of
 cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El
 and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who
 passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas
 and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war.

         Allen Ginsberg, 1955-1956

 Oh, you want to know when the end has come, my friend? I'll tell you when.
 You'll be sitting in your flat on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, entertaining
 friends in your studio, when a phone call rings on your unlisted number,
 and it's some American youth speaking very poor French because that's what
 he learned in University and he is trying to sell you some magazine
 subscription that can be sent overseas for `great savings over the
 newsstand price.' And you ask, "How did you get my number?" but he
 hesitates because he is reluctant to tell you that his boss has a way of
 getting unlisted French numbers. And you slam the phone down, but you
 realize with dread that you will never have any real peace for the rest of
 your life.

         French photographer being interviewed on his
         opposition to a proposed takeover of France
         Telecom by AT&T/Sears.  Newsweek, October, 1998.

 The U.S. Marshal's Office has just granted broad, discretionary powers to
 the Software Printer's Association, a company started in the 1980's which
 claimed to represent the copyright interests of software manufacturers. The
 company has engaged in quasi-legal actions which included threatening to
 take a company to court for using unlicensed software and pocketing the out
 of court settlement for itself. Alfred Milbourne, then President of
 Digiscript Inc., described a typical scenario:

 "You would see posters with pictures of two of our product, and some logo
 reading `The One on the Right just cost someone $500,000,' and it would be
 a picture of one of our own Digiscript floppies. The ad would then go on to
 state that you could send in $80 to get a copy of their pirate software
 detector, which in reality was nothing more than a batch file which listed
 all the executable files on your hard disk!"

 Milbourne went on to list the contents of some of the lurid press releases
 put out by the SPA, including accounts of how some of the biggest
 ringleaders in software piracy were being put away for years in Federal
 Penitentiaries. Milbourne's own legal staff eventually looked into the
 matter:

 "We found out that the SPA would call up a company and in effect tell it
 that they had heard that employees were using pirated software and that
 they would have to submit themselves to an `audit' or else face a raid by
 the U.S. Marshal's Office. They would then visit the office and find that,
 lo and behold, someone was using a duplicate copy of our Digiscript
 program. Depending on how gullible the company president was, the SPA would
 then shake down the company for tens of thousands of dollars to prevent
 them from being taken to court in order to extract `compensatory damages.'
 We found out that our product was often the lynch-pin behind these
 extortions, yet, believe it or not, we never saw a penny from the SPA!"

 SPA efforts to act as a quasi-official organ of the government have finally
 paid off: starting this year the SPA will be able to use its own security
 and policing staff to raid companies under suspicion. The U.S. Attorney's
 office has given the SPA the authority to search and seize all computer
 equipment which may be suspected of harboring pirated software. This means
 that any SPA employee can now walk into your company and snag that
 attractive looking hypercube that took you months to get a hold of.
 Suspicion is all that is needed! Attorney General Gregory Lucas upon being
 questioned about the SPA had this to say:

 "I don't know much about this computer stuff, you know, bits and bytes and
 all that crap, but I do know this! If we let pirates run free in this
 society it will be the end of American civilization as we know it. I am
 proud that someone like the SPA has seen fit to go mano a mano against
 these pirates and they will continue to have my support as well as my
 authority to conduct raids under the deputization powers of my office."

 SPA publications can now be found in most schools, as well as videos
 starring rap music superstar D.J. saran-rap-gangsta, just released from
 prison, rapping the SPA's snappy jingle `Don't archive that computer file
 in an unauthorized manner!'

         Wormwood II, April, 2001

Arthur Hanson stood in front of Dr. Jarod Owen, not quite sure of what to
say.

Owen barked, "Grab a seat, Dr. Hanson! Fill me in on what you've been up to
these last five years!" Good, nothing out of the ordinary. Hanson slumped
back into a decrepit office chair that groaned from the impact of his spine
against the seatback.

"Doc, maybe I'm out of it, but what the hell am I doing here? One day I'm
rambling around the Wurkhaus camp system and the next I find that I'm a new
prof here."

"Rambling around the camp system for five years." Owen shook his head
sadly, but retained the twinkle in his eyes that betrayed an endless font
of energy. "Let's both start from the beginning. Now since it's a surprise
to you that I'm still alive, I can only assume that you thought that I died
in the attack along with a great number of people. For a long time I
certainly thought the same of you."

Hanson looked up at the water stained ceiling. "I was here for at least six
months after the bombs were dropped. One of the steam tunnels under the
Student Union led to a suite of storerooms. About 150 of us were able to
hide out there. Hotter than fresh roof tar in August. We figured that it
was at least 130 degrees for two or three days from the fires. Lucky for us
the store room was deep enough in the earth for us to survive in."

