

### Traitor

Book One of The Turner Chronicles

by

Mark Eller

Smashwords Edition

In association with White Wolf Press, LLC

Copyright 2009 Mark Eller

This book is lovingly dedicated to my very patient wife, Daneen, and to my children, Troy Anne, Kameron, and Kris. It is also dedicated to the best sister in the world, Becky, and to the memory of my parents, Stanley and Shirley Eller.

I miss you now and always.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I have to thank Daneen, my wife and friend and greatest fan who not only encouraged my writing efforts but also had the patience to deal with the long hours I was unavailable because I was hunched over a keyboard or hovering before a microphone. Huge thanks go to my friend and writing partner, Liz VanZandt, who writes under the name Elizabeth Draper, for all the time she has put in over the years critiquing and polishing my writing, ruthlessly insisting that only my best work was acceptable for the public eye. Dindy and Bill from Swimming Kangaroo Books are absolutely due for their share of thanks, and then there are my editors, Jess, Isaac, Laura, without whose input and suggestions this book would not have been complete. And who can forget Emz, nag and friend who shoved me toward Basil, and Basil. Which leads me to thank Basil Rathbone, my second publisher. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you for your time and effort on my behalf.

Mark Eller

Flint, Michigan

February 2009
Chapter 1

On a cool spring day in the middle of May, Aaron's broom cast small swirls of dust into the air while he swept the boardwalk in front of his store. The dust rose around him, small particles hanging in the air, glistening beneath a noon day sun, but Aaron did not care about the beauty of a tranquil moment. Instead, he swept and sweated while Wagon Master Beech watched Marshal Townsend hang two of his Mover women from the tall oak tree outside the bank. Trouble was unlikely. This batch of Movers were mostly Zorists, believers in a single god, and Zorists were not normally known to cause difficulties, but this wagon train also contained a number of Opportunists and even a few Elitists. Because of this, town militia stood on roofs, in doorways, and in the street to stop any trouble the other Movers might cause. Last Chance had learned long ago that it always paid to be safe.

Sarah Townsend's sun darkened features were set into hard lines when she instructed six randomly chosen citizens to haul on the two ropes that were wrapped around the condemned women's necks. The women rose high, kicked, and struggled, and then they died because women in Last Chance protected their sons. Looking lost and confused, Pate Moody stood off to the side, fourteen and strong, his bruised face a study of guilt and relief. He watched the women die and with their deaths he became free again.

Pate was a farmer's son. His job was to milk cows. When the cows complained earlier that morning of full udders, Mistress Wim Moody realized her son had troubles. Knowing there were Movers nearby and not being a fool, she called her two co-wives and her husband, and they followed the road for three miles until they saw mules ground hitched near a small woods. Deep inside the woods they found their son tied to a tree, his face twisted in pain while he tried to break the thick ropes holding him. A young blond Elitist woman and her older companion stood by his side, garlands in their arms, smiling while they said the words of a common law marriage. Hard branches applied liberally to his bare back assured that Pate voiced his part of the ceremony.

Once discovered, Pate was soon freed of the ropes, but the words had been said, and so he was irrevocably bonded to the two women. Laughing, the captured women confessed that they were Movers who belonged with Beech's wagon train. Despite the capital nature of their crime they were positive that their Elitist beliefs and family connections would win them free of any repercussions from this backward town.

But they were wrong.

And so Aaron swept while two women died because in this land where women were four times as plentiful as men, there was no such thing as divorce no matter the conditions in which the bonds were formed. Because of this, death was the only option the law allowed when a man was forced into marriage against his will, and the Moodies demanded justice.

Beech nodded when the women stopped kicking, and then he turned his dark-eyed gaze to Mistress Golard, the mayor. Scowling, he ran work roughened fingers across the thin short graying bristles of his two day old beard. "Are we straight now?"

Mistress Golard's narrowed eyes roamed over the length of wagons filling the street. Her frown drew the creases near her lips into deeper lines when her gaze shifted to the hanging women. "We're through."

There were twenty-one wagons, Aaron knew. He had counted them and then counted them again because Movers and wagons made him nervous. During the year he had lived in Last Chance he had heard the stories. Two years earlier, Movers from a train just like this had attacked the town, burned buildings, and killed people before the town rallied and fought them off. When questioned, the surviving captives admitted they wanted easy land. They did not want to travel on through Banner's Loop, the only known mountain pass, because even though the Loop led to rich land, it also led to savage tribes and early death. Rumor said less than half of all Movers who made the journey survived a year. Very few people returned through Last Chance to say if those rumors were true. Beech, a few other Wagon Masters, and two wagons holding six children were the only returnees Aaron had ever seen.

"They were two of my best people," Beech said. "I had plans for them."

"Now you can bury them," Sarah Townsend told him. She gestured towards her conscripts. "Lower the ropes."

Wheeling away from the bodies, Beech saw Aaron and spat on the ground. Aaron frowned and swept while worms of worry churned in his gut. A year previously, on a hellishly hot day shortly after Aaron had arrived in Last Chance, he and Beech had shared hard words within minutes of Beech leading a much smaller batch of Movers into the town. The matter had begun with little more than a brushing of shoulders that Beech, large and burly, had barely noticed. Aaron had fallen from the contact because he was slight and small and had not yet built up his strength after years of being a cripple. After painfully struggling to his feet, Aaron gave his temper full rein at Beech's expense. Beech had listened for a few moments and nodded agreeably before shoving Aaron back to the ground with contemptuous ease. The next day Beech had deliberately swerved from his path to bump into Aaron again.

Four days later, his Movers in tow, Beech continued towards the mountains. Aaron had not seen him since, but apparently, Beech still held a grudge.

Still attached to the wagons, mules snorted and shifted in their traces while flies droned around their heads. Movers stayed in their wagons. Some looked quiet and subdued. Others appeared angry. All held weapons. Staffs, spears, some bows but only three women in Aaron's sight carried a sword.

"Mamma," a voice called from inside one of the wagons, "Harbor keeps hitting me!"

"Harbor Patton, I've had enough of you!"

Four, Aaron counted silently to himself while more worry worms writhed in his belly. Three other groups of Movers had traveled through the town in the past month. Last Chance fit its name well. Past this town there were no settlements before the trail reached the mountains. This town was their last chance to buy supplies, to rest their mules, and repair their wagons, and it was their last chance to change their minds.

Aaron tried to act relaxed as he swept and watched. A person never knew when trouble was coming at the best of times. Colonel Klein and circumstances had taught him that. This was not the best of times. Two Movers had been hanged, and the people of Last Chance wore too many scars because of Movers and savages. Almost every townsperson's nerves had to be raw.

"We've covered a fair piece of ground these last few weeks," Beech said. "Mules are tired. Wagons need repair. We're asking permission to set up camp outside town for a few days. Now, we'll move on if you insist, but there are people and mules here what need the rest. We got children, and I promise nobody else will cause problems."

Frowning thoughtfully, Mistress Golard looked toward Marshal Townsend. Miss Townsend nodded, but her eyes were narrow.

"Same place as before," the mayor said. "Quarter mile down the road. Plenty of graze last I saw, and the water is still clear. Keep to the clearing. No more than six men can enter town at a time. Unarmed women and kids are welcome in any number."

"Obliged." Returning to his wagon, Beech climbed in. He grabbed his reins, clicked his tongue, and his mules groaned as they leaned once more into their traces. Their pace was dispirited, but they pulled, and the other wagons followed.

Aaron smiled at two children peering from under raised canvas walls. Walking a dozen paces down the boardwalk so he could catch up with them, he reached into his apron pocket and tossed half a dozen wax wrapped packets of lemon drops into the back of their wagon.

"Harbor, let me have some. Mammaaa! Harbor is taking all the..."

Turning, Aaron walked back to his store and allowed the twisting worms in his belly to settle. Trouble was averted, but two women had died. There would be tears tonight and silent curses in the town because Last Chance was a quiet place and peaceful. Its people were not used to serious lawbreakers and hangings except when Movers arrived.

Hard heels rapping sharply against the floor, Mistress Golard entered his store moments later. Aaron nodded to her as she squared her shoulders and sucked in the slight bulge of her middle-aged gut.

"Mayor."

"Mister Turner, it's a wonder how you make a decent profit from this place when you keep giving your goods away." Her voice sounded subdued, sad. "I believe I saw you passing candy off to some children not too long ago."

"I get by, Mistress Golard," Aaron said. "I wanted the children to remember something besides a hanging."

She nodded and frowned. "I'm not sure anything can make this day look brighter. That was a bad business, sir. Bad." Gesturing slightly, she looked around the store and then back at him. "Mister Turner, you've been here for a year now. You've run your business and minded your business, and people generally like you. Now I'll admit that I had some doubts at first. You looked like a sneaky sort of fellow, all thin and wasted and not willing to look people in the eye, but I've been proved wrong--and not for the first time."

"I was sick for a very long time," Aaron explained. "More than a decade."

Mistress Golard tried to smile, failed. "I helped hang two people today, and I don't feel good about it so I have to do something to improve matters. I wanted to wait another couple days to tell you this, but I have to do it now."

Aaron stilled. "This sounds important."

Steady eyes pinned him. "You're no fool. Some people have approached me with a complaint. It seems that in all the time you have been with us you've never attended a town meeting. This is considered very antisocial around here, Mister Turner. Very antisocial."

"Town meetings set town policy," Aaron said. "You made it evident early on that you didn't want a newcomer there. I agreed with the sentiment. A person should not have a say until they have proved themselves."

She snorted. "Excuses. If you had been at the last meeting you could have protected yourself. Now it's too late. A proclamation has been passed against you."

He raised an eyebrow and felt the worms return.

"You are ordered to present yourself at the next meeting. Understand?"

"Completely," Aaron said, and the worms bit down because this could be nothing less than his unofficial acceptance by the town's leaders.

"Good." The weight of Mistress Golard's eyes lessened. "See you at the next meeting."

She left just as Mister Moody came through the door with Pate in tow. Moody was a large man who farmed and earned extra money by building outhouses and selling milk. Though usually affable, his expression was dour while he arranged to sell Aaron fifty gallons of milk. Moody hung around the store afterward. He talked of the different styles of outhouses, the proper construction and placement, the types of wood best used, and the best sized holes to cut for the seat openings. Meanwhile, Pate remained silent. Risking a glance, Aaron saw that guilt resided in his eyes.

Moody left just before Aaron's next customer pulled up in a flatbed wagon.

The Wagon Master looked around the store and then fastened his eyes on Aaron. Rancid waves of stale sweat and the heavy scent of mules rose from him. "Every time I see you, you're looking. You some kind of spy?"

"That's me," Aaron admitted, knowing he would not be believed. "Aaron Turner, International Spy. I'm planning on taking over the world."

"More likely you work for the savages," Beech said. His eyes flicked to a bronze sword hung on the wall behind the counter. "You use that, or is it just for show?"

"For sale," Aaron answered. "If I tried to use it, I'd end up hurting myself."

"Figures." The Master grunted disapproval. "Thing like that ain't just for show. Man owns a sword he should be able to use it. I need supplies."

"It's what I'm in business for."

"Wasn't sure if you were still mad at me about that little spat we had. I need three hundred pounds of flour and two hundred of potatoes. You got that?"

"It's in the back."

"Good." Curling his upper lip slightly, the Master spat on the floor. "I need twenty hams too, and I've a harness to replace. Need a couple of spare wheels, a bit of canvas and some wheel grease."

"Everything can be provided locally." Although distaste curdled Aaron's stomach when he looked at the wet spot on his floor, he decided not to say anything. Beech had reason to feel surly today. "But a couple of the items will take a bit of effort to get."

"Now I won't be paying no jumped up prices to this town. Do you hear? I'll pay fair and not one copper more. I won't allow no thieving townies to steel me blind after they hung my best people."

"You'll get the same price from me that I charge the locals," Aaron said shortly. "And I'll tell you what, the other locals will treat you just the same unless you go insulting them in a like manner or steal their sons."

Frowning, Beech shook his head slightly. "Fair 'nough, I suppose. Seems like a man places an order this large he should get some kind of discount." He gestured toward a display case. "Those knives look fair different." Leaning forward, he peered at them more closely. "Damn near look to be made of silver."

"It's a new metal," Aaron said stiffly, feeling offended by the man's attitude and his use of foul language inside town limits. Hanging or not, Sarah Townsend would have fined or jailed Beech if she had heard him curse. "They call it steel. Supposed to hold its edge better than bronze. Won't bend or break as easily either."

"Well now, do you suppose I could have a look at one of those things?"

Aaron unlocked the case and opened it. The Master reached in and pulled out an eight inch knife, sharp edged and saw toothed along a third of its back spine.

"Supposed to be this and supposed to be that," he said. "I've heard sale pitches before. How does it stack up in real life?"

"It's good enough to cost six full silvers, one and a half gold. Expensive, but a leather sheath comes with it."

"Six one and a half! Damn! I can buy a good custom-made knife sixty times over for that price."

"It's a rare knife."

"Too rare for me." Beech set the knife back on top of the case. "I'll leave the wagon out front for loading. What do I owe?"

"One moment." Aaron figured prices quickly, added an extra ten-percent despite what he had said earlier because he really did not like the man. He passed the figure over. Appearing satisfied, the Wagon Master nodded.

"Better than I expected," he reluctantly admitted. "Look, sorry about how I sounded a bit back. I ain't the best when it comes to talk."

Aaron refused to touch the subject. "The harness maker is five doors to your right on this side. The wheelwright is at the far end of the street. He will have your canvas, too. The hams will be harder to come by. I'll have to send out word at the inn. It will be tomorrow before I get an answer back."

"Good 'nough. I'll be back in a couple hours." Beech stuck out his hand. "Name's Haarod Beech."

Aaron reluctantly shook the hand. "I know. I asked around the last time you were here. Aaron Turner."

"Then good day to you, Master Turner."

Beech left, and Aaron spent the next twenty minutes putting the order together. He spent another fifteen minutes loading it. Finished, he locked up the money box just as Cathy Bayne stepped in. She was fifteen, brunette and thin as a waif, and her voice lacked its usual good humor.

"Do you want me to watch the store today?" Cathy studied the store shelves a moment and then turned her eyes back to him.

"Just for an hour," Aaron answered.

"Good, Missy and Doyle will be here by then, and sir, could I speak to you later? When you're not busy."

"Sure." Aaron watched her put on an apron before he stepped out of the store and saw a wagon roll by, two bodies laid out in the back.
Chapter 2

The Traveler's Rest provided meals and had a few rooms to let. For the most part, the rooms mostly remained empty except when an unmarried pairing wanted someplace private and discreet. Mistress Flo Halfax, co-owner of the inn, never spoke or spread rumors, and the town, as a whole, preferred it that way.

As usual, the Rest smelled of hot bread and spices. Aaron gratefully breathed in the aroma when he walked through the doors. Moments after he sat down, Flo arrived at Aaron's table. "Ann's got the day off, and Dan's already fixing your usual. Did you hear? Three more wagons joined the Movers already. That makes twenty-four wagons at the clearing altogether. Pretty big group."

Aaron frowned. "No, I hadn't heard."

"Movers make me nervous," Flo confessed. "I was here that day they attacked. Marshal Townsend saved my life. She killed a man who wanted to stick me with his sword, and then I killed a woman with my cleaver." Her voice lowered. "I never killed nobody before. I should have nightmares about it, but the truth is I'm glad I killed her." Flo's haunted eyes saw something distant, and her voice died out. "Bun helped me get through it."

Shaking herself, she forced a smile. "Sorry. This hanging thing got me. How's business been?"

Mistress Halfax obviously needed a change of subject. Shrugging away her question, Aaron watched her, noting the uncomfortable way she moved. "Do you still take aspirin for your back?"

Dramatically rubbing her back, Flo chuckled. "Ha! Do I ever. Aches day and night."

"I might be able to help you some, but I'll have to talk frankly on some very personal matters."

"Honey," Flo said archly, "I'll give you a minute by minute account of how I gave birth to my three dead boys and a second by second account of how I came by them if you can help me take the ache out of this thing."

"Well--uh." Feeling warm and prickly, Aaron suddenly wondered if this was a good idea. "I--uh--I noticed that you are somewhat more--well, more blessed than most women. Quite a bit more blessed."

She laughed again, drawing eyes and making Aaron even warmer. "Love, everyone has noticed my blessings. It's hard to miss that I got the biggest dugs around. Been times I thought these babies put bruises on my knees." She looked fondly down at herself. "Still, these old ladies made me first wife to two different husbands, an' ain't many gals who can claim that."

"Uh--right," Aaron said, wondering who was embarrassing whom with frank talk. His face felt hot. "I have some apparel in the store that might help your back some. At least that's what the ads say. It's supposed to hold your--umm--hold you--and distribute the weight so you are not being pulled forward all the time. I'll give you a free sample. It might help, and if it works you can tell your friends. If I don't sell any we will just call the garment payment for all the meals you served me."

"As if you haven't paid for them and more. I'll try it though. Mind you," she said, gazing once more at her front. "I won't have you putting this thing on me, not unless you got intentions for something more."

"Never--I mean I wouldn't presume."

She patted Aaron's cheek with a heavy hand. "You're fun to play with dear, but I like you too much to get serious. Bun and me, we're done with all that now. Spent thirty years as co-wives and are happy just being friends. Besides, if you tumble me you have to take her too, and honey, old as we are, the two of us would kill you."

Aaron released a sigh when she left. The people watching them turned their eyes away and continued with their conversations.

She brought him pancakes, lightly buttered, with strawberry jam. Two eggs rested on a separate plate and warm milk filled a pewter cup. Along with breakfast came a two copper dreadful he had worked on for the last week. Only halfway through the book, he was sure the gardener was the culprit, but the peddler seemed to show up at suspicious times, and there was a mysterious stranger hanging around town.

Aaron devoted only half his attention to reading. As always, this was his chance to observe normal people living normal lives, something he'd had little personal experience with until he'd left Field's Militia in Jefferson and arrived in Last Chance.

The customers in the inn reflected the surrounding population. More than three quarters of its patrons were female. The low birth and high mortality rate of male children made women the more numerous sex. Even with the custom of multiple wives, barely more than two out of three women ever got married. The other women either found female pair-mates or lived alone.

Warmth and friendliness permeated the environs, reflecting the general good cheer throughout the entire town. Even after living in Last Chance for more than a year, Aaron found himself slightly bemused by the whole thing. Normal everyday life was a mystery. People confused him.

He mentioned the Wagon Master's need for smoked hams to two farmers. Three people asked if he was going to the dance and smiled when he answered with a shrug. When they left he turned to the neighboring table and spoke to Mister Townsend, the miller and the Marshal's father. Besides ordering another five hundred weight of flour and two hundred of meal, he learned that he had been drafted into the home militia. Since he owned one of only five swords in the town, Sarah Townsend would give him lessons in its use every other day for the next few months. She had spent two years on the New Madrid border so she had more personal experience with swords and combat than anyone else in town.

The miller winked at Aaron when he gave Aaron the news. "Should be interesting for you. My daughter's a fine looking woman."

"An almost married woman," Aaron replied. "I heard Steven Knight has been hanging around her of late."

"Mister Knight can hang around all he likes," Mister Townsend said firmly. "He better not be thinking of any more than that. I won't have a hotheaded wastrel like him in the family. I doubt Sarah would accept him anyway. No, I'm afraid she's going to be one of those gals who stay single their entire lives. The Lord and Lady knows she ain't exactly young anymore. The gal is right near thirty as it is."

"If it weren't for irritable fellows like you," Flo said as she passed by, "half the people out there wouldn't want to be single. Now Aaron here, a man like Aaron could make an old widow swoon. A couple winks from his liquid brown eyes would make me feel young again. Just you wait. Once Sarah gets used to seeing them she won't see nothing else."

"Irritable," Mister Townsend said, his voice disbelieving.

"Irritable I said, and irritable I mean," Flo reiterated, but her eyes were laughing, and the hand she chucked his chin with was gentle.

Smiling, the miller left. Others stopped by to chat far more frequently than even good manners could account for. The attention made Aaron nervous. Although he had studied how to be openly friendly, he had little experience with having people seek him out. Three women passed his table in a group. Pausing briefly, they looked at him speculatively and moved on. The questions behind their looks made him even more nervous. His job was to make these people like him. He did not want to like them back.

The end of breakfast was almost a relief. _Murder at the Manor_ was only ten pages closer to being finished. He gave the book back to Flo to keep for him. Being an incessant reader, a book in the store would not last Aaron a day. Reading for his own pleasure was a recently gained experience, and he did not want anything to rush his enjoyment. The town possessed very few books, so he needed to preserve the ones he owned and draw them out to a slow conclusion. Maybe he should buy a few more and stock them in the store. They might not sell for full price, but he could always read them before he set them out.

The three Bayne children were anxiously waiting when he got back to the store. At fifteen, Cathy was the most useful. A hard worker, she made sure eleven-year-old Missy and seven–year-old Doyle stayed out of Aaron's way while she worked. An hour's labor dusting shelves, sweeping and arranging earned them six coppers seven bits, just short of the ten coppers needed for a half gold.

Cathy seemed unusually nervous. Looking at him out of the corner of her dark brown eyes, she dusted for half an hour, voice tense as she admonished Missy to be sure to straighten all the jars and Doyle please stay off the shelves. "Take the broom and sweep please."

Aaron watched her performance until his nerves could not take it anymore.

"Miss Bayne," he finally said, "could you come here please?"

"Yes sir."

Eyes twitching, fingers trembling slightly, she hurried over to him. Aaron noticed for the first time that she wore pressed clothes. Her long brown hair was braided, and she smelled strongly of lye soap. Nervous hands patted and brushed at the new creases in her faded pants and blouse, pushing material back in place, accentuating her almost painfully thin body and rather impressive breasts.

"Miss Bayne, you seem nervous."

"Oh." She bit her lower lip, smearing cheap lipstick. "It's just...well...I hear Mistress Townsend starts training you tomorrow afternoon, and you will work with the militia too."

Aaron shook his head. "News travels fast. You don't have to worry. I'll still pay you to do your chores."

"Yes sir. I know. I mean that's what I want to talk to you about. About work." She stamped her foot in frustration. "Ohhh. I am doing this all wrong. I'm sorry, Mister Turner. I won't bother you. Doyle! Keep the dirt outside the store."

Aaron sighed. "Come out with it Miss Bayne. I promise I won't be angry. Is it money? Do you want more?"

She turned back to him, her motions quick and jerky. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened once again.

"Yes," she finally said, "or no. I mean you pay us twice what you should, and we really thank you, and Mistress Halfax said I should do more only you haven't let us, and I feel bad, and your store needs to be open to sell so--" Pausing, she drew in a deep breath.

Aaron fought down an impulse to grab her shoulders and give her a shake. He succeeded, remembering he had to observe the proprieties.

"Go on."

"Well," she began again, "if you can't be in the store, I wondered if I could. Run it I mean. While you are gone--and I can be here when you breakfast too. I know what you charge for almost everything, and I can be trusted. Please?"

She bounced on her toes, mouth pursed hopefully. Missy and Doyle were suddenly quiet.

Sometimes, Aaron realized, changes happen very quickly in Last Chance. Unfortunately, some of those changes required him to make a decision. How would it look to the town if he accepted? What would they think if he refused? What about the Militia's plans?

"I'd like to think about this for a bit. Just give me a few minutes, and I'll let you know."

"Oh yes sir. Of course. Thank you."

Thank you? Almost as if he had already accepted her offer. Did his saying he would think about it imply acceptance?

"Hello Storeman." Haarod Beech entered through the doorway and approached Aaron. "Got my orders in, and thank you for all your help. Looked at the goods you sold me. Everything looks fine."

Forcing a smile, Aaron nodded. "Service is the motto here at the Last Chance General Store."

"Sure it is, and I'd like another look at that knife."

Wordlessly, Aaron unlocked the case and retrieved the knife. Handing it over, he stepped back.

Beech studied it intently, turning it around and once cutting his finger on its edge. Pulling a stick from his back pocket, he carved free a few slivers of wood. Then he pulled a rock from his right trouser pocket and tapped the blade.

Beech cocked his head, listening, tapped the blade twice more and paused to let the stone rest against the metal.

"A very curious thing," he said, handing the knife back. "Perhaps I could see a couple of the others."

"Certainly." Aaron put the knife back in the case and reached for another just as Cathy released a small cry and fell onto the milk urn.

Instantly abandoning his task, Aaron jumped forward to catch her, changed his mind and grabbed for the tipping urn. He missed, banging it with the back of his wrist, furthering the speed of its fall. It hit with a sharp thud, splattering milk across the floor, drenching Beech's legs from thigh to ankle.

"Hey," Aaron exclaimed. "Miss Bayne! Sir. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--."

Hand held close to her side, Cathy huddled in on herself. "I'm a clumsy fool. Sir--I'm sorry about your pants. I can--I can clean them or--"

"Never mind! I've seen what I need to see." Scowling, the Master stamped out the door, drops of milk shaking free with each heavy step.

"Miss Bayne, are you injured?"

"No, Mister Turner." Cathy straightened. Her face showed satisfaction and a touch of gloating, but anger narrowed her eyes. "I'm not hurt. I just--I had to get rid of that man. He's bad, sir. Real bad. He had a Talent Stone."

"Stone?" Aaron shook milk off his sodden feet, only now noticing the small figures of Missy and Doyle hiding in a corner. "What about the stone?"

"A man with a Talent Stone killed my daddy."

What the hell is a Talent Stone? Aaron wondered.

Sweat beaded faintly on Cathy's forehead. Her bottom lip quivered and her fingers trembled. "I'll clean up the mess, sir, and pay for it."

"No." The girl was the next thing to broke. "Clean it up, and I'll cover the cost. You start tomorrow. Come early, and I'll show you what to do. Two and a half gold a day."

Talent Stones? Obviously, this was something General Field needed to know about. How much other information was Aaron missing? He needed an oblivious information source, and by the looks of it, Cathy Bayne would do. An employee could answer questions and not be suspicious. A young employee too afraid to question the ignorance of her boss was perfect.

Relief shinning from her eyes, Cathy flashed him a bright smile. Aaron smiled weakly back. The thought of using her to help promote Field's plan made him feel like shit, but that was the lot of an inept military spy.
Chapter 3

"Peterson! You shoot like that in a fight, and you'll be nothing but dead. Pull the damn thing over to the bull and settle down."

Peterson squeezed off another shot.

"I told you to settle down."

Looking up from his prone position, Peterson glared at Johnston. "I didn't miss by that much. It would have killed a man."

Smiling grimly, Johnston nodded. "Yeah, it would have hit a man in a fight--if you had pointed that thing straight and not flinched any more than you did just now. Do you think you can hold still when the savages are closing in, when crossbow bolts and arrows are pouring around you, when some savage wants to shove a sword into your gut? Can you remain steady when you're sweating and shaking and your bowels want to blow? Do you think you can trust yourself right now, knowing that your life, and the lives of your buddies, depends on your ability to hit a target hard on the first shot?"

"I won't freeze," Peterson insisted, but there was sweat on his brow.

"I've seen it happen, boy. I've counted the bodies. I've seen where one weak man got an entire squad killed."

The boy glared defiance. "I have it. When the time comes, you'll see that I have it!"

Johnston glanced at the other recruits. "What do you think?"

They looked at each other uneasily. Paxton shrugged and smiled insolently. "He'll have it. We all will. We already have it."

"Do you have it?" he demanded of Peterson again.

"Yes sir, Sergeant."

"You think so?" Johnston smiled wickedly. "Are you willing to put your faith to the test? I'm telling you right now that you better not. I think you won't cut it. I think you're a coward."

Peterson glared, but Johnston saw his fingers twitch and his face pale. "Just try me."

"There'll be no backing out. I won't allow it."

Peterson spat. The other recruits gave him the eye, reevaluating him. Johnston could almost see Peterson's thoughts. If he backed down now, he would be forever on the bottom of the Militia's testosterone hierarchy.

"I can take anything you hand out," Peterson said with firm determination.

A paternal smile crossed Johnston's face. "So be it. Stay here. The rest of you wait by the mess hall. You'll see everything from there. Go on."

"Sir?" Paxton asked.

"Just do it."

Appearing uneasy, they looked at one another, nodded, and made their way to the mess. Johnston noted that two of them refused to lay down their weapons when they moved away. Showed promise, those two. Most of the lads showed promise, unlike Peterson. That lad lacked nerve and the ability to listen.

"Stand up. Wait there," he ordered Peterson. Peering up at the sun, he judged its angle and walked directly in its direction. Since there was no breeze the air felt still against his skin. The temperature was cool, the way he liked it during these moments, still and quiet, with a chill snap and a sharp tang that made his nerves sharp.

After walking thirty yards he turned to look at Peterson. "All right lad. Here's the time to show your nerve. Prove yourself a man."

"Sir," Even from this distance, Johnston could see Peterson's sweat. The man shook, shading his eyes with one hand so he could make Johnston out in the sun's glare. The sight made Johnston want to puke. Peterson was the worst of this lot, a dreamer driven by ideals instead of pragmatic self-interest. Of course, that was why Johnston had chosen him. Different instructors used their own methods to get across the point that Field's Militia was serious business. Johnston had decided long ago that he preferred this method. It was, he thought, the most effective one of all. It had the added benefit of making his blood flow faster, of making the day just a little bit brighter.

"Prove yourself," Johnston called out. "You get two free shots, and then I'm going to kill you."

"Sir!"

"I'm serious. Start shooting."

Predictably, Peterson did not shoot. Ashen faced and goggle-eyed, his rifle dangled at the end of his arms as if the thing were nothing more than a useless stick. Johnston wasn't surprised. By design, all his victims were people who froze in a crisis. The last thing he wanted was to kill off one of the good ones. Peterson was not good. Hell, the kid probably thought inaction would win him a reprieve. Most of them thought that.

Think again.

Causally pulling his pistol, Johnston leveled it, waited a moment, and then shot the kid in his leg. Yelping, Peterson leaped and cursed, and then he dropped his rifle and stood, staring with hypnotic fascination at the bore of Johnston's pistol. The kid seemed mesmerized. No survival instincts at all. None.

Disgusted, Johnston tucked his pistol away. Peterson was a waste. That bullet had done no more than cut a little groove along the side of his leg, but it had been enough to make the kid's mind freeze.

"The next one goes straight through your brain," Johnston called across the distance. "I advise you to pick up your rifle and take your free shots." He made sure to raise his voice loud enough so the recruits standing by the mess could hear.

Peterson licked his lips. "Sir, I don't want to do this."

Frowning slightly, Johnston shook his head sadly. "Sorry lad. There's no way out for you. I warned you of that. You took the challenge. Now you have to be a man and carry it through. Start shooting."

Moving with frightened deliberation, Peterson stooped and collected his rifle. Juggling it clumsily, he brought it to his shoulder, and stood there, the barrel wavering in Johnston's direction. His hand convulsed. The barrel jerked inches sideways. The rifle did not fire.

Johnston smiled gentle encouragement. "Squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it. That little button by the trigger is the safety. Now why don't you click it off? I'm not a monster, Peterson. I'll give you another chance. Two free shots, just like I promised."

Peterson fumbled for a moment and then looked down the length of the barrel.

"Do it!" Johnston ordered.

The gun fired.

Johnston nodded approvingly. "That's better. Your rifle went boom, only you missed. Fortunately, you get one more chance. Why don't you try aiming this time? God only knows where that last bullet went." He allowed his eyes to flicker to the side. Yes, the other recruits' attention was fastened on him. They noted his iron-jawed calmness, his courage, and they admired his casual attitude as he placed his solid six-foot frame directly in the path of danger. Best of all, they saw his refusal to flinch when Peterson's rifle fired. This was part of the lesson. There wasn't one damn thing they could do to intimidate him.

Peterson fired again.

Sighing disappointment, Johnston shook his head sadly and momentarily wished he smoked because a cigar stuck between his lips would have perfectly complimented the image he wanted the recruits to remember. "I really hoped for better from you," he called for the benefit of his audience. "Too bad."

Peterson's eyes grew huge. With his rifle barrel swinging without a pretense of control, he jerked on the trigger once and then again.

Lazily raising his pistol, Johnston shot the kid between his eyes. His shot echoed directly after the kid's fourth and last trigger pull.

Peterson's head snapped, and then his knees folded and he crumpled loosely to the ground. Johnston nodded with silent satisfaction. His bullet had gone exactly where it was supposed to go. The kid had died very quickly.

Turning his gaze, he took in the remaining four recruits. One of them looked shocked and wary. Two others looked interested, and something that was almost lust gleamed deep behind Paxton's eyes. Those last three were the ones he was interested in. They were the natural killers. Perhaps the most promising one of the group was Paxton. Though slightly built and not very tall, the man oozed bloodlust.

Walking slowly over to them, Johnston gave them a lazy once over. Even the frightened one did not wince. With a little work he might become something worth keeping too. A couple weeks would show if he needed to be weeded.

Stopping immediately before them, Johnston allowed the survivors to look into the dark orbs of his eyes. Their unemotional depths had cowed more than a few of these children.

"This is not a game people," he snapped. "This is the real thing. In six months or a year you will leave Jefferson and teleport into another world. When you are there you will have to kill. You won't kill one person, or two, or even three. You will kill them by the dozens and the hundreds. Most of those people will be women. Live with the idea of killing women. Learn to have wet dreams over it."

"Some of you," Johnston continued, "will wind up in a country called Chin. You won't have to fight hard because the Chin groundwork has been well laid. Unfortunately, the Isabellan theater will not be so simple because Private Turner has not been very effective. Unlike Colonel Klein, his strength is not sufficient to carry the weight of another human being into Isabella. Don't worry. We're working on a way around his small problem."

He gave them his sternest look, though anyone who needed more incentive to pay attention than the dead man he had given them was not the type of soldier the General wanted. In Johnston's experience, dead bodies tended to be a fairly reliable focusing agent.

* * *

"No Sir," Johnston said, "I don't think that was a little harsh. It was exactly what they needed to put some backbone into them."

Drumming his thick fingers on his desk for a few moments, General Field felt lost inside the interior of his own mind. Overall, Johnston was a good man. He was dedicated, and his total lack of ideals was perfect. In fact, the only fault Field could see in the man was that he lacked perspective. Johnston saw the trees but ignored the forest. It was that limitation that kept him a Sergeant.

"I wish," Field finally said, "that you had not killed the man." Raising a hand, he gestured Johnston to close his suddenly open mouth. "It isn't that I placed any value on him. It's just that there is always the possibility that we have a spy in the camp somewhere. I don't know who that spy is, but I do know that there must be one. Field's Everlasting Life Militia is too influential with all the other Militias for the government to ignore us entirely. All it will take for the bastards to invade us is for some unknown spy to report that we murder our own people. After all, the government and the press already think of us as crackpots since we leaked out word of our plans so we could draw in new recruits. It wouldn't take much for them to believe we're capable of killing our own."

"All our people have been screened."

"There are always turncoats," Field said pointedly. "Always. Some people are more impressed with money now than promises later."

"Turncoats." Johnston grimaced with distaste. "Like Turner?"

"Turner is a loyal member of this militia," Field insisted. "We raised the boy, so he only knows what we allowed him to learn."

"The damned cripple knows Isabella, and he refuses to carry people over there. General, I've seen them both work. You can't make me believe Klein is all that much stronger than Turner."

Running his finger across his graying goatee, Field studied his inferior. "As best we can determine, Klein is stronger, and we have the tests to prove it. Over the last year more than twenty scans have been run on Turner's brain while he transferred. Those scans are exact and thorough. They had to be. We're using their results to build up the software and set the configuration for the machine."

"How," Johnston asked, "is the project coming?"

Frowning, Field tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. The Sergeant's tone almost bordered on disrespect. "It's coming slow, but we're making progress. We even have some people lined up who might have the technological know-how to pull the thing together. If things go as planned, we'll eventually have as much influence inside Isabella as we do in Chin. Maybe even more."

Field watched while Johnston rubbed the back of his neck and peered out the window. Night was falling. Right about now the new recruits were sitting at mess and telling the tale of how Sergeant Johnston had allowed Peterson to fire at him several times before Johnston put a bullet between the man's eyes. After today the legend of Johnston would grow even further. His nerve and judgment were legendary among the common rabble. Of course, that had been part of Johnston's plan, and it was clear the plan was working. Not once in all these years had anyone in the lower ranks realized that these confrontations never happened except with someone whose gun had been personally loaded by Johnston himself. The rounds in the weapon were always three live followed by four blanks, and then more live rounds. Field knew Johnston was a brave man. He was also smart--too smart to be suicidal or totally trusted.

"What if Turner is a traitor?" Johnston finally asked. "What if he's handing us nothing but lies?"

"He isn't a traitor," Field insisted.

"But what if he is?"

"If he is," said General Field, "I'll give him to you. You can kill him just like he's any other recruit or member of the militia who tried to leave the compound or contact the outside world without authorization.

Johnston gave Field a slightly confused look. "Forgive me for asking, sir, but doesn't shooting people for trying to leave give a spy as much reason for calling in the government as does my killing unacceptable recruits?"

"Well, we want to be careful, but there's no reason for us to be too paranoid about shooting somebody every now and again," Field explained. "Besides, it's safest if we just assume anyone trying to leave the compound without permission is the spy we've been looking for. They can't report us to the government if they're dead."

"Getting back to Turner, sir?"

General Field grinned and slapped Johnston's shoulder. "Traitor or not, before long you'll be able to do anything you want to him. Once we get the machine working I won't have any further use for the little cripple."

Johnston nodded and then frowned. "Not always a cripple. He looks pretty straight when he first comes back. I don't like that."

"Neither do I," Field supplied in a more subdued tone. "There's more to him than we suspected that he's not showing us. That's why I don't completely trust him. That's why I'm giving him to you."

Johnston smiled quiet satisfaction. "Thank you. That's all I ask."

"You'll have to beat the rush," Field warned. "Aimes hates him, and even Hill has made comments from time to time."

"I understand, sir. All I want is the chance."

### Chapter 4

Bending painfully, Aaron picked up his practice sword with cramped fingers, the one move that had become increasingly familiar. Rising carefully, he favored his side where bruised ribs let him know they were very unhappy with his performance.

Sarah Townsend shook her head, smiling wryly. She breathed evenly, looking fresh even after the last hour's workout. Of course, Aaron reflected, she should look fresh since she had worked less than half as hard as he. She possessed an economy of motion and a precision of movement he could only admire with unhappy envy. The extent of her skill and speed were impressive, yet she claimed to be nothing more than a poorly trained soldier.

Gripping the practice sword with very sore fingers, Aaron looked around the empty land surrounding them and felt very glad Miss Sarah Townsend had brought them a half mile outside of town to practice. Instead of a crowd of jeering spectators having fun at Aaron's expense, they were surrounded by tall weeds and grass, a few scraggly trees, distant hills which eventually rose into the cloud capped mountain range, and of course, the far off outline of the town itself.

In other words, since it was early spring, they were surrounded by the fragile scents of opening wild flowers and budding weeds, which meant plenty of pollen, which meant Aaron had a stuffy nose and the beginnings of a nagging headache. Just what he needed when he was getting the crap beat out of him.

"I aimed six inches below your eyes," Sarah said. "You raised your shield way too high, and then you took too long to lower it again. Okay, you've rested enough. Back to work."

Sighing, Aaron readied himself. His arms and shoulders ached even from the light weight of the wooden practice equipment. He thought briefly of begging for mercy due to extreme exhaustion, but the marshal was probably the type of instructor who did not want to hear about such trifles.

Sarah tried to connect with his left shoulder. With a slight shift, Aaron caught the precise horizontal cut across the face of his shield. Taking the initiative, he tried a strike of his own. Damn. Six inches off his mark. Thank the Gods he managed to maintain some semblance of balance or she would have given him another of her stinging lessons. She swung back, quick, but slow enough so he could get his blade up in time to catch hers against it. _Looking good, Aaron._ Gods, his arm hurt.

"Ward yourself," Sarah called. Wearing a sly grin, she quickly swung her sword too fast for him to see. Leaping forward she cracked her wooden blade into his left shin.

"Hey!" Aaron cursed. "That hurts!" Within moments his shin knotted, making him want to sink to his knees. Thick mucus flowed from his nose. He sniffled, trying to clear his sinuses, but it felt like he had a wooden dowel shoved up each nostril.

"Use your sword to block, Mister Turner. It isn't just for cutting. Keep up like this, and we'll be burying you within the year"

"Why," Aaron panted back, "don't you give the blamed sword to someone who can use it? I'm too small for this thing."

"What?" she asked as she looped around his guard one more time to thump his bruised ribs. "Do you think we expect you to give up personal equipment that's worth more than two months of my wages? No, Mister Turner. We would never ask that of you." Catching an overhead blow, she bent her wrist and deftly twisted it aside.

"For the public good," Aaron gasped, "take the thing and give it to someone who can use it."

"Nope. I'm having too much fun."

Aaron staggered beneath another blow.

"You're doing good, Mister Turner. We're almost ready to take it up to half speed."

"What!"

Using a move too quick for him to see, her practice sword flickered and then slapped against his arm.

"Ouch!" His sword flew from his hand and landed six feet away. "Hey!"

"I've always found it awkward to be in a sword fight when I don't have a sword, Mister Turner, but then you are a man, so you probably know more about these things than I do."

Inching sideways, he reached his blade. Once he stood over the thing he was not sure what to do. His arm ached, and every time he moved to pick the practice sword up she grinned and raised her weapon. Finally accepting that he was going to take punishment, Aaron lowered himself slowly and reached for his blade. She sidestepped and swung.

"Damn it!" Aaron's voice was muffled by a clump of daisies stuffed into his mouth.

His butt hurt.

Sarah laughed gaily.

"Miss Townsend, did you really have to do that?"

She stopped laughing. "Oh yes I did. You needed a lesson on how to commit. Down! Up! Like a streak of lightning. As slow as you moved, I could have left, had dinner, done the dishes and still had time to get back here to kick your butt."

Holding out her right arm, she grasped his hand and helped him rise. Her grip was strong. Her calluses felt hard against his rising blisters.

"Enough for today. I'll walk you to the Traveler's Rest where you can buy me an ale." Glancing around, she frowned at the sight of two half naked figures watching from a distant hill. "The savages are watching us again. I don't like that."

"Will there be trouble?" Aaron asked, feeling the worms in his belly wiggle once more.

"No more than normal. They always have someone watching." Her frown lessened. "You owe me for the profanity, Mister Turner, though I guess I'll forgive you this time."

Aaron flushed when he remembered his words. "Sorry for the mouth."

"Not the first time I heard a trainee curse," Sarah admitted. "It won't be the last either. Still, it's a bad habit to get into."

The walk to Flo's took only ten minutes. Even in that short time Aaron's muscles began setting up, but his headache began easing, and that, at least, was good.

"You show promise," Sarah said after drinking half her ale. "Given time, you might even become a decent swordsman."

"Right." The woman was impossible. She could lie with a straight face.

"No," she admitted. "To tell you the truth, you are really terrible. You are slow and inaccurate, and your blows lack any force. You also lost your temper and released profanity in my presence. If you had done that within my hearing inside the town limits, I would have been forced to fine you. Mister Turner, you seem uncomfortable. Is something wrong?"

"I am sitting on a very painful place." Frowning ruefully, Aaron pointed a finger at her. "You play rough Miss Townsend. I am not entirely sure I approve."

She laughed lightly and eyed him coyly. "Few people do. I have an ointment that can help. If you like, I'll even rub it in for you. Why, Mister Turner, you are blushing. It's been twelve years since I last saw a man blush on my account and me being only seventeen at the time. I wasn't the least bit serious."

"It's warm in here." Feeling very warm indeed, Aaron lowered his finger. "I need to get back to the store and see how Miss Bayne is getting along." He painfully raised his cup and quickly finished it off because past experience had proved that the slight buzz the ale gave him would finish getting rid of his headache.

Sarah's face turned serious. "It's a good thing you are doing."

"Thank you." He thought about her statement for a moment while he lowered the empty cup back down to the table. "What good thing?" With a slight groan, he shifted so his right cheek hung off the chair's edge. Better.

"For helping Miss Bayne and the kids. They've had it rough since their parents died in that raid a couple years back. We all know that you've been overpaying them and giving them food to help with their support. Now you are doing this. Just want you to know, it sits well with us because their parents are dead."

Aaron frowned. "Dead? All her mothers too?"

Sarah shook her head. "Hard to imagine that, though I suppose most people don't talk about it much. Lots of bad memories there." Leaning forward slightly, she lowered her voice. "Happened during that Mover raid two years ago. Before the militia was formed. We fought back when they tried to take over our town, and we started winning, but then that Talent Master rose up, and he threw fire all around. A lot of us were burned, and some were killed. I've no doubt all of us would have been if Mister Bayne and his wives hadn't returned from a wagon ride right about then. He saw Cathy and the kids right in the middle of it all, Doyle crying over Jan's body, Jan being his oldest sister. Cathy and Missy were dragging him away, but they weren't dragging him fast enough because there were armed people all around them. When he saw what was happening Mister Bayne whipped his horses up to full speed. Ran them right into that Talent Master. That Master, he burned Mister Bayne and his wives real bad, but Mister Bayne kept those horses running until they crashed into the Talent Master, only the Bayne's were all dead by then, and so were the horses. Broke the Talent Master's back when one horse fell on him. Took the fight right out of him, that did. Took the fight out of the Movers too. They took off, and we buried our dead right after I cut the head off that broken-backed Talent Master and thanked the Lord and Lady he was not particularly powerful."

"Oh--Well." Aaron shifted nervously and wondered what a Talent Master was. Some sort of illusionist? "I knew there had been trouble, but I didn't know the particulars of it."

"We've a lot of new people since then. The rest of us, we don't like to talk about it much."

Feeling uncomfortable, Aaron sat silent for a time because he did not know how to respond to the telling of tall tales. "I really have to go," he finally said.

"Then go. Just remember, in two days you belong to me again."

"Why does that make me uncomfortable?"

She gave him a wicked smile. "You tell me."

* * *

Rearranging things that did not need rearranging seemed to be Cathy's favorite pastime. Aaron entered the store to find the leather goods against a completely different wall, while the fruit now rested on a shelf near the window. Looking around, Aaron could see other changes. Why, he wondered, had she put the vegetables way in the back?

"How did it go?"

She started, jerked her head around, and stared at him. Her brown eyes looked enormous in her narrow face. Why had he never noticed that before? What he had taken for thin and fit was nothing more than hunger. Doyle and Missy were not so delicate looking. Did she give them her food?

"I've had three customers since you left. The bank clerk, Mister Banks, bought a full dozen of your magic writers. He said Mister Doland liked their neatness and the time they saved. Since there was no price on them I had to guess what you would charge only Mister Banks didn't like the price I set so we had to haggle until he agreed to pay two and a half gold ten for each writer. About an hour ago Mistress Averys bought two measures flour and a half measure sugar, and then a Mover came in and bought lemon drops."

"You did good," Aaron said absently. "I never managed to sell a writer for more than two gold. Uh--why are you doing a rearrange?"

"I hope you don't mind." Running her fingers through work dampened hair, Cathy gave him a weak grin. "I'm trying to make things look more appealing and to put basic necessary things in the back. That way people have to walk past the stuff they normally don't buy, and they might pick some of it up on a whim."

Aaron shook his head. "I never thought of that." He looked at the jars again. Streaming sunlight through the windows created a sparkling shimmer inside the thick syrup, highlighting the fruit in a rather mouth-watering way.

"Maybe it's a good idea," he confessed. "I never thought too much about where I set things. Generally, I just put stuff down wherever there was an empty space."

Her smile brightened. "I can move it all back if you like,"

"No," Aaron said. "Leave things where they are. I'll just have to learn where everything is again."

"Sure. Are you going to the dance?" With a lazy sigh, she stood erect and brushed her hands off on her clothes, canting her head to one side as she did so.

