--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Chapter 1 

by Jim Vassilakos 

Copyright (c) 1990



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning sun's golden rays glided peacefully along the quiet coast, sparkling across the ocean waves as the water's edge shifted randomly between sea and shore. A chilly breeze swept its way over the waters and along the damp beach, quietly winding its way through the little used barbecue pits past a long, wooden pier, and then withdrew back out to sea. 

Bright beams of sunlight danced across the eastern horizon as the coastal palm trees cut the early summer winds into multiple streams of cool jet and spray and the light into stark showers of silver and scarlet. 

Michael Harrison walked barefoot along the shifting earth that divides land and sea. The ankles of his patched worktrousers skidded into the cold waters as he made his way home. The thin blue fabric of a wet dress shirt stretched down his muscular frame to near his knees. His mind pulsated with an overflowing emptiness; thoughts doubled back upon themselves, twisting and turning with the cold waves, drifting against the overwhelming tide. 

He slowly turned and walked up the whitish sands climbing a thin railed stairway in contest with gravity. The thick wooden doors were already open, and entering, he stumbled in between the white walls of his beach home searching for the null-tube. The entire structure seemed to wobble slowly around him. Squinting between the specks of salt and sand which stung his eyes, he grabbed one wall with his right hand, keeping the left stiffly extended in case he should find another. Suddenly, the room turned sharply, and an invisible foot kicked his legs out from under him. A pleasant softness enveloped his senses as he rolled up warm and passed out cold. 

"Michael..." 

He awoke to a calm feminine voice. Kitara? Still sleepdazed, his bloodshot eyes roamed the room. 

"Why am I on the floor?" he mumbled. 

"Because that is where you retired for the..." 

Mike groaned as he sat upright hearing the now familiar voice. "I was just talking to myself. You know Cindy, you don't have to..." Mike's voice drifted off as he slowly realized he was talking to his home's computer system. Her voice circuits paused momentarily waiting for him to continue as he masaged his numb arm. 

"Talking to oneself is a sign of mental collapse... Mr. Linden is on line one." 

His boss. Mike slumped back on the floor and closed his eyes. "I'm too tired, tell him to fuck off." 

Cindy paused for analysis. Mike heard a quiet buzz and a voice, "Hello... Mike?" 

"No Mr. Linden. This is Cindy again. Mike said he was tired and he told me to tell you to..." 

"Stop!" Mike's voice echoed around the entire house. Cindy's voice promptly cut off transmission. "Cut off the video unit and transfer the line... voice only... to this room." 

Mr. Linden's voice broke over the speakers, "... there? Hello? Cindy, I didn't get that?" 

Mike sat up again and rubbed his eyes, "Chuck, Mike here..." 

"Hi, Mike? How's it going?" 

"Great... What's up?" 

"Well, I've got a gentleman over here from the board who'd like to congratulate you on your last piece. I told him I didn't know whether or not you'd be in today, so he suggested I call. How'd you like to come over and lunch with us?" 

Mike paused, "Sure, you two gonna be in the Gee-Pee?" 

"Yeah, he's checking out our facilities, and he really wants to meet you." 

It suddenly occured to Mike that he should feel flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck and tilted his head sideways until the spine popped. 

"Ok. I'll be over in... how's three cents sound?" 

"Sounds great." 

"Good." 

"Okay, thanks. We'll see you then." 

"Bye." 

Line one closed with a short breaker. A computer a thousand kilometers away had already multiplied the duration of the call by its distance and tolled Chuck's fund. Mike wondered what the editor wanted. 

The warm shower spray dissolved the dirt and sweat in no time, and Mike put on a blue mendwear dress shirt, white gelknicks, and a pair of light gravboots. He combed his long, thin, brown hair and tied it in the back. In a few minutes he was in the pantry searching for the standard grub. Picking up a flimsy and light pen he headed back to the living room and straightening his shirt stepped down the stairs into the street. 

The sun was at high-noon, and the short walk to the subway entrance proved uneventful. There was the usual strain of gravcars and flycycles lined along the beachway, and the hundreds of floaters sailing above the coast made a moving polkadot design of shadows along the sands, but there was nothing unusual in the way the tourists eyed Mike over as if he were a specimen at an alien exhibit. Being the only decently dressed person within several kilometers he walked with a pretended importance, as if he owned the entire beach and could toss them all off at the snap of a finger. He grinned at the thought as he coasted down the escalator at the subway entrance. 

Showing his all-month pass, he headed past security and straight to the terminal. The gravbuses entered and left the port in perfect succession; and within two minutes his bus had arrived. He boarded and easily found a seat. An old lady eyed him from across the car, and a handsome couple with kids quarreled over where to eat. He sat back and looked out the window. His hangover was nearly unnoticeable, and he rubbed his arm where Cindy had indubitably injected him with the get-well juice. 

The train rose above the surface and fell again to catch another station more inland, the sudden shift from daylight to fluorescence leaving the passengers momentarily blind as their eyes adjusted to the rhythmic tempo of the passing cold lanterns. Two young men entered as the doors opened, their faces twisted in consternation as each tried to make his point more loudly than the other. They fell silent as they headed toward the back of the car, the second's long, bony finger still pointed in exaggerated certainty. 

The train started rolling again, and this time quickened its pace for some time before eventually rising to the surface. Out the window Silver-Tri-Towers stood as a testament to the might of man. Its arms branching from the main structure reached near the clouds, and the top of the structure blurred with the refraction of light against the atmosphere. The couple's children rushed to the window and pressed their noses against its surface leaving little spots of dense fog on the layered plastic. 

The train lost speed and dipped under the surface to stop. The old lady got off and the two young men quietly resumed their discussion. The couple sat quietly, and one of their children asked when they would get to eat. 

Soon the train was off again, and as it rose above the surface the kids resumed their former positions at the window, panting puppy dogs with eyes bent skyward. The train turned toward the structure, dipped below the surface, and accelerated. It pulled into a large underground station. Mike quickly exited as a car load of people pressed in. 

He made his way through the crowds to a lift. Dozens of people entered as the doors closed against the stragglers. The lift stopped on several floors, picking up and dropping off people along the way, until it reached public floor 872, and Mike stepped off. A short walk through the busy halls led him to the Gee-Pee. Mike peeked between the columns and spotted Linden talking with an elderly gentleman and a young woman over three highbowls of zardocha. 

Mike held his position and studied the trio. His boss, the section's copy-editor, was putting on a smiley-face for his administrative counterparts. His small body wrapped itself into a tangled web of false composure, as a dim fluorescent beam caught his olive brown face, receding hairline, and large brown eyes at just the right angle to make Mike wish he'd been carrying his trusty camera. 

The gentleman sitting across from the editor was well known to many in the press office. He had a reputation as somebody who could pull stings, and his white hair and often brittle manner did little to detract from his prestige. Just the opposite, they served to make him appear more distinguished. Mike had seen his picture a dozen times and fit together a dozen odd facts in his mind about the man, but he couldn't connect a name to the face. 

The lady caught Mike's attention. She seemed strangely familiar. Aside from being simply a woman, her long blonde hair, tan skin, and lithe figure made her appearance incredibly attractive. She sipped her drink carefully, letting the ice flakes clink against the inside of her highbowl as she watched the two men talk. 

The chatter from the rest of the room blurred together with their own conversation so well that Mike had trouble picking out specific words. He watched Linden's face. The editor looked like he was geared into brag-mode. The other two listened with facinated expressions. 

Mike slipped his consumer card through the scanner as he entered the room. Linden noticed him immediately and motioned him over. 

"Well speak of the devil; Michael, this is Mr. John Clay from the company board, and his niece Miss Robin Clay." 

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Harrison. Charles has just been telling us a great deal about your work." 

"Does that mean I get a raise?" 

They all laughed, especially Robin. She seemed to have a special twinkle in her eyes as if there were a secret she wanted to tell him. Her eyes captivated Mike. They were deep sea blue, or maybe sky blue; he couldn't decide. They weren't too dark or too light. Must be implants, Mike thought as he shook off the fascination. 

Then Robin extended her golden tanned arm as if she wanted it to be either kissed from pinky to armpit or broken in half at the elbow. Deciding on the third alternative, Mike extended his own arm in response, and with a smile he shook her hand. It was an archiac gesture to be sure, but one still used among gatherers. 

Michael sat in the empty chair across from Robin. A fourth highbowl filled with zardocha dropped from overhead and floated in front of Mike. He tested it and sent it aside with a gentle nudge. The dark liquorice cafe stung his taste with its frigid strength. 

"We were actually thinking along the lines of a different sort of compensation." 

"Mr. Clay, I was joking." 

"Within every joke, there must be an element of truth. Without it, the joke isn't funny." 

Mike smiled, "Okay, get to the point." 

"Michael, we at the Board of Galactic Press & Publications have been watching this division for a number of years. Your rapid progress and personal achievements have not gone unnoticed by the administration. Granted, there have been pieces of your research, some quite extraordinary pieces of information gathering, which were never published... with good reason." 

"I'm sure." Mike echoed. 

"You, perhaps more than any other gatherer within the sector, understands that we are much more than a news source, and that our gatherers are much more than reporters. They're investigators, they're a form of police, they go into situations where they often risk life and limb." 

"The point." 

"Well, it's actually somewhat stale. I hope you're not offended, but we'd like to hold an awards' banquet for the division as a whole. Just something to boost morale, and to recognize a job well done." 

Mike sipped the zardocha and glanced sideways at Linden. The editor smiled back; his cajoling face Mike thought. 

"Go ahead." 

"Well, as one of the key figures... as the key figure in your division's success I should say, we'd like you to speak at the ceremony." 

Linden beamed, "You have become somewhat of a celebrity Mike." 

Mike floated the highbowl in front of his chin, spinning in with one finger to quicken the fluid. 

"I'm honored... but I wouldn't know what to say." 

"What, with all your experience, with all the various worlds you've visited, not to mention those you've infiltrated," Clay laughed at his own joke, "I'm sure you could think of something to say." 

"I really doubt it, sir." 

Clay smiled, but Mike sensed something in the older man's eyes that told him to reconsider. 

"Michael, Charles here has already hinted to me that you might feel this way, and in your shoes, I might feel the same. After all, a gatherer needs a certain amount of anonymity in order to be effective... and just considering what a high profile you have been earning lately... how long do you really think you can keep it up?" 

"I really haven't thought about it, sir," he lied. 

"Well, perhaps you should really think about it. This banquet isn't just to fill space and give our people something to do and be happy about. It's opportunity time. An opportunity for us to examine our talent, to redefine our direction, to recruit new prospects into the hierarchy... Charles tells me that you dislike social functions. Is that true, Michael?" 

"That would depend." 

"On what?" 

"On what's in it for me." 

Clay paused dumbfounded and then suddenly burst out laughing. Charles and Robin chimed in as if on cue, but Mike was sure he felt someone kick him under the table. 

"Shy, Mr. Harrison, you're not." 

Linden set the floating highbowl down on the table. He looked a little tired and annoyed. 

"Mike, what Mr. Clay is saying is that you've done a good job, but that with the success you're losing your value as a gatherer. It's time to step up the ladder." 

"You mean behind a desk." 

"Mr. Harrison," Robin spoke for the first time in the conversation, "if you were more valuable behind a desk than in the field, where would you rather be?" 

"I'm still pulling my own weight." 

"You and who's army?" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Okay, ask yourself this. How much of your gathering in the field is physically carried out by a third party? If your answer is more than half, then you already over the hill, and half way down the other side." 

Clay coughed, "Take care with the metaphors, my dear. Mr. Harrison, forgive my niece, but we understand you've been training a number of research assistants?" 

"I'm not going to take a job training gatherers. I've got enough of that already." 

"We're not asking for that. We are simply proving a point, that your useful life is swiftly coming to a close unless you change your field of endeavor." 

"I couldn't be an administrator, and I know I couldn't edit." Clay smiled, this time genuinely Mike thought. 

"You'll be surprised at what you can do when opportunity beckons. Isn't that right Charles? Why, we ourselves are living examples. You think, Mr. Harrison, that your editor was born behind the desk, flimsy in hand? He started just like you. But we all must move on. The banquet is in three days. Yes, it's honoring the anniversary of the founding. It will be at the Lion's Den in GreenFlower. Everything has already been set up, the promotion has already been released in this morning's update, and all you have to do is be there and say a few words to entertain the masses, rub a few noses, and... and pretend that you're having fun." 

Mr. Clay stood up and grimmaced at the inside of his wrist. The timepiece implant seemed to tell him he was late. He shot Mike a departing glance, "Then we'll see you at the Banquet, Mr. Harrison... Mr. Linden." 

Mike stood up, "Will your niece be there?" 

"Of course." 

"Then I won't," Mike felt like saying. 

Miss Clay shook his hand in a comfortable contrast to the trial run. For the second time during the encounter she spoke, "Will you sit by me at the Banquet, Mr. Harrison? I am very much interested in your work." 

Mike grinned, "I really don't have a choice about this, do I?" 

"Not if you know what's good for you." 

Mike paused and tried to recall the question. He decided later that it was her blue eyes that made him give in so easily. 

"I'd be delighted, Miss Clay. If you would like, stop by my house, and I can show you a few items of the trade." 

She smiled, or perhaps blushed. "I might take you up on that. Where do you live?" 

Mr. Clay conveniently interrupted, "Come now dear, we must be off." 

Mike defused the interception, "Sector E-12, 81152 Beach Boulevard." 

She smiled apologetically as her uncle grabbed her arm and led her out the door. 

When Mike turned around, Linden was looking a little angry. 

"What?" Mike asked defensively. 

Linden turned away and then tried to keep from laughing. "Nothing. Just..." 

"Just what?" 

"Just don't blow it, Harrison." Linden was smiling. 

Mike smiled back, and they laughed. Everything was still okay. 

Mike returned to the house. He recalled that he hadn't seen the morning update, but then he had no will to hear, see, smell, or otherwise comprehend what one dull reporter considered news. He entered the bathroom and relieved himself of the last night's merrymaking. The medical scanner's blue light twirled about until it found and homed in on Mike. He knew Cindy was conducting an analysis. Just as long as she kept to herself about it. 

He strolled into his room and sat back on the circular bed. The entire chamber glimmered with an eerie, dim blue light. An opaque window on the wall farthest from the door kept out sunlight and the bothersome noises of modern civilization. He relaxed a bit on the edge of the bed and gathered his senses. A shimmering multicolored light on the controller wall betrayed Cindy's presence. 

"What is it?" 

It blinked and moved to the center of the wall. "What is what, Michael?" 

He frowned. Computers weren't supposed to answer questions with questions. "What are you doing in my room?" 

The light blinked a few times. "I work here." Her feminine voice was as matter-of-fact as ever he knew it to be. 

He decided to beat her at her own game rather than simply getting frustrated. "Obviously you work here. Please allow me to rephrase myself. Why don't you switch off?" 

"Would you like me to switch off?" 

She did it again. He contemplated servicing the system by hand with a laser rifle but quickly decided against it. "No. You're too hard to deal with right now. Switch to lower brain mode." 

"Done," the response was instantaneous. 

From there he decided to do a little learning as long as Cindy's logic circuits were switched off. "Access. File. Information. Library. Galactic Press. Person. John Clay. Personal history. 

"... Insufficient person specification. Please respecify at person." 

"John Clay, Boardmember of Galactic Press. Personal History. 

"... File accessed." 

"Write Picture." 

"... Insufficient picture specification. Please specify picture type." 

"Facial, forward, most recent." 

The light at the controller wall danced about for a moment, and suddenly the entire wall surface lighted up with a picture of Mr. Clay. Next to him was another man and a woman. They were all walking down a flight of stairs. The others looked vaguely familiar to Mike, but he couldn't place their names. 

"Read picture from wall. Identify. Persons. All." 

"... Persons identified." 

"Say identifications." 

"... Specify data format." 

"Left to right. Name and official occupation." 

"... Mrs. Helen Jaden, Galactic Press, Tizarian Division, Boardmember. Mr. Edmund Sandair, Galactic Press, Tizarian Division, Chairman of the Board of Directors. Mr. John Clay, Galactic Press, Tizarian Division, Boardmember." 

Mike jotted down notes on a flimsy. "Clear wall." When he turned back toward the controller wall, the entire surface was black. 

"Say personal history, format brief." 

The light at the center of the wall reappeared and began to flicker on and off. "... Personal history, Mr. John Clay in memory. Loading format brief... Mr. John Clay. Born two-hundred and twelve standard days into the Imperial year five-hundred and ninty-one. Attended University of Arcadia majoring in interstellar corporate business. Highest degree received, Master's, at age of twenty-four standard years. Joined with Galactic Press Arcadian Division as marketing advisor in Imperial year six-hundred and sixteen. Was promoted to chief marketing advisor..." 

"Stop," Mike was getting bored, so he decided to zoom in on his real object of interest. "Access file. Information. Library. Galactic Press. Person. Miss Robin Clay, niece of Mr. John Clay, Boardmember of Galactic Press. Personal History." 

"... File Accessed." 

"Write picture, Planetary Identification, Tizar, most current." 

A mug shot of the girl he met that afternoon slowly rotated on the controller wall. Mike studied it quickly and then prepared to jot down more notes. 

"Say name. Format first, middle, last." 

"... Robin Athena Clay." 

"Say official occupation." 

"... Independent contractor, gatherer, Galactic Press, Tizarian Division." 

Mike blinked in disbelief. "That's what I am." 

"... Illegal command ignored." 

He went to the kitchen, got an algea-cooler and some nutrichips, and returned to the bedroom. Sitting once again in front of the controller wall, he watched the flickering light at the center of the wall for nearly a minute before deciding on a course of action. 

"Say list of accomplishments." 

"... Illegal command ignored." 

"Say list of articles where subject is mentioned." 

The light at the center of the screen flickered for a while longer. With Cindy's interpretive processor shut down, the command would take time to be understood. 

The light disappeared. 

"Stop." Mike was becoming impatient. 

"No process in effect. Command Ignored." 

"What?" 

"... Illegal command ignored." 

"Is subject mentioned in any articles?" 

"... Illegal command ignored." 

Mike began to drink the cooler. He didn't stop until it was finished. 

"Switch to higher brain mode." 

"Hello Michael." The artistically feminine voice of the SNDI system, so often applauded by computer evaluators, had never sounded sweeter. 

Mike got right down to business. "I assume you have all the data of my conversation with your lower brain." 

"You assume correctly." 

"Is Robin mentioned in any articles?" 

"No." 

"Has she written any articles?" 

"No." 

"What is her occupation?" 

"She's a gatherer." 

"... Who hasn't written anything." 

"That is correct." 

"She has to have been mentioned in at least one article." 

"She isn't." 

"Cindy, check for birth announcements." 

"There are none." 

"Is there a copy of her birth certificate on file?" 

"Yes." 

"When was she born?" 

"On the ninty-first day of six thirty-three." 

"Nearly a year before Niki." 

"That is correct." 

"Where was she born?" 

"Greenflower, Silver-Tri county, Tizar." 

"That's close." 

Mike opened the package of nutrichips and began to munch. "Cindy, in all your experience, when have you ever encountered a person who was born without the mandatory birth announcements?" 

"Offhand, Michael, I know of no single instance." 

"Cindy, randomly choose one thousand people from that county, all who were born in six thirty-three, and tell me how many of those people do not have corresponding birth announcements in the news on the day of their birth." 

"... There are zero people who do not have birth announcements." 

Mike popped a few chips into his mouth, "Check Tizarian Library files. See if her birth announcements are there." 

"... There are birth announcements in the files of the Tri- Towers Library." 

"Why don't we have them?" 

"Because when the file was loaded into my banks, the birth announcements weren't in place." She changed her tone of voice as if a little annoyed at the obvious question. 

"Check in our own files for her birth certificate. When was it loaded into your banks." 

"The ninety-ninth day of this year, six fifty-six." 

"Why wasn't her birth announcement also loaded in." 

"News files are read-only after their initial loading. There are no editing features available with this system due to the inherent unlawfulness." 

Mike munched on some more nutrichips. They tasted good for a change, and he wondered what the deal was about Robin. 

"Mike, you have a visitor at the front door." 

"Identify." 

"The visitor is not identifiable from the people in your files." 

"Describe" 

"The visitor is female. She has blonde hair, blue eyes, her height..." 

"Stop. Open the door." Mike headed out of the bedroom and toward the front door. Robin was dressed in the white summer dress she wore to lunch. 

She smiled, "Hi." 

Mike stepped outside. The sun was into its brilliant afternoon splendor, and the entire coast was lined with tanning bodies, just waiting to be sizzled to a crisp. 

He smiled as if surprised, "Hi. Come on in. I wasn't expecting you so soon." 

She stepped forward cautiously, a little embarrassed, and at the same time enjoying her predicament. "Well, I just happened to be cruising by... and when I remembered your address... and..." 

They both laughed. 

She stopped in front of him and smiled. The sunlight caught her bright blue eyes, but he was prepared for them this time. 

"Well, since you're here... would you like something to drink?" He was careful not to talk into her. He didn't want to blow the second impression by the smell of munchies. 

"Sure, if you have water." 

He grinned, "Sorry, we're all out. No, just kidding... c'mon." 

He led her to the living room. Getting two glasses and filling them with water was no major task, and soon he found himself sitting at the chair next to the sofa he had missed the night before. She nimbly seated herself on the couch and accepted the glass of water from his hand. 

"So," he started, "Why ya really here?" 

She paused and then smiled, "You said you'd show me some of the tools of the trade?" 

"Oh, sure." Mike went to the bedroom and picked up his camera and workset. When he returned, Robin was in the kitchen looking for a place to drop the empty glass. 

"Should I just put it here on the countertop?" 

"Yeah. That'd be fine." 

She walked back into the living room while Mike hooked together the camera. "This is a Niko 700AR. The small lens in front here is an all-purpose zoom." 

She walked over to him. "Can I?" 

"Sure," he put it into her delicate fingers. "Careful, it's kind of heavy." 

She looked through the lens and smiled, "Wow. Thirty all the way to a thousand millimeters... plus light intensification. No need for a flash." 

"Yeah." Mike was pleased that she knew something about cameras. "That's not all, look." He showed her the storage drive, printer, viewer, and controller board. "Y'know what this is, too?" 

She stared in wonder. "So this is top of the line." 

He laughed. "For external stills, it's as close to it as is practical to use. I mean, it's low tech enough that it can fixed on most worlds if it gets damaged, and, of course, it's replacable. That's its best feature. This thing here is the storage drive. It can hold up to ten-thousand photos in color. More in black and white. I can plug this hundred picture cartridge into the camera, take pictures, and then transfer them to the drive. If I decide that I don't like them later, poof; I delete them. This thing lets me see 'em, and this printer makes a hard copy. With the controller board you can also edit the pictures in a number of different ways-- splicing them, shooting color in, mixing them together, going in pixel by pixel and drawing. Like Niko says, `It defies the imagination.' So what'd'ya think?" 

"Pretty wild," She smiled. 

"By the way, I heard you were a gatherer with the company." 

"Who told you that?" 

"Linden said something about it." 

She bit her lip, "I'm just kind of getting into it. Right now I do some research for my uncle." 

"Oh," Mike was disappointed, but he was far from through. 

"What kind of research," he smiled innocently. 

She mimicked the smile, staring straight into his eyes, "Y'know, research." 

He stopped the questioning. It was still too early. 

"So," she continued, "do you really make money at this?" 

Mike looked theatrically around the house. She laughed. 

"Of course I make money at this." 

"But how can you? Information is so cheap these days." 

Double meaning, Mike thought. "Yeah, it's cheap. But there are a lot of buying customers. Every two to four weeks the Tizarian Division puts out an issue of 'The Galactican.' Every year, I get a good enough story to convince them to give me a large cut of the paper. That, plus front page stories three or four times a year keep me going nicely. We sell to almost a trillion people in this sector alone. Now even if I took only a millicredit off of every buyer every year, you start adding up the numbers and tell me how rich I'd be." 

She grinned, "Very rich." 

"Ridiculously rich. And I don't settle for any mere millicredit." 

"Wow!" She was being obviously sarcastic. 

"And that's only half the story." 

She smiled, "What's the other half?" 

"Through writing these articles people get to recognize my name; and when I turn around to sell other writings, they'll go ahead and load copies into their own terminals since the price of information, as you put it, is so cheap." 

"What other writings do you do?" She seemed genuinely interested this time. 

Mike shrugged, "Political stuff, argumentative essays, that sort of thing." 

"You must be a fantastic writer." She looked serious. 

Mike grinned, "Not really... Y'see, when it comes to writing, it's not the style or the syntax or anything like that. It's your subject. Most of the news people I've met are great writers, but they simply can't research a story. They fall flat on their faces when it comes to the subject simply because they start out with boring material." 

Robin looked confused, "How can you say that? You're supposed to be a writer." 

"No, I'm a gatherer, big difference. It's like your uncle said, the most important thing that I do right now is investigate. All the polishing can be left to the editor and staff, but researching the facts and getting them down is the most important thing for a gatherer. Hey, what're you doing?" 

"I'm putting this thing together." Robin connected the storage drive and monitor. She began paging through the memory. 

"You sound like you're already missing it. What's this?" 

The picture was of a shallow sea. Sulferous storm clouds loomed heavy over the horizon, and a still yellow mist shrouded the water. Far away, a number of humanoid creatures crouched in the steaming mud and pointed toward the camara. 

"That's Aiwelk" 

"Are those reptiles?" 

"Amphibians. They actually the decendants of mutated humans if you want to get technical." 

"What are they doing there?" 

Mike smiled, "They live there." 

Robin rabbit-punched him in the ribs. "You know what I mean. What were you doing there?" 

"I was taking pictures." 

Mike braced his ribs for the second blow. 

"Okay, they say one picture's worth a thousand words. I was working on a safari expedition at the time." 

Robin gasped. 

"It's not what you think. We were low on cash, so were hiring ourselves out as animal catchers. Aiwelk's a protectorate, so were couldn't catch there, but this science team hired us on to catch a few of these critters for 'scientific purposes.' They eventually set up a base on-world, but at the time, they were working from a circular satelite. I took some pictures, because the scientists wanted to know exactly where they came from, and what their physical and social environment was like. They already knew the physical pretty much, but they thought it was important to know who was standing next to who and how they were acting among themselves before we caught them. I don't know if that makes any sense." 

Robin nodded, "So what'd you find out?" 

"Okay, y'see this character here, in the middle. He's like their shaman. No, I'm not kidding. One thing you learn in this job is that everybody's got their own screwed-up religion. Now, before he was, 'examined' physically all-the-way, okay, the scientists were able to decipher a good portion of their language from him, and with it a good portion of their beliefs." 

"Because every language is constructed of beliefs and values." 

"That's right. I couldn't have said it better. Now, he wasn't the strong guy, but he was more or less their leader, and without these stills with him in the center, and without the moving pictures we caught of him giving instructions, he'd have never gotten the special attention such an important 'specimen' deserves." 

"What'd he think about being a specimen?" 

"I'm not sure he really thought about it at all." 

Robin zoomed in on him and refocused. The dark scales showed well in the poor light of the dim red star. 

"So how'd they examine him physically?" 

"Oh, you know scientists." Mike looked away from the monitor. 

"Yeah." 

"Sometimes I just wish we let them be." 

"Did they find anything unusual?" 

"Would it matter if they did?" 

Robin suddenly looked irritated, "Mind if I use the ladies room?" 

"Through that door and to your left." 

She got up from the couch and went through the hallway to the bathroom, leaving Mike to gather his wits and wonder what it was that he said. 

He looked toward the speaker unit by the videophone. Its black shiny surface glittered in the blue fluorescent light. 

"Cindy?" 

"Yes Michael?" 

"Use the medical scanner on Robin but keep its light off." 

"What do you want to know about her?" 

"Anything unusual." 

"... She's taking her ear off." 

Mike's heartbeat jumped. "She's what?" 

"... She's taking her ear off, and she's not human." 

"No shit... What is she?" 

"An android." 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Chapter Two 

Jim Vassilakos 

Copyright (c)1990



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Faint moonbeams caressed the dark ocean swells as they washed the damp beach with the gloomy remnants of memories past. Mike laid still along the water's edge, his bare feet slowly dipping in and out of the quiet tide. An empty flask rested at arm's length from his tired body as he dreamt about years past and worlds far across the vast sea of space. 

He remembered a gentle Sirian voice warning him of his own impending assassination just hours before her execution and recalled the words of a wealthy industrialist, ``People are profits; individuals: losses.'' He dug out of the past a friend who committed suicide after having found freedom from an Imperial correctional institute and thought on the immoral techniques once practiced by a medical research lab on all assortments of non-volunteers. He remembered a gang of youths beating a elderly man to death because he was an off-worlder and fought back the recollection of twisted arms and limbs as all the remains of a Tizarian Foreign Embassy staff after a terrorist bombing. 

Suddenly, he woke. The familiar sickness was there, but the feeling of being forcibly thrust out of the warmth and safety of Sleep's benign womb was lost to an insidious fear, as if he had barely escaped from the black pit of an ancient nightmare. 

``You okay?'' 

Mike jumped, his nerves swinging his head around nearly to the point of whiplash. It was only Niki, and she promptly began her little giggle at Mike's initial surprise. 

He looked over his research assistant with considerable distaste, ``What're ya doin' here?'' 

She drew her hands to her mouth trying to control the spasms of hysteria which only succeeded in making matters worse. 

Mike regarded her with a grin, ``Fine.'' 

He groggily got to his feet as she rolled on the cold sands clenching her ribs in a coughing fit of laughter. 

``C'mon, it wasn't that funny.'' 

Out of breath, she began slowing down. Mike reached for under her shoulders and lifted her small frame off the ground. She put up a mock struggle, laughing all the while. 

``Michael... No! Put me down!'' He carried her over his shoulder towards the house as she whined, squealed, and laughed. 

The house was dark and lonely when they finally arrived. Mike walked in and tumbled Niki on the couch. She rolled herself up around a large pillow and beamed up at him with a smile. He shook his head in disbelief and grinned. 

``Aren't ya' gonna say hi?'' She was in a playful mood. 

``Hi.'' 

They looked at each other for a moment before he continued. 

``So, how's my psyche doin'?'' 

``Just fine... Boss.'' 

``Don't call me that.'' 

She laughed, ``Why not? Is it a dirty word?'' 

He nodded, ``Yes. And how's Mr. Fork doin'?'' 

``Okay-fine.'' 

``Still locked up?'' 

``Yep, but he's gettin' better.'' 

Mike laughed, ``That's sayin' nothin'.'' 

``No, Really. He's a lot better than he was. He's even beginning to talk now.'' 

``What have you gotten out of him?'' 

``Nothin' much so far. It's still too scrambled to tell what he's thinkin'.'' 

``Bet that makes for some interesting reading though. Look, I'm gonna get a beer, ya want one?'' 

Her smile faded. ``Naw, ya' don't want beer.'' 

``Yes I do,'' he headed for the kitchen. 

``Drink some zardocha instead.'' She sounded hopeful. 

Mike thought about it for half a moment, ``Yuchi-foo.'' 

``How 'bout milk?'' 

He mimicked, ``How 'bout beer?'' 

``You'll get drunk.'' 

He tapped the nozel release, and twisted the setting nob down to Niki's favorite. 

She smiled, ``You're not gonna get drunk.'' 

He looked at her, mock-seriousness molding his features into a neutral expression. ``Do I ever?'' 

She started giggling, ``Tee hee hee... you were so surprised.'' ``Was not.'' 

``Hee hee... was too.'' 

``Was not you little sneak. Besides, you never told me why you were there.'' 

She stopped laughing, ``Just came by to see how you were.'' 

Mike glanced at the clock, ``At ten after midnight? How'd you know where I was.'' 

``And I thought ya' had intelligence. Where are ya' always when its dark outside and you're too lazy to answer the door?'' 

He gulped down half the glass, ``Excuse the stupid question. I'm a little buzzed right now.'' 

``Why do ya' sleep out there?'' 

Mike wondered whether she was requesting information or making small talk. ``You've asked me that before.'' 

``Ya' never answered me.'' 

Mike paused. ``To sleep... perchance to dream.'' 

``Did ya dream?'' 

He thought a moment. ``Yeah.'' 

``What about?'' 

``I dunno.'' 

She laughed, ``Liar.'' 

He sipped his milk. It was as cold as ice but felt strangely good going down. 

``Well?'' 

``You didn't read me while I was out?'' 

``Nah. I saw your eyes goin' though. But I still 'member when you said not to read you.'' 

``I wonder why...'' 

``Aw c'mon. Y'know you can tell me.'' 

He replied laughing, ``I do?'' 

``Yes.'' For once, her tone was convincing. 

He paused, ``Okay. You remember hearing about the Tizarian embassy on Calanna?'' 

``Yeah, I heard got blown up. Hey, that wasn't when you were a correspondent down there, was it?'' 

Mike nodded, ``I was pulled shortly before that, but I was still... sightseeing.'' 

``Of course,'' she was smiling. 

``Now... I had nothing to do with...'' 

``Don't even try lying, Michael.'' 

``Okay... well anyway, the short of it is that I was there just a cent before it happened. I went out to make this call... the embassy was a notoriously bad place to carry on a private conversation. While I was walking back... I heard the...'' He stretched out his arms to form the visual image. 

``Boom?'' 

``Boom,'' Mike agreed hesitantly. ``I started running to see what happened.'' 

Niki watched him sympathetically, ``No one survived.'' 

They fell silent for a time as Niki let her milk sit scarcely touched. Mike's dream had shattered her mood. 

Her eyes slowly grew glossy in the blue fluorescent light. ``I'm sorry.'' 

Surprised, he looked up, ``About that?'' 

``I'm just sorry.'' 

``It's okay.'' 

Mike looked into her eyes and then averted his gaze downward toward the floor. ``Drink your milk.'' 

``Mike... ?'' 

Mike awoke stiffly on the floor. Niki sat over him, one hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him to consciousness. 

He squinted groggily in the dim light. ``What time is it?'' 

``Twenty. Mike, Fork's in trouble.'' 

Mike was suddenly wide awake. ``What is it?'' 

``I dunno. I think somebody woke him up in the middle of a nightmare.'' 

``Enough to wake you?'' Mike asked in hopeful disbelief. 

``No. I was still up. I just happened to be open to it.'' 

``Did he wake up by himself?'' 

``No. I'm pretty sure somethin's up.'' 

``Ok, let's go.'' Mike picked himself off the floor grabbing his black camera bag on the way out the door and headed straight for the back terrace. He hopped on the fly-cycle, felt under the seat cushion for the key, and switched on the grav-plates while Niki hopped on behind him and held to his waist. 

The vehicle raced over the shoreline using its natural flat surface to pick up speed. The crisp ocean waves, remarkably changed in the past few hours, lashed the coast and pounded the beach crag with an unrelenting fury as the bright full moon rose to its apex in an otherwise pitch black sky. 

Within five minutes they landed just outside the nearby Tizarian medical center. Only a mile inland, the smell of salt carried by the chilly morning breeze floated through the air. A cargo shuttle rested on a pad under a hundred meters from the complex, and two guards in dark night-uniforms stood outside the entrance in the bleak, morning cold. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Chapter 3 

Jim Vassilakos 

copyright (c) 1990



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mike leaned over the mottled piece of metal which had fused itself beyond recognition. The analysis specialist scanned his expression. 

"There's no way we can trace manufacture; it's just too far gone," she explained. 

"Have you found anymore?" 

"Nearly a dozen," Charles Linden broke in, somewhat heatedly. Mike could almost see his boss's anger steaming off the heavy overcoat he wore to protect himself from the lab's sub-zero temperature. 

"I don't understand it at all," he continued. "Why would Clay go to all the trouble? And what's so important about this dead John Doe?" 

Mike glanced at the specialist who seemed to be examining the editor with an unconcerned stare. He hoped she wasn't the type to blab. 

"Look Chuck, there are warmer places to discuss this." 

Linden was keen on the idea of getting out of the lab, not so much because of the third party with ears and a mouth as due to the chill. He and Mike took the lift down to the subways leaving the company security personnel to the unhappy clean-up their own incompetence had prompted. 

The subway train to Greenflower was nearly empty, and the trip uneventful. Linden was, for once, totally unconcerned about what was happening on the floor. The scores of staff writers would just be sending him more meaningless trash which he would later strip to the bare facts and send back due to lack of content. It was always the same old story at the middle of the week. 

Mike promised something far more interesting for the readers, and for the editor as well. Linden had suddenly taken a personal interest in the story, a big no-no in his business. But it was worth bending a few rules, and it felt right. It was even worth a trip to the pit of ashes. 

The late morning air warmed Linden as sunshine broke through the white fluffy clouds and streamed down in long silver threads from the heavens. He hiked alongside Mike etching a trail through the dew-sodden expanse of grass. Birds were darting about in the brisk morning air. Their songs were like a child's laughter, almost mocking yet innocent. 

The pit suddenly lay before them, its sides sinking into the earth without warning. A variety of religious symbols decorated the inner surfaces informing wayward souls to beware the footsteps of the dead as the familiar sweet scent of ash and apple resin hung heavy in the air. Linden sat down on the red brick lifting his chin and squinting at Mike through the bright beams of sunlight. 

"Not what you expected," Mike cautiously broke the silence. 

"No," Linden admitted. "It's too..." He couldn't pull off the words. 

"Antique?" 

"Old fashioned. It's too dated." 

"I thought you were into that, Chuck," Mike prodded smiling. 

"I am, but there's a limit. This is so undignified. It's a mass burial." 

"Just another screwed up religion." Mike stretched out his arm pointing down the pit approvingly, "But you have to admit, they did a great job." 

"What? I don't follow." 

"The Imps. They kill Fork, and get rid of his body so perfectly that there's no way I can get a confirmation on the time of death." 

"Sure, but why the mass burial? Why not just cremate him and leave it at that?" 

Mike kicked a stone into the pit, "Because he isn't dead." 

"You just said they killed him," Linden countered. 

Mike shrugged, "I lied. If they just wanted him dead and gone, they'd have done what you said." 

Linden stood up. He glared at Mike in spontaneous disbelief but knew the reporter well enough to realize that doubting was useless and quite possibly counter-productive. 

"Explain," Linden finally insisted. 

"The Imps want to stage a fake death. They snatch Fork and put some poor fool in his place, kill the guy and send the body to the incinerators. But that still isn't good enough. They now have to get rid of the remains in a legal manner, but in such a way that these remains cannot be later analyzed to prove the guy who got burned wasn't Fork. Even ashes can be analyzed. Admittedly, it isn't something we often do, but it can be done. People don't often share identical body chemistry. A mere difference of as little as a gram in solid weight would be enough to..." 

"Enough," Linden interrupted, "I've got the idea. The only legal way to dispose of the ashes in a manner in which they cannot be later analyzed is to mix them with other ashes. Thus, the ash pit." 

"Exactly." 

Linden laughed, "It's a really neat theory Mike. Now prove it." 

Mike looked at the wet grass in front of his feet, "If I try, I lose Niki." 

"What makes you so sure you haven't already?" 

Mike considered the editor's question with antipathy. 

"I know what you're thinking, Harrison." 

"Do you?" 

"I've already sent for company personnel, off planet. They should be here in a few days." 

"Chuck, if we had a few days, we wouldn't be talking." 

"Regardless of all other considerations, I won't use our current security staff to deal with this... situation." 

Mike shot his boss a rueful grin, "You don't trust them." 

"After what happened... would you?" 

"We can always go to Tizar police. Even though she's unregistered, they've been supportive in such matters before." 

Linden shook his head in flat refusal, "You know as well as I that the paper cannot risk this getting out." 

"She's a friend, Chuck." 

"She's also a psyche. And Clay is a damn boardmember. There's no win here; we have no choice but to wait and let company people handle it." 

"If we wait, it may be to late." 

"She's already lost, buddy. If you think you'll ever see her again..." Linden cut himself off mid-sentence. "I'm sorry." 

"It's okay. You're probably right." 

"So what are you going to do?" The editor carefully enunciated each syllable with the utmost patience. 

"What d'you think I should do?" 

"If they're hiding, we must chase. I'll get one of the paper's private starships to take you to Calanna. I know you didn't have much fun last time you were there, but like they say, duty calls." 

"Fine, but don't stick me in some ice box." 

"I wouldn't dream of it," Linden pledged. He knew well Mike's distaste for low passage. 