"What did you do about food and water?" asked Owen.

"Oh, that lasted about 4 months; a huge case of Spam lasted about a month,
too. I don't think my digestive track ever recovered from that culinary
adventure. When we ran out of food, we started scouting around up top. When
I got caught by one of the GermanMetalFuzz, I..."

"German what?" interrupted Owen.

"The German Motorized Infantry Security Police. I convinced him that if he
helped us find food we would make it worth his while. The Fuzz got a load
of about 200 college dorm mini-fridges right before his boss nabbed him. We
stripped this campus dry from the bottom up for whatever we could find.
Light bulbs, blankets, hell, even those awful cafeteria trays were in big
demand."

"I hear that Central Services is still bitchin' about the trays," laughed
Owen.

"Naturally we just didn't have enough to barter with anymore. A new law
that allowed the Fuzz to pack people up to camps if they didn't have a home
just went into effect, and most of us got rounded up and sent north. I was
shipped to Wurkhaus 211 at the intersection of Highway 12 and 93."

"First Service Motors?" asked Owen.

"Was then, only now it's the chief autotruck production plant in Michigan
for the German Army. I was sent to live with an assembly line gang that
packed the trucks as they were being sent to the Mississippi River war
zone. Fortunately for me I got pulled off the line and placed in detention
to await interrogation. When I got taken to the interview room down the
cell hall I was strapped into a chair, and told that I would be
interrogated by a Major Schulmann."

"And this was fortunate?" Owen asked.

"Well, I didn't think so at the time. But Schulmann came into the room and
asked me all sorts of questions, so naturally I told him what I was doing
here at Central, and he got real upset and started yelling to someone on
the phone in German, which I could barely understand, but I got the sense
that he was yelling at one of the Fuzz about treating me badly and why was
I taken here in the first place. The guards then took me outside. They were
really nice to me all of sudden, giving me food cards and cigarettes. I was
taken to a big house where I could see what the change of attitude was
about."

"Which was?"

"Everything that you could possibly imagine going wrong in a computerized
office. Equipment hooked up the wrong way, operators not saving their
files, no documentation, wall outlets that looked like they were sprouting
octopuses, a big list of information age no-nos. I found out within the
week that Schulmann had been put on notice to organize the warehouse office
or else be transferred to the Iranian front."

"Your first job in the real world!" Owen quipped sarcastically.

"The computers were the easy part. The logistics were a little tougher,
because, in essence, I had to figure out how the German Army could transfer
goods in and out of Michigan by way of our warehouse in such a way that
losses were minimized."

"Losses?"

"Oh yeah. Everywhere. I can tell you for sure that not a single box of
Cinnamon Pop-tarts has ever made it to the River zone. Unopened boxes of
those things command a pretty high price on the black market. Schulmann was
savvy enough to understand what I was talking about. I showed him how to
disguise shipments by using digit flipping bookkeeping and key authorized
database records stored on the autotrucks. He was a real happy guy after a
while. Both he and his upper echelon got promoted up the ladder to a
military post somewhere in Kansas. The warehouse was then sold to the
Brother Jims at a profit."

"Ooh, boy. The Jims."

"I barely managed to escape the day the Jims were surrounding the place
with poison barbed wire. Schulmann probably told the Jims that I went with
the purchase. Bastard. Ever since then I've been roaming the area doing
whatever I can to survive in the winter months and leading the slacker
lifestyle when the weather gets warm."

"Which brings us up to the point in your story when you mysteriously show
up on the IMF's labor invoice database." Owen squirmed uneasily in his
chair. He had a huge favor to ask of Hanson. One that in all probability
would cost Arthur his life.



 Dataflage Corporation has just announced a new line of lap-top computers
 meant to prevent seizure by the Software Printer's Association, whose
 plainclothes operatives have been known to hide out in airports where
 travelers carry a large selection of portables on their business trips. For
 travelers who want the very best, Dataflage manufactures a clone of the
 Silicon Graphics 4D Reality Engine Laptop disguised as an old fashioned
 Radio Shack Portable. A screen saver simulates the crude black and white
 LCD pixels of a by gone era, requiring a voice activated password to
 reactivate the holographic display. The delta-wave transmitter used to
 navigate through the laptop's virtual landscape has been disguised as an
 old-style portable 8 track tape player complete with a Captain and Tenille
 tape and head transponder disguised as bulky old AV lab headphones.
 Simulated Coke spills and finger grime add to the effect. Purchasers also
 receive a catalog of accessories which enable the traveler to affect the
 complete grunge computist look, with items such as `too large rubber
 galoshes' and sweatshirts which appear to be faded and unwashed. The
 catalog also features props such as simulated old, beaten copies of `Dune'
 and `Spock Must Die' which can be used as battery and cellphone holders.
 Don't become another SPA statistic! Call Dataflage today!