Aaron smiled. "Why do people keep asking me that? Do you think you can run an inventory? All you have to do is write down each item and how many of them there are." Suddenly, his face grew warm when an unwelcome thought struck him. "That is if you can write. There is no shame in not having an opportunity to learn."

"Oh no, sir. I mean yes, sir; I can read and write. Mama tutored the Manor children and some of the townspeople. Me and Missy are teaching Doyle."

"Good. Good," Aaron said uncomfortably. "I'll be in the back room if anything comes up.

"Yes sir."

* * *

The back room was a mess. Spilled grain and flour decorated the floor where bags had torn. He had never gotten around to putting away three crates of coffee and one of tea. Hiring Cathy full time had probably been a good idea. He was too busy to properly care for everything himself.

It took him two hours to clean the back room, longer than it should have taken, but his bruises ached, and his arms still protested the abuse he had put them through. Moving two flour sacks revealed the trapdoor leading down to the cellar, but he had no need to go down there today because the cellar was always kept perfectly neat. The potatoes and onions he kept down there were too new to need checking for rot or mold. In a separate room, ice cut from nearby lakes last winter, was packed in thick layers of sawdust. He looked at the now neat room, cast a small curse at the flour sacks and swore he would never again be so stupid as to cover the trap door.

"I won't!" Cathy's voice rose high from inside the main store.

Quickly turning, Aaron lifted his head, suddenly alert to trouble. Cathy knew better than to argue with customers.

"No!"

Something crashed. Cathy screamed, and Aaron ran into the store.

Crazed eyes set in a thin whiskered face surrounded by wild uncut black hair jerked toward him. One hand held Cathy pressed against the counter. The other hand groped under it.

"Prong it," the man cursed when he saw Aaron. Releasing Cathy, he raced around the counter and out the door. Voices shouted outside. Cathy slid slowly to the floor.

Glancing at the open door, Aaron ignored the thief and ran to the girl. Her shoulders shook with noiseless sobs.

"How badly are you hurt, Miss Bayne?" He reached out to touch her hair, thought better of it because she was a young girl, and drew his hand back. The spilled money box lay beside her; coins scattered across the floor.

`"Mister Turner--I'm so sorry. I tried to--to stop h--him." With a rough swipe, Cathy rubbed angrily at her damp eyes. "I'll pay back what is missing. I--I swear it, sir." Her voice dropped to a whisper.

Pity and grim anger welled up inside Aaron. He rubbed his own eyes with a quick flick of his wrist. "There will be none of that, Miss. There's nothing for you to pay back. Being robbed is one of the chances a person takes when they open a business. However, in the future, Miss Bayne, don't resist. Let them have what they want. Your well-being is worth far more than the money from a single day's sales."

Her silent sobbing slowed and then stopped. "In the future?"

"Good gods, I'm not going to fire you because you were robbed."

"I can--?"

"Mister Turner, are things well in here?" Wearing a worried frown, the bow-legged miller peered through the doorway.

"Miss Bayne has been struck, Mister Townsend, and some money is missing. The money is of no account, but I am extremely angry over the treatment Miss Bayne received."

"I tried to stop the thief," Townsend said, "but I'm afraid he is much quicker than I."

"Is he a known person?"

"Not to me." The miller shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "This is a bad time for you, but I have an order out here on the wagon. I've a need to get back to the mill. My boys will lax off if I don't hurry."

Aaron sighed. "Just set the order outside the door. How much do I owe you?"

"Pay me later. I've no fear of your account, Mister Turner. Your word is always good. Besides, if it wasn't I'd just tell my Sarah to whack you harder during your next lesson."

"There are advantages to having the Town Marshal as your daughter," Aaron observed.

"That there are, and one of them is that I usually know where she is. Mister Turner, don't you worry about a thing, I'll tell my Sarah about what happened here. Cathy. Miss Bayne, I wish you well." With a half wave, the miller turned away from the door, closing it behind him. Moments later a thump sounded as the first hundred pound sack hit the boardwalk.

Cathy pulled herself upright. "Did you really mean it? I'm not fired?"

"I mean it."

"Oh--thank you." Even with the darkening bruises on her left cheek, her thin face turned almost beautiful. Leaning forward, she suddenly hugged him. "Thank you, sir."

Aaron shifted uncomfortably, far too aware of her breasts against him. The sensation of her soft roundness pressing into his body was...was--unsettling: new. Due to the crippling effects of his childhood injuries, physical contact with any female except impersonal nurses was something he had not experienced since he was a child. In fact, intimacy of this type was not something he had ever dared dream of before coming to Last Chance and discovering that his body somehow miraculously healed itself when it entered this world.

Fingers trembling, Aaron tried to draw slightly away to lessen the feel of Cathy's body pressed against his.

Sensing his discomfort, she released him and pulled back. "Forgive me, Mister Turner. I'm just so relieved. I'll continue the inventory after I clean this mess up--that is, if you have no objection?"

With a supreme act of will, Aaron kept his eyes from straying down to the faint hint of her cleavage. Damn-it, Cathy was a child--but the hug had felt good. "Um, I'll clean up here, Miss Bayne. You go ahead and finish the inventory."

Apparently oblivious to the direction of his thoughts, Cathy nodded. "Yes sir."

Once Aaron gathered himself back together, he took stock of the damage done. The thief had only stolen one gold and a dozen coppers. The two quarter silvers, each one worth twenty-five gold, had been missed by the thief's hurried grab; however, the cabinet containing the knives had taken some small damage. Aaron made a mental note to have the damage repaired.

Cathy finished inventory at five, and he paid her, telling her to call it a day. She tried to buy some food, but he forced her to take it for free since she had worked through her lunch, and then he chased her out of the store, telling her she was not to return until noon the next day. After all, she deserved something for her bruises.

It was only when he went to close up that he saw the flour and meal sitting outside his door. He had forgotten all about the order Townsend had left. More than a half-hour passed before he finished hauling and stacking it all into the back room. By the time he finished, his bruises ached even more, and his arms trembled. Looking at the quivering limbs, Aaron felt a small sense of pride. One year ago he could not have managed one tenth of the effort he had expended this day.

Just as he finished his moment of self admiration, Sarah Townsend entered the store, wearing worried eyes and a slight sheen of sweat.

"Did you catch him?" Aaron asked.

She shook her head no. "I don't know who he is or how he escaped. Mistress Gunther saw him hanging around with three or four other men when she went to the bank earlier in the day, but they aren't to be found either."

Momentarily frowning, Aaron looked down Last Chance's dusty street. "I suppose he's gone for good. Thank you for your efforts, Marshal Townsend."

"If he's not gone for good, he's going to regret it."

Aaron took care to close his door tightly when she left. After a few quiet moments passed, he went into the back room, lifted the trapdoor, and entered the cellar. Bags of onions, potatoes, and carrots were stacked neatly against three of the walls. The fourth wall was bare except for two large doors which closed off a single six foot opening. He pulled one door open and was enveloped by the cold air of the ice room. Walking inside, he closed the door and then lifted another trap door set in the corner of the room. At the bottom of the ten foot ladder was a thirty foot by thirty foot room. Two of its walls were rough hewn rock showing jagged crevasse where miners' tools had marred its surface. The other walls were wooden structures that sealed his secret room off from the rest of the abandoned salt mine beneath Last Chance. Crates filled just under a quarter of this room from floor to ceiling. The rest of the space was empty. A hoist hung from a beam over his head, its hook shiny from recent use.

Aaron reluctantly climbed down the ladder. Standing at the bottom of the rungs, he worked to build up the want, the need. Longing rose, more reluctant than ever before. It rose from deep inside his being, pulled at that part of him that was his soul. His breathing grew shallow and slow. Like a slow rising pool of reluctant magma, his ability rose, filling him, strong, more consuming than when he used it for his smaller needs.

Heart stopping, his mind grasped unto something that was not there.

Flicker

Aaron looked at his new location and frowned.

"Damn."

He was home.

### Chapter 5

Sergeant Aimes was pissed. "You're more than an hour late Turner."

Squinting against the light, Aaron rubbed his eyes and studied his personal nemesis. Like always, Aimes wore his perpetual frown. Deep lines cut in around the deeply tanned skin of his mouth, cheeks, and eyes, making his face look like the puckered asshole he was.

"Sorry, sir." Aaron winced in anticipation of the forthcoming explosion.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," Aimes snapped. "Brass are waiting for you in the Yellow Room. I have two noncoms lounging around outside this room, sitting on top of your new supplies, and I have duties of my own to attend to." His voice echoed in the bare eight-foot square room. "Now get your ass down the hall."

"Yes sir!" Aaron saluted and hurriedly left. Corporals Hill and Gore sat on his supplies in the corridor outside his arrival room. Smoke drifted lazily from Hill's cigar. Silently cursing, Aaron hurried past them because Aimes really was an ass, and Aaron's legs were beginning to tingle and ache again. His pace slowed to a lurching limp. By the time he reached the door to the Yellow Room, his left shoulder had fallen. His left arm had curled up, and his fingers were folded into a half-fisted claw. As always. Legs trembling, his knees threatened to give way as his body once again twisted into that of the cripple he was.

Cursing his crippled body, Aaron reluctantly reached up with his good hand and hesitantly knocked on the yellow room's door.

"Get in here!" The door jerked open. Corporal Benson stood before him, a lone sentinel to a room filled with brass from two different militias. General Field's glare fastened on Aaron. From his chair at the conference table, Klein gave him a sympathetic smile. A dozen and a half other men, mostly Hispanic or Asian, sat in the black leather chairs surrounding the rectangular table. Every eye in the room rested on Aaron. Nervous sweat ran down Aaron's back because he knew what they saw. Just under five and a half feet tall, he was a narrow-faced, broken caricature of a militia recruit who probably looked more ridiculous than usual because this now unaccustomed pain made the tendons in his neck bulge.

More than a dozen dusky faces stared at him with contempt. Aaron shifted before squaring his shoulders as best his broken body would allow. As a rule, he seldom felt uncomfortable because he was a pale man in a dusky land, but that was only because Field's militia leaned heavily towards Angelo recruits. In this room, now, Aaron felt both somewhat dirty and thoroughly defiant.

Firming his will, Aaron saluted General Field with his good arm and tried to focus on the pointillist art decorating the light yellow walls behind the General's head so he would not have to meet the eyes of men who judged him because he was the wrong color. The sweet scent of lilacs rose from a single vase set in the table's center. More pollen, so his nose instantly started to clog, which he was sure would further the impression he was making.

"Private Turner reporting."

"You are late, Turner."

"Unavoidable, sir," Aaron crisply replied, ignoring his churning stomach. "There was a robbery at the store. It was late before I became free to report."

"So this is the thing we waited for," a voice asked with contemptuous derision. The speaker, the only white man in the room who was not part of Field's Militia, wore a gray uniform with insignia Aaron did not recognize, but his position at the table indicated that he did not hold much power, a not unusual occurrence. Though the race wars had ended a few decades ago, color prejudice was not dead.

"This thing," General Field said, "is Aaron Turner, a private in Field's Militia and a good man for the assignment he has been handed."

"He's a damn cripple!" the only black man snapped. "He looks like a little broken arthritic scarecrow."

Firming his lips, Aaron stared hard at the black man. Broad shouldered, probably well over six feet tall, possessing graying hair and deep set eyes, he showed no clue where he stood in the room's hierarchy, despite the fact that his too dark skin should have handicapped him almost as much as Aaron was handicapped by his pale complexion. To further the mystery, the black man's dark blue uniform bore no insignia, and his seat was in a position that Aaron usually associated with people who were merely observers.

"Turner is a soldier with special abilities just like I am a soldier with my own abilities," Colonel Klein defended. "He and I are the only people who can access the other world. Yes, he is handicapped because he was involved in an accident when he was ten years old, but he is the only person other than me who has learned how to transport over to the other world. Furthermore, for reasons we do not yet understand, once he is over there the difficulties caused by his injuries seem to disappear."

"None of that is important," Field said impatiently. "What matters is that the two of them can access a world where technology is low, and gold is almost as plentiful as copper. Silver is the rare metal over there. They have little iron. The few steel items we have transported over are thought to be wonders. More importantly, their weapons are as primitive as their society. Sit down, Turner."

"Thank you, sir." Finding an empty chair, Aaron sat down gratefully. Living in constant pain was no longer second nature to him. The muscles in his back were not acclimated to the strain his unnatural posture placed on them.

"Why are they operating in separate areas?" the black man demanded.

"Good question," Klein answered. "As a rule, we can only teleport safely to an area that we are familiar with. Unfortunately, our first visit to the new world forced us to travel blind, and I'm here to tell you that the thought of having to make that jump had me sweating buckets for months. The least bit of bad luck could have put me anywhere from a mile above the ground to fifty feet beneath it. A pure crapshoot where we both got lucky, but it's not a chance either of us will take again so we always return to the same area where we first arrived. Unfortunately, we don't know where each other's theater is located.

His mouth a straight humorless line, Helmet Klein took a moment to look each of the attendees directly into their eyes.

"Now, as to our other strengths and limitations, we both have the ability to enter the new world, but we also have different strengths. I am able to shunt back and forth only every three to five months. Attempting to return before my body is ready accomplishes nothing and forces me to wait several extra months for my transferral strength to rebuild. When I am at full strength I can transfer up to two thousand pounds. This weight mostly consists of several men and trade goods. Since transporting back here is more difficult, I can transfer no more than myself, the clothes I stand in, and maybe ten pounds extra. None of the people I take over there can return except for one particular man who owns a small resonant ability of his own. Because there is not much else in the area that is worth bringing back, the extra weight I carry is usually gold." He paused to take a small sip from his drink.

"The area I arrive in is a primitive land called Chin," Klein continued. "As a rule, most of the people live in nomadic tribes in a temperate zone. The majority of them are hunters and herders, though some agriculture is not unheard of. Their tools are primitive, but their language is rich and full. Since life is hard and resources few, they tend to be warlike. They prize gold only for cheap jewelry; otherwise it has little value to them since it is plentiful. The land is mostly tall grass and possesses little water so much of it is unlivable. Because of this their living conditions are appalling. Disease runs rampant. On average, life expectancy is probably no more than thirty-five for those who manage to reach their majority. As with the entire world, infant males die at an alarming rate. The male to female ratio is on the order of six to one. Now as to Private Turner..."

"Let him speak for himself," the black man demanded.

Aaron cleared his throat but it did not do him much good. Thick phlegm made his tongue stumble over words. "Umm, yeah. Right. Well, I can transport over to the other side more easily than Colonel Klein. Going over there is simple for me. The problem is that I can carry no more than a hundred and twelve pounds on any one trip, and there has to be at least a two-week layover before I can return here. Even then, I can usually return with no more than the clothes I wear."

Drawing in a deep breath, he studied the stern faces set before him and mentally reviewed his truths, half-truths, and lies. An Asian man released an impatient grunt and received a disapproving look from Klein in return. Still standing guard by the doorway, Benson chuckled quietly.

"The area I can access is more developed than Colonel Klein's," Aaron continued. "As best I can determine, I live three hundred miles from the coast of a continent discovered only two hundred years ago. The town I can access is called Last Chance, and it is in a country called Isabella. Fortunately for our plans, the place is a perfect operational base because major government intervention in that area does not exist. Each town or village governs itself. Generally, the national government offers help only on rare occasions because its resources are over stretched. Best of all, none of the national governments on the continent are larger in territory than several of our smallest states, and none of them possesses much authority over their populace."

Pausing, Aaron studied his listeners to see how many of them actually believed him. Some of the faces he saw looked doubtful, some looked interested, but most of the listeners gave him blank, unemotional stares. One Hispanic fellow wearing a deep blue uniform covered by dozens of medals slowly drew on a thick cheap cigar before blowing out a cloud of rancid smoke, drawing irate stares from those sitting on either side of him.

Nervous, Aaron rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and rested his eyes on Klein.

"Go on," Klein encouraged.

Aaron nodded and drew in another deep breath through his mouth because his damn nose was now totally stuffed up. Gods, he hated lilacs, something only Klein and Benson knew. Their placement in the room had to be deliberate on Benson's part. "The people in my area work in bronze, brass, copper, tin and lead, alloying it in a manner with which I am not yet familiar. The process makes the metal better than it would be over here, but it is still far inferior to our fine steel. From what I can tell, war between the different nations is rare. My guess is that this is because populations are spread too thin to provide the pressure and conflict which causes war. The town I live in has maybe sixty families. There are about ninety more families living nearby, but that number changes constantly as people move away and new people move in. Outside of town are mountains that were once considered impassable, but a route through them was found a few years ago, and people are beginning to migrate into the new lands. Supposedly, the new lands are occupied by savages, and there are rumors of unrest."

"How are you positioned there?" the black man asked predictably. Of all the people there, he was really starting to tick Aaron off with all his questions. Something about him, his manner, his steady eyes, something told Aaron he was different from the others, more important somehow.

"I am a storekeeper."

"A storekeeper!" The man snorted in disgust. "What about you?" he demanded of Klein. "What power do you have?"

"Because I've consolidated several tribes into a larger group our territory is now over one hundred miles across," Klein calmly answered. "Tribes are either absorbed into our group or they are killed off. So far, my efforts have had small results, but they are a beginning. Matters should expand at a greater rate from here on."

"And how--"

"Excuse me, Captain Brant," a Hispanic man interrupted.

"Yes sir, General Mays. I yield the floor to you." The black man saluted the new speaker respectfully, but he wore an irritated frown. The frown grew deeper when Aaron took that moment of freedom to grab a tissue from a box setting on the table and blow his nose. Almost a mistake because he was instantly assaulted by the stench of cheap cigars and expensive cologne, and the damn lilacs were still there.

Running his fingers along the brim of the officer's hat set on the table before him, Mays looked at Aaron with piercing eyes while he waited for Aaron to finish clearing his nose. "Tell me, Private," he finally asked, "geographically, how far is your area of influence from that of the Colonel's?"

"Sir, as Helmet explained earlier, we don't know," Aaron confessed while he looked around for some place to dispose of the used tissue. Finding nothing, he clenched it in his hand, grimacing at the wet feel of it. "We have no idea where we are in relation to each other. We always transfer to the same area and seem to have no ability to transfer with each other. I don't know if the Colonel is over the next mountain or if he is halfway around the world."

"I see that you both keep to the same story." Mays twisted his hat around, raised it, and settled it on his head before setting his stare on Field. "Now tell me, General, why should we be interested in this new land or world you have discovered? I'll admit that what you have here is wondrous, but it is limited in its usefulness to me. The Colonel can bring back a small amount of gold but not much else. The other one can bring back nothing, and so he costs your organization money and support for no gain."

As his weight shifted, with a slight creak of leather, Field leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his belly. "General, the answer is very simple. It is well known that you have a tech base denied to us. In fact, some of your people have been involved in psychic research for the government. We believe you have the ability to devise machines that will increase the natural abilities of our two men. During this last year we have taken extensive readings of their brain activity when they are transporting between worlds. With the resources at your command I believe you could use those readings to finish development on a booster which will allow us to transport men and equipment almost at will." He leaned forward and pointed a large finger at Mays. "This is not a positive thing, but can you sit there and tell me that you are willing to take the chance of us going to someone else?"

"I still don't see what the benefits are to my organization," Mays said. The black man, Captain Brant, looked at Mays disapprovingly, telling Aaron that there were other questions that he wanted asked. Though only a captain, he still struck Aaron as being one of the most important people in the room.

"We both know, everyone at this table knows, that Jefferson is quickly going to hell. This is our opportunity to go someplace where we can make sure things are done right. Both our organizations have similar views of proper government. Between us, we could control the two areas our agents are preparing. With our superior technology we will eventually set the entire world along the paths we choose."

"People are not generally happy about taking a path that's forced on them," Mays observed. "The course you suggest will be very bloody."

Field chuckled. "Do you have a problem with that? Neither of us has shied away from blood. Just two years ago you sank that passenger liner. We have sponsored political assassinations." Field paused and turned his eyes towards Aaron. "Turner, we are done with you. You can leave now."

"I want to speak with you before you go back," Klein added.

Awkwardly saluting with his wet tissue holding hand, Aaron stood. His stomach hurt, and his legs trembled more than normal. Field was a good man. He knew this. Field had taken him in and paid for his operations when Aaron's own parents had not wanted him. Still, Aaron had to admit he had difficulty with some of the things the Militia did. Yes, the world was going to hell. Politicians spent far too much time raising money for the next election and far too little time caring for the people who elected them. Campaign financing drives and crony back patting left them almost no time to do their jobs. Some of those politicians needed incentives, and it seemed that the only incentive they recognized was the threat of assassination. It was amazing how hard they worked when one of their colleagues was killed for sponsoring a bill that was intended to further weaken society.

Accepting that all people had to die sometime was easy. Aaron just did not like knowing the Militia had a part in causing some of those deaths.

Benson insolently jerked the door open when Aaron approached it. In payment, Aaron reached out and stuffed the tissue, damp with his snot, into the man's front pocket before exiting. Benson released a small smile, but his eyes blazed fury.

Once outside, Aaron found that the two non-coms assigned to him waited near the door. Gore drew lazily on a cigarette while leaning his lanky form lazily against the building wall. Squatter, more heavily muscled, Hill stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, an impatient frown on his face. When he saw Aaron, Gore nodded, straightened, and flicked his half finished cigarette away. Hill's frown deepened and then relaxed into a forced smile.

"Everything's ready, Turner," Hill said. "You leaving soon?"

Aaron shook his head. "Not for a while. Is everything I asked for in the room?"

"Nah." Relaxing his stance, Hill unclenched his hands and held one out towards Aaron. Gore's hand instantly shot out too. "I've a couple more things to pick up."

Nodding, Aaron reached in his pocket and pulled out four gold. "Best I could hope for, I suppose. You haven't had much time to deliver everything."

Hill and Gore each grabbed two of the coins and slipped them out of sight. Hill took a quick look around and nodded satisfaction. "Nobody watching."

Gore snorted contemptuously. "Wouldn't have stood here if anybody was."

Ignoring his partner, Hill looked at Aaron. "I stuck some extras in your load already. You may be overweight."

"I'll chance it."

Hill nodded and left.

"Lean on me, crip," Gore said. "You seem to be more shaky than usual."

Aaron accepted gratefully. His legs trembled violently. Spasms ran through his left fingers. Of late, his condition seemed to worsen every time he returned home.

"Be sure to melt those down," he warned. "Those are the only coins like them in this world."

"We always do." Gore half lifted Aaron as they continued along. "You been gaining weight?"

"A little, but seriously, be careful. The General will be pissed at all of us if he finds out I've been bringing those back for you."

Gore laughed silently. "Trust me on this one. He'll never find out."

The once empty transfer room now contained one hundred and twelve pounds of official goods and another eighty pounds of supplies the General did not know about. Aaron's limits had been carefully tested a year ago and not tested since. The brain scans he had been forced to undergo gave away a lot of information, but nothing in them indicated how much weight he could carry. The General and his pet scientists had assumed his ability was complete and unchanging at the time of his initial testing when they systematically removed items from a pile of goods until he was finally able to transfer the stack. After all, why should they think differently? Klein's ability had been born full force and unchanging. He had been tested for years before Aaron's ability began working. What nobody but Hill and Gore knew was that Aaron's limits had increased slightly with almost every trip. Fortunately, his secret was safe with them. As best he could tell, the bribes he gave them were double their paycheck.

When he was finished Gore left, and Aaron gratefully sat down in the hallway outside of his room as he waited for Hill to arrive. More than an hour passed before he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He gathered himself to rise and then froze.

"Stay down," Helmet Klein told Aaron as he drew nearer. "I know how much it pains you to stand."

Unsure, Aaron settled back down. He studied Klein, giving him a more through going-over than he had been able to manage in the conference room. Klein had not been a young man when he found Aaron in the hospital fourteen years earlier. Back then he had been starting to turn gray and the lines around his eyes were pronounced, but he had been strong and healthy. Now Helmet looked rough and worn. The lines around his eyes were deeper. Crevasses and cratered scars marred his cheeks, and his dark circled and baggy eyes looked tired. From all appearances, Hemet's assignment was not as easy as the one Aaron's ability had given him.

"Helmet, you need rest."

Leaning one shoulder against the wall, Klein shook his head. "Don't have time for it, lad. Things are rolling along now. I'm going to give these poor bastards something to look forward to other than killing each other and dying young."

Aaron cocked one skeptical eyebrow. "I doubt the General has much interest in civilizing a bunch of savages. He'll only use them as a stepping stone towards the more civilized areas."

Raising his hand, Klein rubbed at an open sore high on his right cheek. Clear fluid ran free, showing that it was infected. "The General and I don't always want the same thing. These are my people. They took me in and adopted me. Before I'm finished I'll see that some of them live lives that don't kill them before they turn forty."

"Very commendable," Aaron said dryly.

Klein grinned boyishly but the grin never reached his weary eyes. "Isn't it? I'm a saint. Oh sure, I plan on turning myself into an Emperor along the way, but that's only a side benefit."

Looking into Klein's humorless gaze, Aaron was struck by the sudden realization that the man did not lie. Klein was really building himself an empire. Aaron wasn't sure if he should laugh or rant or cower. No, he would never cower before Helmet Klein because Helmet was the closest thing to a father he had remaining. Aaron would not betray this confidence.

Klein released a thin smile. "Considering your little act, I figured you wouldn't be surprised. Neither of us were very truthful when we gave our presentations. I forgot to mention my plans, and you seem to have forgotten that there are plenty of very good maps available. As a matter of fact, I have a few of them myself. A couple even have a small country named Isabella on them."

Aaron shrugged his good shoulder. "So I lied. Does it really matter? We're so far apart that I can't hope to support you."

"But you can support me, son. I want you to come look me up when you grow tired of your grocery. I'm building an empire. There's a place for you in it."

"Empire building is bloody work."

"It is," Klein admitted. "A lot of people have died. The difference is that I am giving the survivors some hope that there will be a change. Come to me, Aaron. I want you with me."

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Twisting his head, Aaron saw Hill approaching, a heavily taped box held in his arms.

Klein raised an eyebrow. "Taking on extra supplies? You're keeping more secrets than I thought. I don't want to make your man nervous so I'll leave now."

Straightening, Helmet turned and walked back up the hall, accepting Hill's hurried salute when they passed.

"What did the Iron Man want?" Hill asked when he reached Aaron.

Painfully pulling himself to his feet, Aaron opened the door to his room while silently cursing his twisted tendons. He wasn't used to this anymore. The pain was excruciating. Biting his lip to keep from groaning, Aaron waited a moment before answering.

"He--he wanted to talk of old times. We have a lot of history together. A ways back when I needed somebody, Colonel Klein was there. For all practical purposes, he pretty much raised me off and on for five or six years when he wasn't in the other world."

"Really? I always thought he was a cold bastard."

"Maybe," Aaron admitted, "but he was there when I needed him."

"Hmm, maybe you could give me an intro to him someday," Hill said. "I could do for him like I am for you. Speaking of which, here are the things you wanted. Wasn't easy, and I had to pay the quartermaster sixty bucks for them. Next time you come back I want an extra coin for my trouble because Gore never has to pay for anything out of his share."

"You're right," Aaron agreed. "The next time I come back I'll bring you two extra if I can manage it."

"Don't give me that. I know how cheap gold is over there. Next time you come back I want three, and don't you let Gore know about it either. I've spent a good deal of cash on you. Almost comes to more than the coins are worth."

Aaron sighed. "I'll carry what I can. There's still a limit to what I can bring back. I can at least bring four of the coins back and only give Gore one, but I really don't know if I can carry even one extra gold. I almost didn't make it home this time."

"Well, do what you can," Hill grudged. "Can you handle this load? That box weighs ten pounds, and you were a little overweight to start with."

"I moved some of the stuff," Aaron lied. "Hid it away. Now go."

Hill left. Aaron waited an extra five minutes to make sure he was not coming back. After deciding that the man was gone for good, he concentrated on his return.

Stilling briefly, Aaron pictured the lower cellar in his mind while longing surged through him. He reached out his thoughts, encompassed the supplies, and folded them into his self-image.

Flicker

And he was there.

"Ugh!" His shoulder cracked and slowly straightened. Gradually uncurling fingers sent pains shooting up his forearm. His hips shuddered. Waves of agony radiated through his spine and into the back of his neck. Tentatively, Aaron lowered himself to the floor. Past experience had shown that only time allowed him to walk without wanting to scream. If he had need to he could manage the climb back up to the main floor. Right now he did not have that need.

While waiting he thought of General Field and the black man and Mays. He even thought of Klein and wondered if there was really a one of them who had anything other than their self-interest in mind when they made their plans for what they were going to do to this world.

He snorted in self-derision, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Acting in their own self-interest was one crime he could not condemn them for. He was as guilty of that as the rest of them.

### Chapter 6

Appearing early the next morning with a wicked smile on her face and evil designs in her heart, Sarah Townsend's hand slapped against her pant leg, beating dust from her old faded workout clothes. She eyed Aaron's store apron and finer town clothes speculatively.

"You're a day early," Aaron groaned.

"Yep," Sarah agreed. "Sure am. The way I figure it, the more you practice the sooner your bruises will get a chance to heal." Her grin grew bigger. "Not too tender are you?"

Aaron stuck a closed sign on his door, and then they tramped half a mile outside of town so he could have the pleasure of getting the crap beat out of him--again. She laid a few new bruises on top of his yellowing older ones, and then, because she was in a good mood, she found all the places she had missed during the last lesson and hit him there too. The good news was that he did not get nearly so tired while handling the sword. Of course, the practice only lasted an hour so he had far less time to get tired and, of course, the sword spent more time lying on the ground than it spent in his hand.

After Sarah gave up on him for the day, he tramped the half-mile back to town and to his store to find a middle-aged woman pounding on his door. The eyes she turned on Aaron were stern, accentuating her harsh lines and fading looks.

Sighing, Aaron halfway wished Sarah was still beating up on him. Almost anything was preferable to dealing with Mistress Kingsford. She was the most irritating customer he had.

"Here I am," Aaron said when he reached her.

Her glare intensified. "This is no way to run a business, young man. It is certainly no way to gain the favor of the Lord or of Mister Kingsford either."

From the tone of her voice, Aaron was not sure which of the two names was on a higher level. He unlocked his door and opened it.

Mistress Kingsford strode into the store like she was royalty gracing a peasant with her august presence. She gave the place a brief glance and sniffed disapproval.

"And how," she censured, "is a body supposed to find anything if you cannot maintain your goods in their proper locations?" Thrusting out her hand, she shoved a sheet of paper at him. "Here is a list of the things the Manor requires. Have it delivered promptly today. I will accept no excuses, and you will put the bill on our account."

Aaron took the list from her while her eyes furrowed with disapproval.

"I have no idea why Mister Kingsford makes me run these errands. A servant would be much more appropriate for dealing with mere merchants." Her eyes dared him to say anything at all.

Aaron took his courage in hand. "Ummm--I really dislike bringing this up, but the balance on your account is becoming rather large. Mister Kingsford has not made a payment on it in over half a year."

Her expression had the strength of an earthquake. "Young man, do you doubt Mister Kingsford's ability to pay? I won't have you saying such things! An attitude like yours will get you thrown out of this town. Worse yet, it could get you in serious trouble with the Mister. Do as you are told and get these supplies up to the Manor."

With another snort of disapproval, she turned and stormed out of the door.

Aaron looked at the list. As usual, other shops carried half the items she expected him to fill. Also as usual, he would have to pay his own money to the other shop owners in order to complete the list. Something about that arrangement seemed more than unreasonable to him. The other shops were getting paid because he was doing the paying. He wasn't getting paid because nobody ever thought to give him money. The practice was not breaking him. He did not need to make a profit. In fact, he had serious doubts he made anything on the local items he bought and sold when the store's operational costs were thrown into the equation. It was just that he did not like being taken advantage of. The Kingsford account was huge and long overdue, and he had no idea if he was ever going to be reimbursed for it. To date, the Manor had only made one payment on their account in the year he had done business with them. True, it had been a substantial payment, but it had not come close to covering their bill.

Fighting back frustration, he spent some time trying to fill part of the Kingsford order with the goods he carried. He had to admit that Mrs. Kingsford did have one good point. The job took him twice as long as it should have because he did not know where everything was anymore.

Cathy entered the store before he was half finished.

"I saw Mistress Kingsford leaving town. She looked like she'd eaten something sour."

"She always looks like she's eaten something sour," Aaron said irritably. "Miss Bayne, could you do me a favor and finish filling out our part of this list? A good deal of it needs to be passed on to the other merchants so I have to go talk to them. I need to rent a wagon and a driver too."

"Sure, Mister Turner--only you don't need to hire a driver. I can drive a team." She looked over the items he had gathered.

"You can?" Aaron was surprised. "Forgive me, but you hardly look like the kind of person who can handle a team."

"Pa was a driver for the new salt mines over in Burnridge before we moved here some years back. He made sure I knew how to drive a team of four when I was eight years old. Mind you, he always kept his hands on the reins, but after a few months he hardly ever had to help."

Aaron laughed. "I don't suppose he taught you how to be a team of mules and a wagon too?"

"No," she replied, "but he always said I was as stubborn and bull-headed as an entire team of mules. If you give me the list I can start filling it now."

Aaron handed it to her and watched with awe as she filled his part of it in only a few minutes. True, she had been the one who rearranged the store and did the inventory, but things had only been moved yesterday and a person would expect she would have forgotten where some of it was--at least one or two items.

"I'll see to renting the wagon and team," Cathy called as Aaron walked toward the door.

Stepping out of the shop, Aaron walked next door to the Chandler's. Two dozen tapers, smelling of wax and floral scents, hung from racks set against the rough hewn cedar plank walls, cooling before their next dip. Another two or three hundred candles were packed in boxes, but the wax in the melting pot looked hard and the burner beneath it was unlit.

"Hey neighbor."

"Hey yourself," Mistress Banks replied, smiling brightly at him. Her smile was sweet and smooth despite her age. "How's business?"

"Busy. I hired on full time help so I can keep up with everything I have to do now. Yours?"

"Me? I'm slow as molasses. Not many people want candles anymore. It seems they all want those new kerosene lanterns. On top of that, most people who want candles just make their own." She chuckled. "No matter. This is more of a hobby than anything else. It gives me something to do with my time. After all, it's not as if I need the money to live on. I made a few smart investments when I was young, and the Mister has his job with Mister Doland."

"Well, your business just got better," Aaron told her. "Mistress Kingsford wants a hundred candles. I'll pay for them and put them on her account."

"Well, if that is not something. Actual and real money coming into the shop. Like I said though, it isn't that I need the money. Right now there is only Mister Banks and myself. Paula went and died on us, and all the children have grown and moved on. I miss them, but I suppose that is the nature of children. I did the same in my own time."

"I suppose it is," Aaron agreed. "I'm a far bit away from home myself."

After collecting the candles already packaged inside two boxes, Aaron carried them back to the store and found that Cathy had returned from the stables. She stayed in the store to watch the counter while he visited the other shops and finished filling the rest of the Kingsford order. In all, it took him over two hours to collect the needed items from the potter, the tanner and the carpenter. He saved the smithy for last.

As usual, Aaron found Jorrin drenched in sweat and surrounded by the stench of smoke and hot metal while he worked his trade. Lengths of glowing metal bars rested in a large forge that roared with charcoal and oak flames. Grunting, Jorrin swung his hammer, striking a chunk of red hot metal that rested on his anvil. The hammer struck with a sharp clang, making fiery sparks fly. One landed on the leather apron covering the Smith's massive torso. It rested there, smoking, eating its way into the leather. Its glow faded and died, creating one more scorch mark joined the hundreds of others decorating the apron.

Without a doubt, Jorrin was the hairiest man Aaron had ever seen. His back was covered by a full two inches of thick fur. The hair ran across his neck, down his sides and across his arms. Nowhere on his entire body, or at least nowhere Aaron had ever seen, was the hair less than two inches long. It was even longer along his arms, and it probably reached out four inches at his shoulders. The leather vest covered Jorrin's chest, but Aaron assumed the hair was equally thick there.

Sweating in the heat, breathing in the acrid fumes, Aaron watched while Jorrin replaced his work into the forge. Thick plates of glowing brass were pulled from the flames. Jorrin set the plates together, one on top of the other, and clamped them into place. Heavy brass tongs removed a thin rod from the fire. Jorrin laid the rod across the seam where the two plates joined and, still holding the tongs, beat the rod into the seam with heavy hammer blows that made Aaron's ears ring.

Aaron had no idea why Jorrin was doing this, but then he had no idea why most tradesmen did whatever it was they did. The important thing was that the end product was always exactly what it was supposed to be.

Frowning thoughtfully, Jorrin set the tongs on a hook and laid his hammer on the anvil. He turned to Aaron. "Well, Storeman. What can I do for you?"

"I have an order from Mrs. Kingsford. She would like three sets of identical brass hinges before the day is out."

Jorrin chuckled. "Is she still pushing her chores on you? I don't know why you put up with it." He wiped sweat off his brow and reached to lift a large water jug. Raising it, he quickly drank down half the water in the container and set it back down. "I swear, I have never met the man who needs to drink as much as I do. Must be all the sweating over the fire. So tell me, what size hinges does she want? Are these for doors or for cabinets or what? After all, I only have plans for about fifteen different types of hinges here."

"First, I let her push me around because I'm still new here, and I'm trying to build some goodwill. As to the hinges, the list does not say, but I suspect they are for new outside doors since I just stopped off at the carpenter's and placed an order for three of them."

Jorrin peered into the forge and moved a few coals with a poker. "I already have a few sets of hinges made up. Actually, I wanted to have a talk with you."

"With me?" Aaron asked. "I hope I haven't given offense, Mister Bran. Have I encroached on your business in any way?"

"No, you have not," Jorrin said emphatically, "and that is what bothers me. I wish you would do some encroaching. Hinges and latches are time consuming, and I don't get the value out of them that I should. Truth is I have to make all sorts of items that don't pay well at all. Worse yet, I don't have the time it takes to properly make them since Alexis made journeyman and left me to start her own forge. What I was thinking was that you have all those wish books from out east. Do they have these types of items in them? Is it possible you could just order these things and save me a good deal of trouble?"

"Well, yes," Aaron admitted. "I have a few books that show some of the items you are thinking of. I suppose I could bring a couple over and let you look through them so you can decide what you want to order."

With an emphatic shake of his head, Jorrin squashed that idea. "Oh no. I don't think you're getting the gist of this conversation. I want you to order them and to put them in the store. If you like, I'll go over the books, and show you what items I think will sell well. This will save me a lot of time and it will bring you some extra profit. The way I see it, we both come out ahead."

"I don't have the room to carry them," Aaron told the smith, "and I don't want to take away trade that is properly yours."

"Well--ummm." Jorrin looked carefully around to make sure no one was near. "Could I speak to you confidential like? Can you promise not to tell anyone what I'm going to say? If you make me a promise, I'll trust it. You seem to be a man of your word."

"You have my word."

"The truth is, and I'm ashamed to say this what with me being a businessman and all, I can't read nor write a lick. There's no way I can order them things from those books. What's more, Mister Bronson just delivered a load of metal so I'm short of cash."

"You can always get a loan from the bank."

Jorrin shook his massive head. "I don't deal with banks. They can't be trusted. One time, my daddy lost everything to a bank. Besides, when you get a loan you have to sign papers and read them too, and that takes us back to my not being able to read."

Aaron nodded. "That's true. How about if I loan you the money you need and ask for nothing more than a handshake and a promise to repay me when you are able. That way I don't have to deal with stocking items I have no room for, and you don't pay interest. Besides, if I did carry them I would have to put up the money and take the risk they would not sell."

"Would you do that for me, loan me money and all?" Jorrin seemed more astonished than anything.

"I would. Further, I could send Miss Bayne over here to fill out your orders. Her mother was a tutor so she is well educated. Between you and me, I have a great deal of confidence in that young lady. She is not prone to gossip and will keep any confidence you hand her."

Jorrin scratched his head. "Well now, I suppose something like that might work. Let me think the matter over some. Maybe we can talk it over a bit at tonight's dance." He shook his head. "Never did like those things. My stompers are too big. They keep stepping on the wife's feet."

"We won't talk at the dance," Aaron said. "I've too much to do and too little time so I won't be going."

Jorrin nodded knowingly. "I wouldn't go either if it weren't for the two Missus Brans. Well then, I might stop by later if I get a little time."

* * *

By twelve thirty the Kingsford order was complete. Missy and Doyle had been in the store to dust and sweep but they left before Aaron returned. Cathy left to drive the wagon to the Manor. Aaron decided it was time to eat.

The church bell rang at twelve fifty-five, and people walked toward the church. As usual, the worshipers were mostly farmers and women because the Lady's mantle was fertility. A scattering of others attended as well because many people worshipped both the Lord Maker and His Lady Mistress. Aaron attended the Lord's service on Sunday since that service was early and short, often lasting less than an hour, while the service for the Lady demanded no less than four hours of the day. As a rule, because of the crazy mixed up religious schedule, Friday afternoons were traditionally slow for business.

Wearing trail dust and an uneasy frown, her long red hair awry, Miss Hawks came into the store, waved Cathy away, and headed straight for Aaron.

"Mister Turner." She seemed nervous. Her eyes did not quite meet his. Flitting around the store, they refused to settle in any one place.

"Miss Hawks, can I help you?"

"Yes sir." She shuffled her feet and then stood tall. Her shoulders stiffened. "Mister Kingsford sent me, sir."

"Oh?"

"Sir, Mister Kingsford has discovered from your driver that the last several shipments we received from you have been purchased on credit. He has been informed that he has a substantial bill due."

"He does," Aaron agreed, wondering how Cathy had managed to get past the harridan in order to reach the Mister. "The Manor has been on my books for about the last six months."

"Sir, may I speak in private?"

"I suppose. We could step into the back room. No one ever enters there except for me." He led the way.

"So," he said once the door closed, "what is this about?"

"Sir, Mister Turner, Mistress Amelda Kingsford was supposed to pay cash for those supplies. Mister Kingsford gave her money at the beginning of the year to run the household. After your delivery girl informed him of the extent of his bill he confronted Mistress Kingsford and discovered that she used the money to buy an emerald necklace. He was going to make her give you the necklace as payment for his bill, but upon inspecting the necklace he discovered that it is a fake."

"I see no real problem here," Aaron told her. "I've been covering his account for several months. I can carry it longer." After all, he could well afford to carry it longer, especially after the five pounds of silver he had just finished bringing back from base the night before. "If Mister Kingsford wishes, he can pay a small part of his bill now, and I will wait on the rest."

'Sir, I have been instructed to tell you that Mister Kingsford is a rich man, but his riches are presently in land, houses and cattle. He has asked me to inform you that he currently has very little available money. Since it will be several months before he makes a large sale he has instructed me to deliver a matched set of hunters to you. They are of the best blood, well trained, and will react to all the standard signals. They are intelligent as well as friendly. In the east they would sell for nine silver eight and three each. The Mister estimates his bill is near eight silver so he asks that you accept the hunters as payment in full.

Aaron hated being railroaded. "His bill is currently eleven silvers two and change. We both know that horses sell for only a bit more than half of an eastern price in this area."

"Yes sir, but if you do not mind my saying so, Mister Kingsford has only sold his horses in the east so he has no idea what the local prices are."

"Damn it!"

She stepped back in surprise.

"I know he hasn't sold a thing back east in several years," Aaron snapped. "People have talked about it."

Face pale, her lips pressed thin and trembled with repressed anger. "Sir, I am only the messenger."

Aaron fought his blood pressure down, counted to five and drew in a deep breath. "I know. I know. Let it go. The thing is, I don't mind losing a little on people who have nothing--but to be skinned by a rich man and his stupid wives is too much. Okay, tell him I will accept his horses as payment in full but his credit has just come to a complete halt. There will be no more of it. You can also tell him that I have run his errands for the last time. In the future he can arrange to pick up his own goods and have his own people deliver them."

"I will tell him, sir."

Her tone told Aaron that she was very well not going to tell Mister Kingsford anything of the kind. He fought down a very real impulse to throw the woman out of his store, but he had already released a good deal of his anger, and she was correct. She was only the messenger. Besides, his language had been almost unforgivably rude. If he released any more venom he could very well start a social feud that he would lose. Still, he did hate being railroaded. On the other hand, he really had very little choice in the matter.

Aaron showed Miss Hawks out of the store as politely as possible. Outside, Jorrin stood beside a pair of unsaddled horses rein-tied to the hitching rail. Holding the hoof of one black horse in his hand, he looked up when Aaron approached.

"Looks like these shoes are worn. They need to be replaced soon or you're going to have some real problems."

Aaron snorted. "It figures. Why don't you shoe them for me? I will pay." He was really getting tired of that phrase. It suddenly seemed that he always paid for everything.

Jorrin looked puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

"Ahhhh--I'm sorry," Aaron relented. "I'll tell you my secret for the secret you gave me. I know nothing about horses. They frighten me."

Jorrin nodded. "Nothing to be ashamed of in that. Tell you what, since you're a big city person I'll see to these for you. After I shoe them I'll stick them in the stable, and you can figure out what you want to do with them. If you need any advice I'll be glad to help."

"I'd really, really appreciate that."

"No problem. The reason I came over was to tell you that I thought about your offer. Is it possible for you to send Miss Bayne over this evening? I'll be glad to pay for her time."

His mood lightening, Aaron smiled. "Sure I will, as long as she is available. You'll have to arrange for payment with her, but I'm sure she'll not cost you too much."

Jorrin set down the horse's hoof, stepped forward, and held out his hand. "It's a deal. A handshake to seal the bargain and honor between the two of us."

"A deal." Aaron reluctantly accepted Jorrin's hand and felt calluses that were hard as the bronze Jorrin forged. The man's square fingers were fat with strength. There was no doubt in Aaron's mind that the man had the ability to crush Aaron's hand with his grip.

Jorrin gave Aaron's hand a gentle, almost womanly squeeze. He looked uncomfortable for a moment. "Perhaps," he said finally, "I could call you a friend from this moment on."

Suddenly feeling the seriousness of this moment, Aaron looked very long at the older man.

"You may," he said after a long enough pause to show that he had given the matter considerable thought.

"Then, Aaron, may I see to the care of your horses?"

"Yes, Jorrin, you may."

And then the two of them stood there in the street, staring at each other and grinning like they were idiots. Aaron was not too sure the description was inaccurate in his case.

* * *

Flo came around and said she was ready to try on that thing he had talked about. Aaron tried to work his way around the matter as delicately as he could, but in the end he could do nothing but haul out half a dozen bras and tell her to try them on for fit. Unfortunately, he then had to demonstrate how they were supposed to be worn. He had some trouble with that one since he had never actually seen a bra while it was on someone. By the time they finished he could still make the same claim because Cathy and Flo used him as the model. They worked the mechanics of the matter out between them, and then they chased Aaron out of the store while Cathy tried a few of the bras on Flo. When Flo finally left she did not look as if her back felt any better. However _,_ after studying the situation for a few moments, Aaron did have to admit that she did certainly look--uplifted. Unfortunately, Cathy caught the direction of his gaze and spent the next several minutes laughing at Aaron' red face.

At six that evening Aaron put his closed sign on the door and watched Cathy leave to visit Jorrin, with books in her arms, obviously feeling important with the responsibility given her. Less than half an hour later, shortly after Aaron finished his nightly sweeping of the boardwalk, she came back with Missy and Doyle in tow and carrying two filled buckets that smelled strongly of bleach.

"He wants some time to look them over," Cathy said. "And we want to wash this filthy floor."

Aaron looked at the floor and saw stains. Music played down the street, telling him that the dance had begun.

"You don't have to," he said. "There's a dance going on. Besides, having you wash the floor is a bit much."