"And what about Niki? If there's any chance..." 

Linden gazed back into the pit for some inspiration, but the same anger kept welling within him. Mike studied his boss as the sunlight shined off Linden's black boots and whisked the corners of his eyes. 

"Whatever you do between now and the time you leave is your own business," he insisted. "You understand?" 

Mike and Chuck took the escalator down to the floor from p872. As they entered the ten acre room all they could hear was the clicking of fingers on keyboards and the dull chatter of hundreds of gatherers. Linden's press office lay at dead center, and a small group of grouchy staff writers wandered about outside the entrance. 

"Why the committee?" Mike wondered allowed. 

Linden explained, "There's been talk of a strike. Haven't you been reading the paper?" 

"Must have missed it. Serious?" 

"They just like making waves." It was one of Chuck's pet phrases. Staff writers and clericals were both labeled as replaceable by management. If they decided to strike, there would be no problem finding new recruits. For this reason, their union demands were generally ignored. But even so, they still liked to stomp around and threaten the editor every other year or so. Mike was glad he wasn't following it. 

"I guess you read the news once and you've read it a thousand times," Mike quoted. 

"Watch that kiddo." 

They went their separate ways, and Mike felt the better of it. He didn't envy Linden's job in the least. 

"Hey, Harrison. Haven't seen you here in a while." 

"Hi, Mike." 

"Hey buddy, where've you been?" 

"Walker. Kim. Chris, I've been sick." 

"I see the boss is catching it too. I hope you guys've been having safe sex." 

"Chris, you're an asshole." 

"Happy birthday to you too, buddy." 

Come to think of it, Mike didn't envy his own job either. Not that he didn't like gathering. He just didn't like many gatherers. 

There also came those moments which he genuinely regretted. These he called mistakes. Being seen walking in late with the editor was but one example. He hoped he didn't just call too much attention to himself. Having a trail of story-starved gatherers tagging along could seriously jeopardize his chances of sneaking up on Clay. 

Mike sat down at his desk and switched on his terminal scanning the latest breaking headlines. 

"Staffwriters Prepare For Strike" 

"Youth Locked In Freezer Eats Own Foot" 

"Upcoming Press Banquet..." 

"So what's up?" It was Bill Walker. He was another crack investigative gatherer. Not very successful, but crack all the same. His youth was his greatest advantage and his biggest stumbling block. Mike could remember what it was like. 

"Not much. How 'bout you?" 

"Nothin'. Did you see the one about the banquet? You're gonna be speaking." Bill knew how much Mike hated to read the paper and thus usually never got word about these things until it was too late to make reservations for an interstellar cruise. 

"The one before it looked more interesting. You write it?" Mike accused in his most inquiring tone. 

"Wish I did." It was something Bill would write. He had a flare for the gory. 

"Where'd you get cut?" Mike just noticed Bill had a nasty slash under his left ear taking the whole length of cheek down to his dark sunburnt chin. 

"Mama did it," he laid out. There was a glint of amusement in his grey-blue eyes. Otherwise he seemed deadly serious. 

"Walker, you've got a sweet mama." 

"She is." 

"But you're a sick bastard." 

"Do you really mean it?" 

Mike turned back to his headlines pretending he had serious work to do. 

"I really got into a fight with my neighbor's cat." 

"That's really fascinating." Mike mimicked Walker's distinctive "really" without effort. It was a common part of their interaction on the rare occasion that both were on the floor. 

Mike didn't mind the wasted time. He knew it would pay for itself eventually. Walker was young and often useful when he wanted to be. He and Mike worked together occasionally on the difficult parts of each other's assignments. Mike sometimes thought of himself as a kind of mentor teaching a newcomer the tricks of the trade. 

But as much as he liked working with Bill Walker, he knew the young man was also dangerous to be around. He took too many unwarranted risks as far as Mike was concerned. He got himself into scrapes that he'd have to fight himself out of. But as the boss would often testify, it was all part of the job. 

"So what's really going on?" Bill asked an hour later as he finished picking the seeds out of his xisimo core. His elbows rested on the clear surface of the table as he tossed slivers of the fruit cut by his laser knife high into the air and caught them smoking between his teeth. This was one reason the cafeteria staff insisted they sit in the corner, Mike thought. 

"You're about to catch your tongue on fire." 

"Only if I miss. C'mon Mike. I need a story. The well is dry, buddy. I'm dying of thirst." 

"So you want to steal mine?" 

"I've shared with you," Bill acted hurt. 

"Yeah, shared crap." 

"C'mon Mike. Admit it. You need me." 

"Like I need my penis to fall off," Mike agreed thoughtfully. 

Bill ignored the comment, "Remember that time on Telmar? Who saved who? Huh?" He pointed the blade of his weapon at Mike, "You owe me one." 

Mike gulped down the last of his beer and hoped nobody was listening. 

"Hell, you owe me two. Remember..." 

"I wasn't aware we were counting. But now that we are, how many do you think you owe me?" 

Bill estimated a number in his head. Then finally gave in with a sheepish look, "Okay, I'll drop it." 

Mike spent most of the afternoon on the computer running searches on Clay and beginning a journal for the story complete with facts, photos, and tapes of conversations. Everyone else was minding their own business which was nice for a change, though they didn't seem to have very much to do. Private reports kept coming in, forwarded from Linden, on new melted pieces of metal being found in Chuck's private residence and on his clothes. There was even one under the seat he sat in during lunch. Such is the life of an editor, Mike smiled. 

He kept smiling until his searches started coming up negative. Clay seemed to have disappeared over the past two days except for one use of his corporate credit card at a shop in Aquapolis just that morning. He bought an expensive tie. 

Otherwise, zip. He hadn't signed any business or legal documents. He wasn't at his office. He wasn't at his flat in Silver Tri. He hadn't been using the subway. He hadn't so much as peed in an executive toilet. Dead end, pure and simple. The only good thing Mike could tell was that he certainly hadn't left the planet. That would have made things a little too complicated. 

"I can tell you where Clay is." Mike turned with alarming speed, almost giving himself the second near-whiplash of the week. 

"You've got to break that habit, Mike. Seriously." It was Bill again. 

"What the hell do you want, Walker?" 

"I can tell you where Clay is." This time it registered. Mike opened his eyes wide, then looked around to be sure nobody was listening. 

"Where?" 

"Snow Country. He's staying in a friend's cabin. Some sort of ski vacation." 

"What friend?" Mike nearly growled it. 

"Some sort of business associate with the paper. I don't remember the name, but I can find out." 

"How do you know this?" 

Bill shrugged, "If I told you... maybe it would rain for me." A smug grin crossed his lips, but his eyes remained laser sharp, like the knife he carried for "occupational emergencies". 

"You want in on this one?" Mike hated to offer, but he had little choice. 

"You don't have to let me in if you don't want to." 

"In or out? I'm not saying please." 

Bill considered it for all of two seconds, "Okay, I'm in." 

The infrared goggles penetrated the icy pitch darkness, making the chimney top of the well-insulated Solomon mansion seem like a beacon of light on an otherwise frozen landscape. Mike bit his upper lip as he lay prone in the snow, considering the fair possibility that Billy's grapevine might be wrong. 

"Thank mama there's no wind," Bill whispered. Mike smiled at the phrase. Clay would have thanked the lord; Mike might have thanked the night, but Bill would thank his mama. 

"Thank mama they've got a fire going," Mike countered. Bill quietly agreed. The house might have been doubly invisible without it. 

"So get goin'," Bill prodded. 

Mike dropped the goggles and crawled over the hard slippery ice away from his flycycle. He hoped the vehicle would carry three on the off chance they'd find Niki inside. 

As Mike quickly reviewed the plan in his head, he began to wonder if the computer's information was up to date. It showed three entrances to the house; a front, a garage, and a servant's entrance. In fact, it gave him the entire floor plans including electrical access, water, and sewage piping which he and Bill studied most of the evening. Being a reporter on Tizar accorded some amazing privileges. 

Mike reached the garage. The door had a hard polymer bolt fashioned to undermine the courage of any would-be thieves. He couldn't see it, but he knew a fancy security alarm would be hidden behind. All the locks would be like this one if the computer told the truth. All would be difficult to saw. At least here he wouldn't be heard. 

The borrowed laser knife switched on silently. The little bit of light that it shed was enough for Mike to see what he was doing, though he didn't need the luxury. He knew exactly where to make the initial incision killing the alarm as it were. The rest was grunt work as laser grinded against polymer. Now, it was only a question of time. 

Mr. John Clay relaxed in a cushioned rocking chair as he warmed his feet by the fireplace. It was quaint but effective, he mused as he slowly rocked back and forth, like fire itself. He glanced at the wooden chessboard where he had defeated his host, Mr. Solomon; the two kings now stood alone face to face at center board. Not very happy was he, Clay almost giggled. The corporation did not encourage good losers. In that, he was somewhat of an outcast. 

He knew he had failed, but at least he was finished. Now, he would soon leave Tizar and return to the home of his childhood. He smiled faintly at the thought. 

Suddenly a noise thrust him to full consciousness. Someone was yelling and slamming his fist against the front door. 

"Who could it possibly be at such an ungodly hour?" Clay got to his feet, hoping the sound hadn't awakened his host. 

"I'll get it, sir." Marley, the night guard took only few seconds to appear from the kitchen area. He seemed stiff and angry. 

"Open up! Please hurry! Someone... Oh, thank goodness. You've got to help. There's been a terrible accident. Do you have a videophone?!" 

"Who are you?" The guard's face was stern as he looked over the young man. His long stringy black hair was wet from the snowfall, and he held a heavy steel flashlight in his right hand which he kept shining in the guard's eyes. 

"Oh please! Let me in. It's a matter of life and death! I've got to use your videophone. There's been a terrible accident..." The young man was panting from exhaustion. 

"Where?!" 

"Out there," the young man, exasperated, waved his arm back into the darkness. 

Mike quickly cut through the lock at the back of the garage leading into the storage hall. Hearing the commotion up front, he slipped into the hall and ran to the kitchen area. The polymer bolt had taken more time than he anticipated. He had to hurry. He reached the security office just a minute behind schedule. 

The office was full of little television screens, and there was a desk with a control station. An eight-pack of fun-punch was set on the floor next to the largest screen where the highlights of a tourist hunting safari were being broadcast in via satellite from the far side of the planet by channel #117 sports. Mike scanned the other monitors and saw the recording light on one. He grinned when he saw Bill's face, desperate, nearly frantic. Bill was always good at diversions. 

Mike took out the current disk being recorded and slipped it into his pocket. He grabbed a blank from the desk and melted it down with the knife in one swift stroke. Then, by flipping a few red switches, he disconnected the batteries and shut off power to the entire mansion. 

The guard turned around in surprise when the stairwell suddenly darkened. He didn't have time to feel the blow to the back of his skull. He was already unconscious. 

Mike raced into the room. The fire and the knife blade were the only sources of light in the entire house. Clay stood motionless, hoping he wouldn't be noticed. 

"Morning, Mr. Clay." 

"Good morning, Michael. You wanted to see me?" 

"Well, yes, sir. I was hoping to talk to you about how irresponsible the press has been acting lately. It's a damn disgrace." 

Bill walked in, now competing for stage presence. "To think a few reporters could spoil a whole code of ethics through some gross dereliction of duty." He was shaking his head sadly, and he homed in on Clay. 

Mike continued, "Overzealous is perhaps more the word. Derelict implies neglect. What do you think, Mr. Boardmember?" Mike held the blade to Clay's throat, igniting the bare traces of aftershave near his chin. 

"What do you want?" 

"Niki. You. Robin. Not necessarily in that order." 

"Your research assistant is upstairs in the south guest room. You can go get her." Clay's breath was heavy with fear. 

"Lend me the flashlight, Billy." 

"It broke." 

Mike pivoted his glance, "You hit with the back." 

"I know. I forgot." 

Clay strained a smile, "If you two professionals don't mind being interrupted, I happened to notice that the guard was carrying..." 

"Sit down and shut-up." 

"Merely trying to be helpful." He sat back down in the rocking chair. 

Mike stripped the flashlight off the guard's belt and picked up an automatic pistol and a pair of handcuffs to boot. He gave the knife to Bill and wrapped Clay's arms around the back of the chair, securing them with the handcuffs before he headed upstairs. Slowly, carefully, he measured each step as he neared the top of the plush stairwell searching for the barest reason to shoot someone. The south guest room was just down the hall. He found the door unlocked. Niki was inside, on the bed, heavily sedated. Mike picked her up gently, very much relieved to find her unharmed. Content with his prize, he climbed back down the stairs. 

"Okay sport, where's Robin." Mike set Niki's limp body on the floor by the guard. 

"Asleep, upstairs." 

Bill rocked the chair roughly at the answer. "I wasn't aware androids slept." 

"She likes to pretend." 

"So she's heard everything." 

Clay offered a smile, "No, she shuts her senses down, except for touch." 

Suddenly, the stairwell light came back on. Mike whirled around to face the kitchen. He lifted the gun half expecting to see Robin running in to save her master. Clay had, of course, lied. Mike inwardly debated blowing the old man away right there. He could almost see the image of blood cascading through the air as the chair would rock backward plunging its occupant into the fireplace. Mike nearly smiled at the thought. 

"Mike..." 

"I know. Get Niki and get out of here." He tossed Bill the flashlight. 

"What about you?!" 

"I'll think of something. Go!" 

Bill didn't argue. He dragged Niki out the front door as fast as his feet would carry him, leaving Mike with Clay to wonder how many bullets it would take shatter the circuits of a pissed off android. 

"She's very cunning, Mr. Harrison. You'd best be careful." Clay seemed amused. He's trying to distract me, Mike thought. 

Ignoring Clay, Mike slinked quietly toward the kitchen entrance, wondering with each ill-fated step how good the android's hearing was. Exceptional, he supposed. The designers could make her as well as they wanted. He tried to make his breathing silent, but he only succeeded in noticing every small sound he made whether it was a footstep, a breath, or even a heartbeat. 

Suddenly, the door swung open. Miraculously, he squeezed off a shot in time. Her head snapped back from the impact, but it didn't stop her. She struck him with phenomenal force, and Mike felt as if his entire chest were caving in. In another moment, her hand darted up. That was all he remembered. 

It was a little like watching the stars fall. The cold coastal breeze gripping and then letting go, the tan sands which seemed rather darker than tan, and that distant disoriented feeling would combine on rare occasion when the stars fell from the sky. 

Mike saw the stars falling clearly enough. He could feel the chill. But it was the disorientation that stole the show. He made numerous attempts at standing, but he never quite managed it. The ground seemed to rock like a see-saw back and forth as he lay down, and whenever he tried to get on his feet, he'd upset the balance and the entire room would turn upside-down and send him crashing to the ceiling and after a moment back to the floor again. 

He heard voices far away almost shouting. They seemed to be very angry voices, but he couldn't understand the words. Suddenly he knew the language was foreign. Then he heard a girl giggling, but he couldn't place the laugh. It was a sweet innocent laughter which reminded him of the birds singing at Greenflower. But it was very near. Mike thought he could touch it if he reached out his arm just far enough, but suddenly it ceased. He knew she was close. His hand searched for her, but she wouldn't be found. He crawled toward her for a few feet, and then slumped down in despair. 

He was too tired and she was too far away. Instead, he listened carefully for her laughter. But she was gone. 

* * 
The nose of the kayak climbed quickly over the tall wave, slicing the crest in half before plunging back down to meet the next. Its occupant paddled furiously against the wind, straining frantically to beat the next rise before the sea engulfed her vessel. Her long slender arms gleamed in the morning sunlight, their dark, Draconian tones accented by a rich, brazen glow. A sudden gust of air almost capsized the boat spraying a salty white foam against her long, black windswept hair. She breathed deeply in exhilaration and struggled to keep the kayak upright. Out in the open sea, several kilometers from any land, she was beginning to lose her personal battle of wills against the elements. 

She noticed the brilliant silver frame of the hydrofoil from the corner of her eye as it approached. The craft sped over the water in front of her, only its three skinny legs touching the water. They barely seemed to connect at all. Agyris poked his dark smiling face out the window as the pilot crossed her path. 

"Had enough yet?!!" he shouted. 

She turned her watch transmitter back on, knowing her weak voice wouldn't carry as far as his. 

"Almost, give me another cent." 

Her aide's voice broke over the transmitter, "Old Johnny's on the Coral. It looks like a situation has developed. It's urgent." 

She cursed under her breath. "Okay. Bring the Coral in to get me." The next wave nearly rolled her over, and she turned the kayak around so that she wouldn't have to fight the wind or tide. 

Agyris' hand flapped out the window as the hydrofoil sped away. She heard his voice over the transmitter, "Ambassador Uhambra is ready now. Coral steer fifteen degrees starboard and proceed at fifty knots. Pick-up at six-hundred and forty approximate. Over." 

She leaned back letting the kayak drift with the tide while avoiding the brunt of the cold wind at her back. The sky was a pale blue without a cloud anywhere in sight. On the eastern horizon, Tizar's brilliant tangerine sun seemed to shimmer through the wide expanse of atmosphere. She saw purple-brown dots when she blinked and decided to refocus elsewhere. 

"Ahoy there!" The first mate was waving from the deck. He wore a striped blue and white shirt with a sunny face. He tossed a hook, and smiled down at her as if expecting some reward. She hooked her kayak and climbed aboard, as he manually wheeled in the small craft. 

"Where's mister problem?" she absentmindedly inquired, reaching for a towel. The first mate smiled through the pained and exhausted look he liked so much to wear in the company of superiors. She guessed it was his idea of looking busy. 

"O'er there, ambassador." He nodded his head toward the cabin as he wrestled with the wheel. 

"Don't strain yourself." She wrapped the white towel around her tall slender frame. It was a sharp contrast to her black swimsuit and dark, suntanned skin. 

John Clay opened the cabin door and walked out onto the deck. Bags drooped under his usually alert, crystal-blue eyes. He wore a white business suit. She remembered he had a number of them along with a collection of expensive ties. It was considered ancient custom with the corporation; but on Tizar, it was contemporary fashion. 

She stared at him silently with her dark brown eyes. She would let him confess incompetence and beg for another chance before patting him unforgivingly on the head and sending him home. As usual, he waited for the first mate to leave the deck before beginning his report. 

"Ambassador, it is good to see you vibrant and alive and as young as ever." She sensed the vague tone of disrespect, the way he said young. Was he envious? 

"I'm older than you, Johnny." 

"Yes, the miracle of anagathics. It never ceases to amaze me. So lucky it was for you that you became a diplomat and not a sleeper." 

She bit her lip in aggravation. "Not luck. What brings you here this time?" 

"I have bad news to report." 

"Again?" 

"The Solomon residence was broken into early this morning by that reporter. We captured him, but his accomplice escaped with the Siri. Together, they have enough evidence to support..." 

"Let me guess... a police investigation." 

"Or worse still, a full divisional security review. And that's far more likely." Clay's hands were wrung together, his knuckles white from lack of circulation. 

He continued, "This could all have been avoided if we had simply killed Harrison and his Psyche as I advised..." 

"How did they learn of your whereabouts?" She ignored Clay's complaint. They both knew it had holes. 

"We're checking into that now." 

"Did you redirect all your people to new controls?" 

He nodded, "Yes, but..." 

"Well, that's all that really matters then. After you leave, they can investigate all they want, it won't do them a bit of good. Do you have a list of your redirections?" He handed her the envelope. 

"What was you're method of communication?" 

"Non-electronic, of course." 

"That leaves quite a lot of room." 

"Sealed paper envelope. Like this one but with coded orders." 

"In person?" 

He hesitated, "Yes. It was safer and fairly quick. And I used private transport." 

"Where?" 

"Where what?" 

She bit her lip again, "Where was contact made?" 

"A few at their residences. They spread the word, and the rest came to receive orders at Solomon's..." 

"Right in the middle of Snow Country?" 

"It's fairly out of the way." 

"What about the security disk for that day?" 

"It was destroyed by Harrison. He had to protect his accomplice." 

"You're sure? We can't have that thing floating around." 

"Would you like to see its remains?" 

"Not particularly." She wondered if he was trying to be funny. "When you leave tonight, take Solomon with you." 

"Of course." 

She smiled for the first time since seeing him. "Is that all then?" 

"Not quite. I'd like to know what we're supposed to do with Harrison." 

"Have you interrogated him?" 

"Not yet." 

"Wake him and do it. Report back if he has anything interesting on his mind." 

"If not, can I kill him?" 

She laughed, "Would it give you great pleasure?" 

"On the contrary. I'd like to keep him alive for torture. He's only ruined everything." 

"All right. You can do with him whatever your little heart desires. I emphasize little heart, because I know you very well. That's if and only if he refuses to cooperate. However, if he has something interesting to offer, see if there's a way to avoid murder. He's quite possibly the top gatherer on Tizar, maybe even in the entire sector. There will be a storm in the press if he just disappears. See if there isn't a way we can use him to our advantage. He must have some sort of connections. And find out how much he knows. It'll give us a good idea where we stand." 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Chapter 4 

Jim Vassilakos 

copyright (c) 1990



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mike leaned against the wall and squinted into the cool, scented spray as it stung his face and shoulders and dissolved into a fine, white mist, pools gathering in clusters and slipping down his aching body to the hexagonal tiles below. He vaguely wondered what he would tell Linden, trying to rehearse the words in his mind. "Oh, remember that guy with the android who kidnapped Niki and bugged your offices and home? Yeah, he's really an okay guy. I was just talking to him this morning. He decided not to jettison me out his torpedo tubes. Isn't that the nicest thing?" 

Robin was in the next room prying about, trying to glean information about him from every facet of his life. Boss's orders, she explained, but she approached the assignment with a curiosity beyond mere orders. He hardly knew her and she was already getting on his nerves. 

"Okay. Dry now." The spray shut off and short blasts of warm air jetted from the sides of the stall. A clear bowl-shaped device lowered itself from the ceiling until it surrounded his head. He shut his eyes as hot air jets whipped around his ears. In a few moments Mike stepped out of the stall and looked for the threads. Robin had laid a black three piece suit out for him. He hated formal wear, but he knew the occasion warranted it. Quickly dressing, he grabbed a comb and then set it back down as it scratched bare flesh. He found a formal hat beside the imager. 

Robin, dressed in a long white evening dress, sat on the couch bent over the Niko camera system with its various parts sprawled across the living room floor. She had been sifting through pictures in storage and apparently one had caught her fancy. 

"What're you up to?" Mike approached cautiously remembering the last night's incident and the pain she could inflict. 

"I didn't know you had another Siri. Who's this one?" 

Mike glanced at the picture on the screen. A young Siri woman, perhaps five years older than Niki, stood facing a large triangular lake finished in polished black stone centered around three fountains outlined by the dim amber light of Calanna's dying red sun. Her eyes, dark and bitter, seemed to cast a shadow across the black stone tiles upon which naked symbols were etched like tortured spirits, bonded to the stone for all eternity. Mike remembered the sacrificial alter for all its beauty and pain; and as if by reflex, he reached to the monitor and the screen went black. 

Robin looked up startled, "I was just looking." 

"She was an old friend. You wanna go?" 

"There's still another hour. What's your hurry?" She stood up and walked into the bedroom. 

"Nothin'. What's yours?" Mike packed the camera into its case and continued to ponder what he would tell Chuck. He walked to the bedroom, pausing before the door, reflecting what Robin might be doing. He tried to take into account the fact that she was an android, but with everything that happened, it still seemed impossible. 

"I always did like a girl who was straight-forward." He smiled at the poor taste of his comment. 

"Excuse me?" 

Mike entered the room to see Robin hooked up to the computer system via a thin clear cord leading into the comm-socket from her ear. Suddenly he found it not so hard to think of her as an android. 

"What are you doing to Cindy?" 

"Talking," she smiled. "You have everything locked up real tight. No access to private files." 

Mike felt relieved. For a moment he debated inwardly between snapping her cord or just yanking it out of her ear. The thought made him grin. 

"Cindy, give Robin all the information you have on the Nissithiu." 

"It is done, Michael." 

Robin unplugged and the thin cord automatically retracted into her head. Mike felt generous, as if he had a choice in the matter. 

Robin stared at him for a moment before speaking. "What makes you so sure?" 

Mike shrugged, "The facts fit. C'mon, let's go see Linden." 

The subway to Greenflower was slower than most since it traveled above the surface for much of the ride. Mike imagined that its architect preferred monorails with their visual entertainment of clearings, crop-land, and rolling hills speeding quickly by the windows to the functional subways which moved a person tens of kilometers in a matter of a few minutes without anything to look at except bare earth along the way. True, the subway to Greenflower was more pleasant than most, but it wasn't really a subway. 

Robin didn't seem particularly impressed, however. She kept studying Mike and the other passengers, and when she caught Mike watching she even faked a yawn. It didn't bother Mike, but he didn't like it either. If she was going to fake a human characteristic, better that she should fake being delighted to see the trees dashing by or the rushing sound the wind made whenever the tracks would turn. That was what he liked so much about Niki. She was always so happy just to experience and be alive. That was what he envied most about her ever since the day he met her at the Psi Institute on Tizar after his last return from Calanna. He liked her so much he didn't even bother checking out the full range of her talents, and when he had found out how limited they were, Mike still decided to keep her on. 

Niki was not nearly as talented as her predecessor in the picture, but she was happier all the same, though even that could become irritating sometimes. Robin on the other hand was either dead or cruel. Mike smiled at the thought, because he knew he was being too judgemental, but it seemed true all the same. Robin had her excuse, however; she was an android. Her makers wouldn't program her so she could have a good time. Anything as state of the art as herself would have some purpose. Mike, on the other hand, was human. He wondered what his excuse might be. 

The train pulled into the Greenflower station. The Lion's Den was only on the neighboring hillside looking down over a bluff onto the inland town. It was perhaps a twenty minute walk, fifteen if they hurried, two or three if they took a taxi. Mike felt like walking but realized he wouldn't have a choice as two men in green uniforms entered the compartment. 

"Galactican security," one drily announced, "Please come with us." 

Every mega-corporation was like a nation state; they all had their own private police, whether the company specialized in cargo transport, starship construction, agricultural production, or news gathering and dissemination. The Galactican was no exception, and on every world under its scope it recruited from the ranks of the planetary ground command. The people they invariably got were low quality mercenaries who couldn't cut it in an interstellar outfit. That knowledge kept the ground cop humble in comparison with his starlaw counterpart. It was a quality Mike appreciated. 

The two security officers led Mike and Robin to a grav-car outside the subway. The cool evening air enveloped them as the taller of the men fiddled with the electronic keypad-lock. The other rested his hand on his holster, his rough fingers lightly touching the handle of his automatic, while his eyes stared at the back of Robin's neck. The gun looked like army ordinance. Mike guessed that the short clip contained armor piercing bullets. 

Once inside the car, they sped up the hillside toward the Lion's Den. With variable altitude control, the ride was non- stop; and cars on cross-aisles sped above or below at intersections. Within two minutes they had settled outside the banquet hall, the tall statue pillars of the building suggested a certain elegance of manner which Mike knew would be lacking within. The tall officer motioned for Mike to follow as he withdrew from the car toward the white stone building. 

Mike looked over his shoulder as the shorter guard stood blocking the door, "What about her?" 

"She stays here," the tall one answered. 

Mike followed the security officer into the building, noticing familiar faces smiling and nodding in every direction. Linden sat at the front table flanked by the departmental heads. Mike approached cautiously, catching Linden's eye as he walked toward the table. 

"Mike!" It was Niki. Bill stood behind her, his long dark hair combed back and knotted. Several heads turned suddenly from the crowd. 

"We thought you might not..." 

"I know," He cut her short. "What did you tell Chuck?" 

"Everything," Bill responded first. "When you didn't come back... what happened?" 

Mike scowled, "Things are screwed up. I've gotta see Chuck." 

"Hold on a sec..." 

Mike cut through the crowd toward the editor. Linden wore a blue suit and a confident smile. He stood up as Mike reached the table, and several of the department heads followed the editor's example, offering their hands to Mike as the guard took an unobtrusive position in the background. 

"Gentlemen, you know Mr. Harrison." 

"Good to see you again young man, you're doing a great job for the paper." 

"I hear you will be speaking tonight, Mr. Harrison." 

"That was a brilliant piece on Telmar." 

Mike shook their hands and exchanged pleasantries before pulling Linden aside. 

"Chuck, we have to talk" 

Linden kept smiling, "You bet." 

"Now." 

Once they were outside, Linden dropped his show smile, "Okay, what happened." 

Mike let out a long breath, taking his hat off as an opener. Linden blinked with astonishment at the shaven head and short metal barbs. 

"...what the... you okay?" 

"For starters, I've got to wear these until I get away from our psychotic, android friend. Clay wants me to take Robin to Calanna to find Fork, and I don't think he's an Imp." 

"He's not," Linden stopped staring when the hat went back on. "We checked over that disk you stole from the Solomon estate. The one you planted on Niki for us to find." 

Mike nodded, "Anything juicy?" 

"It seems a lot of people were visiting Mr. Solomon that day. Many are listed as tourists. Other's as diplomats. We think they may be spies." 

"Azazi?" 

"Draconian Corporation. You stumbled onto something very big." 

Mike tried to puzzle everything together in his head, but none of the pieces matched. 

"Have you informed the government." 

Linden shook his head, "And blow the story? No way." 

Mike gulped down wondering how long he could go to prison for concealing information about Draconian spies. He finally looked up, "What do I do?" 

"Take her to Calanna. Get into her programming over there." 

"We can do that better over here." 

"No," Linden stared into the reporter's eyes. "Mike, we've already agreed that somebody had to get into my office and home to plant those bugs, and that somebody was probably in security. If they have and agent in security, they could just as easily have ten in technical. Get the job done on Calanna. It'll be more quiet that way." 

Mike looked down to the grassy turf below his feet, "Okay. Get me a ship and I'm off." 

"Thank you, Mr. Chairman, for that more than generous introduction. It is certainly a pleasure to be here, and to speak to such a distinguished assemblage of colleagues, employers, and guests." 

There was a titter from the audience as Michael Harrison surveyed the banquet hall. There were easily over a hundred people present and none who knew what he was about to say, himself included. Mike tried to concentrate on what they wanted to hear, but his head was still dizzy from the events of the day, and he felt a cold sweat beneath the hat as the metal implants began to itch. 

"As Mr. Jaden pointed out, I've been working for the Galactican for a very short time, and my work experience often borders on the fantastic, so whatever advice I have to share with my colleagues, whatever incriminations I have to send to my employers, and whatever insights I have to give to our guests tonight, should all be taken with a granule of sodium-chloride. 

"Investigative gathering is a very individualistic effort; everybody in the business has their own style and way of tackling a case, so be forewarned that what works fine for me will probably fail miserably for you." 

This time there was laughter from the audience. Mike began to relax and let the words flow. His trick was just to keep speaking and never really think about what he was saying. As long as his mouth kept moving, shovelling out the meaningless phrases stuck together with the pointless glue that was public speaking, he'd be through with his obligation in no time. 

But underneath the cool exterior his mind began to wander away from the speech. Being an engaged speaker was what they taught in oral communications. He remembered the class well enough. He remembered two of his instructor's pet phrases: "Reach out to your audience;" "speak with them, not at them." Mike inwardly smiled remembering how he had passed the class: by being disengaged. Speaking was frightening enough, let alone engaged speaking. Mike always had an alternate method, for almost everything. He liked to experiment until he found out for himself what worked best. 

The same was true with investigative reporting. Some guys would read the morning updates until they found something interesting, and then they'd go and research a spin-off. Others would carry a team of news-hounds, usually young people just entering the workforce who were looking for a few extra credits. Mike decided to rent-a-psyche. 

He could have found John Doe #17 any of the other ways, but the fact was that Niki found him the day she visited the med-center for a psi-rating test. She had contacted the institute on Tizar and they referred her to Dr. Albertus. After the test she was still keyed-up and open to psi-emissions as they were called. That was the day they brought Fork into D-ward. 

"D" was for Disaster. He had been apprehended in a cafeteria at the starport with a bloody fork in his hand. It was the real kind, not like the grav-utensils which couldn't hurt a flee. He must have been from off-world. There was no record of him anywhere in the planetary directory. And to top it off, he had no identification what-so-ever. Niki just happened to sense his total confusion while walking by the two nurses who were transporting a wacko to solitary, bound in a straight-jacket and tied to a stretcher. It had been in the updates, any nurse news- hound could have called somebody on the floor, but as it happened, Niki spotted the opportunity and took it. That's the way the dice fell, and Mike couldn't say he was any happier for it. 

Fork was messed up, that anyone could tell, but what nobody had known was that the damage had been the result of a mind- scanner. It took a trained "psyche" to know that. Even sophisticated medical equipment could miss it. It was that little bit of knowledge which everyone else had carelessly avoided that gave Mike a story. To each, his own. 

The mind-scanner was an expensive piece of technology far more advanced than the sensatizer Mike had so recently experienced. It attempted to do what any well-trained Siri could do, read the mind of its victim. Victim was the word to use, because mental damage was often associated with over-zealous use of the equipment. If someone was well trained at hiding a secret inside their mind, all that there was to do was kill a few brain cells until such training departed. And then, sometimes, the scanner wasn't used to get secrets. On rare occasions, it was used to maim. Mike believed that Fork's was such a case; and he believed that the Imps were the responsible party. 

But how did the Draconians enter into it? That was the piece of the puzzle Mike couldn't place. It hinted at something much larger in scope, something which dwarfed both Mike and Fork and all of Tizar. It was the real itch that he couldn't yet scratch, until he got to Calanna. 

"Being a reporter for an interstellar news syndicate also has certain fringe benefits, not entirely immaterial. For starters, nobody wants to piss you off." 

Mike looked around. Everywhere he saw people laughing. He hoped they were laughing with him and not at his obvious lies. 

"Another, and this one is just as critical as it sounds, is that often if there is an important public figure you need to interview, that person will generally take time out of their busy schedule to get some good press, whereas if you were working for some two-bit firm out of Arcadia..." he stopped for a wide if sheepish grin, "I hope there's nobody here from Arcadia tonight..." The audience was loving it. 

Except for one person. She sat in a corner near the back. Her dark features were not so stern as they were indifferent, but her eyes were as sharp and cold as steel. She seemed vaguely unimpressed, and Mike felt his heart skip a beat as she stared directly through him. 

"The last fringe benefit I can bring to mind, tonight, is that after the story is written and published and read by the masses, the reporter gets to speak to a distinguished assemblage of his colleagues, employers, and guests. That's always a lot of fun." 

The entire audience tilted on the edges of their seats, hands poised in clapping-position. 

"And with that I'd like to return control of this honors banquet to one of my most esteemed employers, your friend and mine, Mr. Ray Jaden. Mr. Chairman." 

Mike hurried away from the lectern amidst raucous applause from a mostly standing audience, and took his seat next to Niki and Bill. They both congratulated him with pats on the back, and Mike guessed that the speech went okay, though he still hadn't the faintest inkling to know what is was that he said. 

"Nice speech buddy." 

"Thanks Bill." 

"... cept, next time I'd leave out that part about taking a dump outside the Cubbyhole." 

Mike turned around, "What?" 

"You 'member. When we came back from Telmar and got..." 

"I didn't." Mike felt his mouth drop open. 

Bill's face broke into a grin, "Just kidding, Mike." 

Mike sighed with relief as Walker laughed, "You have to admit, I had you goin'." 

Bill Walker was one of the few people who really knew how Mike worked. Mike tried to teach him everything, and in the end he'd taught Bill too much. Now he'd do his best just to hide things from the younger gatherer. 

Mike looked over his shoulder and saw the woman in the corner. She was still focused on him. He turned around but could feel her stare boring into the back of his skull. Her face was familiar, but he couldn't place it. Some foreign official, he decided. 

"Bill, who's the woman in that corner in the white dress, nothing over the shoulders. She keeps looking over here." 

Bill took a half turn using the full extent of his peripheral vision, which was far better than most people's. Mike figured that he had lots of practice. 

"She's turned around." 

"Well, she was..." 

"Wait. It's Draconian Ambassador Kato. Don't you read the paper? Oh, of course. Look who I'm talking to. Forget I asked." 

"Don't let it happen again," Mike used his best Draconian accent. It sounded absurdly frustrated, and Bill laughed. 

"I think she likes you." 

"Shut-up." 

Natasia Uhambra Kato was the permanent Draconian envoy to Tizar. It was uncommon for her to attend social gatherings unless she was required to do so by her office. Mike figured that drastic circumstances had called for drastic measures. But what did she hope to accomplish? 

"Here comes the booty, mate." Bill looked pleased with himself as Jaden placed a tray of wall plaques on the table beside the lectern. He had a list of "winners" in his left hand and a glass of water in his right. 

"This could take awhile." 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Chapter 5 

by Jim Vassilakos 

1990



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Downward, through the thick blankets of clouds, a dark figure fell, twisting and twirling, helpless in the howling tempest. Darkness loomed above, seeming to descend and collapse closer to earth with each passing moment. Then the sky became as bright as a thousand suns and the darkness was vanquished. Hair caught fire; skin parched, baked, and blackened in the blink of a boiling eye. Then only a single fireball remained, high above, like a sun but lifeless and slowly disintegrating. The sky seemed to crack as the shell of an egg, and a blast ripped through the clouds, shredding the air and deafening all senses as it passed. 

Michael awoke to the pain of burning flesh, the deafening blast seeming like a distant and forgotten dream. The wind tossed him between clouds, scrambling his senses with his emotions. He tasted fear as he saw the ground below and the fireball above. Suddenly, a sharp pain swept through his spine like an ocean wave, sparking memories and stinging his consciousness. He thought he heard Niki giggling somewhere and realized he'd lost his helmet. 

He looked down again; it was time. He unhooked the release and pressed the activator. The gravchute seemed to yank him upward toward the filthy night sky, now littered with burning debris as the fireball spread outward, dividing into glowing bits of metal and thunder. 

Feet together, knees slightly bent, muscle braced against bone, the old routine flickered in the back of his mind as he hit and rolled, falling uncontrollably into a warm, wet, compost ditch. Botflies circled his head as it emerged from the steaming muck. 

Nimble fingers worked free the straps of the shoulder harness and waistbelt, making splish-squish sounds in the lacteal water. The chute slowly sank and disappeared altogether beneath the surface as Mike crawled up the side of the ditch, peeking over the rough earthen edge. The air began to hiss and spit while small chunks of metal ripped into the ground like shrapnel from a grenade. In the distance, some hundred meters, a tall, wire fence, lighted by iridescent lamps, stood proudly, its barbed icing leaning inward, sparking against the hot debris. Mike dug himself into the soft earth as far as he could until his lungs breathed dirt. An explosion rocked the ground, and then another. Several clumps of stone and clay fell into the sludge as Mike felt his fingers grip the roots of some alien weed. The air grew thick and smelled of death and fumes and fire, all mixed together like some unholy beast. 

For several minutes the sky seemed to fall, and then all was quiet. Mike crawled cautiously from the ditch. Blood trickled down his neck and dripped slowly onto the ground as he stood, haphazardly, holding onto what was left of his face. The skin crackled and fell away without feeling. 

A clean military troop insertion. He tried to smile while there was nobody to see him, but the right side of his mouth was too mangled. He remembered the Vista jolting, the general panic, Bill diving for the drop shaft, himself scrambling with his helmet and pack. 

There was no sign of his pack anywhere. No infrared goggles, no niko camera, not even a stupid pair of wire cutters. He stared back toward the fence. The distant sound of hooves against dirt met his ears. Mike staggered toward the light of the fence, drawn by the noise of the spooked animals. As he peered into the murky darkness on the other side, he saw several quagga galloping parallel to the posts, their white stripes shining dimly against the cold light. 

In the distance, he heard the faint whine of chemical combustion engines, probably two-wheelers, motorcycles. This was a ranch. He stared dumbly at the fence. A high-security ranch. Mike walked parallel to the gate, crouching behind the cover of the scrub brush and beyond the range of the light. It was too dark to properly perambulate the area. Patches of snow and ice covered the ground, and the dirt was sturdy but largely barren. The air became steadily colder, and he began to shiver. 