Morais pressed the `repeat message' playback button on his watch several
times, but still couldn't make out the originator of the message.

"Dar, who do you think that was?"

"My guess would be Grove. I could hear a Texas accent under that voice
changer," Dar answered, shrugging his shoulders.

"Grove is supposed to be in Biosphere 9. If he had to make a special trip
from the moon, something is up. Here, put my watch on; that should foil the
office pager. I'm going to run into Ivari's office and see if I can watch
this drama take place from behind."

Dar Im-Tula took the watch-com from Morais and placed it on his wrist. Dar
was one of the rare Indian programmers who allowed himself to be called by
name. Among the Yanomami it was usually considered an insult to call
someone by their name. It took Morais several years to understand the
Yanomami mind, but for his efforts he was paid off in two ways: he was
allowed the privilege to address Dar by his phonetic label, and he had
access to the most gifted pool of computer talent on the planet. His
colleagues were not so lucky. Being less understanding types, they would
often hear of the legendary computer prowess of the Yanomami and then
`hire' them for programming projects at the Institute. The managers of
these projects would invite the Yanomami to Project Meetings, speaking of
deadlines, product deliveries dates, work schedules, and salaries. The
`employed' Amazon Tribe member would then be shown to a cubicle and asked
to show up at 8:00 the next morning. The results would be disastrous. The
new employee would never show up on time, sometimes as late as 4:00 in the
afternoon. A project manager might be eating dinner on his screened-in
porch at home and look up to see the employee seated across from him, after
somehow slipping silently in, all eager to discuss the project. To make
things worse, they would never give out their names, and refused to sign
any paperwork, saying that a salary was unimportant, yet showing up at
night, asking to borrow the water sled, because they had to visit an uncle
for the next two weeks, and then returning two months later without the
sled because it had been given away during a festival. Most managers went
apoplectic over this sort of behavior, resolving never to hire the Yanomami
ever again, but having no qualms about cannibalizing whatever juicy bits of
Yanomami code appeared on the public nets. Morais, however, took a
different approach.

Ten years before, when a knotty problem concerning the Space Construction
Platform had Morais up for nights, Morais looked up tired from his terminal
to see that a Yanomami Indian was standing silently next to him. He
muttered "Can I sit down?" Morais was too tired to protest and gave him his
chair. Within 4 hours the unknown Yanomami had entirely re-written the
emergent behavior algorithm that allowed the robots to return to their fuel
tanks without losing the timing involved in rolling out the steel sheet
involved in the beam formation process at the Platform. After several
debugging run-throughs, the gentle face of the ageless appearing tribesman
looked up at Morais and muttered "Remember that the Ant gives his legs to
the Colony before he moves his own body." The Amazon silently disappeared
leaving behind a perplexed Morais. But later, when the Platform started
receiving steel shipments from Earth, the meaning behind the Yanomami's
words hit Morais. Not quite able to express it in words, Morais was
nonetheless able to give the Russian Draftsman the complete proposal for
the Mars Launch Program. Every time the project slowed down, the same thing
would happen. At the back of the meeting room, when the managers conference
had descended into bickering, a lone individual would silently appear.
Morais would then silence the proceedings and ask to hear what the Yanomami
had to say. The words would always have a cryptic but homespun tribal sound
to them. Sometimes they elicited laughter from the project leaders, who
were surprised to find the Indian laughing along with them. But it would
always happen. Four hours later. Two days later. Two weeks later. Morais
would be thinking about the words muttered at the proceedings and would
have a flash of inspiration which would take him running to the Russian
Draftsman's lab. The Draftsman's hard-headed genius for all things
mechanical usually meant that any idea remotely unsound was met with a
disparaging wave of the hand and complete ignorance of the messenger. But
with Morais it would be different. The Draftsman would gently nod his head
yes, and turn away to furiously sketch something on an old, battered
artist's sketch pad. In five years, this strange, triple collaboration
allowed Morais to advance to the Project Head for Manned Space Exploration
of the Amazonian Technical Institute, a position which brought much fame,
from all over the world, as well as inside the Brazilian Empire. But for
the Yanomami, it would always be the same. An individual, a brother, a
cousin, perhaps would show up at your house: Can I borrow this laptop? My
Grandfather wants to keep track of the number of Dolphins in the River. My
third cousin from up North is starting classes, can he stay at your house
for awhile? Can I sit down? The program would work much better if you did
this...