Stamping her small foot, Missy stared into his eyes. "Well, we have to do something. You pay us more than we're worth so I don't think it's wrong if we decide to do a little more than you ask."

"No," Aaron smiled, "it isn't. It isn't wrong of me to want to help either." He walked to the shelf where the scrub brushes were kept and grabbed one.

"Your clothes," Cathy protested. "You'll get them all wet and dirty, and you have the dance to go to tonight."

"Ummm--no--not going. Never learned to dance, and I refuse to look like an idiot."

"You don't know how to dance! How can you not know?" Missy sounded offended.

"I never had the chance to learn," Aaron admitted. "I never learned to scrub a floor before either."

"I can tell," Cathy said wryly. "This floor hasn't seen a cleaning since you've been here. Just get the brush wet and start making circles, but you better change first. Those are nice clothes."

"I can get more."

The floor really was a disaster. They scrubbed on it for over two hours, rinsed it down, and scrubbed it again. A final rinse did not occur until hours after dark. From down the street, strains of music drifted through the open window when they finally put their cleaning tools away. The cling and clang of a hammer meeting metal still sounded from Jorrin's forge. He, too, had duties to perform that night. Earlier that day he had told Aaron that his orders were too far behind, and he had little time to fill them. Aaron knew Jorrin was feeling the burden of having graduated his apprentice to journeyman, but he also suspected Jorrin used work as an excuse to leave the dance early.

Before she left, Missy bemoaned the ruin of his clothes one last time. Grinning impishly, Doyle took the peppermint stick Aaron handed him and left with Missy. Cathy stopped on her way out, one hand on the door, looking back over her shoulder. Aaron thought she wanted to say something, but she only shook her head and left, closing the door gently behind her.

It was late, and he was hungry, so he quickly put together a snack and ate it. A reel of some kind came through the window, followed by a moody tune that brought images of couples slowly dancing, their bodies entangled.

Shaking his head to clear it of inappropriate thoughts, Aaron cleaned up his dishes, disposed of his scraps and was about to blow out the lantern when a hesitant knock sounded.

Cathy waited outside. Stepping into the store without asking permission, she slipped past him, brushing him a little as she slid by. Wearing a nervous smile, Cathy quickly walked to the largest open space the store held, a small area seven feet by four in front of the counter. Turning to face him, she stood, patiently waiting. With a small shake of her head, she held out her hand and gestured for him to come forward. Cathy took his hand and placed it on her hip.

"Put your right hand there. Now take your left hand and hold my right hand with it. No," she laughed. "You have to stand in front of me. Now watch my feet. Follow along when I step out. Leading is something you can learn later. This is called the 'Walkers Dance in the Mist'. It goes like this. And one and two."
Chapter 7

As a rule, he did not open the store on Sundays. Instead, he usually cleaned, straightened and took inventory, all of which had already been done earlier in the week by a certain young lady. So after church he found that he had an entire day to kill and absolutely nothing to kill it with.

After kicking around for a while he ended up at the Traveler's Rest with his hands wrapped around _Murder at the Manor_. It turned out that the murderess was not the gardener or the maid or anyone else he had previously suspected. The murderess was the narrator herself, which, in Aaron's view, was a total cheat. Disgusted, Aaron decided not to buy that particular author again. Besides, the woman he had been falling in love with, Miss Anita Harris, turned out to be a man dressed as a woman. Now that was a plot change Aaron did not need to know about.

Closing the book carefully, he gave it to Flo, stood, and left the inn. The rest of his day was slower than it had begun. By the time he went to bed Sunday night he was close to stir crazy.

After forcibly opening his crusty eyes the next morning, Aaron woke in a bad humor, hoping Monday would be a relief after the long slow Sunday. Pulling a new book out of his loft, he headed over to the Inn for breakfast and a chance to improve his outlook.

Flo greeted him distractedly, obviously flustered by the demands of four people who had stayed the night. Nothing was clean enough, cheap enough, or fresh enough. Why, in N'Ark they could get...

Within just a few minutes Aaron had to agree with the complaints. The pancakes were tough, and he had never been a fan of bacon that was burned so badly that it tasted of char. The mystery of the substandard food was resolved when Dan Thecker came hurrying through the door, more than an hour late. As Dan opened the door into the kitchen Aaron spied twelve year-old Ann Flinders at the stove, loose long brown hair flying out in all directions when she tossed Mister Thacker an aggrieved look. Holding a spatula in each hand, she appeared to be trying to do three things at once while thick black smoke rose from the stove. The near side of Ann's green smock was darkly stained by wet grease. The eyes she turned towards Aaron just before the door swung shut were desperate.

He ate the food and refused to complain.

When he returned to the store he found that Cathy had arrived earlier than usual. This turned out to be a good thing because three women wanted one of the same things Mistress Halfax now wore, and there was no way Aaron would get involved with that again. Fortunately for his peace of mind, Cathy did wonderfully after he passed them off to her. Best of all, she did not laugh at his red face when she caught him looking at one woman's particular sag. Grinning, Cathy sold a bra to each of the three women, making sure that everyone had a good time with this unusual exercise. She was going to work out fine as his full time clerk.

Which was just as well since Sarah Townsend pulled him out of the store for one more lesson on sword work. Aaron was almost at the level of a basic beginner, she said. It was time to expand matters a little. Apparently, expansion entailed him cutting himself on the wooden sword, after which she spent too much time laughing at his ineptitude to do a good job of teaching. When she regained her breath she admitted what he had known all along. Aaron had no Talent, no skill and no hope of ever mastering this weapon. They talked it over and decided the sword had best go to a young fellow she knew who had more than a little bulk and could even boast a bit of speed.

Aaron was more than willing to sell the sword to the town and rid himself of it. Sarah argued the price, but Aaron insisted he would take no more than two coppers for the dratted thing. No amount of arguing convinced her to just take it. Apparently, there was some type of moral issue involved, so two coppers it was.

He arrived back at the store just in time to choke on road dust as the freighter, Mister Bronson, pulled into town with a string of seven wagons pulled by twenty-eight sweating mules. Raising his hand high, Bronson gestured for his drivers to stop when the lead wagon drew even with Aaron's store. Once halted, the drivers leaped into action. Within moments bundles of goods thudded onto the boardwalk before Aaron.

After inspecting his goods, Aaron took care to see that Jorrin's new order made it into Mister Bronson's hands along with his own. Smiling, Bronson accepted two hundred pens, known locally as magic writers, and forty-five disposable lighters, which Bronson simply called fire shooters. After fishing for a moment in his apron, Aaron also handed over eight cheap jackknives, more illicit supplies Hill and Gore had provided for him on his last trip. In exchange, Bronson gave Aaron one hundred and six silvers, six and a quarter gold, seven, profit from the last load of goods Aaron had shipped out a month earlier. Taking the money, Aaron thanked Bronson, reflecting that he had more money in his hands right then than most in the town earned in many years of labor. For his part, Bronson made more money from the commissions Aaron gave him for selling goods brought over from the other side than he made with the entire rest of his business.

As a favor, and because he did not know what to do with the thing, he gave the freighter a solar powered flashlight and told him to keep whatever price it brought.

Aaron skipped lunch. After working three hours he still had not found places for all the new supplies. His back room was full, with narrow aisles barely wide enough for Aaron to walk through. The main floor was cluttered, and he still had half a wagonload of goods to offload.

Mistress Banks came to his rescue.

"Problems, Mister Turner?" Wearing a new floral print dress, with a pink bonnet topped by two scented silk roses on her head, Mistress Banks stood in the door of her shop, eyeing his piled goods.

Grinning sheepishly, Aaron shook his head. "Mistress Banks, it seems I have a more ready hand for ordering merchandise than I have places to store it. I've run out of room."

Well, there was the cellar off the ice room, but he would be damned if he was going to carry all this stuff to that inconvenient location.

"It seems we both have troubles Mister Turner, because I find myself running a business that has no customers. Perhaps we can reach some sort of understanding."

"Of what type?"

"Financial," she firmly answered. "How about if I sell you my building and its completed candles? You can use my rooms for storage and expansion, and I will sell you candles at your need that I make at home."

Since she seemed to have solved both their problems nicely, Aaron gave her one silver six gold, and she walked out the door with a cheery wave and a promise to have Mister Doland change over the title at the bank.

After she was gone Aaron stepped out of his store. Five quick steps along the boardwalk took him to the doorway of his new property. Squaring his shoulders, Aaron walked inside, took a look around, and saw a bunch of bare cedar plank walls and a small number of candles. A few wax drippings decorated the floor, and the scent of fresh wax intermingled with cut cedar filled his nostrils. Mistress Banks had obviously planned on leaving for some time. After completing a slow survey, he figured that he now owned a store with two extra rooms and approximately one hundred and fifty candles that were laid out on the shelves. There was nothing else. As far as he could see, this place did not even have an opening that gave access to the old mine beneath the building. Aaron supposed this was a good thing since he had converted that space for his own uses. In actuality, his oversized underground domain probably encroached on several other people's property.

Half an hour saw the storage of his goods in one of the back rooms of the new building. Then, since his store was still cluttered, he moved some of its excess goods back into storage also, leaving room in the store for some of the candles.

When they finished, he and Cathy were exhausted, and Missy and Doyle's clothes were covered in dust and small dots of wax, but Aaron had a building with a half empty back room and totally empty shelves. On a whim, he climbed into the loft and dropped his books down. The loft was crowded and the books would look good on the shelves, lonely, but good.

Cathy immediately borrowed one of the books and left, taking the children with her.

The place still looked mostly empty so he made a mental note to have some furniture made. It would be nice to have a sitting room to read in at night. Perhaps a few chairs could be bought too, in case he had company. The carpenter could seal the outside door of the new building for him and cut a hole in the adjoining wall between it and the main store.

Six o'clock came as a relief, and his stomach had been complaining about his missed lunch for more than an hour when Cathy returned with dinner. He made a mental note to give her some extra money since she had obviously paid for this out of her own funds. He took the food and spent a few minutes praising her cooking ability while she watched him eat. After a short while she grew bored with his praise and left. Several minutes later Aaron noticed that she had taken his laundry with her.

"Ho, Storeman."

Aaron looked up to see the barber. "Mister Golard, I was thinking of you recently."

"And well you should. You are far too shaggy on top, son. A clean cut makes a sound impression you know."

"I'll stop in this week," Aaron promised.

"Be sure that you do. Are you ready yet? We're gathering shortly."

"Ready?" Oh damn, how could militia practice have slipped his mind? "Of course. I'll be there."

"That's just fine, Mister Turner. The Mistress Mayor told me I was to make sure you didn't forget. 'Frances,' I told her, 'that boy has a head on his shoulders. He sure does. Why, he runs one of the most successful businesses in town,' and that's when Mister Banks said you ran the most successful. I told her you weren't likely to forget you start training tonight, and here you proved me right." He shook hands briefly and left.

And then the Wiggins kids showed up. Aaron gave them some candy, shut shop and barely made it to the practice grounds on time. Sarah frowned at him for being almost late, and Dan Moody thrust a bow in his hands. In five minutes Aaron had demonstrated to everybody's satisfaction that he knew not one thing about archery. After an hour's practice he had proved he had the aptitude for it that he lacked for swords. In fact, he actually began to mostly hit his targets. Sometimes he came near the center. Sometimes.

During the periods when he waited his turn at the targets he looked around curiously. He had always avoided the grounds during training before. Newcomers were often suspected of being spies for bandits, and being suspected of being a spy was the last thing Aaron wanted, since he was one.

Around him, men and women sparred with staffs and the occasional spear. Some people worked at the pells, while others, like Aaron, formed a straight line oriented on a series of hay bale targets that had been set up at various distances. Sarah Townsend stalked among all the trainees, watching every move closely.

"No!" She strode purposefully toward a large burly man with a very large sword. "I've told you before, Mister Yarl, you can't use all strength and no finesse. It doesn't matter how strong you are or how big your sword is if somebody gets in close and pokes a hole in your belly."

Frowning, Jimmy Yarl lowered his weapon, then defiantly raised it again. "Nobody would dare come in against me. Not when I'm holding..."

Instantly darting forward, Sarah whacked Yarl three quick times with her baton. Throat, gut, and groin. Aaron winced with sympathy while Yarl slowly fell to his knees. The sword dropped from his hand.

"Strength is a wonderful thing," Sarah said to the watching crowd, "but speed and agility means more. This isn't a game, people." She spun her baton in a quick circle, looking more self assured, more dangerous, than any of the watchers.

Aaron smiled, and then something struck the back of his head.

"OW!" Aaron flinched under the blow. Head throbbing, he turned quickly to see a young man, strongly built and inches taller than himself, glaring angrily.

"Pay attention shopkeeper. We ain't going to run no rescue for you because you can't do for yourself. Keep your eyes off the women and get to work."

"Steven!" A balding, older man raced up. "There was no need for that. I'm sorry, Mister Turner. You try to raise them right, but sometimes they slip."

Perplexed, Aaron rubbed a hand across the back of his throbbing head. Since it was not his turn at the firing line, he had not been shirking. The throbbing was already receding, but his head felt tender.

"No harm done," he said, though he felt a slow anger beginning to build. "Young men are sometimes hasty, Mister Knight."

Steven pulled away from his father. "Don't treat me like a young 'un! I'm almost as old as he is. Pa, you should have seen the way he eyed the women."

"I was watching how others train," Aaron said dryly. "Some of those others happen to be women. Mostly I watched Miss Townsend work."

"Keep your damn sneaky eyes--"

Sarah worked her way through the gathering crowd. "What's going on here?"

"It seems young Steven doesn't like the shopkeeper watching you work, daughter," said David Townsend from nearby. "He whacked Turner alongside the head." Shaking his head disapprovingly, he gave Steven a significant look. "From behind."

Sarah's eyes turned hard. "Steven Knight, that was incredibly stupid. Mister Turner may be smaller and less skilled than I am, but he is one of the few people in this town who would worry me if I made him angry. Furthermore, I am dead tired of your jealousy. There is nothing between Mister Turner and me. There never was anything between us, and I doubt there ever will be anything between us. On top of that, you are too young to interest me, and I am not talking about just years. I'm talking about maturity. If I hear of one more incident, I will personally haul you out of town and beat the insolence out of you. Do you understand me?"

Steven muttered something.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I understand," he said angrily.

"Good." Sarah turned, glaring at the crowd. "The show is over, people. Get back to work. Mister Turner, I want to speak to you in private."

Grabbing his arm, she pulled him away from the others. "Is it over, Mister Turner, or are you planning to take this further?"

"Me?" Aaron was surprised. "I barely know him. Besides, the man could tear me apart. I don't want any trouble with someone his size."

"No?" Sarah asked doubtfully. "It looked to me like you were ready to start a little trouble of your own. You don't fool me, sir. I've been watching you. You walk soft and act meek and are invariably polite to everyone, but you have a temper on you. I'm scared of the day you let it loose."

"Miss Townsend!" Aaron felt surprised. How could she have gained such an inaccurate impression of him? "I am smaller and lighter than almost every man in town. If I let my temper loose I would only invite a beating. I promise you, that idea has no appeal at all."

She frowned. "I'm not sure what you would do if you were pushed hard enough. I just know that you have a dangerous air. It has gained you early respect from the men and some interest from the women."

Aaron shook his head in confusion. "I really don't understand. For the most part the men treat me as they would anybody else, and I've seen no sign that any woman is particularly interested."

"Then you are obviously blind, Mister Turner. It's been clear to everyone else that several women are interested. Just tell me. Are you going to let this incident drop?"

"Yes," Aaron said. "Yes, of course I will."

"Good. You can go back to your group."

Feeling confused by the entire event, Aaron went back and gathered up his bow along with his practice arrows. Miss Townsend was obviously mistaken in about a dozen ways, but she was right in one area. He was still upset. Steven was a cipher that needed seeing to. No matter how much he mulled the matter over, Aaron could not imagine why the man had it in for him.

He was still upset when his turn to shoot arrived. Taking his six shots, he hit the target only once. Several people commiserated with him and elder Mister Knight gave him a few pointers on stance while his daughter, Judith, moved his hands slightly to change his grip.

The next time he shot he hit the target with all five arrows. After that he missed the bull's-eye only once. As best Aaron could tell, he was the only person to shoot so well. Heavy congratulations were handed to him by all except Dan Moody.

"You weren't serious before," Dan told him. "Now you are. Get rid of the anger, son. It'll do no one any good."

"I'm over being angry," Aaron told him. "I'm not upset at all anymore."

Moody spat out a stream of tobacco juice. "Some folks just don't see it in themselves. Just to let you know, some of us will see to it you youngsters don't cross paths for a few days. Don't want any more trouble to start."

On his next time up, every shot landed in the bull's-eye. The congratulations handed him were less effusive and he overheard a few remarks about Talent. Truth to tell, he was amazed at himself. Aaron had always been good with handguns, but he had attributed that success to the fact that he only had one good arm and a lot of excess time on his hands. When he was still a child he had discovered that he had superior aim when he threw things like rocks. It was just that he could not throw things very far.

But this was too much to expect. He had never held a bow before, and yet it seemed to fit his hand like an outgrowth of his arm. Smooth wood beneath his fingers, creaking when he drew the string back, feeling tension in his muscles as the string bit into his fingers, everything about the bow felt comfortable and familiar. More, now that he had fired it a few times he _knew_ where his arrows would land. No one else even came close to his success no matter how much time they took. For the most part, Aaron barely had to look at the target before he released his shot.

Not wanting too much undue attention, when Aaron was next up, he deliberately changed his point of aim so his arrows landed around the edge of the target. He smiled ruefully as he was slapped on the back by recent admirers and told better luck next time. Shrugging his shoulders, Aaron smiled and mentioned beginner's luck, but he knew better. Every arrow hit exactly where he wanted it to go.

Time passed, and the light began failing as evening approached, so Sarah called it quits for the day. Aaron tried to turn over his bow but was told to keep it, and she would pick up the sword tomorrow.

Just before people started dispersing he stopped Mister Sever and told him about the sitting chairs, and maybe a table, that he wanted. The woodworker just happened to have a set that had been commissioned half a year earlier by the Velns. Unfortunately Mistress Veln had caught a bad flux that eventually caused her death so the finished pieces were now gathering dust and taking up room since they were too expensive for most people. Aaron agreed to pay three silver seven gold for the set, which meant that the furniture cost him more than the store he was going to put it in.

Then they talked about sealing off the store's doorway and opening an adjoining door. Working out the logistics in his head, Mister Sever decided that it could be done and said he would send his son out on the morrow.

And then everybody decided it was time to head for their homes. The talk was cheerful as they headed back into town. Almost without exception, the men and women were full of good-humored ribbing and gentle insults. It became apparent to Aaron that the militia practice served a purpose other than preparing the town's people for future raids. Many of these people used this time to flirt and romance those they did not ordinarily see during a regular day. However, despite the seeming cheer, Aaron noticed that several people stayed constantly between him and Steven Knight. That irritated him. The incident was over. Steven had obviously cooled off, and so had he. Why were they all so concerned?

Several people split off when they reached their turnoff. Steven and his father left the group early. By the time Aaron reached the General Store there were only fifteen people left. Very few of them lived inside their businesses as Aaron did. The others walked through the business district to reach their homes.

When he reached his store Aaron stopped and pulled out his keys to unlock the door. Sarah separated herself from the rest of the group.

"Are you okay now?" Her voice was toneless.

Aaron sighed. "Look, I'm fine. I took a little buffet on the head, and the man said some harsh words. The one has stopped hurting, and the other never mattered. Knight obviously was upset, and I was an available target. Once he cooled off, he saw there was nothing for him to get upset about."

Raising a hand, Sarah grasped him by the chin. "Open your eyes a little, Mister Turner. Steven Knight did have a reason to be upset, since I hope I lied to him." She leaned forward and kissed him on his cheek before turning abruptly and hurrying after the others.

Face hot and with sweat beading on his forehead, Aaron watched her retreat. He shook his head, shook it again, and touched his cheek. Damp. His skin tingled.

"Whoa," he said quietly to himself. "My first kiss."  
Gently opening his door, he turned his head to watch Sarah catch up with the others. She looked back over her shoulder, and her face appeared dark beneath the stars, darker than it had any right to be. White teeth showed in a half smile, and then her footsteps released a soft thudding in the street's dirt as she hurried after the others.

If Aaron did not know better he would have accused the indomitable Miss Townsend of blushing.

### Chapter 8

It seemed reasonable to believe that a woodworker's wagon would have round wheels and well greased axles. From the sound of it, Aaron's assumption was wrong because the wagon he heard pull up in front of his store squealed loud enough to set his nerves on edge.

"Whoa, there. Easy. Easy," the driver called to his horse. "Ho there, Mister Turner! You inside?"

Cathy looked at Aaron. "It's that Haig fellow. What did you do?"

Aaron raised his hands. "I ordered furniture and commissioned to have some work done."

"I wish you would have spoken to me first," Cathy said, rolling her eyes. "The furniture is okay. Mister Sever gives that work to Mister Taylor, and he is good. The problem is that Mister Sever sometimes contracts out the rough work and Billy Haig is the worst of the people he uses. Oh, Billy's work is good, but you have to watch him close if you want him to finish up in a reasonable time. It would have done you much better if Mister Sever had sent out his son or one of his daughters."

"He told me he was going to send his son out," Aaron said.

Looking as if she had eaten something sour, Cathy took another look into the street. "Guess he changed his mind."

"Mister Turner!"

"Here," Aaron called. "I'm coming."

"Watch him," Cathy warned. "He's light fingered."

The person in question proved to be a middle-aged man running towards baldness and a strong potbelly. Aaron remembered speaking with him before. Billy Haig was somebody who occasionally visited the store but he had never before known the man's name or his trade.

By the time Aaron reached the doorway Haig had already dropped the tailgate on the wagon, making a loud thunk and raising a thin cloud of dust that smelled faintly of hay and mold. "Property of Last Chance Stables" was painted on the wagon's side. Despite his disheveled appearance, Haig smelled strongly of fresh soap.

"Yuh 'ave some fine furniture 'ere, Mister Turner," Haig said, displaying an open gap where three of his upper front teeth were missing. "The Mister, 'e spent a good many hours on't. Mind yuh, he would 'ave spent a good many more if it 'adn't been for me 'elping 'im with most o' the finer work. Wouldn't be truthful honest if I didn't say that much."

The pounding of a hammer on hot metal sounded from across the street. Aaron winced at the noise. Apparently, Jorrin was working on a new project. There were times a person could grow tired of the constant clatter and banging.

"And I appreciate your labor," Aaron said doubtfully. To his eye, the cherry-wood tables and chairs, while pretty enough and well built, were nothing special. They showed little detailing or flair, although they did have a clear coat finish that brought out the wood grain in an almost startling clarity. He liked that.

"'Twas nothing sir, nothing at all. Why, when I was told yuh was buying these, what was it I could be doing but stayin' up the entire night through an' double checking all 'em glue joints an' then give 'em a final polishing. Yes, sir. The Mister said, an' I agree, a man like yuh needs only the best. Could yuh grab that end, sir?"

Waiting until Haig had set himself, Aaron lifted one end of the table and helped carry it into his new sitting room. The table was surprisingly heavy and quite a bit larger than he had first thought. Beneath his fingers, the finish felt glass smooth and just as slick, making him worry about losing his grip. With care, they maneuvered it through the door, bumping the doorframe only once. Twelve chairs came in next, far more chairs than Aaron had counted on owning, but they were a matched set. He placed six of them around the table, four near the bookshelves and two next to the wood stove. A colorful array of flowers in rather plain pottery sat on a couple of the empty shelves, showing that Cathy had been visiting.

When everything was in place, Aaron stood back to look at his new furniture. Admittedly, it looked better inside the building where it belonged than it had outside piled every which way on the wagon. To be honest, the table looked too big for his needs since it was large enough to easily sit eight people. He counted himself a few times. Every time he finished counting he came up with the same number. As best as he could figure it, he was only one person. That table was going to make him feel very inadequate.

Haig rubbed his callused hands together enthusiastically. "Very good, sir. Now if you can tell me what you need done I can look it over and go fetch the materials and tools I need."

Aaron made a rough gesture. "I want this door sealed and a new one opened between the two stores. The doorway should be just to the right of the counter, maybe three feet over."

"Fine."

"Mister Turner!" The call came from the other building.

Aaron groaned. He really needed to change his name. Maybe then he could get a few minutes to himself every once in a while.

"Coming."

Haarod Beech waited for him near the display case with Aaron's steel knives. Dusty, his hat brim was bent in several contradictory directions, and a scowl marred his lined face.

"I want one of them knives," Beech said abruptly. "I have two silver seven full gold a quarter, and that's what you're getting." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the thing Cathy had called a Talent Stone. He played with it, rotating it slowly in his left hand. Beside him, Cathy gasped and turned pale.

"Two silver seven full gold quarter is not enough," Aaron told him firmly. "The few Mister Bronson has sold in the east have all been for the full price, and I won't make it less. Besides, it cost me more than two and seven to buy the knife." The hair on the back of his neck prickled. "If you want it so badly I'll consider a trade, but I refuse to take a loss."

"Two and seven gold I offered," Beech said, "and two and seven you will take, or I will find some other way to get what I want." Eyes threatening, he held up the Stone.

Aaron tensed. His legs trembled, and his hands shook. If the wagon master carried through with his implied threat more people than Aaron would get hurt. At the very least, Cathy would be damaged in some way and the knife in question only cost a bit over ten real dollars on the other side. Mouth dry, he started to reach inside his apron pocket. Beech's expression changed.

"Is there a problem here?" Sarah Townsend stood just inside the doorway, her hand carefully near her sword, yet not quite touching it. Three armed women were evenly spread just behind her.

Aaron gave her a sickly smile. "No problem. Mister Beech was bargaining for a knife."

"No, he wasn't," Cathy corrected. "He threatened Mister Turner. Mister Turner was so angry his face turned red, and his hands shook. If you hadn't shown up I don't know what would have happened." Eyes large with fear and excitement, she gave Beech a look of pure loathing.

Beech turned a hard stare on Sarah. "The Storeman has the right of it, Marshal. We was only bargaining. The young lady read more into our argument than was there." The Talent Stone had disappeared from his hand. He nodded to Aaron. "We'll speak on this matter later." Moving without haste, he pushed past Sarah and the others.

Face expressionless, eyes filled with barely restrained violence, Sarah turned to watch him leave. "Walk easy around him, Mister Turner," she said. "There is very little I can do to him while he carries that Stone."

"I was going to give him the knife," Aaron said. "Cathy, I was scared. That's why I shook."

"No it wasn't," Cathy instantly said. "You were mad. I could see it on your face, and so could he. You frightened him, Mister Turner. You would never have given him the knife. I could see it in you."

"I thought you were going to tear into him," one of the women said. "Never seen such rage in a man. Aye, you may be small, Mister Turner, but I never want to get on the wrong side of you."

Totally mystified by this seeming conspiracy of mistaken impressions, Aaron just stared at them.

"You are all crazy," he insisted. "I was scared silly. I would have rolled over and died if he had asked it of me."

Sarah nodded slowly. Her fury gone, she wore the most serious expression Aaron had ever seen on a person.

"Then tell me, Mister Turner, why is your hand inside your apron? We all know you carry some kind of weapon in there."

Aaron quickly pulled his hand from the apron pocket and tried to remember when he had put it there. He brushed at his apron nervously, straightening its lines to hide the bulge of a gun.

"And you, Miss Bayne, are not so mild of temper yourself," Sarah continued. "Could you please give me the sword? I recently paid Mister Turner for it so the sword belongs to Last Chance now."

Sheepishly, Cathy handed the sword over to the Marshal. Aaron had not even known she held it. "I don't know what I would have done with it," she confessed. "I probably would have hurt myself."

"Probably," Sarah agreed dryly, giving Cathy a speculative look. "I think you and I are going to become much better acquainted. We had best work on getting to know each other."

"I agree," Cathy said simply.

"Later then." Sarah turned to the women standing behind her. "Let's go see where our favorite spot of trouble is heading."

"What was that all about?" Aaron asked after Sarah and the women left, but he received no answer because Billy Haig came clomping into the store, fingers scratching at his unkempt beard.

"I know 'zactly what I need. Figure it'll take me 'bout an 'our to collect it all together."

"That will be fine," Aaron told him.

Clomping even louder, Billy left, and Aaron turned his gaze back to Cathy.

"It's something women know," Cathy said. "Sometimes we just realize we have a lot in common, and it would be a good idea to learn to like one another." Wearing a slight smile, she began humming while she lifted a dust rag and used it to wipe down the already clean countertop, totally ignoring Aaron.

Flustered and confused, he walked outside the store and went to the chandler's old store. He smiled halfheartedly when he saw the table and chairs and the mostly empty shelves. The room obviously needed more than the few books piled on two of the shelves. A chess set would look good in the center of the table. As he recalled, there was a woman down to the quarry who made boards and carved men. He would talk to her. Perhaps he would get a couple side tables and some lamps and some rugs too. Maybe he could even put up a couple paintings. The Traveler's Rest had a few paintings so he guessed Flo knew where he could get those.

Since he wasn't really enjoying the book he had waiting for him at Flo's, he sat down in a chair placed before the bookshelves and reached behind him to randomly grab a new book without bothering to look at what it was.

Frowning, Aaron turned the book in his hands and wished this wall had better light. He definitely needed a table here, one with a reading lantern on it. Hands stilling, he looked at the book he held, made out that it was a basic grammar, and his frown grew deeper. To the best of his knowledge he did not own a basic grammar.

Turning to look closer at the shelves, he saw at least two dozen books he had never seen before. Opening the grammar, he leafed through the pages. The pages were worn; some were torn, and the back cover had a name written in large letters on the inside. Heddy Bayne.

Firmly closing the book, he put it back where he had found it. That book and the others belonged to Cathy. They were her legacy from her mother. One small mystery solved, but another remained. Now, why would Cathy put her books on his shelves?

"Mamma taught me from that book."

Startled, Aaron looked up. For some reason beyond his comprehension he felt guilty. He felt like the proverbial little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Oh, hello, Missy."

Missy stepped through the open door. "I hope you don't mind that I snuck the books in here. They are too special for me to let them just get ruined. Our roof is almost gone, and I didn't want Mamma's books to get rained on."

"Ruined? Rained on?" Aaron stared with sudden understanding. A few matters hinted at before were becoming clear to him. "Missy, exactly where do you live?"

"A little way south of town." Missy came in and sat in one of his new chairs. Resting her elbows on the table, she laid her chin in her hands. "The bandits tried to burn it down during the raid but it only burned a little. Most of the roof fell in a few months ago."

"It was winter a few months ago." Aaron was horrified.

"Uh-huh. It wasn't so bad. Cathy hung blankets around the stove and put a sort of roof over it too. We were warm as long as the blankets stayed up and we had lots of wood. Doyle cried some at first though. That got on my nerves. At the time I wanted him to just leave so I could have some quiet, but I guess I'm going to miss him now."

"Miss him," Aaron blurted, alarmed. "What happened to Doyle? He was here just yesterday."

"Oh, he's fine." Smiling, Missy lifted her head. "I talked to Mister Bran today, and he said he'd teach Doyle smithing. Said Doyle would be his apprentice and live with him and his Mistresses, them having no living children at home. Isn't that great? Doyle is young enough that before long he'll think of the Brans as his parents." Smile fading, her face sobered. "I want him to have parents. Every kid needs some."

Aaron regarded her sadly. "You are not exactly a kid anymore, are you?"

She shook her head no. "I try. It helps Cathy if she thinks she allowed me to stay young, but no, I'm not a kid anymore. I can't be. Not when we need the money I bring in sometimes. Did you know I have something of a job? Well I do. Mister Bran wants me to teach him to read and write in exchange for taking in Doyle. That's why I came here--to ask you a favor."

"Miss Bayne," Aaron said feelingly, "I'll give you any favor you desire." He felt like crying. Was he a blind idiot? How could he not have known they had lived with such deprivation? It was obvious they were poor, but a lot of people were poor. Still, there was a difference between poor and destitute. There was a huge difference, and he should have seen it.

"Don't you Miss Bayne me," she chided. "I'm not old enough for being called Miss. Call me Missy."

"Okay, Missy, what is this favor you want?"

"Mister Bran doesn't really have enough spare room for me to set up and teach him. Could I use this room for an hour or so after you close up?"

Aaron studied the gangly child. Her face was a mixture of anxiety, determination and trepidation. Missy had come directly to him instead of going through her older sister. Past experience told him that she had courage and integrity, that she was responsible right to the inner core. Aaron had not missed the subtext. Missy had made the arrangement for Doyle. She had reached an agreement with the smith, and she was now taking steps to ensure that she did the best she could to fulfill that agreement. He supposed Missy was a gutsy kid. In a few years she would be one hell of a woman.

"Of course you can use it," he said. "Have you talked with your sister about this? Does she have any problems with the arrangements? She was supposed to teach Mister Bran, after all."

"This isn't Cathy," Missy said. "This is me. Cathy took care of us for two years because we couldn't take care of ourselves. Well that time is over. I'm older, and I think she should have a life of her own. No, I'm going to do this whether she likes it or not."

Her face was solid resolution. Aaron chose to ignore the single tear glistening on her cheek.

"We got the clothes and the food while she went around in rags and starved because she gave us her share more often than not. Some people helped us. A few gave us their scraps, only we wanted to work for what we got. We wanted to keep our pride. It was you who let us work for food and clothes. You gave us jobs and dignity. Since you hired us we have held our heads up, and we have paid cash for the things we need."

Aaron was embarrassed. "Missy, truthfully I had no idea how hard up you were. None of you ever said anything about it. I'm willing to bet many of the townspeople were just as ignorant as me. Several months ago I asked Mayor Golard about you. She told me she thought you lived with somebody north of town. Maybe they all thought someone else had taken you in."

Though he longed to reach out and draw the slim child into his arms, he did not because Missy would resist the attempt.

"I can't believe that, sir. People ain't that blind. I think--" She stopped speaking as footsteps sounded on the boardwalk outside.

"Gee thanks, sir," she misdirected as Cathy stepped into the building. "I really appreciate this." Glancing at her sister, Missy's smile falsely brightened. "Hi, Cathy. Guess what? I got Doyle an apprenticeship with Mister Bran. All he asks in exchange is that I teach him to read and write."

* * *

Slightly grunting when she pulled out a wobbly chair, Flo sat down at his table and looked intently into his eyes.

"Bun told me you looked troubled so I thought I had best tell you that you needn't worry about that Mover. Word's been spread, and people are looking for him to come back. If he's in town you won't be alone. At least five of us will be nearby. You have neighbors, Mister Turner, and I hope we are good ones."

Aaron chuckled humorlessly. "I'd forgotten all about him. It never occurred to me that Mister Beech should be one of my worries. Tell me Mistress Halfax, do you know where the Baynes are living?"

Forehead furrowed in thought, she tapped a finger against her chin and then lowered her hand to the table. "Didn't somebody on the southwest side take them in? I think that's what I heard."

Aaron shook his head no. "They've been living in their parents' burned out home, surviving on whatever Cathy and Missy could scrounge."

"Oh, the Lady!" Flo exclaimed. "And here I thought they were let to run wild. This isn't right. This isn't right at all. Something is going to have to be done." She wrung her hands.

"You have an inn, and they need a better place to sleep."

Flo shook her head no. "The Lady knows I'd like to do that, but there's no way I can manage it. I'm barely keeping this place open as it is. If I lose a room to let I'll go under for sure. Besides, if I know those Bayne girls, they'll get their backs up if they think they are being given charity. Now mind you, I'm more than willing to give them a little help. I'm sure I can free up a half gold every few days, but they need more than that."

"I agree," Aaron said. "I've been thinking on this. What if I buy a partial interest in your inn? I'll invest some money into renovations, hire musicians to play in the evenings, and bring in some drinks other than ale, something that women would be more likely to enjoy. If we change the lights, make them dimmer to provide privacy and light small candles on the occupied tables, more business should come to you in the evenings. Dinner fare could be changed, made fancier for only a little more cost to the customer. In exchange, you hire Missy. Give her a small wage and a room. She'll share the room with Cathy, of course. Charge them a minimal fee for the extra person. Just be sure to work Missy. She's one sharp girl, and her pride is rather daunting."

"Has Bun talked to you?" Flo's face was a study of surprise and confusion.

"No. As far as I know, she seldom speaks to anybody."

"Well, Bun and me, we've been talking lately about selling out and moving east in a few years. Last Chance is nice but it misses a lot of the things a big city has to offer. If you want to buy the inn you can do what you want with it. Bun and I will run it for you for three years or until you say different. Missy should be old enough to handle things by the time we leave."

Aaron nodded thoughtfully. He had enough silver stockpiled, brought over from Jefferson, to make the purchase easy no matter what the price. The General might not like the way he spent the silver since the money was earmarked for bribes and soldiers, but hey--what the General did not know...

He nodded again. The money was there, and right was right.

* * *

Cathy was in a snit when Aaron returned to the store. Billy Haig had tried to make off with four books and a jar of peaches. He dismissed her protests, saying Aaron was more likely to believe the word of a full grown adult man like himself than a wee little snip of a girl who was no better than she ought to be. After giving her an insulting chuck under the chin, he started to slip the books under his shirt, at which time Cathy took the discussion from the verbal to the physical. Hauling back her leg, she kneed him in the crotch as hard as she could. While he was bent over she informed him that his thieving was NOT going to take place in THIS store, and he had best get busy doing the work he was being paid to do once he picked himself up off the floor.

Aaron only found out about these events later. All he knew was that Billy was busy finishing the opening between the two rooms when Aaron returned from the inn. Cathy stood nearby, her eyes fastened darkly on Haig. If asked, Aaron would have sworn he saw storm clouds swirling above her head. She watched Haig work until the job was finished, leaving her station only to wait on customers, and then she shot Aaron an unforgiving glare when he gave Haig a small bonus for finishing the job ahead of time. After Billy left she told Aaron of the incident, but by that time it was too late. Billy was gone with the money.

Just before closing, he went to the Traveler's Rest and escorted Flo to the bank where they transferred a title and signed papers that turned Aaron into an innkeeper. Mister Doland swore himself to secrecy and took seven copper for a transaction fee.

Back at the store, Aaron was momentarily surprised to see Jorrin entering the sitting room, but then he remembered his offer to Missy. He looked in on them a couple times, but the sight of giant, muscled Jorrin listening attentively to the child was more than he could take without laughing so he spent the early evening going through his catalogs and filling out orders for the inn. Tomorrow he would send somebody on horse to Burnridge. From there the order would be shipped by stage until it caught up to Bronson. In just a tad over three weeks Aaron would receive his supplies.

When Missy finally finished teaching Jorrin for the evening, Aaron found himself sympathizing with the pain behind the hairy man's eyes. This type of work was entirely foreign to the smith. From all appearances Missy felt like she had just been through a major battle herself. She had a desperate, haunted look in her eyes.

Jorrin provided Aaron with a surprise. Without saying a word, he reached into a sack he had carried over and brought out a chessboard. Apparently Missy had heard Aaron muttering about needing one so Jorrin gifted him with his set for the use of the room. The board was old and chipped, but it was serviceable and the two of them immediately sat down for a bout. Jorrin was a horrible player. His lack of skill and strategy was offset by Aaron's inexperience so they had a wonderful match. Sometime during the third game Cathy showed up with dinner. Fascinated, she sat down and watched them play. This led to her playing Jorrin while Aaron showed her the moves and a few simple combinations. Before she was finished Cathy had played the two of them several games each. She beat Aaron two games in a row.

Defeated, Aaron leaned back in his chair and felt disgusted by his performance.

"I've always been a quick study," she bragged. "I bet I'll win three out of four before two weeks go by."

"No bet," Aaron told her. "I never have been much good at this game. Why don't you bet Jorrin?"

"Mister Bran?"

"I think not," Jorrin replied. "The Mistresses, they would hang me by my tripes if they thought I was taking advantage of you. They'll be meaner yet if I let a little snip of a thing beat up on me regular."

"Well if that isn't something. A person would think that two grown men would be a little less frightened of a little girl." Planting both her hands on her hips, Cathy stamped her foot. She was such the perfect picture of false pique that Aaron had no choice but to laugh. He was not alone. Jorrin's base deep laughter roared right along with his own.

"Well it isn't fair," Cathy complained. "How is a gal supposed to improve herself if she can't find a victim--um--opponent? Maybe I should go knock on doors and try throwing myself on the mercy of kind strangers."

"Well now, I don't know about that," Jorrin ruminated. "As best I recall there ain't no strangers in town who happen to have doors you can knock on." He scratched his head in seeming perplexity. "Still and all, I suppose I had best do the right thing and take my whipping like a man. All right girl, go ahead and set them up again. This time I'm showing you no mercy."

Cackling, Cathy pounced on the board. Twenty minutes later she pushed her chair back with a glum expression on her face.

"You," she said emphatically, "have been toying with me."

"Maybe just a little bit," Jorrin admitted. "I ain't all that good, but you did just learn tonight. I'd have to be an imbecile to lose to you honest on your first night of playing."

Aaron hummed a little tune beneath his breath. Evidently, he now knew what classification his intelligence fell under.

Watching them battle out another game, he felt content. This unintended game night was a good thing. There really was not all that much for people to do here in the evening. Maybe this would be a way to draw them into the inn. Perhaps he could set up a game room. Would that be enough to turn a decent profit? No, probably it would not be enough for a building that size. How many people were there who would pay a fee to play chess anyway? No, there was no need to be a fool about any of this. He would go with the ideas he had already played with. Flo could advise him if he ran into any hitches.

Turning his eyes back to the game, he was just in time to see Jorrin checkmated. It was possible that he was wrong, but Aaron was willing to bet from the expression on Jorrin's face that the smith had not given that game away. Maybe there were two imbeciles in the room after all.

It felt good to have company for a change.

### Chapter 9

"Good morning, Mister Turner. Cook tells me that I should let you know the pancakes are pretty special today. He has some fresh sausage set aside too."

"Morning, Ann." Aaron could not help but notice that she was a little tense. Though Ann Flinders was normally bright smiles and cheerful laughs, she did not have either of those for him this morning. Her eyes were wary, and she seemed nervous. "I'll have whatever he suggests. My mother always taught me not to argue with the cook."

"Oh? Which mother was this?"

"I only ever had the one," Aaron said, feeling disappointed in her rejoinder. It was lamer than her usual. Something was on her mind.

"Only one mother?" she asked. "That must have been horrible for you."

"Oh it was," Aaron replied. "You have no idea how bad having just the one mom could be. I never had someone I could run to in order to get the answer I wanted, and the rocking on the lap thing, that was out." Especially since the person playing the part of his mother for the last half of his childhood had been Colonel Klein during his long visits back to the compound. The two of them had shared a bond that Aaron did not understand until he started showing signs of his unusual ability. If it had not been for Klein recognizing the resonance of Aaron's ability against his own, Aaron would probably be in some institution, the victim of his parent's poor finances since they had owned no insurance to cover his operations. How could they have afforded insurance? His parents struggled to come up with the money to pay for their rent and food.

"Your breakfast will be ready in just a few minutes. Mistress Halfax told me to give this to you." She handed him his new book.

With a nervous glance around, Ann turned abruptly and left, taking a long, roundabout route to the kitchen. Looking around, Aaron tried to see who she was avoiding. The inn was filled with lots of morning diners, most of them regulars, but a couple tables held people who were strangers to him. He immediately zeroed in on the ones bothering Ann.

Three men and a woman at the table, drifters or Movers. Aaron wasn't sure which. Making a mental note to watch them every now and again, he opened his book.

Five minutes later, Ann returned with his order and set it down on his table.

"Enjoy."

She walked away.

He tried a bite of the pancakes. They were delicious. Dan had added blueberries today, one of the benefits of owning the inn, Aaron supposed. There could not be all that many jars of canned fruit left in the pantry this late into May.

They bothered him, those three men and the woman, and he did not know why. They were quiet, had obviously spent the night at the inn, and were doing nothing but eating their own breakfast. Maybe they were too quiet. Maybe it was just that something about them struck a chord of familiarity inside him. He did not know what bothered him, but he knew there was something behind his feeling of unease. Maybe he was only reacting to Ann's nervousness. Yes, that was probably it. Ann was a young girl, mentally younger than Missy despite being a year older. Most likely, she was being flighty.

"Mister Turner, I hear you wish to speak with me."

Caught by surprise, Aaron started. "Mister Sever, I certainly did. I am so pleased with the table and chairs Mister Taylor made that I would like to commission three tables off you that will match the ones you already sold me. They should be smaller in size, perhaps two foot square for two of them and two by four for the third. Is this possible?"

"It is, sir," Sever said while rubbing his chin, "though it will be three to four weeks before I can deliver. Good work takes time, and Mister Taylor must do exceptional work to match the pieces you already own. Did you notice the clarity of the wood and the simplicity of the design? Mister Taylor and I spent a week finding flawless wood before we even touched a tool. In fact, we took such care with the cutting and the fitting and the finishing that we needed no embellishments or detailing to cover the blemishes for there is not a single flaw in the table or chairs."

Raising his eyebrows, Aaron reached over to pull a chair out from the table. Its legs squeaked across the freshly waxed floor. "Please sit down. I'll buy your breakfast." Hmmm. Lack of detailing meant quality? Simple lines were good? Oh well, the man might have strange ideas, but he was the only fine furniture maker in the area. Being the only one meant that he could pretty much set his own criteria as to what constituted good work.

"Don't mind if I do." Sever sat down and scooted the chair closer to the table. "It's been a long time since anyone bought me a meal. How did my man do on your door?"

"Best I can tell he did passable work, though it was not up to your quality. Miss Bayne said there was a bit of trouble with his light fingers, but she put a stop to it."

Sever nodded. "Aye, she would handle the problem if anyone could. I will confess, there has been some trouble with his thieving a time or two before. Now mind you, I always find out about it and set it right. Mister Haig has a disease of the mind that makes him pick things up what don't belong to him." Sever looked sad. "He always gives it back within a few days. Truth is, I am right sorry I had to send him on your job. When I got back to the shop after we spoke I discovered that my entire brood was engaged in one project or another."

"Gentlemen."

"Sarah! How pleasant." Pushing back his chair, Sever looked like he was going to rise but settled for a half bob of his head instead. "Look at this here. Mister Turner seems to be buying my breakfast."

"Uncle Seth," Sarah exclaimed, unbelieving. "How can you take advantage of the man so?" She pulled out the remaining chair and sat down. "Without inviting me to join you? You know I survive on a public servant's wage." She raised her voice. "Flo! Two regulars here."

Sarah smiled at Aaron and reached out to playfully thwack his nose with a finger. Small lights danced in her eyes. "Thank you, Mister Turner. You are a dear."

"Now Sarah," Sever admonished. "What will your fellow think when he finds out that you let a man buy you--"

"Whatever he wants," she interrupted. "Steven Knight is not my fellow."

"Miss Townsend," Aaron said, "It would be my pleasure to purchase your breakfast anytime you desire."

"Good," Sarah giggled impishly. "With your reputation, I was afraid that you'd be such a dense fellow that you wouldn't take a subtle hint if I beat you over the head with it."

Flo brought hot tea and set it before the two new arrivals. "Breakfast in five minutes."

"Thank you Flo," Aaron said. "Bring the entire bill to me. I'm covering this one."

"That I will, love."

"It's catching," Sarah observed. "Now his charm is capturing you, Mistress Halfax."

"All men capture me, dear." Flo's lips quirked into a smile, and she released a faint sigh. "I'm just too old and tired to do anything about it, is all."

Chuckling to herself, Flo walked away. Sever caught Aaron's attention.

"Niece," Sever observed. "I do believe I heard you giggle."

"Oh go on. I never giggle. You are hearing things in your dotage."

"You giggled. I heard it. Did you hear her giggle, Mister Turner? I heard her giggle."