As he walked, a small spark of light caught his eye. It was on his side, far away from the fence. Bright, yet so small it was hard to distinguish. A flare. Mike crossed though the shallow thicket, dizzied by his loss of blood. He stumbled over a large stone and remembered Robin screaming in mid-air, her gravchute shredded, her body burning, the earth miles below. He heard a dripping noise and tried to concentrate. His hands felt warm and sticky as he regained his footing, but the flare was closer. It stood upright, wedged between two tall rocks on a steep hillside, their sharp edges outlined in the sizzling white light. Mike climbed up the slope, falling to his knees every few meters, his temples pounding with each step, his body shivering from the intense cold. 

He contemplated falling asleep. He could reach the flare tomorrow or the next day or sometime after that. He tried to imagine waking up later, seeing the flare, its white flame still burning, grasping it in his hand, touching the hot fire. It would tingle his senses, like the waves of the ocean on Tizar, the cool swells lapping effortlessly at the long shore. He would hold the flare in his hand as he slept beneath the starry night sky. He'd sleep forever, and the sun would never rise. Kitara would stay beside him, soothing his dreams as she used to, entering them, sharing her own. Something she had whispered; he could hear her calling his name. 

"Michael..." 

Dim evening light slipped lazily through the small glass window, coloring the dark, quiet, chamber in shades of purples and greys. In the corner, a rough wooden stool leaned against the wall by the mantle, small burning embers tickling its legs. A black kettle hung suspended above the crackling fire, steam wisping from its nozzle, mixing with the smoke in the chimney. Above the mantle, a dull wooden-handled axe rested against the wall on a set of long iron nails drilled parallel with the floor. 

Niki sat at his bedside, sopping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth napkin. Through one eye, she looked comfortably tired. Mike tried to think of something to say. 

"Shhh..." 

He closed his mouth and let a smile escape. Sharp waves of pain sprinted through his mind. 

"You'll have to learn to stop that too." 

"What happened?" The words came out slurred. 

"You've lost some blood. A mild case of shock. You're lucky I'm a qualified nurse." 

"It was a prerequisite. Where are we?" 

"I don't know... but we're safe." 

"What about the others?" 

Mike felt a brush of sorrow after he asked the question. Niki's sorrow. 

"Are you sure?" 

"I don't know anymore than you. I've been searching for Billy, but... I just don't know." Mike felt the cool, damp cloth caress his forehead as she spoke. Something in her voice said the task was hopeless. 

"Don't lose faith." 

"I haven't. I'm going to keep searching. But you have to go back to sleep." 

Mike was too tired to argue. He settled back into the bed and closed his one good eye. It wasn't the first time psionics had saved his life or provided shelter, but the chances of Niki finding Bill were slim. Mike tried to guess likelihood; he couldn't. He wondered who owned the cabin. How long could they stay before the owner's return? 

Mike felt the right half of his face. Niki had kept the swelling down, and his mouth was almost completely mended, but she couldn't reconstruct the bones or the teeth. Something had definitely hit him. He couldn't remember what. It ached for him to think about it. 

The sky was dark when he awoke again, a bowl of hurtleberries on the stool beside him. Her gravchute sat lonesome against the wall. A small pocket in the cabin floor was open. Inside lay a brown leather sack, full of a hodgepodge of useful items. A two- pronged fork, a plate, a rusty distilizer, leaky chemical batteries, a wishbone, a long, thin vial, a pot and serving spoon, a box of matches, a ceramic mug. Mike regarded them curiously. 

Outside the cabin, Niki sat crosslegged, facing the forest, deep in meditation, her slight body framed by the predawn light. The forest surrounded the cabin on all sides without leaving so much room for a clearing. A thick, green tarp covered the entire roof, a small hole cut out for the chimney, and, above that, the long, weeping branches of a dwearmurgrove tree hung limp in the cold air. The chimney ended in a dun colored box, black cords falling from underneath its corners and into the tarp's heavy fabric. 

Mike guessed the whole mechanism was some sort of makeshift insulation to detract from the IR image. Somebody had gone to a good deal of trouble to build this hideaway. He wondered how Niki had found it and how she had managed to drag him through the dense brush without leaving a conspicuous trail. The memory of a lonely gravchute formed in his mind, it's dull grey exterior blending into the darkness as it sat, propped, against a cabin wall. 

Niki opened her eyes, "Lots of juice in those puppies." 

Mike looked up, startled. 

"Sorry." 

He churned up a staid expression. "You're getting good. Were you just reading me or searching for Bill at all?" 

"I said I was sorry." She seemed to fold inward on herself, trying to become small and unnoticed, clutching to her string of beads like a security blanket. Mike kneeled down, testing his flexibility after a day in bed. 

"Speaking of juice, I'm thirsty. Where's the stream?" 

She reached into her cloth knapsack and retrieved a shiny aluminum canteen. Mike drank. 

"There's a stream about a kilometer north. Over the hill beyond that is where we came down." 

"What have you got in here? Gyrocompass, good. Medscanner, castfoam, pris glasses, synthetic gloves; aha, mullah. You've been holding out on me, Niki." 

"Mike?" 

"Cold, hard imperial cash. Highly illegal at the moment, but considering the state of the drin, it ought to be good for barter. How much is this... y'know you're practically destitute, Niki?" 

"Sorry, my boss doesn't pay me what I'm worth." 

Mike looked into her eyes and smiled as much as his new facial structure would allow. 

"Oh he doesn't, does he?" 

"Billy's alive, boss." 

"Where?" 

"I'm not sure yet, but we gotta start looking." 

Mike stretched his arms and yawned, "Hold that thought." He stepped into the treeline, backing within a clump of foliage. 

"What's my Mike doing?" 

"`Mike-turating,' lemme lone." 

"Huh?" 

"Answering the call of Mother Nature." 

"Humph... well lemme tell you about Father Time," Niki picked out a flat stone and sent it ricocheting off a nearby branch. 

"Hey!" 

"Now stop rubbing your frowzy face and get back here!" 

The two angry men dunked his head into the murky water, thrusting it deeper than before, holding it longer until he reflexively opened his mouth to breathe. He felt himself being yanked back to the surface, coughing, wheezing, sputtering for air, his guts surging upward to his mouth, the stank of the urine and feces weakening his cuffed limbs from nausea. A brown offal bobbed on the surface, seeming to laugh with every motion. 

The white-shirted man stood opposite him, a thin smile playing across his lips. "You approve of our sewage containment system? I give you my assurance that you will have plenty of time to inspect it closely unless you begin talking now." 

"No speak." 

"You are a stinking liar." 

Bill caught a lung full of air as his head submerged beneath the filthy muck. The two men lifted his legs above his upper torso and pushed them down into the refuse until his head hit bottom, dung and piss spilling along the barrel's rusty sides. After a minute, his body began to twist violently, convulsing for lack of air. The guards looked up with doleful eyes. 

"Not just yet. Our friend is thirsty; we must let him drink his fill." 

Soon, his feet slowed down, stopped kicking, and finally hung limp. The guards pulled his dripping, corpselike body from the slimy excrement, holding him upright off the ground. The white-shirted man walked over and patted Bill on the cheek. 

"Yes. I think you will like it here." 

Bill opened his bloodshot eyes and sprayed the man's face with a mouthful of sludge, spitting the last of the staining refuse onto the man's white shirt. Seizing the moment, his cuffed legs kicked upward as if by their own volition, striking their target at full force as the man's jaw dropped in horror and pain. Bill watched in satisfaction as the man fell to the littered floor gripping his groin tightly with both hands. 

After several deep breaths, the man looked up into Walker's steely grey eyes. "You're dead." 

"Now, now Sheffy," a ringing voice from the far end of the room cheerfully chirped, "the boy can't help it. He obviously doesn't speak our language." 

Bill saw an elderly woman step into the dim light from the darkness of a corner. She wore a black, levantine dress with long leather gloves and boots, and her silvery hair was clipped with a furl. 

"He's lying, mother." 

"Really dear, I think it's time you were off to bed." 

"Stop patronizing me!" 

She stopped in her tracks and cast her son a sharp glance, her sharp blue eyes seeming to sting him from a distance. The man tried to stand, but stumbled over his own legs in agony. She regarded him callously, like a vulture might regard a dying carcass. His eyes glazed over in trepidation as he noted her gaze. 

"I mean," the quiver in his voice was laced with fear, "yes... mother. I'm going to bed now." He seemed to force the last words out one at a time. One of the guards helped him to his feet and out of the room. Bill gauged his chances against the other as the woman approached him, carefully sidestepping the scattered droppings and puddles of urine. 

"Whew... you smell terrible." 

"No speak." 

"Though not as bad as Sheff smelled after he cornered that zorille last year. You remember that, don't you Medwin?" 

"Yes, Madre." 

"Ambrose thought our boy was ready for some hunting." 

"No speak." 

"No, no that's quite all right. I don't prize my young men for their vocabularies. What I'll do with you is report you to the authorities. In fact, I'll have to report this whole mess. Then we'll have to scour the countryside for your friends. You didn't come alone, did you." 

Bill shut his eyes and tried not to listen. 

"Then the Imps will come in, if my appraisal is worth beans. That's bad news. The Imps don't much cotton to sticky messes, which is what you're in right now. I think you'd rather work in a labor camp or as a slave in some rotting hole in the ground than have your brain erased. They do that nowadays, you know...with interstellar criminals." 

"No speak." 

"No you won't speak, and it's too bad. If you only spoke you could save your life, your friends lives. It's a crying shame, I think. But pipe beatings and dung drownings obviously won't cure your affliction." 

Bill found himself pondering her words. 

"The authorities will have drugs which will make you talk, and the Imps will have methods which are better left undiscussed in polite company." 

She shifted her feet around another puddle and stepped in front of Bill, casually waving off a tiny gnat. 

"There will be people here in the morning. Will they be looking for you? What should I tell them? What reason do I have to save your ass if you won't talk?" 

Bill could feel his breath quicken. Her sharp blue eyes scintillated in the dim light, driving imaginary needles into his own as the gnat spun wildly in the air, plunging recklessly into the rusty rimmed barrel and the thick gooey soup within. 

Gall midges buzzed under the trees around the shallow stream as the early sunlight spiked down between the branches like razored knives. Mike decided that Niki must have made a bee-line for the cabin after she found him; psionics didn't account for ease of travel. He chopped brush out of the way, and made a neater trail than the one she had sniffed out. The long-handled axe was somewhat dull, but it did the job all the same. 

It was the axe, she said, that had led her to the cabin. Psionically, it was like a beacon, a conspicuous aberration in an otherwise unlikely background, full of strong emotions and pain. She thought of calling for help at the ranch instead, but there was pain there as well, and enough angry people to blow their mission. There would probably be government people, as well, asking questions, trying to find out what happened, maybe even Imperials. 

Mike tried to collate the data. The explosion still throbbed inside his memory blocking out the usual clutter. The drop never took into consideration a strong defense. Calanna wasn't known for tight planetary defenses. If anything, the opposite was true. It was almost as if they had been expected. 

The hilltop was studded with dandelions sprouting forth from the hard terrain. Niki spied the landscape through the pris glasses. To the north, another kilometer almost, Mike saw the tall wire fence gleaming in the morning sunlight. A kilometer further was a ranch house and a tall guardtower jutting upward from the grassy fields. 

"To count the sheep?" 

"Gimmie dat." 

Niki handed over the glasses. Mike adjusted the power and zoomed in, chainlocking until he could see the sun sparkling off their shades. 

"Thems is autorifles. Lucy issue. Serial number..." 

Niki snatched the glasses back, "No poop; lemme see." 

"Yes poop. Can that thing take pictures?" 

"Nope." She winced though the lenses, the internal flywheel gyroscopically stabilizing the image. "You can't see the serial numbers." 

"But it was fun pretending; gimmie back." Mike counted about twenty guards in all. The prisoners numbered at least a hundred, most working the fields with hoes and picks. One tractor sat idle underneath a canopy tent beside a row of stables, its mechanical guts strewn over the ground like so many spare organs. Two kilometers east of the house was a crater a good fifty meters in diameter. Big enough to cause a scare, he figured. Some prisoners and guards were there, sifting through the wreckage. 

"What's the matter. Wha'd'ya see?" 

Mike handed the glasses back to her, "Take a peek at this." 

A smile crossed her lips, a momentary rupture of glee. "He is alive." 

"And well, though incarcerated. Typical." 

He felt the expected rabbit punch to his kidney as the clapping of copter blades echoed on the wind. 

"Now the question is..." 

She lowered the glasses to complete his thought, "How do we get him out?" 

The black copter circled around the ranch house slowly, spying the guardtower and the stables and the tractor under the canopy tent. The morning sunlight glimmered off its dark surface, its guns gleaming like polished spears. 

The old woman glanced out her office window, "What the hell are they doing back so early?" 

The men in the fields stopped their work, and those in the distant crater climbed out and watched the vessel settle down beside Madre's garden. Bill picked his teeth with a splinter of hull metal. 

"Those the Imps?" 

"Come to pay us visits," Sheff's blue eyes gleamed in the sunlight as he smiled and shoved Bill backward. "Back to work, neghral." 

Bill had learned that the last word translated roughly as "alien" in the planetary lingo, stressing the negative connotations. The Calannans didn't like offworlders; most dirtsiders didn't. 

Two figures emerged from the copter's cockpit, one dressed in a white, loose fitting wrapper, the other wearing a khaki uniform, sporting a kepi atop his shiny, bald head. The old woman strolled out to greet them, an air of confidence and composure close about her. 

"Colonel Arman, what a pleasant surprise. And I see you've brought our guest. Sule, wasn't it?" 

"That is correct." The bald headed colonel bowed slightly, his thick Calannan accent drooling over the Galanglic as he chuckled nervously. The offworlder stepped in front of him wearing a determined smile, her long white hair flowing free with the warm breeze like a quagga's mane. 

"I am still looking." She seemed to spit the words, harshly. 

"Congratulations," the old woman beamed back. 

"Madre, please." The colonel mopped beads of perspiration from his crinkled forehead with a brown cloth. He seemed to her more embarrassed than annoyed as a sharp gust swiped at the visor of his hat. She ached to pity him. 

"Why don't you both come inside. I'll make us some tea. Do you drink tea Sule?" 

Gusts of wind swept up loose dirt, stinging the prisoners in the field. Bill hustled into the crater for protection, scowling at the suddenly harsh wind. 

The living room was plush by local standards, tiled in white marble with dark red streaks, elegantly furnished with the forest's finest. A large table occupied the floor's center, before the hearth. Its stout wooden legs, smoldered black at their base, were shaped as the paws of a lion. Sparks danced carelessly along the floor, seeming to conduct the crackling fire as the old woman poured the hot tea from a white china kettle, her long thin fingers stiffened with age. 

"Me and my boys often break fast here, around this table. Greenleaf tea for everyone, that's what we have." 

The colonel sipped the home brew, his pudgy fingers wrapped around his small bowl for security. She remembered him as a little boy, always curious and kind. His curiosity had been long chased away. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Chapter 6 

Jim Vassilakos 

Copyright (c) 1991



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She awoke before sunrise. Thirty feet below, a small stag slipped quietly between the sparse nettles, foraging for his breakfast. The slimy mud which had coated her body the night before still masked her scent. Now it was dry and threatened to crackle and fall with her slightest movement, alerting him to the threat. 

Slowly, the creature moved again, somewhere below and near. She peered around her supporting branch and studied the dim terrain through the icy predawn mist. The stag sniffed with his nose to the ground as his pitch black eyes scanned the horizon. Without hesitating another moment she cocked her arm back and let it come down with all her strength. For a heartbeat, the spear seemed to hang motionless, its course predicted by years of practice and an unerring instinct. Then, silently, it consumed the space between them, twirling with reckless abandon as it tore the skin just heartward of his neck, plunging hungrily into the flesh below. 

The stag cried out as he bolted away, but already his legs had buckled as he tried to run, and the dark stain of blood flooded his coat and dripped to the ground beneath his hooves. The second spear burrowed deep into the middle of his back as he staggered deeper into the brush. She leaped to a lower branch and then to the ground. 

The stag slowed at the frozen stream bed, turning suddenly to face her. He bravely held his ground, confused and bewildered in the thin morning mist, cautiously dipping his head to the smooth, polished stones as if to drink. His blood splattered carelessly over the rocks, forming crimson puddles in the white frost. The third spear sunk deep into the small hollow above his ribs. 

She watched, out of spears, as the stag's black eyes seemed to roll upwards toward the sky. The sun's first rays cascaded between the tree branches, warming the cold earth below his hooves as he slowly settled down into the bed of stones to die. 

Dawn's saffron rays spiked beneath the dark, shifting clouds like a flock of birds, slowly turning as they plunged toward earth, each gliding back and forth along the icy, lakeside shore. They sparkled across the water's surface as thousands of tiny droplets swooped from the sky, diving and splashing in an endless, majestic dance of laughter and tears. 

Mike groggily opened his eyes, sniffing the clean, cold air as the coarse stubble on his head began to prickle and rise against the light drizzle. His booted feet sunk carelessly in the thin silt like two half-buried logs. Niki lay stretched out over a long smooth stone rising from the rippling water, her long black hair beaded with the wet, diamond icing. 

"Good morning." 

"Is it?" She finally sat upright, letting her hair fall along her slim shoulders as she pulled her legs inward, locking them into a crossed position. Mike bit his lip as she closed her eyes, ignoring him, the lake, the gentle shower; he watched her soft hair begin to shed its icy glaze, dripping with an almost determined precision. 

For several minutes she remained motionless, like a statue sculpted from the white stone, searching, opening up into some hollow place inside him. He remembered her drugged, corpse-like body at the Solomon residence, a heartbeat as shallow and distant as some unknown wave rolling steadily for the forbidding shore, the ripples of raindrops mixing with its falling crest, snuffing out its existence as it merged into something greater. 

She finally opened her eyes, unlocking her legs and letting them dip into the cold water, sloshing them through to the muddy bank, her head drooping low as she walked. 

"Niki..." 

She looked at him, then shifted her eyes to the rifle and axe at his side. He shook his head, not knowing what to say. 

"Niki, I've seen this before, but never from you. What's the matter?" 

She reached out and hugged him, her voice mutely whispering something he could barely hear, much less understand. As though by instinct, his arms tightened protectively around her, holding her for a long minute in the icy mist. 

"C'mon Niki. We'd best be moving on." 

She pushed his hand away as he reached for the rifle's stock, droplets of water streaming down her cheeks. Lifting it off the brown blanket, she leaned its barrel over her shoulder as she turned to face him. 

"Dangerous weapon." 

Mike nodded in acquiescence. 

"Well, I guess it is your turn." He lifted the soaked blanket, wringing it out before rolling it into a tight bundle. Then he reached for the axe. She turned away as he strapped it to his belt. 

"Any idea which direction?" 

She glanced back over her shoulder, her staid expression making him wonder if he slipped into Calannic. 

"Niki, any idea which way we should go?" 

She nodded, "It won't matter." 

Mike pondered her words, uncertain how to take their meaning. Something about her mood told him it'd be better if he didn't bother. He peered across the lake for a long moment, his eyes half-expecting to see some dilapidated hydrofoil skirting over the surface water. He shook away the vision and followed her along the shoreline. 

The black silt gave way to bright yellow sand and shiny beds of smoothed pebbles, the cold ground changing its features with sporadic abandon. Images of the Tizarian coast kept springing to mind, but he shoved the memories down into a place as distant as their origin. The forest lay to the left, trees straddling the lake shore, greedy for the water thus entitled. Long green stems and orange-purple vines hung from the leafy canopy, the pungent smell of apple resin hanging thick in the frosty air. 

They walked for two hours more before the clouds grew white and parted. Niki's hair, drenched from the rain, seemed to stiffen as it dried. Dark feathered birds appeared from the treeline, their long supple frames gliding gently over the placid waters as they searched for prey. Niki watched them as they'd stop in mid-air and dive into the cold water, their wings flapping with panic as they emerged. Something about the way she carried the rifle told Mike to keep on going, as though she wanted to be alone. 

The splash turned him around. A short metal-tipped javelin protruded from her belly as she staggered for the stony bank, her hands still knotted around the rifle. Mike raced toward her as a dark, mud-caked figure fell from the branches above, throwing sand into his face as it bolted for the rifle, wrenching it free from her arms as Mike staggered toward them, axe lifted. He hurtled it as the barrel pointed down in his direction, the explosion deafening his ears as a bullet ripped through his shoulder. 

For the barest instant, all he could do was fall backward into the ground, his mind numbed by the shattered bone. He scampered to his feet, instinctively sprinting into the light thicket, his lungs clogged with terror. Legs tightened painfully as his limp arm swayed back and forth almost comically. His boots kicked furiously against the icy, damp earth, patches of dirty brown snow, and beds of hard stone. Above, in the treetops, the birds fell quiet, and the sparse woods seemed to close around him, silently stealing his breath as he ducked between large bushes and thick trunked trees. 

The noise of gunfire surrounded his senses, its tangibility offered for the taking. Bits of bark snapped off nearby trees, the wild sputtering, popping sound taking hold of his mind, establishing rhythm in this legs as he stumbled, rolling end over end in the soft loamy earth. She was there before he realized what had happened, his chest heaving desperately, madly sucking in air before it finished pushing breath out. She leveled the barrel between his eyes sockets, cold black opals staring into his without reason or remorse. 

"No... wait... Ambrose..." His tongue searched for something in the Calannic, sputtering gibberish from a host of other languages, all stained with worry and confusion. However, the corners of her eyes twitched with recognition, as if he touched a spark somewhere deep in her mind. Finally, he found the words. 

"Ambrose sent me... to find Cole." 

Dried patches of mud flaked off her skin as Mike gathered his breath, the hint of recognition blossoming in her eyes. 

"Get up." 

Mike complied with her wish, moving where she motioned him with the barrel. 

"Ambrose doesn't talk to negrali." 

"He talked to me." 

"You have proof?" 

"I think you're pointing it at me." 

Mike wiped the sweat from his forehead as she examined the weapon, hoping against probability that she'd find something distinctive. 

"Maybe, maybe not. What else?" 

"The axe from his cabin. Maybe you've seen it before?" 

She cocked a dark eyebrow, her memory of the hurtled weapon still distinct. 

"Walk." 

Mike walked. Tall trees loomed overhead as she pushed him forward with the sole of her boot, their wide branches and thick foliage rustling with a gentle breeze. The wide expanse of water remained still, its surface an icy, blue reflection of the morning sky. Niki's crumpled form lay at the water's edge, her legs settling below the silt as her hands gripped the stony bank. The laceration cut deep into her skull, blood dripping from the wound, falling into a crimson pool over the smooth, white stones as it mixed with the soft, black silt. 

The woman dug the axe from the mud, washing it in the shallows and then lifting it so that the sun's rays glinted off the quick of its blade. She nodded with satisfaction, turning Niki over and searching her body. 

"Niki..." 

The woman looked up, her dark unfeeling eyes staring through him. 

"Was that her name?" 

"I killed her." 

"Yes..." 

Mike moved over to the body, stopping only when she leveled the barrel back in his direction. She glanced him over and unable to ascertain any threat backed away, letting him advance. He felt afraid to touch her, as if the dead body would leap up or cry out. Her flesh was still warm, and he searched half-hearted for a pulse. The girl watched his expression of hope dwindle into one of despair. 

"C'mon negral." 

"I'd like to bury her." 

"I don't have time to watch you waste yours. Come now or I will leave and let you bleed to death, friend of Ambrose or no." 

Mike touched his aching shoulder. The cold air bit into his wound, a trickle of blood dripping through the jacket sleeve, the hollow chill slowly gripping his mind. He considered sitting down to wait and imagined Niki waking after a day or two. It wouldn't take long, he figured. He'd keep bleeding, shock would eventually take over, and then... 

"Negral!" 

Her short, black hair and dirty, mud-caked body made him think of the salamen on Aiwelk. He remembered crouching in a pool of warm, muddy water, snapping images while two Yahhen hunters readied their gauss guns, cold, black eyes staring skyward, blinded and numbed by the tranq-crystal. They'd die later. Too bad. He'd forgot what they paid him. 

She tugged him to his feet, pushing him forward with the stock of the rifle. His legs walked at her direction, his mind not bothering to imagine where. Birds, trees, rocks all blended into a single panorama, the separate parts intermixed and suddenly coherent. Spindles of light broke through the forest canopy as they neared the shelter, its dull tin-colored doors marred by bright red paint. An old IMC ammunitions dump. She punched several buttons on the keybox, finally yanking the thick portal open with both arms. 

She motioned him to an empty, polyceramic crate, watching him sit down and lean over before scrounging the shelves for a first aid kit. Mike felt the lathery foam harden on his bandages before he realized the bleeding had stopped. She's injected him with some wake-up. 

"You're gonna be needing a doctor." 

Mike watched her scratch a name on the smooth white surface, as it squeezed his shoulder. 

"Something to remember me by," she added sarcastically. 

"You're Cole?" 

"I think you'll be interested in this." 

She handed him a flimsi-leaf, the lower tech variety with lots of window space but short on memory. His face was reproduced in three-dimensional facsimilation, a standard mug with the hair electronically erased. 

"I don't understand." 

"Came off the relay three days ago, a chiphead and a psyche, very sorry sight indeed, unless, 'course, you're looking for the reward." 

"Ambrose didn't call ahead?" 

"Radio's out. Board's down. All I got left is public relay. Regional News." 

"Then you heard about the drop." 

"I saw it. Kinda hard to miss fireworks that high up." 

"How much've they offered." 

"A million a head, DOA." 

Mike scowled. It had been several months since he'd been shot, and even longer since he'd lost a friend. He wondered what he was doing back on Calanna, as if one time wasn't enough, and imagined the chain of events that led him back, that led to this. Niki. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The local guard must of known of the drop before the Vista ever reached system, which meant a bug in security: someone very high up, someone who wanted them dead. And Bill had guessed it, hitching along for the sheer hell of it? 

"The well is never that dry." 

"Say again?" 

Mike shook his head, pale implications fluttering carelessly from the shadows into a hue of light he couldn't accept. 

"There were two others in the drop." 

Cole shrugged her shoulders in response. 

"Did they say there was anyone else they were looking for?" 

"No. What's it matter? They probably didn't know who was coming down, anyway." 

Mike rubbed the scarred side of his face. It was this sort of underestimation that kept getting him in trouble. Back on the Vista, he'd wondered what Bill was doing. "Lots of neutrinos," he'd said. That would mimic a fusion plant on almost any passive array, making Robin a target so bright the Calannans couldn't help but take her out. Mike wanted to dissect her, not blow her to pieces, though he had to admit the thought was somewhat appealing. 

"Did I miss a joke or something?" Cole looked mildly annoyed. Mike remembered the hollow feeling as his gaze fell upon the axe. Its dull blade seemed to laugh wickedly from the shelter's dim corner. 

"I've got to get to Xin. I'll have money once we're there." 

"Just like that." 

"Ambrose said you could take us... me." He turned his eyes away from it, unwilling to meet its laughter or to accept what had happened. 

"In your condition..." 

"In my condition, I could use a doctor. You said so yourself." He tried to smile, "Don't go denying it." 

The smile wouldn't come. Niki was back there still, growing colder by the minute. His fault. 

"Why are they after you?" 

"It's a long story." He looked away from her as he answered, unable to make eye contact. 

"The relay doesn't even give a name. What should I call you, negral." 

"Mikael." 

She nodded, strangely, as if considering its flavor. He wondered why she bothered; all she should want is the money. It made things much simpler. Money. 

"Come." 

His feet felt wobbly as he stood. She held his good arm with her free hand, gathering the axe and rifle as she led him outside and along a winding, dirt path. The glittering lake waters seemed to dance and rejoice as if in celebration. Mike watched for Niki's body on the stony beach, but it was as if she had disappeared, the hungry lake gobbling her up with gleeful abandon. 

The hydroplane sat docked in a shallow inlet, its grey, metallic sheen casting a fuzzy shadow across the waters. They waded in. The water, more than waste deep, felt icy and numbing. Cole settled him into the passenger seat, buckling him down before producing another hypo. 

"Is that really necessary?" 

"Not at all." She stuck him in his good arm, retracting the needle with a satisfied smirk. 

"You bitch." Mike watched her climb around to the pilot's controls, her long, sun-browned legs now shiny and clean as late morning rays filtered through the cockpit window. The whine of a chemical motor echoed somewhere along the distant coastline. Beneath its vibration, Mike heard her whispering, the rattling of vertical rods, grimy steel stained with sweat and a hollow explosion mixed within the shattered bone, a texture so familiar and soft, as though it were meant to be felt rather than understood. Shades of blue huddled together beneath folds of green and grey, his limbs tiring, nerves deadened, the dry cold parching his throat as the sweet scent of apple resin stung within the dark corners of his memory. 

Their voices rose as hushed murmurs, traces of worries averted, clandestinely dropping out of key like some harmonic duet, each resurrecting the other, interchanging places, holding together for sheer lack of hope. 

"We knew this would eventually happen." His tone sounded cold, unfeeling. She saw the door crack open, streams of moonlight licking around its edges. 

"Michael. Is that you?" 

They were afraid to touch him, afraid to even get too close. Dim fluorescent rays scattered sullenly along the glassy white walls, barely penetrating the icy darkness as he slowly wakened from a dreamless sleep. A grey-haired stranger sat by his bedside staring down from behind a professional expression of stoic indifference. 

The loneliness quietly crept in between the cracks of his senses, stealthily slipping beneath his skin, and hungrily gnawing on his bones. With cunning elegance it swept upwards, through his spine and into his mind, knotting itself around his soul and slowly squeezing until he could feel the suffocating, smothering, nothing. 

The woman curiously smiled. She wore a white medical tunic without insignia or decoration. He concentrated on her face, on the stormy blue of her eyes and the furrow of her brows, but the features just blurred in and out of focus, shifting like waves on some forgotten shore. He felt his lungs try carefully to breath; short, unfamiliar, raspy sounds being the only response. 

She turned away suddenly, something was beeping, another patient maybe, or perhaps someone died. She was talking to someone now through a commlink. Her voice flowed sweetly, like warm rain on summer days when he would walk through the barrens and nobody would follow. 

A cold lump settled in his throat as he waited for her to return, the cool breeze lifting brown and yellow leaves from the broken asphalt, coiling sticky shapes, their edges fluttering and preparing to strike. And the awful beeping, rising from the air like some depraved siren, stung his ears, its intensity rising. He wished somebody would turn it off and found himself reaching out, his fingers touching it, the pulse tangible and real like a heartbeat, except stronger. 

"Mike." From a deserted alleyway he heard the voice call him. He paused before moving forward, unable to see its source. 

"Wake up Mike. Get the hell outta there, now!" 

He felt his eyes snap open with the surge of electricity in his mind. Sweat coated his body as he laid face-up on a simple mattress in a small, dark room, cords of sunlight streaming from the only window through a pair of wooden shutters. Police sirens beeped loudly in the distance as a gentle rain pelted the open ledge. Cecil? He looked around for the voice, but the room was empty. He pulled himself upright with his good arm, shaking off the daze of noises and confusion as the metal disk tumbled from his pocket. The dim light played over its surface, tempting him to pick it up. He pressed it against his bad hand, clenching it with all his strength to force away the numbness and triggered the catch, revealing the black surface within. The green dot closed in toward the center, circular lines growing brighter, pressing outward, fifty meters, forty-five, forty. 

Mike closed the disk, placing it back within his pocket. Beads of sweat formed on his scalp as he moved toward the window, lifting the shutters and crawling onto the ledge. He was four stories up. A good jump? Teeth ground together at the thought as drizzle mixed with the perspiration, forming a tiny rivulet down the crevice of his nose. 

"Hey Mike? You in there?" It was Bill's voice. "Open up Mike, it's okay." 

He crawled out further along the ledge, pulling his legs away from the window. Vehicles knotted together in the streets below, chemical combustion motors sputtering, whining, complaining to their drivers beneath the dying sirens. The door broke open. There was the sound of footsteps and an unfamiliar voice as dry as caster-sand. 

"Shit!" 

Galanglic. Mike considered crawling back inside, then stopped. 

"I want his head you little weasel, you understand?! He knows to much about Erestyl." 

Mike could almost see Bill nodding on the other side of the wall. 

"I'll... I'll wait here until he comes back." 

"What makes you think he'll return?" 

"Where else can he go? He has no money." 

Wooden shutters swept away from the window face, the crackling noise of metal and wood in violent separation resounding through the room. Mike waited, breathlessly, for a head to peek out as small black birds scattered along the ledges above and below. 

"Harrison has friends on Calanna, or have you forgotten? He'll have ways of getting money." 

"What do you want me to do?" 

"First get that thing out of your kneecap." 

"And then?" 

"I trust you'll be able to figure the rest out yourself." 

Mike waited another two minutes as vehicles carelessly zigzagged on the streets below. The small, black birds returned to their cement roosts, the outcroppings serving as poor protection from the rain. Like the wandering beggars, they seemed ready to take whatever handout fate should devise. Mike finally crept back inside and past the splintered door. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Part 7 

Jim Vassilakos 

Copyright (c) 1991



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The nightlife was blossoming in its usual splendor for the Calannic capital, the blues, reds, and sunny yellows of evening-wear mocking the conservative, almost Draconian apparel of the working day. Xkutyr was known locally, as well as abroad, as the undercity of sleepless dreams. Before the war, the Duke of Arcadia was said to be a frequent visitor, reputedly lounging within the watery, volcanic caverns awaiting noble orgies too numerous to enumerate. At least, that was the popular philosophy. History on Calanna was jaded at best, most recently by the war. Mike had always regarded the stories as a poor attempt at anti-Imperial propaganda, but whenever he visited the Temple of the Writhing Mermaid, he was always persuaded to reconsider his point of view. 

On this occasion the waters churned with unusual vivacity, the warm glow of soaking bodies paddling on the surface as others more intrepid ventured beneath, between the terraces of gravity nullifiers and into the labyrinth beyond. Mike found himself swimming within a crowd of strangers, some groping each other for comfort and others huddled within large floating bubbles of oxygen, bodies intertwined, playing games of the flesh for all to see. Together they imbibed amber and purple fluids from plastic sluispheres, bubbles within bubbles holding potent aphrodisiacs, judging from the inclinations of those who shared them. 

Most came here out of boredom, hoping to find fascination in a moment's idle folly. Others, however, came here out of pain, a few thousand drin to smother one burrowing intoxication with yet another and that perhaps with another still. Of course it was all Bill's money, but that didn't matter; he wouldn't need it anymore. Mike was sure of that much. 

He swam until the water grew cold and dense and the oxygen bubbles became too few to venture further. Alone in an alcove he shivered, bare of everything save the mandatory wrist locator. The air grew musty and coarse and he tried to close his eyes and sleep, but the water was too frigid this far out from the complex. Suddenly bubbles emerged from below and a woman clad in a gelsuit appeared, her black hair slicked back by the cold water as she emerged. 

"Vanwalye?" 

Mike regarded her question for all of five seconds. 

"Uh...No." 

"Uquenlye Calain?" 

"Umm...lastalmet." 

"Tulye?" 

Mike wondered if he had a choice. They had probably seen how far he was going and sent her out to fetch him back. There was nothing like a troublesome offworlder to piss off the management. Her worried, green eyes seemed to confirm the assessment. 

"Okay," Mike nodded. She moved closer to help him. 

"No, really, I'm fine. I'll just follow. Hilmet. Okay?" 

"Okay," her anxious smile confirmed the communication more than her use of the galanglic. She kept a slow pace, feeding him oxygen from her tank at several intervals. By the time they reached the warm waters, Mike figured he was lucky he hadn't ditched the locator. 

After he dressed, Mike spent the next hour sitting at a table along the stony terrace, sipping Miruvor and re-scanning the various databases. The girl came back to check on him, apparently trying to tell him something from the ledge before being yanked backward into the bubbly water by another employee. Mike waved as she was dragged beneath the steaming surface. The bottom half of her gelsuit emerged several moments later, floating around the surface as various patrons began tossing it back and forth between the access pools. 

Cecil was nowhere to be found. Even the search on the planetwide directory turned up nothing. Mike went back to investigating the local boards when he came across a familiar name. 

"Doggie Blitz?" 

He entered within the steady stream of other electronic freefloaters, quietly carousing the various sub-boards for something of interest. He then passed along to the membership records, or at least those sections open for public scrutiny. A number of faces flashed across his screen, most of them chipheads, one of them strangely familiar. 

"Check 143/741." 

"User online." 

"Call him." 

"Error. Respecify at call." 

"Call 143/741." 

"Waiting...connect." 

"Yo?" 

"Umm...Hi, 'member me? Command open visual. Umm...in the underway. Purchasing tickets?" 

"Huh? Oh yeah. You lookin' fer some output." 

"That's right. I was wondering if maybe we could meet someplace. I may have more than just output in mind." 

"Such as..." 

"Finding a friend of mine." 

"Well, I guess that depends mainly on who it is you're looking for. If you could just give me the name now, I'd be able to give you a better idea when we meet." 

"You sure that's safe?" 

"Uhhh...let's see...you're in sector thirteen. Let me re-pipe this, hold on... Okay, go ahead." 

"The name is Cecil Dulin. He used to be a local res..." 

"Hold on... Did you say Cecil Dulin?" 

"Yeah." 

"Uhh... Sorry, I don't think I can help you there dude." 

"What's the matter?" 

"Gotta jam." 

"Wait... damnit." 

"Na Manor." 

"Huh? Oh, hi. I thought you lost your suit." 

"Ulastalmet." 

"Uh...Nevermind." Mike reverted to the Calannic, but his words came out wrong when he tried to explain anything too complex. Her green eyes twinkled as she laughed, either perceptibly oblivious to his being both an offworlder and a chiphead, or incapable of harboring either of the two most common prejudices. 

"I no understand why you go in cold water without air tank." 

"Umm...I dunno either." 

She liked that one. Her eyes seemed to glitter more with each new giggle, the easy laughter reminding him of Niki, but her eyes were too shallow and sparkly. Mike rubbed his cast, still encased in its mermaid-plastic sheath, wondering how long the tissue- stabilization would last. 

"Where you are staying?" 

"Umm...no place yet." 

"Ah, you just arrive then." 

"You could say that." 

"You looking for a place on computer?" 

"I'm looking." 

"Hard to find." 

"Yeah." 

"Maybe you find a friend?" 

Mike froze cold before he realized what she meant. She started giggling again, taking his look entirely the wrong way. 

"You do find friend. Is easy here. Yes?" 

"If you say so." 

"If you like, I have extra space." 

"Between your ears," Mike added in Galanglic. 

"Huh?" 

"Never mind." 

"No?" 

"Well... Okay. Sure." 

"Okay?" 

The cold breeze gave ample excuse for her to nuzzle against him as they exited the underway, the puddles of water on the streets congealing with motor oil and fragments of dead leaves in the dim light of actinic lamps. Drunk stragglers and chipheads were the only inhabitants between the occasional cabs carrying home a late-shifter from the city below. Several drivers huddled just outside the doors, gambling via coin-toss and drinking mataxa. 

"Hey, any of you speak Galanglic?" 

"Quesse? Hallon...neghral?" They seemed to get a good laugh. 

"Very funny; maybe you speak the universal language." Mike rubbed a fifty k'drin note between his forefinger and thumb. 

He rode with Vilya in the back seat, watching a pale fog build on the windows as they drove to the outskirts of the city. At a quiet intersection, Mike nudged the driver and pointed to a corner tele-booth. 

"Dalmet?" 

"Stop. You wait." 

"Huh?" 

"Wait. Stay here." 

"No go?" 

"No go." 

He entered the booth, hitting the operator assistance key while depositing several coins. Outside, the driver rubbed his windshield with a dirty, brown rag. 

"Gardansa, first name Narsil. Yes. Hello? Yes, I know what time it is. I need to speak with the General--just tell him it's Michael Harrison." 

"Meow." 

Mike awoke as something clawed his head jacks, a cool ripple of pain flowing across his skull as he bolted upright, tossing the feline across the room. 

"You no like pussy?" 

A faint shimmer of light caught the pistol's fiberglass barrel, Vilya lowering it just a notch as she waited for Mike's reply. He studied her eyes, green spheres twinkling with mischief. 

"I find out what `between your ears' mean, asshole." 

She clicked back the pistol's lever, preparing for the shot as she licked her lips. Too high and she'd make a mess. Too low and she'd have to use another bullet. Mike stared straight down the barrel, trying arrogantly to suppress the cool sweat breaking along the jacks in his skull. She pulled the trigger, the barrel clicking with a faint resonance. 