                           ____________________

                How to Protect Yourself in the 21st Century

                        with a new introduction by

                           General Buford Keegan

Ladies and Gentlemen. It has been over ten years since I have been directly
involved in the production of the volume that you now hold in your hands.
When Roberto DelReyes, the chief author of this book's current edition
approached me about writing a new introduction, I could not refuse. After
all, it was Roberto himself who conceived the idea for this book when
almost twenty years ago such information was not commonplace. It was, after
all, twenty years ago that Roberto's involvement in a brave and daring plan
to evacuate the town of Riverside, Ohio that made it possible for me to
continue the work of ensuring that men everywhere have the choice of
remaining and acting as free and responsible citizens of this great planet
of ours. Roberto's questions continuously assured me that even in an age
like ours, any one possessed of a good mind and free heart could understand
the most knotty questions involved in resisting a high-technology
dictatorship, in whatever form it took. I have gained great strength from
knowing that in such chaotic circumstances such as ours, basic common sense
is all that is needed in order to understand such topics as `how to write a
trojan virus' or `what behavior is appropriate under infrared
surveillance.'

That we live in difficult times, times that often more closely resemble the
civil war of the 1860s' than the high-tech paradise of the 1950's, when it
was thought that all that was needed to survive a nuclear war were lead
impregnated bib-overalls, is quite obvious. You are now holding in your
hands a very special volume. A volume that is only three by five inches,
and whose cover reads `Charts and Tables of Standards for Weights and
Measures Used Under the English System of Measurement.' By camouflaging our
book in this way, we have practically assured that very few people will
willingly open up its cover for fear of the tedious and boring content
suspected of lurking on its pages. Yet the cover also indicates that this
volume has an inherent usefulness that prevents it from being thrown out,
and indeed, will often cause those being sent this volume to place it on an
esteemed roost on a bookshelf without the cover ever being opened. In this
way, our manual has spread into all corners of society, and many of those
in the East who seek our information have only to visit a library reference
section to find it. Many techniques like the one I just described are found
in the pages of this book.

Those of us involved in the production of this volume have had many labels
thrown at us: Terrorist, criminal, revolutionary, and even Communist, even
when the techniques in this book help defend the individual against
Communist oppression as well as any other. We do not subscribe to labels of
any kind. As we look back into the twentieth century, we can only see that
labels, no matter how well intentioned, eventually turn into oppressive
straight-jackets. Rather than labels, we hold the radical viewpoint that
individuals are much better able to determine their own destinies than
outside organizations. The purveyor of these organizational modes of living
constantly accuse of pedaling death in our philosophy as we propose the
death of the organization. But we ask those who seek to erase our existence
a continual question: when in our history has the individual ever
benefitted from allegiance to the organization? An example often put forth
is the defeat of Adolf Hitler during World War II (according to Western
U.S. history). Evidence has shown time and time again that the defeat of
Nazi Germany arose from individuals who only temporarily chose to act as a
collective. When the need for such a collective passed, those who chose to
prop it by via organizational and extra-individual means bought about the
debacle of Vietnam, an event so humiliating to contemplate that it has now
been excised from Eastern U.S. textbooks. Because of these views we have
been accused of being pessimistic and destructive to the true cause of
human nature. Quite the contrary is true. We have an unflagging optimism in
the Human Spirit. We are products of at least 3 billion years of biological
evolution, and when such a grand creation chooses to hold opinion as to
whether such a war is wrong or such a government is corrupt, it does good
to listen to it. To believe that one's own individual instincts are somehow
inferior to those of the Nation State or other extra-individual entity, is
to invite disaster as those of us who live the Eastern United States can
now readily attest. We live in radically dangerous times that call for a
new form of resistance. Those of us who have access to an uncensored
history of the last century have seen the same mistake happen over and over
again: that is, to defend yourself against your enemy, you must defeat your
enemy; to defeat your enemy, you must become your enemy, and in the
process, lose what it is you were trying to defend. We have resolved not to
make this mistake. Our enemies are those who say that they must capture us
in order that we may be reintegrated into their collective, a collective
made up of mental illness, substance abuse, homelessness, violence and the
adoration of a group of corrupt, senile old men whose only achievements in
life have been to hold large buckets under the money faucets of the Federal
Reserve Bank. Our enemies have been coming after us with guns, planes, and
tanks, yet, in all cases, we have been able to defeat them on our own
territory, without having to recourse to their weapons-based methods. You
will find our methods in this book. Our methods are faster, cheaper, and
more effective than theirs. Our method relies on something far cheaper and
deadlier than clunky military hardware and dangerous explosives. Our method
relies on Information. And it is with Information and little else that will
enable you to single-handedly disarm a tank or cause an enemy soldier to
retreat to his homeland. Our method is the most effective of all in that it
directs the strength of your enemy back upon himself.