Aaron leaned back in his chair and cast his eyes thoughtfully toward the ceiling. "I heard something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. On the other hand it could have been a strange type of grunt. After all, I've heard Miss Townsend make a lot of different noises these last few weeks. Most of them have been grunts of one type or another."

Sarah stuck her tongue out at him. The childish act was somehow charming. Her eyes twinkled as she mock fluttered her eyelashes. "Wait until the next training day. I'll see to it that I get a few grunts out of you." She turned serious. "By the way, you won't have to worry about that Mover for much longer. I gave Master Beech the word that they're to leave in three days. By last count, there are twenty-seven wagons out there now, maybe forty, forty-five adults and twice as many children. That's enough people to make me nervous even without Beech owning a Talent Stone. That Stone turns me from nervous to just plain paranoid."

"I'm glad to hear they are leaving," Aaron admitted. "Frankly, Beech scares me. I'm not too sure he is playing with a full deck."

"Excuse me?" Sever looked confused.

"Missing his jacks," Sarah explained. "Forgot the spokes on his wagon. Playing one die short. You could say all his chickens did not come home. Call him loony or just plain crazy. Mister Turner, you have quite a way with words."

"Sarah, I am your uncle. There is no reason to hit me with the obvious more than twice."

"Sorry, Uncle Seth. Long time ago mom told me her family is famous for being dense. She said her and I were the only ones to escape the sad affliction and that we have to make allowances and take special care when we talk to the rest of you."

"Ouch. Mister Turner, I give up. I'm going to shut up and eat the food Mistress Halfax is bringing."

Moving slowly, Bun carefully set the food down. Aaron was so astounded to see her that he almost let his jaw drop open. In the year he had been in Last Chance, this was only the third time he had seen Bun in the dining room. It was the first time he had seen the thick bodied, matronly woman serving.

"Thank you, Mister Turner." Her voice came out soft, almost a whisper, easily lost in the background noise of the other diners. Aaron would have missed hearing her if he had not been expecting to strain for her voice. Though widely known to be a hard worker and wonderfully skilled with tools, Bun was painfully shy and spoke only rarely. She had been involved in two marriages, but only because Flo had insisted she would not marry either man unless Bun was part of the deal.

She did not wait for Aaron's reply.

"My, that was different," Sever said. "Last time I heard her speak was more than two months ago."

"Mister Turner gets an amazing reaction from many women," Sarah observed as she took her first bite of food.

Aaron squirmed uncomfortably. "Enough teasing, Miss Townsend. I know I am no catch. I don't fit in well here. I'm smaller and weaker than most other men, and I have no real skills except for selling. On top of that I'm afraid of the most common animals and swing a sword so badly that you gave up on me."

Swallowing quickly, Sarah raised a hand. One finger rose to ride above the others. "You are handsome, have unflinching integrity, and are unfailingly polite--especially to women. You are rumored to be one of the six wealthiest people in the area and are kind to people in need." She looked at her hand. All five fingers were raised. "I seem to have run out of fingers. Oh well, I have another hand."

"You are modest to a fault, caring of others, stronger than you will admit. You have a controlled aura of danger hovering about you, and you are exactly the right size for a good many women who have more sense than hormones. There now, I've run out of fingers and I am not going to take off my shoes and count my toes to further stroke your ego. Instead, I am going to eat this wonderful meal a handsome man purchased for me."

Which she did with great interest and silence, a trait shared by her uncle. These people, Aaron thought, really take their food seriously. He finished his breakfast and watched them eat. Seth finished first. Pushing back his chair, he thanked Aaron and left. Moments later Sarah finished hers. She looked straight into his eyes.

"Mister Turner, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Ask away."

"I feel awkward speaking formally to a man who buys my breakfast. May I use your given name?" Eyes sparkling, the corners of her lips were canted slightly in amusement, and yet Aaron sensed that there was more behind her question than just play.

He pushed his chair back and stood up. Facing her full on, he bowed as formally as he could. "Miss Townsend, it would please me greatly if you would accept that privilege from me."

Her teeth flashed white. "And to you sir, I am in the future to be called Sarah. Thank you for buying my breakfast."

Standing, she leaned across the table and kissed his cheek, leaving the faint scent of rose water behind. With a small smile, she gently patted the cheek she had just kissed and left, winding her way carefully past the tables. Aaron watched, and then he turned red when he saw several people staring. He wished Sarah would not kiss him in public like that and glared around angrily until the curious eyes turned away. Teasing was one thing, but if she continued kissing his cheek in public people might start imagining she was serious. Hell, _he_ might think she was serious.

Was she serious?

No, of course she wasn't.

Her twelve year-old face white with barely contained fury, Ann Flinders stalked across the floor toward him. "You should be ashamed, making a public display of yourself like that." Ignoring her path, she flung herself away and stormed across the floor, knocking into a chair and then bumping against one of the four drifters.

"Here now, miss," the man chuckled. "What's the hurry there?" One hand had a firm grip on her arm. "You ain't too young for me, and they have all those rooms up above." He yanked her violently into his lap.

Aaron leaped across the room and jerked her away. Rage roared through his blood as Ann stumbled towards the kitchen. "Leave the child be!"

Eyes narrowing, the drifter focused on Aaron. "I meant no harm. Was only putting a scare into her. A young lass like that needs to learn to be careful around men. It was only a lesson."

"You tell him, Eric," the woman said. She smiled, showing filed teeth.

Aaron cooled instantly, embarrassed by his overreaction and rage. He could not even remember crossing over to the drifter's table.  
"My apologies then," he said stiffly. "I did not understand."

The drifter's lips thinned as he looked up at Aaron. A flaking scab quivered at the corner of his lip. "Best you think before you go manhandling people. Fellow could get hurt that way. He could get hurt real bad."

"I said I was sorry."

"Aye, you did." He flicked a dismissive hand. "Go away."

Flushing horribly, Aaron went back to his table and dropped money on it. Since he did not know how much his bill was he left enough to pay for it twice over. His chair was several feet from him, flung there when he leapt from it. Fingers trembling, he walked over to it, righted it, and brought it back to the table where it belonged while trying to ignore his burning face.

Aaron walked very carefully out of the inn. Back straight, elbows loose, he walked calmly, but his fingers trembled, and his heart stuttered. Laughter sounded behind him.

Steven Knight waited for him outside.

"Stay away from our women!"

He swung.

Steven's fist cracked into Aaron's forehead. Aaron flailed back against the inn's doorway and fell to his knees. Blood pounded in his temples, and his eyes wouldn't focus. Wavering in the distance, Steven's figure was a retreating blur.

The thing to do would be to get up and tackle the young bully. Aaron fuzzily considered it. He thought about it while blood flowed from his forehead, trickled over his left eye, and further blurred his vision.

A dozen thoughts crossed his mind, a dozen ideas of what he should be doing. In the end he did none of them. Instead, he wiped the blood out of his eye with the back of one shaking hand and pulled himself up with the other. He was halfway erect before he bent over and threw up. Rising again, he shrugged off helping hands and leaned against the building until his vision partially cleared and his legs gained strength.

"Get--Mar--," he heard someone say from a far away.

"No," Flo's voice answered. "She's--last--involv--"

The voices wavered in and out for over a minute before his vision stabilized and his hearing returned.

"Pole axed. One swing and Bam!"

"Should know better than to hit a little feller. Do ya figure Turner will--"

"Naw. He's never done nothing before."

"I don't know. He sure looked mean inside there. Had killing in his eye when that man grabbed little Miss Ann."

"Backed down, didn't he?"

Aaron pushed himself away and staggered across the street. New blood came from his forehead, redirected by his changed angle so it missed his eye. He felt it flowing, but he had no idea where it went.

Vaguely aware, he pushed his way past the onlookers and staggered across the street.

Unlocking the store was a chore almost beyond his ability but he managed to eventually find the door, and then he found the blurry place where he usually put the key.

Seven attempts later, the key finally slipped into place and the lock turned. He staggered into the store, closed the door behind him, and made it to the counter before he had to stop and support himself on its edge to keep the floor from rising up to his face. More minutes passed before Aaron had the strength to gather rags and a pitcher of water and carry them into the sitting room. Once there, he dropped the rags on the table, set the pitcher down and collapsed into a chair.

His head throbbed unbelievably.

"Oh my god!"

He turned his head slightly. Missy.

"Cathy will die if she sees this. Are you okay?"

Aaron's mouth worked with difficulty. "Yuh--"

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Her hand wavered before him. Aaron counted carefully.

"S--six."

"Not good at all," she said worriedly. "Okay, I'm going to clean your face now. It's going to hurt, and the bleeding might start back up a little, but you don't want Cathy to see you looking like this."

Her ministrations hurt like hell, and then it hurt worse, and then Doc Gunther arrived and said there was more than bruised flesh involved. Young Knight must have worn those brass knuckles he had won from that gambler a couple months back. Aaron's skull was probably not cracked, but it was definitely damaged. There might even be a concussion.

Finally, they helped him lie down, and it was only later that he wondered why he was laying on a thick pad of blankets on the floor of his sitting room and not in the loft where he belonged. He talked them into bringing him aspirin.

* * *

Missy was there when he woke.

"Whar a' I." His head felt cold and wet. Missy held a towel to him.

"In your sitting room," she said quietly. "We made a bed on the floor for you. Doc says you'll be okay. He gave you six stitches and said he was getting his money from the Knights. Cathy is taking care of the business, and I'm watching you."

"Layyer," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Ge layyer."

A while later Mister Doland stood by his side. "I'm the closest thing to a lawyer Last Chance has, Mister Turner. I think I know what you want, and I'm sorry to say that we don't sue for these things out here like they do in the cities."

"Na sue," Aaron managed to force out. "Will. Nee will. Die."

"Oh no." Doland was emphatic. "You won't die. I assure you."

Aaron felt so incredibly tired that he just wanted to close his eyes and drift away, yet he had to say it. He had to say it now while he still remembered.

"Might s'time. Gi all ta B--Baynes. Wi--ll."

"Are you saying you want to make a will that leaves all your possessions to the Bayne children?"

"Yuh." Why was the man so slow?

"I'll draw up the papers and come back later tomorrow. You should be much better by then."

Doland left, and he did draw up the papers, and he did return the next day, and Aaron felt good enough to sign them with Flo as his witness. By Friday he felt almost normal except for a sore head and a certain slurring when he talked.

They wouldn't let him work, and he was just enough under the weather not to care that other people controlled his life. With nothing better to do, he spent his days reading the same paragraphs over and over again. Twice a day he stirred himself enough to make tea for Cathy and Missy. Each time they thanked him very politely just before they threw the tea out, and Aaron did not know why. The tea was perfectly good. There was no way he could have made it with laundry detergent instead of powdered tea leaves.

Looking worried, Sarah came visiting, and he was glad to hear she had taken no action against the Knight boy. Aaron did not want her protecting him. The idea did not seem right somehow, but he need not have worried. Bigger problems were on Sarah's horizon. The Movers were still out there on the west side of town and with the additional wagons, not all of them were Zorists. Beech had begged another week's extension. Personally, Sarah was against it, but Mistress Golard had okayed the longer stay because the Movers were good for business. Though it was true that they were causing little trouble, Sarah wanted them gone anyway. Most of them were Zorists, and she had no use for people who preached the heresy of a single god. Besides, when they left, Beech would go too.

On Friday night Jorrin came by, and Missy gave him another lesson while Cathy beat Aaron in four straight games of chess. After the fourth game Sarah dropped in and proceeded to destroy Cathy in three extremely quick sessions.

While Cathy and Sarah played, Aaron watched Missy teach. She had a talent for it despite her young age, and that was good because Jorrin had somehow become an awkward student. He held his pen clumsily in a swollen hand, and his left eye was puffed almost closed. The surrounding tissue was dark and swollen, a sure sign that Jorrin had become careless at his forge and maybe caught a cinder in his eye.

By the end of the evening there was no more Mister this and Miss that. All five of them used the given names of the others, even Missy. Though she was at an age where it was unheard of for children to be that disrespectful to an adult, somehow, in some way, she really did not seem to be a child.

He woke Saturday and the mental fog was gone.

Cathy was arranging cans when he lowered himself down the loft ladder. It seemed like she was always arranging things. She had changed things around so the store ran exactly as she wanted it to run. Every item had its assigned place. The knickknacks he often had laying around were now carefully arranged on window sills and display shelves.

Half turning, Cathy looked at him. Wisps of fine hair drifted across her eyes and trailed over her nose. She brushed it away with an irritable hand and smiled. The smile transformed her, making her face look fuller and softer. Her eyes searched his, testing, debating, and then she rose.

Slowly, gently, she lifted a hand to his face, touched his right eye, raised its lid, and nodded.

"Better. Your pupil doesn't look so dilated. I think you are finally back with us, sir. That's good because I have more to do than I have time to do it in. Can you run the store today while I work on the other section?"

"I suppose I could try," Aaron answered. "I'll call you if I have trouble."

"Good. Doc told me to remind you that the stitches come out next Friday. He said he already told you about it, but he didn't think you would remember."

"He was right."

"Before I forget, we aren't using the old ledger anymore. I started a new one. This one is arranged more logically."

She left, and Aaron soon found himself leaning on a broom while dust mites flurried around his head, and Last Chance once more woke to a new day. It was still spring and a bright sun rode high in the sky. The clouds were few and white, and the street was without shadow.

Leaning on his broom, Aaron closed his eyes and wished for the simple peace he had once known when he did this chore. Last Chance had lost its innocence. He was no longer able to pretend it was a home free of strife and pettiness. Like the militia, Last Chance had its own hidden shadows and its petty evils. It was a home that perfectly matched the condition of his soul.
Chapter 10

Aaron smiled at the rumbling squeal of a rickety barrow being wheeled up to his grocery. Only Mistress Turnbull had a barrow like that. It was made so loosely that every joining of wood rubbed against one another, making the barrow sound like it would fall apart at any moment. Heavy footsteps stomped on the outside boardwalk, and then Mistress Turnbull carefully eased herself through the door.

"Hoy, Mister Turner." At five-two she was the largest woman Aaron had ever seen--only her size was not measured in her inches from the ground to the sky. Almost, he could feel the building shake as she walked because she weighed at least four times his own one thirty, which meant she was one hefty woman. However, she was also one of the strongest people he knew. Though the strength of her body was not unusual, the strength of her mind was insurmountable. Her iron will could not be reasoned with.

"Mistress Turnbull. How are the children? I haven't seen them in weeks."

With a quiver of flesh, she leaned toward him. Small pinpoint eyes stared out of mounded flesh. Her vision was not the best, but she did not miss much. At this moment those eyes dissected him.

"A lump still and ugly as sin with the stitches and the bruising, but it is coming along nicely. The children are fine, sir, and keeping away from you. A bad influence you are; all this handing them things under this pretense and that pretense. Bad lessons they'll learn if you teach them to expect something for nothing. Once a month I told them. No more are you to go bothering that man and begging handouts all the time."

Aaron shrugged and raised his hands. "It's hard to resist the little skivers."

"Not so little, sir," she corrected. "Not so little at all. My Betty is getting married in a month, and to her wedding you will come, or I'll know the reason why. Her Ryan is a good man with only the one wife already to his name, and isn't she a dear to welcome my Betty into her home. My Mister, he will do a fine job of hitching them together, that he will."

Aaron was surprised. "Isn't Betty too young to get married?"

"Oh she looks young she does, the little minx. She looks young, but she is almost hitting fifteen, and it is a good thing she's getting married for she's one who would get into family trouble very easily--but this is social chat, and I am here on business."

So Aaron helped her gather her goods, put the charges on her account, and helped her load her barrow. If anything, the barrow was overloaded.

"Not brooding on your incident, are you?" she asked.

"I am angry, Mistress Turnbull, but not, perhaps, brooding, though I will have to explain to the gentleman that further incidents will not be acceptable."

She looked surprised. "Knows it not, does Mister Knight, and he still abed and groaning so all can hear and be shamed for him."

"Excuse me?"

"Know you not? Burly smith across the way spent half a day in this store while you lay senseless in your bed, and then him standing before Mister Knight with an entire group of people and the Marshal mysterious in her absence. I hear it was a fine row though disappointing in its brevity. Yon smith is a hard man and known well for owning a slow temper with heavy hands at the end of it."

"No, I didn't know." Aaron wasn't sure what he felt. This was his trouble to deal with, not Jorrin's.

"Aye, and didn't Mister Bran's Mistress make this hat with her own hands, and didn't I go around and have handed to me bits of copper that could be sewed into it so you would know we be thinking of you."

She pulled a floppy brimmed hat from her oversized bag, round crowned and covered with more than seventy copper coins. "For wearing it is not, but for you to know it is. To us you belong and time for all to know it well." Awkwardly waddling behind the counter, she hung the hat on a wall hook. "There it shall stay. Good day, Mister Turner."

Aaron had little time to dwell on how the honor made him feel. Throughout the rest of the day the store suffered a suffusion of so many people that Cathy was forced to drop her project. She stayed busy filling orders and bullying Aaron into doing no more than the slightest work. By lunch he felt exhausted, and he became consumed with the need to get away. He removed his apron and headed over to the Traveler's Rest. After winding his way through the scattered tables, he took his usual seat.

"What will you have?"

Aaron started and then slowly smiled. "Missy?"

She grinned exuberantly. "Can you believe it? Mistress Halfax hired me to work here. I get a room and food and three fourths gold a day and Cathy can stay in my room for only four coppers."

"Well good for you. I hope Mistress Halfax doesn't work you too hard."

"Six to four every day with a half hour for lunch. I have to clean and serve and later I get to learn about ordering and cooking food proper. Ann Flinders is helping. I don't think she likes me too well. So what will it be?"

"Just bread and cheese and a bowl of soup today."

"Sure thing. Oh yeah. Mistress Townsend said thanks for the breakfast you bought her this morning, and I was to give you the bill."

Aaron shook his head, smiling slightly. Twice now he had "volunteered" to buy Sarah breakfast without having first been asked his opinion on the matter. "I thought she was Sarah to you now?"

"That's in private. In public it's best to show proper respect."

"Okay then, Miss Bayne. Could you please fetch a poor starving wretch a bit of bread and cheese?"

"Don't forget the soup. I made it."

"I will never forget the soup."

* * *

"I'm sorry but we ran out," Cathy was telling a customer when Aaron reentered the store.

"Gone? But you always have milk." Mistress Doland sounded aggrieved.

"It's been really busy today. I've had to restock twice, and some things we just don't have on hand. Milk is brought to us fresh every day, only it's brought just the once."

"But what will we do for dinner?"

"I really am sorry, ma-am. Perhaps Mister Moody has some more on his farm."

"It's two miles and more to his place. Am I to travel four miles for a quart? It is troublesome enough to come here every day."

A thought struck Aaron. "Would you be interested in having fresh milk delivered to your home?"

"Now that sounds like a fine idea. If you make buying milk that easy I am sure you will get more customers."

So Aaron went down to the stables and bought a cart and a mule from Mistress Bade. Two hours later he hired Brian Haig, son of the man who had worked on his store. At sixteen, the boy was glad of a chance to put a few extra coppers in his pocket.

Aaron arrived back to the store in time to see Cathy escort three women into the sitting room. She pulled a curtain shut, a curtain that had not been there earlier in the day. Twenty minutes later they left with smiles and chuckles. Cocking a curious eyebrow, Aaron looked at Cathy.

"They bought some of those garments like you sold Mistress Halfax. I thought it was better to take them back there to make things more private. You know, it's absolutely amazing how many of those things I've sold. The women say they make their figures look better."

"That's part of their design," Aaron said.

"So does it?" she asked.

"Does it what?"

"Does it make my figure look better?" She turned sideways and posed. Aaron blushed, but he looked anyway because the memory of her pressed against him remained fresh. Yes, her figure did look good, too damn good, but he suspected the undergarment had little to do with that matter. The last couple of weeks had changed her. Her face was less gaunt, true, but the changes went far past that. She carried herself differently. Confidently.

"Everything about you looks good," he said truthfully. "The garment adds nothing to what you already have."

Flushing prettily, her smile turned shy. She curtsied.

"Thank you, sir. I hope you don't mind. I filled out an order for more of them. There aren't that many left, and some of the sizes we have are unrealistic. A couple women wanted to know if you were into fantasizing. Judy Knight asked if you were promising to marry the gal who could fit the largest one."

"They were a mistaken shipment," Aaron admitted, red faced. "I've no idea how they ended up in my order. Matter of fact, I didn't even have to pay for them. The catalogs we have came with the order."

"Well I'm glad you don't keep all your catalogs with the wish books. Men have no reason to look through those particular things. They are absolutely indecent. Miss Hale asked if she could talk to you."

"The seamstress?"

"Uh huh. She wants to carry ready to wear in her shop. Not many ladies want to sew for a living so she's finding it hard to get new help. Sooo--" Cathy paused for breath. "She went to the bank, but they won't loan her money since Mister Doland doesn't like Miss Hale 'cause she said she wouldn't be his wife number four. Will you, she wants to know, buy the ready to wear for an interest in her shop?"

Actually, that was the last thing Aaron wanted to do. Unfortunately, Cathy was very persuasive, and he had a weak spot for her so he walked down to Hale's Custom Clothing and agreed to buy a line of clothing for a forty percent interest in the business. If the General ever found out about this he would be really ticked, but Aaron figured to hell with him. He was no longer so in love with the General and his ideas as he had been nineteen months before. The way he figured it, these people lived fine lives. They saw to their own business and helped one another out. Last Chance did not need the General and his militia coming in to play father to them.

He left the clothing catalogs with Miss Hale so she could choose what she wanted to order and then went back to the store. Once again, Cathy was straightening. It seemed like Cathy was always straightening. The place became more her and less him with every passing day.

Cathy looked up. "The box is overflowing. Come Monday there won't be any place to put the new money."

He nodded. "I should have made a deposit days ago. We can close up early and head for the bank. While we're there I'll talk to Mister Doland and authorize you to make deposits and withdrawals for the store."

"You'd trust me?" Her eyes were round saucers.

"You wouldn't be working for me if I distrusted you."

"Oh--" Trembling slightly, she stepped forward and kissed his cheek. Her hands grasped at his apron, and her breasts pressed against him once again. "Thank you, Mister Turner." She stepped back.

"Hey," Aaron protested, missing the feel of her body against his, "I thought I was Aaron now."

"But this is public time."

Aaron looked around the store. Nobody else was near. Apparently Cathy's ideas on what constituted public were definitely different from his.

"Even so," he said.

She licked her lips nervously. "Thank you Aaron. I would like that."

They closed a few minutes early. Fastening the money box in his apron, Aaron pulled Cathy behind him when he left the store.

"Keep up with the bellows, boy." Jorrin's faint voice called out from the other side of the street.

"Mister Bran keeps Doyle busy," Cathy observed. "Doyle complains about it, but he worships the man. I hardly get to see the boy anymore. Probably just as well, I suppose. He's getting too old to be hanging onto his big sister all the time." Regret filled her voice.

"He's welcome to visit the store when Jorrin comes over for lessons."

Smiling sadly, Cathy shook her head no. "That wouldn't be right. Doyle works hard so he needs his own time to do what he wants. I see him for half an hour every day. That's enough." Her eyes lightened, and she lifted her hand in a welcome wave. "Hi, Miss Townsend."

"Hi yourself, Miss Bayne." Sarah came jogging up to them, smelling faintly of fresh sweat and wood smoke. "Heading for the bank?"

"Yes."

"I'll join you then. I have my pay to deposit--and how are you Aaron?"

"A bit of a headache, but otherwise fine."

"Aaron's going to let me make the store's deposits and withdrawals," Cathy said, her gaze direct.

"Cathy, I think you should start calling me Sarah all the time." Sarah grinned.

"Probably," Cathy agreed.

Something was going on between them, and Aaron wished he knew what the hell it was. He had not figured out the particulars of when it was proper to use given names instead of surnames, but still and all, Sarah's offer did not seem to meet the few rules he had figured out.

Five horses and a man stood in front of the bank. Watching the horses warily, Aaron stepped close to the building to be as far from them as possible. Once he was safely past the beasts, he walked inside the bank and headed for the counter. Several people stood stiffly in front of him, Sarah and Cathy. Impatient, Aaron groaned and shifted to the side.

He stilled.

A man held Mister Banks from behind, holding a very long and heavy knife to the clerk's throat. Face stricken, Mister Doland stood further back. "What is going on here?" Aaron demanded.

"This is my business," Sarah snapped. She drew her sword. "So--what is going on here?"

"Simply a withdrawal, Marshal," a man said, stepping into view from behind the counter. Tall, thin, dark haired, he wore a cheerful smile but his emotionless eyes were flat, and he held a long thin knife in his left hand that bore signs of old dried blood. "Hello, Storeman. Why don't you pass over what's in your apron? That bulge looks interesting."

Aaron turned pale. Hands tied before her, Ann Flinders lay on the floor. She was crying. "You were at the inn," Aaron said nonsensically.

"I was, little man. I enjoyed seeing you bleed, but it made my Melissa hungry. Marshal, that's one great big sword you have. Very impressive. I hope you are equally impressed by the knife my friend is holding at that man's throat. Hand the money over, little man."

Aaron lifted the money box from his apron and set it on the floor. A kick from his foot sent it to a slim, tall man who stood beside the speaker.

"Marshal?"

Sarah growled beneath her breath. Obedient. She knelt and set her sword on the floor. A shove sent it sliding to rest against the wall.

Cathy bolted. The man standing outside released a surprised shout.

"I would have preferred for you to pass it to me," the spokesman told Sarah as he casually strode over towards Banks, nonchalantly flipping the knife from hand to hand. "No harm. An unarmed woman is no threat unless she's as strong as a horse like my Melissa."

Aaron ground his teeth when recognition finally dawned. More than just the speaker had been at the table when Ann was accosted. They had all been there. As he recalled, the man in charge was called Eric.

A dark-hued man reached down, dragged Ann to her feet, and set the edge of his knife against her throat.

"You see how I lied, Storeman," Eric said, stopping before Banks. "I really do like them young, so we'll just be taking her with us."

And then he ripped his knife deep into Bank's lower abdomen and up into his sternum.

Blood and guts and the stench of spilled feces spilled forth. Banks gasped and sagged limply, his weight now fully supported by the man holding him.

His hand still pressed against Bank's middle, Eric looked at the man holding the clerk and then took a step back. "You can let him drop now, Billy."

Nodding, Billy released his hold, and Banks fell to the floor.

Looking Aaron straight in his eyes, Eric raised his gore-covered hand and stuck his blood-covered fingers into his mouth, one at a time, sucking them clean. Finished, Eric lowered his hand and wiped it dry on his shirt, leaving faint pink trails behind

"All done, Wanee," Eric said softly to the bronze-skinned, broad-faced man holding Ann. He pointed his bloody knife at Doland. "Open the safe. Mister Stevens has some bags he wants you to fill."

Smiling indolently, the man who held Aaron's money box held up his other hand, displaying a handful of empty grain sacks. On the floor, Banks gurgled horribly and sighed out his last breath.

"Y--y--yes." Big eyed, Doland stared down at Banks and then staggered to the safe to awkwardly spin its combination. The safe door swung open noiselessly. "Here. Here it is. Take what you want."

Stevens set down the money box and ambled nonchalantly to the safe. Billy soon joined him.

"Aw, thar's not all thet much hare," Stevens protested.

Billy said nothing as he knelt and began filling a bag.

"You won't get away," Sarah grated out. "The warning has gone out. The militia guards the street."

"No problem," Wanee said. He rubbed the flat of his stained knife over Ann's throat. "We have a hostage. If we leave safe, she leaves safe. We'll let her go tomorrow after we finish using her. STAND STILL, STOREMAN!"

Aaron trembled so badly his knees hurt. He was caught in a trap of fear and horror and hate. His heart raced. Heat poured through his limbs.

"Done," Stevens said disgustedly. "Only half o' one sack. The boss war full o' shit. This hare place ain't loaded. Them knives 'e wants 'ad better be worth it."

After wiping his blood wet hand across his dirty pant leg, Eric strolled over to Doland. Sweat streamed down Doland's face. He stank of fear.

"Open your mouth," Eric ordered with exaggerated gentleness. "My knife needs cleaning."

Doland let his jaw sag. Eric put the end of his bloody blade into Doland's mouth and wiped it across Doland's dry tongue with deliberate slowness. First one side of the blade and then the other left its bloody trail inside the banker's mouth. Doland's eyes clenched shut when the blade sliced his tongue. His breathed in short gasps.

"Don't you love it?" Eric asked. "Nothing beats the taste of human blood."

"Damn it Eric, let's go!" Wanee snapped. He shifted his grip on Ann, moving the knife away from her throat and shouted out the bank's open door. "If the horses are gone and our man captured I'll do some more killing!"

"They'll be put back," Mistress Golard called back in.

"I'll kill them all," Sarah's faint whisper barely reached Aaron's ears. "Those men were under my protection."

"We have to go now," Billy said to Eric.

Eric nodded agreement. "Of course." His arm straightened spastically, shoving his long knife deep into Dolan's mouth and out the back of his skull. Gasping, Dolan stiffened and fell off the blade.

"Eric!" Wanee shouted. Ann jerked in his grip. Wanee cursed, and Aaron moved.

Shoving his hand into his apron pocket, Aaron pulled out the small .38 snubnose he kept there, pointed, and fired. Wanee's knife hand turned red, jerked violently, and the knife flew across the room. Pulling the trigger too hard, Aaron fired again. His gun jerked to the side when the hammer fell, making the second shot miss entirely as Wanee staggered back. Ann screamed and fell to the floor. Being more careful, Aaron shot at Eric when he dove for the open door. Eric stumbled but stayed upright. With a short yell, Aaron twisted his body to the side and shot at Wanee one more time. Blood streaked the floor under Wanee's right hand.

Sarah yelled, and something shoved Aaron from behind. He gasped when pain lanced across his back, causing him to unintentionally fire his gun once again when the hammer caught in his clothing. Someone groaned as Eric and Billy raced out the door. Several thuds sounded, and Billy staggered back inside, four arrow shafts piercing his body. The canvas sack he held fell and broke, spilling gold and copper over the floor.

Still yelling, Aaron ran to stand over Ann, and pointed the barrel of the .38 at Wanee as the man gasped and cursed and finally grasped his knife with his good hand. Wanee rolled over and jumped to a crouch.

Aiming with deliberate care, Aaron shot him in the left knee. Cursing softly, Wanee fell. Turning swiftly, Aaron pulled out his lock-blade from the same apron pocket that had held his gun. He flicked it open as his empty gun hit the floor with a thud.

Glaring at Aaron, Sarah rose from where Stevens lay curled around his own knife, bleeding from the belly. Sarah's shirt was liberally stained by blood splatters from when she stabbed him. "You'd be dead if I hadn't shoved you. Your back is bleeding. Go sit down."

Suddenly feeling dizzy, Aaron sat on the floor right where he stood while Sarah walked over and picked up his revolver. Billy shuddered and stilled. Grim faced, Sarah pulled a knife from his hand.

Jorrin stepped warily through the open doorway. "All clear?"

"Clear," Sarah said. "Two alive but injured." She picked up her sword and sheathed it.

"What was all that noise?" Jorrin looked at the carnage and shook his head.

"Later," she snapped. "I need some help." Shaking her head, she rubbed her right ear. "Hurts."

Jorrin let out a yell, the signal, apparently for several women to crowd into the bank. Wanee only whimpered when they lifted him, but Stevens screamed. Cathy cut off Aaron's shirt while someone took Ann away.

"Should we...?" Mistress Turnbull rumbled to Sarah, making a quick motion towards her neck. Sarah nodded, and the wounded men disappeared out the door. Three dead men lay on the floor.

Mumbling, Doc Gunther came in and put fifteen stitches in Aaron's back.

"Ann," Aaron muttered while the needle went in and out. Everything was a blur. Head swimming, his face rested on the floor, near somebody's vomit.

"Safe," Gunther said shortly. "Best worry about yourself. Least you didn't puke up blood." Muttering something about idiots, he stabbed Aaron with the needle again. "Is anybody going to pull these bodies out of here?"

"On it," Mayor Golard responded. "Come on, you yokels. Get the wagon around here."

Blood loss made Aaron's head light, which was probably a good thing since Gunther had a ham hand with a needle. He watched while Sarah gathered the money, put it back in the safe, and changed the combination.

Aaron's head hurt almost as much as his back.

Eventually, Jorrin helped Aaron stand and then guided him out the bank door. Faces purple, tongues protruding, Wanee and Stevens dangled from the same tall oak tree where the two Mover women had been hung. Hanging beside them was the man Aaron had seen standing by the horses. Ropes dug cruelly into their necks, and blood pooled beneath them. More than a hundred people stood nearby, wearing unforgiving expressions while they watched the swaying bodies. Several women were crying, Mister Doland's two wives, and Mistress Banks, the chandler who had sold her store to Aaron.

Aaron saw no sign of Eric.

"Mister Turner saved me," Ann Flinders sobbed into Flo's shoulder. "I thought I was going to die."

"It's all right child," Flo murmured to Ann. Her eyes rose to meet Aaron's. A mixture of emotions ran across her face, compassion, sadness, hate, anger; all of them jumbled and confused.

"This one here is a bloody savage," a woman shouted, pointing at Wanee.

Somebody stood before Aaron. Flo? Mistress Turnbull? Aaron did not know.

Fingers snapped in his face several times. A head lowered and a woman peered into his eyes. "You're in shock. Are you going to be okay?"

_Of course not_ , Aaron thought. _I just shot people. I invaded their flesh with bullets from my gun. I killed people._

Shaking her head, she stood erect and spoke to Jorrin. "This one needs watching."

The woman left only to be replaced by Sarah.

"You and I need to talk," Sarah said. "You have some explaining to do."

"Later," Aaron managed.

"Later, then. Don't think you're going to get out of it."

Aaron looked at her grim face, seeing warrior hard and executioner mean. Her eyes held no humor. Looking into those eyes, Aaron saw justice and outrage and a desire to rip and tear apart those who had damaged the people in her charge.

He knew exactly how she felt. Part of the darkness residing in her clutched at his heart and mind. Sarah was a killer just as he had discovered himself to be. She was just better at it because she had more practice.

She was better than him at a lot of things. Looking into her eyes he saw that she remained alive inside. The essence of her was neither scared nor frightened while she dealt with the consequences of the killing. She exuded vibrant rage while he felt like the dead shadow of a hollow man. He felt like thin skin wrapped around a brittle and empty shell.

### Chapter 11

Late on Sunday morning, Aaron left his store to find that Last Chance was a changed town. People headed for church, but they were quiet as they did so. Their usual cheerful gossip and chatter was missing. In fact, an unnatural hush hung over the entire street, except when small groups stopped outside the bank and talked. Watching them, Aaron saw many of these spit contemptuously on the bodies that still hung. Someone had cleaned the blood from the boardwalk, but a red stain remained, and the heavy smell of released feces was strong enough to ride the breeze to Aaron's store.

Aaron walked carefully because stitches in his back pulled painfully. His eyes burned. He felt wooden, sleep deprived, and conscience driven. People looked at him strangely; only two ventured to say hello. Appearing wary, the rest took one look at his face and hurried by. He crossed the street, feeling like a mechanical puppet pulling on its own strings. Sedate, quiet, Bun peeked out of the kitchen when he opened the inn's door. She waved at him though her lips held a worried frown. Aaron tried to find the energy, the decency to respond, but he could find nothing inside himself except the need to mechanically follow through on his habitual routine.

Plodding one slow step after another, he passed one table of regular diners and then another table of morning visitors who ceased talking as he passed. He walked until he reached his accustomed table. His chair was gone, but a stool had been set in its place, something Aaron only took note of in a faraway distant sort of way. Perhaps someone trying to be thoughtful of his wounded back? He supposed he should be grateful, but that emotion was far too active for him to draw forth. Quietly, he sat on the stool, careful not to stretch and pull at his stitches. Flo rushed over to him.

"How do you feel?"

"Numb," he answered, looking up at her. "I feel very, very numb. I sat up all night waiting for it to hit me, but there was nothing. I know I'm supposed to cry or throw up again or something, but I can't do any of it. I've no emotions at all, Mistress Halfax. When I saw those two men hanging out there just now I thought, Aaron Turner, one of those men is the one you killed."

"You did not kill him, Mister Turner. My hand was on the rope that pulled both of them up so I know. They were alive when we started."

"I killed him," Aaron insisted, "and maybe the others too. If I hadn't acted they would have left with Ann, and then Ann would have come back. I don't even know why I did it. I don't remember." He felt haunted.

After quietly pulling out a chair, Flo sat down and held his hand. "We heard you when we were outside. I don't know what made that loud noise, but we heard you. You screamed, Mister Turner. You yelled something about no child being hurt while you watched. They would have killed Ann, sir. They would have raped her, and then they would have cut her throat, only they didn't because you were there. Besides, one of those men we killed, he was a murdering savage from over the pass who put on civilized clothes to come spy on us. Them people were more than just bank robbing murderers, Mister Turner. There's trouble coming soon with the natives. In my opinion, we probably saved a bunch of lives by killing one of their spies."

Senseless. Her words entered his head, but he could not understand them. They were hollow, empty, meaningless. The only word that made sense was a name.

"How is she? How is Ann?"

"Quiet. She stayed home today," Flo gently said. "I looked her over, and she wasn't hurt beyond a few bruises and some scrapes."

Aaron grunted. A distant part of him was grateful the girl was well. Another part of him saw Ann and Flo and every other person in the entire town as caricatures of real people. They were shadows and ghosts and figments that drifted around him but did not settle into his mind. Characters on a stage, they waited for their director, for General Field to come and tell them how to move. They were victims waiting for Aaron Turner to welcome the devil in to destroy their lives.

Flo tightened her fingers, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I've seen it in you, Mister Turner. I've seen it, and I love you for it. Children and women, they feel safe near you. You protect them, care for them. Look at how you jumped to Ann's defense that one day. Like a lion you were, and then when the danger to her was over you backed down because you didn't care about your own pride. Everyone knows about you. Some of us have tried to look out for you."

Her words held no meaning. He thanked her when she rose, and he thanked an uncharacteristically somber Missy when she brought his food. Moving mechanically, he built a wall of unassailable silence. After an interminable time he finished eating and sat staring at the wall, lost in thought and memory. A shifting foot rubbed against the wood floor. A voice coughed quietly.

Silent and calm, fifty and graying, Bun stood before him. She held out her hand, and he took it, rising to follow her. He was helpless before her pull, helpless in his will. Her power was a faint luminescent glow around her face and hands. The irresistible strength of that power trapped him, made him prisoner and offered him solace. She led him upstairs to her room, lay him down on her bed and laid herself down beside him. She said nothing. Reaching out, she pulled him to her, placed his head against her ample breasts. His body shivered, then began violently shaking. Throwing his arms around her, he buried his head deep between her breasts, and the dam in his mind answered to her call. Emotion bore its way through the silk thin cracks in his mind, and something inside him broke apart. Cheeks wet, he cried quietly, soaking her blouse beneath his face. His crying gradually increased until sobs and moans racked his body. Murmuring something he could not make out, her hands stroked his head and shoulders.

Aaron gave his grief to the quiet woman. Slowly, one long eternity at a time, his sobs lessened, his mind began working, and his ears caught the sound of crying that matched the echoes of his own. Opening his eyes, slightly turning his head, he saw that tears ran down Bun's cheek, streaking away her sparse make-up. Her soft breasts heaved against his face while she sucked his grief from him. He stopped crying and raised his head, but she cried as hard as he ever had so he pulled his face from her breasts and raised himself so he could pull her head to him. Gently burying her face into his shoulder, he cradled her for an hour while she sobbed. Eventually, her tears slowed, stopped. She pulled away, wiped her tear-swollen face, gave him a sad, lying smile, and rose to leave.

Feeling cleansed, Aaron followed her. His guilt was gone. His mind was clear, and his thoughts sharp, but he wished to God she had not come to him. Because of her he no longer doubted tales of Talent and Talent Masters. With her strength, her Talent, Bun had cleaned him with the strength of her unaided Talent, but that cleaning had cost her dear. It had cost her very dear. He was not worth the price.

* * *

Later, Sarah and Cathy came to the store. Sarah held out his gun. "It's used up, or I don't know how to work it. What is this thing, Aaron?"

"They call it a gun, a pistol, or a revolver." Opening it with a practiced move, he ejected a cartridge and stared at the empty shell. The bullet the cartridge had held, fired by his hand, was now buried in human flesh.

He shook his head to break the image. "This holds a powder that explodes. The explosion pushes a chunk of lead out the barrel."

"Are you okay now?" Cathy asked with care.

"Yeah." Aaron rubbed a hand through his hair. It felt gritty and greasy. Unwashed. Unclean. It needed cutting. He vaguely recalled promising Mister Golard he would be in to get it cut. "Bun helped. I don't know how she did it, but she helped. I didn't have any choice when she came to me. I couldn't do anything but what she wanted."

"Bun has a very strong Talent," Cathy told him. "It's strong and singular so she can use it a little even without a Talent Stone."

"Yeah--well."

"You don't understand about Talent, do you?" Sarah asked.

Aaron shook his head no. "I really don't understand it at all."

"Of course not. You don't understand about a lot of things. I used to wonder about that, but I suppose it's only natural since you don't come from around here." Her voice was flat.

Aaron gave up. He did not care anymore. He was tired of living a lie, tired of deception and unsure why he continued to betray people who cared for him. Lies were against his nature, against the precepts instilled in him when he was a child, before the militia, before he became a spy.

He would tell them the truth and to hell with the consequences. They would think him insane, or they would hate him, but he would be clean. With a few simple words he would be clean, and these two would become distant memories of women who might have become something more than idle friends if only he had been honest from the beginning.

Drawing a reluctant breath, Aaron began speaking. Once started, he found that he could not stop.

"So," Sarah said after a long moment of silence when he finally finished telling his story. "You come from another realm. Truth is, I've suspected something of the sort for a little while now. Some of your goods just don't exist here. This steel? There is no such metal in our earth that I've been able to discover, at least not in any real quantity. In fact, I sent some of it back east to N'Ark University about six months ago. Entire departments have been studying it--with Talent Stones. From what I've been told, the closest thing we have to it is something called iron, and that is a very rare metal, so rare that I never heard of it before."

Aaron was shocked. "You believe me!"

"I have no choice but to believe you. You have one strong Talent and one minor one. The major one is so strong it almost radiates off you. Those of us who have the training can feel it. We just never knew what your Talent was."

"How can I have Talent? I wasn't born here."

"You weren't," Sarah agreed, "but one of your parents was born here, or maybe one of their parents. Your Talent is rare but it's not unheard of. About the time I sent the steel to the university, I also sent a letter to a woman who said she read a book that claimed there are other realms. The author died a couple hundred years ago, but she claimed she could travel to three different realms. If she could do it, I see no reason to doubt some other rare Talents can do the same thing. Tell me, is it easier for you to transport over to here than it is for you to go back?"

Aaron felt as if a light had suddenly snapped on. Questions he had not been able to answer suddenly had answers that were clear. "Yes it is," he said wonderingly. "At least after the first time, when I traveled blind with no idea where I would find myself. That was hard and scary because the chances were very good that I'd arrive in the middle of a rock or a tree, but now that I have locations memorized it's easy to travel here, only sometimes I'm not sure if I can return there at all."

She nodded understanding. "That makes sense. Over here Talent is common and natural but the means to use it is rare. Over there, I think the opposite holds true. I think Talent is rare but the means to use it is plentiful."

"Aaron," Cathy said, "I've suspected there was something different about you for months, and then when I was in the lower cellar while you were sick--"

Resigned, Aaron sighed. "So what are you going to do with me? What do you do with traitors?"

Sarah shook her head slowly. "You are no traitor. You were a boy pulled into something without your say. Aaron, those people are not your family. They cared for you only so they could use you. You owe them nothing, and if what you have told me is true, you have actually given them nothing."

Emotion welled up in him. His stomach clenched, and his head was about to shatter. "But I betrayed you," he whispered. "I betrayed you and I betrayed them and I betrayed myself. I told them of you, plotted against you, except in lying that I could have brought people over to harm you. I didn't let them know I could do that, and so I betrayed the people who gave me back use of my body. After I almost died they spent a fortune putting me back together and now I can't do anything to repay them." He slammed his fist down. "GODS DAMN IT! I can't do anything. All I can do is wait and look and hate myself for not acting."

Exuding sympathy, Cathy put her hands on his shoulders. "You told them we existed? They knew that from the other man. You plotted against us? How? By caring for us? By helping our poor, carrying their debt when you knew they could not pay? Yes, you could have brought people over and caused us harm, but did you? No. You lied to them about our government. To us you did not lie. To us you said nothing. You did not know us. Now you do. You had no home. Now you do." Reaching up, she grasped his face between her hands, and she kissed him lightly on the lips. "I claim you as ours." She released him and stepped back. Sarah moved in.

"Aaron, you were a child when they took you in. Children owe nothing for the care they receive. We owe nothing to the people who raise us, but we do owe a debt when we become adults. We owe a debt to society. We owe the next generation of children. We do not owe people who take us in only because they see a later use for us. Those people are the users, Aaron. They have used you to do something against your nature, and that using is tearing you apart."

She grasped his face between her hands. "A little while ago Cathy claimed you as one of ours. She did not need to do that because you made yourself one of us a long time ago. You decided what was right, and you acted on that decision even if your acting was to do nothing more than sit still. In this case, doing nothing was the right thing. Aaron, I don't claim you for us. However, I do claim you for yourself. I also give you the right, again, to use my given name at any time." Lowering her head, she placed her lips against his for a short kiss.

"As do I," Cathy added. "We both give you public use of our names without reservation, and Aaron, we ask the same boon of you."

Aaron nodded numbly. "Of course you can use my given name. You have always had that right. This formality of names doesn't exist where I come from, so I'm not as touchy about the matter as most of the people are over here."

Sarah nodded her understanding. "Now I have to ask you a question, Aaron. Were there many women at this place where you were raised?"

"No," Aaron said. "Not really. No permanent ones anyway. Sometimes a few of the militia members snuck women onto the base, but I seldom saw them. Usually, I only heard the rumors. The only contact I ever had with women or children happened either before I turned eleven, in a hospital, or after I came here."

Cathy looked knowingly at Sarah. "I told you."

"You did," Sarah admitted. "Aaron, another question. Do you know what it means when a man and a woman, or two women, grant one another the full use of their names in public?"

"Friendship and trust?"

"It does. It can also mean a vow of caring one for another. Among women it can state an appreciation for each other, a willingness to share and mutual affection. Between a man and a woman it is often a declaration of affection, a statement of a mutual courtship with marriage as a possible result."

"It does!" Aaron gulped and felt his face grow hot as the implications sank in.

"Yes. With that understanding Cathy and I still give you public use of our names." Sarah seemed unnaturally tense. Cathy gripped her arm.

"I--I--I never th--thought a woman could care for me in that way," Aaron stammered. "I thought you were teasing me."

"I was." Sarah smiled slightly. "I was also being honest with my intentions."

Aaron looked at them, one older by half a decade, the other young enough to be illegal back home even if she was a year past marriageable age here. Sarah, tall, independent, stronger than he in all the ways that mattered and Cathy, brown haired, brown eyed, a waif, but a waif who had held her family together for two years, fighting starvation and cold and winning her battle by the rules she imposed upon herself.

Belatedly, he realized that it did not matter what he wanted or said. Individually, the two of them could out-stubborn him hands down. Together, they were a force to surrender to.

"Yes," he finally said. "You can use my name. I already care for you both. I trust you both. Might even love you. Only I don't know for sure because I've never loved anyone before, but I think I do. Love you. Gods, this is all new to me."