"Ha ha. Me funny." 

Mike batted the gun out of her hands, tumbling out of the bed as she scampered across the floor. She finally locked herself inside the bathroom, her spasmodic laughter ringing through the keyhole. 

"Come out here, Vil." 

"No way! You apology." 

He pocketed the gun and searched though his bag, finally finding the bullets beneath the dodecahedron. 

"Me?!" Mike nearly gagged, pointing the weapon toward the bathroom door. "I think you're forgetting one little thing. I'm the one who has the gun now." 

"Ha ha ha..." 

"Meow." 

"Or maybe I should just shoot your cat." 

The door opened and Vilya crossed the floor to her cat, picking him up and returning to the bathroom before Mike could so much as bat an eyelash. 

"Vilya." 

"Hee hee hee..." 

"Meow." 

Mike lifted the dodecahedron off the floor, nestling its weight in his lap. Its ceramic exterior carried a dull glimmer in the warm morning light, each surface flat and smooth except for one. There lay etched the figure of a songbird, its wings outstretched as though in flight. Mike regarded it with an unfamiliar mixture of relief and apprehension. 

"Apology!" 

"Fine. I'm sorry." 

"I can't hear you." 

The ragged curtain of red twill flapped from the window's edge as he cocked the pistol. 

"Hee hee hee..." 

He finally coaxed her out of the bathroom by frying up a can of mash and onions, the most universal sustenance in her cupboards. They ate in between the morning newsvids and cold cups of zardocha. The gatherers on the monitors were a pair of public faces, computer generated images which the government had been using for newscasts over the past century. The eyes of the female seemed to bulge out and cross as though she were reading from cue cards, an effort to make her image more realistic. Mike remembered reading about the development in an industry update. 

"And now to the local headlines. An unidentified woman was killed yesterday in gunfire at the 1st Interstellar Bank. Although officials are withholding her name, the victim was purported to be in the process of cashing a promissory note for fifty million drin. It is believed that the check was stolen from one, Michael James Harrison, an independent gatherer with Galactic Publications. According to the GID, Harrison was terminated by the woman in accordance with global bounty codes and that the shooting was an unlawful retaliation by the Galatican. Harrison, author of Shattered Eden, gained interstellar fame with the..." 

Mike changed the channel as his press image materialized in the corner of the screen. 

"Hey! I was watching," Vilya flicked a speck of potato in his general direction. The other channels proved just as dull, but the ensuing battle over the remote control made up for it. He found himself back on her bed, exhausted, as she left for work, her cat purring at his side in contented bliss. 

Outside, the afternoon sun sank slowly into a hazy dusk as Mike patiently hoofed his way across the city. Cecil had been waiting for well over a year, and another cent wouldn't matter. 

The ochin dangled precariously from a single thread of its silken web as its spindly legs flailed aside the remains of its latest victim, a tiny mitzignat. The insect's carcass tossed and turned slowly within the nullfield until a lazy spitter gobbled it down with a swift dash of it sticky tongue. Tasting the pungent fragrance of the ochin's poison, the spitter turned sideways and retreated into the darkness. 

Though still hungry, the ochin felt safer. Warily, it crept along the narrow commcord which served as a spine to the web, providing some structural foundation for the fragile strands of its home. A dim buzz resounded against the walls of the room as the ochin reached the end of the commcord. It paused to feel the momentary vibrations on the cool air. 

The man couldn't hear the buzz. He hung limp in the air, supported only by thin fractures in the null-gravity. His dull senses couldn't feel the ochin as it slowly edged its way along his grizzly beard, searching the maw of unkept hair for juicy goobugs. His thick, oily thatch barely left an egress for the slimy worms which secreted their viscous ooze. 

Suddenly the gravmodule flickered, and his body slowly descended to the wooden floor, ripping away the ochin's web and scattering the boopreys as the dusty, maggot-ridden planks creaked soundly underneath the weight of his emaciated body. He lay still for several hours without breathing, his programs refusing the interruption. The uncompromising feeder, however, forced a disconnection as his weak lungs involuntarily gasped for air. 

It was evening before he could feel the raw itch. It came on slowly, like a sleeping devil, seeming a thousand times more penetrating than anything he could ever remember. For hours he lay still, unable to resolve the agony before his olfactory senses came around, allowing him to smell the hellish stench of his own rot. Yet, the itch and the stench only served as a distraction which he used to fight the maddening bunkum of raw data which muttered sporadic illusions within his mind. 

Slowly, he felt the enzymes go to work, exciting his endocrine gland, pushing adrenalin into his bloodstream, building momentum in his heartbeat, fighting the impending shock. He fluttered his eyelids, the action igniting a stream of ideas, each vaguely interrelated, but they swept by so swiftly that all he could remember was the fragment of a distant dream. 

Slowly, he realized that he was sitting upright. He heard the distant hum of the spitter in the corner of the room. The feeder lay next to him. It was already disconnected. He couldn't remember touching it. 

"Who's there?" 

His voice sounded dry and mottled. He couldn't recognize it as his own, but there it was with nobody to answer. Then he heard the door close. 

The tub was brown with mold; a family of quagroachs nested on the floor beneath the grating. He tumbled himself inside and searched for the rusty handle. The ice-cold water hammered against the floor, bathing his still insensitive skin as he rubbed off folds of dead flesh. Soon the welts that merely itched began to sting. 

The scum collected around his neck as the waterline threatened. He stood slowly, his arms grasping the grimy runners on the walls of the tub. As the water continued to rise, overtaking his waist, he let one hand fall away, testing the strength of his legs and their balance. 

He wasn't aware of the blade until it cut his ear. He tugged it loose from its cord and began to shave, slicing the filthy hair away with deep strokes close to the skin. The goobugs dropped into the water around his waist. Tangled deep within the matted hair, they sunk and drowned beneath the pounding water. He fingered his skull for the jacks; the important things were always as he remembered them. 

He was too tired to think about it now. The water at his chest beckoned. He considered how easy it would be to drown. He sunk down beneath the murky water, its numbing chill bringing with it a strange sense of satisfaction. With a twist of the lever, the floor beneath the grating opened, and the water, bugs, and hair swirled away. 

Moonlight shimmered through the doorway like a icy veil, its narrow edge stretching across the hardwood floor. She stepped quietly into the dim, misty light, letting her bags slip clumsily from her arms. 

"Mikael? You still here, you leech?" 

"Meow..." 

A purple glimmer settled beneath patchy, black clouds along the western horizon as the red cab swerved along the central highway. The driver hummed to himself most of the way, his right foot jogging a tempo against the floor as he drove. Mike tried to fall asleep, but the bumping of wheels into shallow potholes made him nauseous. They were nearly three hours outside Xin when the car turned off the pavement, taking a dirt trail up a grassy hillside, wildflowers growing in yellow and blue patches along the road's surface. 

"Where go?" 

"Left. No, that way--left. You know left from right?" 

"Huh?" 

"Keep going. You're doing fine." 

The driver skidded to a sudden halt as they reached the outer gate. Mike climbed out of the car and paid the balance. The driver opened his window a crack to receive the money and then drove out backwards, loose gravel sweeping under the cab's tires as he gunned the motor. 

Two men clothed in executioner's leather led him through the gates. Their uniforms betrayed no insignia denoting either rank or service. Private henchmen, Mike figured. It was all that Gardansa had left. His house was like a temple, two marble statues rising as solemn pillars, one the fool and the other an emperor. Black veins ran their full height and the three men crossed between. 

Gardansa stood against the tall, ponderous door, a canopy of yellow daisies gleaming in the faint moonlight. His smooth lips curved within some determined pleasantry. 

"General." 

"Gatherer Harrison. So delightful to see you again." The man's eyes turned dark and saucer shaped as he laughed, his fleshy chin dangling and bouncing as he bobbed his head in welcome. 

The house was warm and smelled of sweet perfume. Numerous busts littered the hallways, and the hearth glowed with fiery sparks rising up the chimney only to swirl back down as fine black ash. The general picked short bits of hair from his nose as they talked, flicking them into the steady stream of warm air. They wafted about in the current, occasionally catching within the thick fur of his brown fez. 

"I am sorry to hear such dread news of your friends, but then friends come and go. That is the way of life." 

Mike nodded, not sure how to respond. 

"And, after all, she was a Siri. And the other one, a traitor against you. So well you pick your friends. Makes me wonder that you are still around to tell me stories." 

He chuckled at some image lurking deep within his mind. It was a dry sort of noise, starting below his throat and wafting upward like the quaking of a volcano. 

"How like the past, this seems. Traitors and psyches. One must somehow breed the other. You not agree?" 

"I don't know, General. I came here seeking the answer to another question." 

"Ahh," he nodded reluctantly. "It is an answer which I could not divulge were even I to somehow become of it aware." 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters 

Chapter 8 

Jim Vassilakos 

Copyright (c) 1991



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yellow dandelions swayed within the smooth, evening breeze, their thin stems lingering in silent dance for the dying rays of a dim red sun. Above, the scent of sweet honey floated gently through the faint current, stirring the petals with a quiet cacophony of hushed whispers, carelessly catching the tips of her curls and caressing the thick patch of grass where she lay. The fireflies began to play, little winged faerie, or so she'd imagined. They darted about in circles, one teasingly pursuing another, while below, another host of insects went about their evening business, foraging for sustenance amid the damp, loamy terrain. They seemed dark and ominous, great pinchers perched atop their frames as they straggled about in the abject slumber of community, a congested mass, grinding together, crawling over and beneath, their limbs twisted about each other in ignoble partnership. 

A tall bell tower rose from the hillside, its chimes ringing with tempestuous abandon. Vilya watched the bell work back and forth, its clamor growing in intensity. She reached out, her arm elongating into the elastic distance as the waning light slowly settled into black. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi. Did I wake you up?" 

She groggily tried to place the voice. 

"Johanes?" 

"Umm... no. Mikael." 

"Oh... you." 

"I need a favor," Mike gulped down, glad that he was too cheap to pop for a visi-link. 

The dawn was misty and cold, precipitation gradually forming into a dense fog along the coast. Her green eyes, though not so sparkly, were a welcome sight. Mike cautiously climbed into the back seat, checking to see the driver's face. 

"What happen?" 

"I decided to go swimming again." He stripped off his shirt, letting its ullage collect on the seat and slide in slippery droplets to the carpeted floor as the cab's warm air glided along his chest. 

"Like cold water too well. Should hitch ride from now on... less danger." 

She gave him a not-so-gentle squeeze at the end, her eyes scintillating with wicked intent as Mike's crossed involuntarily. He let out a deep groan, packaging the pain instead of striking back. "For waking me so early," she finally explained, and Mike wondered if it was some new custom as he slowly recovered. 

"That was dirty." 

"Justice never clean." 

"Justice? You call that justice? I'd hate to feel revenge." 

"Pray you don't have to." 

"Vil... I don't blame you for being mad, but I really didn't have much of a choice." 

"Everyone have choice. I take you in home, I give to you food, I give to you key, and you go and you no leave scratch-marks..." 

"Look... I'm sorry, okay?" 

"No... you look..." 

Mike just nodded as she continued, her speech quickening and moving in and out of slang so fast that he could no longer keep up. He knew that the Calannan women had a way of laying the guilt pretty thick, but this one was in a class by herself. 

"Vilya, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise. What more do you want?" 

"Now you want know what I want." 

She produced the dodecahedron from her wet, paper bag, its black surface glimmering dimly in the scattered light. 

"Maybe I show you, eh?" 

Outside, the murky air rushed against her window in pael gusts, droplets of moisture forming along its plastic surface, skidding steadily toward some common goal, and finally flailing blindly into the cab's interior. Beyond, the vague shape of the cliff's edge coursed by. 

"What are you doing?" 

"I want see how much you care for the pretty cermic. You jump for it, yes?" 

"Vilya... I said I was sorry." 

"Say again. I no hear so well." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Eh?" 

"I'm sorry. How many times do you want me to say it?" 

"You want pretty cermic too much." 

"Yeah, well... it's important." 

"Why?" 

"Because." 

"Because why?" 

"It's a long story, okay?" 

"We seem to have long time together." 

"Yeah, well I'll explain it over breakfast." 

She grumbled brusquely, but Mike could tell her stomach was in favor of the notion. 

"C'mon, I'm buying. How'd you like to eat in Xekhasmeno?" 

"So now I have choice..." 

Xekhasmeno was known to locals as the forgotten city, a place given away to Imperial commerce as a settlement of war. Offworld, the appropriation was viewed as a no more than a slap on the wrist, but for the Calannans, the city was a brand of shame and defeat, a place forsaken and rarely spoken of except to provide adjectives for their more colorful slang. To hate Xekhasmeno and those who dwelt within it was part of Calanna's unspoken creed, a thing as real and as often underestimated as the thin, electrical barricade which protruded around the city's borders, forbidding entrance except to Megacorp personnel and the starport authority. 

They entered at the north-east gates beneath the Tizarian embassy. Work crews were in the process of finishing the new building. A guard wandered along the line of vehicles, knocking on windows and stamping clearance stickers on various hoods. Mike recognized him as one of the old-timers who stayed on after the incident. 

"Identification." 

Mike opened his window as the guard peered within, his eyes widening in surprise. 

"Why, Mister Harri...?!" 

"Keep it quiet. You never saw me." 

"Uhh... alright, sir. Heard you were dead." He whispered it as though saying so more loudly might lend it truth, eyebrows wrinkling in confusion as he backed cautiously from the taxi, waiving them through with a stamp of the sticker machine. 

"What he say?" Vilya was rendered oblivious by the Galanglic. 

"Huh? Oh... he said to have a nice day." 

"Nice day?" 

"Where to?" The cabby's eyebrows were furrowed in mild irritation. 

"Tyberian Compound." 

Suite 112J turned out to be on the ground level of a small technical complex. The suite was really more of a repair shop, and Vilya seemed altogether confused by her new surroundings. Spokes rounded a corner from the back of the room, his headgear gleaming in the fluorescent light. 

"You're late, man." 

"I ran into a little bit of trouble along the way." Mike handed over the dodecahedron, and Spokes inspected the casing, his blue eyes gleaming as though it were a birthday present. 

"Bonded cermic?" 

"Made to look that way. It's survived quite a bit." 

"I'm sure it's not the only one." 

Spokes said it with an air of either respect or inveiglement. Mike couldn't tell which for certain. 

"You gonna be okay with this?" 

"Sure. What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?" 

"At this point, anything that seems interesting... if you manage to get in that is." 

"Don't worry about that. It may take a little time, but I'll get in. You wanna hang around?" 

"I promised somebody a square meal. After that, I need to get the shoulder fixed." 

"There's a cafeteria on the 3rd floor. If you're looking for something nicer, there's the starport." 

"We'll hit the starport." 

"Suit yourself. Oh, take this." He handed Mike an SPA maintenance overcoat complete with tinted-bubble hood and IR goggles. "Unless you wanna be a celebrity, that is." 

"Not after this morning; thanks." 

The starport wasn't much different than he remembered it, a mishmash of technicians, cargo-hands, and jaunty, third-rate brokers strewn in pairs and trios along a sea of polished floor tile. Various shops lined the walkways between the Outworld Market and the shuttle bays. Interspersed between them, wide, circular planters rose from the gleaming tiles, forming benches for all the old people to sit. They studied the drifting masses with sardonic glares, their garish glad rags explicating a backward dive into altricial helplessness. 

Mike let down the hood once they were seated in a corner of the Zardocha Cafe. He remembered it fairly well, and by some coincidence found himself at the same table he and Tara had sat at not so long ago. His shoulder began aching again as the food came, the pain sharpening as an indication that the stabilizer was failing. Vilya's mood seemed to improve as she used the gravitic waves of her utensil to thwack his wound beneath the hardened castfoam. 

"Gee... thanks." 

"Why you hurt?" 

"I was wondering when you were going to get around to asking me that." 

"On Calanna, is impolite to ask such thing." 

"Why?" 

Her eyes seemed to search the corner of the ceiling for an answer. 

"Is like saying you small." 

"Small?" 

"Like baby." 

"I could stand some babying." 

That got her. Mike figured it was something about the language he didn't understand. Finally, she tapped the wound again with her grav-utensil, this time on a sharper focus. 

"Ow!" 

"Ha! You are baby. Tell me who is Cole." 

"A friend. Oww..." 

"Good friend?" 

"Not really." 

Mike grabbed the utensil from her hand before she could cause him any more pain. She fought tenaciously for several moments, and then suddenly let go, causing him to almost topple backwards. 

"Be careful you silly boy. Waiter?! May I have a thing to eat with other than fingers?" 

She turned back to Mike, her wicked smile returning as she was brought another grav-utensil. 

"Ha ha... I win." 

"Vilya, I'm not in the mood." 

"Too bad... I am." 

"Look, I don't want you messing with it. I'm gonna get it taken care of right after this." 

"But I hate you, and I want to hurt you." 

"I'm sure you do." 

"Why you come to Calanna?" 

"I'm a tourist. I like to go sight-seeing. Ow!" 

A couple heads turned, and Mike tried to keep his face angled toward the wall. Vilya giggled at his predicament and motioned for another stab. She was interrupted by the arrival of the food, however, and consoled herself with squirting tiny packets of bean sauce on the bubble hood of his SPA suit and the soggy shoes he'd borrowed. Mike regarded her mood with all the patience it deserved. 

"Stop it you brat." 

"Make me." 

"What's the matter? You don't like the food here or something?" 

"They no have haggis." 

"Oh wah." 

"I see your face on three-vee after the work last night. It say you are dead Tizarian." 

"A foul rumor that's been greatly exaggerated." 

"Is that purpose you hide face?" 

"I told you... I'm a tourist. You calling me a liar?" 

"What sights you will see, tourist?" 

"I dunno. Maybe the coast." 

"Maybe you will swim with shoes off this time?" 

Mike smiled, "Maybe." 

The starport's sick-bay seemed more like a recovery hall for low-berthers. Several stood around popping fizzies to kill their morning breath while others were slowly revived from days or weeks in cryogenic suspension. Cold sleep wasn't so bad, Mike recalled. It was the waking up part that was so unpleasant. Cole's signature bubbled away with the dissolving castfoam. The pharmacist administered the regeneration formula while a medic finished examining the wound. She held a thin fork in her hand, prodding the mesodermal layers as his blood flow slowed to a trickle. 

"Passed right through. How'd this happen?" 

"It was an accident." 

Two shuttle attendants brought in a dozen more of the freezerinos as a feminine voice sedately announced the new arrivals. Her tone was collected, almost dull, enunciating each syllable of their names as though they were items of inventory and not actual people. Included were a few John and Jane Does, each accorded a separate number for the ledger. Mike charged the expense to Linden's account, including an all's well message on the assessment. The nurse swathed the numb shoulder in a fresh bandage as Mike finished typing in Linden's access code. 

"We're gonna need some ID on this." 

"Check again." 

"Huh? Oh... guess not. Interesting insurance you've got." 

"Yeah... Bank of Chuck." 

Vilya sat with her back against the antechamber wall, her eyes glossed over with holographic images of interstellar medical technology. The promo featured minimalist cybernetics, nothing too scary or complex yet still fascinating for the uninitiated. 

"Fixed?" 

"Yeah... I guess." 

They exited through baggage claims, climbing into a tram on the way out. Spokes was still fiddling with the dodec when they returned. He wore a staid expression, his eyes narrowing to thin slits as they entered. 

"What's the matter?" 

"You see these things?" 

He pointed to two sets of bulbs at the base of his jacks, half of them shattered and fused. 

"What about 'em?" 

"Electrical inhibitors... without which my brain would be a toasty critter. The overload wiped my entire deck." 

"I had no idea," Mike tried to make it sound sincere. 

"Uh huh." 

"What did you find out?" 

"It tried to fry me is what I found out." 

"Immediately?" 

"It asked for some kind of ID clearance. I tried to burn out the active circuits, and it gave me auto-feedback except about ten times stronger than what I flushed in." 

"So in other words it fought back." 

"To put it mildly." 

"Well, what did you expect, a cakewalk?" Mike tried to churn up a wholesome expression. 

"I expect you to pay me four thousand for new inhibitors and software, credits not drin." 

"No money until you get in." 

"I almost got torched, Harrison! I think that qualifies me for working expenses." 

"I'll try to get you the money." 

Spokes turned and looked away, his eyes following a long, jagged crack in the wall plaster. 

"Really hope you're joking, man." 

"Finances are a little tight right now. It occasionally happens when you die, but I'll get the money somehow. Don't worry about that." 

Spokes smiled, "I won't. I'll be keeping darkie as collateral until you do." 

Mike considered the proposition, wondering if he had a choice in the matter. 

"Spokes, I'm not trying to rip you off." 

"Nor I you, Mister Harrison, but if you want trust, you're gonna have to show some in return." 

Mike found himself nodding, almost stupidly, like some Joe Public listening to the big-time politician. Vilya sat idle, ignoring the Galanglic, her eyes casually roaming the technical hardware. Somewhere above her head, the blades of a humidifier kicked in, and a sudden current of musty air bathed her dark hair within its cool, transparent tendrils. She looked upward, squinting. The tall shaft rose above her, dark and imposing, lending a slight echo to their voices. 

"Whatever." 

"What are you trying to get out of this thing anyway?" 

"It's a little hard to explain." 

"Try me." 

Mike took a deep breath, the musty air sucking through his nostrils. 

"This thing, as you call it, was once the brain of a Draconian android. Her name was Robin, and she served what I believe was a sleeper agent sent to work for the Galactican before she got... somewhat dismembered... by this former friend of mine who decided to start working for the Imperials. For some reason, she decided not to wipe her memory, maybe because she wanted somebody to look at it. I don't know." 

"I take it this is gonna be a long story." 

Mike nodded, apologetically. 

"The Imps have gotten their hands on one of my... subjects, for lack of a better word. He seems to be rather important to both them and the Draconians, and I'd just like to find out why." 

"What's his name?" 

"They call him Erestyl." 

"What do you call him?" 

"When I found him, he didn't have a name. His brain had been mangled by an Imperial mind-scanner. He didn't know who or what he was. The SPA found him in a galley stabbing people with a fork, one of the non-gravitic kinds you sometimes find in starport medical bays. He was transported to a local facility on Tizar and was snatched back by ISIS and brought here." 

"ISIS? On Calanna?" 

"I know. It makes no sense. If he was a criminal, I'd maybe have expected them to take him to the 47th. Instead, they opted for secrecy, even from their own people." 

"Where does he come from?" 

"Unknown. He was shipped to Tizar in a low berth. Another John Doe... transported on some tramp freighter that was no longer in port." 

"And you feel it's your occupational duty to get involved." 

Mike shrugged, "We dropped in five days ago. Me, Robin, and two others. Air defense was alerted to our mission. They destroyed the ship, and to make a long story short, me and this hunk of cermic are all that's left." 

"Does ISIS know you're still alive?" 

"I had a little run-in with them this morning outside Gardansa's. I'd hoped it might be safe, seeing as how I'm supposed to be dead and all, but apparently not." 

"And who's the woman?" 

"A friend. Native." 

"Obviously." 

"I've been encircled ever since I got here. I needed a safe place to stay." 

"Get a flat." 

"I'm a little short on funds right now." 

"Does she even know anything about this?" 

"She knows something strange is going on. That's about it." 

Spokes winced, his eyes darting between them as an awkward smirk played across his lips. 

"That's cold." 

"I've made more than my share of mistakes on this drop. If I get caught, anybody who knows anything about what's goin' on is gonna be fair game." 

"Oh... you're a real hero." 

"If I disappear, I'd rather she just think I got up and vanished." 

"Well thanks for telling me all about it, Harrison. That's just was I need... a bunch of offworld police homing in on me." 

"You're the one who wanted trust. Besides, why should I care what happens to you? You're nothin' to me... except... maybe a possibility." 

"A possibility to get yourself killed." 

"I need your help to get this brain cracked. If you wanna bail out, I'll take Robin and leave right now. You can bill the Galactican, but you'll never hear from me again." 

"And what if I decide to stick my neck out for you? What do I get?" 

"The Galactican will cover your expenses. Maybe with luck you'll be able to land a cushy job there, I dunno." 

"Weak." 

"Yeah, but right now it's about all I can promise." 

Spokes backed away from the dodec, his shoulders slumped and eyes wandering the walls. Mike tried to read his posture, the movement of the bony ends of his elbows as they scraped against the desk. Mike rubbed his temples, exhausted from the long night. 

"Look, it doesn't take a genius to realize something very strange is going on. If we can find out what it is... who knows?" 

"I'd like to help you, Harrison. But what you're doing is dumb." 

"What would you have me do?" 

"Back off. Get uninvolved. If I was you, I'd make a beeline for Tizar and forget this whole thing ever happened." 

"Spokes... the key to this `whole thing' could be sitting right in front of our noses... literally." 

"So that you can write a story about it or get yourself martyred?" 

Spokes shook his head, his scowl softening into a dreary stare as the dodec's black surface glimmered in the dim, artificial light. Once again in Mike's possession, its surface felt icy cold, as if the recent skirmish had plunged her into some deep, cryogenic dream. Spokes wandered to the back of his workshop, his head still shaking in mild contempt. Outside, Calanna's great red sun bathed the forgotten city in hues of amber and gold. Vilya said nothing, somber, green eyes speculating as to the mood of the alien conversation. 

The ride back to Xin passed quickly. Their driver was a old man, apparently from the local area. He assumed they were tourists, who had become increasingly common since the post-war domestication. He pointed out various roadside landmarks as he drove, switching back and forth between Galanglic and Calannic and occasionally a mishmashed fusion of the two. Vilya remained silent for most of the ride, only speaking near the end to correct of minor point of history. 

"You make good story, but that is not how it happen." 

"No?" The driver's deep brown nose wrinkled in embarrassment. 

"Varilion is no crafty as you say. It was Priestess of Snagarth that give him idea." 

"Ha! Why should the Priestess care about Imperial garrison? Eh?" 

"She not care, such as negrali mind own business. They refuse this courtesy, to pillage her temple and to murder her harem, that she make revenge. 

"Ah... the lady is of the light." 

"The light?" Mike inquired. 

"She is Calannan, yes?" 

"What do you think, Vil? You of the light?" 

She shot Mike a sidelong glance, amusement brewing within anger. 

"What you know of the light, Mikael?" 

"What should I know?" 

The driver's voice broke into a hearty, belly laugh, the cab weaving and bouncing with the spasms of his merriment. Vilya concentrated her gaze out the window. The sun's thick rays seemed to fall down as crimson shingles, baked and plastered along the dry, ruddy terrain. 

"You children are pleasant, but where to go?" 

"Take us to Erfalas." 

"Hah! Good choice." 

The cab snaked around the back roads of Xin's underbelly, crossing the highway to Pinnath Carach and continuing coastward. The air grew perceptibly cooler, and Mike spotted a flock of gulls on the horizon. 

"Hey Vil... where're we going?" 

"Erfalas. You like it, trust me." 

The road came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a long rocky bluff. Forty feet below, the waves bore past beds of green kelp and red coral, shooting headlong into the stony grey cliffs. Beyond, the blue sea, Aeluin, stretched past the buoyant sudd, extending to infinity, its waters sweet and young, curling softly into the expansive horizon as they kissed the crystal sky, their colors shared, mixed together in some strange yet benevolent duet. 

Every liter was similar in chemistry, undulating together beneath cool sheets of air, but where the water touched the shore, so it assumed it's character, relentlessly hammering the broad cliffs, foaming against the lush coral, and settling quietly along the flat, sandy shores. Aeluin was young by geologic standards, bearing only a tenth the salinity of Tizar's ocean, safe for drinking in the short term and unmolested by the pollutants many other civilizations had carelessly scattered. 

Vilya began descending the sheer face, her movements unusually agile, as though she'd memorized the rock's most minute features. Mike followed, taking arduous care to mimic her steps and holds. He'd climbed rocks on Tizar, but never without gravitic momentum restrainers. Minus the security, he felt strangely naked, his nerves jittery and clumsy while a cool perspiration broke along his hairline. Dozens of steel eyehooks cut into the stone just above the water line. Vilya rested on one of them, allowing sprinkles of foam to catch in her long, dark hair. 

"Why are we here?" 

"Sightseeing." 

"Oh... right." 

"Give me hand." 

"What?" 

"Give." 

Mike stretched out his arm, and her thin fingers wrapped gracefully around his wrist. She tugged for a moment, and suddenly he was slipping, flailing against the stone to regain his balance as he toppled backwards. In an instant, he found himself hanging by a pair of cuffs firmly secured from his wrist to an eyehook. 

"Vilya!?" 

"You always such easy to snare?" 

He cursed as the steel cuff bit into the flesh of his wrist. Frantically, he scratched at the wet rock beneath, his borrowed shoes nearly falling off his feet as the waves came crashing in, pulverizing his legs against the stone. Mike clawed with his free arm, still bandaged, for a nook in the rock on which to hold while Vilya watched, unsympathetically, her eyebrows arched in contemplation of something devious. Finally, she spoke, her words following fluidly with the rushing waves. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Robots of Vitgar 

Joel Wachman 

Copyright (c) 1990



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nick Patterson was a visitor on the planet Vitgar. He didn't know the rules. So when a robot refused to listen to orders he naturally attempted to repair it himself. That was a big mistake. 

He awoke on a Tuesday morning, when the reddish glow of Vitgar's binary suns melted through the flimsy curtains on his apartment window. When he sat up on the couch his keys and an empty can of beer fell off his lap onto the floor. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. The small apartment was well furnished. A comfortable chair sat in one corner, lace doilies covering all the right places, his exhausted tweed jacket hanging limply over one arm. Bookshelves lined the walls opposite the couch, giving shelter to many familiar authors: Milton, James, Poe, Vonnegut....The other walls were decorated with various objets d'art, of which Patterson only recognized a black and white lithograph by Escher, a pair of hands drawing themselves. The place did not make him think of anywhere in particular, but there was something familiar about it, and for the first time in many years Patterson felt at home. 

When he got up for a cup of coffee the scene in the kitchen reminded of the previous night's dismal fiasco. The robot was strewn in a dozen pieces all over the kitchen table. Its great metal torso was propped up against the wall, assorted limbs and circuits tossed about the surface of the table like so many chessmen in a game played by amateurs. Some stale coffee and an open box of donut crumbs sulked beneath a pile of wires and hoses in one corner. In the center of the furious mess sat a lonely black box adorned with tubing and membranes. It was surrounded on all sides by curious probing electronic test equipment. Once, it was the robot's motor control center. Now it was just a box. 

Patterson sat down at the table and folded his arms around the chaos he had created. The robot, Harley Vlondee, had greeted him when he entered the apartment with a warm handshake and a friendly introduction as his personal valet. As Patterson felt he needed neither a valet nor a robot pal, he dismissed Harley as politely as he could. The robot insisted, bringing Patterson a plate of hors d'oeuvres. Patterson declined again, gently pushing the plate and the robot away. 

"Look, I don't need you," he said. "Please go away and turn off." 

"I don't turn off, Mr. Patterson," Harley replied, "I am here to serve you. If you do not need anything now, I shall wait in my room." 

"I don't need anything now, and I won't need anything at all from you while I'm here." 

"Please, Mr. Patterson," The robot adopted a somewhat condescending tone, "I know our customs are unfamiliar to you, but there is no reason to be impolite. We have done everything we can to make your stay here comfortable. Please do not re- turn the favor with rudeness." 

Patterson didn't think he was being rude. After all, he knew you can't be impolite to a machine. As the robot did not seem to be listening to his commands, he walked over to it and started looking for the power switch. 

"Mr. Patterson, what are you doing?" 

"I am going to turn you off." 

"Don't be ridiculous," the robot snorted, "I don't turn off any more than you do. Please do not touch me." 

"What do you mean, you don't turn off? Every droid has a switch." 

"You clearly don't understand," the robot's voice sounded indignant, "You may have similar creatures on your planet, Mr. Patterson, who are mere hulking, unconscious assemblages of metal. But I assure you, I am as sentient as you are." Harley Vlondee recoiled from Patterson's fingers. "PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH ME." 

Patterson lifted the robot's shirt and found a single phillips-head screw in the middle of its torso. Harley's metal frame was covered with a clammy synthetic that was kept warm by an internal heating system. It did not feel like skin at all. 

"I'll go get a screwdriver." 

Horrified, now, Vlondee began to shout, "You will not get a screwdriver or any other implement! If you continue, Mr. Patterson, I shall have to call the Authorities!" 

Patterson came back from his bedroom, screwdriver in hand, and headed towards the robot. 

"You know," Patterson continued, brandishing the screwdriver, "where I come from they've almost entirely phased out the lower droid series. We found we just don't need them anymore. Now, if you ask me, I would rather be switched off nice and quick than allowed to wear out over time. It's a much more dignified way to go, don't you think?" 

Vlondee backed into a corner and trembled. Patterson came forward and managed to grab the tail of the droid's shirt. He tried desperately to hold the robot still so he could get good leverage on the screw in its belly. In the ensuing struggle Vlondee's arms flailed in every direction and he emitted strained, aristocratic cries of "Help!" and "Desist, immediately!" At some point, and Patterson couldn't quite remember how this happened, the screwdriver pierced the counterfeit skin and made a sickening clanking sound, coming into contact with something deep inside, at which point Harley Vlondee stopped moving. Forever. 

Patterson stood still for a full minute and then murmured, "Oh, shit." 

He knew he had broken something crucial inside the suddenly defunct valet. He dragged the silent form into the kitchen and mounted it on top of the table. The screwdriver wiggled in the android's torso, and a small rivulet of clear, smelly fluid seeped out of the murderous hole. Patterson began his futile effort at repairing the thing at once. 

That was six hours and a long nap ago. 

Reluctantly, Patterson looked up from the table, stretched one arm out over the scattered body parts, and lightly touched the video screen on the wall. He really didn't want to tell anybody what he had done. It was supremely embarassing. But his guilty conscience was getting to him. Patterson wasn't the type to break things in hotel rooms. He had never even stolen a towel. 

The video screen came alive with colors and symbols. Then, the face of his business associate appeared, smiling warmly. 

"Hello, my friend," the face said. Sovhavn was wearing the traditional turban and loose fitting kimono of his people. Behind him Patterson could see various horrifying particulars of the Vitgarian's household. "What can I do for you this afternoon?" 

"Hello, Sovhavn. I think I need some help." Patterson was not quite sure how his associate would react when he told him he had dismantled part of his welcoming party. Nevertheless, this man was the only person he knew well enough to call. 

"I've had some trouble with my robot valet, um...`Harley'." 

"Trouble? What sort of trouble?" 

"I can't put it back together." 

Sovhavn's face dropped. His eyes widened, his jaw loosened and where there had been a diplomatic, almost sincere smile of affection a blank, uncomprehending stare took over. 

"You...what?" 

"Well, you see," Patterson started stuttering. He always stuttered when he sensed he was in trouble. And he was quite sure now that he had committed a serious faux pas. He could only hope that Svhavn would write him off as an ignorant tourist. "I didn't want to...to...b-break it, just turn it off for a while. Then it l-lunged at me and I had a screwdriv-verer in my hand so I--" 

"Don't move. I'll be right over." Sovhavn disappeared and the video screen went blank. 

Patterson slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. 

Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang and Patterson lead Sovhavn into the kitchen. 

"Bad. Very bad." There was a squeaky, metallic tone to Sovhavn's voice that Patterson didn't like at all. 

"Can you help me put him back together?" 

"No." 

"But I'm sure with a few spare p-parts it'll be as g-good as new." 

"This is a very bad...cannot rectify." Sovhavn, who had been standing stiffly in the doorway, stepped forward into the kitchen. He shuddered and stopped. His face assumed an officious expression. 

"Look," Sovhavn continued, "I am afraid we cannot offer you a lawyer in this case. You may call your consulate if you wish, but I am not sure they will be able to help you, either." 

"Lawyer? Case? What, are you going to sue me?" 

Sovhavn turned and faced the incredulous visitor. His demeanor had changed entirely. His motions were no longer fluid and diplomatic. They were stiff and precise. His language was still formal, but the tone had become menacing. 

"No, sir," he said without blinking, "we are going to charge you with murder." And with that, he walked out. 

The next day, Nickolas R. Patterson sat bewildered and humble in the center of the huge vaulted chamber of the Vitgarian Authority, Marnjestabl Branch. Hundreds of Vitgarians fluttered about, carrying papers, scurrying back and forth, talking amongst themselves. Occasionally someone addressed him from across the hall, sending embarrassing echoes of his name into seemingly infinite reverberations among the stone walls and stained-glass windows, or came up to the circular enclosure where he sat on a straight backed chair surrounded by two armed guards and whispered closely in his ear, "Name? Visa? Plea?" 

"Plea?" Patterson was more than a little annoyed. He had been to Earth, where murder is barely a punishable offense, to Bennington's Planet where everyone is a vegitarian, to Colony IX, where there are only six (barely sentient) human beings monitoring an entire planet of machines which churn out sixteen million metric tons of synthetic corn-flakes daily--feeding the galaxy's hungry. Never had he encountered a race of people who consider the dismemberment of an automaton to be murder. 

Eventually, the hall became quiet as the flurry of people and papers settled down into their respective chairs and briefcases like leaves falling into a neat little pile. Patterson anxiously glanced around the room at the many heavy wooden tables looking for a familiar face. Sovhavn was nowhere to be found. 

Everyone's eyes turned towards a huge podium in a corner of the room. It was set higher than the rest of the tables, and two or three stairs lead up to a small platform. A door opened and a quaintly dressed Vitgarian climbed up those stairs. Patterson assumed he was the Judge. He wore a colorful tripterous headdress adorned with the feathers of a rare local bird. Over his expensive royal-blue kimono he wore a fur-lined cape that reached from his shoulders to the ground. As he ascended the podium he cast a menacing glance in Patterson's direction. 

At the bottom of the podium, the baliff swept an evangelical hand into the communal space. "Awyee, awyee, come hither unto the great hall of adjudication and hasten the course of justice. The prisoner stands accused of murder. Let all those who will prosecute or defend assemble and put themselves to the task." 

The Judge shuffled some papers, leaned back in his chair, and cleared his throat. "Will the Prosecutor please step forward." 

A general excitement again rose in the hall as hundreds of papers were rearranged and the assembly muttered sotto voce. A door opened behind the podium where the Judge sat. The man who walked through it into the chamber was Sovhavn. He passed the enclosure where Patterson was sitting but did not look at him. He sat down at a desk with three other men and said, "I am ready." 

Patterson wanted to reach out to Sovhavn. He wanted him to give it up, to say it really was all a joke. Patterson wondered, was Sovhavn trying to see how far he could be pushed before he would cry "uncle?" But Sovavn just sat at his desk, shuffling papers and looking like a formidable opponent in this all too real legal battle. 

The Judge said, "State your case, Prosecutor." 

Sovhavn stood. He looked down at his desk, took a deep breath and began to speak. "Mr. Patterson, it seems you have a lot to learn about life. I don't just mean your life, the puny collection of mistakes that carries you through from birth to death. I mean the juice that flows through everything from a squid to an elephant, the distinction between inert and blessed matter. The actions that brought you here today are the result of a fundamental misunderstanding of the value of life. 

"You acted embarrassed when you told me you had 'broken' Harley Vlondee, and you called me over to help you out. But you had no idea why I was so upset when I was confronted with that scene in your kitchen. I bet you still don't know. 

"Mr. Patterson, have you ever heard of organomechanical systems?" 

Patterson shook his head. 

"Organomechanical systems are living creatures whose gestation occurs entirely externally to any other organic being. They are made up of a combination of mechanical and organic parts, and are in many ways superior to normal organic systems because they are less susceptible to disease and fatigue." 

"You may be wondering why this is relevant to the case. It is relevant because all Vitgarians are organomechanical." 

"You mean you're all--" 

"Robots," Sovhavn said. "We're not robots in the way you're used to thinking of them. We're complex organic systems, like yourself. It's just that we don't gestate inside each other." 

"I refuse to believe it," Patterson said. "You're just as human as anyone. I can tell it by the way you behave. You're not stiff and clunky. You're just--normal." 

"Even organic systems can be programmed. I think you call it `education'. We are living, sentient beings. That is, of course, until some arrogant bioderm--that's our term for you, comes at us with a--a screwdriver!" 