 Back in the dark ages of the 1980's the Reagan Administration chose to go
to war against the peasants of Nicaragua so that corporate shareholders
could realize more profits from the sale of military hardware. At that
time, it was difficult to kill a peasant and his children; the soldier most
likely had a family of his own, and was remiss to take such action.
However, just by muttering one word: "Communists!" the same soldier could
easily destroy an entire village. That my friends, was the power of
Information. To survive in the Twenty-First you will have to learn how to
use Information as a weapon, and you will have to learn how the enemy is
determined to use Information as a weapon against you, and take the
necessary steps to defend yourself.

I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors,

General Keegan

Durango, Mexico, May, 2025



Table of Contents

p. iv Preface to the English System of Measurement
p. 10 Thread Diameter Conversion Scales
p. 123 An In-Depth Discussion of Atomic Weight Classification Schemes
p. 150 Metric Conversion Charts (Ed. Note: May require use of magnification
   glass.)
p. 190 How To Protect Yourself in the Twenty-First Century
p. 200 Introduction by General Keegan
p. 201 An Overview of Counter-Terrorism
p. 220 Snipping Wires: Quality, Not Quantity
p. 280 Info-terrorism and Culture Jamming
p. 340 All You Need to Know about Computer Sabotage
p. 400 Networks from Spare Parts I. GIS Over a Public Telephone
p. 487 Acting Under Surveillance
p. 520 Counter-recruitment Techniques
p. 60 Confusion and Mental Illness Techniques
p. 670 Encryption Made Easy
p. 700 Timed Release Strike-back Techniques
p. 823 Use the Fax-Effect to Your Advantage
p. 900 Fun With Metrics! Puzzles and Brain Teasers based on
   English-to-Metric Conversion Charts.
p. 940 Your Career: A Future in Charts and Tables
p. 980 Index

                           ____________________


From: Bob Jacobson <bluefire@well.sf.ca.us>
Subject: Washington State (USA) legislation could censor VR (and much more)!
Date: Wed, 9 Feb 1994 23:25:54 GMT

This has relevance throughout the U.S. and around the world, as it can
happen anywhere ignorance of virtual worlds is inflamed by odd ideas.

Forwarded from Daniel Pezely <dpezely@bvu-lads.loral.com>

A friend who frequents the Washington state government passed this on to
me:

There is a bill at the state level: (excerpts from the Public Health &
Safety Act 1994" bill, SBR 6174)

NEW SECTION. Sec. 706 (1) A license is required for the commercial use of
virtual reality technology for entertainment or purposes other then bona
fide education, training, research, and development.

Where VR is defined:

NEW SECTION. Sec 702. (4) ``Virtual Reality" means any computer or other
electronic technology that creates an enhanced illusion of
three-dimensional, real-time or near-real-time interactive reality through
the use of software, specialized hardware, holograms, gloves, masks,
glasses, computer guns, or other item capable of producing visual, audio,
and sensory effects of verisimilitude beyond those available with a
personal computer.

My friend was present at the hearing of a portion of this bill. Evidently,
the person backing the bill, Senator Phil Talmadge, and his crew are
convincing the State Congress that VR will permit "a realistic illusion of
killing another person and such an illusion will make it easier for someone
to go out and actually commit such a crime outside of VR." The State
Congress has a very short calendar this year. This matter could be voted on
as early as next week (week of 14 February 94), and the congressional
session ends 8 March 1994, so this could be voted into law in less than one
month.

Senator Phil Talmadge (206) 786-7436 Leading the opposition: Senator
Sheldon (206) 786-7644

Senate Fax: (206) 786-1999. Commission on Public Health & Safety Act 1994.
Bill to be heard in Ways & Means Committee (Sen. Reinhart, Chair),
Wednesday night, February 9, 1994; then to Rules. For status of bill, call
Secretary of Senate: (206) 786-7550.



 If virtual reality is outlawed, only outlaws will have virtual reality.

         The Author



open line 12
execute data link
300 baud cache and forward
1700 KHz rider signal

note to new listeners: Public key decoder found on head of DAT release
"Greatest Hits of Honky-Tonk Punk"

"We're back? Fantastic. I keep tellin' them that my pager doesn't always
work, but lucky for you good listeners, you ain't gonna miss a lick of my
show. Hogger Radio. That's me. And Hogger remembers that some of you is
curious as to how Hogger gets out the way he does. You may remember that
because of an accident long ago Hogger had his eardrums taken out and
replaced with what are called `cochlear transducers' which means for you
folks that all I need is a wire attached the right way and somehow I can
get what I hear in my own head broadcast out by a semi full of old radio
gear that calls itself Radio Free Colorado and has to travel a lot to avoid
detection by a vigilante squad. But I keep hearing that Hogger radio is so
popular that me and RFC are going to keep at it for as long as our Eastern
brothers are still in chains, come Hell or high water.