"And to us," Sarah said. "The thing is, Aaron, I always knew I'd share a man if I ever wed, but I never thought I'd share my courtship too. Cathy and I, we have to work a few things out, but that is for later. Right now, I want a gift from you." She gestured at the revolver with her free hand. "I want you to gift me with this and some lessons in its use."

"Of course," Aaron said. "Anything you want."

"Good. One more thing. During this rather one sided courtship I have kissed you several times. You have never kissed me back, not even once. Cathy?"

"He never kissed me either." Cathy looked affronted. "And after all the hints I gave him too. He didn't follow up on any of them."

"I don't know how," Aaron confessed, doubting his face could feel any hotter. "I never had anyone to kiss before."

"Me neither," Cathy said. "No men anyway. Why don't we all learn together?"

The subsequent lesson took over an hour. Aaron practiced enthusiastically, and so did Cathy, but Sarah insisted they were only beginning to get the hang of it by the time the hour was over. Obviously, much more practice was needed. Sighing resignation, Aaron admitted that she was correct. He agreed to regular practice sessions and complained about the horrible things the two of them forced him to do.

They both hit him.

That somehow made him feel good. It felt like he had scored a secret point.

Later, while lying in his loft, he wondered if it was proper to start a romance when he still had blood staining his soul. As much as he wanted to, he could not convince himself that it was right. He made a silent vow that in the morning he would visit the Lady's temple and the Lord's parish, and he would ask forgiveness from them both. When that was done he would go back to his youth, and he would pray to Jesus to forgive him his sins.
Chapter 12

"Klein!"

Helmet slowed his walk and then stopped when he saw Johnston rushing toward him. The blond giant ran like the ground was nothing more than an unwelcome impediment slowing his way. He moved like a marathon runner, not like an army grunt wearing too heavy boots. Helmet grimaced. Johnston was one of those people he just did not like. The man seemed to have been gifted by the gods. He was tall and blond and blue eyed and had one of those flashing smiles that women liked. More unfortunately, he had the coordination of a professional athlete, which made him dangerous. Worst of all, he also had a sadistic streak that would have sent him to prison if he had been anywhere but in Field's Militia.

Stopping before Helmet, Johnston crisply saluted. He did not even have the grace to breathe hard.

"The General's compliments and he requests your presence in his office immediately, sir."

"Tell the General I will be there shortly," Helmet said.

"Sir, the General requests your presence now, sir. He asks that I be there for the meeting."

Johnston's manner was exactly proper for a non-com addressing his superior. His bearing was more military than the military's. Helmet did not trust Johnston's mien for a second. To Helmet, it seemed like the man was mocking the military and the Militia while simultaneously silently laughing at Helmet Klein. All signs showed that Johnston was a man with little respect for anyone or anything. They said that he was the type of man who enjoyed trouble for its own sake. Helmet recognized all those signs since Helmet had been such a man once. General Field still was.

There was no help for the matter since Field was still too useful to alienate. Matters in Chin were still in flux so he needed more guns and ammo. In fact, he needed more of everything except men. He had plenty of warriors among his chosen people, which was fortunate because all the militia sponsored "advisors" he carted along with him on every trip across were more of an embarrassment than anything else. Generally, he paired them off and sent them as permanent envoys to one tribe or another. If good luck ran with him--they died. Usually they died from hunger or exhaustion or because one of the natives they were advising did not like the given advice and so the native kindly removed the advisor's head. Some few of the advisors died because they fell off a horse and were too stupid to cushion their heads before they banged into the rocky ground. Unfortunately not all his advisors were totally incompetent. Some thrived. A couple had fathered children on six or seven different women.

"If the General wants me there now, I think we had best step out."

Johnston answered with a superior smirk. Helmet smiled thinly back. Johnston needed to be educated Chin style. That would take some of the starch out of him.

The General held a book when Helmet walked into his office. The book's spine read The Art of War. The author was Niccolo Machiavelli.

"I have my doubts about Turner," Field began.

Helmet gestured toward Johnston. General Field waved his worries away.

"Forget him. Johnston knows every detail about the project. Starting tomorrow he is going into training so he can make it through carry over."

Great. Another parasite, Klein thought. "Doubts, sir?" he said with just the proper amount of disbelief. "I admit that I haven't seen a great deal of Turner since he became an active operative. Our respective tasks prevent us from communicating like we used to. Still, I find it hard to believe you need to be concerned about him."

"Perhaps, but I don't trust the man. I think he is lying to me."

"How so, sir? After all, I haven't seen any suspicious reports. The information he acquires seems to roughly fit the information I have about the more settled areas," he said, thinking, okay, Aaron me boy, what have you done now? How many times did I tell you to keep your lies simple and consistent?

"As far as those reports go, I see no reason to doubt the information he has given us," Field said. "My doubts run more along the line of wondering about his intentions. He has not been aggressive enough. He has not taken firm control of a single political entity. I think he wants to make this Isabella his home."

Now that, Hemet thought, sounded better. Aaron was not a stupid boy. A little slow sometimes but not stupid. It was bound to occur to him sooner or later that it was better to be on top of the command chain than on the bottom. The two of them were really going to have to connect sometime. Between them, they could easily control half the world if they worked together. That would really be something. It would be good to work with the Aaron again. At one time they had been a close team.

Back to the business at hand. "General, why are you telling me this? Aaron Turner and I no longer have a connection to one another. I seldom see him here, and I can't contact him when I am over there. The Chins I'm with have heard of the New World, but they could not even point me in the right direction to begin traveling to it."

"I am aware of that, soldier. However, the Jefferson government is an intrusive body that is trying to penetrate my operations. I do not trust Turner to not give them information if he is somehow approached, and I do not trust the government to stay the hell off my base. Because of this, I am setting up a new, less conspicuous base that you need to know about. There may come a time when you return here only to find that this operation no longer uses these facilities. In such an event you will need to know how to find me."

Field pushed a closed envelope across his almost bare desk. "Memorize this and then destroy it."

Helmet took the envelope and opened it. The address inside was easy to remember since a near perfect memory was a requirement of his Talent. He read the address, read it again, and then slipped the letter and the envelope into the shredder.

"Are you going to let Turner know of this place, sir?"

Field shook his head no. "I told you, I don't trust him like I do you. No, Turner is not going to know anything about this. Because I don't trust him, I've taken steps to make sure he doesn't betray us. I won't have this operation jeopardized by that damn cripple."

"That's probably best," Klein agreed, feeling worried. Maybe there was some way he could get a message to Aaron. Maybe he should just bug out, ship himself over and not come back. He still needed the supplies, but he did not need them all that badly. At this point, though the extra supplies would make things more comfortable, the lack of them would not make his task impossible.

Field had continued talking. Some of the information he imparted had been lost.

"Pardon me, sir."

Closing his eyes slowly, exasperation spread across Field's features. "I said the operation will not continue for much longer. We have enough funds because of my inheritance and the gold you bring back to run matters for another year. I might have enough to get along for two. No more. The stock market has crashed since your last visit, and the government has been running constant lawsuits against us. If a tree gets hit by lightning in Columbia City, they blame it on us and try to pull money out of me. No, I don't see things continuing the way they are for much longer. It's about time you prepared for my position among the savages. Build rumors around me. Get them thinking of me as a great ruler, their new Emperor, or even a messiah. I want things running smooth when I take over."

"Yes sir. Matters are almost ready for you to assume command now. They will be more than ready in a year's time."

"Good. Good. I am grooming Johnston to be my personal assistant so he will fill you in on exactly how I want things arranged."

"Yes sir."

Field gave him a sloppy salute. "Dismissed soldier. You have been doing good work."

Helmet saluted him back, ignored the openly grinning visage of Johnston, and left the General's office. He was glad for the conversation since he now knew matters would have to speed up. He would have to hurry to assure that his title of Emperor was secure. Even under the best conditions, subduing enemy tribes took a lot of time and a lot of ammunition.

Thinking about Aaron, Helmet wondered what steps the General had taken to ensure Aaron's loyalty. The matter was worrisome, but there was little Helmet could do to help the boy. Aaron would have to figure matters out on his own.

No worry there. Aaron Turner wasn't stupid. Helmet had no doubt he could manage matters smoothly enough. After all, the kid had been raised by the best.

### Chapter 13

"This thing wants to jump right out of my hand," Sarah complained. Raising the gun, she took the Weaver stance Aaron had shown her and fired once more.

The board she aimed at remained still. Despite paying close attention, Aaron did not know where the bullet actually hit. For all he knew, it and all the others she had fired were heading in the general direction of the moon since he saw no sign that she had even hit the hill her target sat on.

"It's a powerful weapon but perhaps not a very accurate one." Cathy smiled as she watched Sarah's frustration. "I don't think it's good for anything unless you happen to be within a few feet."

Wordlessly Aaron took the .38 snub nose revolver from Sarah and casually fired it one-handed. A board jumped and fell into the weeds. He fired the gun's last bullet, and a gouge tore across the face of the fallen board. Sarah scowled, and he winked at her. The years he had spent practicing with handguns sometimes paid off. There weren't many weapons a one-handed cripple could wield effectively, so he had spent thousands of hours perfecting his technique.

"Sure it's easy if you use Talent," Sarah complained haughtily.

Cathy swished through the weeds to set the fallen board back up. "There is a hole almost exactly through the center," she called helpfully. Sarah scowled.

Aaron held up a finger. "You jerked the trigger instead of squeezing." Another finger. "You flinched in anticipation of the noise and the recoil." A third finger joined the other two. "You closed your eyes."

He waved the three fingers in front of her face. "Three strikes you're out. How do you expect to hit anything with a method like that? As I recall, you would have whacked my silly hide off if I handled a sword the way you do this revolver."

"You did handle a sword this badly, and I did whack your hide off, and what do you mean by three strikes?" Sarah laughed. "Unfortunately for you, the only way to pay me back in kind is for you to shoot me with that thing. I'm telling you right now, if you shoot me I won't play kissy face with you anymore."

"Can I try it?" Cathy asked, breathing a tad heavily from her trip up the hill and back. "I listened to everything you told her."

"Sure." Aaron quickly punched out the spent brass and inserted new cartridges. "Now be careful." He handed her the gun. "Don't ever point it at somebody unless you mean to shoot them, and don't expect much because a short barreled gun isn't the most accurate weapon."

Smiling reassuringly, Cathy walked to the designated firing line and took her stance. Pulling back the hammer, she aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.

The board remained exactly and perfectly still. Once again, Aaron had no idea where the bullet went. Holding the revolver in her left hand, Cathy shook her right in the air.

"This does jump a bit. It needs a firm grip." She grabbed the gun with her right hand again. Taking her stance, she brought her left hand forward, grabbed her right wrist, and fired off four quick shots.

The board tipped over. Cathy squealed and jumped excitedly while Sarah looked disgusted. Aaron quickly grabbed the waving gun from Cathy's hand. For one moment he had looked straight down the barrel. Now _that_ was an uncomfortable feeling.

"There is still one shot left," he admonished her.

"I'm sorry." She looked appropriately contrite. Then she brightened. "But I hit it."

"I don't believe this," Sarah groused. "I fired that thing at least fifty times, and I hit nothing but squat."

"The noise doesn't bother me." Cathy pulled back her hair to show a bit of rag stuffed in her ear.

"I should have thought of that," Aaron admitted. "Earplugs are standard practice on the other side." Sarah elbowed him in the ribs, making Aaron wonder if he should have second thoughts about this romance thing. So far it had not done much except give him bruises on his ribs. Come to think of it, most of his relationship with Sarah had involved her beating up on him. Maybe there was a little sadist in her and more than a little masochist in him. The gods knew self- flagellation had become his favorite sport.

"Thanks a lot," Sarah said wryly. "But truth to tell, I still have no liking for this weapon. It doesn't have any real weight to it. Not like a sword anyway."

"I thought you might not like it for exactly that reason," Aaron told her. "Cathy gets the revolver. I brought you something else you might want to try."

He went back to the wagon Cathy had driven for them. Reaching into the back, he pulled out a shotgun and a box of shells.

"This is a Winchester Model Twelve pump shotgun. These shells are double-ought buckshot. That just means that there are several large pellets in each casing. Let me show you how to hold a shotgun."

He showed her how to stand, taught her a proper mount and then spent a few minutes trying to figure out how to load the thing. Fortunately, he knew a lot about firing shotguns. Unfortunately, he had never actually fired one. The safety threw him for half a moment. It was not a button behind the trigger like he had expected. It was actually a lever.

"I never shot this," he explained, red faced. "I only had one good arm, and these things definitely require two. Now be sure to keep it good and tight to your shoulder."

"Wait!" Cathy rushed up to brush Sarah's hair aside and shoved small bits of rag into her ears. "That should help some."

Sarah raised the Winchester, flipped off the safety, and pulled the trigger.

The board leaped into the air with a twist.

After setting the shotgun aside, Sarah gingerly rubbed her shoulder and grinned broadly. "Now this I like.

Within the next hour they ran out of ammunition, and Aaron admitted that the ladies knew enough for this day. Both of them could hit a target if it was relatively close and not moving, though Sarah's target did not need to be as close as Cathy's. The next time they practiced he would have to move the targets back and talk to them about lead and drop, though he supposed Sarah really did not need that particular lecture. Her lessons as a warrior and archer would have covered those topics. Besides, the lesson would be easy to teach her if she did need it. He had a lot of birdshot, and there were a powerful amount of birds available. However, he was not sure what he would do about Cathy.

It was fortunate they ran out of ammunition because the sun had gone down, and it was a forty minute drive back to town. There was no way he could have convinced them to leave if he still had ammo left. They absolutely loved their new toys.

It was so late when they finally started back that Sarah had to light the hand lanterns so they could see the road. He was afraid the beast pulling the wagon would bolt or quit or something but the mule plodded sedately on with Cathy's prompting, and damned if he could understand how she managed to control it.

Worthing, the stable hand, greeted them when they returned the rental.

"Ho, Mister Turner and to both you fine ladies. I was getting worried with you out so late. The Mistress Bade, she told me she rented you a good solid mule, but we know how you are with creatures, sir." He quickly began unhooking the mule from the wagon. "I'll give her a rubdown and a good feed before I leave, good sir. The Mistresses, they'll be getting impatient about now what with having dinner ready, but they can wait a bit longer."

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so late, Mister Worthing" Cathy apologized. "I'm afraid it was my fault. Can I pay you a little for your wasted time?"

"Oh no, no." Worthing waved a dismissive hand. "The Mistress Bade, she already seen to that. Mister Worthing, she said to me, 'We owe that man for saving our business. She says to me that Mister Turner has really put this place back on its feet."

Sarah and Cathy looked at Aaron. Aaron shrugged. He had no idea what the man was talking about.

"What did he do?" Sarah finally asked.

"Why, who would a thought of it," Worthing exclaimed. "Those hunters of his brought in more out country horses than I've ever seen. At least four mares a day between them and those horses ready for more if I may say so, excusing your lady's pardon."

"The Master Smith," he continued. "He said Mister Turner wanted to put them up for stud. He said Mister Turner thought the Manor had held these bloodlines close for too long, and it was time to let them loose in the world. Why, it's a miracle how much money they bring in. Three gold a mare it is, and two of those three for the Mistress." He shook his head in wonder. "It brings in more than half our profit, it does. The Mistress, she's been talking about making Mister Turner a partner in the stable with those horses as his stake. She figures that way Mister Turner won't take the horses away."

"If she would like to do that," Aaron told the man, "you can tell her that I am hesitantly agreeable to the idea. Mistress Townsend will be my representative in the negotiations. She has full power to commit me to any deal she feels is just. I'll be out of town for a few days but I promise to stand behind any deal she makes." Damn. Maybe those horses would pay off the Manor's bill after all. He had wondered what Jorrin had done with them since he had never been presented with a bill for their care.

Sarah mock glared at him. "Thanks a lot. Don't blame me if you lose your cute little behind."

Aaron pointed a steady finger. "Hey, you are the one who wanted to become a team. Well, Cathy is doing her share with the store. She practically runs it herself. In fact, she will be running it by herself while I am gone. Now you can do your share and figure out what those horses are good for."

Sarah chuckled. "I think the good smith figured that out some time ago. All I promise is to do my best."

Quietly laughing, Worthing led the mule away. "I'll tell the Mistress," he called back.

"And where do you think you're going for a few days?" Cathy asked pointedly while they walked down the boardwalk toward the store. "I don't recall you mentioning a trip."

"Yes, tell." Though her voice was quiet, Sarah's face showed that she would brook no waffling on his part.

Apparently, there seemed to be more than one drawback to a steady relationship, Aaron reflected. It had been a while since he had been expected to report his whereabouts to anyone on a regular basis. True, there were his reports to Field, but those did not count since most of what he told Field were lies.

"I'm going to the other side, to Jefferson." Aaron spoke with his most appeasing voice. "I need to find out more about what is going on, what the plans are, and if there's been any success in the Militia's attempts to make new travelers or if they are going to be successful building a traveling machine. Besides, I need to steal ammo for your guns. I only have a few thousand rounds for each of them."

"Please do," Cathy murmured. She looped her arm through his and pressed close. "I wouldn't want Baby to go hungry."

Sarah was not put off. "Home is here. With us. If you want things from the other side you can just go someplace else besides that compound." Her stride was stiff. Danger sign.

Cathy's hanging on his arm was very distracting. Aaron had no doubt she knew this. They were double teaming him, each one using the method that worked best for her. He had to admit that the effort was very well coordinated even though it had not been planned. On the other hand, at the moment they were teamed against him. That was not something he wanted to encourage.

"I can't go anyplace else," he explained. "I've tried. The complex is the only place I can cross to."

"You walked into town," Cathy observed. "Now you arrive in your cellar, but you did walk into town that first time." She snuggled her cheek into his arm. Aaron straightened his back so he was almost her height. Cathy was very good at this.

"You did walk into town the first time." Sarah's stance had not softened. "I saw you. You were dusty and tired. It looked as if you had come from far away."

"It was a half day walk," Aaron admitted. "It surprised me that I made it because I could never manage to walk more than half an hour on the other side. For some reason I don't understand, when I change worlds my body changes too. It becomes whole when I am on this side and crippled on the other."

"So why is it you can arrive in different locations here but can only go to one place there?"

"I don't know," Aaron admitted. "I just can. A picture comes into my mind of someplace over here and that's where I go." He paused. "Except that first time. I did a blind jump then. Helmet and I traveled at the same time because theory said I would be pulled along with him, but something went wrong, so I came here instead of winding up somewhere in Chin. Helmet thinks our abilities interfered with each other."

"So," Sarah said triumphantly, "the first time you traveled blind, but after that you were only able to go to places you knew. Has it occurred to you that the only place you really know over there is the compound? Maybe what you need to do is to get away from there and find someplace else."

Cathy's head lifted. Her steps slowed, stopped, and her hold on his arm halted him. "How obvious. Yes, Aaron, find a new place. Get out of there. They must know your limits. After all, they have another traveler so they must know you can only go somewhere you are familiar with. That's why they kept you in the complex and didn't let you go anyplace else. They wanted you to have nowhere else to go."

"Oh." Aaron felt stupid. He had done this for nineteen months, had lived in Last Chance permanently for fourteen of those months, and in all that time he had refused to question many of the expected limits. These two, when learning of his limitations, had possibly discovered a way around one of them in a few moments.

Sarah reached out and took his other hand. "Okay, go back, but only this last time. I'll make you regret it if you ever go into that compound again." She squeezed his hand hard for emphasis.

Cathy kissed his shoulder. "I'll help her," she said gently.

* * *

They returned to find the store's annex uncharacteristically full for a place supposedly closed to business. Missy was teaching Jorrin again, which was something Aaron had expected. However, he had not expected her to have an additional five students. Furthermore, three additional children and Mistress Turnbull were also there. The children sat in Aaron's chairs, but the Mistress sat in an oversized armchair Aaron had never seen before. Mister Townsend played chess with the Mayor at one of the end tables, while Doc Gunther read a book to the elder Mister Knight and his two wives.

It was, altogether, a very respectable gathering, especially for something so totally unplanned.

Glancing up from his book, Doc saw Aaron peering into the sitting room. He finished his page and closed the book. Rising, he pointed an accusing finger at Aaron. "Young man, it is past time I pulled those stitches from your head."

"Yes sir." Within moments Aaron was seated and squirming uncomfortably while the doctor cut the threads and pulled them free. Having so many people watching while he sweated and tried not to flinch did not help his aplomb.

"There, now. That wasn't so bad."

"Of course, it wasn't," Aaron lied. Truth to tell, it had hurt like a bitch. He wasn't sure the things had been ready to come out, but damned if he was going to say so with half the town looking on.

He had a headache again.

"Okay," Doc said. "A little more and we'll be done. I have to clean the wound."

Sarah spoke up. "That is for Cathy and me to do." Her stare allowed for no arguments.

Mistress Turnbull twisted awkwardly in her chair so she could look in their direction. "Is it like that then, Miss Townsend? Miss Bayne?"

Cathy nodded shyly. Sarah said a simple yes. At the table, Missy jumped up and let out a little cheer. Mister Townsend made a move on the chessboard and smiled slightly.

"About time," he muttered. "Mayor Golard, I believe you are in check. Mate in three if I am not mistaken."

"Right you are," Mistress Golard answered. "Mister Turner, I'd like to have a word with you after Mister Knight has his say."

"Do you wish privacy, Mister Knight?" Aaron looked at the elder Knight and grimaced. The man made Aaron uncomfortable. This man's son had damaged him. Now the elder Knight was here and Aaron was here and so was Jorrin. Jorrin had hurt young Steven more than a little, so the entire situation was uncomfortable.

"No sir, I do not," Knight said. "My son started this in public so what I have to say can be spoken in public. Mister Turner, I apologize for the actions of my son. He did you a terrible wrong. Mister Bran made him pay a price, but that price is not enough. Please sir, exact any penalty on me that you feel is fair. I will pay any amount you set if you will forget any and all grudges you hold against Steven."

Aaron thought about the events of the last few days. In the time since Steven Knight had sucker punched him, Aaron had seen death and found possible love. Anything that had happened outside of those events paled into insignificance. Steven Knight and his jealousies were matters too small to take up much of Aaron's time. The stitches were gone, and the question of Sarah was answered.

"It's over," he said. "Tell your son that I shall forget the incident unless he revives his ire. I believe I have won the affections of Miss Townsend. That is recompense enough. "But...!" The unconscious iron in his voice sent chills even through him.

"But," he said in a quieter voice, "if he wishes to continue our argument, then he is welcome to do so. I warn you now, sir, that the next time he starts something between us the finishing will be mine. I will have satisfaction whether he strikes like a coward, from behind, or has the courage to stand up to my face."

Aaron took a look at the serious expressions pointed his way. A giggle wanted to break free from his throat as he realized just how ridiculous he sounded. What the hell was he saying? Steven Knight was twice his size. The man could break him with one hand.

"The matter is finished, sir. I will see to that. Thank you." Knight hurried from the store, taking his wives with him.

Aaron sighed in relief. The bluff had worked.

"You handled that well," Jorrin applauded. "Just the right message at just the right time."

"I don't want to face young Knight again," Aaron said truthfully. "The man scares me half to death."

Jorrin laughed. "Why do you think I had a chat with the fellow? I was scared of what you'd do to him. The man is a fool, but I don't think he deserves to die."

Aaron let it ride. In this case Jorrin and the others were more foolish than Steven Knight. They kept trying to make him into somebody he wasn't. Not one of them saw the real Aaron Turner. Not even Sarah and Cathy saw the person he truly was. They insisted on building him up into some sort of dangerous creature it was better to walk carefully around than to confront directly.

"Doctor Gunther, could I interest you in a game?" Mister Townsend raised his eyes inquisitively.

"I don't play for free."

"Hmmm." The miller raised his brow even higher. "Shall we say a copper a game?"

Doc sat down at the chess table. "Pretty cheap stakes if you ask me."

"Two coppers then?"

"Perhaps we could talk in the main store," Mistress Golard said. "It's more private in there."

"Sure." Nodding, Aaron followed her out of the sitting room and into the store. "What is this about?"

"Miss Townsend told me your story." She held up a hand. "Don't be angry with her. She was only doing her job. Besides, several of us already suspected something of the sort. This kind of thing is rare, but it has happened at least twice before that I've read about. Truthfully, we were only waiting for you to step forward and tell us yourself, and by we I don't mean just the leaders of Last Chance. I mean the government of Isabella too. They are the ones who sent me the information on Talent Travelers."

Shock ran through him. Up until now he had consciously chosen to ignore the entire central government issue. "Are you telling me that you suspected what I am and still accepted me?"

"You really gave us no choice since you fit in so well that we found it hard to remember you are really an outsider no matter where that outside originated. What matters, Mister Turner, is that you won our hearts and respect. We knew this was your home."

Aaron grabbed her arms. Her elbow slipped off his counter, and she stiffened. "Why do you people keep doing this to me?" he demanded. "You treat me like I'm somebody special, like I'm somebody important. Jorrin thinks I'm tougher and meaner than he is. Sarah thinks I'm dangerously fascinating. Cathy thinks I'm her knight, and the rest of you have me made out to be so many somethings that nobody could live up to half your expectations."

He drew in a deep breath. "Mistress Golard, I'm a nobody. Nobody! I'm a small frightened man who has been pushed into being where I am right now. I don't deserve friendship or love. By the Gods, I spied on you!"

The Mayor laughed in disbelief. "Oh Mister Turner, you don't know yourself. Maybe you aren't who we say you are, but you are certainly not who you think you are either." Freeing an arm, she poked him in the chest with a stiff finger. "I know Sarah very well. She wouldn't fall for something that she dreamed up after eating too much bad cheese. The woman is far too pragmatic to do anything so foolish as that. As for Cathy, she has had more than one opportunity to be used by knaves these last few years. None of them stood a chance against her. That lady has a very sensible head on her shoulders."

"What I want to tell you," she continued, "is that I sent a message to the university in N'Ark. Because of this I'm sure you'll receive a visitor from there before too long. Whatever happens, don't worry. This is your home. This town won't stand behind you. We will stand proudly beside you."

Aaron felt humbled. This woman had such a fire in her that anything she said could only be believed. Her eyes blazed with solid conviction. Her bearing was stiff with righteousness.

Her intensity scared the hell out of him.

Missy had finished her lessons when they went back into the sitting room. After congratulating her students on their progress, she hurried Mistress Turnbull and her brood out the door. The doctor finished his game and won two coppers from Mister Townsend, not without a good deal of gloating on his part. They cleaned up the chess area and said goodbye.

Aaron noticed that the doctor took the book he was reading with him. Missy saw Aaron looking.

"I hope you don't mind," she said hopefully. "There are very few books in town so people are always hungry for more. I loaned out some of your books, but I made up a separate card for every book I loaned out, and I wrote down who borrowed the book on the card. After word got around about what I was doing, a couple people donated their own books"

"It isn't her fault," Jorrin added defensively. "The young lass was trapped once she loaned a book to Mistress Halfax. Once word got out that you were loaning books to her, people assumed they could borrow some of the others, too."

Sighing, Aaron looked more closely at his shelves. Less than twenty books remained. "Cathy, the next time we see Mister Bronson, remind me to order a whole bunch of books. Better yet, just tell him to pick up a couple hundred or so. New books will be sold. Old books can be brought in here and are free to be borrowed."

Her eyes lit up. "Can I be in charge?" Her face sparkled with excitement, softening the remaining gauntness. The mood change transformed her from somewhat lovely to stunning. Aaron did not stand a chance against her beseeching eyes. He gave his permission.

"Oh good," she exclaimed. "We'll call it Bayne's Reading Emporium. I can set up a few chess and checker games. I'll charge a half copper an hour for use, and I'll charge fines to people who borrow books and don't return them in a reasonable time. Oh I know! How about if I sell tea and treats, too?"

Aaron mentally kissed his comfortable sitting room goodbye.

"And I can give lessons in the evening when the store is closed," Missy added, visibly excited. "I'll charge a copper an evening and give every third one to you, Cathy. Oh this is wonderful."

Setting a massive hand on Missy's shoulder, Jorrin guided her towards the door. "Come along, little lady. It's more than time for us to leave. Goodnight people."

"G'night," Aaron said as Jorrin gently shut the door behind him.

Cathy looked at Sarah. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "Now?"

Sarah nodded. "All right, buster. Off with the shirt. We have some wounds to tend." She wasted no time in helping Aaron off with his shirt, much to his discomfiture. They examined him like he was a bug under a glass.

He was far too aware of his scrawny body for the experience to be pleasant. His ribs were too prominent; his chest too flat. Sure, he now had some muscle. The last year had been good to him that way, but his was still a child's body when compared to that of most of the local men.

They firmly turned him around.

"Is that red normal?" Cathy asked. Aaron grew warmer. A prickling sensation ran up and down his skin.

"At this point it is," Sarah replied. "I've seen a lot of them, and there wasn't a one that wasn't red right about now."

"Oh." Cathy's voice turned thoughtful. "It's rather pretty in a way."

"Really? I don't think so at all. I'd say it's ugly."

"Hey," Aaron protested.

"Oh shut up," Sarah said. "I've seen too many wounds over the years. Every one of them is horrible."

Cool hands touched his back and then a damp cloth. They were careful, but it still hurt. By the time they finished Aaron's jaw ached from grinding his teeth--except they did not stop washing him once the wound was clean. After all, Sarah commented, why should they waste such perfectly good wash water? Aaron got the impression they were enjoying this more than a mere washing merited. They made several comments about bone structure and compared him unfavorably to Mister Bran, but then the smith was so hairy, they admitted, who could know what was under it all. Surely the Mistress Brans?

Since they were having fun washing him, he let them have their way until they crossed the limit. There was no damn reason for them to drench his head. After deciding they weren't playing fair he grabbed the basin from Cathy and threw its contents at them. That started a wrestling match, and then they ended up laying on the wet floor, getting wetter, at which time the ladies spontaneously figured that he needed to further his lessons on kissing. The ensuing contortions hurt his back, but by that time he really did not care.

Matters eventually had to turn serious. After they dried off as best they could, Aaron gave the store's keys to Cathy and kissed her goodbye. She clung to him until Sarah pulled her away and sent her to the inn.

"Aaron," Sarah said with quiet worry as they watched Cathy make her way across the street. "She's still very young. Do us all a favor and go slow with her. Please. I know you must be in a state with the both of us crawling all over you, but it's too soon for her."

Feeling unsure, Aaron looked at Sarah. She seemed--defensive. It was the first time he had ever seen her look that way. He wanted to reach out and hug her, but something, perhaps the fact that they were truly alone, made him hold his impulse in check. Being affectionate with Sarah without Cathy present seemed wrong somehow. The idea felt like cheating.

"I'm not very comfortable with this myself," he admitted finally. "In Jefferson, Cathy would still be a child. I feel like a monster taking advantage of a little girl, especially since I seem to be chasing the two of you at the same time. The rules where I come from say that one man is only allowed one woman."

"And is it never different?" Sarah asked.

"Oh sure," he admitted. "Sometimes it's two men and two women. Sometimes a man or a woman looks for someone outside their marriage. A lot of lives have been ruined that way. Every so often jealousy causes murder."

Sarah was aghast. "I can see why one man would kill another, but why would a woman do that? Men have to be shared or hardly anybody would have a husband and children--and why would two men mate? That seems so unnatural."

"You think it's unnatural for two men to be together but not for two women?"

"Well, of course it isn't wrong for women to be together. There are so few men that some of us women have to look to each other. I've done it myself, and so has Cathy. It isn't every family that can afford more than one wife, so of course women bond sometimes--but men-- _"_ she shuddered. "It seems such a waste."

Understanding, Aaron nodded. "Yeah, well I've heard the same thing said of women who bond in my world. Truthfully, I never really cared one way or the other--but then I've never--well, you know."

Her eyes grew large. She fought against and lost to a laugh. "Never?" She wiggled her hips suggestively and then blushed. "Not even once?"

"Not even."

She frowned. "I won't lie to you, Aaron. I have twice with men and several dozens of times with women here and when I was on the border. Will that matter to you?"

"No," Aaron lied. It did matter but he wasn't going to let her know that. A faint twist of green jealousy squirmed through his insides but there was no way he would let that monster out. The lesson of Mister Knight was not lost on him. Sarah had no patience for a jealous man. "As long as you don't again. I couldn't stand thinking of you with another man."

"No way." She smiled in relief. "When this woman commits, she commits all the way. Um--would you mind if we didn't--you know. Not forever, but maybe we should wait until Cathy is ready. I don't want to leave her out. She's young still so she might feel hurt."

This woman was tossing his insides around in too many different directions. Aaron had no idea when Cathy might be ready but he knew damn well he wasn't ready himself, even if he was too ready right now. He allowed a smile to spread across his face.

"No, that would be best. I know it will be better for all of us."

"Good." Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek. Her lips felt soft against his skin, and he remembered the first time she had done that. It had been his first kiss. A lot of other kisses had come his way since then, but he was glad to discover that this kiss was just as sweet as the first.

Sarah kissed him again, patted his cheek, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Just don't be so careful with your hands the next time the three of us are together. Learn to loosen up and have fun. I won't be offended, darling. Promise."

Drawing back, she left with a quick patter of footsteps on the boardwalk, leaving the scent of fresh sweat and clean hair behind.

Feeling inexplicably sad, Aaron walked back into the store and went to the counter. The money box drawer was open because he had made sure it was unlocked before he gave Cathy the keys. A dozen gold coins were plenty for his needs so that was all he took. Truthfully, they were probably too much. He might not be able to carry half that many when he transferred over. Before leaving the main store he was careful to shut the door. He could not lock it since Cathy had his keys, but one night unlocked would not hurt matters. The locals were honest enough, and the Movers had no reason to be in town after dark.

The ice room seemed unnaturally cold as he closed its door and lifted the trap in its floor. Light from his lantern gleamed sinisterly against the walls and floor when he went down the steps.

Several dozen crates were stacked against the far wall where he had left them. All together they held one hundred and thirty weapons with ammunition for each. Two of the crates held bars of silver. So far he had only used a part of one bar to set himself up in business.

Thinking ahead, he opened the cover on one crate of silver. The women might need it for something. Besides, he was willing to bet they'd be snooping if he did not come back anytime soon. Sarah would want more shells for her Winchester, and Cathy was worried about Baby getting hungry. If they saw the silver they might not snoop any further, thus keeping them out of potential trouble.

Despite all his efforts, he failed to cross over on the first six attempts. After throwing away one gold coin, he allowed the sadness inside him to fill his soul until he felt black and alone and lost. Longing rose in him and desire for the freedom of escape. He sought with his mind, grasped something intangible and--

Flicker

### Chapter 14

"You're late again," Derrick accused.

"I'm always late on Fridays," Perk calmly replied. "You know that. I don't get off until seven, and then my classes run until ten thirty."

Dark eyes suspicious, he glowered at her. His long nose twitched, a sure sign that he was trying to smell out a lie. Perk felt exasperated. Derrick was a suspicious man. He had been burned too often by too many inconstant lovers to fully trust another woman. Because of this, he was a man who needed constant reassurance of his place in a woman's life. Most of all, he needed to know that his needs, his will, his desires came before anything else in the life of his lover.

In other words, he was an ass.

"I don't like it," he insisted. "I don't like you being out this late. Anything could happen to you."

"Derrick--dear," she said in her most exasperatingly reasonable voice, "would you please tell me what is likely to happen that I am not perfectly capable of handling?"

With a quick twitch of his head, he spun abruptly on his heels to walk into the kitchen. Typical response. Derrick always retreated when he could not come up with a snidely superior remark. His refuge of choice was silence and glowers and meaningful stares that had no meaning. For the most part his childishness beat the alternative. Derrick was not a small man. He was large and often violent. Less than six months ago Perk had run across one of his old girlfriends, and the two of them sat down and had a long girl talk. The ex-girlfriend told Perk a tale of midnight beatings and constant infidelity. Yes, she admitted, Derrick had not been the only cheater, but to be fair her cheating had begun only after Derrick had proven himself to be inconstant. Unfortunately for her health, the order of events had not mattered to him. Being with an unfaithful partner was more than he could stand so he beat the woman, called her a whore, and then did his best to turn her into one.

That, at least, was a trick he would never try with Perk. Derrick might be a big and dangerous man, but Perk had no fear of him. She was far more dangerous than he could ever be. He was anger and spite and jealousy and depression, and he owned an overwhelming ego that insisted he was the best damn human being on the planet. He was muscle and speed and pure hell with edged weapons.

Perk was discipline and training. Neither of them doubted that if it came to a fight, she would win.

Pushing her way through the kitchen door, she found Derrick standing at the stove. Hamburger, beaten until it was nothing but thin grains of meat, sizzled in a pan. Barbecue sauce, spices and yellow cheese rested on the counter. Beside the cheese were bowls containing vegetables and rice and a drained can of fish. Looking at it all, Perk was extremely happy she had grabbed a bite before coming home.

"I want you to quit." Derrick gave the meat a quick stir before he tossed onion into the pan. "I think you really need to quit."

Perk snorted. "And how do you think we will pay the mortgage then, Mister This Job is Beneath Me. Driving a taxi might not be the best job in the world but it's the only one we have between the two of us."

Allspice, garlic, meat seasoning, cloves, cinnamon, and ginger went into the pan. Perk wanted to gag when the smell hit her.

With a quick flicker of his hand Derrick tossed the food and spices together, breathed in appreciatively, and frowned at her. "I don't want you to stop driving. I think you should stop all this training. Gives you more time to drive the cab and more time to pick up fares. Think of it, Perk. You will bring in extra money and spend less. Things won't be so tight for us then."

"They would not be so tight," Perk said emphatically, "if you actually held down one of your jobs for longer than a few days. Things would not be so tight if you did not pollute your body three times a week with your buddies at the strip clubs."

"This isn't about me."

"Oh, no? I suppose it isn't about you having to borrow money last week so you could treat the girls at the Treasure Chest to drinks they could have bought for half the price."

Dropping the spatula onto the counter, Derrick turned and glared. "I knew you were going to throw that at me."

"I ain't throwing nothing at you but the truth," Perk snapped back. "I could care less about your drinking and your whoring, but I do care about you spending my money on your women, and I care about your jealousy rearing up its ugly head every time you get a snoot full of hooch. I won't have it, Derrick. This isn't going to happen if you plan on staying here."

Giving her his patented glower, he turned back to the stove and emptied the can of fish into the pan. The barbecue sauce followed.

"This isn't over," he said. "Not by a long shot it isn't. We both know that more is going on between you two than just lessons."

Perk refused to answer him. Eyes watering, she escaped from the rank smell of the kitchen and made her way to the bathroom, leaving him to his suspicions and his spite. Once in the bathroom she stripped down and turned on the bath water, taking care not to get under the shower head. Warm water spat out of the faucet and cold water sprinkled out of the shower head until it, too, became warm. The gaskets in the shower knob needed changing again, something she had pointed out to him only six times in the last six months. Damn the man anyway. He was little more than a drone, a parasite living off her wages and complaining the entire time. He was a slug, a beast. He was...

Well--he was a damn good lover was what he was. Derrick did have that going for him. Occasionally, he could be thoughtful, and sometimes he even brought her flowers.

She was starting to wonder if that was enough. Somehow, it did not quite seem to be a winning formula for a lifetime partner.

Well la dee da. Who did she think she was lying to? No way was Derrick marriage material. Chances were, he would not be around in another year. The only real question was which of them would get tired of the other first. That was the only mystery in all her love affairs. In a few weeks or months she and Derrick would have one last fight; then he would be gone, and she would be alone again. Within a few weeks she would have yet one more lover to add to her growing list, one more live-in parasite who would use her for a week or a month or a year.

God, she was pathetic. She really needed to get a life. She needed to get involved with something different. Maybe there was someplace out there where she could find a few men who weren't all jerks.

Nah. Dreams like that were nothing but pure fantasy. They were just dirty smoke dispersing into filthy air.
Chapter 15

"Oomph." His shin banged into something. He stumbled to the side, tripped over something else, and smelled the heavy scent of a lemon based cleaner.

Okay, so they did not keep the room empty when he was not expected. The least they could have done was to leave a light on. Motel Six would have left the light on for him, and they did not even know who he was. Smiling ruefully to himself, Aaron wished he had brought a damn flashlight, and then he voiced a quiet curse as his arm slowly curled up into his chest and his fingers bowed in.

Face contorted in pain, Aaron rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Just this once," he whispered pleadingly. "Couldn't you have let me be normal just this one time? It really would have helped."

He received no answer, but then he really did not expect one.

Time to leave. Where the hell was the door? For that matter, where the hell was the wall?

He only fell over debris three more times before he found the door. It was locked. Fortunately, he was able to unlock it from the inside.

The corridor was dark too. In this case, however, nothing was piled on the floor waiting to trip him. He fumbled along on aching legs for several minutes before his groping hand found the unlocked doorknob to an inner office. Once inside, he found the light switch and flipped it on. The glow tubes flickered to life, relieving his light starved eyes. He looked around cautiously and saw that this was an inner office so there were no windows to let the light out. That was good. He would only have to worry about someone seeing stray light seeping under the door.

Searching around, he sought something on the desks or hanging on the walls that would tell him what office he had entered. His eyes found three desks with computer terminals, but that told him nothing. Desks and computers tended to pair off frequently around here. There! The wall near the furthest desk was covered with newspaper clippings. Moving closer, Aaron saw that every article was a story on the Eastland Vipers.

Which meant this had to be Don Avery's desk. Only he could be such an avid fan of a team that had not finished above two hundred for the last twenty years. The odds were so poor on the Vipers that bookies cried on those rare occasions when the team actually won a game.

If the desk belonged to Don then this room must be the procurement office. The procurement office was only three doors down from his arrival room. In other words, he had taken the long way around the corridor to get here.

Don's desk was locked, but the desk across from his was not. In the compartment above the desk Aaron found a phone directory. In the upper right hand drawer of the desk he found a .32 automatic tucked far to the back. He had a conversation with himself, and the two of him agreed that it would be a good idea if he took the gun, so he did.

The compound directory did not list Hill, but Gore was listed, and he was the only other person Aaron dared contact. He dialed the four number extension and prayed real hard.

Gore answered on the twelfth ring.

"This had better be damned good." Gore did not sound happy. Aaron did not blame him. The clock on the office wall read two- seventeen.

"Gore, this is Turner. I came back early, and I need a favor. I have four coins for you if you can help me."

"Turner? That you? You ain't supposed to be back for three more days. Hang tight for a minute." Aaron heard a click as Gore set down the receiver. Gore's voice came to him faintly. "Quit whining woman and go back to bed. I paid you enough to get woke up at night--Hey--Hello. You still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Aaron said. "I'm in the procurement office, and I want a ride out of here. You know how it is. The damn place I've been going to has bored me to death, and the brass never let me really do anything when I'm home. Well, I'm home early, and I'm looking for a little excitement."

"Now how the hell am I supposed to get you out of here?" Gore sounded incredulous. "The gates are shut at night. Nobody gets out. Shit, security's so tight that even during the day you have to have your head stuck halfway up the General's ass before you're allowed to leave. Two privates were shot last week just because they asked for permission to quit the militia, and a recruit was killed a couple days ago when he was found trying to climb a perimeter fence."

"Things never used to be so tight," Aaron said, incredulous.

Gore snorted. "Up until you started taking your little trips, wasn't hardly anybody who knew what was going on, either. Now, everybody knows, and the General's getting paranoid about turncoats and spies. So tell me Turner, how am I supposed to get you out of here without getting us both shot?

"How about the same way you got that whore in?" Aaron suggested while fighting back a grin. "Since women are never allowed in the complex I really have no choice but to think that you have a way to get the young lady out. That was a woman I heard, wasn't it? I mean, personally, I've hardly ever seen a woman inside the compound so I might be wrong about who it is you're sleeping with."

"Aw hell, " Gore said irritably. "You weren't supposed to hear her. Yeah, it's a woman. There's been more than a few of them through my bedroom this last year, though why a crip like you--"

He shut up. Perhaps, Aaron thought, because he was embarrassed by what he was about to say. The more likely reason was because he did not want to antagonize his supplier of gold coins.

"Every fence has a hole," Aaron said encouragingly. "You've been in the militia for a long time. Long enough to know how to work the system."

"Okay," Gore finally said after several moments of silence. "I can do it, but it's not going to happen for a while. Can you hold your wanker for about three hours, or is that asking too much?"

"I can wait."

"Good. Meet me at the back entrance at five-thirty. I'll be in a windowless brown van. And Turner, you better have the coins. Arranging this so we both get to keep breathing isn't going to be cheap. Got it?"

"Five thirty. Brown van. Back door. Have money," Aaron recited. "Instead of holding my wanker I'm going to take a snooze. Call this number before you leave." He gave Gore the extension number and made him repeat it back. After hanging up, he pushed his chair over to Don's desk. Sitting in the chair, he spun it so its back was to the desk and leaned back until his head rested on the Plexiglas covered surface. Grimacing, he carefully raised his twisted legs until he managed to slide them onto the other chair, and then he relaxed. An item caught his attention before he shut his eyes. One of the clippings taped to the wall had a recent date printed on it. Apparently, the Vipers had lost. Again.

* * *

Aaron grabbed the ringing phone with his good hand and jabbed at the flashing button until he finally managed to mash it down.

"Fifteen minutes."

"All right."

Hanging up the phone, he got up, turned off the office light, and exited out the door. As best he recalled, the stairs would be fifty feet to his right. Another thirty feet would find a corridor. Turn left and he would be at the back entrance. Simple.

Not so simple. He arrived at the back entrance with two minutes to spare. It was amazing how easily a person could get lost in the dark.

Headlights off, the van pulled up, stopped, and its back door swung open. Moving awkwardly, Aaron left the admin building and hobbled to the open van door. Once there, hands reached out, pulled him in, and Aaron found himself momentarily buried in arms and legs and torsos. Something hard jabbed into him. Pain lanced through his back, and he gasped aloud, but whatever had pushed against his wound was removed.

The van door slammed shut, and he was suddenly struck by montage of several different cheap perfumes that made his eyes water and his sinuses clog.

"Hey love, where you been all night?" Curious faces, shadowed hues of light and dark, half hidden in shadow, stared at him. Lots of curious faces. Female faces covered by red rouge and dark eyeliner, reshaped by surgery and pills. Why had he so seldom seen women in the compound? He must have been dead blind because there sure seemed to be a mass exodus going on.

"You the man what woke me up?" one woman asked. Aaron looked up into a vaguely Asian face and nodded yes.

"No talking," Gore yelled back. "Cover him up."

The Asian looking woman smiled sweetly at Aaron, slapped him, and hissed. "Don't wake me up again."

Someone else knocked him down, and the next thing he knew he was being smothered by a lot of female posteriors sitting on the blanket that now covered him. Several of those posteriors smelled of recent sex. The odor was unsettling.

"Don't you dare bite," one voice whispered.

"You can bite me," another voice breathed huskily. "I like men who bite."

The van slowed and then stopped. Aaron heard Gore roll down his side window.

"Pussy wagon. Morning run."

"Why are you driving? Today is Johnston's turn." The guard's voice sounded more tired than curious.

"Traded off," Gore said. "Johnston was beat, and I owed him a favor."

"Don't like it. Things are dicey enough, what with the General being so paranoid lately. Changing the routine only makes things more dangerous." A light shone into the van. "Well, I suppose everything looks fine. Give me my twenty." There was a pause. "Okay. I'm off in an hour. After that you're on your own because my replacement isn't part of this."

"Fine. I'll be back in time."

Two minutes passed before Aaron's captors relented and let him up. Meanwhile, someone had passed gas far too near his face. The stench was impressive.

"Get up here, Turner."

Aaron awkwardly climbed over several women. It hurt his pride, but he was forced to ask a couple of them for help because his limbs were spasming and aching. A woman crawled over the top of him and into the back, placing a knee deep in his stomach along the way. When he finally settled into the front bucket seat it was a relief to his twisted limbs but he had to lean forward because a button on the seat back pressed right into the stitches Doc Gunther had given him.