Sovhavn let this fact sink in. "Therefore, you must understand that we consider dismemberment to be murder. You are a murderer, Mr. Patterson." 

"Now wait a minute," Patterson cried. 

"The prisoner will remain silent until spoken to." The baliff made a threatening move towards Patterson's cage. Patterson simmered. The proceedings continued for some minutes while Sovhavn described various details concerning what he found in Patterson's apartment--test equipment attached to the victim's innards, the general disarray of the apartment, Patterson's own testimony that he had disemboweled the valet. 

After all the testimony had been given, the Judge turned towards Patterson. 

"You have heard the evidence against you. As yet you have shown no remorse. What have you to say for yourself?" 

"Sir," he started respectfully, "I am touched by your concern for the robot I broke. And I'm really sorry. But don't you think that this whole thing has gone just a little too far. I mean, I'll pay for anything that can't be fixed!" 

Someone in the large assembly behind him shouted, "You bet you'll pay!" 

"Murder is a very serious crime, Mr. Patterson." Sovhavn showed no trace of humor. 

"But I didn't murder. I just broke a robot." 

"Robot? Mr. Patterson, I don't think you understand. Harley Vlondee was not `just a robot.' He was a living, breathing, functioning being. Just what do you mean, exactly, by `just a robot'?" 

"Just what I said. He wasn't, well, you know--like you and me. He--er it--was a machine, an automaton. It couldn't have been sentient. It just couldn't." 

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Tell that to his widow!" He was escorted out of the hall. 

"Mr. Patterson," Sovhavn continued, "You say Mr. Vlondee was not alive. Didn't he tell you he was? Didn't he plead with you not to--er--`shut him off', as you so indelicately put it? Your honor," he turned towards the Judge and lifted a small disk from the table in front of him, "I present to you the permanent record of the last twenty minutes of Harrison T. Vlondee's life as extracted from his neural recorder. Let the evidence show that, with the imminent violence presented to him and the apparent disbelief on the part of the accused that he was, indeed, a living, thinking creature, Mr. Vlondee pleaded sanely and rationally for his life. And let the evidence further show that that plea was ignored, nay, arrogantly disregarded by the accused." 

"So entered." 

"Look, Sovhavn," Patterson broke in, "Vlondee was a crude machine. It had nuts and bolts and tubing inside. It even had a screw in the middle of its stomach. Its skin was synthetic, its speech was produced by some sort of computer in its throat, its reactions were canned. Why, it even played a recording of `Hail to the Chief' when I first arrived in the apartment. When I took it apart, I saw wires and circuit boards and metal, just like any other robot I have ever fixed. This one was a little difficult, that's why I called you. But to say that I murdered someone, why, that's insane." 

Sovhavn slammed his briefcase closed and walked towards Patterson, fuming. His voice was threateningly quiet. He hissed. "Who are you to decide who is alive and who is not? True, Harlee Vlondee was made of metal and fibers and liquid. True, he had a brain that was constructed from gallium arsenide and copper ceramic. True, he could speak twenty five languages, recreate any sound he had ever heard, act out any one of sixteen hundred specific cultural rituals in the correct context. But, Mr. Patterson, could not the same be said for you? 

"You are made of bones and sinews and blood. Your brain is made of organic proteins and runs on glucose. You can speak three or four languages and you act out any one of several thousand cultural rituals without pausing to swallow. 

"You are certainly a superior breed, Mr. Patterson. Your motions are more fluid. Your skin is more supple, your thoughts more subtle, your moods more sudden. You might have a tick, a hobble, a pain in your groin. You are more agile, your health is more fragile, your type more prone to guile. You might be an artisan, a scientist, a Renaissance man. You might be a partisan, a pacifist, a prince. You mate, you rear children, you feel hatred, you fear the wilderness. Any of these roles may suit you and your human condition, but murder" He paused here for effect "murder is never justified." 

Patterson interrupted, "But Vlondee was manufactured. He was built by people. He--it--was trained by people. It didn't have a brain, it had a computer. It didn't have a--a soul. It's not murder to destroy something without a soul." 

"There is no difference between skin and silicon where souls are concerned, Mr. Patterson, because nobody knows what they are. Can you point to your soul? Who is to say that the labor of a human woman when she gives birth to a perfect human child is not equal to the labor of a hundred men who twist and pry and think and sweat and wrestle fifty kilos of raw material into a perfect machine? Who is to say that the oils and solvents and liquid nitrogen that course through the tubing of an incipient Harlee Vlondee are not equal to the blood and plasma and amniotic fluid that keep a foetus alive? Who is to say that the final ride along steamy, crowded assembly belts from the galvanizer to the inspection station cannot be compared to that final push through the birth canal, or the turn of a switch not the doctor's tap, or the phrase, `I am working' not the same as a baby's cry? And are they not both the undeniable, tautological, spectacularly beautiful declaration `I am alive!' 

"Mr. Patterson, are you alive? What was it you took from Harlee Vlondee if it was not his life? That you are a murderer is irrefutable. I'm beginning to think you are also a fool." 

Sovhavn was shaking with contempt. He whirled away from the enclosure where he had spoken, his face almost touching Patterson's face, and sat down in the Prosecutor's Chair with a nod towards the Judge. 

There was emphatic applause. Patterson sat drained and dazed in his seat. He opened his arms to the hostile crowd and began to plead. 

"I am an alien. I am unfamiliar with your ethical code. That is my fault, I know. But I am only a businessman, not an ambassador. I will gladly do anything you wish. I will leave your planet, promise never to come back. Please understand, I didn't know." 

It was an admission of guilt. 

The Judge rose. He donned his three-feathered hat and made a wide hieratic gesture with his hands. "Nikolas Patterson, you have been accused and tried in the Vitgarian way. The verdict has been attained through fair and just means. It is the judgement of this court that you shall suffer the appropriate penalty, as proscribed by our laws. The court has spoken." 

Images of gallows and electric chairs flashed through Pattersons mind. It seemed incredible to him that he would soon be eating his last steak. Soon, too soon, walking down that last, dank cooridor to the okroom where the hooded executioner waited. He wanted to beg, to cry, to plead. But he didn't have a chance. 

With the sound of cracking whips, four straps coiled themselves around Patterson's body, pulling him snugly against the back of the chair. The platform on which he was seated descended into the floor. As he went lower, he saw the crowd leave the hall. The Judge was gone, and so was Sovhavn. There was nobody left to plead with, and the platform plunged into darkness. 

Patterson was astonished that he awoke. He stared at the bright white walls of a small, bare cubicle, in which he lay on a comfortable palette. He breathed in. Alive! He got up, walked to the door, and stepped into a hallway. 

He found himself in a luxurious apartment. Hand woven rugs hovered over a hardwood floor. Halogen lamps beamed brightly onto bookcases, artwork, tapestries. The smell of curried lamb was thick in the air. This was no prison cell. He could not remember coming here. He could not remember anything. Dumbfounded, he stood in the center of the room--and waited. 

Two hours later the door opened and a man in an overcoat stepped in. He was carrying a briefcase. Patterson wanted to ask him a thousand questions. How did he get here? What was this place? What would happen to him now? 

He heard music. He couldn't identify the tune, but it reminded him of presidents. It seemed to him that everything was moving very slowly. It took ages for the man to take off his coat. The music caused the man in the coat to smile. Patterson tried to open his mouth to speak, but he couldn't bring himself to form the words. The music stopped. The man in the overcoat spoke. 

"Ah, Nickolas," the man said jovially, "would you fix me a Manhattan?" 

Patterson found himself walking towards the bar. Something in the back of his mind wondered, "why am I doing this?" He began to concoct the drink. He was surprised that he knew how to mix it. He had never drunk a Manhattan before. 

Then he remembered. Even organic systems can be programmed. 

"Nickolas," he heard behind the low ringing that began to rise in his ears, "Nickolas, bring me my drink!" 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE HARRISON CHAPTERS 

Chapter 10 

Jim Vassilakos 

Copyright (c) 1992



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well?" 

Vlep crossed the front room again. The flat was still in chaos, furniture and personal belongings scattered haphazardly, but he was sure it was not because of the quarry. Sule stood in the doorway, sharp eyes transfixed upon her servant as soft, blue rays of predawn light fell silently along her icy, white mane. Vlep ignored her while she stood there contaminating the mental space with frustration. 

Frustration, definitely, and yet there was something underneath it, some sort of satisfaction. 

"Nothing?!" 

He shook his head, "It is as I told you before." 

"You ran us into a dead end, before." 

Vlep turned, cautiously. Her patience was like a strip of rubber ready to snap. 

"Is it my fault that your quarry decided to go to the Runyaelin during the ceremony of sacrifice? How am I supposed to trace him from such a place of death?" 

"No excuses, psyche. I need information now." 

He shrugged. She understood very little about the second sight. Explaining the difficulties would earn few favors. He decided to shovel out the few answers he had rather than bank on her dwindling hope. 

"I will be plain Sule. I don't think this mess was caused by the quarry." 

"You said Harrison was here." 

"He was. I am certain of it. But I don't believe he did this." 

"Why didn't you tell me this before. 

"I was not sure before," he lied. "Beside, would you have believed me?" 

"Come here, Vlep... closer." 

She smacked the sheepish grin off his face before he even noticed her hand in motion. By the sting it left, he guessed that there would be blisters. 

"When you have permission to think, I'll let you know. Until then you do as you're told. Clear?" 

"Ah, very," he replied, surprised that he hadn't seen it coming. 

"Who is this person who is with Harrison?" 

"I don't know. A man, I think." 

"And he didn't follow Harrison to the Runyaelin?" 

Vlep shook his head, "I'm not sure. I was keying on Harrison only." 

"Get me answers," Sule commanded, stepping back from the doorway. 

Vlep rubbed the side of his face, looking again around the flat. 

"He was looking for something." 

"Obviously. Did he find it?" 

Vlep stepped into the hallway, crossing the threshold into the bedroom. The impressions were mixed and strong as before. 

"The girl Harrison was with... it is difficult to see past her." 

Red twill hung silent in the still morning air. Somewhere up above, a bird was singing. 

"Try harder, Vlep." 

He put his hand on the window sill. A mixture of anxiety upon anxiety, fresh and unpolluted. Vlep crossed back to the front door, this time almost running. 

"What is it?" 

Outside, the sidewalk lay empty except for the clutter of dead leaves and the white, government car. 

"What is it, Vlep?" 

"He sees something, yet it isn't there." 

"What does he see?" 

He descended the steps, looking at the pavement directly in front of the flat. From the corner of his eye, he could see an alley cat cross the sidewalk and hide underneath the car, its two occupants oblivious to the intrusion, and in the back of his mind he heard the whine of a chemical engine. 

"Vlep!" 

Vlep felt his arm extending to point down the street, "He was running from something." 

"Get in the car. You're going to take us where he went." 

"No. I have to be on foot." 

"Okay. Come people! Vlep's taking us for a walk." 

Soft voices crossed within the fog like knotted strands of hair, pulling taut and then snapping as they spiraled and blurred beyond recognition. The lumpy terrain seemed familiar, but the wispy, white haze swirled his recollection into a befuddled mass of disarranged static. Below, a small girl with long, sandy hair and wide, hazel eyes stood screaming, her voice lost within the vacant space between. Then the old city rose cautiously to its feet, a museum of looming statues, gargantuan and hollow, all abandoned except for the rush of tattered echoes, voices of bogeymen, or so he was told. 

He'd occasionally see them, their skin drab and mottled. They kept a distance, eyes webbed with curiosity, daring to look but not to touch as he snapped images like a tourist at the zoo. Sometimes he pretended to be some famous archeologist searching for relics of the past, sneaking home later to bury his trophies before anyone should discovered his absence. The bogey-people didn't seem to mind. They would sometimes even leave him gifts which he would collect with a gravitic net and boil before handling. 

They had only become angry once, and then they poured out enough anger to sate the frustration of an entire lifetime. Mobs of them had stormed the Naval Hospital, the one safe place in the old city or barrens as it became known. The underground routes to the suburbs were caved-in, and the overland barriers were laced with mines. After the battle, the hospital stood alone, the buildings around it reduced to rubble by explosive detonations. Hours were counted within by the number of corpses incinerated on the 40th floor. Volunteers, they were called. 

"Put on the slickersuit, or you'll be next," his father had warned. Mike spent a week just learning how to secure the plastic helmet. Righty-tighty... clip, tighten, tie... swivel, clip, tighten, tie, check. Or was it tighten, clip? "My son, the space cadet." He accepted his father's recognition with a sense of accomplishment, holding the memory with a youthful pride which bordered on the pompous. A year would pass before he learned that the comment wasn't meant as a compliment. 

He cheeks wore a rosy hue that day, somewhat brighter than the burnt brown of the doctor's whose thick, blue veins and patchy tufts of white hair blew back and forth in the ventilating stink. Dirty beads of perspiration glistened on his brows, flowing in trickles from the wrinkles between his eyes, as he stacked small metallic cylinders into the small, silver box. 

"Here boy," he offered in a soft but desperate voice. "Take this to your mother. And watch yourself while you're out there. Lei got away; crafty, little runt." 

Outside, sunbeams bathed the asphalt in a bellowing heat, and the dust of the dead fell about him like a summer shower, clogging the filter as he unfastened the helmet and gulped for air. The buildings stood about him in various states of disrepair, the tall communications tower rising like a lone palm tree amidst a rocky and deserted beach. Memories of her running along the flat, wet sands sparked to mind. She'd been crying. Her brother destroyed the house she'd built for the small, white, kitten crabs. He couldn't remember why. 

Somewhere in the distance he heard her voice, sweat accumulating in his eyebrows as he searched the hillside. She stood near the top beside the old cathedral, its tall, stained-glass windows, once polished and beautiful before people came and painted graffiti on the saints. Now, instead of reading from scrolls, they played long violins and wore red and black headbands. The big guy in the dome window no longer smiled, and his chalice and loaf were replaced with a straight-backed snake and a bulging phallus. 

They'd visited it several times. The few who attended sat in sparse clusters, their moods somber and suspicious. She'd once gone wandering, greeting people as they came in. His father grabbed her by the shoulder and put her over his knee. Later she asked him why, but he wouldn't explain. He just looked up at the dome, muttering something under his breath. 

"Does Jesus sing, Daddy?" 

"He snaps the sticks, sweetheart. Can you hear him?" 

They never went back after that, but his mother told them stories about how people used to pray there, especially after what had happened. He didn't understand what she meant by praying, but it seemed like a serious business. It had something to do with the guys in the windows. She often showed him her favorite. 

"Michael!?" 

She started running down the hill, her bony legs quaking with each hop until a moist patch suddenly gave way and she blundered into the thickets, her legs falling away from underneath, hurtling her into the dense brush below. He felt a cold lump of cotton form in his throat, stealing his voice. Then she crawled out, tears streaming down her cheeks as patches of blood showed through the knees of her white stockings. 

"Mike, don't leave me. I'm afraid." 

A shaft of stark red cascaded from the dome, its bright, pulsing heat joining with the perspiration in his brows. Together, they splashed into his eyes, blinding him within in a warm veil of brine. For a moment he was aware only of the sun's broad cymbals clashing on his skull and of his pounding heartbeat and the sprinting sound of his feet touching the ground and leaving again in quick succession. 

"Michael!" 

The pounding grew louder, like a sledgehammer crushing a block of marble, all the splinters shattering in all different directions, jumping out at people, bodies imploding in a maelstrom of hydrogen and fire, and then the blurry ground rising as he skidded and slid down the loamy slope, skipping over brambles and thrush as large stones protruded from the path to strike him. A dew-laden carpet of grass and twigs lay before his feet, the small, crooked trees emerging sporadically from the dense brush as birds scattered from their branches, the squashing noise of his sprint splashing dirty water toward either side. 

He'd dropped the metal box somewhere far behind and kept running until her wails were only a thin whisper in the distance, the sound reverberating against the walls of his conscience, a texture soft and familiar but which he could never seem to reach. 

"Namarie, nilimo, ve firnuvan hior." 

And then it faded until it was too quiet to distinguish as more than random noise. 

"Mike..." 

His whole body tingled, a fluttering sensation as though he were chopped into pieces and frozen. He tried to move his fingers, yet his hands couldn't find them, nor could his arms find his hands, and so forth, all the way to his spirit, unshackled and floating free, ready to draw away with the gentle barrens wind. 

"Son of a bitch is giving up... five more cc's." 

"C'mon Mike, pull out...." 

A thin man stood over him, watching Mike as though he were some spectacle at a freak show. Mike imagined the tall spokes jutting from his skull to be the long fronds of a palm, it's stalk swaying in the coastal wind. Thin, brown eyebrows danced like frolicking caterpillars, the soft eyes beneath shimmering a placid blue. 

"Did you hear me? Five more!" 

"Got it...." 

With the sudden jolt in pulse-rate, Mike's fingers gripped at the null field for something to squeeze. 

"Well... that worked...." 

Johanes pulled back the syringe as the convulsions began, a rattling of bones against flesh all suspended in air. 

"Is he gonna make it?" 

"Of course he will... although..." 

"Although?" 

"What's left when he gets back...." Spokes shrugged his shoulders apathetically, "Unhook him." 

Beneath a canopy of skull, thin fibers pulled taunt and disappeared, the throbbing hum echoing into the silence of an invisible rhyme. Johanes quickly cleaned the connections before replacing their caps, and Spokes bent over Mike, checking the pupil reflex with a bright penlight. 

"How ya feeling, Harrison?" 

Mike felt the grid solidify as he involuntarily rotated toward the cheery voice. His eyes overcompensated for the distance making the figured blur in and out of focus, and he could hear a steady pounding in his head. Spokes slapped him on the cheek and watched as the sensation tingled slowly across the gatherer's face. 

"Huh?" 

"You need to talk to me, Harrison. How many fingers do I have up?" 

"Uh... three." 

"Excellent. You don't mind if I check out a few reflexes, do you?" A crisp bolt of electricity arced from somewhere above, its touch like icy fire upon his forehead. Mike winced at the shock. 

"Good. Now, try saying something intelligent for us." 

Mike paused, finally blurting out the first thing that came to mind: "Where am I?" 

Spokes beamed, apparently impressed. 

"Tyberian compound. How much do you remember?" 

Mike pictured Vilya sitting under the ventilation shaft, her dark hair shuffling gently in the damp current. From the corner of his vision he could barely discern the outline of her shadow amidst the yellow rays of sunshine which scattered evenly through an open doorway and onto the cold cement floor. All the while Spokes kept trying to make conversation, threatening to test a few more reflexes if Mike didn't mumble a response every so often. 

"You folding up on me, Harrison?" 

Mike yanked his head to the side but the field re-solidified, closing him within a tight bubble of gravitational force. Spokes, looking vaguely apologetic, readjusted the controls as the field gently settled Mike to the floor. 

The shadow and a pair of legs crossed the chamber in synchronous step, finally meeting like twin V's at a pair of quagga-hide loafers beside the bio-monitor's tall, metallic frame. Mike watched his own pulse rate in the electronic display for several seconds before he realized that it matched the faint pounding noise in his head. A pair of electronic pinchers still wavered carelessly in the gravitic null. The densest objects were always the last to fall due to over-compensation on the part of the computer. Johanes snatched them on their slow descent as he watched Spokes unplug the inertial modules. Then he looked toward Mike, his sweaty face the color of a rotten egg. 

"Anybody home in there?" 

Mike considered the question carefully, but Johanes seemed impatient for a response. 

"What's the matter? Can't he understand?" 

"Of course he understands; he's just a little whomped." 

Spokes finished stowing the equipment and turned around, a white plastic tube in one hand and a pair of silicon adapters in the other. He knelt down beside Mike, cautiously extracting a thread of optifiber from the tube and uncapping two of the jack's on Mike's skull. 

"This is going to feel sorta funny, but we figure it's better to zap you while you're still dead to the world." 

Spokes worked both ends of the thread into the adapters, finally plugging them into Mike's skull so that the optifiber seemed to emerge at one point and sink back at another. Mike felt a tingling sensation within his joints which spread along his skin as Spokes sat back to admire his handiwork. The tingling slowly grew into a strange, blazing sort of itch, as though hundreds of electrical spiders were crawling within his stomach, head, and limbs. Spokes and Johanes held him down as the floor seemed to wrap itself around his body in a vain attempt to extinguish the fire. Johanes was talking in a worried tone, but Spokes kept shaking his head as if everything was normal. 

Mike listened to the sound of the voices, finally accepting the burning sensation which swept back and forth along his spine and through his legs like the icy Aeluin on the gentle, sloping shores beside Erfalas. Then, it slowly began to transform itself into a numbing, almost paralytic massage, the tingling returning, and the entire series of sensations beginning anew and repeating, over and over. After more iterations than he cared to count, Mike noticed that the familiar hands which held him down during the burning periods had mysteriously disappeared. He waited for awhile to see if they would return, finally observing that the yellow rays were also gone, and the room was bathed in dim blue and pink, most of it generated by the bio-monitor's video display and small glowbeads scattered about the walls. 

Reaching to his head almost instinctively, he carefully unscrewed the adapters, allowing the sensations to leave him like a decent lover: sweaty, sore and thirsty. A sluice-stick lay conscientiously beside him on the floor, and he chewed it open and sucked out the syrupy contents while righting himself into a sitting position. Something sharp bumped into his head, and he crouched back down, squinting toward the ceiling. A flimsi-leaf seemed to dangle in mid-air, "try me" scrawled across it in dim, glowing pink. Mike tugged it free from two long black cords which hung from one of the many ceiling cables, curling it and himself into a tight ball. The cold cement felt strangely comforting, the wet, sticky sluice still coating his numb lips as he watched the cords swing gently back and forth, beckoning in the dim light. 

He reached toward them, propping himself up with one elbow as he tugged himself back into a sitting position. Mike examined them, cautiously, the dim pink light changing in intensity as the flimsi slowly stretched itself out. The cords ended in adapters not unlike those he had recently unscrewed. Shrugging, he screwed the new ones into where they seemed to fit. At first he could just hear voices, but from the shadows around him, ghosts seemed to emerge. 

"Well look who's here." 

"Hey, Harrison. How ya feeling?" 

"Who is he?" 

"Must be a novice. He doesn't seem to be very talkative." 

Mike felt a sudden jolt of static like an electric slap across his senses. 

"Hey, cut it out. He's my guest." 

"Sorry." 

"Hey Mike. That was pretty quick. You okay?" 

"Spokes?" Mike gulped down, blinking his eyes to refocus. It didn't seem to matter whether his eyes were open or closed. They were still there, all the same. 

"Yeah, it's me. Cecil's here too." 

"Hi there, little one." 

Cecil's image seemed to have yellow eyes, shining faintly through an acidic smog like the sun on Tyber. Mike nodded, still contemplating whether or not to tear the twin cords from his skull. 

"You seem a little uneasy." 

Mike shrugged, "I've having a weird day." 

"I zapped him after we installed his output," Spokes explained. 

"So soon?!" The yellow eyes flared brightly. 

"Easy Cecil. Johanes said they were in a hurry." 

The eyes dulled and tilted slightly. 

"So how did you like the jitters, Michael?" 

Mike frowned, "What's he talking about?" 

"Technical stuff. In order to stick in the outputs, we have to go all the way to the amygdala, and that means that we have to get close to the hippocampus." 

"The butcher speaks." It was a voice from the crowd. 

"Shut-up; I didn't do him," Spokes retaliated. 

"I'm lost," Mike confessed. 

"Whenever you go that deep, anything can happen. The mind has a tendency to flip-out sometimes. We talked about it before the operation." 

"We did?" 

"Yeah. You don't remember, but we did. That's another problem with getting too close to the hippocampus. It tends to scramble short-term memory." 

"The last thing I can remember it talking to Johanes." 

"He brought you in this morning. We took you to the doc." 

Yellow eyes seemed to dance in circles. 

"The doc?" 

"The butcher," Cecil interrupted. "I felt that I still owed you a favor." 

"Some favor," Mike mumbled, except that his voice carried across the ether loud and clear, much to the amusement of several electronic loiterers. Even Spokes seemed to get a good snort out of it. Then he turned serious, as though perfectly able to jump from one emotion to the other without crossing the intervening space. 

"It was time to join the club, Mike." 

"Is that why you're helping me now? Because you wanted a new member for your sick society?" 

"No, actually I'm getting paid." 

"Johanes?" 

"Yep." 

"So where's he been while I've been twitching on the floor all day?" 

Mike heard a few more snorts, exact replicas of the earlier ones, except this time some vague maniacal laughter seemed to hover in the distance, yellow eyes swirling excitedly. 

"You can stop talking with your mouth now, Harrison. Everybody can hear you. Use your head. Just look at me and focus." 

"Like this?!" 

"Hey...." 

"What were you doing to me today, Spokes?!" 

"What are you talking about?" 

"I'm talking about the funny feeling you said I'd have. Can you see how much I'm laughing?!" 

Mike felt an on-rush of static block the way between them. Cecil stopped laughing and stared intently. 

"What are you two fighting about?" 

"He's pissed 'cause I zapped him," Spokes confided. 

The yellow eyes nodded, knowingly. 

"It had to happen eventually, old friend. Spokes let your mind get to know itself. Auto-feedback was all it was. The pathways have to build-up mental calluses, and you have to learn to deal with pain. Spokes here is surprised you came out as quickly as you did. For many people, it takes much longer." 

Mike straightened, "I don't understand." 

"Johanes wants you to go into the dodec," Spokes interrupted. "If it tries to nail you in any way, the only chance you're going to have is if you have some resistance. You understand?" 

"No." 

"Well don't worry about it. It was for your own good." 

"Where is Johanes, and where is the dodec?" 

"He went back to the Arien Mansion. He took the dodec with him, Mike." 

"Shit. Where are you?" 

"At the Sintrivani." 

"You mean you guys got done with me and just left me here to rot?" 

Spokes sort of shook his head and nodded at the same time, "Johanes said that ISIS has some psyche bloodhound sniffing your trail but hard. He went for help to smear the scent, but neither of us are yearning to be around you right now. Is that so hard to understand?" 

"I've heard enough." 

"Johanes said he'd be coming back for you, so don't go any..." 

Mike unscrewed the cords from his jacks and watched the electric apparitions evaporate into darkness as graciously as they had appeared. Outside, a chilly breeze flapped across the streets, lifting loose dirt and leaves into the sky and inducing the hairs on his bare chest to prickle and tense in rows. With a fuzzy warm ambience enshrouding his senses, he ambled along the side of the road, waving down a taxi before the main gates. 

"Where to?" 

The driver was middle-aged, his sparse, graying hair combed straight back, eyes sunken and tired in the rear-view mirror. Mike dipped his hands into his pockets, the emptiness sparking an image of Cecil's money in a pool of blood. Sighing, he mumbled an apology and shuffled himself out of the car. 

"Is okay. Where you want to go?" 

"I'm broke." 

"Get in." 

The driver opened the front door to prove his sincerity, and Mike climbed in, unsure whether to thank him or just do as he was told, and the driver looked sympathetic. 

"You know where you're going?" 

"Erfalas." 

Mike felt his back and shoulders affix themselves to the plastic seat covers, a sticky noise resulting every time the car hit a bump in the road. The driver either didn't notice, didn't mind, or was just being polite. 

"So what the name of you?" 

"Michael; my friends call me Mike. You?" 

"Pateras; my friends call me Pat," he qualified with a smirk. 

"Why the charity?" 

"You look like you need it. You know the output of you bleeds?" 

Mike reached to his skull, withdrawing a smear of pasty orange puss. 

"Here, use this." 

"A towel?" 

"Hitch-hiker must never forget it." 

Mike draped it over his head, catching the ullage as it tried to drip down his neck. The rest began to dry into a sticky crust. 

"The daughter of me was a chiphead. She tell me which is input and which is output. That all I know." 

"She was a chiphead? What is she now?" 

The man half smiled, half winced. He dug out his wallet and extracted the image plate. Mike leafed through those in memory, several of his little girl, first as a baby and finally as a teenager with all the years in between. The last one showed a bald kid in a hospital bed. 

"They burn out head of her, you know. She not know which way was up." 

Mike handed back the plate. 

Erfalas was cold and windy, and the driver offered him the towel. 

"What have I need of it? Is blood of you. You clean, yes?" 

"Yeah. Thanks for the ride." 

He stood, watching, as the tail-lights ebbed into the distance. The beach was soft and sandy, and moonlight sparked along the watery horizon, however, the hooks on the cliffs were no longer to be seen. Only rarely would one emerge from the pounding waves, and then it would sparkle like a diamond across the dim, lavender seaside. 

Mike winced as the cold water stung his scalp and the bleeding renewed. Though he couldn't smell any salt, the nerves around the wound told him that some was there. He finally staggered out of the water, throwing the towel around his body as he curled up between two tall rocks. The cold breeze continued to blow airy waves of fine white dust over his still form. Sticking to his skin, the tiny particles bonded together in the darkness and slowly dried until he found himself wearing clothing made of sand that cracked and flaked away when he shifted in half-slumber. 

Faint violet rays warily peeked over the eastern horizon, glinting across the smooth, narrow stretch of sand which teased the incoming waves. Beneath the noise of water grasping toward shore, Mike heard the distant gurgle of a chemical engine. At first, he thought it was the final illusory fragment of a dream, but the sound grew steadily, until it resided at the top of the cliff where Vilya had shown him the eyehooks and so splendidly demonstrated their use. Several people were climbing out of a white, government car, each peering toward the dim violet horizon. Half-buried by the sand, Mike watched them from his shadowy lair between the two tall rocks. He tried to make out their features in the faint, shifting light, but it was difficult even to count them. Then he glimpsed the white mane, its owner allowing the breeze's gentle tendrils to reshuffle her hair to its own liking, and for a silent moment his eyes widened with fear. 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

            THE HARRISON CHAPTERS              
                                                                                
              by Jim Vassilakos                                    
                                                                                
                  Chapter 11                                            
                                                                                 
              Copyright (c)1992                                   
                                                                              

            "...he could sense fear all the
             stronger, most of it his own.
             And yet there was more, like
             the gleam of a diamond in the
             mid- dle of a dim, crimson
             pool, water splashing all
             around yet never washing away
             the stain."


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She surveyed the arcing waters with a stubborn glare. Beneath the cliff's grey face, an undulating seascape swayed tauntingly, the roar of pounding waves echoing between the sharp protruding rocks along the dim, purple coastline. It was like Harrison to come to such a place, she thought. It would be even more like him to stay. She motioned Jun and Clark down the rocky slope along either side of the ridge as Vlep massaged the rocks at the head of the cliff, laying on one side as he reached downward along its face. 

"What is it, Vlep?" 

"Fear." 

"Harrison's?" 

"Either his or that of children who were sacrificed so long ago. Who can tell?" 

"You'd better." 

Vlep looked up, a light drizzle beginning to fall from the clouds above. 

"The quarry was definitely here, Sule. I can feel his presence and that of his psyche all over these rocks." 

"Go down." 

Vlep slumped his shoulders, wishing he hadn't revealed so much. Carefully stepping along the damp, slippery face of the cliff, he crept down part way and then looked back up, half expecting mercy. 

"It is not very safe, Sule." 

"Be careful." 

Vlep sighed, certain that she would be the death of him yet. Continuing to the eyehooks, he could sense fear all the stronger, most of it his own. And yet there was more, like the gleam of a diamond in the middle of a dim, crimson pool, water splashing all around yet never washing away the stain. The roar of the waves seemed to lose rhythm, and then the screech of brakes imparted a small cloud of falling dust, bits of sand sprinkling upon him along with the soft morning shower. 

Vlep climbed back up. It was the guard Sule had posted at the Tyberian Compound. He was holding a small, black object before Sule, his eyes gleaming in the dim predawn light. 

"Look Sule. The android brain." 

"Very good, Mito. Did the gatherer come back?" 

"No, a boy. It was dark, and I made a mess of him. I'm sorry, Sule." 

She bit her lip. 

"Forget it. We have what we're looking for." 

"What about the quarry?" 

"This dodec is the real quarry, Mito. Now go collect the others, and call in the hydrofoil. I have a delivery to make." 

Vlep dusted himself off, thankful for the reprieve. 

"Does that hunk of cermic mean that I don't have to go swimming?" 

"What did you find out?" 

"Is very hard to say. Harrison's impressions are probably more than fifty cents old, possibly as much as a full day, but the fear is very intense." 

"Strange." 

"I know what you are thinking, Sule. If he wanted to take a boat, this cliff is not the best point of access." 

"He didn't dive off?" 

"He climbed down and then back up. I'm certain." 

"One immediately following the other?" 

Vlep shook his head, "That is hard to tell. The impressions go right into the water." 

"If he knows about headquarters..." 

"How could he?" 

"I want you to continue to track him wherever the trail leads from here. Take the others in the jeep and leave me with the government car. We'll meet back at the Arien Mansion for Erestyl's appointment. Understood?" 

Clark carefully descended the steep hillside, a flashlight in one hand and an automatic pistol in the other. Purple-hued sands shifted in the crisp sea breeze, droplets from above snaking through the turbulent air as two pointy rocks jutted up from the beach, their shiny grey surfaces glinting ominously in the faint predawn light. He crept toward them, shining his flashlight into the narrow crack between. 

"Clark!" 

He turned, unsteady, as the wind tossed a shower of soft sand into his eyes. 

"Damn. Mito?" 

"It's just me, Clark." 

Clark lowered the pistol, shaking the dirt from his eyes. 

"I heard you pull up. You bring the IR goggles?" 

"Yeah, they're in the jeep. They came in real handy." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"That android brain. It showed up at the Tyberian Compound. Lucky me." 

"Harrison went back?" 

Mito shook his head, "A kid. I was so raw I just blew him away without thinking. I feel like crap." 

"No shit." 

"C'mon, Sule wants us." 

Mike stayed between the rocks until the wind stole their voices. One glance in infrared and he knew he'd be finished. 

"What I still don't understand is how you got him to agree. The Arien's couldn't be too thrilled about working for ISIS." 

Sule smiled, "Everyone has a price, Vlep; albeit, not everyone yearns for the same commodity." 

"You speak in riddles, traveler." 

"Is that what you dirtsiders call neghrali who have power over you?" 

The others arrived, each one posing in the typical "recruit's stance", trying not to stand out from one another for fear of being ordered to do something either dangerous or repugnant. Finally, Clark stepped toward the jeep, pulling a pair of infrared goggles from the back seat. He turned back, examining the landscape on both sides of the cliff as the gentle rain continued to fall. 

"Nothing." 

Mike surfaced from the frigid waters as the jeep began pulling away. The woman sat leaning against the hood of the government car, her wet, stringy hair blending against the white paint. Ducking back beneath the waves, he swam to the foot of the cliffs, wading into shore beneath the steep hillside. He dropped to the ground when the faint hum of a hydrofoil played across the windswept waves. Slowing and settling amid the choppy crests, the craft's two gravitic modules kept its thick, silver frame from sinking entirely. 

He recognized it as the Tizarian Skipstone-Cruiser, one of the few fast and submersible, four-seater hydrofoils on the market. The more popular SkipstoneSafari model discarded two seats in favor of an autocannon and munitions magazine. Mike remembered reading about how vacationers preferred to shoot the local critters rather than take their friends along to snap images. 

Mike ducked back down when he heard the splash, and by the time he mustered the courage to peek over the rocks, the blonde woman was already aboard, her white mane dripping in the tender morning drizzle. She carried the dodec, and Mike gritted his teeth in disappointment as the vehicle turned sharply about and sped into the distant horizon. 

The government car's fiberglass window put up a valiant resistance, but Mike eventually forced his way inside. Reaching under the dash, he yanked loose two wires and crossed one over the other. The engine coughed and turned over, finally starting with a belated roar, and Mike found an automatic pistol and three clips of ammunition resting inside the glove compartment along with a pair of handcuffs and a pack of breath mints. He smiled, shifting the stick into reverse and letting up on the clutch. With only a mild groan, the car lurched backward down the back of the hillside. He wheeled the car around and stepped on the gas, memories of the chase on Telmar flooding into his mind. Mike had been driving while Davin and Bill were at the back window, unloading everything they had into their pursuers. If they'd only pulled over and ditched the car, he figured maybe Davin would have survived. 

Then he noticed his mistake. 

"Hey...look at that." 

Clark peeked over Jun's shoulder. The blue monitor showed a pixel of light trudging upward from bottom toward center. 

"Sule?" 

"Bet you a month's wages it's Harrison." 

Clark's eyes widened, threatening to jump out from their sockets. Then the pixel disappeared. 

"Yep. It's him." 

"Turn around and floor it!" 

The jeep ground to a near stop before swinging around and speeding back toward the coast. 

"Why weren't you able to find him, Vlep?!" 

"I...I've got a real bad feeling about this." 

Mito groaned, "Look, just everyone shut-up. If he gets away, we're all dead. You understand?!" 

Clark clicked off his pistol's safety switch and stood up in the seat, firing several rounds into the tall brush. 

"Over there! He's off the..." 

The jolt in his chest sent Clark sprawling backward off the vehicle. A few moments later, several rounds had shattered the windshield. The jeep skidded to a halt, and two figures darted into the brush as Mito fired on the government car from behind his driver's door. The left side of his neck suddenly spattered open, hurtling him into the door. 

"Shit, he's behind us." 

Vlep kept his nose to the ground as Jun fired numerous rounds into the bushes, finally dropping down to reload. With his head pounding, he tried to pull himself to his feet and assume a covering position, but something in his brain told him to stay down, freezing his legs into place. Meanwhile, Jun fumbled a clip of ammunition into the handle of his automatic. 

"What are you doing just laying down?!" 

Vlep opened his mouth to respond, but there was no need. Jun's head had already swiveled forcibly, a bullet's impact ripping the nose clean from his face. Jun tried to turn back around, raising his firearm toward the bushes and squeezing the trigger, but his skull popped sideways, a red cascade with bits of bone erupting from his ear and flailing into the cold rain. Vlep wanted to raise his weapon also, but his hand remained frozen, his entire body quaking with indecision as he felt the quarry's presence sweep over him. He waited several moments for the recognition of death that his elders had taught him to respect, but instead, he saw only Harrison, panting in the windy precipitation, clutching a firearm which was aimed steadily in his direction. There was no vision, no angels to lift his spirit, but only the thunderous pounding of an icy, blue curtain into a wall of grey hillside. So they waited together, each to his own thoughts, as Harrison bent over slightly to catch his breath, and together they listened to the crashing waves and the angry chirping of white-feathered gulls that rose haltingly like the voices of crying children caught somewhere in that vertical plane between the clash of two mighty and unrelenting elements. 

Crystal blue eyes surveyed the horizon, daring a blink only as the hydrofoil came into view. 

"You look thirsty, Mr. Clay." 

The Director offered him a purple-violet concoction, Draconian dweomerwyne if memory served. 

"It's been a while since I've seen her." 

"It." 

Clay smiled as he accepted the highbowl. It bobbed slightly in total ignorance of the waves. Steadying it with two fingers, he allowed a portion of the crisp, sweet liquid to drain down his throat. 

"Robin is more than an it, Director, even if we must be enemies now." 

The Director nodded. She seemed more bemused than interested. Clay sighed and turned back toward the railing as the hydrofoil slowly turned and circled. It kicked up water, splashing it away from the houseboat as it slowed to a full stop. Tossing it a line, the deck hand slowly reeled it in and lowered a stiff rope ladder. Sule hopped on board and showed her prize to the director, but Clay ignored them both, at once revolted and yet strangely entranced by what his psuedoniece had become. 

"What's the matter, Mr. Clay?" 

"It's just strange to see Robin like this." He accepted the dodec from Sule, adding, "I suppose it's all she ever was." 

"Let us hope so. What of the gatherer, Sule?" 

"He still eludes us. I left Mito in charge of the pursuit team, and they are continuing the search as we speak." 

"I still want him." 

"Director, I am working with untrained, unskilled, untalented..." 

"I am aware of your excuses, Sule. Find him. And while you are at it, you might as well take Ambassador Kato and Erestyl with you. We don't want them to be late for Mr. Arien. Meanwhile, we'll let Mr. Clay crack the dodec for us. I trust that Robin knows you, John?" 

Clay grimaced, "It does." 

He stepped below deck as Major Doran emerged with the Draconian Ambassador. Cuffed and half-conscious, she looked more like the door prize at a Calannic orgy than a high ranking diplomat. Sule regarded the Draconian with a contemptuous scowl. 