"Like we was hearing just a few minutes ago, that legendary rebel Bobby
DelRay ran into ol' Hogger enjoying the end of the ski season on the
mountain, and Hogger just couldn't pass up an opportunity to ask him what
happened twenty years ago in the Great Kentucky Fried Hamburger rebellion
and Bobby agreed, so long as yours truly springs for the beer.

"Now Bobby, you was tellin' us that way back in high school you got called
into the gym to get a talkin' to."

"Yep. All us students were together listening to this guy, O.K., and he
tells us that he works for the IMF which is the International Monetary
Fund. Now the IMF is a big bank that we didn't know much about, but this
guy goes on to tell us that somehow this IMF has now become the largest
bank in the United States and that just recently the Bank of the Federal
Reserve of the United States of America has gone into what he called a
`triple default;' that is, the government has been given three chances to
pay some debts that is has owed, but has failed to come up with the money
each time. He flipped out one of those laptop computers that gives off this
bright light so that we could see the screen showing on the wall, and it's
full of pie charts and other mumbo-jumbo. So naturally we wondered what the
heck he was talkin' about.

"Eventually he tells us that the federal government has failed to institute
an `austerity program' so that interest payments on the eight trillion
dollar federal debt can be made in a more timely manner. He also tells, and
this is real important, that in order to operate and remain `liquid,' the
federal government has had to sell bonds to rich foreign dudes so that they
can afford to pay the interest on the federal bonds that have been bought
and sold outside the U.S."

"Sort of like taking out money on your credit card to pay off the interest
on another credit card."

"Ya, if you can rack up eight trillion on your credit card. Don't quote me
on this stuff; I'm sure I'm getting some of the facts wrong, but this is
basically what I remember. Anyways he gets to the part that really affects
us. He says that in order to pay off all our debts, which I guess included
us so-called taxpayers, a group of banks had been authorized by the federal
government to seize control of the assets of the U.S. government and that
we would have to continue working and give over half of our earnings to
what he called `major creditors' of the taxpayers of the U.S."

"Half? And you were making like three dollars an hour? I figure that would
have netted you like $1.50 an hour."

"Try fifty cents an hour. It turned out that another foreign bank owned
something called the Social Security Entitlement Corporation which by law
could take out as much money from our paychecks as it wanted in order give
its principal investors a steady return. Of course, when we retired we
would get something, too, NOT. The whole thing was a Ponzi scheme, but it
was the law, so what could you do? Anyway, the talk finally concludes away
from all this stuff and gets to the heart of the matter. It turns out that
because of something called the `Federal Domain,' all of our houses and all
of the land has been sold to a group of banks in Europe and would be
resettled by the new owners within a month, and we had only a few weeks to
get everything together and move out. The guy in the gym was their
representative and he flashes up a chart that tells us what we are going to
have to do. Like all of our cars and TVs and cameras and stuff had also
been bought up so we are going to have to leave them behind `in good
condition,' We could only take the clothes on our backs and enough food and
medicine that we could carry in our hands. Then it got really scary.
`Martial law' or something like it had just been declared in our county
which meant that we were under orders not to leave town until a truck came
by our house that would take us to our new place of work."

"New place of work?"

"Oh yeah. The foreign guy was now showing some film off of his laptop, and
it's really old looking, kind like someone spliced together an old 16mm
movie. And it shows all of these people in a big bunkhouse somewhere, and
they're smiling and making beds and walking through gardens and collecting
vegetables. And the guy continues talking, and says that a new federal law
has just been passed which requires us to work, even if we have lost our
homes and have no place to go, and that we would be given an interview to
find out what our assignments were. Like, if you had some electrical work
in your background you would be assigned to the military, but if you were
some high-schoolers like us, you would be taken to a bunkhouse to work at
some job and later, if your attitude was real good, you would be eligible
for something called The Plan."

"The Plan?"

"Yep. All we knew at the time was that it had something to do with that
wacked out televangelist Brother Jim who was getting rich bilking old
people out of their money. This was the first time we had heard that he was
wrapped up in all this federal mess, and we was sure that he was making a
mint off this, too. Made sense, though. This Jimbo character was on TV a
lot, in one of those infomercials tellin' people how they could make a
killing in Real Estate with such tactics like finding somebody who was
having trouble making their house payments and walking in front of their
house in the winter and falling and getting a lawyer to sue them for doctor
bills and settling out of court for the title to the house. But a lot of
people were like, `but Brother Jim is so good and wants to help America, we
should listen to him, he is one of the great spiritual leaders of our time'
and all that crap.