"Got my coins?" Gore demanded.

Aaron was prepared. He only had four coins in his pocket. The others were stuffed into his socks. After clumsily fumbling out the four golds, he handed them over.

Gore weighed them in his hand for several moments before finally turning his gaze to Aaron. "There's a bag under the seat with clothes in it. Soon as I drop you off you better put them on. I want you to meet me at the drop off point at eleven o'clock Thursday night. Any later and I won't be able to do a thing for you. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have any money?"

Aaron laughed. "Now where would I get money?"

Disgusted, Gore snorted. "What I thought. Here's two hundred. That should last you for a couple days. If it doesn't last, you'll have to go hungry because you ain't getting any more from me."

Taking the money, Aaron stuffed it into his pocket.

"Okay, I'm pulling into this service station. The van is low on juice and needs to have its batteries recharged. Out you go."

Aaron had the van door open before the last words were said. He jumped out before the van came to a complete stop. Big mistake. When he landed his right leg collapsed under him, and he fell, bruising his hip. Rising hastily, he rose, picked up his bag, and limped into the service station.

It was one of those places he had seen on holovision. In addition to offering recharging bays, it sold a few groceries and a lot of beer. At the moment the store was empty of customers except for two men who leafed through a motorcycle magazine and the clerk who read a magazine of her own.

"Can I use your restroom?" Aaron asked.

The counter girl did not look up from her magazine. After peering closely at the cover, Aaron made out that it was a celebrity gossip rag.

"Quadriplegic Deaf Mute Pregnant with Porn Actor's Child," the headline screamed out in bold black ink. "Girlfriend Walks Out and Wife Seeks Alimony," smaller print declared. A full color picture of two women screaming at a couple of cringing men appeared beneath the print.

Aaron could not help it. He had to know the rest. Leaning closer, he read more.

Delores Hernandez became mysteriously pregnant after her husband accidentally left a porn movie in the player. Since, after six years of marriage, Mister Hernandez had never had congress with Delores due to her immobile condition, the only conclusion she could draw was that she had been impregnated by the actors on the screen. Not knowing which male actor was actually responsible for her condition, Mrs. Hernandez instantly filed suit against both Frankie Wadsworth and Harvey Vile, as well as the producers of the film, claiming that her pregnancy was caused by an act of cinematic osmosis. Meanwhile LeBra BaBoom, girlfriend of Frankie Wadsworth, walked out of Frankie's life because Mrs. Hernandez's pregnancy proved that he had apparently been unfaithful to their living arrangement. The next day Harvey Vile's wife, Demur, moved into LeBra's new apartment and then filed suit against her husband for...

Lowering her paper, the counter girl gave Aaron a long stare with red veined eyes. She reached beneath the counter. "Around back. Here's the key," she said, tossing a ring with two keys toward him. Aaron tried to catch them with his clawed left hand but missed. They hit the floor with a clatter. The girl leaned forward to study him better. The instant pity in her eyes when she saw his condition was almost more than Aaron could take. "Oh hey, I'm sorry!"

"No problem." Aaron slung his bag over his shoulder and bent stiffly to pick up the keys. "Thanks."

When he finally managed to pry the rusty lock open Aaron discovered that the bathroom was filthy. Upper lip curling distastefully, he found a corner that looked slightly better than the others and changed his clothes. Although Gore's clothes were too large for him, a belt snugged the pants up tight enough so he would not become unexpectedly embarrassed. He rolled up the cuffs so he would not have to walk on the cuffs like an adolescent boy. The white turtleneck shirt Gore had provided draped over him like a tent, but Aaron had heard the holovision say that large clothing had been the fad last year so he figured he would be okay. Before he slid the shoes on he made sure to pull the coins out of his socks. They had already raised some blisters. Tying his shoes was more than difficult with only one good hand, but he eventually managed to finish the chore.

After using the urinal he washed his hands for a long time. The supposedly liquid soap in the dispenser was a hardened gel and there was no paper to dry his hands on. Local reading material, graffiti roughly carved into the wall, told him more about Mary Cunningham and what she would do for half a dollar than he really wanted to know.

Returning to the main store, he thanked the girl and gave her back the key. She looked a long time at his face while absently changing a ten. He stared back at her until she caught his ire, causing her to instantly blush a pretty pink.

"I'm sorry, but that cut looks horrible. Why don't you have it sealed?" Her voice was thin with embarrassment, but she actually sounded concerned.

"I will when I get to the city," Aaron answered. "But I need to call a cab to get there. Where do I tell them to pick me up?"

She looked at him strangely.

"I hitchhiked in."

"Oh. Well, tell them Arc's Charge and Go on Thirteenth. There's a card for the cab company taped on the wall by the phone."

After dropping a nickel into the phone, Aaron dialed the number of the cab company listed on the card taped to the wall because they promised prompt service. The cab arrived precisely at seven thirty, one and one half hours later. It took him to the bus station where he bought a round trip ticket to Columbia City. Twenty-two dollars thirty cents were spent on cab fare and the bus ticket. Aaron was not sure, but he thought he had been taken by the cab driver. The fare seemed high.

Several people moved aimlessly around the bus station when he got there. Once, two men dressed worse than he was sidled closer. After he allowed them to see the butt of the thirty-two they moved on because only the rich, the connected, or the law could afford a gun. Aaron certainly did not look rich. He did not look like much of a criminal or lawman either, but he did have a gun.

At eight-forty-five a black exhaust spewing white bus with gold lightning bolts and an advertisement for an energy drink pasted across the side pulled up to the station. Aaron climbed on the bus. Since he was first on he moved directly to the back so no one could sit behind him. The floors and seats around him smelled of stale urine. In all, once the bus began moving, less than twenty people rode with him. They each sat in separate seats and rode in total silence, seeming almost afraid to speak. Within minutes the purr of electric motors and the hum of the tires over the pavement were so hypnotic that Aaron had to fight to keep his eyes open. This was the first time in over fourteen years that he had been free to see his home world as it actually was, so he wanted to miss nothing.

The world looked dirtier than he remembered. Abandoned buildings ripped by his eyes as the bus reached fifty miles an hour on the expressway. Building windows were broken almost everywhere he looked. Brick walls were spray painted with slogans and curses. Bottles and discarded bags lined the roadway. Garbage was strewn where the bags had broken open on impact, a sure sign that some people thought the freeway made an excellent dump.

Aaron supposed that in comparison, the Isabellan Federation seemed the more desirable place to live. True, it had outdoor johns, but they were clean. Yes, horses and wagons traveled slowly along its streets instead of the quick moving, clean burning electric vehicles in Jefferson, but he really did not desire to go anywhere in a great hurry. Isabella had bandits and raiders and savages. Jefferson had gangs and thugs and savages. No, Aaron decided as he watched the world swirl past his window, this was not his home. This place was closer to Purgatory.

At twelve-twenty the bus dropped him off in Columbia City. He found another pay phone, called another cab, and waited twenty minutes before it arrived. The thick-necked female driver behind the wheel looked less surly than the last cabby he'd hired. She was certainly more prompt.

"Where to, mister?"

Mister? Where was the respect behind that word spoken in such an abrupt manner? She used the word like it was just a way to fill empty air.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Someplace with pawnshops," Aaron answered irritably. "Better yet, how about a place that deals in rare metal?"

"That would be Sim's, if you want somebody bonded," the driver said. "You got three for the fare?"

"I have it." Aaron dug it out and waved it for her to see. "Double three if you don't talk." She gave him a thumb-up. Good as her gesture, she stayed silent for the entire trip while Aaron decided that yes, the other cab driver had taken him for a fool. Three was less than a quarter of what he had paid the other cab for a trip only a bit over twice as long.

When they reached the rare metal exchange Aaron gave his driver a twenty, asked her to wait, and painfully hobbled into the exchange. Once there, he decided that Sim was either an extremely young entrepreneur or he was not in the small building. Aaron voted for the latter. He hated to think the young man behind the counter was the owner of a thriving business.

"Whatcha got?" The speaker could not have been a day over twenty. His waist length hair was dyed purple and silver with brown streaks running horizontally through the whole. _MOM_ was tattooed in red letters on his left cheek. His right cheek was tattooed in black with the word _HATE_. A huge ring ran through his nose. The thing was so large that it brushed against his lower lip. Loops were embedded in his gauged ears.

One thing for sure, Aaron decided, the kid had to be somewhat honest or incredibly stupid. A fellow like him begged to be described. With the way he looked, it would be almost impossible for him to hide from the police.

Pulling out one of his coins, Aaron passed it over. The kid whistled as he bounced it in his hand.

"This pure gold?" His hands reached for test equipment and before too long he answered his own question. "Twenty-four pure and simple it is. Where did you come up with a baby like this?"

"Inherited a private collection," Aaron answered him. "Unfortunately, I have too many bills coming due." Something about the youth made him uncomfortable. It could have been the tattoos, but he figured it was probably the hair. Maybe it was nothing more than that his entire presentation was just so weird to someone who had come of age in a conservative militia. Aaron prided himself on being an open minded fellow, but in this case he had to admit defeat.

"Half ounce," the kid muttered as he weighed the coin. "I'll give you seventeen hundred for it."

Aaron's face must have shown his shock. He had been giving a fortune to Hill and Gore while they complained of his stinginess. They had given him the impression that the coins were worth only a couple hundred each. He stood mute for several seconds while the realization of his gullibility sank in.

"All right," the kid protested. "You can't blame me for trying. Today's price is thirty-two fifty. Here; look." He punched a few buttons on his desk computer and swung the screen around to face Aaron. Metals and prices flashed on the screen, and sure enough, gold was listed at thirty-two fifty.

Aaron was about to agree to that price when a thought struck him. Thirty-two fifty was not quite twice what the kid had offered him for his half ounce coin. He had assumed that the price was per ounce but no weights were mentioned on the screen. If the price listed was for an ounce then his half ounce coin could be worth no more than sixteen twenty-five, less than the kid had originally offered.

Reaching up, he fingered the mouse and scrolled the computer sideways. Weights rolled into view, and sure enough, gold was priced by the quarter ounce. Looking daggers at the youth, Aaron shifted so the outline of the gun in his waistband was emphasized.

"I think we will call it sixty-five hundred," Aaron said slowly. "The difference should be a sufficient fee for your services."

"That's your price," the kid said. "I'll give it to you but don't go threatening me. This place has lethal alarms all over it. All it takes is one suspicious move before something nasty hits you. You stay there, and I'll write you a check."

"No," Aaron said. "I want it in cash, but I want thirteen thousand." He pulled another coin out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter.

The cab driver was still waiting when he left Sim's. Remembering her role, she gave him another thumbs up and remained silent when Aaron climbed into the back of the cab. She looked into the rearview mirror and raised her eyebrows.

"I want to find an apartment I can rent. It must have high security, be in a safe area, and not care too much about identification. Do you know of any place like that?"

With a slight nod, she put the engine in gear. The cab's electric motors whirred as she pulled out into the street.

The place she found was a thirty story high-rise on the edge of Columbia City. When Aaron stepped into the lobby alarms instantly went off.

Three people jumped out of nowhere and pointed guns at his head. "Hold Still!"

"Holding," Aaron promised, though he jerked his good hand over his head while pressing the useless arm to his chest. One man lowered his weapon and moved behind Aaron. Moments later he patted Aaron down, grunted with satisfaction, and jerked the automatic from Aaron's pocket.

"Well now, what have we here?"

"A gun," Aaron ventured when the man moved in front of him. The fellow was balding, overweight, and had very serious eyes. "It's legal, registered and everything." He hoped the man was not in the mood to call for a police check.

"Do I look like I care?" the man asked. "No weapon is legal in my building unless it's carried by one of my people." He eyed Aaron suspiciously. "You look more like street scum than someone who belongs here."

"I know I look bad," Aaron said desperately. Looking down gun barrels made him very uncomfortable. "But I came here to rent an apartment. My cabbie outside told me this was a really fine place." He looked quickly behind him. The cab was visible through the lobby window. The driver gave him a quick thumb-up.

"We don't do temporary leases."

"A year. I want to prepay for a year if you can guarantee privacy."

The man's expression changed from hard to business. "One of those then. That explains your clothes. Okay. We provide a safe and secure place, but we have rules. First rule. No weapons. Every doorway and most of the hallways have sensors so don't even think you can get one past us. If you want a weapon in your room we will have to carry it there for you. Rule two. You don't do business here. We don't care what you do so long as you do it someplace else. Rule three. Almost no visitors. You can have two guests in your rooms for four hours twice a week and an overnight guest once a month, but that is all. We do not allow hooking, drugs, or gambling, so any reason you might have to invite guests in are limited. You don't need to give us your name. In fact, we prefer you don't. All we require is payment up front and a thumb scan so we can program your front door. Rule five is especially important. You don't mess with the other guests. People come here because they want privacy and security. Every once in a while somebody gets the bright idea that they can rent an apartment and stalk some celebrity who happens to rent from us. That is bad and we do press charges. Twice, someone tried to assassinate a guest. We felt no need to prosecute their remains. Our protection and security only holds inside the building. Once you walk outside you are on your own."

"I can live with that," Aaron said, wondering if he should have been nicer to the cabby. Surely there was someplace with friendlier staff. "How much?"

"Five seventy five a month, with a thousand dollar security deposit."

Almost half a year's wages for an average worker, but the security and having a travel point away from the compound would be worth it.

"A deal." Aaron paid for a year and handed over eight thousand dollars. "Keep the change."

"I'm the manager," the man said, "and that is all you need to know. I won't give you my name because nobody in this building has one. If you need me, just ask for the manager."

Twenty minutes later they finished processing him through the system, and then they had to take him up to the twenty-second floor, Room 2217. Aaron thought the apartment was really nice if you liked white empty, but it would not remain that way because he made a deal with the elevator operator, a short blond woman with surgically enhanced breasts. Aaron knew they were surgically enhanced because she made a point of telling him so. By some not so strange coincidence, she just happened to have a furniture catalog he could leaf through. After five minutes of flipping pages Aaron decided he did not care what his furniture looked like so he handed her a thousand, and she promised that his room would be furnished by early evening.

"Would plan three be best?" she asked.

"I suppose," Aaron answered. "It really doesn't matter." He handed her another couple hundred because the Traveler's Rest had a limited drink menu. "Could you stock the room with some liquor? Nothing too fancy. I'm as interested in quantity as I am quality."

"Yes sir," she answered, and she gave him a welcoming smile while her fingers caressed the money. Cocking her head slightly to one side, she slowly unfastened the two top buttons of her uniform to give him a better view of her surgical results. "Would you like some company tonight? I'm free, and my rates are reasonable."

Aaron swallowed. "I thought there was a rule against that?"

"The rule concerns outsiders, sir. It does not apply to in-house services."

"Maybe another time."

Shrugging, she pocketed the money and refastened her buttons. "Your loss, crip."

* * *

The cab still waited when he left the building. Several men waited just outside the door.

"There he is!"

They rushed him.

Weight struck him in the side, and he hit the sidewalk with his shoulders. His arm screamed at the abuse and his convoluted legs twisted spastically. Fire ran through his wounded back, and he could not breathe.

"The gun's gone!" A fist hit him in the face. Hands clawed at his pockets.

"That's my fare!"

Clawing, trying to suck in just one lungful of air, Aaron heard flesh striking flesh. Somebody groaned, and Aaron's breathing eased. When a body rolled off him he stabbed out with a stiffened finger on his good arm. A yellow-haired head pulled back before Aaron's finger connected with an eye. He heard a crack, and the figure rolled limply away.

"Are you all right?" the cab driver asked anxiously, a short length of a wooden pole hanging from her right hand. Nearby, one body lay supine on the sidewalk while the blond figure staggered away.

Aaron shifted his twisted arm. The thing hurt like hell but it would serve as well as it usually did. Of course, it never did all that much normally, not on this side anyway. Slowly, with the help of the driver, he pulled himself erect and found that his legs ached more than usual. The pain centered in his hip joints, radiated down to his knees, and sort of gathered up in a huge ball somewhere in his thighs. Well, it hurt, but that was something he would have to live with. He had lived with worse.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Could you wait here?"

"I'll wait for as long as you're paying the meter," she answered as Aaron limped towards the front door.

Staggering inside, Aaron handed over his receipt and retrieved the .32 from a guard who carried it outside the building for him. The cabby opened the passenger door, waited until he climbed in, and closed it with a soft thunk. She walked around to her side of the cab, slid into her seat, turned to face him, and released an infectious smile. "Well, I guess I sorta broke the rule."

"What rule?"

"The not talking rule. By the way, I recognize those two from earlier. They were hanging around outside of Sim's when we drove up. My guess is that somebody tipped them off that you have a good deal of cash." She smiled. "So much for being bonded. Where we going now?"

"We are going to eat," Aaron told her. "Your choice where. I'm starved, and you get a free meal."

She shook her head. "Sorry, the company won't let me have lunches when I got a fare. The meter runs until you're done with me."

Now that Aaron could see her better he saw that she was quite a bit younger than he had originally thought. His original estimate had placed her somewhere around thirty-five, but it was now apparent she could be no older than twenty-eight. Though not beautiful, she was still attractive in a rugged sort of way. Her red hair was cut short around her ears; freckles generously dotted her face, and silver studs gleamed in her ears. Two jade studs decorated the right side of her nose. She had broad shoulders, strong looking wrists and thick fingers. A weight lifter maybe.

"How much would it cost to keep the cab for the day?"

"Rest of today? Around eighty-three dollars on the meter. I have to take the cab back at ten tonight."

"Then I'll give you two hundred. Pay the company and have dinner with me. Take me to a movie someplace. I always wanted to see one in a theater."

She looked hesitant. "Mister, that tip is six weeks wages."

"Lot less than you saved me from losing."

"I better tell you now," she said. "I only drive. I got an old man who don't put up with his woman fooling around. His last gal did that, and he almost killed her and her fellow." She looked apologetic. "Besides, you really aren't my type. I go for big strong men without--you know." She gestured toward his arm.

"Dinner and a movie only," Aaron assured her. "I'm new here. Don't know where anything is, and you saved my ass. Here's the money now. Your getting it doesn't depend on any decision you make."

After talking the matter over for a while she decided that she wanted to eat at Marood's. Marood's had a dress code so they stopped at a men's clothing store where he bought a very fine set of clothes for forty dollars. New shoes cost ten. Aaron was quite pleased with his appearance when he looked in a mirror so he bought a hat to finish it off.

By then, of course, she was the ragged looking one so he insisted she choose herself a new outfit too. That buying took considerably longer to accomplish than his had taken. Before she finished Aaron heartily wished he had kept his mouth shut, but after she modeled something like her six hundredth outfit, he was willing to agree that she looked nice in a pale green evening gown. Her legs were fantastic, shapely and firm, not showing the over developed mass of her arms and shoulders. The dress was a pretty match for her green eyes. One hundred seventeen dollars and a four dollar tip. No doubt about it, women's clothing cost more.

Marood's was everything she claimed it would be. Aaron tried wine for the first time in his life and liked it too much. He tasted foods he had never imagined existed. Each separate serving was presented on a small plate that was promptly whisked away when it became apparent his interest in it had waned. Before the meal was finished he wished he had a bigger stomach, but he had always been a light eater.

The movie they went to see after dinner was a disappointment. Aaron had hoped for an action flick, but she drove right past the screens showing Al Burridge and Hugh Times, two of the biggest names he had heard passed around by the other members of the militia. Instead, she pulled into a theater showing a holo flick about a woman on a farm. Three interminable hours later he finished watching the woman suffer through floods and droughts and lots of human strife while she agonized over her infidelity to an extremely faithful husband. By the end of the flick he had learned one thing--that he hated chick flicks.

At nine-thirty she dropped him off at his new apartment. Deciding to hell with the bus, he took her card and made arrangements for her to pick him up the next afternoon. He would prefer taking a chauffeured ride back to the service station in Gaines where the company would be pleasant, and the smell would be greatly improved.

Looking at her card he realized they had never traded names. Hers, it turned out, was Kara Perkins. The familiar sound of her name sent a flood of remorse racing through him. Even though they had done absolutely nothing, he felt guilty for sort of almost being on a date with her.

"Tomorrow then?" she asked as she opened the door to the lobby for him.

"I'd like to be at the station no later than nine."

"I can do that. I'll just trade off shifts with Jerry." She closed the door behind him, and he made his way to the elevators after he checked in his gun.

His room had been furnished quite well during his absence. The silk sheets felt great on his skin after he showered. When he suddenly remembered that Mrs. Turnbull's daughter was getting married he decided that silk sheets would make a fine present for her. As far as he knew, the material was nonexistent on the other side.

The next day he took a closer look at the stacked boxes in his spare bedroom. The amount of drink that could be bought for two hundred dollars amazed him. Because of the exchange rate of gold between the two realms, Aaron figured Cathy's wages for a day would buy enough liquor to supply the inn for two months.

After he finished taking inventory he called the cab company a full two hours earlier than he had planned. They chased down Kara Perkins and pulled her into work early.

She flashed him a smile when he climbed into the cab.

"Sorry I'm late, and I know I'm a bit whiff, but my judo class ran long today."

"I don't have to ask if you are any good," Aaron said, remembering the previous day. She did smell of fresh sweat but the odor was not offensive.

"Semi-okay," she said, "but I'm better at a few other things. I actually have first and second degree black belts in five different disciplines. I'm still working on my black in judo." She shrugged. "Some of my teachers are disappointed that I haven't taken any discipline further, but I think it's better to be well rounded in a lot of areas than to be an expert in one. Fortunately, my judo instructor feels the same way. So, what's on the schedule?"

"Shopping first, Kara," Aaron said.

"Call me Perk. I don't go by Kara."

She proved to be more than happy to help him with his shopping. For Cathy, he bought a slim silver sapphire studded necklace with four small diamond pendants dangling from it. With a little further searching, he found a bracelet to match. For Sarah, he found a heavier plain silver necklace that was more of a solid wire than anything else, figuring that she would not like anything that could easily break.

Aaron decided Sarah would like a pocket knife, so he had Perk find a custom knife maker. Once there, he picked out a five inch spring loaded lock blade made out of imitation Damascus steel. Its rose colored stainless handle was inlaid on both sides near the top with tiger eyes. A leaping tiger, mouth gapping, claws extended, was engraved in silver and gold immediately beneath each tiger eye. The seller praised his fine choice and gave him a refrigerator magnet with Keefer's Custom Knives printed on its front side.

Perk drove him back to Gains early in the evening, dropped him off at the station and kissed his cheek goodbye. Because the money meant nothing to Aaron, he gave her half of his remaining coins, slipping them into her pocket and making her promise she would not look in it until the next morning.

Since he was early he played video games for a couple hours, doing poorly because his left hand was only good for pushing the fire button. Even then, his hand did not always react when he wanted it to do something. The counter girl was kind enough to get him a chair to sit in while he played.

At ten thirty he borrowed the restroom key, lifted his duffel, headed around back, and almost tripped on a pair of half-naked people grunting on the ground outside the restroom. The woman's eyes were glazed and distant, looking at Aaron without really seeing him. Jaws moving methodically as she chewed, she shifted her gum from one side of her mouth to the other. Though pretty, her face was bruised and her make-up smeared. Three teens stood around the busy couple, making jokes while they waited their turn.

Aaron went into the restroom and changed back into his Isabellan clothing, noting that the restroom was cleaner than the last time he had visited it. Because he still had time to spare before Gore came around to pick him up, he spent fifteen minutes of hard effort scrubbing away a good bit of the graffiti. When he left the restroom his newly purchased clothes remained on the floor.

Exiting he found that the boys were gone. Now totally naked and looking used, the girl still lay on the ground. Her glazed eyes refused to focus when they passed over Aaron. Two dollars and some change lay on the ground beside her. She blew a bubble.

Looking down on her, Aaron felt nothing but pity. He doubted she was older than Cathy, though he would not bet she was younger. He saw a wasted childhood, a ruined life. He saw a drug fogged mind, a body that was treated as nothing more than a common commodity, and a life that was lost. The sight depressed him. Here was another area where his new home excelled. Female prostitution was very rare in Isabella. There were far too many willing participants for the profession to pay. Of course, rape was another matter. Rape was the crime of a sick mind, and there were always those who were vicious or insane.

Seeing this girl, he could only think that she was the victim of those sick minds.

"Is your name Mary Cunningham?" he finally asked, remembering the writing in the bathroom stalls.

Green eyes tracking to his face, she blinked them several times before they finally focused. "Uh huh. Ya wan? Fif cens."

"No, hon." Pulling her up, he helped her slip her clothes back on. They were filthy, no more than the remnants of discarded remnants. By the time he finished, her eyes were focusing better. She gripped two dollars in her right fist, the change in her left. Aaron pulled out his money, separated out one hundred forty dollars, and gave the remaining eight hundred and change to her. She wouldn't take the money, did not even recognize that he was giving her money, so he stuffed it into her front pants pocket. Four two hundreds, a fifty, several tens and a one. Mary still clutched her two dollars with a death grip.

Aaron did not blame her. She had paid a great price for those two dollars. In comparison, his money was meaningless.

Aaron went back into the store and gave the counter girl the hundred. She had been more than kind to him, and he had no need of it where he was going. Not surprisingly, her reaction fell between sputtering stunned and clutching greed. Her attitude became effusive gratitude and clinging attention. Before long Aaron felt an intense need to brush her off his clothes.

Gore picked him up three minutes later. "Where's my change?" he demanded as soon as Aaron climbed inside the van.

Aaron gave him the forty-three dollars he had left.

"That's it?" Gore demanded. "How could you spend that much on whores and booze in only a couple days?" He stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. "Well, can't be helped, but damn, you cost me money. I'm making some pickups, and I don't want you seen, so you had best get in back again."

Aaron moved into the back of the van. Three stops later it was filled with women, and before they neared the compound he was covered by a blanket while the women sat on him again. Surrounded by the soon to be lost sisters of Mary Cunningham, he wanted to cry for every one of them.

They made it through the gate without any problems. Gore stopped briefly in front of the admin building, whereupon Aaron was unceremoniously chucked out the back of the van by several willing hands. Rising, he hobbled to the building and used a key Gore had provided to let himself back in. Once there, he used a pocket flash that Gore had also provided to find the procurement office where he took care to wipe the automatic clean and put it back in its drawer. Maybe it had been missed. Maybe its absence had not been noticed. Aaron did not care either way. As things stood, he would be the last person anyone but Gore suspected.

His arrival room was empty and unlocked, which was good because Aaron did not know how to open locked doors. He lay on the now bare floor and tried to fall asleep. Failing, Aaron counted imaginary sheep and daydreamed about an afternoon picnic with Cathy and Sarah until Sergeant Aimes finally opened the door at five in the morning. Aaron opened his eyes while holding the memory of Cathy's body pressed against him, feeling her arms around his neck while her lips, soft, sweet, giving, touched his. Seeing the Sergeant's grizzled face once his eyes fully opened, he regretfully closed them again and wished he were back in his dream.

Sometimes, he decided, reality sucked. Sometimes it really, really sucked.

### Chapter 16

"Turner. What a surprise. Have you finally realized that I have better things to do with my time than to stand around waiting on you?" Aimes' face was uncharacteristically pleasant. His lips almost curled into a smile.

Aaron reopened his eyes and slowly stood erect. Legs swaying, he saluted. "Making up for being late the last time, sir."

"At least you show respect sometimes," Aimes observed. "You may be the golden boy, Turner. I may not be able to get you under my thumb yet, but I have more than one way to make you miserable. Remember that." He peered at Aaron narrowly. "You sure took a beating since I saw you last. Somebody must have had too much of your insolence." He smiled, making Aaron think of a shark chasing chum. "Good for them."

"Sir!" Aaron shouted. It was as good a thing to say as he could think of at the moment because there was no getting on the good side of Aimes. All things considered, Sergeant Aimes was a pumped up, arrogant bastard. He had been forty-two when he joined the militia, an age far past that of the normal recruits. His hard assed no give attitude and the meanness of his soul had quickly raised him up to Corporal and then Sergeant. His inability to bend had kept him from rising higher.

"There is a meeting in the yellow room in two hours," Aimes said. "That's nineteen hundred hours to people like me who do more than pretend to be in the military. Until then you can help Corporals Hill and Gore move your supplies."

"Yes sir!" Aaron snapped a salute. He held his stiff pose while Aimes moved back from the open doorway, fuming inside because Aimes did not even try to hide his snicker. Aaron's fury rose at the man's attitude. It wasn't Aaron's fault that his salutes looked ridiculous. It wasn't his fault that his bad arm was a curled impostor lying against his chest.

Feeling useless, Aaron watched while Hill and Gore slowly filled his arrival room. There wasn't much he could do to help the two Corporals. The job was not exacting, and they gladly let him act as a supervisor. Hill made sure to get Aaron's last three coins and Aaron secreted his presents for Sarah and Cathy in the supplies. Once done, Hill and Gore sat against the stack of goods and closed their eyes.

Aaron no longer wondered why those two always seemed so tired. The truth was that they were always tired because they stayed awake most nights until far too early in the morning. Aaron definitely got the impression that they were in the Militia for no reason other than they had it pretty easy here. Since they were known as scam artists and connivers, they were the first two people Aaron had approached when he had wanted to cadge extra supplies off the base shortly after he began transferring over to Last Chance. The ease with which he had found these two made him wonder how many people in the Militia were here to further their ideals and how many were here because it was a relatively easy living. After all, it wasn't as if the Militia had to actually work to acquire their funding. General Field had been born with the advantage of owning two very rich parents. They were now long dead, but their money seemed to be more than sufficient for the General to support the Militia without feeling any financial pinch.

After a bit his two helpers yawned lazily and rose to continue on about their business. Gore offered Aaron his room to nap in but Aaron had slept enough in his empty room so he used the extra time his early arrival gave him to visit the facilities and to get a bite to eat.

When he sat down in the cafeteria he felt a lump in his back pocket. Standing, he fished it out and found that the refrigerator magnet from Keefer's had folded itself into a little ball. He had automatically put it in his pocket when he changed clothes at the service station.

Curious, he saw that there was a neat fold bisecting it, separating Keefer's Custom Knives Inc. from the address. He smiled ruefully, shoved it into his front pants pocket where it joined the rest of the miscellaneous trash he tended to collect, and then he sat down to eat. Dinner, Salisbury steak on a metal tray, tasted like leather covered with mud. He ate two helpings because, basically, he kind of missed the flavor of institutional cuisine. As a rule, his stay in Last Chance was marked by one overriding factor. He never got the chance to eat really lousy food. Part of him desperately wanted frozen pizza in a cardboard box.

Actually, eating two of the steaks was probably a good idea in and of itself. He was going to need lots of extra energy today. Keeping a string of lies straight and believable took a lot of effort and even more concentration.

* * *

"Raiders attacked Last Chance, and I was injured," Aaron lied. "The townspeople fought them off, but only after a great loss of life. At least half the adult men were killed. About a quarter of the women died or were carried off. I took charge of the rescue efforts after the raid was over, and then I took control of the town itself. The town's former leaders did not want me to be in charge, but the store was the most complete building left in the area since I sat in my doorway and shot anyone who approached it. Because of this, I happened to be the only person with access to adequate food and money. They had to make me happy if they wanted to eat."

"And your injuries?" General Mays asked, eyes filled with interest.

"My head was injured by a thrown ax. I think I was struck by its handle. We never figured out what struck me in the back." Aaron looked at Mays and wished he would shut up. It took unbroken concentration to come up with these lies.

"Since I gave them no choice, I was elected Mayor, and then I formed my people into the beginnings of a military organization. Two days ago I started training several people on how to use firearms, and when the training is complete I will have them attack either Joss or Burnridge. Convincing them to kill their neighbors should be easy since they are sure their attackers came from one of those two places."

"Once the town I finally choose is subdued, its remaining population will be absorbed into my existing organization. From there it should be easy for me to expand until I have the entire region under my control."

Aaron stopped and looked expectantly at his audience. Since he had no trouble transporting himself over from this side and thus had a ready escape route, he really did not care if they believed him. He just wanted to be alert enough to see their disbelief in time to use that route, although he doubted he had any reason to worry. His tale was almost completely unbelievable since everything had supposedly taken place in just over one week. However, the plausibility of his lie was not its main selling point. General Field's desire to believe any good news he heard was the winning factor.

General Field came to his feet and snapped a crisp salute of respect at Aaron. Aaron returned it with feeling. He did still respect the man and a large part of him felt he was betraying the years of care and all the money Field had put into him. Truthfully, he really had no problem with the General. His problem was with the plans the Militia had for Last Chance.

"You have finally begun fulfilling my hopes for you Turner," Field said approvingly. "Some of our people swore you were a pantywaist, but I told them to give you time. I told them you were suffering under severe handicaps that Colonel Klein does not have. I told them you were more than man enough to come through. It seems I was right once again."

General Mays spoke up. "You said you were ready to spread your influence, private. It seems you are doing so. Very well." He turned to Field. "You may rest assured that we will support you. Preliminary testing has shown that we have a dozen people with some signs of psychic talents that might be of use to you. Colonel Klein can transport a few of them over on his next trip. I will hold some of my choice personnel for when Turner can manage to move a few of them himself. However, I do insist on equal numbers of my people to yours. According to the figures you provided me, you presently have over a hundred soldiers serving with the Colonel. I insist that my people serve in equal numbers. No more of your men may go over until there is equality between us."

Field smiled amicably. "Done. Turner, very well presented. Do you want to go back tonight or do you want to wait until tomorrow?"

"Tonight, sir. My absence for a longer period would be hard to explain right now. Also, I don't want to give anyone time to fill the leadership vacuum my being gone creates. I have some loyal people, but one or two of my lieutenants are less than trustworthy."

Field nodded. "Betrayal is always a danger. Fortunately, the Militia has many people who are trained to ferret out traitors."

"One other question." The black captain looked intent. "In reading over your reports I have seen no mention of the racial makeup of your area. Are the people around you of Asian descent like those near the Colonel?"

"No, sir. My people are pretty much a mixed bag, equally Caucasian and the darker races. There has been a lot of inbreeding over the years so most people are mixed race."

Leaning forward, the captain pierced Aaron with hard eyes. "So you are telling me that I would have no trouble fitting in? I won't be someone who draws any special attention?"

"I didn't say that at all," Aaron corrected. "They will be prejudiced and untrusting of you because you are a stranger. However, your skin color will have nothing to do with that prejudice." The captain made Aaron nervous. There was something wrong with him. Some indefinable clue told Aaron to take great care.

Thank you, Turner. You may leave," Field said. "On your next visit I will require you to remain for a few extra days. Make whatever arrangements are necessary to assure your position during your absence. Rest assured, a new Corporal's uniform will be waiting for you when you return."

"Thank you, sir!" Aaron snapped as crisp a salute as his marred body would allow. Some small part of him felt pleased by the trust implied by the offered rank. Another part felt insulted. Klein was a Colonel, after all. Aaron should be made at least a Major. He was still young by the lights of the Militia, but he had been a member for fourteen years. Besides that, his ability made him rather unique. It grated on Aaron that he was supposed to take orders from sadistic people like Aimes and Johnston.

Then again, what was he griping about? He wasn't coming back here again so the entire question of rank was nothing but a way to artificially boost his ego.

Since the stuff really did grow on a person, he went back to the cafeteria to get himself another meal of pretend leather and mud after he left the yellow room. Finished and feeling curious, he wandered around for a while to see if there had been any changes in personnel or the environs. The constant cracking of firearm practice drew his attention so he soon found himself at the firing range watching raw recruits lying belly down on the ground, barrels aimed towards the back of a bullet chewed hillside where silhouette targets were set up. The air tasted sharply of burnt gunpowder.

Five men Aaron did not recognize fired their rifles while two instructors stood over them and shouted directions. The five were young and inexpert enough that they had to be new. One of the instructors standing over them was Johnston. The other instructor, Clack, was the one man that Klein was capable of taking to the other side and bringing back. Because of this, Clack had a special place in the General's esteem. Like Johnston, he was a sadistic bastard who liked to hound new people. Aaron knew of many cases where his training had caused recruits to suffer serious injury. More than one of those injured men had been unable to be completely repaired even with the help of modern hospitals. A couple had died.

Johnston saw Aaron and left off belittling the new men. Smiling viciously, he strolled toward his favorite victim. Aaron beat back an impulse to walk away. Johnston would not do anything to him. Though the man was an animal, he was not stupid. He knew Aaron was one of the untouchables.

"Hey there, crip, I see they let you back up here with us men."

"I see they have forgotten to feed you to the pigs," Aaron rejoined. "When are you going to give this up and go work in a prison system where you belong?"

Johnston's smile thinned. "The day is coming when I can get my hands on you. I'm looking forward to that. I really am."

"The day will come when I grow so bored with your tiresome threats that I'll have your guts pulled out and wrapped around your neck," Aaron rejoined. "Only one of us is indispensable, and that one is not you."

Johnston pointed a steady finger. "One day they will finish with you. After that you are mine. I've been promised. If I were you I wouldn't sleep too sound at night."

"Johnston!"

Back straightening, Johnston turned stiffly, saw the speaker, and immediately slouched insolently. "Sergeant Aimes, I didn't expect to see you out here where the real people work."

"I didn't expect to see you badgering one of our most valuable people," Aimes rejoined. "I won't have it."

"We are both Sergeants now."

"But I am the one with the General's ear. If you continue this behavior he will hear of it from me."

"Very well." Johnston turned blank unfeeling eyes back on Aaron. "Run along, lapdog. We can talk again later." Ignoring Aimes, he sauntered back to the shooters.

"Thanks," Aaron said.

"Don't thank me." Aimes scowled. "When the time comes I'm going to eat you alive. Not him. Me."

"I never thought any different. Thanks anyway." Aaron walked away from the man because he was Aaron Turner, the General's golden boy, and so nothing could be done to him. It was time to get back home because he really did not like it here.

Passing the conference room on his way to his supply room he saw that the conference was still going on. It figured. Brass seemed to love talk more than anything else.

Apparently, Hill and Gore had returned to add more goods to his pile and then left after throwing a tarp over the supplies, though why they would do that, Aaron had no idea. The pile looked considerably larger and heavier than anything he had moved before. No matter. He might not be as strong as Klein, but he really was able to transport over considerably more weight than the brass knew about. Generally, some days were better than others. This one felt like it would be a particularly good day. If he failed to take it all on his first attempt he would just separate some of it out and send it over in separate stacks, another little trick he had not bothered telling anyone about. He differed from Klein there, too. As best he knew, Helmet could only transport goods if he went along for the ride. Of course, when they saw the entire pile was gone they would know Aaron had been lying to them. However, at this point that did not matter since he did not plan on returning.

Flipping back a corner of the nylon tarp he saw several cases of twelve gauge shells, more than enough weight to comprise a complete load in themselves. Pushed up against the ammo boxes was a long, low coffin sized crate holding Aaron did not know what, and there was a miscellany of cardboard boxes piled around too. Since a single case of shells sold for at least twenty thousand dollars on the open market, this particular load represented a huge chunk of the general's money. The rest of it, well, he didn't know what the other containers held, but he was pretty sure Hill and Gore would not waste their time stealing petty items.

A note written on yellow paper was attached to the top case. Pulling it off, he read the spidery script.

"Hey, we had nothing else to do with our time, so we thought you might like a few presents to take along with you."

Aaron wadded up the note and threw it on the pile of goods so it would come to Last Chance with him. Hill and Gore had tried something like this once before, about six months earlier in an attempt to curry his favor, and maybe encourage him to bring back more gold coins. Since he did not want anybody to know everything he could do, he had chased them down and made them return half the items. This time...well, since he wasn't coming back he might as well take it all, even if the pile was larger than anything he had imagined trying to transfer before.

The entire load slipped from his mental grasp the first time he attempted to transfer. Grasping it tighter, he held it in a firm mental grip and wished himself home with every ounce of his being. He cast his mental field around it all, felt himself too weak to handle so much as a third of what was there, and then a sudden burst of energy grasped him, filled him in a nebulous, uncertain way that made him think his skin was about to burst from the internal pressure.

Desperate, he searched for a way to grasp the energy with his mind, to shape it and to use it. Energy fired along his nerves...burning-burning...tearing at him-at his mind-at his being. Finally, his thoughts touched on the edge of the energy, pulled it into his conceptual field, and then it was his. Instantly reaching out, he encircled the entire load with his thoughts, brought his store and his cellar to mind and then-

Flicker

With a stagger and a sigh of relief he fell to the floor. That had been one mother of a heavy load. It had been right near his newest limits. Beyond them, really. If it had not been for that unexpected connection he had made there at the end he would have spent half the night getting it all home. Looking belatedly at the tarp covered pile, he realized that his limits seemed to be much closer to Klein's now. That was a huge pile he had brought over. It was too much for him to handle the storing of until he recovered from the trip and his limbs had time to unfold. Still twisted, his arm and his legs hurt and he could feel the strain of them trying to straighten. No, it would be hours yet before he was up to the task of rearranging the supplies. Besides, he had two very lovely gals waiting to see him.

Something red dripped to the floor, was joined by another drop, and Aaron cursed. Great, just what he needed, a nosebleed.

Awkwardly pulling up his shirt, he held it to his nose until the bleeding stopped. Then despite the pain it caused his hips and arm, he slowly pulled himself up the ladder. Cathy and Sarah were somewhere up there, waiting for him. It felt good knowing that somebody waited.

From the level of noise he heard when he left his back storeroom, Bayne's Reading Emporium was apparently packed. Aaron heard a slew of people plus two--and that noise came through a connecting door that had appeared during his absence. The new door covered the opening between the two buildings. It was locked but the latch was on his side, giving him full access to the Emporium whenever he wanted.

Despite his impatience, he waited for an entire half hour while his limbs finished straightening, and as he waited he savored the sounds of his loves and his friends as they played and read and learned. He felt excited to see them all. He was in a hurry to pull Cathy and Sarah aside so he could tell them of his trip. While he waited Aaron cleaned up his bloody face and changed his shirt because the last thing he wanted was to alarm his two women. Then, before the ache was entirely gone from his limbs, he walked to the new door and released the latch.

Amazing things had happened in a few days. At least twenty people were inside the Emporium. New darkly stained hardwood tables and chairs filled the entire room. Doc Gunther read to several people in one corner and Missy's class had increased to eight. A few people lounged on chairs while they studied chessboards, and some played checkers. Aaron raised his estimation of the building's occupants to thirty people once he saw that one of the walls had been opened up to the largest back room. The heat was stifling even for early June so the windows were wide open and the doorway Aaron had paid to have boarded over was once again a doorway. It was open too.

Seeing him, Sarah instantly dropped the book she was reading and leaped to her feet. "Cathy! He's back!"

Cathy, playing chess with someone whose back was to Aaron, started in surprise. She smiled and rose slowly.

"Hey, handsome." Sarah hugged him. "Things have been happening."

Cathy came up to join them. Aaron reached down to kiss her, but she pulled back slightly.

"Not in public, Aaron. That would embarrass me." She flushed pretty red all the way down to the cleavage that he found so fascinating.

Cathy shook her head at the direction of his gaze. "Please don't."

"Well I," said Sarah emphatically, "am not shy." More than a minute passed before Aaron had time to admit that she certainly was not shy. Just to make sure he was fully conversant with her point, she used her lips to prove it again. Cathy moved in for one brief hug and then sidled back.

Releasing Sarah, Aaron looked around at the watching faces, and stiffened when he saw that Cathy's chess opponent was Steven Knight.

He slowly moved Sarah to the side and stepped forward. Cold waves and trembling fear wrestled inside him.

"Mister Knight, I did not expect to see you here." Good, there was not a hint of trembling in his voice.

Steven Knight's face was a mass of half healed cuts and bruises. Purple and yellow hues transformed his normally angry eyes into a swinish squint.

Knight grimaced. "Mister Turner, I don't blame you for not liking me here. I'm not too wild about it myself but my honor requires this of me." Knight drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I talked to my father and my mothers, sir. They told me of your feelings and your warning. I too wish no trouble. I admit that I did have an infatuation for Miss Townsend. I became hopeful she could return my interest when I found she was no longer spoken for. Obviously my feelings were not returned. You have won our contest for her affection so I will trouble you no more on her account. I only ask that you forgive my actions."

Aaron looked at him gravely. "Forgiving is a hard thing to do."

"I understand, sir." Steven turned to go. "I won't bother you again."

"Hold up!" Aaron ordered, stopping him. "I said forgiving is hard to do. It is not impossible. I will try to forgive you, but the forgiving will take time, and I promise that I will never like you. However, I will tolerate you. Please feel free to return to the Emporium whenever you wish. I will not make things more difficult between us than they already are."

Knight nodded. "Thank you, sir. May I continue my game with Miss Bayne?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." Steven turned and headed for the chessboard.

Cathy looked at Aaron and then smiled a welcome to Knight. "I'll go finish teaching him the moves." She gave Aaron one more brief hug and headed back to her game. Stopping halfway there, she turned back to him. "Aaron, that was well done."

"Yes," Sarah added approvingly. "It was. I'm proud of you." And then she forcefully pulled him into the store and closed the door. "We need to talk. You may or may not get angry with me, but I made the best decisions I could."

Aaron grew cold. "What happened?"

"The bank is busted. It turned out that Mister Doland was embezzling money. On top of that, the Kingsfords have borrowed money far past what their property is worth. I went out to confront them and found that they have lost most of their cattle to disease. They sold off the majority of their riding stock and are left with only two hundred head of beef for breeding and twenty horses. As best I can tell it will be at least four years before the Manor will be able to break even, longer before it turns a profit again. The Kingsfords were so far in debt that there was no way they could make things work."

Aaron felt really, really cold. Chills shivered through him. "What did you do?" Gods, what had she done to him?

Sarah drew a deep breath. "Most of the local people had their savings in the bank. I used my temporary authority to repossess the Manor and kick the Kingsfords off the land after giving them two full silvers compensation, and I let the elder Mistress keep her fake emerald necklace. I kept two of the hired hands in the bank's name, and I kept a handyman, Mister Moorehouse, to care for the house and grounds. Aaron, I had to fire the rest of the help. Six people are out of work because I couldn't find a way to keep them at their jobs."

Aaron sighed in relief. He was safe. None of her actions affected him at all. "Hon, that's not so bad. Look, I have money in the lower cellar, a lot of silver bars that cost me nothing. I can easily afford to help those people out. You did what you had to do. I'll do what I can."

Sarah's smile was very tentative. She leaned into him with a hug and a gentle kiss. "Thank the Lord and his Lady. I hoped you would feel that way, so I took it upon myself to steal from you. This is my town and my people, and I just couldn't watch it all fall apart. Aaron, I used three of your silver bars to buy the bank in your name. Since you now own the bank, and since the bank owns the Manor, you also now own the Manor."

"Oh Gods." Aaron slid to a sitting position on the floor. She had done it. She had really done it. "Oh Gods. Oh Gods." He slipped his face into his hands. "Sarah, I don't know anything about running a bank." Zip! Zilch! Nada!" How could she do this to him? "Sell it back." The walls of the room pressed in on him. "Hell, give it back if you can't sell it." Damn it all, the entire community depended on the bank.

She crouched down beside him. "Aaron--I can't." Her voice was strained thin. "There's nobody to sell it to, and giving it away would ruin the community's confidence in the bank. When the Mistresses Doland left they only had twenty silver and twelve gold between them after covering the bank's debts. Look, it won't be so bad. Mistress Banks will run it. I already talked to her, and Mister Cartridge, one of the hands I had to fire, he will be the new clerk. Mistress Banks already checked him out. Promise. You won't have to do anything."

Aaron searched her eyes for the lie. He saw nothing but truth and compassion and apprehension. "Nothing?"

