Jack Mahoney was asleep when the transport aerodyne touched down at the base outside New Orleans. After the other passengers had gotten off the crew chief came over and shook him awake. "Sorry to interrupt you sir, but this is your stop."

Disorientated, Mahoney looked around, recognized the base. "Thanks Sarge." He said as he grabbed the battered duffle from it’s place under the seat and stepped off the transport into the humid night air.

He had barely slept during the weeks’ long journey back to Earth, plagued by dreams of the singing he’d heard on the world the Marines had nick-named ‘Snowball’.

The base was quiet and he had the showers to himself for an hour or more, losing track of time as he stood under the hot spray of water. He took time for a cup of coffee, and was lucky in finding a lift with a Navy officer who was going into town.

It was five minutes to midnight and Mary wasn’t at home, which meant she was probably out with friends. There was an open air cafe on Decatur Street that she liked, one of those places that never seemed to close and it wasn’t that far to walk in the night’s warmth.

And there she was, sitting alone watching him as he walked towards her. The breath caught in his chest when she smiled, and he had to drink the sight of her in after so long away; dark curls falling past her shoulders, dusky skin, eyes like chips of amber, all done up in black and purple leather to match the bike on the sidewalk.

She laughed and beckoned him over, standing to kiss him for a long moment. "Hi Jack, how was space?"

"Cold." As he sat down a waiter came over and placed two cups on the cast iron table. She laughed again at the puzzled look on his face.

"I had a feeling you were coming, so I decided to spoil you. Real coffee Jack! Not that horrid sludge you Jarheads drink."

"There’s a lot of tradition in that ‘sludge’." He muttered, and they both laughed.

"So how’s it feel to be back in Awlins?" Mary’s native accent shone through the University veneer whenever she talked about her home.

"Not as good as seeing you. Did you miss me?"

"Not once! I had a thousand men, and twice as many women, beating down my door asking ‘Who’s keeping your bed warm now that nice young Marine’s gone away?’ A new lover every night, and once a whole hockey team!" The laughter never left her eyes. "Silly boy, of course I missed you! I’m desperately in love with you, and you insist on marching off to the stars to get your ass shot off!" She took his hand in hers. "Finish your coffee and we’ll go home."

They lay in bed as the sun came up, Jack’s head pillowed on Mary’s chest as he slept. Music drifted softly from the next room, the plaintive words washing over her.

They had come back to Mary’s home, an old house near the river, and made love on her feather bed. Laying in each others arms they had talked of how they felt in hushed tones.

He had told her where he had been, or what little he could, and of the dreams that had been haunting him.

Slowly, slowly, he fell into sleep, his breath warm on her skin as she watched over him, keeping the nightmares at bay. He seemed so young and fragile in her arms. She buried her face in his hair, drawing his scent into her.

The song changed, something in the air changing with it. A chill ran up Mary’s spine as she felt a presence, dark and questing, abroad in the night.

It came sniffing out of the dark, and she knew it was searching for her lover. It cast about it for his scent, and when It had found what It was looking for It shot straight for Mary’s house.

For a moment she panicked, afraid that the Art her mother had taught her would fail her when she needed it most. But whatever it was crashed against the house’s protections, gathered Itself for another attempt, failed once more, then disappeared into the night.

Mary breathed easier as all trace of the darkness was swept away by a breeze from the river. The music changed again, bittersweet and lulling her into sleep.

The man the Marines knew as Taylor walked down a tunnel deep beneath the earth, a place where every one was wearing black; Taylor’s suit was silk and fitted him impeccably, the black jumpsuits of the guards standing every ten metres baggy and shapeless.

There was a door at the end of the tunnel, black as well except for the bright orange

bio-hazard warnings repeated several times on and around the door. Taylor swiped a card

through a slot and waited for the door, more an airlock really, to cycle open.