"Now you can be sure that some of the kids were real smart-asses upon
hearing this, and a couple of them yelled out that they wouldn't leave. And
then comes the Mark Shipman incident."

"Very famous incident indeed!"

"Ya, Mark jumps up and starts yelling `My Dad says you're a bunch of Nazis
and if you come anywhere near our house he's gonna pump you full of lead!'
So the speaker's face gets real red and he steps outside for a moment and
motions someone in, another guy with a pinstriped suit, only he's got some
really small machine gun slung over his shoulder, and the speaker points
his finger at Mark and the machine-gun guy writes something down and
leaves. Right after that, we were lead out of the school yard by some other
guys with guns and told that we couldn't return there anymore. Two days
later there was a big fire a couple of blocks away. It was the Shipman
house. Someone had lobbed a bomb into the house in the middle of the night.
My parents had heard similar things like we did, only they were visiting
the houses one by one while we were in school and posting guards at the end
of the streets. Dad had been told that he would be checked on to make sure
that nothing happened out of the ordinary. I still had to go to Big Burger
to work, only now it was something like eighty hours a week, and we had
cameras watching us. I tried to find out if I could stay at Big Burger
while the town was being evacuated, but they said no. We were installing
machines that would wait on customers and deliver their food to them much
faster than we could, and was told that we would be gone in a couple of
weeks as soon as the transition was completed. It was at this point that
Bif started to play an important role in our lives."

"Now for our audience, explain just who Bif is today."

"Right now Bif, er, I mean General Keegan, is Commander-in-Chief of the
Northern Mexico Defense Battery, and if you've been accessing the paper
lately you know that we have him to thank for the recent defeat of the
Aryan Nation attack on the state of Arizona. Back then, though, we had no
idea. No idea at all what Bif was. You see, back in high school, Bif was
what we called a `Hacker.' And in a small town like ours, being a hacker
got you made fun of, big time. And Bif didn't have many friends, so he
spent a heck of an amount of time in his uncle's basement, even when the
weather was nice, doing God knows what with telephone wire and old game
computers and broken CD recorders and whatever junk he could scrounge from
his uncle's recently defunct radio repair business. Now, I didn't
understand Bif very well, but we had become friends about a month before
the infamous gym speech because he had stolen a password needed to operate
the burger computer where I worked and showed me ho to scam food from the
place. One night after I managed to sneak home, I got to talk to Bif after
he snuck into our basement. He had some other guys our age follow him in
and said that from now on we were going to hold regular meetings at three
a.m. Boy did Bif change."

"Change?"

"You had to have been there. He started showing us all these maps of the
county, using terms like `Info-terrorism' and `Surveillance Weakness
Zones.' Turns out that Bif was finally able to use the Ham radio after all.
A group of hackers in Toledo had figured out a way to scramble the
conversation and disguise it as white noise, something called `analog
least-significant bit stegonography,' now don't ask me what that means. To
decode the conversation, you had to know someone personally who would hand
you the secret code. Then, any form of secret code, like PGP, had been made
illegal, so Bif and his friends were really risking their lives.

"We talked very low, for hours, with me only understanding the gist of the
matter, but come dawn I was officially a member of The Plan."

"The Plan?"

"We adopted that Brother Jim crap as a code name for our own activities so
that if someone overheard they wouldn't be able to guess what we were up
to. Now Bif had formed some sort of a secret network, kind of like a
`hacker patrol' that was going to strike back when the trucks arrived to
take us away. You got to believe that back then, hackers striking back
against those guys sounded way ridiculous, but for some crazy reason, I
believed that Bif knew what he was talking about, and that he was our best
chance for escaping this situation alive."

"Hmm, clarify to our audience why you used the word `alive'."