"I take it she has not been completely cooperative." 

"She made her decision, Sule. It is unfortunate that we could not use her." 

"She could be valuable, Director." 

"I doubt it." 

"With her knowledge of the DSS..." 

"What knowledge?" 

Sule caught the Ambassador as she slumped forward into her arms. Doran smiled and returned below deck. 

"But when the drugs wear off." 

"What drugs?" 

Sule nodded, finally understanding. 

"Mr. Arien may not accept her in this condition." 

"You will make certain that he does not know until it is too late." 

The deck hand carried Ambassador Kato to the hydrofoil as Doran emerged with Erestyl. The Cassiopeiaen physicist looked emaciated and worn, his small body no more than a slender bag of bones. The scanner operator accompanied them, a sheepish look of uselessness about him as he ran his fingers through a patch of curly, red hair. Sule motioned Doran toward the hydrofoil and then turned back to the operator. 

"No luck?" 

He shrugged, "Erestyl put up a determined fight. I think we can crack him with enough time, but there's a risk that we may wipe the information we're looking for. What we really need is a telepath." 

"What about the ambassador?" 

"We didn't really have a chance. It was obvious from the onset that she was well trained in resisting the scanner. That, plus her psychic talents...we just decided to go in and make her useless to the Draconians. She'll have the drugged look for the rest of her life. With therapy, maybe she could learn to talk again, if she's lucky." 

Sule nodded, turning back toward the director. 

"I'll be back with Erestyl tomorrow morning." 

"Terminate him after you receive the necessary information from Mr. Arien. We can't chance him falling back into Draconian hands." 

"And what of Mr. Arien?" 

"He'll be taken care of once we are all offworld. We have already reserved rooms aboard the Crimson Queen. Before another day begins, we will be aboard her, traveling back to Ares in the very lap of luxury." 

Sule smiled, "Assuming all goes well. You know I can't guarantee Harrison. But when we're done with Erestyl, I'll radio you." 

"Forget about Harrison. We can dispatch a unit to Tizar to deal with him when he returns." 

"Okay." 

Major Doran sat at the pilot's seat as Sule entered the hydrofoil's fuselage. 

"Where's the pilot?" 

"You're looking at him." 

Sule nodded, "Well, what are we waiting for?" 

The hydrofoil sped away, skipping along the waves as it reached 150 kilometers per hour. Back aboard the houseboat, Clay was supervising the techies. 

"Turn the camera on me. I want to be the first thing she sees. You're ready with the access code?" 

"Check." 

"Okay, make the connection." 

The deafening noise sped across the waves, and for a bare instant, Sule thought that god had dropped a piece of the sun on the ocean just to watch the steam it would make. In back of them, the fireball increased in size until she could feel the heat blistering her face through the windshield. She hit the stick, but power control was already gone. The blast shock sent them tumbling end over end, finally drilling them into the water as a huge tidal crest swept overhead. Cold water jetted into the cabin as the superstructure creaked and whined, threatening to implode with each passing moment. 

"Doran!" 

He was knocked out cold. 

"Damnit, Doran!" 

She scrambled out of her seat and unfastened his belt, throwing him into the back as she tangled with the controls. 

"How do I stabilize? Doran, wake up!" 

"Wha...?" 

"How do I re-start this thing?!" 

"Lower left...pull it." 

The craft's engines refused to acknowledge her efforts. Even the ultra-reliable gravitic units balked at their call to duty. 

"The electronics must be fried." 

"Floatation..." 

"What?!" 

The major pointed toward a red lever on the corner of the floor. She unhitched its safety and gave it a stern yank. A moment later, she heard a gas release. Two yellow bags appeared from the bow, slowly raising the craft toward the surface as Doran tried to find his way to the front passenger seat. 

"What happened?" 

"We got nuked, Major." 

The noise of the blast could be heard up and down the coast for more than twenty kilometers. Mike looked skyward, expecting to see a wasp fighter just crossing the sound barrier. The morning clouds were burning off fairly quickly, and a majestic rainbow cut between bands of blue, white, and grey clear from one horizon to the other. He squinted at the continual on-rush of air, quietly cursing himself for shattering the jeep's front window. If he'd only remembered to shut off the tracer on the government car, he could have avoided the entire situation. 

It was noon before Mike reached the geyser or Sintrivani as it was known locally. He parked along the ridge facing the coast beneath a tall hotel and condominium complex. Below the ridge, the hot waters of the Sintrivani shot from a manmade spring, reaching well over half a kilometer in altitude before they came tumbling back to earth in the form of a warm, misty veil. A crowd composed mainly of children flew about in saucershells, small makeshift floaters shaped as flattened spheres. They soared with gleeful zeal to the top of the geyser while dodging and just as often crashing into loose globules of water held together by faint geepoints in the giant low-gravity field. Those without the shells contented themselves with jumping upwards, a hundred meters or more, and then coasting back to the surface, splashing water pockets on friends and strangers. Naked above the waist and barefoot, Mike figured he didn't look very much out of place. 

He found Cecil and Spokes camping out on the circular cement amidst about a hundred other people, mostly parents. If it wasn't for their gleaming head-jacks and Cecil's three cameras connected to his skull via invisible radio beams, they would have looked like the stars of some Tizarian vacation commercial, laying back in lounge chairs eating pocket-bread meat pies and sipping iced guava juice beneath tall, shady umbrellas. Vilya's cat wandered nearby, coaxing food from children and parents alike. Mike approached, carefully side-stepping its stage ego, as the two chiphead nodded their acknowledgments. 

"Greetings, gatherer." 

"Well if it isn't Mr. Lucky." 

Mike sat down on the green, ice chest between them, picking out a bottle of guava and uncapping it with his teeth. Spokes regarded him with a mysterious mixture of fascination and regrets. 

"Where did you go last night?" 

"The beach." 

"Johanes told us that the Imps came looking for you at the Tyberian Compound. Said he almost got nailed coming back for you. A mutual acquaintance of yours bit it in there." 

Mike gulped down the juice. It was bitter and tangy, the sort of stuff best sipped during idle hours under the sun rather than taken in mouthfuls. 

"Good time for you to take a vacation, Spokes?" 

"I'm just a part-timer. I'm not going back until Johanes tells me this thing is over." 

"Where is he, by the way?" 

"In the condo. He's watching the news. Something big must have happened, I guess." 

Mike nodded, "Then that's where I'm going." 

The main lobby was about as clean as Mike remembered it, sand scattered about on turquoise tiles, white walls smudged with the occasional dirty hand print, and children running about everywhere. Mike strolled through cautiously, slowly scanning the faces as a hazel-eyed girl ran by. Upstairs, the floors were cleaner, the noise level much quieter. Cecil once said that he liked the quiet as much as the noise and that he would refuse to buy into a place without a balance of the two. Mike tested the door and then knocked when he found it locked, pressing his palm against the peeper. A long moment passed, and then the door swung outward, almost knocking Mike on his rear. Johanes hunched down on the floor, reaching up with a pistol. 

"Michael." 

Mike put his hands up, waving them like a politician seeking office. 

"Hey, take it easy. I just wanted to surprise you." 

"A guy can get dead that way." 

"Like the kid?" 

Johanes dropped the pistol on a counter top, hesitating ever so slightly as Mike laid out the question. A flicker of resentment invaded his eyes even as he shook it off, crossing the room to turn up the volume on the three-vee. 

"His name was Nicholas." 

They sat on the floor in front of the depth box as three-dimensional images of gravcars and choppers circled over an empty expanse of sea. In the background, a reporter was chattering about devastation to the oceanic wildlife. The scene cut to the cliffs of Erfalas. Mike's eyes widened as mention of a nuclear detonation reached his ears. 

"I heard it." 

"Was it loud?" 

"Sort of." 

"They say it was small. Under a hectoton. Good thing the magnetic pulse didn't reach this far." 

Outside the window Mike could see dozens of children circling the giant, watery plume. He imagined the gravity inhibitors failing as tiny bags of blood and bone would spatter on the wet cement. 

"Quite a image for your Galactican. Eh, Michael? Front page material?" 

Mike gulped down a hunk of air, belching it back out with as much force as he could muster. Johanes grinned wearily as Mike studied his reflection on the glass. 

"You thought that was funny?" 

Johanes nodded, "Proof that we're real men. We've got guns, and we can make disgusting noises." 

"There's more where that one came from." 

"Spare me." 

"On one condition...you tell me why it happened." 

Johanes dropped his grin, "They're still trying to figure that part out." 

"About Nicholas." 

He shifted, then shrugged, "What's to say? We were coming back to pick you up. He ran inside before me, and then I heard gun spray. You want me to say it straight out? I got scared and ran away." 

"Why did the kid have..." 

A knock at the door cut him off. It was Cecil, bitching about how he was being locked out of his own place. Johanes looked toward the door sluggishly and then turned back toward the three-vee. 

"You get it." 

Cecil looked somewhat disgruntled as Mike opened the door, as though the sanctity of his domestic life were somehow threatened by his old friend's presence. He seemed to cheer up when he saw Johanes, however. Even the kitty seemed entranced by the Draconian as it half-jumped, halffell from Cecil's arms to greet him. 

"Down you go, Pooper-dumper." 

Mike winced, "Pooper-dumper?" 

"Cat had to have a name. How do, Johanes? Much good on the boob-box?" 

Mike scratched his head and tried to look offended. 

"You're happy to see him but not me?" 

"We figured that if he was still here, it's probably safe to be around you." 

"Hey Harrison," Spokes came in lugging two of Cecil's cameras."Gimmie a hand with the ice chest, will ya?" 

"Where's his other cam?" 

"Look out the window." 

Mike grabbed one end of the chest and dragged it inside, looking outside the window into the silvery mist of the geyser as he reached the center of the room. A girl was gliding Cecil's camera upward in her saucer-shell, steering it toward the apartment complex while warm blankets of mist fell over her, making her appear halfsolid, half-ethereal. Cecil was already on the balcony waving for the others to follow. Only Johanes refused, and Mike couldn't resist making rabbit-eared fingers over his old friend's head. Cecil noticed it right away, of course, but he snapped the image anyway. When they came back inside, it danced about on the three-vee, changing hue and shade with each new iteration. 

"Will send a copy to Tizar. You can consider it our team photo." 

Spokes winced, "Do me a favor and don't let it get out. I don't want to be more connected to this gatherer than I already am." 

Mike grinned, "Can I quote you?" 

"I'm serious, Harrison. I could already lose my job." 

Cecil snorted, trying to cover up his reaction as Spokes looked him over. 

"You got a problem with my job now?" 

"Other than that it stinks, none whatsoever." 

"Yeah, well it's safe. I like safe. I don't have any psychotic urges like other certain people to be a big hero. I don't need medals and trophies. Money will do just fine, thank you." 

"Speaking of trophies," Johanes dug something out the bottom of the trash container, "Catch, Michael. We were saving her for you." 

Mike watched it tumble in mid-air, the etching of a song bird on jet black. With a fluster of clashing perceptions, he fumbled the dodec to the floor, still scarcely believing his own eyes. 

"Well, either you're a lousy catch..." Johanes looked out the window, watching the tiny blue waves sway along the horizon. He decided to snatch his pistol off the counter top, slipping its nose down the crack between his butt cheeks as he turned back toward Mike. 

"Tell me you're just a lousy catch." 

Mike shook his head, turning toward the three-vee and then back again. It all started to make sense. 

"Your doing?" 

"I'll explain later." 

Spokes looked worried and confused, stepping out of his way as Johanes headed for the door. 

"Hey, where're you going?" 

"Out for a walk." 

Johanes headed down the hall toward the elevator as Spokes watched after him in the doorway, ducking down so his tall jacks wouldn't scrape against the frame. 

"Well at least tell me if it's still safe to be here!" 

She found the white government car resting slightly off the road, all four of its tires punctured with bullet holes. Three corpses were propped over it, and rigor mortis had already set in. Not being in the mood for a burial, she would allow them to rot in the white, hot sun. Vlep was asleep at the steering wheel. That he had been hand-cuffed to it without sustaining so much as a bruise angered her even more. It meant he gave in without a fight. She expected as much from a psyche. Leaning close to his ear, she allowed her breath to brush the soft wax within. 

"Vlep!!!" 

He hit his head on the roof, nearly tugging his wrist out of joint in the process. 

"Sule?" 

"Who did you think it was? Your fairy godmother?!" 

"Sule...Harrison was here." 

"Really?!?" 

She grabbed the steering wheel, yanking it clear of its housing. Vlep tumbled out of the car, dropping to the ground at her feet. He knew she was strong. Biosynthetics often had that tendency. But he had no idea she was that strong. He picked himself and the steering wheel up from the dirt, dusting himself off with his one free hand. 

"I...I can follow him, Sule. I can find him." 

She watched him with a mixture of sympathy and scorn. 

"I don't care about Harrison, you idiot. I don't give a damn about the robot brain. This futile chase has cost us everything." 

"But..." 

"Everything, Vlep! HQ is gone!" 

"How?" 

"Look at my sunburn and take a wild guess!" 

Vlep pondered the problem, his mind refusing to so much as acknowledge the possibility of a nuclear detonation. Sule watched the skepticism fade from his eyes, finally kicking a dent into the car door to vent her anger. 

"I've got the major and two prisoners in the hydrofoil. They're probably going to be sick, and we've got no transportation." 

"The hydro..." 

"The magnetic pulse fried the electronics. I managed to get one of the engines working manually, but it's not going to get us anywhere I want to go. I was hoping, almost praying that you guys would be able to take care of yourselves without me. There were four of you! Did Harrison have a fucking army?!" 

Vlep shook his head, "I don't...no he was alone." 

"Then why'd he let you live?" 

"I don't know." 

"You didn't fight!" 

"I've never fired a gun in my..." 

She belted him across the face with the back of her hand, sending him sputtering to the ground as he held his face. He tried to take solace in the fact that at least now his cheeks would match. 

"You're going to learn, Vlep. I'm going back to the hydrofoil to get the major. With luck, we should be able to drag Erestyl and Ambassador Kato to the intersection of the main highway. By the time we get there, I want a vehicle. I want it badly, and I don't care how get it. Understood?" 

Vlep nodded as she shoved a pistol, probably the major's, into his one free hand. 

"Remember, I can kill you at any moment I choose. So a word of advice, Vlep. Don't think. Just do it." 

Tangerine rays seeped quietly through the sliding, balcony window, its glassy surface coated with a thin, warm mist. Outside, the hot sun bathed the Sintrivani in a saffron orange glow as the afternoon slipped carelessly away like the shadows of children beneath a warm, golden fog. 

Spokes was baking peach and cranberry muffins, playing the spunky apprentice to Cecil's wizened if absent-minded mentor. Mike didn't much care about the respective roles or the protocols associated with each. All he knew was that he was about to be fed, and his stomach grumbled in anticipation. 

Cecil seemed more interested in the dodec than the food, however. He kept turning it end over end, feeling its edges and especially the subtle crevices of its etching. It was in the shape of a songbird, a robin to be more precise, and in place of an eye and tip of a beak, there were two tiny ports of access. Spokes looked over occasionally, watching the blind man at work. 

"You making progress?" 

"Found an inny and an outty." 

Spokes nodded, checking the muffins' state of readiness. 

"Done." 

He took them out, leaving them on the counter-top to cool while Mike watched the three-vee, its volume turned so low that it was barely audible. The Calannans had pin-pointed the source of the detonation to an Imperial owned sea vessel. Shortly after the initial announcement, there had been rioting in Xin, most of it aimed at neghrali-owned businesses, and the Imperial marine commander had declared Xekhasmeno a red zone, temporarily closing it off to air and ground traffic alike. Meanwhile, public officials alternately pleaded for calm or more often demanded explanations from the Imperial embassy. None were forthcoming, and even the Crimson Queen's orbiting convoy initiated alert status, temporarily refusing boarding to all but preferred passengers. 

Mike switched the box off and rose to take a peek at the muffins. Spokes, ever protective of his alchemy, watched Mike with a suspicious smile. 

"Just another cent, Harrison." 

Mike reached into the cooler and had another gulp of guava. He sat back down beside Cecil. His old friend swiveled the cameras back and forth from dodec to gatherer. 

"Dumb." 

"What?" 

"We forgot to give our friend current inhibitors." 

"They're not coming out of my salary," Spokes injected. The cameras turned toward him, zooms activating with an audible hum. Cecil smiled when he found what he was looking for. 

"Good idea." 

"No, Cecil. I just bought these." 

"Lend to the gatherer. He needs them more than you." 

"And what if he burns them out like my last pair?" 

"Better them than his grey muscle." 

"That's debatable." 

Spokes carefully disconnected them, attaching them to Mike's jacks. Mike watched half doe-eyed, instinctively wanting to protect his scalp but also realizing that he had to keep his hands well out of the way lest Spokes should make a mistake. It made him feel small, and he smiled at his own helplessness. 

"Are the muffins ready yet?" 

"No." 

Mike suppressed a whine, and Cecil grinned knowingly. 

"Let's see if we can make some hell in that head of yours, Michael. Go ahead and connect him." 

Spokes leaned over, collecting two of the four thin cords which curled from the dodec. Each merged with its neighbor near the point of no return. Cecil held two for himself as Spokes toyed with Mike's jacks, finally nodding agreeably as the translucent image of a mechanical combination lock appeared in front of Mike's face. From within its hazy background, Mike heard a woman's voice: "Enter your clearance identification number." Cecil's grin widened as his cameras studied the look running across Mike's face. He handed Mike a flimsi. A long string of three digit numbers glowed pink upon its transparent surface. 

"Lesson number one. Learn to think in directions." 

Mike began turning the imaginary dial, each thrust of his mind sending it spinning. 

"Easy now." 

After a few aborted attempts, he had the skill mastered. The dial twisted and turned as he imagined placing his hand upon it and rotating it gently. Finally it disappeared, and Mike saw her face, not an exact copy of the physical version, but an outline, deep blue eyes twinkling like distant stars and blonde hair waving back and forth in the electric static. 

"Robin?" 

"User's access rejected. Security action two in progress." 

"Robin, it's Mike Harrison." 

"...Mike Harrison is not a legitimate user." A grey field of haze began to form between them, building like an ocean swell and threatening to engulf him. 

"I'm with Johanes. We need your help." 

The static foamed, spitting like acid as it washed over him. Then, just as suddenly, it disappeared. Mike blinked. The illusion of her face was no longer there. Instead, he saw Spokes fiddling with the connection, and once glance at the dodec told him it was all over. It was smoking, a vial of acidic chemicals released somewhere within its core. 

"She was trying to fry you, dude. When she realized she couldn't, she just fried herself." 

Cecil unplugged, a smile crossing his face as their team picture danced about the three-vee. 

"Success," he drily announced."Time to scarf." 

The muffins tasted even better than Mike had imagined, and Spokes served up bowls of sliced green apples immersed in chilled, sweet yogurt and topped with warm caramel and honey, finally gathering a bowl and a spare bottle of guava juice for himself before he slipped out the door. 

"Where's Spokes going?" 

Cecil concentrated on his food, savoring every taste. Either that or he was savoring the captured data. Sometimes Mike found it hard to tell what his friend was thinking about. 

"Cecil..." 

"He doesn't want to be here. He's afraid of knowledge and the danger it brings." 

Mike nodded, "And you aren't?" 

"When have you ever known Cecil to be scared of knowledge?" 

"You went in with me, didn't you." 

"It was perfect, Michael. When you told her who you were..." he chuckled. 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

           THE HARRISON CHAPTERS        
                                                                        
             by Jim Vassilakos                            
                                                                        
                Chapter 12                                      
                                                                         
             Copyright(c)1992                            

             "Mike grinned his baiting grin,
             waiting for anything that would keep
             Johanes on the line just a few
             moments longer.  The Draconian
             seemed to read his mind from afar,
             sifting implications through the
             pours of Mike's skin."



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The condo's comm-board continued to beep, muted light from the Sintrivani sketching dim lines across the white, plaster walls. Cecil curled his lip into an angry grimace. 

"Great hindsight, gatherer." 

"Just answer it." Mike added a t-cross with his finger and thumb, an old gatherer hand-sign, and one of the few which he remembered teaching Cecil. It usually meant "track" or "follow", but given the proper context, it could mean "trace". Cecil's cameras bobbed in comprehension as Johanes' image appeared on the three-vee, a slight nod displaying all the greetings he wished to convey. 

Cecil snorted, "Speak of the devil and he shalt come." 

"Look, I don't have time to dance the verbal footsie with either of you. I know that you're probably tracing this call, so just stop me if I start getting long-winded." 

Mike smiled, "Fat chance." 

"I'm calling on your behalf, Michael. I realize that right now you probably think that I'm lower than a swamp slog." 

"You could have killed thousands of people, Johanes." 

"But I didn't." 

"And you tried to set me up. You sacrificed Nicholas. And for all you knew, that nuke could have gone off in the heart of Xin." 

"All true." 

Mike shook his head is disbelief, "You don't even care." 

"There's a lot at stake, Michael." 

"Doomsday?" 

"I've already told you far too much." 

"Now you have to kill me, I suppose?" Mike grinned his baiting grin, waiting for anything that would keep Johanes on the line just a few moments longer. The Draconian seemed to read his mind from afar, sifting implications through the pours of Mike's skin. He took a deep breath. 

"If I wasn't pressed for time, perhaps I would do the honors, but I imagine the Imps will do a far better job with you." 

"Too bad. You could have done us all. Why didn't you?" 

"Just do yourself a favor, Michael. Get back to Tizar. Forget about this story. If you try publishing even half of what you know, it'll be the same as signing your own execution warrant." 

"How many times have I heard that before?" 

"This isn't like the other stories. Don't give them a reason to pay you a visit. It's not worth it." 

His face flickered off the depth box as the connection broke, and within a minute, Mike had dismembered the "bug" from its battery. 

"Hmm... didn't self-destruct like the others. Did you trace him?" 

Cecil shook his head, "He's a crafty one. He piggy-backed on a remote dialer. Could have found him, but he dropped the line before it became apparent." 

"Damnit, Cecil! I had him on for how long?!" 

"Cecil be sorry." The camera's made a dejected pose. "Got the last of it recorded from the remote if you're interested. Just didn't think to extend the trace in time." 

"Great hindsight, hacker." 

The camera nearest Mike perked sideways like a confused dog trying to see things from a slightly different perspective: Cecil's way of acknowledging a turn-about. However, something about its hound-like stance and the crumpled flimsi in his pants pocket told Mike the chase wasn't over. The comm-address glittered faintly as Mike flattened the flimsi out on the rug. 

"Cecil, I just thought of something." 

"Congratulations." 

"Spokes managed to trace a call I made him from Gardansa's to a restricted comm-address." 

"So?" 

"He was using amplitude logs or something. Can you do the same thing?" 

The camera seemed to shrug. 

"That could take days." 

"I bet you he's at the Arien mansion. Just compare the dialing records to the mansion and the immediate area around it." 

Cecil half-sighed half-grumbled. 

"He's not going to be that stupid, Michael. If he doesn't want you to find him, that's the last place he would go." 

"Unless... 

Cecil's cameras started rotating in victorious delight as Mike looked out the window toward Xin. 

"...he has an good reason to be there. That was fast. He's inside the mansion, I take it?" 

"You aren't planning on going down there, are you?" The cameras stopped rejoicing as Vilya's cat pawed at one of them, uncertain as to it's edibility. 

"I'd like to know more about the Ariens themselves. They're playing some part in this, Cecil." 

"And probably on both sides of the court, knowing how psyches are." 

Mike smirked. It was like Cecil to understate the galaxy's most common prejudice just to needle him. He was probably baiting for the sort of reaction that could get them into an hours-long argument. Anything to waste time and keep Mike from going there. Cecil would simply consider it a friendly favor on his part. 

"I'm going down there. I don't believe Johanes will carry out his threat." 

"Well, then say hello to the rioters. Tell them you're a nice neghrali and maybe they won't hurt you either." 

"I doubt I'll see any. Whatever unrest there is in Xin is not being directed against the Ariens." 

"Oh really?" 

"Yeah, really." 

"Anger, once sparked, burns a path toward the most opportunistic form of release, no matter how malign or misdirected." 

"What idiot said that?" 

The quote flashed across the three-vee. Below it, "Shattered Eden, Michael J. Harrison, Tyberian Publications." Mike scratched his head trying to figure out whether or not Cecil was pulling his leg. 

"So I write a lot of stupid things. Big deal." 

"What are you going to gain by going there?" 

"Maybe I'll be able to talk to Mr. Arien. I met him briefly, the last time I was here." 

"Met him?" 

"Okay, Tara met him. I was there." 

"Along for the ride." 

"Yeah. All right. I don't really expect him to remember me, but if he does, it could be the break I need." 

"Or break you don't need." 

"You have a better idea?" 

Cecil shrugged, "Investigate from afar. It's less dangerous." 

"If I had access to Cindy, I would." 

"SNDI? Supernatural Data, Incorporated? You've got it, Michael. What did you think the Doggie Blitz ran on? Punch cards?" 

Mike tried to formulate an appropriate response as Cecil taught him how to hook into the phone jack. From what he gathered, higher brain functions were off-limits to all save the super-users or "wizards" as they were called. Mike considered calling the favor, but he figured that lower-brain would be just fine as long as he could avoid running into snags. Cecil retired to the balcony. Outside, the warm, jetting waters of the Sintrivani carried a late evening crowd high above the dispersed illumination save for the few strands of blue and purple laser light captured within the misty fog. 

"Woof!" 

Mike jumped slightly, though the cat seemed neither to notice nor care. The noise was in his head, no more than an electrical illusion. 

"Access. File. Information. Library. Galactic Press." 

"...Woof!" 

"Does that mean..." 

"Woof!" 

"Damnit." 

"...Woof!" 

"Access. File. System. Output parameters. Errors. Command. Set format. Long." 

"...Pant pant." 

Mike rubbed the side of his face. For a moment, he could almost smell wet, sticky, dog breath. 

"Very funny." 

"...Woof! Illegal command ignored." 

"Access. File. System. Output parameters. Errors. Command. Ignore. Keyword woof." 

"...Pant pant." 

"Access. File. System. Output messages. Command. Galanglicize. Message. Most recent." 

"...Done." 

"Access. Userlog. Current. Command. Find. Username. Spokes." 

"...Done." 

"Query. Date. Login through logout. Most recent." 

"...Insufficient format specification." 

"Tora-centric. Positive past. Unit centim. Single decimal." 

"96.2 through 71.9." 

Mike looked out the window wondering what Spokes was up to. The evening was hacker time, and Spokes had been gone long enough to make it back to Xekhasmeno. Long enough to get pulled off the road and molested by locals, Mike figured. 

Cecil was leaning back in a lounge chair, luxuriating in his abstinence from the electronic environs as thin layers of warm mist settled over him and the gleeful screams of children resounded in the distance. He used to say that he needed the condo to get away from it all. Then, when he was rested, he'd go back into a little cubicle somewhere and not be seen for days or weeks. It didn't make a great deal of sense to Mike, but then a lot of things didn't make much sense. He hoped that Spokes had the same idea. Better isolation than dislocation. 

"Access. File. Information. Library. The Aggressor. Interstellar society page. Command. Search. Keyword Arien." 

"...Insufficient file specification." 

"Most recent." 

"...Done." 

"Say file." 

"...Incompatible format error." 

"Show file." 

A page of the local paper appeared in glowing blue Calannic in front of Mike's face. Even blinking his eyes refused to dislodge it, and whoever scanned it into memory hadn't bothered to reduce it into text. Instead, it was simply an image with a list of keywords attached to it. Sloppy but cost-efficient. 

As he began to scan the first few lines, Mike realized that the article wasn't about the Arien family at all, but he instantly recognized the picture. Long, dark hair fell straight along her spine, her sharp, brown eyes watching the row of black grav-limos rising from a well manicured lawn. The color of the cars clashed against her white evening dress, her shoulders bare save for the reflection of headlights on deep, bronzed skin. In the background, a crowd of people were escaping the Lion's Den. Mike remembered the awards ceremony all too well. The headline read, "Draconian Ambassador Disappears." 

"Cecil!" 

"...Illegal command ignored." 

"Command. Pause." 

Cecil poked his head in. 

"What is it?" 

"I got something. How do I display this on the three-vee?" 

Cecil strolled in, unplugging Mike and plugging himself in with two swift motions of his wrist. The image appeared on the depth box a moment later. 

"You know her?" 

Mike nodded, "I met her at an awards banquet just before coming to Calanna. It looks like this image was taken just after it." 

"How did this turn up?" 

"It says she was married to..." 

Mike read the paragraph again, still shaking off his disbelief. 

"...Alister Arien. An unnamed source in the Draconian Embassy blamed the DSS. I don't believe this." 

"Good. The written word is rarely worth believing." 

"Why would they kidnap their own ambassador?" 

"Cloak and dagger stuff. Conspiracy of hate. You know how it is." 

Mike looked up incredulously. His old friend wore a fool's grin, the sort he'd throw on for guests he was planning on throwing out. Mike stood up, stepping toward the door. 

"You don't buy any of this, do you." 

"It's a local rag, Michael. The Aggressor rarely prints anything worth reading beyond its entertainment value. Too bad Doggie Blitz doesn't carry The Galactican. But then we'd have to deal with those silly writers' royalties, not to mention all varieties of interstellar propaganda." 

Mike winced, "I'm not biting, Cecil. I have to get to the Arien mansion." 

"You already know Cecil's opinion." 

"That I'm being hideously stupid?" 

The nearest camera nodded, and Cecil sighed. 

"Before you go, there's something more you should know." 

"Such as?" 

"Found something interesting while sifting through the booty from that android brain." 

"Robin?" 

"She had some very peculiar orders, Michael. Orders which she had to consult before deciding to fry you. She was to kill you and Niki upon touch down and then report to her temporary supervisor for further instructions." 

"Clay?" 

"A chap by the name of William Walker." 

Mike blinked, "Bill?" 

"One and the same." 

"That doesn't make sense." 

"If she recognized him and he had the proper access code, then he could have gotten inside just like we did tonight. Judging from these orders, he could have gotten further." 

"Why would Clay turn her over to Bill? Why would he send us on this mission just to kill us?" 

Cecil smiled, "A change of plans, perhaps? Now, at least, you and Johanes might have something interesting to talk about. Give the Draconian Cecil's warmest regards. Translation: if he blinks, fry him." 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evening descended into night as Mike approached the outskirts of Xin, his impatience forcing a speed well beyond the limits proscribed by Calannan law. Judging from the radio reports, however, he wouldn't have to worry about being pulled over. The police were most likely busy in the inner city, quelling the incessant looting and vandalism. 

He'd seen riots before. Even in his early youth, he'd learned what to expect. What made "Shattered Eden" a success wasn't so much the accurate description of such events. It was the human nature that got people, the law of opportunism as Cecil might have called it. To Mike, it was just sloth. 

People liked to take the easy out in nearly all endeavors whether they were flagellating their brains in the electronic void or expressing rage at things they only barely understood. Even the grand Imperial bureaucracy which sought to destroy an entire world had shied away from the big bang approach. Too messy, they must have figured: bad for interstellar relations. Germ warfare had been far easier for them, far less newsworthy. 

These locals were no different. Mike knew they would try to hit the obvious targets. But unlike Eden, the two most obvious targets, the Arien mansion and Xekhasmeno, were both out of the way and very defensible. The Calannans could fume and fuss, destroy small businesses, even kill a few unfortunates. But if they wanted to make the sort of statement worth making, they'd have to take casualties. Mike suspected that few rioters would be so inclined, because at heart, those most indolent were often the most cowardly. 

Thus, the Arien mansion resembled not so much a war zone as a refugee camp. Bathed in the moon's faint luminescence, a quarrelsome throng resided outside the front gates, tossing occasional molotovs onto the lawn and shouting threats into the studded darkness. Mike parked at the side of the road among the other vehicles and started circling the mansion grounds on foot to glean some idea of his chances. He guessed that the direct approach would likely constitute a recipe for suicide, as just outside the moat, he could discern the movement of clumsy shapes in the darkness: a row of Alister's mutated minions most probably. He could imagine the worgs wearing hungry grins, the sort normally reserved for career bureaucrats and used grav-car dealers named "Slim-price Sam". 

Half way around, he spotted the yellow motorbike. It sat beside a row of shrubs on the near side of the moat, plainly visible from the fence but hidden from the mansion itself. Mike figured that either Johanes was taking half-hearted precautions or he was planning a swift get-away. Another step yielded sudden pain from below. Several thick cords of barbed wire lay strewn about, one snagged on his bare foot. Mike knelt down, tearing it loose with a determined yank. Someone had cut it off the top of the gate, motion sensors and all, and a new wire was strung loosely between the severed ends carrying electricity from one side to the other but skipping the portion in between. Mike climbed up and over, smearing blood on the cermelicon rails and finally settling himself on estate grounds just inside the gate. 

As though on cue, the noise of gun spray cracked through the air. Mike froze, huddling into a ball before he realized that he wasn't a target. The gun towers were firing on the front gates as gas canisters exploded in the crowd's midst. Though nearly half a kilometer distant, Mike could still see the gates open, cermelicon railings reflecting the moonlight as they slid to the side allowing the worgs to charge through. It was a slaughter, pure and simple, and those who couldn't make it back to their vehicles were chewed up and left to rot on the blood stained pavement. 

Mike picked himself off the grass, the moments ticking in his mind with each heartbeat in his ears as he began bolting toward the mansion. Every stride ate precious time, but with all attention focused on the front gate, Mike skidded to a halt beside Johanes' bike having apparently attracted no notice whatsoever. The bike's motor idled quietly, its noise muffled by a black, plastic jacket. A long, insulated tube extended from the jacket, running to the moat beneath the shrubbery. It was a cooling sheath, Mike guessed, keeping the bike both quiet and invisible to infra-red sensors as well as protecting it from overheating. 

Reaching up, Mike gently switched off the motor and pocketed the key, glancing toward the moat as though it were an after- thought, a fifteen meter wide after-thought with gun towers looming overhead and tales of a moat monster fully appreciated. Still, the mansion walls beckoned, and Mike knew he'd never have a better chance. The water was warm and mucky, its thin layer of brown surface jelly sending memories of Aiwelk tumbling about in his head. Holding the automatic pistol overhead, Mike tried wading across but sunk into the deep, slimy mud along the moat's banks. He finally resorted to lodging the barrel between his teeth and dog paddling like a mad man. 

Leafy, moist vegetation hugged the mansion's stone walls amidst a tapestry of drab moss which dipped gently into the water. The thin vines were surprisingly strong, and Mike found himself climbing upward toward the second floor windows when he felt an annoying tug at his legs. The moat had extruded a long, grey tentacle which had wrapped a determined hold around his ankles. 

"Good evening, Mister Harrison. So good of you to drop by." 

Mike nearly fell off the wall, his mud caked hand frozen just inches from his mouth. The voice came from the nearest gun tower. He could see Mr. Arien's head sticking from a window one floor above him, his sparse, silver hair glittering in the dim moonlight. Johanes stood beside the old man, a dour grimace painted across the Draconian's lips. The barrel of a rifle poked out an adjacent window, its laser sights cutting a fine beam of light through the damp air between it and the back of Mike's neck. 

"At a loss for words?" 

Mike spat, propelling the pistol from his mouth into the murky water below. The grey tentacle immediately retreated back beneath the surface either in response to some unseen command or in order to examine its new, metallic visitor. 

"That's better." Someone handed Arien a flimsi. "Let's see what we have on you. Mmmm... juicy. You've been up to mischief, young man?" 

"A little. Can I come inside?" 

"Just hang out." 

Mike gripped two vines and stayed put, the thought of diving back into the moat playing back and forth between his brain lobes. Leaning over slightly, Johanes seemed to whisper something into Arien's ear. 

"Kill him?! Our first truly determined trespasser in how many years?" Johanes winced and gritted his teeth as the old man continued. "Mr. Harrison, being that I am expecting company rather soon, I don't have a great deal of time to chit-chat, so you'll have to be brief. Why shouldn't I blast you off my walls like the bug you are, and more importantly, why does your Draconian friend want me to?" 

"To your first question: Ambassador Kato. To your second: he's not my friend." Mike bit his lip, half expecting to become a late night morsel for the moat creature. Arien, however, seemed to frown in consideration. 

"Bring him up." 

The rope was easier to climb than wall carpet, and Mike accepted the invitation with a healthy tug. Inside, Johanes and Arien were surrounded by a number of guards, each wearing black body armor and carrying automatic rifles with electronic sights. Perfect for sniping the locals, Mike figured, though a bit long ranged for disposing of nosy gatherers. 

"Do not be afraid, Mr. Harrison. I have no intention of killing you so long as you speak the truth. Where is she?" 

Mike gulped down, trying to conjure the knowledge as Johanes answered for him. 

"You're wasting your time. He knows nothing. If you refuse to punish him directly, Alister, at least turn him over to the police." 

"Silence, Draconian. I wish to hear what he has to say." 

Mike looked back toward the open window. Muddy footprints left his trace easily visible. He shook his arms off, finally turning toward Arien with a discouraged shrug. 

"I don't know where she is. The last time I saw the Ambassador was on Tizar. She wanted me to come here to Calanna." 

"To do what?" 

"To die, apparently, or so Robin said." 

"Robin?" 

Johanes stepped between them, "We don't have time for this nonsense, Alister. Sule will be arriving with the Ambassador and Erestyl at any moment." 

Mike squinted, "Sule? ISIS?" 

"Stay out of this, Michael." 

"ISIS is coming here?! What, their mind scanners didn't work, so you're cooperating?" Mike gazed, incredulously. 

"I'm warning you..." 

"No. No, you're not. You want Sule. One bullet, and it'll be over. You're aware of the nuclear detonation today, Mr. Arien?" 

"Michael!" 

"There's a fair chance that the Ambassador was at ground zero. You already know that I'm wanted by the police for homicide. Well Johanes here isn't wanted for anything, and it's very likely that he's guilty of murdering your wife." 

"Michael, we're not playing games here! Your fantasies will have to find another audience." 

"Why the fast getaway, Johanes? You planning to just kill and run?" 

"I have no intention of running." 

Johanes drew a pistol from his coat, an integral laser pistol to be more exact. It's polished iridium handle made it look more like a hood ornament than a weapon, however, with it aimed between his eyes, Mike didn't doubt its lethal competence. Given the proper setting, he'd seen such devices carve holes in flesh so neatly, they could cauterize the wounds they inflicted before spilling a single drop of blood. He guessed that Johanes had been saving this weapon for a special occasion and tried to feel honored. 

"No!" 

The voice was Arien's, and Johanes obeyed it, if only for a moment. 

"Alister..." 

"Put it down." 

"I am politely asking your permission to kill this liar." 

"Put it down or be punctured." 

Nearly every automatic rifle in the room pointed toward the Draconian, the glint of steel wary with expectation as three of the guards crouched down at the corners to avoid the cross fire. It was the sort of threat that would be carried out with neither postponement nor afterthought, and Mike watched, silent and breathless, as Johanes, wavering with indecision, reluctantly complied. 

"Restrain him." 

"Of for... there's no need to..." 

"Remain still, Johanes. I do not wish to see you damaged. Please continue, Mr. Harrison. Your hypothesis intrigues me." 

Mike sat down on the window sill, oblivious for once to the squashing sound of his muddy pants. He imagined falling backwards into the moat, nose cartilage sunken deep within his skull and Johanes' boot print embedded firmly upon his face. Johanes was thinking it too. His eyes betrayed him, if not his fists or the veins in his neck. Throat dry with expired fear, Mike swallowed a warm drop of saliva and blinked in consideration of where to begin. 

"It's no longer hypothetical." 

Mike withdrew the key from his pocket. 

"Your fence has a hole in it. Just across the moat you'll find Johanes' bike. There's a cooling sheath wrapped around the motor. That he was planning a quick escape was obvious. I just couldn't figure out why. Now I can. If Sule is coming here with Erestyl, it means that the mind scanner wasn't a success. They need a telepath to get inside his head. Somebody good. Like you. Am I right?" 

"Continue." 

"However, you've never worked for Imperials, at least not to my knowledge, and according to Kitara, you have as much reason to hate them as I do." 

Arien's eyes sparkled at his recollection of the Siri. 