Sarah nodded reassuringly. "Nothing for the bank and nothing for the Manor either. Miss Hawks will handle the ranch details. I talked to everyone on the ranch, and they agreed that she would do a better job than Mister Kingsford ever thought he could do."

"So I won't wind up hurting a lot of people by somehow screwing up their lives? The people you hired for the jobs will be the ones screwing up?" Aaron released a sigh. Tension oozed out of him, easing the ache in his neck and shoulders.

"No, you won't be able to screw things up." Sarah smiled. "Is that all you were worried about, messing up lives?"

"Yeah. All I could see was a thousand people lined up in front of me. Every one had an accusing finger stuck out." Aaron released a short laugh. "You know, I had a pretty uncomplicated life in this town until you noticed I was around."

Gently laughing, Sarah kissed him soundly. "Only one more thing, and it's a little one. You are now on the town council. You own too much to skip out of that obligation even if you have managed to sidestep every meeting you've been invited to so far. Don't worry," she hastened to add when Aaron's expression grew alarmed again, "you don't have to actually attend but a few of the meetings. The ones you do attend only require that you sit there and listen to what is said. Nothing else is asked of you. You don't even have to vote."

Aaron pointed a finger at her. "Miss Townsend, if there is one thing I am totally incapable of handling and am completely uninterested in learning, it is politics. You, dear lady, are putting me on one real strange roller coaster ride."

"Whatever that is, I suppose you are correct. Guess what, you are now full or partial owner of a lot of businesses."

"Too many of them," Aaron agreed. "A few weeks ago I owned a simple general store and was happy. Now I own the store and the bank and the Manor and Bayne's Reading Emporium and then I have partial ownership of the livery and the seamstress shop--assuming you made a deal with the livery. Did I forget anything--oh yeah, I own the inn too."

"Oh, the inn and outerwear too," Sarah said. "Those I did not know about. By the way, you have a twenty percent interest in the livery, but you still get two thirds of the stud fees."

Sarah appeared definitely amused. Settling down beside him, she pulled him into her arms. "Poor baby. Don't worry. Mama will take care of you."

"I am starting to be frightened of Mama taking care of me," Aaron complained. "Mama is the one who got me into most of this mess."

"Is she?" Sarah asked with innocent delight. "Well then, Mama will have to be more careful in the future, won't she?"

She damned well better be more careful. He couldn't take much more of this. His heart just wasn't strong enough to handle the stress. After all, he was only a man, and the Lord and Lady knew, male lives were a chancy thing over here. Being intimate with Sarah made life an even chancier proposition.
Chapter 17

Birsae ak Mondar took the speaking stick in her hand. She studied its familiar swirls, its carvings and thought back on the history of this holy object. Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac, the Wand of War Unending, the holy wand, was in her keeping because she was the only surviving Shaman of the Thirty Clans.

Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac. The words rolled off her mind as easily as they had so frequently tripped off her tongue. She had been the guardian of the wand for the last twenty years. Carrying the wand was a trust; it was an honor, and it was the heaviest burden Birsae had ever shouldered.

She looked up from the wand to see them watching her. Tremon's eyelids were half lowered in thought. Tremon was a steady one. She was a chieftain who thought before she spoke. Tremon set her honor behind her when the time came for hard decisions. Unlike her, Delmac was young, hot-blooded, and empty headed. He cared for nothing but his search for personal glory. There were others too. All the chieftains waited for her, waited for her word, her decision. The future of her entire people rested upon her frail shoulders. They would argue her suggestion but in the end they would do as she wished because she was their Shaman. She spoke with the strength of the One God.

"They come," she said. "Each year there are more of them."

Letting her eyes roam over the gathering, she caught the eyes of the recalcitrant ones, the smart ones, and of those who were angry. She caught them with her gaze, and she fought to capture them with her knowledge.

"These people do wondrous things. If we become their friends they will teach us how to be stronger than we already are. They will teach us how to be clever with our minds and our hands. They will-"

"DIE!" Delmac shouted, rising angrily to his feet. "They will die before we are pushed off our own lands."

"You have not the wand," one of the chieftains calmly said.

Delmac sat down abruptly. "Forgive me, Shaman. My anger and fear have overburdened the sense of my mind."

Sighing, Birsae inclined her head toward him. "You are forgiven." Delmac was the impetuous one. He wanted war and the trophy of new ears. Because of this, the words she was about to say pained Birsae. They were the words he desired to hear.

"They will also destroy our homes and our lands. Their appetites are voracious. I have looked down the future. I have traveled the forks and seen our people dwindle until there are none left except for those who do the will of others. I have seen our deaths."

Tremon held out her hand, silently asking for the wand's blessing. Birsae pointed the wand at her and shook it gently.

"There are many forks," Tremon said. "Many ways. You have taught me this. Do all of these ways see our ending?"

"I see only one path that does not," Birsae answered. "We must take on the trappings of what is called a nation. We must become one people. We must forgive our enemies and draw them to our cause, and we must accept those who accept us."

"Does that mean the newcomers too?"

"Those who have befriended us must become one of us. Those who despise our ways must be thrown from our land."

"This is what he wants," Tremon stated sourly. "Are we to follow this man? Are we to turn ourselves into slaves for his war?"

Birsae shook her head slowly. "If we wish to be a people we must follow his lead. This fork alone gives us hope. I have seen it."

The arguments continued on throughout the remainder of the night. Birsae knew the arguments would continue for the rest of the new moon. Their arguing would continue, but they would be resolved, and the Clans would go to war. Despite centuries of tradition, Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac would soon be held in the fist of a foreign monster because she had declared him their Chief of Chiefs in War. There would be war and much glory would be gained, and much honor would be lost, and the best blood of the Clans would be slaughtered. When the war was over, the People would be fewer, they would be forever changed, but they would be, and eventually the Chosen would arrive to take up his mantle as Savior and advocate of The One God.

It was the only path before them. Before the war's end her hand would touch the familiar curved and carved surface of Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac for the last time when she passed it over to the man who desired to destroy them as a people--to the man who wished to rule an Empire.
Chapter 18

Next morning, the first thing that struck Aaron was the number of Movers in town. More than a few breakfasted at the inn when he entered. Half a dozen children ran between the tables, playing tag while their parents tried to divide their own limited attention between controlling their broods and the serious business of eating. Raising an eyebrow at Missy when she served him, he gestured toward the Movers.

"Waiting for the Town Hall to open," Missy said. She looked tired this morning. Black was stamped beneath her eyes, and her face sagged. Several ragged strands of hair had escaped her ponytail. "You missed it. More than twenty wagons of Movers went through the pass a couple days ago, and fifteen wagons stayed here. There was a big argument between all the different Movers because lots of the new ones were Opportunists instead of Zorists. Beech wanted to wait another week, but some of the Movers wanted to go right then. A bunch of the others decided to stay and homestead around here. A couple wagons were burned, a woman died, and Marshal Townsend had to get rough to end it. She hurt two women fairly bad, but at least she did not have to kill anyone."

Frowning, Aaron wondered why Sarah had told him none of this. "Is there enough free land left? I thought it was all pretty well claimed right around here. How do these people expect to live?" After all, it was late June now. The farming season was far too advanced for them to clear new land and get in a crop.

Missy shrugged. "I don't know. Why do you think they are waiting for the hall to open? Here." She reached in her apron and handed him eight coppers. "This is what I owe you for the use of your room. I've been teaching people in shifts."

Aaron tried to wave it away.

"You take it." She stamped her foot angrily. "Us Baynes pay what we owe." She yawned suddenly. "Sorry. I was up late last night. Cathy and I had an argument. I lost."

"I find that hard to believe," Aaron said, accepting the money. "How could she manage to outtalk you?"

Missy tossed her head angrily. "She didn't. She just out- stubborned me. I got too tired to argue with her anymore. But don't worry, I'm not finished. I can get at her tonight. Only this time I'll take a nap before I start, and then she'll be the tired one."

Aaron chuckled. "Missy, I would hate to be on the wrong end of an argument with you."

"Never going to happen. You have too much sense to disagree with me. Both of us carry our heads right where they belong. I have to go. Customers are waiting, and Mistress Halfax is watching. Don't want to give her cause to fire me."

"Never happen," he called after her as she rushed away, and then, worried, he frowned. So what was there that Cathy and Missy had to argue about? It did not seem like either of them. They were both very forgiving, and they were as close as sisters could be. Maybe he should ask Cathy about it. After all, he did not want to take a chance on Missy getting involved in things she couldn't handle.

"Sir?" The voice was polite and unobtrusive. Aaron shook himself erect and started.

"Hello, Miss Hawks. What can I do for you?"

"Would you mind if we spoke about the Manor?"

She looked as if she were about to be struck--or fired--Aaron suddenly realized. He was now her employer now, and their last meeting had not gone well. She probably wondered if he still resented her old boss sticking him with horses he did not want. Well, none of that was her fault. She had only been following orders. As Aaron recalled the incident, it was he who had been rude. He fought down an instinct to rise from his seat. Rising for a lady was a Jefferson thing, not Isabellan at all. Instead, he kicked out a chair with his foot.

"Please sit down, Miss Hawks. If you will permit me, I would like to buy you a meal. I recall being horribly rude to you when we last spoke. In fact, I even used profanity in your presence. Will you please forgive my lapse? My nerves were a bit frayed at the time--but that excuses nothing."

"Perhaps a tea. I already ate at the Manor this morning. Our day starts very early out there." She sat smoothly. "As to the other, I cannot recall the incident you speak of. I'm sure you are incapable of being rude. Sir, I must get to the point. The Manor is in a terrible condition. The herd is almost gone, and the best horses have been shipped east and sold. The hunters I gave you were the last of the blooded stock. The cattle you have left are mostly old culls or very young stock. At best, it will be years before the place can be made profitable with what we have left."

All of which did nothing to improve Aaron's mood. As a matter of fact, the entire thing was depressing because it represented nothing but a lot of work.

Contemplating her worried face, Aaron wished Miss Hawks would just get up and go away. Life was getting too complex, and damn-it, he liked simple. He owned a store. He liked owning a store. Owning a store was fun. People talked to him, and the time passed quickly. The only decisions he had to make were what things to buy and what to charge. Profit did not matter. Why should it matter? He had enough silver stockpiled to live more than comfortably for the rest of several lifetimes. If he ran out of silver he could always take some gold to the other side and sell it for three thousand or more per the quarter ounce. Silver cost less than a hundred a pound over there so one cheap gold coin would set him up all over again.

Now he was being asked to look after these people after Sarah had promised him that the Manor would not be a headache. Using that promise as a baseline, he had pondered about the Manor the night before, and his pondering mind had decided to let the employees play with the cattle while he threw them some wages every now and again. No big deal. They would be happy. He would be happy. Everyone would be happy. But nooooo. Hawks wanted to run the place right. She wanted to make him money. She wanted to feel useful. Damn her.

"What," he asked with a sinking feeling in his gut, "do you need, Miss Hawks? Don't go through an hour of talk. Just tell me what it is you need to make the place profitable."

`"Sir, I think two hundred head on one hundred and fifteen thousand acres is ridiculous. I would like to purchase enough breeding stock to build the herd up over the next couple years. Also, at least two bands of the savages have been seen in the last week. They didn't do any harm yet except for maybe burning down an empty shack and killing one or two cattle, but I don't think it amiss to stock up on a few weapons and hire a couple more people to keep an eye peeled for trouble. It will take money, but I think--"

Holding up a hand, Aaron stopped her. "Will two pounds of silver be enough, Miss Hawks?" To hell with keeping a low profile. He had a fat chance of doing that now.

Her eyes grew large enough to devour him. "Two pounds! The entire ranch could be sold for less than that."

"I'll have it in your hands before too much longer. Will that satisfy you?" After all, the most she could do was steal it. She was honest, or she wasn't. Either way, the matter was taken care of, and the entire question of the Manor was out of his hands.

"Yes sir! I will have my ideas written down, and you can go over them with me at your leisure. Why, you can save on the winter kill alone if we--"

She stopped when Aaron shook his head. "How long have you worked for the Manor?"

"I was raised on the ranch, sir. Been on the payroll since I was twelve. That would be fourteen years now."

"Okay," Aaron abruptly said. "This is how it will be. No arguments. I give you the silver. I give you a quarter interest in the place. In exchange, you give me peace of mind. You hire. You fire. You make all decisions and bother me with none of them. Miss Hawks, I know nothing about the Manor or ranching. I did not want to own the place, and I will not take responsibility for running an operation I am not qualified to run. Okay?"

She was a real study of startled disbelief. Within moments her position had suddenly changed from hired hand fearing for her job to part owner. It was quite a leap.

For his part, Aaron really liked the idea of delegating all the work and responsibility off on her. Maybe he could use that idea more often; then again, upon reflection it occurred to him that he had been using that approach right along.

"Mister Turner--I--I--Sir! I will make you glad of your decision. In four years money will be pouring in. I know how to do it. A little development will make a big difference."

"Of course it will. I heard nothing but good about you so I'm sure you will turn the place around." His pancakes were already cold. Hopefully, Miss Hawks would not insist on her promised tea. "I will visit the bank and have the necessary papers drawn up. You can sign them any time after tomorrow."

Unfortunately, she did not make it that easy for him. It took another ten minutes to get rid of her, and even then he had to promise to visit the Manor before she would even think of leaving him alone. A strange feeling settled over him as he watched her leave. Somehow, he knew that Miss Hawks was going to bring a lot of trouble his way.

He left the inn and crossed over to the store after pushing his cold pancakes around for a while. From all appearances Cathy had opened its doors early and already waited on several customers. She smiled as he went by and continued measuring out ten pounds of flour for Mistress Yardbow. Aaron had to admit that Cathy was born for this. The place ran smoother and looked neater than when he had handled it by himself.

Leaving Cathy to her business, he went into the back room and then into the ice room. He opened the trapdoor and climbed down.

The tarp, he found, had been thrown back, a fairly sure sign that Cathy had been snooping. He checked hurriedly but the wrapped presents were not disturbed. Disbelieving, he took another look at exactly what he had carried over. The size of the pile made his back ache with the thought of moving it all.

No wonder the trip across had been so difficult. From what he could see, there was a hell of a lot more here than Gore and Hill had ever moved into the room before. Another five rifles had been added to the load, with ammunition for each. He also had four more Model 12s. Several one-pound bars of silver had been packed in one crate with a solar powered adding machine and one hundred rolls of paper, presumably so he could keep track of how he spent the silver. The whole pile had been stacked in such a haphazard fashion that several cardboard boxes had fallen over and opened because their tops had not been sealed down.

And then he noticed a most peculiar thing. The open tops showed that most of the fallen boxes had been entirely empty.

Frowning, Aaron grabbed a broken slat that was still laying around after a previous trip, intending to pry open the long crate, but its top proved to be hinged and its front latch was undone. Like many of the boxes, it also proved to be empty except for a pencil stub and a small yellow pad of pocket sized notepaper.

Aaron idly toed the crate and snorted at the childish nature of Hill and Gore's idea of a practical joke. Just to make sure they hadn't forgotten his requests, he did a special search and found a smaller package tucked away in one of the few boxes that were not empty. Yes. At least his pens were here. People liked his pens because they were neat and easy when compared to a quill. He had a full five hundred pens and fifty disposable lighters. All in all, the entire load probably weighed over eight hundred pounds, far more than he had thought himself capable of transporting in several trips, let alone one. Then again, he had felt different this time. Something had ripped into him, had given him a boost of strength. After this, it was a good thing he wasn't going back to the compound because there was no way he would be able to convince them he couldn't bring soldiers over.

More than an hour passed before he had the stuff sorted and stacked where it belonged. There was even a sword in a leather scabbard that made him instantly think of Sarah, and he set it aside for her. The extra bars put his private silver supply at over one hundred and twenty pounds. He would have to find a safer place to put it now that so many people knew he had a good deal of money stored away. Maybe if he put a couple or three pounds in the bank and buried the rest after he gave Hawks her two bars, people would assume his entire horde was accounted for. Maybe they would not bother him then. Maybe Sarah would stop buying businesses and ranches with silver he carelessly left laying around.

Like that would ever happen.

Cathy was helping to load milk into the back of the milk wagon when Aaron stepped back into the store. Brian Haig appeared to be strong enough to lift the containers by himself, but it was just like Cathy to help anyway.

"Cathy," he called. "When you have a minute I would like to speak to you."

Face flushed from her work, she peered over her shoulder and smiled. "Almost finished."

Moments later she stood before him, breathing heavy, deep breaths that swelled her chest with each inhalation. Fascinated with the show, Aaron watched the display too pointedly until she kicked him.

"Don't!"

"Okay," though she had not minded him looking before. In fact, she had encouraged his looking. It had not been so long ago that she asked if wearing a bra improved her figure.

He looked around and saw nobody nearby so he leaned forward and briefly kissed her lips.

"People can see." She pushed him away. "It makes me uncomfortable."

This was not going the way he had planned. "Nobody was looking. I checked."

"I don't care. I told you not in public. It makes my skin crawl when you touch me in public. If you care about me you would care about how I feel instead of only thinking of what you want."

No, this was definitely not going the way he had planned.

"Okay, so I'm doing this wrong. I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you a present." He held out the package. Slightly frowning, Cathy took it from his hands. She handled it curiously, cocking her head at the sight of the wrapping paper.

"This is really pretty." She turned it around a few times. "If I try to open this I'll tear the paper."

"You're supposed to tear the paper. Ripping the paper off is part of the fun."

"But it will be ruined."

"Trust me. Just tear it off." Aaron had to control himself to keep from snapping.

Her look was dubious at best. Despite his instructions, she opened the paper with care, wincing when it tore across the tape. She neatly folded the paper and set it aside before opening the box and then she gasped.

"Oh--oh--oh--! It's beautiful. It's--oh Aaron. Put it on me. Please--how does the necklace look? Where is the mirror?"

She dragged him bodily into the Emporium to where a mirror Aaron had not noticed before hung on a wall. It seemed like something new showed up every time he looked around.

"Ahhhhh! Oh my." She grabbed him, and Aaron finally got the kiss he had wanted since the night before. As kisses went, this one was well worth the wait.

Tears glistening in her eyes, she suddenly pushed him away. "You shouldn't have done it." She rushed back into the main store. "You really shouldn't have done it," she called back.

Aaron walked over, looked into the store, and saw Cathy pick up the broom and began sweeping furiously. She stopped once to wipe her eyes.

"Go away, Aaron. Mistress Banks needs to see you at the bank." She cast a fast look around and darted to his side. "Thank you." Her lips were warm and soft. They tasted slightly of salt. "Go away."

A plus, Aaron thought to himself. That gift was definitely a winner.

Mistress Banks at the bank. Mistress Banks at the bank. The phrase had a certain ridiculous sound to it. One of those two names would have to change.

When he entered the bank he saw that Mistress Banks looked considerably worn from the woman he was used to seeing. Though the bank held no customers, she stood behind the counter, black circles surrounding her eyes. Around her were memories of her husband, pictures on the walls, knick-knacks collected over the years that had been set on shelves.

"Mister Turner. Thank you for seeing me."

Not knowing how to approach her, Aaron bit his lip nervously, stopped, and cleared his throat. "Mistress Banks, I haven't had a chance to tell you how sorry I am about your husband. It's my fault. I should have acted sooner."

"No," she replied. "Miss Townsend explained how everything happened. You could not have acted in time. I-I just wish the man who killed him had not escaped. We need a sheriff in this area. We need somebody with authority outside the town limits."

"You are most likely right," Aaron agreed. "Unfortunately, I don't know if anybody is qualified. I believe Miss Townsend is very good as a marshal, but she lacks the skill to track through the wilds. But like you, I would like to see that Eric fellow brought in. That cold hearted bast--uh--snake--sends chills down my spine."

Mistress Banks smiled unhappily. "I'm so numb that I feel very little when I think of him, but I need to thank you for giving me something to do when I need it the most. From retired chandler to banker, wife to widow, life has sure given me some strange turns."

She looked off in the distance. Her silence was so painful and personal that Aaron could not have broken into it if he had wanted to. Eyes dim and distant, she looked into memories that only she could see. A small bitter smile flickered at the corner of her lips, and then her eyes focused once more on him.

"Well," she said with a small shake of her head. "It's a job I intend to be good at, but I need to know what authority I have. What type of decisions am I allowed to make?"

Aaron wanted to cry. Beneath the firmness of her voice was a grief so profound that this woman could barely hold herself together. It was so encompassing that he felt waves of grief emanating off her, yet she refused to fold. She insisted on doing what she could to set things right. The community needed her, and she was going to be there for it. He wished he could ask Bun to cleanse her, but Bun was still recovering from the load of grief Aaron had handed her.

The strength of Mistress Banks' soul awed him.

Sadly, there was little he could do for her. The only way he had to help her cope with her grief was to further increase her burden.

"Mistress Banks, I want you to draw up papers transferring twenty-five percent ownership of the bank into your name. Then I want you to create a charter for the business that gives you complete authority to make any decisions pertaining to its operation. As long as you are drawing up those papers, do the same for the Manor. Miss Hawks will be in town within the next few days to sign them. A quarter of the Manor is to go into her name."

She nodded. "That answers any other questions I may have had, Mister Turner. Thank you."

Gods, she was a rock. Ground under, fired and beaten, she was still a rock. The impurities had been driven from her and now only the hard core remained. Aaron hoped that core was not too brittle to survive.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out three one-pound bars of silver, and handed them to her. "Deposit these for me. I no longer feel comfortable having them stored back home."

BOOM BOOM

Aaron jumped at the double boom of a shotgun.

"That's your business, Mister Turner. You had best see to it." Mistress Bank's expression never changed. Her voice remained even.

Aaron ran out the door before she finished speaking. Seeing nothing down the street, he ran up the street to where a crowd had gathered. They looked less than subdued when he reached them. Breathing hard, he slowed and then stopped.

Sarah stood firm in front of a group of about twenty women and four men. The door to the town hall lay on the ground beside her, and Mistress Heinzberg stood beside Sarah. Heinzberg shivered with fear.

"This is Mrs. Boom," Sarah said quietly, holding up her shotgun. "I won't lie to you. It can only fire four more times. After that I will need to use my sword. Mrs. Boom and the sword are not enough for me to kill all of you. The rest of you will be able to kill me. When I am dead only half of you will be able to celebrate. The rest will be dead with me, but don't worry. By the time your survivors start celebrating the town militia will be fully gathered, so your lives will not last long." She stared at them, making sure they understood her.

"Now," she said, "you may continue frightening poor Mistress Heinzberg and tearing apart my building. Just remember that doing so will make me mad. On the other hand, you could settle down and tell me what the problem is. That would make me happy. The decision is yours."

One woman stepped forward. "This town is the problem. You treat us like dirt. Only so many of us can come into the town at the same time. Here, give us your money. Glad to have your business. Now leave. Well, I am here to tell you that we can't leave. That bastard Beech took every copper we had when he left. We have no more money, but we have families, children to feed, and that woman," she pointed emphatically at Mistress Heinzberg, "she says we cannot have land to grow our crops on. How can we live if she won't tell us where our land is?"

"I--" Heinzberg protested.

Lips thin and white, Sarah stopped her and stared at the speaker. Aaron had never imagined Sarah could look so absolutely dangerous. She was dynamite ready to explode, and he had every reason to believe the explosion would leave bodies lying in the street. Terror poured from her and washed over the crowd. Around them, armed townspeople gathered on the street. Aaron saw other people, armed with bows, moving on the rooftops. Yes, the town Militia was already in position. If violence started none of the protesters would live through it. It was possible none of them would live long enough to reach Sarah.

"We live by the proprieties in Last Chance," Sarah said with icy calm. "We do not allow profanity to be spoken in public. Also, that woman is Mistress Heinzberg. She is to be addressed as Mistress Heinzberg, and when she is spoken to she will be spoken to with respect. I am Marshal Townsend, and you will speak to me respectfully. I will follow these same rules of politeness and propriety with you as soon as you get around to introducing yourselves."

"Spangle," the woman snapped. "I am Mistress Spangle with one Co-Mistress, a Mister and seven children to feed."

"I told Mistress Spangle and the others that most of the local land was owned," Mistress Heinzberg said shakily. "All that is left for homesteading is a hundred and twenty acres, enough for three small farms." She straightened her shoulders, raised her chin and stared Spangle in her eye. "I'm sorry. I don't want to see people suffer, but my wants won't change anything. This area has been settled for years."

"I saw large empty areas on your map," Spangle challenged.

"Rocks," Mistress Heinzberg explained. "Nothing much can grow there. Right at the foot of the mountain a lot of land is nothing but thin soil over rock. Grass can hardly grow there. The government won't even let us give that land away."

"Then are we to starve?"

"No!" Miss Hawks stepped forth from the crowd of onlookers. "Are you all farmers?"

A good deal of her anger seeping away, Mistress Spangle nodded mutely. She now looked like what she was, a middle-aged woman bowing under the weight of her responsibility to her family. She looked to the future and saw the death of her family and friends through winter starvation and freezing.

"Turner Manor has need of farmers. We will be stocking our range soon, and I have no desire to see our stock die in the winter months. Because of this I will pay you to raise hay on Manor land. I can set aside eight hundred acres for this use."

A man stepped forward. "There be no way we break ground and raise hay in this year. There be not time enough." He spoke defiantly, but faint hope glittered in his voice.

"For this year you will only break ground and build homes," Miss Hawks said. "The Manor will feed and pay you. Remember though, the land and the homes will not be yours. They will belong to Turner Manor."

The Movers looked at each other doubtfully. Aaron knew what they were thinking. They had torn up their lives so they could work for themselves, could be independent. Now they were asked to take a step backwards. Yes, they would live, but they would also have sacrificed everything to gain nothing.

He stepped forward, pushing past Sarah and stopping in front of the two speakers.

"Take the offer," he pleaded. "Work the land and raise hay. Take the pay and the food. I promise that if you do these things and do them well the land will change ownership. It will be yours the year after you hand over your tenth crop."

"And who are you?"

Mistress Hawks was suddenly beside him. "He is Mister Turner, and a better man you will not find. His word is Truth, and I will stand behind his truth with my oath. If you work hard for the Manor, the homes and the land will one day belong to you."

The man looked down speculatively. Fastening his eyes on Aaron, he stepped forward, and Aaron suddenly found himself caught in the man's embrace. Long arms wrapped around him, and Aaron found himself engulfed by the odor of a long unwashed body. Even though the stench made his stomach roil, he fought himself not to struggle for escape from the man's embrace.

"It be good and more than fair," the man exclaimed loudly in Aaron's ear. "I pledge myself to you and swear I will do you fair so long as you deal fair. I will take your offer." He released Aaron and stepped back. Mistress Spangle kneeled to him.

"As do I and these others. We will call you lord as was proper in the days of old for you are Chosen of the One God. Our lives are yours. Our honor in your hands." Bending her head, she remained still.

Aaron did not know what to do. He looked around in confusion until Miss Hawks whispered in his ear.

"They are followers of the Zorist way. Raise her to her feet. That will be a sign of your acceptance of her pledge. Then tell her to follow my orders."

Reaching down Aaron touched the woman's head with a tentative hand. He ran his fingers across the side of her face. Cupping her chin he raised her head until she looked at him.

"You speak for all of these people?" he asked.

"We are fifteen families," she replied. "I speak for twelve of them."

"Then rise. I accept your fealty and swear that what I said will be."

She rose, standing before him with her eyes lowered and her hands clenched before her chest. "Lord Turner, I grant you my loyalty and the loyalty of those who follow me. We will be yours to do with as you wish so long as you hold and fulfill the pledge you have given. Thank you, Chosen One, for grasping the opportunity the One God has given you to be responsible for our needs and cares."

Aaron closed his eyes and said a little prayer. He opened them again to find that yet one more prayer had not been answered. She was still there. Damn, he hated to think he had used up his entire supply of prayers granted with just that one.

"Mistress Spangler, I stand by the words I have spoken. From this day until the day the land is turned over to you I shall feed and protect you while you labor in my name." As best he could tell they all looked satisfied with his speech. That was good because he was damned if he was going to try to do better. He had already committed himself to too much responsibility to people he did not know and did not care all that much about.

"Thank you, Chosen. Be it known to you and to all that our daughters are available to you for marriage or whatever else it is you may desire."

"Good deal for you," Miss Hawks murmured. Sarah glared a very big mock warning. Her eyes lost a part of their deadliness as silent laughter rose in them. Aaron wanted to fold up and disappear.

Oh God. Why him? Why was it always him?

* * *

"I like my toy," Sarah said later. She flipped a sausage onto a slab of bread and spread mustard over it. The frightening apparition she had been earlier was gone. The old Sarah was back in residence. Aaron was glad. Her earlier mien had turned his knees weak. If this relationship died she was going to have to be the one who killed it because he would never have the courage to tell her he had lost interest.

"That situation could have turned out bloody. They were going to riot, and I would have had to kill somebody. Instead I let Mrs. Boom live up to her name. They were so shocked they just folded."

"Folded," Aaron said. "It didn't look like a fold to me. I thought you were going to destroy the entire bunch of them, and they looked like they were willing for you to try."

Flo set tea down before him. "Now you know why so many of us walk careful around you. You two are just alike. I've never seen a more dangerous pair."

"Why does everyone say that?" Aaron protested. "I never want to hurt anybody. The time at the bank is the only time in my life that I've tried to deliberately hurt anyone. Even then I failed at finishing the chore, and look at what I was like afterward. I hate stress."

"Maybe." Sarah folded her bread around the sausage and tried an experimental bite. "Mmmm, Phlo thith ith good."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Flo admonished before thumping Sarah on the top of the head with two of her knuckles. Grinning, Flo went back into the kitchen.

"You scared off Beech," Sarah said after swallowing. She lifted the tea and took a careful sip. "Too hot still."

She continued. "Okay, look, Beech wanted one of your knives very badly. He would have made himself a pauper to get one if he could have come up with the money, but you scared him off, and that says something. Cathy was right. He does have a Talent Stone. Not only that, he's a Talent Master too. After you left today I spent some time talking to Mistress Spangle. She said Beech apparently found his Stone a few trips ago. As best she knows he can create a shield and make fire just like that man did a few years ago. He also throws things without touching them, and she once saw him break the earth open by merely looking at it. Bad enough already, but we don't know what else he can do." Sara took another bite of her food. "Thith ith really good."

"Here they are." Flo came back to the table with packages in her hands. She dropped them on the table before Sarah and left. Sarah stared with a total lack of comprehension at the two paper wrapped boxes and the long, rolled up potato sack.

"What's this?"

"Present time. Do me a favor. Just rip the paper off. Don't try to save it."

"Okay." The paper and Sarah went to war. The wrapping paper did not stand a chance, proving that Sarah had little of Cathy's persnickety nature in her makeup. There was no way mere wrapping paper would stand between her and a present.

The necklace brought a small smile and a "that's nice" from her. A miss, Aaron realized. She would probably seldom wear it, and when she did, it would only be because she was with him. Thinking it over, he could not remember ever seeing her wear jewelry. Okay, so that was one area he did not have to worry about in the future. No jewelry for Sarah, which was fine, because he would not accidentally buy the same thing for her as he did Cathy.

The knife got a much better reaction.

"This is pretty," Sarah exclaimed as she turned it over and studied it. "What kind of cat is that?"

"A tiger," Aaron told her. "Hold it in the palm of your hand so the raised ridge is free. Grip it firm and press that button by your thumb.

"How clever," she said when the blade flicked out. "Aaron, I always wanted one of your steel knives. Thank you." Her voice was so warm and caring that Aaron wanted to wiggle like an excited puppy. He showed her how to lower the blade, and she set it on the table.

"Now how about this." She lifted the potato sack. "It's heavy." Quickly unrolling the bag, she looked inside and gasped.

"Oh Aaron! Oh dear." Reaching inside, she pulled out the scabbard encased sword, slowly drew the blade from its scabbard, and gazed unbelievingly at the gleaming steel. "It's perfect. Perfect. The balance is wonderful." Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. "I can never give you anything to equal this."

"You can," Aaron told her, silently thanking Hill and Gore. "Time, conversation, affection. They all have more worth if it is you giving them to me."

She did not kiss him. She did not touch him. She only looked at him, and Aaron thought he would drown in the warmth of her tear-wet eyes.

* * *

"Mister Turner, do we have any more buckets in storage?" Cathy asked when he returned to the store. Two customers waited patiently.

"No, the freighter is supposed to be back tomorrow. If he collected my entire order he should bring a dozen buckets."

After the customers left he turned to Cathy and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Mister Turner?"

"I think it sounds more professional if we're formal with each other during business hours," she explained. "It shows more respect, and it sounds better. After all, I do still work for you."

Feeling troubled by her attitude, Aaron nodded and frowned and began restocking shelves.

"Oh," she called out. "The milk orders are increasing. We need to buy another forty gallons a day."

"I'll see what I can do," Aaron said and wondered if Cathy might be playing just a little too much chess with Steven Knight. Something about her seemed to be changing. It was a change he did not like. If it continued he would have to pay the young Mister Knight a visit.

He snorted at his hubris. The man was still twice as big as Aaron. A contest between them would be no contest at all.

He frowned. That part no longer seemed to matter. Somehow, it seemed that keeping Cathy was more than worth a beating. She was more precious than even his life.
Chapter 19

Several days passed before Aaron found time to head out to the Manor. He had hoped Cathy would drive him out there, but she swore she could not leave the store unattended for such a long time, especially now that she had to sort through the new shipment Aaron had just brought back with him. Both storerooms were an absolute mess that needed organizing, and she needed to figure out how much to charge for some of the new items. Inventory was going to take forever. Take Sarah and have a good time, dear.

Since she just happened to be the town marshal, Sarah could not leave for several days at the drop of a hat. She had to arrange coverage, and there were two trials in which she needed to give evidence. Strangely enough, to Aaron's way of thinking, she had the power of summary execution without trial, but she did not have the power to keep people in jail for longer than a week without a hearing before the prisoner's peers. In the country of his birth it was almost impossible for a criminal to receive a death sentence. However, it was not that unusual for someone to be incarcerated for years before somebody noticed that there had never been a trial to determine whether or not that person actually belonged in prison.

Aaron used his waiting time well. He delivered Jorrin's hardware and refused to accept a percentage of Jorrin's business in exchange, telling Jorrin no thanks and thinking _Hell No_. Enough was enough. A person could put only so much on his plate before he wanted to throw up. Aaron had reached that point about the time Sarah dropped the bank in his lap. Jorrin would just have to wait to pay him back because there was no way Aaron was going to add more troubles to his growing supply of headaches. From here on his life was to be as stress free as possible.

He did finally find a player for the inn. Team Hagarty had a small supply of songs he could play on his guitar. The limited number of songs did not endear him to Aaron, but Team did have a guitar, he did know how to play the guitar, and he did want something to do that would keep him away from home during the evening hours. His only wife was known to be a cold woman with an evil temper and a worse backhand. That made him the only person who would willingly take the position Aaron offered. However, Aaron did hire two other musicians on a part-time basis. Their job was to teach Team some new songs.

Mister Bronson returned with his freight wagons. He had done very well with the rechargeable flashlight. Between that and the other items he sold for Aaron, Aaron was another two hundred and twenty silver richer, which came to just over one pound. He gave Bronson his new orders and most of the rest of the goods he could not hope to sell locally. Just for the fun of it he threw in the solar powered adding machine, too. Bronson left with a cheery wave, happy in the knowledge that he was not so slowly becoming rich because of a not so simple storekeeper in an extremely distant town.

Steven Knight continued coming to Bayne's Reading Emporium at night. He was careful to stay away from Sarah when she showed, but he spent far too much time playing chess with Cathy--at least in Aaron's judgment. Jealousy clenched his belly tight every time he saw them together, even though playing chess and talking was all they ever did. He swore to himself that the next time Knight challenged him he would be one hell of a lot less forgiving.

Aaron thought about confronting Cathy with his suspicions, but after she closed the Emporium for the night she was always kind and warm. Though her passion had cooled considerably from what it had been, Aaron was not worried because Sarah's ardor had also cooled down. Theirs was now more of a comfortable romance than a passionate one. However, there were a few moments, well, one long moment during one warm evening when the stars sparkled above and meteors showered the black canvas of a late night sky with bright streaks of silver light. There was that one long moment when the mule was content, the wagon was comfortable, and a warm female head nestled familiarly on each of his shoulders. Later, when they returned to Last Chance, Cathy assured Sarah that she would not be bothered when Sarah left with Aaron to go to the Manor. Then she kissed Sarah goodnight, and she kissed Aaron an even better goodnight before retiring to the inn.

Four days later Missy turned twelve. The party Flo threw at the inn was great. Ann Flinders fell out of love with Aaron and in love with Team Hagarty because she liked his playing. A week later Aaron went to the wedding of Mistress Turnbull's daughter. The ceremony was brief, given by the bride's own father. Mister Turnbull was pastor of the Lord's Church of Heavenly Worship. He liked short sermons, which was why Aaron always chose his services when he did bother to go to church. When his present was opened the bride appeared totally confused about the silk sheets he gave her. Apparently, she loved the material but had not one whit of an idea what the sheets were supposed to be used for since they were too thin to provide much warmth. A small side conversation revealed that the Turnbulls were so poor that they only had cast aside blankets. Aaron made a private bet with himself. He bet that the bride would sell the sheets before two weeks were out but never did find out if he won.

Early on a Tuesday morning he woke to find Sarah banging on his door. She held an overnight case in her hand, and a wagon sat in the street. "Well, are you ready to go?"

"Today?"

"My schedule is clear. It's today or never. Your pick. Bring your bow. You've missed a lot of practices lately."

Aaron lost four practice shafts on the trip. That did not bother him. What bothered him was Sarah making him get out of the wagon to spend half an hour looking for each one. She claimed it was his fault. If he had hit the targets she pointed him toward he would know where his arrows went. Defending himself, Aaron pointed out that he had hit every target, but grass tufts did not do much to slow an arrow down.

As they neared the end of their journey Sarah laughed when he shifted on the hard wagon seat for the fiftieth time.

Aaron glared at her. "If I had walked I would have been there by now, and I wouldn't have so many wagon made bruises on my arse."

"You would have gotten lost," Sarah pointed out. "You're helpless when you're on your own."

Sliding closer to her, Aaron raised an eyebrow and leered. "I know something I won't be helpless at. I know exactly what to do with my hands now."

She shook her head and patted his hand. "Not without Cathy, dear. I won't have her feeling left out."

Which struck Aaron as ironic. Since when had being totally alone with a woman been an impediment to what he intended? He wanted privacy, and SHE wanted more company before she was willing to spoon. The old rocking chair philosophers were right. Life really was a bitch.

* * *

"About time you showed up," Miss Hawks said when they rolled into the ranch yard. "Thought you forgot about me." She took off her hat, beat dust out of it, and slapped it back on her head. "Not exactly dressed for company."

"Took me a while to arrange some free time," Sarah explained, "and you look fine. Why don't you give us the tour?"

"Let's get your things up to your rooms first."

She showed them to their rooms--separate rooms in different wings of the Manor House. It seemed that her idea of propriety was even stricter than Sarah's, so any ideas Aaron had along certain lines was killed. He would have protested the sleeping arrangements if Sarah had looked the least bit upset. However, she didn't seem to give the matter any thought. Miss Hawks eyed him with a sour expression, almost daring him to say something.

Her expression changed drastically when he flipped open his bags and lifted out two pounds of silver coin.

"I'm really glad to see that," she admitted. "I rehired some of the old hands and sent everybody off to buy cattle with the rest of the ranch's money. Mister Moorehouse and I are the only people left.

"Don't you think it was a bit risky to strip your funds that way?" Sarah asked.

Miss Hawks shook her head. "My partner gave me his word. I wanted to find out early how good it is." She hefted the bag of silver coins. "Looks like his word is solid. Come on, I'll take you on the two copper tour."

She gave them a tour of the Manor. Aaron was impressed. Though he did not know anything about running a Manor, he did know a lot of buildings when he saw them. The Manor had fourteen buildings, stables, carriage houses, bunkhouses and guesthouses. If he wanted to be exacting, he even saw chicken houses but that would take the number of buildings up to nineteen and Miss Hawks specifically said there were only the fourteen and not one building more. The Manor, itself, was two stories tall and owned seventeen rooms. Most notably, the grounds had one of the most luxurious outhouses Aaron had ever seen. The outhouse had padded seats and was divided. One side of six stalls was for women and the other side with two stalls for men. That impressed him since separate facilities for men and women were not the norm in Last Chance. Apparently the Kingsfords had wanted no one standing outside doing the side to side shuffle when there was work to be done. Eight stalls, no waiting seemed to be their motto.

When they approached the outhouse the end door opened. A tall, older man stepped out who looked vaguely familiar. Aaron was sure he had visited the store, though the gods knew when or why. Perhaps the man's thick grayy beard was the problem. It was so long and wild that Aaron could barely make out any details of his face. It was possible that he generally shaved before heading to town.

"This is Mister Moorehouse," Miss Hawks said. "He can't punch cattle to save his life, but he is a genius at everything else. This place would fall apart without him."

Aaron accepted a proffered hand, noting thick knuckles and hard calluses. "Mister Moorehouse."

Moorehouse smiled shyly. "It's a pleasure, sir. Was never so happy in my life as when the Mistress told me you took over. Knew things would be all right then."

"Miss Hawks is in charge," Aaron said. "I'm only visiting."

"As you say, sir," Moorehouse answered, taking his hand back. He gave a brief nod and walked away.

Aaron was glad for the tour because Miss Hawks' face lit up when she talked of the Manor and her plans for it. She was obviously the right person to run the place. She was as proud, or prouder, of the ranch than if it were her child.

The day went quickly. Evening found them sitting in the living room, drinks in hand while they made plans for the future.

"I think getting those people to grow hay for us is a good idea," Miss Hawks said. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of growing other crops too. We have a lot more land than we really need and there are hungry people back east."

"Maybe so," Sarah supplied. "The difficulty is getting the food to the people who need it. By the time the food gets far enough east for it to sell it will be spoiled. There isn't much profit in that."

"There is if we build a cannery out here," Miss Hawks responded. "We can preserve our own food for our use, and then we send all the extra back east to make us a profit. I don't think the process should take up more than three or four acres of land."

"It will take more than that," Aaron supplied. "If you plan on building this thing out here you will need to set aside land for housing. You will also need a schoolhouse." He tasted the drink she had given him. He wasn't sure exactly what the drink was, but he knew it was good. From the burn running down his throat, the alcohol content was impressive.

"Now there you go," Miss Hawks told Sarah. "The man does think ahead."

Sarah laughed. "Stop sucking up dear. You can't tell me you never considered the matter of housing your people."

"Of course I thought of it. I just never considered building a schoolhouse is all--Um, Mister Turner?"

"Hmmm."

"Exactly why do we need a schoolhouse?"

Aaron's head felt fuzzy. "For the kids."

"What kids?"

"For the ones I assume the workers will have."

Sarah laughed at him. "Aaron, there ain't no single woman going to come out here with her kids when she can be someplace where she has a chance of catching herself a man. The only women you're going to get out here are the ones committed to being single."

"But what about the married women, the ones whose husbands work in the factory too?"

They looked at him strangely. "Mister Turner," Miss Hawks finally said, "Men don't work in factories. It just isn't done. Not on this side of the ocean anyway. I did talk to a man once who said it was different over in the Old World countries, but they do a lot of strange things over there."

"You're kidding." Aaron was astonished.

"Not at all," Sarah told him. "By law, men are not allowed to work in factories."

"But why not?"

Miss Hawks spread her hands before her. "I suppose it's because factories are dirty. Can't take chances when men just seem to get sick more than women, and then they die. We don't know why it happens, but we do know that it is stupid to let men work inside a factory."

"So what do they do overseas?" he asked. He felt strange. Men were supposed to be the stronger sex. Why was this place different?

"From what I've read in the papers," Sarah said, "they let the men do whatever they want to do. I also read that their man to woman ratio is, at best, one to five or six."

"By the Lady," Aaron muttered, shocked by the turn of social events in this world. He tipped up his cup and emptied it. "I'm surprised you people let men serve in the Guard."

"No choice," Sarah said. "By nature, men tend to be more violent than women. Some of them never learn to curb that violence because it is so deeply embedded. Those are the ones who have to go into the Guard if they want any life at all. Their only other option is to turn criminal or go slowly crazy because they have these terrible instincts that they cannot find an outlet for. Sometimes they just run berserk. Fortunately the really wild ones have a high sex drive. They do more than their share to make sure new people are born."

"This," Aaron told them, "is too much information at once. I think it's time to get some sleep. If I stay up any longer the two of you will only depress me more."

"Do you want me to tuck you in?" Sarah asked sweetly.

"Will you be staying?"

"No dear, not without Cathy. I won't even let us be seriously tempted. That's why I had Miss Hawks put our beds so far apart."

That figured. She and the world conspired against him.

Sarah turned serious. "Aaron, you do know that if things become too difficult you can always find someone who is willing to give you a quick tumble. Honestly, neither Cathy nor I will have a problem with that. Jealousy over other women is just not in us. It isn't in any woman. We can't afford it because it gives our men a reason to leave."

"You told me that before."

"Perhaps if you were to ask Miss Hawks?"

"I suppose I could have sex with him," the indicated lady reluctantly said. "After all, he has done enough for me." Her enthusiasm was warm enough to freeze lava.

"Maybe another time."

"Offer's there." Miss Hawks shrugged and finished the dregs of her drink. "To bed then."

"To bed," Aaron agreed. Leaving the women, he stood, headed up the stairs, and crawled into his bed. After he lay down he wondered if he should have accepted Miss Hawk's offer after all. The way things were going, he was probably going to be this world's first twenty-five year-old male virgin. That thought gave him pause. After doing some quick figuring he realized that he had made a mistake. His birthday had been yesterday.

Damn. That meant he really was a twenty-five year-old virgin. Uh oh, thinking of birthdays, he had come very close to making a huge mistake. Cathy would turn sixteen in another week. He needed to find her a nice present.

But that was for later. This was now, and right now he really wanted another one of those very strong drinks. In fact, he wanted several.

Rising, he left the room, went down the stairs, and into the dining room. Though the ladies were in bed, the bottle was still out.

"Fine," he said out loud as he poured himself another drink. Because he did not want to just sit and drink, he pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil from the writing desk and started doodling. Before he knew exactly what he was doing he had drawn up a speculative perspective of how a canning factory would best be laid out. He even put in rail lines. He drew the size and shape of his projected rail cars and designed the type of harness the horses would need to do the pulling.

Gods No! He looked at what he had done with disbelief. With near panicky movements he picked the paper up and tore it into shreds. Taking the pieces, he went over to the unused fireplace and threw them in it and then used his lighter to ignite them.

No way, there was no way he was going to get himself involved in another project. Stress reduction was the only way to go. If Miss Hawks sank her teeth into this project it would give Aaron nothing but two years of headaches.

With that potential problem avoided, he poured himself the rest of the bottle and took his glass when he went back to bed.

* * *

Aaron woke the next morning to an otherworldly, disjointed, washed out sort of feeling. From behind his closed door came the faint sound of voices, and then masculine laughter.

He had a headache, but that was not a real problem. After the amount of alcohol he had drunk he more than deserved a headache.

He manfully pulled himself upright as the laughter faded away. Clumsily fumbling, he fuzzily pulled on the clothes he had dropped beside the bed the night before. Feeling a lump in his front pants pocket, Aaron reached in and pulled it out. He smiled and laughed at himself. It was the refrigerator magnet that had become his unofficial mascot. He thought about throwing the thing away but decided not to do that here. Most likely Miss Hawks would find it and then he would have to spend an awful amount of time explaining to her exactly what it was and why it said Keefer Custom Knives on its front. After shoving the magnet back into his pocket, Aaron took stock of his room since he had not paid it proper mind the night before.