"Bif had found out through his network that cities all over the Eastern
U.S. were having the same things happen to them. We didn't have phone
service, newspapers, or anything coming into town that told us what was
happening. If you watched TV, all you got was crap. Even the local station
was showing nothing but those damned infomercials to prevent from going out
of business. But Bif could get real news over his computer, which he had
disguised to look like an old typewriter to prevent the SPA from nabbing
it. Bif was learning about some real bad riots going on in Cleveland and
Detroit. He even had some news about the trucks that were supposed to take
us away. Well, it turns out that some of the trucks were actually being
driven into large fenced-in areas where the cargo portions would be stacked
on top of each other and the cab would unhook and drive off for its next
load. As for jobs, only a small amount of those trucks would get driven
into Michigan where they would drop off people to work at some real
horrible slave labor jobs. Bif said he learned that the population of Ohio
was considered to be `surplus' and that only those people who had skills
were given real jobs. Of course, this was causing a lot of violence. And
strange uniforms. It turns out that some of the European police who were
being sent here to quell some of the riots were wearing a uniform adapted
from a three-piece pin-striped suit, right down to a fake white boutonniere
in the lapel. Of course, all us town folk had been forbidden to travel out
of town, and this bought us time. They were working in a line running down
the state, with our town having only three weeks `til Judgement Day. Bif's
contacts in Cleveland had given him all sorts of technical material to go
on, and he was sure that we could get most of the town to escape into
Kentucky, which still had an intact government, if we had a well timed
plan."

"And the timing couldn't have been better."

"The three week deadline actually placed us on the date right after
Halloween which was going to have a new moon! Bif had said that this
advantage was important, and started describing how we were going to wear
camouflage under our Halloween outfits and use the annual party as a
diversion. The outfits were also going to help us move people out of town
through a relay system. That is, one youngster would come up to our door
wearing an outfit and hand it off to someone in the basement, who would
take his place and leave the house with candy. He would then give some
candy to the guard watching the end of the street with his infrared
camcorder. The kid would then duck around back and put on another costume,
one matching the next trick or treater coming up to our house. In this way
we could cycle more kids into our house where we would have a leaf fort
coming out into the woods out back. A lot of details to work out at the
time. The key part of the plan was to pretend that we were happy townsfolk
who were ignorant of our fate and happy to spend one last Halloween with
friends and family. We even invited the head of the new real estate holding
company to the costume party! Bif had also developed something called an
EMP bomb which was a stick of dynamite wired into a large coil so that when
the bomb went off, a powerful radio wave would shoot out and fry out the
computers and handi-talkies our guests were using. Bif and his assistants
had maps that showed where everything was located, and which wires had to
be snipped and which radios had to be fried in order to throw them off. We
decided that the Bell Tower going off at Midnight would be the signal for
our first attack, and I was placed in charge of tracking down the chief
security for the bad guys and knocking them out after the electrical grid
into town was severed. As you now know, when we actually did go through
with our Plan, things really got out of hand."

Disconnect Notice
Possible Security Breach
Shutdown until further notice

___________________________________________________________________________

Eric Miller is a graduate student at Michigan State University where he
studies the use of Computer Aided Design (CAD) in architectural and product
design. Other academic interests include Artificial Life, Virtual Reality,
and Cyberspace culture. Recreational interests include mountain biking and
cross-country skiing in Michigan's beautiful forests, painting, and
composing electronic music as well as writing fiction. "Microchips Never
Rust" will be continued next issue.

millere@student.msu.edu
___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

                           B A C K  I S S U E S
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Quanta (ISSN 1053-8496) is copyright (c)1994 by Daniel K. Appelquist.
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If you like Quanta, you may want to check out these other magazines, also
produced and distributed electronically:

Cyberspace Vanguard                   Contact: cn577@cleveland.freenet.edu

Cyberspace Vanguard is a new digest/newsletter, containing news and views
from the science fiction universe. Send subscription requests, submissions,
questions, and comments to xx133@cleveland.freenet.edu or
cn577@cleveland.freenet.edu.

InterText                                     Contact: intertext@etext.org

InterText is the network fiction magazine devoted to the publication of
quality fiction in all genres. It is published bi-monthly in both ASCII and
PostScript editions. The magazine's editor is Jason Snell, who has written
for Quanta and for InterText's predecessor, Athene. Assistant editor is
Geoff Duncan.

The PostScript laserprinter edition is the version of choice, and includes
PostScript cover art. For a subscription (specify ASCII or PostScript),
writer's guidelines, or to submit stories, mail Jason Snell at
jsnell@etext.org. InterText is also available via anonymous ftp from
ftp.etext.org (/pub/Zines/Intertext). If you plan on ftpingthe issues, you
can be placed on a list that will notify you when each new issue appears
--- just mail your request to intertext@etext.org.

Unit Circle                                   Contact: unitcirc@netcom.com

The brainchild of Kevin Goldsmith, Unit Circle is the underground
quasi-electronic `zine of new music, radical politics, and rage in the
1990's. "Quasi-electronic" bcause Unit Circle is published both as an
electronic magazine (in PostScript form only) and as an underground
journal, in paper form. If you're interested in receiving either format of
the `zine, send mail to Kevin at unitcirc@netcom.com.





Thank you, thank you very much.