"You knew Kitara?" 

"Very well. You probably don't remember me, but we've met before. A year ago. She told me a few things about you. If you're working for the Imps, you must have a very good reason. That's where Ambassador Kato comes in. ISIS has her. Just stop me if I'm wrong." 

"You're right." 

"Are you're certain she's still alive?" 

Arien looked down, drawing a deep breath. "No. However, as long as the possibility remains..." 

"You'll do anything for anyone. And Johanes here, he's to deal with Sule as soon as the Ambassador is safe. To let Imperial blood fall on Draconian hands. Pardon my candor, Mr. Arien, but you're a fool." 

"Perhaps." 

"Did Johanes explain to you what's at stake?" 

"He didn't have to. I've known of the Prometheus device for some time." 

"Prometheus device?" 

Arien glanced toward Johanes, his eyes betraying a mixture of uncertainty and solicitation. 

"He doesn't know?" 

Johanes shook his head, "I was trying to protect him from the details." 

Mike broke in, "What about this Prometheus device?" 

"It's like one of those weapons we were talking about, Mike, the kind that kill en masse. Only this one gives en masse a whole new definition." 

"Doomsday?" 

"You don't want to know the details. Trust me." 

"What makes you so sure?" 

"Because... if you publish so much as a peep, you're dead meat." 

"The Imps already want to kill me, Jo, and at least one member of the DSS seems to feel the same way." 

Johanes smiled, "I don't want to kill you, Mike. I want to throttle you, and then I want to kill you." 

"Oh, thanks. That makes me feel so much better." 

"Don't take it personally. I want to do likewise with Alister here." 

"Now is not a good time to be threatening me, Johanes." 

"You think I give a damn? You think I'm in this for my jollies like Mike here? Tell me something, Alister. Even assuming that Sule's telling the truth and Kato is somehow still alive, heaven forbid that should be the case, but just supposing it is... tell me something. Is she worth it? Doomsday for a single human life?" 

Arien looked insulted, then confused, then finally a mixture of the two. 

"How am I supposed to answer that?" 

"Don't answer it. Just think about it. It's not too late. We can still turn this thing around. All I'm asking for is one clear shot. I'll take Sule out like a can of garbage. We'll have Erestyl. We'll find your wife, if she's still alive. Just trust me. For one lousy night, trust me." 

"If I let you kill Sule..." 

"I know what you're going to say, Alister, and she's already dead... or worse than dead. Why the hell can't you see that?! You know what ISIS does to captives like her." 

"Mental mutilation." 

"That's right. She'll be a zombie, Alister. You'll be trading the secret of Promethius for a zombie. Think it over." 

"I have already," He looked toward Mike as he announced the decision, not so much at him as through him, and strange it may seem, Mike found himself frozen, unable to turn aside from the tone of finality in the old man's voice, unable to blink from the sight of his eyes nor even shut his mind to the message they contained. It was as though Alister had seen something in him, a fragment of thought, a whisp of spirit, or even a moment of future destiny. Whatever it was, he counted on it, settling more weight upon its value that Mike cared to ascertain. And then Alister turned away, the moment lost in the shuffle of a heartbeat. 

"As you perhaps know, Johanes, there are ways of repairing such injuries given the proper precautions, and Draconians are, generally speaking, very cautious people. I'd thought I'd convinced you to bide your time, to wait for the right moment, however, it seems that you have reverted to your original idea. Kill her at the first opportunity, and leave old Alister to pick up the pieces. Who can tell why? Perhaps you expected that the right moment would never come, that it was stolen by things that go boom in the daytime." 

"Nuke?" Mike queried. 

Arien nodded, "I'd always known it was a fitting nick-name. Her temper was rather explosive. But if I'd known what would be her end..." 

"Both Sule and Erestyl apparently survived." 

"Regardless, this Draconian filth tried to sacrifice her like some..." 

"I know what I did! I'm not pleased about it anymore than you, but I'd do it again, and you know damn well the reason!" 

"Yes, of course. You were just being cautious." 

A small, metallic sphere floated in through the door, a red light flashing at its zenith. 

"Speak." 

"Sule has arrived, my lord. She is outside the front gate awaiting permission to enter." 

"Grant it. Guards, make our guests comfortable." 

Arien left, bequeathing his private soldiers with a simple if indefinite task. Mike stood back, smiling ever so slightly as Johanes was physically searched in the most comprehensive manner allowable by law. Being that Calannan law was rather lax on such matters, he had some time to wait and wonder if he was to be their next victim. Several minutes later, they found themselves in a basement cell, Johanes wearing a towel one of Arien's more generous employees had loaned him. He stood in the cell's corner, feet together and legs slightly bent, the white towel knotted around his waist. Mike tried to churn forth a wholesome expression. 

"Did it hurt?" 

Johanes merely gritted his teeth in response, angry eyes glaring stubbornly at the opposite wall. Mike nodded, trying to look sympathetic. 

"I'm just asking, because if you think you need a proctologist or anything..." 

"Shut-up, Harrison." 

"Right... um," Mike paused, searching for the right words, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?" 

Johanes ignored him, wincing as he shifted his weight slightly. 

"Were you really going to shoot me back there?" 

"Yes." 

"You were." 

"Absolutely." 

"May I ask why?" 

Johanes snorted and then winced again as the vibration crawled down along his spine. Mike looked away, granting him some private latitude for expression of discomfort. 

"I mean, it's a little extreme, isn't it? To shoot somebody?" 

"Why don't you ask Bill Walker." 

"Where did you hear about that?" 

"Various places. Before the operation you were telling Cecil all about it." 

Mike shook his head, "Then you heard it was self-defense, and Bill was a friend." 

"A friend, perhaps. As for self-defense, I understand that he was unarmed." 

"I had no choice." 

"Precisely. You were protecting your own precious hide from an unarmed friend as you put it. I, on the other hand, am trying to protect millions of people." 

Mike smiled, "Let me get this straight. You pull out a laser with every intention of carving holes in me, and two cents later you're calling my morality into question?" 

"You got it. Oh, and by the way, I didn't have the heart to tell you this before, but you'll probably figure it out sooner or later. Your friend was working for the Imps, true enough, but he didn't know it until it was too late. He thought he was working for the DSS, for John Clay to be more precise. He didn't really know what he'd gotten himself into until Sule came prancing along." 

Mike stared back incredulously, the smile wiped from his face as thoroughly as if he'd been hit by a ton of bricks. Johanes simply nodded and continued. 

"ISIS found out about Erestyl being on Tizar when Clay, one of our boys, decided he was getting a lousy deal from the agency. He cleverly diverted our internal investigations after the raid on the med-center by shifting the blame for Erestyl's capture to you. Then he disappeared, and that disk you stole from the Solomon mansion... that disk you left in Walker's hands... it became extremely valuable to ISIS. I don't know whether Clay told your friend what to expect from Robin upon reaching Calanna or whether he just figured it out by himself, but either way, Walker saved your life, and you repaid him by blowing a hole through his chest. Why, if it wasn't for your juvenile curiosity combined with those amazing trigger-happy reflexes, your friend would still be alive." 

Mike held his breath for a moment to keep from bolting to his feet. Getting into a fight with Johanes was not something he would let himself be talked into. 

"You're twisting it, Jo. He was with Sule. He was trying to get me captured by ISIS." 

"For questioning. My guess is that he figured that you knew just about nothing regarding Erestyl. Sule probably promised him that you'd be set free, and who knows, you might very well have been at that point. You were still blissfully ignorant, and you'd already done them a great service. You played right into their trap, after all." 

"You don't honestly believe that." 

"What you or I believe isn't particularly important. It's what Bill believed that is interesting. You wrote him off as a traitor without even bothering to attend the funeral. When the locals got around to doing an autopsy on the body, they found the primary arteries in his neck already shattered. The culprit was a tiny capsule with its own radio receiver, timing mechanism, and explosive charge courtesy of ISIS. Their leverage over him, Michael. Your friend knew that he'd made a huge mistake. He knew that you were in the process of making another similar mistake, and he wanted to get you out of the picture as quickly and as painlessly as possible, even if it meant handing you over to the Imps. As far as he was concerned, they'd catch you sooner or later." 

"The psyche bloodhound?" 

Johanes nodded, "A gift from Alister. Before the Imps admitted to having Ambassador Kato, they had Clay pay Alister a social call. Clay, I am told, was very convincing in blaming Kato's capture on rogue elements in the DSS. He requested psychic assistance in tracking her down." 

"Arien couldn't see through it?" 

"Clay has a psionic shield implant." 

"You're reaching, Jo." 

"If you don't believe me, the why don't you look at his file. I'm sure Cecil could supply it now that he's virtually jumped Robin's bones." 

"She doesn't have any bones, and I'm not buying any of this." 

"Her circuits then, and yes you are. Because it's true, and you know it." 

Mike took a deep breath. "Why are you telling me this?" 

Johanes shrugged, "Because, it's as close to throttling you as I'm likely to get... at least in this lifetime. You may not realize it yet, Michael, but you're not long for this world." 

"Sule doesn't even know I'm here." 

"If Vlep lives, she knows." 

"Vlep?" 

"The psyche bloodhound." 

Mike winced, "He lives." 

Johanes cocked his head sideways, "What makes you so certain?" 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  THE HARRISON CHAPTERS                        
                                                                            
             by Jim Vassilakos                                 
                                                     
                Chapter 13  
                                        
            Copyright (c) 1993


 "`Goodbye, Harrison. And good   
    riddance.' Then she broke into a
   sprint, and Mike heard the sound
   of gunfire. He hit the turf,    
   holding Kato down as bullets    
   continued to whiz overhead."    
         

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She stood before him, silent and expressionless as subtle strands of moonlight bathed the sanctuary in dim shades of purple. Then a coy smile played into her silver eyes, and her white mane rippled in the icy darkness, hair like blades, etching an icy trail along his throat. Her nails left only a thin trickle of blood, barely a distraction, one following closely upon the other in preparation for her knee's decisive collision with his crotch. He doubled over, falling to the floor with a heavy thud and torn, mud-caked britches. 

"Out of the frying pan and into the fire, eh Harrison? That was for making a fool of me. This is for trying to nuke me." 

Her palm pressed against his nose, two fingers slowly but resolutely forcing their way into his eye sockets. 

"I didn't do it." 

She held the pressure for a moment and then changed her grip on his face, lifting him to the wall by the scruff of his chin. 

"I was going to kill you mercifully, but lies piss me off." 

"He's not lying." The voice belonged to green-eyes. 

Sule rocked Mike back a foot and then bounced him off the wall, dropping him to the mauve carpet like a wet rag. He was still shaking off stars as Sule turned toward Arien's daughter. 

"Get out!" 

"What are you going to do, Sule? Beat me up?" The young woman stepped forward, confidence filling every movement. "If you touch me, my father will kill you, and if you touch him, I'll kill you." 

Mike raised his head slowly and blinked, the gleam of moonlight off iridium scarcely catching his notice. She had Johanes's laser. An appropriate weapon, Mike figured. With nothing mechanical to slow her down, it shaved the bio-synthe's edge to a bare minimum. Sule's scowl faded slightly, a touch of amusement sparking silver eyes. 

"You are a foolish girl." 

"And you're on my turf, Sule. Don't forget it." 

Mike raised himself halfway off the floor, taking a wider surveillance of the chamber. Erestyl's emaciated body lay folded in a corner, his eyes staring at nothing in particular. Mike crept over, fumbling in vain for a pulse and finding a spent hypo on the floor. 

"He outlived his usefulness," Sule contemplated. "The reason you came to this space sick planet is dead." 

"Why?" 

"Efficiency." 

Mike coughed, "Efficiency?" 

"With the aid of Korina and Alister, his mind was peeled open such that I could question him in solitude. After he disclosed the details of his treachery, there was simply nothing more of value to learn from him. Now all that remains is to dispose of the body, a matter to which I must personally attend." 

With that she picked up the body and carried it out the door. Mike followed her, still limping, outside and across the moat's narrow bridge. Outside, the Worgs guarded the mansion, their hungry eyes perched upon blood-drenched snouts. Sule dropped the body several feet from the moat, placing a small vial on Erestyl's chest and breaking it with her boot. A moment later, the body was consumed in flame, and several of the Worgs took up a mournful howl. She waited a minute, finally kicking the charred remains into the water. 

"Food for your pet, Alister." 

Mike turned around. Arien stood behind him with Korina by his side. He seemed despondent, light from the dying flames flickering in his eyes. 

"The first cooked meal she's had in years." 

"You're sure you won't let me take this gatherer with me? I'd rather like to keep him." 

Arien smiled, "If it wasn't for Mr. Harrison, Sule, it might be your burnt corpse in that moat." 

Her eyes narrowed, but she never got to respond. A gravcar slipped casually over the gate, turning back only as the laser cannon opened with a warning burst. Arien raised his arm, effectively restraining further damage to his lawn. 

"Your ride, I take it?" 

Sule nodded, "Vlep and your wife. You want her, you'll have to fetch her." 

"Mr. Harrison?" 

Mike looked at him dumbly. "Don't you have guards to do that sort of thing?" 

"Please, Mr. Harrison. Oh, you'll need this." 

He handed Mike some hi-tech gizmo, a makeshift medical scanner if Mike guessed correctly. 

"To check for anything physically out of the ordinary. It's been pre-programmed. All you have to do is hit this button. Easy enough for you?" 

Mike was about to say no, but the look in Korina's green eyes told him not to bother. The front gate was wide open, and crossing through it, Mike saw Vlep in the driver's seat. 

"Long time, no see." 

"Why are they sending you?" 

Mike shrugged, "I'm sure he has his reasons." 

Ambassador Kato was in the back seat, her brown eyes glassy and sluggish. Mike opened her door, and began scanning. The gizmo seemed to say she was okay, and he offered his hand in what he figured was his most diplomatic gesture of the evening. 

"C'mon Ambassador." 

He reached in and shook her shoulder, finally getting some figment of attention. 

"Mind scanner?" 

Vlep ignored the query. 

"It's okay, Vlep. Sule can't hear you." 

"You'd be surprised." 

"Oh," Mike nodded, "she's got a vice on your balls does she?" 

"In my neck." 

Mike made a T-sign, turning the scanner toward Vlep. 

"You know what that means, don't you?" 

Vlep looked up, somewhat confused. 

"You're just gonna have to do what you do best, Vlep." 

Mike leaned in, grabbing Vlep's hand and pressing it against his forehead. 

"Understand?" 

He picked Johanes' bug out of his pocket, screwing the two pieces back together. Then he dropped it in Vlep's hand. 

"It's the only chance you've got." 

Mike lifted the ambassador from the vehicle and pointed her in the direction of the mansion. She leaned against him as they walked, and he felt as though he were training a baby to put one foot in front of the other. They met Sule half way across the lawn. Her white mane waved gently in the cool, night air, and she held a small metallic cylinder in one hand, its tip gleaming golden in the moonlight. 

"Goodbye, Harrison. And good riddance." 

Then she broke into a sprint, and Mike heard the sound of gunfire. He hit the turf, holding Kato down as bullets continued to whiz overhead. Then all was silent, and the gravcar was gone. Mike picked himself unsteadily off the lawn, helping the Ambassador to her feet. Korina was there moments later, her father trotting close behind. 

"Thank the fates. We thought you both dead." 

"Vlep's no marksman, but all the same, it's amazing that he missed," Arien added. 

Mike shook his head and started back toward the mansion. 

"He didn't miss." 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mike leaned against the tile wall, his groin still aching as he watched the last of the moat gook slither down the drain pipe. Coating his body in a gentle, sleepy embrace, the shower's warm spray made him more than a little drowsy. Considering everything, it was a strange feeling. Getting shot at usually kept him wired for an evening. Lately, however, the slugs had been flying so thick and fast that they were no longer a novelty. Adrenalin was becoming a tiresome companion. Even Sule's knee in his crotch seemed in retrospect like nothing grander than a momentary distraction, though, at the time, he was quite certain that the universe was coming to an end. He curled his lips inward at the memory, letting the warm water invade his mouth and nostrils until he had to spew it out just to breathe. It was a good memory, he decided. It helped him forget about sleep. 

The black fleximesh laid out for him was vastly superior to the mendwear he usually threw on. It was designed along some Draconian, poly-adaptive, one-size-fits-all concept. All-within-reason is what they actually meant. Mike aired off and slipped into the new threads, still damp from their soaking. Once they dried, the fibers would expand and harden. Decent protection, Mike figured, and it was air-tight to boot, better than a flak vest or a vacc suit and at a fraction of the bulk. Mike checked the fit in the mirror, the imperious grin sliding off his face as the glint of polished iridium met his gaze. A draconian, military insignia lay etched into the left breast: external intelligence if his guess wasn't too far off. 

Korina and Johanes were still in the study, each perched over the medical console like a pair of determined vultures as they argued over the finer features of a sub-dermal charge. Mike tried to meet Johanes' smile with one of his own, but even in his fleximesh uniform, the Draconian could put on a dastardly grin, unbeatable considering the image of the Realm most people carried around. 

"Vlep's cooperating," Johanes patted the reception unit. "They're going to Xekhasmeno... to the starport it seems. Oh, by the way... nice outfit." 

"Same to you. You mind telling me why we're wearing these?" 

Johanes put on a play frown, "You don't like 'em?" 

"Walking into an Imperial starport with this on isn't exactly the quintessence of sanity." 

"Well, it isn't exactly an Imperial starport anymore." 

Korina sighed, "The Calannan government has assumed temporary control." 

"Because of the riots?" 

She nodded, "And all Imperial vessels have been banished from the planetary airspace." 

Mike finally managed his smile, no longer wondering why Johanes seemed so pleased with himself. With a Royal Fleet passenger liner in orbit, it was a hefty blow to Imperial pride. Johanes had every right to be pleased, however, he dropped his smile when he noticed it becoming contagious. 

"It's politics, Mike. The Imps are going along with it to help quell the riots." 

"So Sule's gonna have a hard time finding herself a ride." 

"A very hard time." 

"That still doesn't answer my question." 

Johanes took a deep breath, cautiously scrutinizing the vacant space several inches in front of his nose. 

"It's like this, Mike. The locals hate the Imps." 

"They hate neghrali." 

"But they hate the Imps in particular." 

"Jo, the starport guards are not going to give you free run of the facilities just because you're a Draconian." 

"If they have orders..." 

"Who have you been talking to?" 

Johanes resumed his smile, "A friend of yours." 

"A friend?" 

"A powerful friend." 

Mike winced, "No." 

"Yes." 

"I don't want to hear this." 

"General Gardansa. He's now in charge of the starport. And the beauty of it, which is still making me crazy, is that this whole plan depends on you." 

Mike sat down on the edge of the table, the med console casting a faint blue glimmer against the side of his face. 

"What have you told him?" 

"Enough. Enough for him to understand how important it is that we find Sule before she gets offworld." 

"Then what's the problem?" 

"He wants to hear it from you. He trusts you." 

Mike coughed, "That's absurd." 

"I agree completely, but then again, he doesn't know you like I do." 

"Yes he does." 

Johanes shrugged, "Then I pity him." 

Mike considered a jab to Jo's stomach but stuffed the notion back where it belonged. The fleximesh would make a stump of his hand before he'd ever inflect so much as mild irritation. 

"You still haven't answered my question." 

"Appearances are important, Michael. He doesn't want the world to know he's taking cues from a gatherer, particularly one to whom he owes favors." 

"I'm sure he doesn't feel that he owes me anything. Besides, people will recognize me." Mike fingered his jacks to demonstrate the point. Johanes just cracked a grin. 

"I'll find you a helmet. Look, Mike. He's not the nicest person on this planet, but he's all we've got, and we desperately need his help." 

"Jo, whatever he does, he does for himself, not for you or me. If we go there, it's going to be us who are helping him accomplish his agenda. You understand?" 

Johanes nodded, "Yes. And I can live with it as long as it means stopping Sule. Why do you have a problem with it?" 

"If you knew him like I do, you wouldn't have to ask." 

"Maybe I do, Michael. Spokes told me a few things, while you were busy having your jitters." 

"Like what?" 

"He told me that Gardansa had you take a bath... with his limo. It took a little research to find out why. Gardansa's been effectively grounded this past year, his black market stolen by strong arms in the military." 

Mike nodded, "I know the details. He was too greedy. And I also know that he's trying to buy his way back in, except he isn't going through his people, Jo. He's going through ISIS. Did Spokes mention that?" 

"He told me." 

"Then why are you doing this? For all we know, Sule could be sitting on Gardansa's lap, playing patty-cake with him right now." 

"I doubt it." 

"Why's that?" 

"It's what you said, Mike. He's greedy. He can get what he wants by turning us in to ISIS, but he can get much more by capturing Sule and holding her for the highest bidder. Think about it, and think about what the Imps will pay." 

"They'll kill him." 

"He's run that risk before. He'll run it again. And he may even make himself the planetary governor in the process." 

"And you're going to let him?" 

"Appearances, Mike. They're more important than the reality. Gardansa can hand her over to us and then lie like a moon rock. He'll get paid by both sides, and when the Imps do get her back, there won't be any more in her head than is in Kato's. A justice fitting the crime." 

Mike blinked, disgusted and impressed all at the same time. 

"I can tell you've put some thought to this." 

"You disapprove?" 

Mike gritted his teeth, "No." 

"I didn't think so." 

"You figured all this while I was taking a shower?" 

Johanes blushed, "What can I say?" 

"Tell me about Vlep." Mike motioned toward the medical console, and Korina swiveled the screen toward him. 

"Your scan shows a rather complex piece of equipment in his neck." 

Mike exchanged glances with Johanes as she continued, pointing toward various points on the monitor display. 

"The receiver is here. This seems to be the timing mechanism. This is a transmitter, presumably for location purposes, and here's the charge." 

"Large package." 

"Minute, actually. But it packs a wallop. Sule must have a transmitter somewhere on her which we assume will activate the charge." 

Mike nodded, "She was holding some sort of metallic cylinder as she passed me." 

"Anything about it distinctive?" Johanes interjected. 

"No. Well, it had a gold tip." 

Kori hit a key on the monitor, switching it off. 

"To help Vlep, you're going to have to block the signal." 

"How?" 

"The starport med-bay has durilium sheaths. Without knowing what frequency it's keyed to, it's the best we can do. I've already made the necessary arrangements." 

"Thanks. How's your mom?" 

"They're freezing her downstairs. The radiation dose she took was killing her rather quickly." 

Johanes cringed, and Mike tried hard not to smirk. 

"I didn't know your mother very well, Ms. Arien, and I'm no fan of the Draconian government, but I do hope they find a way to make her better. I hope everything works out for both of you." 

Green eyes stared blankly back at him, either unimpressed or vaguely angry. 

"You sound like you're making a farewell speech." 

Mike looked toward the ground, almost certain that he didn't mean a word of it, and very certain that she knew. 

"I guess I am." 

She snorted on that one. 

"Y'know. If there's one thing about you neghrali, it's that you're as presumptuous as hell. This may be news to you both, but I'm going with you. And before you say anything stupid, just remember, I've got more reason to want Sule than both of you put together." 

The ride to Xekhasmeno aboard the Arien's grav limo proved both safe and expedient. During the trip, Mike kept a watch out the window as the amber glow of the city's electric barricade grew slowly in the distance. The city itself, however, lay covered in a murky shroud, as though the cold, ominous wind sweeping beneath the clouds had shattered every light and killed every flame. From the corner of his eye, he could see Kori watching him, her green eyes glinting faintly in the silver moonlight. 

"Pretty incredible, eh Harrison?" 

"The locals must of knocked out the main reactor or something. The outer fence is on a separate capacitor." 

"You didn't think us locals had it in us, 

did you?" 

"You know, Korina, you're not really a local any more than your father." 

"I was born here." 

Mike nodded and shrugged, "Well, congratulations." 

"Here Harrison. Watch this." 

She steered the limo into a dive so that Mike no longer had to tilt his head to see the ground. The earth below was nearly invisible against the night, a black tapestry marred only by a single long row of glowing specks. Every now and then, one of the specks would flare up and then die down slowly. As they continued to descend, the reason for the congestion became apparent. 

There were rioters, perhaps a thousand or more: adults and children and many somewhere in between, each hateful enough to make the incident at the Arien estate seem more like a tea party. Instead of tossing their molotov's on a green stretch of lawn, they were throwing them into vehicles. One congregation worked on forming a blockade with burnt-out automobiles while others took pot shots at people as they ran from their cars. The smarter motorists took their vehicles off-road and out of the death zone. The limo leveled off at around a hundred meters altitude, and Mike felt more thankful for gravitics than he could ever remember. 

There was less bloodshed at city's gates. Starport authority personnel had apparently been called out to supplement the city guard. Together, they held the line at the customs checkpoints, trying desperately to sift the deluge of legitimate inbounders from those who would get into the city just to wreck havoc. 

The limo touched down outside the starport as a team of Imperial inspectors cruised around checking city passports and ID's. Mike was resigned to hiding beneath the floor in a tight space the Arien's had reserved for special occasions. He felt the gravitic propulsion kick in with a sudden jerk, knocking his head against the compartment's wall, and by the time he crawled back out, Kori was steering them into an anchoring shed over the starport's upper concourse. 

The entire concourse deck was flooded with people, mostly offworlders seeking shelter from the rowdy locals, while groups of Calannic guards stood at the escalator entrances double- checking ID's and frisking the prettier ladies. The power on the escalators was down, and people were using them as stairs, most pausing as they stepped on, as though expecting the metallic steps to lurch from underneath and send them hurtling to the bottom. 

"See something interesting?" It was Korina. Mike tried to conjure a wholesome response, finally shaking his head and frowning. 

"Here. This might help." 

She placed the helmet over his head, helping him lock it in place. Mike squinted as the light-intensification automatically switched on. He could suddenly see clear beyond the landing ledge and all the way to the city gates. The moon glared like a strobe light on full beam, its glassy surface seemingly enlarged by the white clouds fusing beneath to form a bright, billowy halo. 

"Better?" 

"I guess. Any word from Vlep?" 

"He's been quiet ever since we left the mansion. I can barely make out his breathing, but that's all. I'll give you a buzz on the helmet when I find out more. Okay?" 

She patted him firmly on the head as she exited the vehicle and began climbing down to the crowded deck, Johanes's reception unit swinging back and forth on her belt. 

"Until we meet again, gatherer." 

"Where's she going?" 

The Draconian casually removed his white overcoat. 

"Somebody has to get Vlep's sheath and keep track of the bugger, right? We'll meet her at the med bay when we're done finalizing our arrangement with Gardansa." 

Mike chewed his upper lip as Jo started patching in a line to the tower. 

"I'll talk with Gardansa alone, Jo. You'd better go with her." 

"You don't trust her?" 

"She's got revenge on her mind. She might try to go it alone." 

Johanes paused for a brief moment, finally putting his overcoat back on and heaving himself out the door. Mike waited a minute before placing the call. 

"Tower, this is the DSS. Get me General Gardansa." 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Perkins sat at the edge of the airlock, fists sunken deep into his pockets as the cold night air washed over his face and into the hold. Beyond the landing platform, he could hear shouting and the loose carnage of Imperial gunfire. Long ago, it could have made him cringe, but he'd learned to expect such things from Calanna. The mood of her people was as unpredictable as her weather, balmy as a swamp on one evening and as cold as death the next. 

He stood upright as the flat-top approached, Dilly behind the controls, and two locals with badges wandering among the crates, poking around here and there with Imperial mass detectors. Just trying to look busy for each other, Wendell guessed, though he had to wince and scrape a strange, leathery tongue off the roof of his mouth. Dealing with newbies was almost always a problem. He reminded himself to be polite, and stepped forward, nodding and smiling. 

"Hi there." 

"You Captain Perkins?" 

"Call me Wendell." 

Deep brown eyes consulted a flimsi-leaf. 

"You fill claims form?" 

"My broker handles it." 

"Ah... where is?" 

"You should have it on page three-dee." 

The inspector tapped the corner of the flimsi with his light pen, obviously struggling to find the correct cell. Wendell smiled, trying to look alert and nonchalant all at the same time. 

"You boys are new at this, aren't you? Look, do you mind if we load up here? We're sort of on a schedule and all, and I don't want ol' Louise blown out of the sky 'cause we missed our launch window. Okay?" 

He tagged it with a laugh. The two locals either didn't understand or weren't paying attention. 

"Hello?" 

"Eh?" 

"Load cargo? Put boxes inside?" 

The one in charge nodded apologetically and waved his hand, as non-committal a gesture as Wendell had ever witnessed. Dilly seemed as confused as his boss until Wendell finally snorted and spat on the white cement, narrowly missing the inspector's boots. 

"Go ahead Dil. If they start bitching, 

we'll just have to stop." 

"Is okay." The inspector nodded again and then got a curious look in his eyes, "We go in ship." 

"Well, that's perfectly understandable," he forced a grin. "You are inspecting us, after all." 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mike yanked off his helmet, the resulting pressure release making his ears pop as he stood squarely before the plush mahogany desk. Grinning with a faint air of supremacy, the general tilted backward as far as the gravitic recliner would allow. Like his newfound power, it was just another toy, ripe for his sportive abuse. Mike wondered how long Gardansa would last this time as the general lifted his gaze, the fleshy folds of his chin jiggling as he gurgled with delight. 

"Draconian Harrison, much time without sight as you offworlders say, eh? How long has it been? Three whole days?" 

"Something on that order," Mike smiled and found himself a seat, placing the helmet on a corner of the desk. "You're surprised to see me, aren't you?" 

"Like this," Gardansa tilted upright, "who wouldn't be." 

"Forget the costume. It isn't important. Forget even why I'm here, and why you're behind that desk instead of hiding away like some snake." 

Gardansa's eyes widened for a moment, as though he were contemplating calling his guards. Then he leaned back again, letting the gravitic waves catch his fall. 

"An angry gatherer, eh? I am really the one who should be angry, you know. Did you see what they did to my car? To my driver?" 

He continued with a feeble shrug, "Even though you are angry, and have every right to be maddened by rage, you must believe that I had no idea that ISIS wanted you dead. I guessed only that they wanted to talk to you and that they would catch you sooner or later despite your best efforts. You remember how I tried to convince you to leave the planet? But no, you would have none of my advice. So what was I to do? Let you slip between my fingers? Let you walk into their arms without even the gentlest of nudges?" 

"Why not?" 

Gardansa smirked, then sat upright as if to make an important point. 

"Because like your friend, Mister Dulin, I was rotting. Deprived of all freedoms, I was less than dead. You asked me to free him, and yet you expected me to do nothing on my own behalf?" 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
            THE HARRISON CHAPTERS       
                            
                  Chapter 14                    
                              
                Jim Vassilakos              
                           
"`...Michael. Look at it. Does it look like
    it went through an explosion?'
   `No.'                                         
   `Which means that it's probably a little      
    going-away present. For us to go away.
    Permanently.'"

MIKE WATCHED FROM THE PLATFORM DECK AS EMERGENCY CREWS ADVANCED IN TEAMS, quenching the burning blaze. Magor had done a thorough job with his air strike, taking out not just one ship but two. That left fifteen unscathed; he'd probably get a medal for precision. 
From the Louise they'd pulled out fragments of at least three bodies. Fortunately, the other craft had been empty with not so much as a goldfish on board, at least according to starport records. Despite its crew's luck, however, Mike was sure they'd have a few choice words for the General. He'd be a caldron of hot water, and so far, he had nothing to show for it. 
Johanes was still busy chewing the bull with a pair of inspectors while Korina sat quietly beside a burnt piece of fuselage, her long, dark hair obscuring the left side of her face as her cheek and forehead glistened crimson against the fiery blaze. Mike walked over, doffing his helmet, his knees still wobbly from the senseless destruction. She stared directly at them, but didn't otherwise acknowledge his presence. Above, the stars seemed to fade as the billowing clouds of smoke settled amongst the black of night. 
"You're trying to sense for Sule, aren't you?" 
She blinked and looked up. Mike sat down beside her, the cold, damp air layering a blanket of chill along his jacks. 
"And you're not finding anything." 
Kori looked down at the cement pavement. 
"For a moment...." she struggled to find the words, her eyes narrowing into thin slits. "I thought I'd felt her laughter." She smiled, probably at how stupid it sounded. "I guess I just feel cheated. I wanted to kill her myself." 
She stared back at him through the flickering, smoky light, uncertainty clouding her green eyes, and Mike gave her his thought, if only for the humor's sake. She smiled, then tittered at the edge of the joke, and then frowned again. 
"Yes, Mr. Harrison. She was capable of laughter. But it wasn't the kind of laughter you or I know. I'd first felt it when she kicked Erestyl's burnt corpse into my father's moat. It was the sort of victory laugh that has nothing to do with anything anyone normal would call funny." 
"Are you sure you felt it... here?" 
She stared into the flames, but wouldn't answer. She didn't need to. Mike stood up, sliding his helmet back on. 
"Keep trying." 
Johanes, having finished with the inspectors, was busying himself by nosing around the ship's shattered cargo hold. He picked up a piece of smoking meat, smelling it and finally taking a bite. 
"Devouring the evidence?" 
"Quagga liver. This stuff is great. You ever try it?" 
Mike shrugged, "My dad used to love it. What did you find out?" 
"There were supposedly two crew members on board when it happened. That makes four corpses, one unaccounted for. You thinking what I'm thinking?" 
"This place is a mess, Jo. Three may not even be the correct body count." 
"Don't kid yourself. I'm a professional, alright? Three is correct." He handed Mike an automatic pistol. 
"Where'd you get this?" 
"It was on the floor. Check out the clip." 
Mike opened it up. 
"Fourteen of fifteen isn't bad." 
"Only the difference between life and death, or being healthy versus feeling like slog shit." He smiled. 
"Why would she leave it behind." 
"Exactly. I don't think it's her's at all. But somebody did fire it for one reason or another. This here may be the reason." Johanes pointed toward a small, metallic, gold-tipped cylinder, still gleaming in the light of the flames. "Look familiar?" 
Mike leaned over to grab it. 
"Don't, Michael. Look at it. Does it look like it went through an explosion?" 
"No." 
"Which means that it's probably a little going-away present. For us to go away. Permanently. You understand? I had the worst time steering the fire crew clear of it when they came in here, so I'll be damned if you set it off." 
"You sure you're not just being paranoid?" 
Johanes smiled, "Just because you're paranoid, Michael, doesn't mean they aren't really out to get you." 
Johanes kept poking around, chewing quagga liver, hoping to find some shred of evidence to prove himself wrong. Not too far away, Gardansa was talking on a portable phone. 
"You say to them that their petition is under consideration, however, if they violate our airspace, they will face the consequences of their trespasses. That is all." 
He hung-up, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and Mike put a hand on his shoulder. 
"What's going on, General?" 
"Trouble." 
"Of what nature?" 
"Of an Imperial nature. Commodore Reece sends her malevolent tidings, a delegation of inspectors to assess the damage." 
"So what's the problem?" 
"They will be accompanied by the Crimson Queen's escorts to ensure interstellar peace and the sanctity of Imperial property." 
He added a flowery emphasis to the last part. If Xekhasmeno was Imperial property, then the starport was even more so. The planetary government's treaty with the Empire made that point abundantly clear. It was the very reason the city was under siege, and it was also the reason the Imps would float a dozen armored gunships over the starport, regardless of airspace. 
"How long do we have?" 
"A centim. Two perhaps." Gardansa shrugged, "I hope we have finished our work here." 
"You're going to back down?" 
"I have no choice. They know, and I know it. The situation is, in short, frightfully plain." 
"Then we've achieved nothing." 
"Can you prove that?" 
"No, but I'm working on it." 
"Do it, and I will destroy every vessel on this platform just to be done with her." 
Mike blinked, "I take it you've met Sule?" 
"She visited me before you arrived three days ago. Told me that ISIS would be watching, and that if I didn't cooperate, she would emasculate me and have my testes for breakfast." 
"So it was love at first sight." 
"Hardly." 
"Admiration perhaps?" 
He sighed, "Admiration and love are two distinct creatures, sometimes confused, occasionally compatible, but otherwise the one has absolutely nothing to do with the other. No my friend. It was something more akin to dread and dishonor mixed together with a touch of avarice, the sort of complementary qualities a man can sink his teeth into." 
"She made you an offer." 
"She made me betray you, or at least I chose to." 
Mike smiled, though Gardansa could not see it through the helmet's face plate. 
"You'd better get inside, lest Sule make good her promise." 
"She is dead." 
"She wants air cover so she can get out of here." 
"You are hallucinating, my friend." 
"Just do me a favor." 
Gardansa laughed, turning around, "What is it now? Shall we scorch the entire platform on a gatherer's hunch?" 
"That's not a bad idea." 
"And start a war in the process, not to mention putting my neck on the chopping block? No, I think not." 
"Just do a ship by ship search and try to hold off the Imps as long as you can. That's all I'm asking." 
"There are fifteen vessels here. What you propose will eat more time than we are served." 
"What do we have to lose by trying?" 
Gardansa shifted away, making a guttural sound somewhere between annoyance and acceptance. Mike had to smile. He knew he would get his way. It was easier for the General to give in than to sift among hypothetical arguments, and Gardansa was basically a lazy person. 
Mike started to pace the vessel's circumference, watching the work crews extinguish the last of the flames. One of Gardansa's officers stood among them, pulling groups of two off the work at hand and pointing them toward the other vessels. Several meters away, Korina stood upright in the smoke veiled darkness. With the light intensification, she looked almost ethereal, walking toward Mike through the patchy, grey mist. 
"So what's the verdict?" 
Mike sighed, "Well . . . you still feel cheated?" 
"Sule's alive then." 
"Probably. Can you track at all?" 
Kori shook her head, "I'm a telepath. I get in people's heads." 
"Can you read impressions from non-animates?" 
She nodded, "Most psyches can somewhat." 
"A friend of mine once honed her ability to the extreme by wandering around my house, picking up my things, and scolding me for whatever was going through my mind when I last handled them." 
"I'm not that good." 
"Considering who your parents are, one would tend to think otherwise." 
"I'm not that practiced." 
"We'll see. C'mon." 
Johanes was still poking around the deck, a piece of quagga liver in one hand and a short, metal rod in the other. Kori regarded him with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. 
"What are you doing?" 
"Trying to find the bullet." 
"What's he talking about?" 
Mike showed her the clip. 
"Jo, I'd like Korina to take a look at Sule's going-away present." 
"Why?" 
"To glean some impressions off it." 
"That means touching, doesn't it?" 
"Yeah." 
"She moves it a centimeter and we could all be organ donors." 
"You can stand back if you want." 
Johanes sighed and stepped back about a dozen meters. 
"Why take chances?" he grinned, lengthening the distance a little further. 
Korina didn't look amused. 
"I take it this is going to be dangerous?" 
Mike shrugged, "Crossing the street is dangerous. Breathing smog is dangerous. This... this is a cakewalk." 
She rested her pinky against it, closing her eyes for a long moment during which Mike remained frozen still, all except for his knees. They jiggled back and forth, barely supporting his weight. 
Kori looked up, "She feels very dumb." 
"So do I," Mike added. "Why don't you take your hand away from it now?" 
"One moment." 
Kori didn't close her eyes this time. Instead, she just let them become enveloped by that glassy sort of gaze Mike was growing used to. 
"Pain." 
Kori withdrew her hand, and Mike let the breath out of his lungs in one, steady withdrawal. 
"That's it?" 
"Her pain was the strongest thing there. Once I found it, there was no point in continuing. It will mask or distort everything beneath it." 
"What kind of pain?" 
She reached out, and almost without thinking, Mike placed the automatic into her hands. Johanes was back, a smug look on his face. 
"Where's the boom?" 
"Your hypothesis about the gun is amassing evidence." 
"Of what sort?" 
They both looked toward Kori. She handed it back, uncertain. 
"It's too polluted. Like I said, I am not as good as your friend, Mr. Harrison." 
"Well, we shouldn't have handled it. Jo, quiz time. Where do you go on a ship when you're hurt?" 
"Medical Bay." 
"There is none." 
"Ship's locker." 
"Where would that be?" 
"In front of the airlock, most likely." 
Considering a missile had slammed into the ship, the locker was remarkably intact. 
"What a mess." 
"Well, at least we won't need a key to open it." 
They began shoveling through its contents, most of them burnt or foam covered, 
scattered in front of the open iris valve. There were vacc suits, communicators, canned rations, and even a few weapons, all standard fare for an independent freighter. There were even medical supplies. 
"Oh my... look what we have here." 
Mike looked over Johanes' shoulder. The gauze towel was stained a deep red where it wasn't carbonized. 
"Looks like somebody didn't want to bleed all over the pavement. Kori?" 
"Can I move this one?" 
"Be my guest." 
She took it in both hand, closing her eyes. 
"Lots of pain." 
"Get past it." 
A look of concentration fell across her features. 
"There's too much." 
"You're trying too hard. I've seen Kitara... that's the friend I was telling you about... at first she used to do what your doing, and it never worked. Just relax and let it come." 
Kori, though drained and disheartened, looked somewhat amused. "I am the psyche here, Mr. Harrison." 
"Just try what I'm saying, okay?" 
She closed her eyes again, this time wandering amidst the pain without fighting it. Somewhere in the corner of her mind, she felt the worry and strain of failure engulfing her. It was like a wave, drowning away all hope. 
"I can't..." 
"Yes you can." 
"...need help... Reece." She re-opened her eyes, seeming weary and withdrawn. Confusion cluttered her green eyes. 
"Who's Reece?" 
Johanes answered as he continued sifting through the articles on the deck. "She's the Imperial Commodore on the Crimson Queen. It arrived in-system two days ago. I'm sure you've both heard of it." 
Mike nodded, "She just sent a message to General Gardansa. They're bringing in a team of Imperial inspectors, along with the Crimson's defensive force." 
"You didn't think to mention this to me before?" Beneath the overcoat, he was still wearing a Draconian insignia. Mike realized that his own was even more blatant. 
"Sule must have reached her. Could any of these communicators have talked to orbiting craft?" 
"Uh, this one." 
He reached for one which was so large it came complete with a back harness. Mike held him back before he touched it, motioning Kori forward. She looked bushed. 
"You're kidding, right?" 
"You want to find Sule or not? Just give it a shot." 
She took a deep breath, grabbing the harness in both hands. Immediately she felt the pain, and underneath it the hopelessness and anger. But there was more, something she couldn't reach. Kori looked up, exhausted. 
"I can't." 
"We're putting you through a workout, aren't we?" 
"I was close to something. I'm just not trained for this." 
"C'mon," Mike lifted her up by her shoulders. "It's more likely that she would have made the transmission outside. She wouldn't want a bulkhead blocking the signal for one thing." 
"And it's not in a burning freighter for another," Johanes added. 
"The surface emotions are too strong anyway." 
"We're just asking you to try, okay?" 
She sighed, holding it again as they stepped outside. She could feel them depending on her. And yet there was more, Sule's dependence on her people, her need to find someplace to hide. Kori considered each in turn. They were both obvious facts and thus constituted potential figments of imagination. If she could not get below her own prejudices, how could she hope to discriminate Sule's? Kori stared at the various vessels, trying to imagine them as Sule might have seen them, without the emergency workers knocking on doors, brandishing firearms. They would be better off with someone else, someone neutral and non- emersed. All she could concentrate on was her exhaustion. Her anger and desire for revenge could no longer contain it. 
"C'mon, Korina. You're not even trying." 
She stared upward toward Mike, but instead of seeing him, all she could see was a huge ball of fire where the ship had been, it's flames engulfing her, searing her skin as she rolled on the ground in agony. For a long moment, she couldn't breathe, and then she felt hands on her, pulling her gently toward the sky. 
"Kori! Come out of it!" 
"Wha..." 
"Put her down, Mike." 
Mike complied, though he wasn't sure why, and as though in a trance, she crawled back to the communicator, grabbing the receptor in a crouched position. 
"Who the hell are you?!" 
Several of the guards turned, distracted by her tone if not the content which only a few could understand." 
"...get off planet... alive." 
She then crawled back toward the ship, tossing the communicator back into the pile where they had found it and began searching her pockets in obvious anger. Johanes handed her a lightpen, which she threw into the ship's hold through the airlock. Around her, Kori saw nothing of the audience she had attracted. She knew only the fire, burning her hands and legs as she stumbled, half-crawling from the blaze. 
"Kill you... Harrison." 
Mike stepped back as she staggered toward the far end of the deck, clawing in vain at one of the vessel's airlocks and fumbling open the outer comm-unit, the ship's doorbell, in effect. Johanes stopped her from opening a channel, pulling her back and dropping her soundly on the cement. Mike picked her back up, dragging her several meters from the congregation that had now formed. 
"Kori... come out of it." 
"I'm sorry... I can't do it." 
"You did do it." 
But she couldn't hear him. Nor could she hear the crowd of soldiers lined up outside the ship, nor Gardansa telling Mike how he always picked the craziest women, nor even the Imperial gunships screaming overhead. Her world was a haze of smoke and fire and illusory burns, powdered wet by an icy veil of morning mist. 
"No! Hold fire!" Johanes held his hand up against the anticipated spray of bullets, as though his flesh and bone would constitute a serious deterrent. 
"This is an airlock! We need something big! You!" 
He pointed toward the adjacent ship. One of the crew was peeking out the dorsal hatch to see what all the commotion was about. 
"Who, me?" 
"Fire your aft laser turret at this door!" 
"What?! Are you crazy?!" 
"Do it!" 
"I'm not even a gunner!" 
"Harrison, take over!" 
Mike felt his heart drop down to his stomach as Johanes darted toward the adjacent ship. Immediately, all the solders spread out, and Mike felt the ground rumble as the vessel warmed up its engines. 
"Jo, she's gonna bolt!" 
"Just grab something and hang on!" 
The vessel slowly lifted itself off the ground, a thin row of hand holds convenient for zero-gee repairs extending from the airlock down along its ventral surface. Mike leapt forward and grabbed one, feeling all vestiges of sanity slowly slip away as the vessel ascended further, hovering several meters off the platform with a considerable roar while leaving his body dangling beneath, like a bug about to be squashed. 
He had to avert his eyes as the crisp beam of laser light cut a jagged hoop in the airlock's outer door. In its wake, it left a black ring of molten slag, and more out of desperation than design, he felt himself crawl toward it, pounding open the smoking circlet and sending it crumbling inward as a pile of gutted scrap metal. Below, the emergency personnel steadily shrunk to the size of toy soldiers, and Mike clawed his way inside, the deck shaking like a earthquake, sending him rolling against the inner door. Only its window had been fully serrated by the laser, and the opening mechanism refused to respond even to the coercion of an automatic pistol. 
Mike reached through the window, recklessly clawing for any knob or button that would open it from the other side. He finally found the appropriate switch at the very end of his reach and nearly took his own arm off as the door slid open, the window's compartment disappearing into the bulkhead. Then the vessel lurched from some impact, throwing him forward and into the deck, and for several moments all he could hear was a deafening thunder. When he opened his eyes, the sky was as bright as day, and he found himself draped over the corpse of a woman, her bruised neck twisted almost completely around to the point where her spine had been severed. Mike rolled off her, the sky darkening as the airlock door closed behind him and several nozzles on the ceiling began emitting a grayish fog. 
Through the helmet's face plate, he could see a patch of red Galanglic blinking in the upper-left corner of his field of vision. "Contaminant detected. Switching to internal oxygen supply." The next several breaths felt strange, producing a tingling sensation in his hands and feet. He sat down and consciously slowed his respiration. Meanwhile, the fog began to thin out, flowing through the air lock's shattered window and into the cold, dark night. As the moon rotated from view, Mike could barely make out the walls or the floor, even with the light intensification the helmet provided. 
Mike waited a minute, letting his eyes adjust. More medical supplies were scattered on the floor, and in the dim hallway he could barely make out the aperture to the ship's locker. It's latch was broken, and he slid the opening manually. Two vacc suits rested on the floor, their rack broken, and a pile of seal-it patches lay scattered about beneath. Mike grabbed a handful, bumping his helmet into something solid. He yanked out the offending piece of equipment to get a better look. It was a power pack, its thin black cord anchored somewhere within the gloomy confines of the locker. 
He reached back inside, pulling out a laser carbine. It's metal barrel glinted dimly in the icy starlight, and Mike donned the power pack over his shoulder, switching the weapon to "ready" mode and pulling off its safety guard. He then crouched down, slowly inching his way down the corridor. It was crossed by another, and Mike peeked left, toward the prow. The new corridor terminated with an iris value, and Mike guess it led to the bridge, to Sule. The door would be locked, and he was holding its key. 
Mike positioned himself on his knees directly in front of the door and leveled the carbine to begin sawing. The valve's metal frame seemed ever more sturdy than the airlock, its numerous, interlocking layers refusing to yield against the laser light which was emitted from the barrel in short pulses rather than a steady stream. Another minute or two passed, the carbine's power running low, and his only consolation as gravity began to disappear was that he didn't have to worry about a kinetic kick each time he fired. 
He stopped, looking for some power socket in the wall when the valve twirled open, Sule standing in the open aperture with a fully automatic rifle. She began firing before the door was even open, and Mike ducked down as the first several bullets whizzed frictionless and silent above his head, the next several impacting with the top of his helmet, his face plate, and his upper chest. He toppled backward, the numerous collisions tumbling him down the corridor end over end while he watched his own blood seep into the vacuum in the form of little red bubbles, floating freely in the cold, breathless corridor. 
He fought the rushing noise in his head, pulling the seal-it patches out of his pocket and tearing them one by one off their spines while placing them all over the fleximesh and the side of his helmet. The liquid adhesive hardened in moments, and in less than a minute, he could feel the pure oxygen rushing into his lungs, his hands tingling with excitement as the corridor seemed to swirl this way and that. He pushed off, with a grunt, floating himself back toward the bridge. Sule was no longer in the corridor, and the open iris valve beckoned him to enter. 
Peeking inside, he half-expected to see her at the controls, as if nothing had happened. Instead, he saw her writhing in the corner of the room, a virtual pool with hundreds of little red bubbles floating about the room. They continued to flow in a steady stream from her arm, and Mike could see her desperately trying to cover the burnt hole with her other hand. She didn't have any patches, and as she looked toward him, she seemed to scream, soundless waves of anger stealing the last of her breath until she finally succumbed to the frigid vacuum. 
Mike continued to watch, floating without momentum, as a small red spec drifted in front of one eye. It was from inside the helmet, his own blood, and he knew he had no way of binding the wound. Slowly, the cold began to wash over him, and he shivered silently in his private abode. The ship was his, such as it was. For all he knew, it would stay that way forever. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE HARRISON CHAPTERS      
              Chapter 15            
           Jim Vassilakos      
 
 Erik slowly inched forward, inadvertently
 kicking the globules of blood this way
and that, as he bent over, shining his head
lamp into a pair of brown eyes.
`Pupil reflex positive. We've got a
 live one, people.'"



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning sun's delicate rays curved across Calanna's sloping horizon, blues and reds mixing together in a strange and beautiful tapestry of seas and continents spinning gently in the vastness of space. Erik watched from the open airlock, his eyes full of the gorgeous vista. It had been a long time since he'd seen a world from orbit with nothing between his nose and vacuum save for a thin layer of plastic. It had been a very long time, though it was even longer to fall. "A little closer." 
Below them, the target vessel waited in impassive silence, its starboard aft gaping and gnarled like a crippled beast immersed in deathly slumber. Slowly it grew, until they were practically upon it. 
"Hold us here, bridge. Okay, Beckerson at my back. Gringer and Saloris, next." 
Erik pushed himself into the void, the orange tether his only assurance of returning. Splintered open by laser fire, the vessel's port airlock seemed the best entrance. He slipped inside, reaching the inner portal. Its opening mechanism was obviously damaged, though laser scoring didn't seem to have anything to do with it. 
"Beckerson. What do you make of this?" 
The enlisted man stuck his gloved hand in the broken electronics compartment, fishing around until he found what he was looking for. When it reemerged, he was holding a small, flattened piece of metal. Erik studied it apprehensively. 
"What is it?" 
"Kinetic projectile casing." 
"What?" 
"A bullet, sir." The others smiled, obviously amused by the exchange. 
"Don't give me attitude, Mister." 
"No sir." 
Erik reached through the door's smashed window, gently pawing the opposite side for a switch. When the door finally decided to move, he wasn't ready for it and ended up obstructing its egress into the wall with a padded arm. 
"Damnit... stop it!" 
Saloris fired his laser into the groove between the door and its compartment until the mechanical apparatus agreed to surrender its quarry. They successfully dislodged his arm moments later. 
"Well, at least that got it open." 
Beckerson nodded, "Good job, sir." 
The others managed to keep straight faces this time, and Erik found it hard to forge a reply, particularly when he saw the corpse, her skin frozen and eyes sunken inward, the fluid beneath them still boiling away in the silent vacuum. 
"My God." 
Beckerson turned against the bulkhead in agreement, for once without a wisecrack to share as Saloris stepped cautiously over the body, Gringer at his back. 
"Hold, people." Erik squeezed past them, "I'm sorry I didn't warn you. This wasn't entirely unexpected." 
"What the hell are we looking for, sir?" 
"Survivors. Exactly as you were briefed. But I remain in front." 
Saloris let a wry smile escape his lips. 
"Be my guest." 
Erik shook his head, "I wasn't asking your permission, Saloris. You're at my back. Everyone turn on your head lamps." 
They reached the intersection in the corridor and turned left. The laser carbine scuttled silently along the floor as Erik gently nudged it, and the half-open iris valve showed heavy laser scars. Inside, two bodies rested in a corner, their vacc suits smothered beneath hundreds of flattened, red, bubbling spheres. Erik slowly inched forward, inadvertently kicking the globules of blood this way and that, as he bent over, shining his head lamp into a pair of brown eyes. 
"Pupil reflex positive. We've got a live one, people." 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Touchdowns and takeoffs were always the best parts. Those few she experienced reminded her of life as a young girl, always getting a window seat so she could see the darting scenery. As a Commodore, her treatment was much the same. She was cloistered by her aides, pampered by her servants, and each world she visited seemed like no more than a montage of elegant architecture and postcard panoramas, not so much because of the worlds themselves as because of her remote and incredibly detached perspective. Somehow, after decades of tireless work, she had finally come full circle. That was the bitter taste of success: to have accomplished all of one's goals, yet to have ultimately changed nothing. 
They treated her as a child, albeit a child to be obeyed. In a strange sort of way she rather liked it, but it was too rare that she could visit the fun spots on a planet, even those where the Empire was respected. Instead, her aides kept her cooped in orbit, tantalizing her with selected scenes from various travel videos so as to give her the illusion of adventure. She'd seen the Undercity, the Runyaelin, and even the Palace of Snagarth over and over again, though to have actually visited any of those places could have meant her life. Of that, she had little doubt. 
She was so used to her sheltered existence, that if it wasn't for the cool, fresh breeze sifting her hair, she could have imagined herself in an entertainment booth back aboard the Crimson Queen, watching the local star's amber rays scatter carelessly across an illusory, purple horizon. A great risk it was to breathe fresh air beneath a wild, open sky, she thought to herself, as the guards formed a protective circlet around her. 
"Lieutenant." 
"Sir?" 
"Is it dawn or dusk?" 
"Dawn, sir." 
"Good." 
It meant that real sunlight, not artificial radiation, would touch her for the first time in weeks. She smiled in anticipation. First, however, she had business to attend to, and the sooner it was over, the better. 
The starport administrator's office was about as plush as Imperial specifications would allow. General Gardansa sat behind the mahogany desk, standing and saluting at she entered. It was their first meeting in person, though she had grown rather used to him during their electronic meetings. 
"Commodore, what a glorious occasion. Please be seated. I must warn you that your visit comes as somewhat of a surprise. What, with the civic unrest, we have not been able to take all the security precautions..." 
"Forget about my security, General. We both know why I'm here." 
"Ah... yes. The starport. I assure you, no harm has come to it." 
"I noticed you people are without power." 
"We shut down the main generator as a precaution. With the nuclear incident, it was not inconceivable that the rioters would try to take an eye for an eye." 
Reece nodded, "I understand that you had some sort of incident this morning." 
"Incident?" 
"...that you ordered an air strike on an unarmed merchant craft which was harbored at this facility." 
The general laughed as he leaned back. 
"Ah... of course. As I expected, your information is less than complete." 
"Do tell." 
"The craft you speak of was smuggling a suspected felon off-planet. It was in the process of departing when we discovered the crime in-process and acted accordingly." 
Reece arched an eyebrow, mildly amused by the story. 
"What sort of felon?" 
"I will make all our information available to you in due time." 
"Did you manage to catch the person?" 
Gardansa frowned, "Unfortunately, no. This was the reason I was so insistent that our airspace not be violated. By sending down your inspectors at such an inopportune moment and having your gunships fire on us as we attempted to pursue our suspect... ah... we we're unable to deal effectively with the situation at hand." 
"I am told that your vessels harassed ours first." 
"A misunderstanding, I am certain. However, now that we have cleared the smoke between us, I hope that you will return our suspect, especially in consideration of the fact that the vessel we intended to pursue is still in our airspace." 
"It's in orbit." 
"Technicalities, merely. May I interest you in a drink?" He opened one of the desk's drawers, ushering forth two glasses. Commodore Reece was about to decline when a subtle knock came from the door. 
"Commodore, you have an urgent call." 
"If you'll excuse me, General. This will just be a moment." 
"Take your time," he smiled, a glass in each hand. "As you can see, I am in good company." 
She stepped onto a balcony with her private aide, snatching the radio from his hand and shooing him back inside. 
"Wait. Is this coded?" 
"Yes sir." 
"Good. Leave me. This is Reece." 
The static on the other end was fairly fierce. 
"Hello?" 
"Commodore, this is Lieutenant Torin." 
"Go ahead Lieutenant. I read you." 
Erik took a deep breath, the communications officer leaning beside him catching the hint and getting up to fetch a highbowl of zardocha. 
"We've recovered one survivor from the target, sir. The doctors say he'll be fine but that he'll need time to recuperate before we can get any information." 
"Have you confirmed that he's ISIS?" 
"Not yet, but considering the wavelength he chose to make initial contact, I'd say it's pretty much a sure thing." 
"What about the craft? Did the local's damage it badly?" 
"Well, they shattered the fuel tanks. According to our engineer's, the drives are still in working order, but the thing just ran out of pep before it could really break free of the planet's gravity well." 
"You mean it's coming back down?" 
"Yeah... well, they've been telling me that we should either tow it to a safer altitude to make repairs or rig up an independent fuel supply. If we want to keep the ship, that is." 
"How long until it falls low enough to burn-up in the planet's atmosphere?" 
"Um... we've been getting jolted up here by scattered clouds of gas, but disintegration is probably a week away, at least." 
Reece chewed her lower lip, weighing the options. 
"This is the problem, Lieutenant. Our friend up there committed some crimes down here, and the local representative is already talking about extradition. They're not going to sit on their hands for even a day while their suspect is floating only a few kilometers over their heads." 
"We can assume custody, can't we?" 
"Probably, but there would be a stink, and the locals are restless enough as it is." 
"Then what do we do? I'm sure they've already scanned us making contact." 
Reece shook her head, "Two vessels in the same place, one an Imperial gunship and the other an independent merchant, and beyond that, they know nothing. So this is the story. Instead of allowing himself to be captured, their suspect turned his nose directly into the gravity well and hit full throttle." 
"That's suicide." 
"And from what I understand, far safer than Calannan justice. As far as we are concerned, this rescue never happened. How's it sound?" 
Erik blinked, "You're asking my opinion?" 
"Lieutenant, right now you are the closest, healthy thing I have to an ISIS representative. Yes, I'm asking for your opinion." 
"Well, although it's unlikely, I can't rule out that the initial transmission Captain Dunham received wasn't monitored, and if it was..." 
"I can live with a small risk. Anything else?" 
"Um... we've been practically coupling ship-to-ship up here. Considering the proximity, they're probably not going to believe us." 
Reece smiled, "I'm not asking if they'll buy it." 
"Well, some will, and some won't. But they can't prove we're lying. That's what diplomacy boils down to, right?" 
"More or less. Anything else?" 
"Not offhand." 
"Then you know what to do." 
"Yes sir." 
"Good. Do it. Reece out." 
The communications officer returned with the zardocha, floating a highbowl in Erik's general direction as he fidgeted with the various knobs and dials. Erik took a sip and then downed the icy liquid in one shot. It was already well past his sleep shift, and he knew he'd need the jolt of wake-up and several more like it just to keep going. 
"How do I get engineering?" 
"Here." 
"Cooper, you down there?" 
"Right here, Erik." Her voice sounded crisp and almost perky, one of those workaholics who enjoyed any chance to get out and play with a new piece of machinery. They'd met at the officers' club some four months back during a surprise birthday bash for one of the fleet's retired admirals. Thereafter, he'd been found hanging around engineering a little more often than he'd like to admit. She caught on pretty quick but seemed more amused than interested, so he put away his notions before they ever got around to becoming more than notions. 
"Erik, you there?" 
"Yeah. Sorry. I'm gonna have to take you up on that offer." 
"Which one?" 
"About the collapsible deuterium compartment. Time is an issue." 
"Oh, sure. Inside two hours. No problem." 
"Good." 
"You want to forward Arch the specs on our new toy?" 
"No. We aren't taking her back to the Crimson." 
There was a short pause on the other end. 
"Then what are we doing?" 
"Your new toy's taking the big plunge. Hate to be the one to break the news." He smiled. 
"Any special reason?" 
"I'd tell you if I could, but I can't, so I won't. Okay?" 
Another pause, and he could almost see the dejected look in her eyes. 
"Oh well. Fireworks from orbit, I guess." 
As far as fireworks went, they weren't particularly exciting. They even went out of their way to make sure nobody got hurt. Erik kept his eyes open and alert, however, right until the very end. 
"Impact confirmed." 
Traveling at several hundred kilometers per hour, an impact with the Aeluin meant instant destruction of whatever hadn't disintegrated on the way down. The locals had kept clear once they realized what was going on, and from their radio transmissions, it didn't sound like they were going to investigate. At a depth of several kilometers, who would? 
Erik entered his quarters, exhausted but very satisfied with a job well done. Almost done, he reminded himself, as he keyed in the strongbox's combination. Though blurry-eyed, he was careful. One slip of the finger would mean incineration of the records, not to mention his life. The vault opened, and he found the folder he was looking for, slapping the door shut with a stern swipe of his hand. 
"Computer. Access medical records, John Doe." 
"Done." 
"Display picture, facial, forward." 
The chiphead's picture emerged on the far wall. Erik leafed through the personnel folder. All it's information could easily be contained on one flimsi, but for security's sake, ISIS insisted on using a lower, more combustible technology. He knew what was really going on, of course. They just wanted to scare the hell out of him, and at that they usually did a good job. 
Ding 
He lifted his head, his mind so fuzzy that he wondered if he was imagining noises. 
Ding 
"Computer, open channel visitor." 
"Hey Erik, you in there?" It was Cooper. He was about to tell the computer to open the door when he bit his tongue before the words could drop out." 
"Yeah, sort of. What's up, Lieutenant?" 
"I was hoping we could talk." 
"Sort of late for a social visit, isn't it?" 
"The way you were guzzling zardocha, I figured you'd be wide awake." 
"What's this about Lieutenant?" 
"Well... I was wondering why we destroyed that ship back there. I'm sort of confused as to who's making the decisions, and I was just hoping you could just clue me in a little." 
Erik snorted, "The decisions come straight from the top. It's better not to question them, okay?" 
"Yeah, I sort of figured you'd say that. You gonna let me in or what?" 
"I'm really tired." 
"Don't brush me off, Erik." 
He winced. He wanted to let her in, but he knew it'd be a bad idea. She didn't have a need to know, which meant telling her anything could spell his court-martial. Better to just piss her off all at once than bit by bit, he figured. 
"I'm sorry. I can't talk to you right now." 
"What's the matter? You got somebody in there?" 
He thought about it. 
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Be good and go away, and maybe it'll be you next time. Computer, close channel." 
Erik felt like the ultimate weener even though he kept reminding himself that he had no real choice, not unless he wanted to do time for being a nice guy. 
Ding Ding Ding 
"Computer, modify defaults, channel visitor, attention off for one hour." 
"Done." 
Erik leafed through the folder, looking for the face. The image of the chiphead on his wall might have looked strangely familiar, but all he could focus on were the metallic head tricks and Cooper's little visit. No doubt she already suspected something. She was the type of person who would start asking questions. He dictated a quick request to have her transferred, finally leafing through the folder a second time, focusing on every detail in its proper order. 
It contained typical restricted information: all sorts of facts, none of them useful, except one perhaps. The chiphead wasn't mentioned anywhere. Erik groaned, a sickened feeling sloshing over him. There was one more problem with the Commodore's plan, now painfully obvious. Destroying the ship meant destroying evidence about who this character was. 
"Computer, open channel, voice only, medical section, Dr. Hunter." 
The line clicked open with an audible pop. 
"Sickbay, Sosrodjojo speaking." 
"This is Lieutenant Torin. Is Dr. Hunter in?" 
"Um... I think she just stepped out. Can I take a message?" 
"I really need to speak to the patient." 
Erik could almost see the nurse smiling on the other end, his voice lathered with amusement. He'd called before and talked to the same nurse at length. He knew what to expect. 
"No can do, Lieutenant. He's still resting." 
"When will he wake up?" 
"Ah... you'd have to talk to Dr. Hunter about that, but I'm sure she'll tell you try back no sooner than tomorrow." 
Erik sighed, "Okay, but there may be a problem with the patient. I want him moved to the cage." 
"The cage? You really think that's necessary?" 
"I don't know, but I'd rather we took the precaution." 
"Ah... very well. I'll call security." 
The line closed with the same pop it made while connecting, and Erik scratched his head, staring at the image on the wall. 
"Computer, locate person. Captain Dunham." 
"Done." 
"Say." 
"Captain Dunham is on the main bridge." 
Erik leaned back on the couch. 
"Open channel, voice only, main bridge." 
There was a short pause. 
"Bridge." 
"Get me the captain." 
Erik sat back up when he heard the captain's deep, resonant voice. 
"This is Dunham." 
"Captain, this is Lieutenant Torin. I'm Commodore Reece's special attache." 
"I know." 
"I need to talk to you." 
me on the bridge. I'll arrange for your clearance if that's a problem." 
"Clearance isn't a problem, Captain. I need to speak with you privately. There's a little discrepancy in the records we need to clear up." 
"Ah... I doubt I can be of any help to you there, Lieutenant." 
Erik rubbed his eyes, trying to think of some way to push nicely. 
"It could be important, Captain. When can I meet you?" 
He heard a heavy breath on the other end. 
"Alright, Lieutenant. My quarters. One hour." 
"Thank you, Captain." 
Erik spent his spare time walking the passenger decks. Without his uniform, he drew little attention and soon ended up in the Slippery Whisker, one of the Crimson Queen's less ritzy canteens. Cooper was probably down in engineering, he figured, reminding himself that he felt like dirt, though he knew he'd made the right choice. 
The crowd was fairly thick, so he just ordered and drank, sitting alone in an alcove with his back to the wall. He preferred his little corner to the bar where masses of people pressed together without any semblance of order or civility. On this occasion, one rose above the rest, not so much in stature as in head gear. Erik watched the tall spokes on the man's head jiggle back and forth as he nodded to one of the bar wenches. It reminded him of John Doe, helping to focus his mind on the matter at hand, and the more he thought about it, the more it irked him. 
Erik made his way back to officers' quarters and hung around in the lounge until Dunham showed up. The captain was early as well, though the bored look on his face didn't portray a man who was looking forward to this meeting. Rather, he seemed to just want to get it over with, as quickly as possible, and Erik wondered if his own presence on board represented some sort of threat. Over the years, he'd learned that many of the naval and quasi-naval officers didn't like ISIS, though they were the very people most often made to cooperate with the service. Erik had always figured it was because the Navy had it's own intelligence division, but nothing about the captain's mood betrayed professional jealousy. 
"Enter." 
Dunham's cabin was fairly unassertive. It could be called spartan, if not for the shimmer-sketches upon the wall. They were unsigned, though each revealed a similar style. Erik recognized one as being of the commodore. The picture depicted her on the observation deck, looking longingly into the studded darkness of space and at a world turning gently below. 
"Your work, sir?" 
"A hobby of mine. It helps me relax." 
Erik turned around. 
"My reason for wanting to speak with you concerns a conversation you allegedly had with our lucky guest." 
"Before you continue, Lieutenant, I must confess that it was hardly a conversation." 
"Nevertheless, you did speak with him." 
Dunham nodded, "I've already reported that to the commodore." 
"And you also reported that our guest told you that he was an ISIS operative." 
"That's correct." 
Erik paced to the corner of the room. 
"Captain, this may seem a trivial question, but it's extremely important that we be absolutely clear on this." 
"I've told you what I can." 
"Think again. Try to remember his exact words. Did he say he was an ISIS operative or did he say that he was working with one?" 
"Lieutenant, you've got to understand that our lucky guest, as you call him, was not especially comprehensible. He was wounded. I could hear that his voice, even amidst the static, was fatigued. He was coughing between his words, and beyond that he was rather upset. In short, he was just barely making sense at all." 
"You're telling me you don't know what he said." 
"I'm telling you that what he said and what he meant may be two different creatures entirely. I asked him who he was. He replied that he was an ISIS operative, not that he was working for one. However, considering his physical state at the time, it wouldn't surprise me greatly if I was misinformed." 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"You sure this is such a good idea?" 
Johanes looked up, a little peeved that Cecil's spoke-headed disciple was having second thoughts. 
"What are you bitching about? I'm the one who's drinking it." 
Spokes shrugged and continued stirring as Johanes turned up the particle stream, watching the bottom of the bowl with an increasingly intense stare. If it stopped simmering evenly it would be useless, and if it rose to a boil it would make him sick for at least a day. The trick was in getting it just right; such was the nature of Draconian toe-jam. 
It was a temperamental and unusually fragile drug. Johanes remembered one instructor telling a class of recruits how home-made batches were held to spoil on the side of caution nine times out of ten, hence the Realm's enormous profits on their peculiar version, which was widely regarded as having the best trade-off between safety and potency. What naturally resulted was a "get `em hooked and milk `em dry" external revenue policy, while inside the Realm itself, the drug was taxed to extinction. Meanwhile, competitive operations were encircled and incorporated via the corporate state's ruthlessly legal policy of economic barbarism, or so Mike might have called it. Johanes gritted his teeth. He would find out soon, one way or the other. 
"You'd better hurry on that," Cecil murmured from his corner of the room, his meditation seemingly concluded. 
"You have the frequency and encryption set-up?" 
The cameras nodded as he flicked the little, communications package into the air, it's metallic casing no larger than a walnut. Johanes caught it in one hand, hoping sincerely it would come of some use. 
"A little slower. You're cooling the outside too fast." 
Spokes shook his head, "We should just fix some hellacious flamebowls and be done with it." 
"I need some semblance of lucidity while I'm in there. If we do this right, I'm as sick as an Alfirinian marsh slog for half a cent, and after that, all I have to deal with are the vibes." 
Spokes grinned, "Lucky bastard." 
Johanes nodded. His first two years of training included a fairly substantial appreciation of the drug culture, and the vibes were one of the loosest highs he had ever experienced. They were brought on by the interaction of the toe-jam and the body's own defense chemistry. They never encouraged paranoia, made him hyper or hallucinate, or even put him on planet nine. It was different. It was like being totally healthy, completely aware, and remarkably resonant to reality. In short, it was like not being stoned at all, except you were, but you wouldn't know it, and after a few times, just when you thought you'd gotten the hang of it, you'd wake up to the facts of addiction. He'd seen an acquaintance almost kill herself by quaffing an obviously burnt batch on purpose. Good ol' Souxie, she thought she could handle it, and here he was, practically thinking the same thing. 
"If I don't come out of there after two cents, you tell the nurse on duty what I did, okay?" 
Spokes nodded, not taking his eyes off his stirring, "Sure. No problem." 
"I'm serious." 
"I know." 
Beep "This is Captain Dunham. Before we enter hyperspace, I want to take this opportunity on behalf of myself and the crew to thank you for traveling with Royal Fleet. At this time, I would advise arosthoros sufferers to begin heading toward sickbay if they haven't done so already. We will be arriving at Tyber in roughly twenty-six standard hours. Until then, if we can do anything to make your voyage more pleasant, please do not hesitate to inquire with our attendants." 
Johanes shut down the heat, throwing a fist of ground ice into his highbowl. 
"Okay. It's time." 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feso grinned and made the mandatory jokes as he handed out the space sickness capsules with little paper cups of water. As usual, most of the passengers who showed up were over twice his age. They drank and smiled, nodding and thanking him for his trouble. One old lady even complemented him on his nice, white, lab coat. In short, all of them seemed happy, all of them except for one. He was roughly the same age as Feso himself, yet his face seemed ashen and worn, as if he was psyching himself up for the black plague. Feso put a gentle hand on his shoulder. 
"Don't worry. You'll be just fine." 
Being a nurse, Feso saw that sort of reaction all the time. In every batch of passengers, there would be at least one who would start getting sick scarce minutes before the jump into hyperspace. Dr. Hunter explained it away as being some sort of psychological, anal-retentive thing, but Feso could never help getting worried. Maybe they were carrying some dread illness. After all, it was impossible to screen everyone thoroughly. 
Dr. Hunter always laughed his distress off as though he were making a joke. She thought he was funny and told him so, barking a string of new orders during the very next sentence. Fret was the natural consequence of an idle mind, in her book. Still, this guy looked different. 
Concerned undertones reverberated within the sickbay as everyone felt the disorientation. Several clung to the hand holds as their knees quaked back and forth, and one man, possibly in his nineties, sat down on the floor, blinking in confusion as the room swirled around him. Feso smiled, leaning next to him. 
"Still with us?" 
"Eh?" 
Some laughed, others leaving as they realized that the worst was over, and Feso helped the old man back to his feet who was now smiling at his part in the joke. 
"Eh... I was just taking a breather." 
"Yes. I noticed." 
Four of them stayed, the young man he was originally worried about included. Feso looked them over, feeling foreheads with his bare palm. 
"How are you feeling?" 
"I still feel dizzy," one replied 
"That's normal. Here, sit down. We have a medicinal compound already prepared that should get you back on your feet in no time." 
He administered four injections, three of them seeming to have some small effect. The young man wasn't responding, however. He fidgeted in his seat, perspiration soaking his shirt as his face turned a rosy hue of red. He squinted up with dilated pupils. 
"I'm gonna be sick." 
"It's okay." 
Feso gave him another injection. The man started to lean over and drool on the floor. 
"Ugghhh!" 
"Umm... okay. You're gonna be just fine." 
"No I'm not." 
"Just wait here." 
"Where are you going?" 
 to the office. Dr. Hunter was on the comm board, arguing with the bureaucracy as usual. 
"There's a problem with one of the passengers." 
She looked up as though expecting his outburst. 
"Acute arosthoros?" 
He nodded. 
"What code is the patient?" 
"Green." 
She nodded, "Double the injection." 
"I already tripled it." 
Dr. Hunter put the bureaucracy on hold and started across the room when she heard somebody vomiting on the floor. The man had fallen out of his seat, his face smeared with the contents of his stomach, while the other four passengers were alternating between looking away and sneaking peeks, their faces masked by utter revulsion. Only Hunter seemed unaffected. 
"This isn't arosthoros." 
"Then what is it?" 
"I don't know... yet. How long as he been doing this?" 
"About a minute." 
She dragged the man to his feet, pulling him inside intensive care. 
"Stay with the others. Don't let them leave." 
Johanes felt like he'd been turned inside-out and left to rot as she dumped him into the gravitic recliner. She immediately turned her back to him, turning knobs, pushing buttons, as he let loose with another volley from the interior of his stomach. The room seemed to turn around on him, flipping and flopping as blood rushed to his mouth, exiting through his nostrils and lips and washing itself over his face. 
Hunter examined the readings, a perplexed look crossing her face. The man's defensive system was going wild. She held him down with a grip only taught in medical school and took a blood sample, stepping back to the analyzer with her trophy. The man continued to shake, his hair now soaked with sweat. 
"Help..." 
"Quiet. I'm working." 
The analyzer broke down the blood into its constituent parts, and the machine spat back readings she hadn't seen since the music festival on Satyr IV. She switched the IC open and groaned. 
"You can let the others go, Nurse." 
Feso came darting in a minute later. 
"What was it?" 
"See for yourself." 
She put a pulse monitor around the patient's arm as Feso studied the output. 
"Artificial contaminant of some kind." 
"Yep. We've got ourselves a druggie." 
Feso breathed a deep sigh of relief, then turned around hoping she hadn't noticed. Hunter smiled up at him. 
"It's okay. At least it wasn't a contagion, right?" 
He nodded and smiled, somewhat embarrassed, "The possibility had crossed my mind." 
"You always think that..." 
"And so far, I'm always wrong," he confessed, finishing the sentence for her. She pressed the ice pack to the back of the patient's neck as he continued to groan, trying in vain to force out the emptiness in his belly. 
"He already has a lot of chemicals in his system, but I want you to administer a stabilizer. It may draw out his body's reaction to whatever he took, but at least it should keep him from getting any worse." 
Feso nodded, "Somebody should watch him, right?" 
"You watch him. I don't have time for baby-sitting. I've got a call on hold." 
"You want me to stay with him alone?" 
Hunter looked her nurse over, a slight frown creeping down her face. 
"He's a grown man on drugs, Feso. He's harmless, not to mention pathetic." 
"What if you're wrong?" 
"About him being harmless? Then you load up the hypo-rod and punch him with a canister of Teramethenol-12. That should keep him happy." 
"If it doesn't kill him, first," Feso muttered, but she had already left. He prepared the stabilizer and administered it, though putting one drug on top of another was more his idea of recklessness than medicine. Hunter just wanted the bozo to suffer for a while longer. She knew that he wasn't in any real danger, and the pulse-monitor would keep an eye on him better than any human could. 
Johanes turned over, particles of vomit resting at his sides in the gravitic field. The noise of his breathing sounded parched and ragged behind the thumping in his ears, and the nurse stood over him, a concerned though unsympathetic look on the young man's face. 
"How are you feeling, Mr. Smyth?" 
"Terrible. Is it over?" 
Feso shook his head, "I gave you a stabilizer. It seems to be bringing your pulse down, but you'll probably be sick for a while." 
"Great." 
"What did you take?" 
"Huh?" 
"What drug did you take?" 
"Drug?" Johanes tried to laugh, but it only made him feel worse. "I thought I was space-sick." 
"No. The doctor found some sort of drug in your system." 
"Damn. No kidding. Must have been in that drink I had. Those Calannans sure do have a wicked sense of humor." 
Feso blinked, "You mean you didn't even know?" 
"There was this little pre-jump party on the promenade deck. I guess things got a little out of hand. Uh oh..." Johanes turned over and opened his mouth to heave. Only a rotting, stinking belch came out, the sort that gets holed-up in some damp recess of the stomach and refuses to poke its head out for weeks at a time. Feso leaned back once he got a whiff, squinting in extreme displeasure. 
"Uh... I guess I can leave you alone for a little while. If you get into trouble, just call through the door. I'll leave it open, okay?" 
"No problem." 
Johanes switched off the gravitic recliner, settling to the sticky, white floor, now polka-dotted by various yellow and red particles of an origin he didn't wish to recall. Meanwhile, the computerized gadgetry continued to beep in time with his pulse. He walked over to it, toying with the dials as blood seeped from his nostrils and onto his lips while his tongue wagged back and forth, trying to avoid the awful taste. 
"Remember, Jo. You gotta eat apples. They taste the same coming back up as they do going down. Two meals for the price of one." It was Souxie's voice in his head, as clear as the last time he'd heard it. Good ol' toe-jam. 
He was relatively familiar with the operating system. He'd once used something remotely akin to it in a lab on Estin, except that the Draconian equipment was far more advanced. This was cruise liner material, a paltry product by any comparison. The medical console reported that a job was still in process: blood sample analysis, unknown compound recognition. He removed the sample tray, pocketing it and dumping the job out of queue. He then recalled the last minute of pulse readings from memory and set the playback into an infinite loop, tearing the pulse monitor off his arm as quietly as haste would allow. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Harrison Chapters           
Chapter 16                        
Jim Vassilakos   
                    
  His eyes snapped open but saw nothing
 save for a blue dot in the
 distance... 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."
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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. 