He had a dresser with a mirror, and there was, yes, a chair before the dresser. The mirror told him he had serious appearance problems so he looked through the dresser drawers until he found a comb. Of late, keeping his hair straight and neat was getting harder. He really needed that haircut soon. He had made a sort of promise to Mister Golard weeks ago that he would come visiting.

The comb did wonders for his hair but nothing for his glaring red eyes. He needed to find cool water and a rag to help those.

Aaron left his room, wishing he had brought aspirin but a small chaser might put his head back in order. He walked halfway down the hall before stopping to check out his surroundings.

Something seemed different. Things seemed--unnatural.

Remembering the sound of laughter, a chill settled into his bones. His head throbbed and something tangy filled the air. He walked again, taking slow, measured steps that did not jar his head. Gods, his brain felt fuzzy. A man ought to know better than to suck down so much alcohol when he wasn't used to it.

Reaching the stairs leading down to the main floor, he stopped and stared while his heart thumped a heavy beat. Pain shot through his skull. A cold freeze ran across his spine and beads of sweat broke across his forehead.

A man lay on the steps. Thin wisps of hair partially covered a sunburned head. Thick gray beard. Mister Moorehouse.

Aaron's head pounded as he gingerly walked down the stairs one unreal step at a time. Drops of blood gleamed wetly on the center of the stairway and a small pool lay on the third step up from Mister Moorehouse's head. Blood surrounded the handyman. The sick feeling in Aaron's stomach said Moorehouse was not sleeping. The man was dead.

He approached slowly, knelt by the body, and saw that Moorehouse had not died by accident. A series of jagged tears ran along the entire front and left side of the handyman's neck. Blood lay black on the bare wood floor, sticking in congealed globs to Aaron's shoes. More blood had shot over the stair railing to land on the floor several feet away.

Nostrils quivering at the stench of blood and defecation, Aaron looked around slowly. His stomach lurched eerily, and his knees shook. A figure appeared in the open end of the hallway.

"This way, Storeman. You better follow right along with me because your girlfriends need you." Eric, the escaped murderer from the bank, gestured expansively. "Follow me, Storeman, an' I might not kill them. Then again, maybe I will."

The madman's grin grew huge and friendly. His eyes glistened with insane joy. "I've been watching you. I looked through your luggage last night while you slept. You lay there on your bed, snoring while I rummaged through everything you have. Guess what I found; you don't have one of those boomers. You don't even have a knife." He shook his head sadly. "Really, Mister Turner. I can't believe you brought nothing except that bow. Seems a rich man like you should take better care of himself. There's no telling what kind of people you might run into."

Mind tumbling, Aaron rose slowly. "What have you done with them?"

Could he jump the man? Eric was larger and stronger than Aaron, and he was undoubtedly a much better fighter since he had not spent the better part of his life as a cripple. Enough time had passed since the robbery that Eric's bullet wound was probably not bothering him too much anymore, so that was not a consideration.

A weapon? The body had nothing near it that he could use. Could he make it back to his room? Probably. Then what? He would have a chair he could throw or blankets he could wrap the madman in. Aaron somehow doubted a thrown chair or thin blankets would intimidate Eric.

"Me?" Eric asked innocently. "I haven't done a thing to them. Don't know what the others are doing though. Sometimes my brother, Gregory, is hard to control. Truth is, he isn't as reasonable as I am."

Others? If Aaron somehow escaped or killed Eric, Sarah would be murdered or worse. What about Miss Hawks?

Eric's expression turned nasty. "Come or not. I'll have my fun either way." He turned and left. "Sometimes they last for hours," he shouted over his shoulder. "Sometimes they die real quick. I've been making a study on the matter. Been thinking that I might even publish my research someday."

Mouth dry, Aaron followed.

Eric, another man who from all appearances had to be Eric's brother, and a heavyset gargoyle of a woman waited in the dining room. The woman's hungry eyes shredded him with their intensity, weighing him, testing his mettle with her spiteful stare. She saw something in him and began chuckling a low contemptuous laugh--and then Mister Haarod Beech, stepped into view.

Eric held a bronze and bloody knife in his hand. Closely watching Aaron with wildly challenging eyes, he slowly licked it clean.

The buttons of her heavy work shirt torn away, Miss Hawks lay unconscious on the floor, one side of her freckled face purpling. The top swell of one breast, visible from where her shirt had been pulled aside, rose and fell with her breathing.

Sarah sat, bound. Ropes tied her hands behind her and fastened her feet to the heavy oak dinning chair. A gag was shoved into her mouth. Face flushed, she tried to suck breath through a broken nose. Blood trickled over the bloody gag, onto her chin and dripped onto her shirt. Her eyes fumed.

Lovingly holding Sarah's new sword in his hands, Beech stepped forward.

"Mister Turner. I find it difficult to believe I lusted for one of your pretty knives when this beauty waited for me. Your girlfriend's sword is everything I wanted and more than I hoped for." He pointed the sword at the dining table. Soundlessly, the table vibrated and shifted, and then it dissolved into fine grains of powdered wood that dispersed thickly into the air before drifting to the floor. Aaron coughed when dust entered his lungs, coughed again, and then held his breath until the cloud dispersed slightly.

"Do you realize how much effort that would have taken me before I had this fine beauty in my hands?" Beech finally said. "A while back I would have strained so hard that my skin bled. Why, I bled a lot just a few nights ago when I had a little argument with a late Clan Chieftain over some future plans of mine. Now, with this..." Beech held up the sword. "Nothing is beyond me. Having this in my hand increases my power more than I ever dreamed possible. Thank you--Mister--Turner."

"Now can I kill her?" Eric begged. He knelt down by Miss Hawks and reached out with his knife. Two twists of his wrist flipped open her shirt, completely baring her breasts to his view. Giggling, he pressed its tip beneath her bare sternum and licked his lips.

"Eric," his brother admonished, holding out a delicate, almost manicured, hand. "I told you it's better if they are alive. You draw blood and hear them scream, and when you are done you can still kill them. It's a rush." He laughed. His laugh started low and rose in intensity and volume until it shook off the walls. It was the laugh of a madman, the laugh of insanity. He laughed, and then he cackled without drawing a breath for a full minute while Eric patiently waited to reply.

"Too warm, Gregory," Eric said emotionlessly when his brother finally ran out of air. "I like them cold. I like them ice cold."

Aaron couldn't take anymore. His nerves were shot, and the little courage he owned felt like it had run out of his toes. "Tell me what you want!" he demanded. "Leave them alone and I'll give you what you want!"

The Gargoyle slugged him in the heart.

"Gahh." Aaron fell over backwards, hit the floor hard, bounced twice, and landed in a loose sprawl. His back protested where his knife wound was healing but he did not care about that. A sliced open back and ripped stitches was a small matter when he fought so hard for breath. His heart stopped as he tried to suck in a hint of air. It stuttered, stopped, stuttered once more, and then began beating in a painful, irregular rhythm.

Looking disappointed, the gargoyle turned to Gregory "Only two."

Gregory shook his head sympathetically. "Are you sure?"

"Couple of the others bent, but I only broke two."

Gregory sighed sadly and ran red wet fingers through his short dark hair. "Melissa. Are you getting old on me? You've always been good for at least three ribs. I remember one time when you busted four."

"As you can see," Beech said politely, "we don't really want anything from you." He paused. "Well, maybe a little revenge. Yes, that would do us well. Can you understand how much I hate you? You frightened me in that store when you stood up to me, and you had all that steel in front of you. I thought it was all tuned to you. I thought you were the most powerful Talent Master alive. Now I find that you are only an impotent little man with a little Talent, less courage, and very good connections."

Leaning forward slightly, he gestured with the sword and part of the floor dissolved beside Aaron. Dust drifted up and sifted into his gasping mouth as Aaron tried to suck enough air into his lungs to keep himself going. His chest hurt like a demon, and his damnable head throbbed and pounded like it wanted to explode. The dust caught in his throat, was sucked into his gasping lungs, and he bent double in agony.

"Ka--Ka--Ka."

"Oh stop that coughing Turner," Beech scolded. "It's irritating. It's almost as irritating as discovering that I was afraid of a nothing. I was frightened of you. OF YOU!" He laughed loudly. "I don't like being afraid. If I don't kill you for no other reason, I will have to kill you for that."

Aaron caught hold of half a breath. "Let them go," he rasped. "They--"

"They die," Beech continued. "Miss Townsend helped kill my men when they were innocently trying to raise money to buy your knife." He paused and then released a big grin. "Of course, there was a little matter of needing funds for a conquest. We can't forget that. I have an empire to win and a bunch of savages who are so stupid they will follow anybody with a plan."

Unbelieving, Aaron watched the man gloat.

"The redhead is going to die," Beech continued, "because Eric has never killed a redhead before. Besides, sweet little Melissa wants to eat her heart." He shrugged. "You know how it is. Sometimes you have to allow unpleasant things to keep your people happy."

Melissa smiled widely. File pointed teeth gleamed. "I like it all," she said in a grave-loving voice. "I like the heart best."

"Eric, leave her be. I want her first." Gregory cat-walked over to Eric just as Eric started sawing away at Miss Hawk's bare nipple with his knife. Blood, running from the cut, turned her breast red. Laughing, Eric lowered himself down so he could bury his face in the bloody breast. His lips fastened over the half severed nipple, and he began suckling like he was a hungry child. Red fluid pooled on Miss Hawk's stomach, running from lines Eric had carved into her flesh.

Cackling gleefully, Gregory started cutting away her pants. He wasn't careful to only cut cloth. Blood spurted from Miss Hawk's right thigh when the knife bit too deep. Mouth open in a wide grin, Gregory set the finger of his left hand in the blood, and then used those fingers to draw crimson lines across his cheeks.

"Wait!"

Knife edge once again pressed against Miss Hawk's thigh, scowling Gregory paused at Aaron's shout. "What now?"

Eric raised his bloody face, his features twisted into an unrecognizable mask.

"A question," Aaron gasped, sick and hurt and disgusted. He thanked God that Miss Hawks was unconscious, and he prayed he could find a way to get her out of this. Gods, let this prayer be different from so many of the others. Please let this one be answered. "What is this conquest? Maybe I can help somehow."

Shrugging, Gregory continued his self-given chore. He jerked the rags of Miss Hawks' pants away, showing that she wore nothing underneath. Her thighs bled from several wounds where his knife had cut deep. "I don't care anything about that."

"I do," Beech said. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small stone. His fingers fondled it like it was a lover. "I've been given the gift of this nice wonderful Talent Stone, and now I have my new sword. A man needs to take advantage of gifts like those. He needs to think of his future and--."

Suddenly stiffening, Beech turned alarmed eyes to Aaron. "There is another Talent Stone here! I feel its resonance."

"Talent?" Aaron suddenly realized that he had his own Talent. He could transport to another world, except there was no way he could accomplish that now. He had never been able to backtrack this soon after returning to Isabella--but--his ability was increasing, and it had acted strange the last time he used it, and he sure had one hell of a lot of motivation. Maybe. Maybe.

Damn. Was this the answer to his prayer?

Could he leave the women?

Eric inserted his finger into the hole he had cut into Miss Hawks' breast. His face became ecstatic, and his pants bore a huge bulge. Grinning, he wiggled his finger deeper into the wound.

Gregory leaned low and slowly licked at Miss Hawk's inner thighs, drawing her blood into his mouth like it was the finest of wines.

"The heart," the Gargoyle whispered. "Give me the heart." She leaned anxiously forward, eyes fastened greedily on the bleeding flesh. Miss Hawks groaned but remained unconscious while Eric dug his fingers deeper.

Aaron had to try taking the women with him even if he had strained his resources carrying just a few extra coins the last time he transferred over. What would Cathy do if she did not see Sarah and him again? Could he pull them with him? What would it do to the women if he only partly succeeded? It could kill them. No, it would kill them because their mass was too much for his ability. Still, he had carried more supplies back over here than he had ever carried before. Maybe he was strong enough now. Maybe.

He had no choice but to try. He would not leave his friends to these madmen. The women would come with him or they would all die. There was no other way.

Do it.

Eric began peeling skin away from Miss Hawks' breast, ripping it free with a wet sound that made Aaron's skin crawl. Eric's insane laughter matched that of Gregory's. Miss Hawks tossed her head and groaned.

Reaching out, Aaron grasped the women in his mind like he grasped supplies when he transported with them.

"Why, Storeman," Beech said calmly. "You do have a Talent Stone, and you never told me. Now that is hardly friendly. In fact, it makes me so angry that I will have to rend your soul before you die. After you are dead your stone will crumble to dust, and I will eat it. I've always wanted to eat a Talent Stone. There are different theories as to what that will do to a man. I like the one that says it makes people more powerful."

Miss Hawks' face was bruised. Her shredded breast bled over Eric's hand, and her face was twisted with pain. Sarah groaned in impotent fury as Gregory carved on Miss Hawks' inside thighs.

"Stop that," the Master hissed to the brothers. "This is important. Just kill the bitch so I can get her spleen. I have a soul to destroy." He smiled at Aaron. The freshly filed points of his teeth matched the ones in Melissa's mouth. "Your soul, Mister Turner. I am going to destroy your soul unless you give me exactly what I want."

"Fine!" Sounding petulant, Gregory pulled his bloody face from Miss Hawks' wounds. Straightening to his knees, he raised his knife, ready to plunge it into Miss Hawks' belly. "I get the other woman though. You promised me one of them."

With a grimace, Eric finished ripping the skin away. He looked at his work, and his grimace turned into a maniacal grin. Satisfaction gleamed from his eyes.

"One left," he said. "I want it when she's dead. I want to make a tobacco pouch out of it."

Almost have it, Aaron thought. He reached-reached-and then something suddenly boosted his efforts. Energy. Clean. Clear, more vibrant than when he had connected with it before, tore through him, demanding to be used, seeking to burst from him, to tear through his body.

_Not yet_ , Aaron yelled silently to Gregory. _Give me a few more seconds. Come on, all I need are a few more seconds._

The knife blade struck down, and Aaron screamed as he desperately reached--

A gun fired.

Gregory staggered back. The knife was suddenly raised above his head again as he twisted and fell and then--

The gun fired again.

Light flared off a shield suddenly erected around Beech. He staggered back a step, sword rising while the gun continued firing again and again.

Beech staggered once more, and then Eric's falling brother threw his knife. The blade flashed through the doorway.

"ARRRGH!"

Staggering, a gray haired, broad shouldered black man came into view, blood staining his dark skin, gun dropping from his fingers. Beech straightened from the last shot that had flashed against his shield. He raised the sword and pointed--

Aaron's mental being suddenly grasped the power straining inside him. He molded it, shaped it to his will. Stretching his grip, he captured the women and then reached out and grabbed their savior. His power swept in a circle, gripping everything in it, crashing against Beech's shield, rejecting it and him as Aaron defined the circle of his influence.

Not the compound, he remembered at the last moment. He could not go back to the compound.

Something formed in the air at the tip of Sarah's sword. Beech laughed. The something flashed free--

Fli--fli--fli--fli--FLICKER
Chapter 20

Perk was disgusted by the sight of a ten year-old cranberry red Husky in her driveway. As a driver, she had nothing but contempt for any vehicle that handled like a cardboard box on wheels. Besides, the maintenance record on those things was appalling. Only an idiot would buy one in the first place, and no one short of an imbecile would even contemplate driving a Husky that was ten years old. Between the cost of maintenance and frequent towing, a person would be better off buying a new vehicle and making payments. Perk chuckled to herself and wondered if the unknown owner qualified for frequent towing miles yet.

Now the big question really revolved around which of Derrick's many friends was the idiot who had driven that thing here. Too many qualified for the title, but she did not have much of an idea what most of them drove since she mostly only met them when she went to the strip bars with Derrick. George Evens was a possibility. He was a large lump of nothing waiting to happen who did not have a license to drive. Of course that did not stop him from driving, but not being insurable was probably some sort of deterrent to his actually buying a car because he would have to pay cash. Paul Harbor liked to ride on two wheels, and that Sprocket fellow had more money, if not as much sense, than the Husky required. Ah well. These little mysteries made life worth living.

She had her key ready for the lock when she reached the front door, but there was no need for it. The door was not only unlocked, it was ajar. Pushing it further open, she entered her home and went looking for unwanted company. Derrick and his buddy were not in the living room or the kitchen. The bathroom door was open, and she had no basement, so that sort of narrowed down the possibilities of where they were and what kind of friend Derrick was entertaining.

Sure enough, an ear pressed gently to the bedroom door gave her all the sounds needed to prove her theory. She heard a few moans intermixed with the faint slosh of water because Derrick had not bled the air out of her waterbed like he had promised several weeks earlier.

Straightening, she gently turned the knob and silently swung the door open. Taking a step forward, Perk leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and watched the action with a jaundiced eye.

The girl might or might not have qualified as being good in bed. Perk was more than willing to let Derrick make that judgment call since she did not have and never wanted to have any experience in the same sex department. Good or not, the girl was certainly enthusiastic and athletic about the entire endeavor. Perk saw her assume more positions in the next five minutes than a ballerina took during an entire performance. Poor Derrick was up against more than he could handle. He sweated up a storm, and his breath sounded like a leaky steam engine.

A shame, really. His respiratory system had not been nearly that out of shape when he moved in with her. Just goes to show how quickly a life of leisure could ruin a person's conditioning. It also showed the difference between thirty-five and--Perk gave the girl a calculating look--maybe seventeen if a gal was generous. Truthfully, the young thing was probably a year younger than that.

Derrick finished up with a jungle yell. The little miss yelled along with him, but her face told of her deceit, and her body could not hold up her lie. Derrick knew instantly that he had been remiss in his duties. Perk had to smile at his stricken look. Strangely, Derrick's one truly redeeming feature was the pride he took in pleasing his partner. In this case he had somewhat--fallen down on the job.

"I'll give it a nine point seven for enthusiasm but only a six for technique," Perk said calmly. This was a scene she had lived through too many times for it to upset her again.

Derrick instantly schooled his expression and lazily rolled his head to get a look at Perk while the girl let out a small surprised scream and dove for the covers. Despite the promise shown by her earlier performance, she proved to not be very good at the diving under the covers part of the home wrecker routine. It took her two attempts to get the blankets completely over her head.

"You're home early," Derrick said nonchalantly. He acted as if he were totally oblivious to the fact that an under-aged naked girl hid under the covers of his girlfriend's bed. If the facts had not been so obvious, Perk would not have been able to tell from his attitude whether he had been screwing around on her or had just finished reading a good novel--not that Derrick could read all that well.

"You've been complaining because I work late," Perk told him calmly. She wondered what it would be like to sleep by herself once more. Peaceful, she decided. It would be decidedly peaceful. "I thought I'd surprise you. Thought we might play a little bumpy bump tonight."

She walked over to the bed and gave him a once over. He still looked damned good. Despite his newly acquired sedentary lifestyle there was only about five pounds of unneeded fat on his body. He had rug of hair on his chest, a day's growth on his face, and his eyes still had that confident, commanding look she found attractive in men. On top of that he was half a foot taller than her and had muscles in all the right places. All in all, he was a good-looking piece of eye candy. It was just his integrity and most of the hair on his head that were lacking.

Derrick smiled and pointed toward his groin. "You're too late. I won't be ready for another hour."

Ignoring him, Perk pulled back the covers. Green eyes stared up at her. The poor dear was shaking. Her eyes were wet, and the look she gave Perk held abject fear. The little darling must be quite new at this, but then she did not have the appearance of a practiced home wrecker. She looked like she was somebody's darling girl trying to go bad.

"Hon," Perk told the girl, "you had best go and get yourself cleaned up 'cause you're leaking all over my clean sheets. I won't have it girl. I don't mind you screwing my guy all that much, but I will not have you messing up my sheets."

The frightened girl pulled herself out of the bed and scurried for the bathroom. Appreciative, Perk watched her run. Say what you will, Derrick did have good taste. The gal was good looking flesh. She had the tight skin of youth, a nice firm butt, and her boobs had no droop at all. They were so firm that they hardly bounced when she ran. Then again, Derrick tended to go for young and fresh. He liked brainless and no self-esteem, too--but that was only because brainless, no esteem girls made for an easier conquest.

The girl did not stay in the bathroom long. Within moments she sidled out, and then she rushed to gather up her clothes before running toward the door without bothering to put all her clothing on. Perk stopped her to hand over a dropped bra before the girl bolted out the door. It was the decent thing to do. Bras cost good money, and this one was not Perk's size.

Once the door closed Perk went back to the bedroom. Wearing a snidely victorious smirk, Derrick sat up and pulled on his pants.

Perk shook her head. "Derrick, you know I don't say anything about your other lays. Truth is, I never cared enough about you for it to bother me. I do have a problem with this one though. You brought her into my home."

Derrick shrugged. "So? What does it matter where I do them? Here. There. It's all the same in the end." He chuckled and picked up his discarded tee shirt, gingerly sniffing it before holding it out to her. "Do you think this stinks too much for a third wearing?"

Perk sighed and ignored the offering. "The difference is a matter of respect. I knew you had very little respect for me. This shows you don't have any respect at all. It's time you left."

Eyes narrowing, Derrick's face changed from amused to mean. "You ain't kicking me out of my home. You don't have the balls for it."

"I don't have any balls at all, but you're still leaving."

He raised a fist. "Make me."

* * *

Feeling sad, Perk watched while Derrick staggered down the walkway. The sight of one more loser walking out of her life made her want to take therapy. There was something inside her, some insecurity that made her go after the users and the abusers. Obviously, her lovers were not the only ones who were sick. They were just the ones who were afraid to openly admit to the sickness in their minds. Perk knew she was sick, but she could see no way out of it except through an endless array of weightlifting, and swimming, and martial arts classes.

Shaking her head in self-disgust, Perk went around the house, changing the combinations on her locks and the codes on her alarm system. Of course, she would now have to set up the cameras again because Derrick was violent and had a vindictive streak as wide as her driveway running through him. Being Derrick, he would try to damage her home. Well good luck, boyo. If you do that you'll do your time behind bars just like those other two smarmy bastards.

It took her over an hour to reconnect the cameras, and then it took her another two hours to get them adjusted the way she wanted. During that time she took a look at her life and did not particularly like what she saw. She looked at her job and her men, and she wished desperately that she did not live here. She wished she lived in a time and a place where honor had some meaning. She wanted to live where integrity was more than just another word in the dictionary; where it was not a constant struggle for her to get through the day without wanting to punch some asshole of a fare who thought all female drivers sold themselves on the side. Most of all, she wished she could land a decent job and a decent man, but those goals were only dreams because she was a person of limited potential. All she could do was drive and fight. Despite encouragement from her teachers, Perk knew she was not qualified to teach martial arts. She was not good enough for that. She was not nearly as good as those who taught her, and she had too much pride to be a third rate teacher like so many others.

Well, she did have more than a little money set aside, money that Derrick had never known about. The twisted man had seen to that. She smiled. Aaron Turner was a lonely and a weird man. She liked him despite or because of that. Maybe it was the weird in him. She seemed to be attracted to weird.

Maybe she should quit driving and start taking a few classes. She could probably arrange to get her GED in a year or two, and then she could go after something more ambitious than driving a cab.

Or maybe she should just pack her bags and head off for some foreign port. Maybe she should ditch Jefferson entirely and head for one of those little tropical islands where tourists drank out of glasses with little umbrellas stuck in them. A place where native men and women took off their daytime business suits to don the traditional skimpy attire of their forebears so they could dance and prance for those umbrella-twiddling tourists.

Hell, maybe she should just take a nap.

Nah, she couldn't even do that. She had to wash her sheets first. She only had the one set, and they were soiled.
Chapter 21

The Gaines bus station lost its tranquility in a heartbeat.

People, and boards, and furniture along with a partial wall exploded into being, smashed into two people waiting for a bus and decapitated the ticket agent. Several station chairs splintered and an abandoned whiskey bottle shattered.

Eric and the Gargoyle immediately staggered erect. Throwing panicked looks at each other they shot for the open door. A policeman, escorting a prisoner, stepped out of the bathroom and raised his gun.

"HALT!"

Eric spun and pointed. The policeman blew open like an overripe melon slammed into hard cement. The prisoner stood still, horrified as a dripping sheet of blood and gore covered him. Eric's face fell into shock, and then a smile of pure joy spread across it. Quickly spinning back to Melissa, he grabbed her arm and jerked her out the door.

Samuel Aybarra, undercover agent for Jefferson Central Intelligence, watched them as he struggled to pull himself erect. He looked down at his body to see a knife stuck in him.

"Intelligence," he shouted to the former prisoner, the only other conscious and free person left in the station. "Don't call the police. Call Intelligence." Blood flowed down his bare arm, staining his dark skin, and dripped off his fingers. Suddenly feeling weary, he sat down on a broken chair and looked at his fellow transportees. The naked and sorely abused redhead was not moving, either dead or still unconscious. The other woman struggled to free herself from the broken chair she was tied to, and Turner was apparently not all there. His eyes were rolled up into his head. Blood glistened on his bare skin, and his body twisted to take on the same convoluted contortion he had held when Aybarra had first seen him at Field's Militia while posing as a captain under General Mays, so that, at least, had not been a ruse.

Not far away lay half the upper body of the third man. Not all of him had transported over since his legs seemed to be missing. Two men lay near him, twisted bodies broken by the fallen section of wall. Debris piled on top of them, but that did not matter. Neither of them breathed.

"What a hell of a job," Aybarra muttered to himself. This was not the life he had planned for himself when the recruiter had knocked on his dorm room door more than twenty years earlier and invited him to join Intelligence. He had pictured himself sitting in a nice clean office while he studied satellite photos and drank bad coffee.

"Tell them we need medical," he shouted to the prisoner as the man grabbed up the phone. "Major medical, but they have to keep it quiet, so tell them no sirens."

The gore-covered man jerked his head up from the phone, gave Aybarra the finger, and went back to talking.

Lucky guy, Aybarra thought. They would probably relocate him to one of the high security villages. Those were little more than prisons with privileges, but hell, the fellow had apparently been going to jail anyway. Now he was going to be in a prison where he got to play golf with former agents and two fallen governors. Aybarra felt happy for the man. It was good to know something positive would come out of this fiasco. He looked down to study the blood draining from his body.

"A lot of ambulances!" he shouted.

Appearing exasperated, the caller pulled the phone away from his ear. "Would you shut up and let me get on with this?"

Samuel Aybarra shut up and let a convicted felon handle matters.

* * *

Aybarra looked at his older superior, noting that he seemed to have gained another ten pounds and lost even more hair during the last several months while Aybarra had been living under cover. Hair loss and extra pounds was just one of the dangers of owning a desk job, he assumed. Unfortunately, the way things were going, he would never have the opportunity of personally finding that out. Apparently, Mrs. Aybarra's little son Samuel was just too damn good in the field for his superiors to even consider promoting him to a desk job.

After settling himself into the plush oversized visitor's chair set on the other side of his boss's cherry wood desk, feeling himself sink too far in so that, with time, his back was guaranteed to ache, Samuel tried to ignore pictures on the wall of David shaking hands with presidents because, when push came to shove, that was another reason he would remain forever in the lower ranks. He had no connections, no pull, because he was the wrong race. Prejudice because of race might officially be a thing of the past, but for some reason, those who were of Asian or Hispanic descent tended to get all the best jobs.

Then again, despite David Lincoln's position and influence, the type and condition of his small office did not actually say that this was one of those best jobs. An indication, perhaps, that his connections were not as earthshaking as the pictures indicated. More likely, the explanation had to do with his mixed heritage. Though he was considered Hispanic, David Lincoln had an embarrassing amount of Anglo blood running through his veins.

"Turner," Aybarra said once he finished shifting himself around in the chair so it was at least minimally comfortable, "has been lying all along. Yes, the area is broken into several countries, but they are serious and well run countries and not the hodgepodge of mismanaged backwaters he described to his superiors. The one he lives in, Isabella, is a loose republic with a population density higher than he reported, though it is still low when compared to a similar area in our own Jefferson. As best I could tell in the short time I was there, Isabellan technology is eighteenth century in some respects, nineteenth in others, and way back to the twelfth century or before in a couple areas. Most notably, they have no steel or gunpowder. They do, or a few individuals do, have something that appears to be magical or psychic abilities, which isn't surprising since Turner apparently has something similar. However, they seem to need some sort of apparatus to make it work. I'm not sure what that something is since I was not over there very long. However, I did learn that it isn't easy to get one of whatever it is."

Drawing a folder from his brief, Aybarra looked around the small office his boss commanded once again. Despite the pictures, the place was...well...it was depressing. Thirty years of service during four administrations had earned the man no more than a twelve by twelve room without windows. Worst of all, the air conditioning did not work. Apparently there was a problem with the pneumatic damper controlling his segment of the system's cold deck. In other words, the place was sweltering and constantly smelled of stale cigars.

Maybe he was better off staying in the field after all. Was probably better for him. After all, in the field he could only get shot. An office like this would probably grind him down.

Then again, it would be nice to have an opportunity to find out.

Looking thoughtful, Lincoln drummed his heavy fingers on his desk, making a repeated thudding noise that Aybarra found distracting.

"Go on," Lincoln encouraged. "Tell me about Turner."

"A bit of a mystery there," Aybarra admitted. "Turner seems to have ceased all efforts at preparing the ground for military control. Over the last few weeks he has exerted a great deal of effort in gaining financial control of many of the prime businesses, yet the locals don't seem to resent him for this. It appears that he only became financially active after there was some type of crisis, possibly indicating that he only acted to alleviate some sort of local trouble. It is more likely that he is following his own individual path to greater power in accordance with the dictates of General Field, but truthfully, I am not exactly sure."

Aybarra tossed the folder on his commander's desk. "This has the details of my observations. What I don't understand is how the two who escaped from the bus station managed to gain the abilities they displayed. The man is a vicious criminal, but during the short period that I observed him he seemed no different in his limited paranormal abilities than any other person in Isabella. The woman appeared to be strong but she did not strike me as being strong enough to tear the door off a police vehicle."

Finished, Aybarra waited for his boss to respond.

"Perhaps," David Lincoln said, "it's an increase of their natural abilities. The reports I read say that Turner and Klein have more ability when they start on this side than they do on the other." The commander clasped his fingers, leaned back in his creaking chair, and wiped an already damp rag across his sweating forehead. "Personally, I find the thought that this Eric fellow can do more than I already saw very unsettling, but that is a matter for another time. How is Turner doing? The reports say that he lost a lot of blood."

"Yes sir," said Aybarra, "He did, although there is no visible wound to account for that. As best we can tell the blood seems to have come directly through his skin. The doctors put him on IVs to replace his body fluids after they finished repairing his injuries. He had two badly broken ribs and hairline fractures in three others. His heart was bruised and its irregular rhythm had the doctors concerned for a while, but it seems to have steadied down."

"And the others?"

"The redhead had a fractured skull along with several knife slashes to her body and a large patch of torn skin and missing tissue from her breast. Her skull has been repaired and accelerants have been given to her to speed regeneration. Also, she has had artificial skin grafts that will, of course, be indistinguishable from her own skin, and the rest of her wounds have been closed and sealed. Since she was not aware of anything that happened to her beyond the initial attack, there should be no mental trauma for her to overcome. However, just to be safe a memory block was inserted anyway. The doctors say when she regains consciousness in a few more hours there will be little evidence of her ordeal. Sarah Townsend was an easier matter. She only suffered from two breaks in her collarbone. Those have been repaired, and she is already awake."

He sat quiet a moment. "I suppose we are done with the Field Militia compound. The other teleporter appears too infrequently for us to monitor him, and we have not been able to attach an agent to his operation."

His commander shook his head no. "I still want to get men into Colonel Klein's operation. We barely missed getting two men in with him when he transferred over to Chin three days ago."

"Three days? I thought he wasn't supposed to be back for months yet."

"Like our dear friend Turner, the ever elusive Colonel Helmet Klein seems to have shaded the truth. I do agree with one thing, though. Our Turner side of the operation is now dead so I might as well recall Hill. I see no way he can be maneuvered into another useful situation inside the Militia, and he might be of some use here. Maybe Turner still holds some trust for him. He might even have bonded with Hill. Also, I want you with Turner when he wakes. It's possible that he remembers you saving his ass, so that might give him some reason to trust you."

Aybarra should have saluted but he was forgiven that duty due to his once wounded arm. Though his wound had been sealed the area was still tender. From past experience he knew that it would remain so for most of another day. He rubbed his thick hair and wondered just what it was about him that had attracted David Lincoln's attention. Whatever it was, he wanted to get rid of it. Assignments like this were just a bit too strange for his personal comfort. Despite the depressing nature of this office he really did want to sit behind a desk--just like his boss. He wanted to find out for himself if the job was as dull and boring as it appeared. Maybe they would give him a promotion after this assignment was over.

Nah. They wouldn't do that. Paper pushers were easy to come by. Field agents of his caliber were a different matter. The truth was that the agency had very few men of his quality left. Competent people like him who also happened to be the wrong race never got an opportunity to grow a fat behind. No, he was probably a field man for life, however long that life might be.
Chapter 22

Aaron escaped from bad dreams of ropes and blood and screams. Opening crusted over eyes, he discovered that he lay on a bed while an IV dripped slowly into his arm. There was a window to his left, curtains drawn, faint light radiating around the curled edges. An empty chair was placed under the window. The faint outlines of a holovid appeared in the corner of the room, and he was surrounded by the antiseptic stench of hospital air.

So he had crossed over.

Turning his head to the right he saw that a curtain hung on that side of his bed.

A black man sat in a chair near Aaron's feet. The man's head was bent down to look at a book held in his hands. Aaron shifted his weight; crisp sheets rustled, and the man looked up.

Aaron stared.

"I know you," he finally said. "You were with General Mays. Captain something or other."

"Actually I am Major Samuel Aybarra of National Intelligence," the man said. "I'm afraid your group was conned by a covert operation we have been running for the last ten years. Unfortunately, the only way we can infiltrate some of these little militias is by posing as one of them ourselves. But don't worry. You're not wanted for anything in Jefferson. After all, you haven't been out of the complex since you were a child except when you go to that other world, so you haven't had a chance to break any laws."

Aaron relaxed at the man's mistake and his lie because Aaron was wanted by the Jefferson government. He just was not wanted for anything he had done that was illegal.

Wait a minute. They still thought he had never been outside the complex. Apparently they had not put two and two together. How could he have landed in a place outside the complex if he had never been outside of it? Of course, he was assuming he actually had landed in the bus station like he had intended. Then again, how much did the government know of what he could do? Did they know his limits?

"Not saying much, are you?" Aybarra commented wryly. "Well here is your update. You lost only two and a half pints of blood, most of it right through your skin, but part of it was due to a nosebleed. We replaced the blood and did some other work on you that will probably be explained later. The two women are fine, although both are still under sedation. As soon as they come out of it all three of you will be put in the same suite so you will feel more comfortable."

Relieved, Aaron sighed. Tension he did not know he felt washed away.

Aybarra gave Aaron a serious look. "I wouldn't try anything as strenuous as that last leap again if I were you. The trip almost killed you. Next time, I suggest you leave the walls and floors and furniture behind."

"I'll try to arrange matters differently," Aaron promised.

"We will be asking you a lot of questions. You must expect that."

"I can understand why you want to." Understanding did not mean he intended to answer those questions. He wasn't going to answer a single one of them if they made the mistake of putting all three of them in the same room. If they did that, it was going to be one, two, three transport out of here. "I remember seeing you over there. You had a gun."

Aybarra was bright enough to catch his unasked question. "I hid in your last load of supplies. We knew you were lying about your abilities because you were bringing coins back to Hill and Gore. From the requests you had been making, Hill suspected you were about to bug out. That meant you wouldn't care if you showed your superiors you had been lying, so Hill hauled in extra cargo and the tarp to provide me with a hiding place. I'm afraid he was not too particular as to what he threw under the tarp."

He grinned suddenly. The grin transformed his face into a happy caricature of delight.

"You owe me big," Aybarra added with a laugh. "You told us the population was a mixed bag in Isabella. Do you realize how hard it was for me to blend in? I haven't seen such a collection of nothing but white in all my life. Most of the information I gained was from eavesdropping while I was buried in hay or hiding in weeds."

"Slavery never became popular on the new continent," Aaron explained. "There is some slavery overseas, but it's not color specific. However, there are blacks in the New Land but mostly they live in their own separate country. The few blacks who moved into my area bred back into the population centuries ago, but some of their racial traits can still be seen in the general population. Sometimes you see a person with a darker skin, but nobody thinks anything about it. For the most part, racial bias does not exist in Isabella."

Aybarra held up a hand to stop him. "I don't care about any of that. I just wanted to kick your ass for getting me in an awkward situation. You haven't noticed, have you?"

"Noticed what?"

"You've been using your arm. The left one, and you will be able to walk normal. The doctors didn't like the idea of letting that wound on your back finish its natural healing so they decided to seal it. Good thing for you that they did because they found a neural transmitter buried in your back. I'm told that it had leads going to all sorts of interesting places. Your doctors left all those leads in place, but they deactivated the transmitter and removed a little bomb that was attached to it. Son, it appears that your problems were deliberate."

Aaron lifted his arm experimentally. It did not hurt. It really did not hurt. It sat on the end of his shoulder, a straight, pain-free, fully usable arm with strong flexible fingers attached. Experimenting, he shifted his legs. No pain.

"Those bastards," he whispered, soft as a snake's hiss. He had gone through agony. He had gone through fourteen years of hell. How many of those years were unnecessary? How many operations were shams, done so wires and transmitters and bombs could be placed inside his body?

Damn. And to think that he had kicked himself for not being loyal to the General. That was one internal conflict he would not have again.

The bastards.

Aybarra nodded knowingly. "They probably kept going in and changing things until they got your natural teleporting ability strong enough for what they wanted. Now that we have our hands on you, we can figure out exactly what that right thing is so we can repeat it with other people, hopefully without all the side effects."

* * *

When Miss Hawks walked into the suite of rooms that had been provided to them, Aaron thought she looked quite admirable. She wore new jeans and a checked flannel shirt, both tight enough to accentuate her important lines and hint at others. Her flushed face was alive. Sun browned, wind roughened, with small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips, she was the epitome of handsome, character, and strength.

Considering her previous condition, he was extremely happy to see her looking so healthy. He just wished she was not so pissed.

At him.

Sarah's expression when she first came into the room held plenty of warning. The warning wasn't given soon enough to prepare him for Miss Hawks' right cross.

After he picked himself off the floor and spent a few moments rubbing his jaw, Aaron backed very carefully away from the very angry Miss Hawks.

"What was that for?" he demanded.

"What was that for!" Her face flushed a deeper red. "I got clobbered, stripped, cut, and kidnapped because _you_ are a fraud! Then you ask what that was for! I was almost raped and murdered, for the Lady's Sake. Miss Townsend tells me you didn't even have the decency to look away when I was stripped naked. How dare you!" Her voice, filled with indignant shame, cracked at the end.

"I wasn't looking at you," Aaron protested. He held up an arm to ward off a flying ashtray. Fortunately, she was so upset that her aim was more of a fictional concept than a real fact. The ashtray missed him by a foot and bounced off the couch. "I had broken ribs." He thought of the bloody horror she had been and shuddered. Thank God for modern medicine.

"I saw you looking," Sarah contributed helpfully, leaning against the outer doorframe. "As a matter of fact, you've now seen a whole lot more of her than you've ever seen of me."

Aaron glared at her. Damn it, the vixen was enjoying this.

"I haven't seen any of you," he shot back to Sarah, "though the Lady knows I've tried." She had the grace to look contrite, almost. He looked back to Hawks. "Look, my ribs were broken. I could hardly breathe, and I was afraid we were all going to die. On top of that, I was trying to pull us all out of there. Okay. Yes, I saw you less than completely clothed, but I really didn't pay the matter any attention. I had more important things on my mind, things like getting us out of there."

He was babbling. He was a blooming, babbling idiot.

And then he caught her look. Storm clouds had gathered. Obviously time to bolster his defenses. He drew in a deep breath. "And no, I am not the type of pervert who gets his kicks out of sadism, not even voyeuristic sadism. Miss Hawks, from my point of view, your being naked was a matter of no interest beyond my wanting to save you."

Miss Hawks' glare turned more furious.

Sarah shook her head despairingly. "Oh, you poor boy."

"Why take it out on me?" Aaron protested while Miss Hawks' eyes turned towards a heavy lamp. "Dozens of other people probably saw you when we were brought here." Dropping quickly, Aaron rolled to the floor. The thrown lamp almost passed over his head. It was stopped in its trajectory by the electric cord that was still plugged into an electric socket. Jerked back by the cord, the lamp fell to the floor, and shattered.

"They, I do not know!" Hawks snapped. "They owe me no respect. They are not my partner. They did not get me in that spot in the first place, and they did not say my body was not worth looking at."

"Wait a minute. I didn't say that." Had he said that? Gods, please let him not have said that.

Aaron did not dodge fast enough this time. The end table's leg caught his hip. Leaping backward he dove behind the couch and carefully peered over the top.

Looking as confused as Aaron felt, Aybarra stood behind Sarah.

"Turner, what the hell is--"

Sarah flattened him. She turned so fast Aaron did not have time to think of shouting a warning. Aybarra fell straight to the floor before he could blink. Before he could blink a second time Miss Hawks kicked him in the stomach.

"You will speak to my partner only with respect!" Miss Hawks raged.

"What did I--?"

Sarah jerked him to his feet. "My intended," she said firmly, "is an important man. He is a good man. You will speak to him respectfully, or you and I will have a private conversation that you will not like."

Aybarra looked imploringly to Aaron. Doubtfully, Aaron rose from behind the couch. It was good to see all that womanly anger being directed at somebody else since it meant that he might be safe now. Still, it would not hurt to be prepared to take cover again.

"It's proper to use a Mister, Miss, or Mistress before a person's name," Aaron explained to Aybarra. "Using profanity at all is thought to be crude at best, insulting at worst. Using profanity in the same sentence as a person's name is the highest insult. Ladies, this is a different place. People are commonly addressed by either their first or last names here. Unfortunately, the use of profanity is not an unusual occurrence."

Neither woman relented. "Apologize," Sarah demanded.

Miss Hawks looked like one of the furies incarnate. "You will speak respectfully to us all, or we shall be forced to repeat this lesson."

Aybarra spoke quickly. "Mister Turner, I apologize for being disrespectful to you, and I promise never to be so again, especially when you have these two bodyguards nearby."

Sarah released him and came fully into the suite. She looked around curiously. "Good enough for now. Aaron, you have to explain how everything in here works. Miss Hawks, you can leave that poor man alone, and please stop breaking the place up."

"He's black as an Afran." Hawk's anger had dissolved.

"I was born and raised in this country," Aybarra said firmly. "I am a Jeffersonian the same as Mister Turner." He looked offended, and Aaron did not blame him. The racial wars had ended just over seventy years ago, but tensions were still high.

"Miss Hawks," he said. "In Jefferson it is considered rude to refer to a person's race or color."

"But he is black," she defended.

"And I am white. Both of us are in the minority here. Most people in this county are either Asian or Hispanic. After them come the Indians. Race and color prejudice has caused a lot of strife in this society for the last couple of hundred years. The issue of color is now either ignored, or it is delicately sidestepped.

"Oh." She looked abashed. "Sir," she said to Aybarra, "I offer my apologies for my rudeness. Is there anything you wish from me to make up for my lapse of manners?"

Aybarra patted his pockets. "Tell me where my pen fell, and I'll forgive you."

"Why, that is easy," Miss Hawks said. "It fell outside this room and rolled about six feet down the hallway. You should find it on the third tile out from the left wall." She looked suddenly startled. "How did I know that?"

* * *

Aaron and Sarah tested her after Aybarra left. Aaron hid the ashtray while Sarah guarded Miss Hawks in another room. Miss Hawks always knew where the ashtray was. Always. Without looking, without leaving the room, proving that she had a Talent for finding. She might even have had the Talent to shield, but there was no particular way to prove that since shields generally did not work if there was no perceived threat. When asked, she admitted that early tests had shown the Shielding Talent in her just as they had shown her Finding Talent. Those Talents had always been with her, but she had never had the strength to use them.

Sarah's Talent proved to be singular and very strong. She had gained a great deal of speed. She could move faster, react quicker, than anyone Aaron had ever seen.

Their abilities hummed strong and neither of them knew why. They had no Talent Stones. In fact, Miss Hawks had never seen one, had never even wondered where she could get one to increase her strength. Although most people had Talents, few of them were strong enough to operate without a Talent Stone. Those Talents that were usable without a Stone were almost universally weak and unreliable.

Under questioning, Miss Hawks admitted that she had always been a superior tracker. Sarah confessed to always being just slightly faster than most of the people she trained with, although she recalled half a dozen who were faster than she.

Aaron tried a few different things to see if he had changed. In the end he proved to be very average, just as he had expected. He knew what his Talents were. As best he could tell, he was no different than before. After thinking about it, he decided he liked it better this way. His life was already strange enough. He did not need anything that would make it stranger.

The lights flickered off and then on.

"This is absolutely fantastic," Sarah exclaimed. "Light on demand. What else can you show us?"

"That box on the wall will adjust the temperature," Aaron said. "Do you feel hot or cold?"

"I feel okay," Sarah said just as Miss Hawks burst out of the bathroom.

"Mister Turner, I finished my business in the outhouse like you said. How do we get a chambermaid to change the water?"

Smiling, Aaron walked into the bathroom and showed them how to flush. The fact that the bowl refilled fascinated them, so he showed them how to adjust the volume and temperature of the water at the sink. That impressed them more.

Miss Hawks eyed the tub speculatively. "This looks like it might be a place to bathe, and it has one of those faucet things, too."

"The drain can be stopped if you want a soak," Aaron said, "or you can pull that lever and stand under the shower. It's like standing in rain only the water can be any temperature you want."

Miss Hawks smiled and started removing her clothes. "Now that sounds like fun."

Totally naked, she stepped into the tub and reached for the knobs. "Is this how it's done?" She twisted the knobs and water flowed out of the faucet, cool and then hot. Yelping, she turned the knobs more. "This takes a little practice. How do I get the water to fall from high up?"

She turned her defiant gaze to Aaron but did not quite meet his eyes. Frowning slightly, Aaron studied her, looking for the remaining signs of her ordeal. Her body was bright pink from her face to her belly, but he doubted that had anything to do with her injuries. However, her previously lacerated breast, stomach, and thighs now looked firm, showing only faint, soon to be gone lines where she had been cut. The new skin on her repaired breast was taut and shiny. From personal experience, Aaron knew that within two days the artificial graft would become a perfect color match.

Flushing because Miss Hawks really looked damn good, Aaron silently went over to the tub and pulled the knob out on the spout. When water poured down from the shower he quickly drew the curtain shut to keep the floor and himself dry. "Something like that," he said. Gods, it was warm.

"Wow!" Miss Hawks exclaimed from behind the curtain. "This feels wonderful. Miss Townsend, you have to try it."

"I will." Sarah kicked off her shoes and started unfastening her buttons. With only two undone, she paused. "Aaron, be a dear and close the door behind you."

He did. Maybe he closed it too hard.

* * *

They had a table to themselves for dinner because Sarah insisted on privacy, and Aybarra was able to ensure it. The women liked the idea of cafeteria style food, if not the actual food itself because it tended towards institutional bland. However, dessert proved to be a big favorite. Soft-serve ice cream was unknown to them. While listening to them throw praises at the genius who had come up with the idea, Aaron decided not to tell them they were eating the cheap stuff.

"I don't get it," Aaron said when Miss Hawks got up for more ice cream. "Why did Miss Hawks do that? First she wanted to hurt me for seeing her naked, and then she just went and stripped down without a by your leave."

Sarah looked amused. "But what is the problem? You already saw her naked so you weren't seeing anything new."

"Yeah, but I didn't pay her body any attention that first time."

"And she made sure you noticed her this time," Sarah said. "Aaron, she was more insulted by you not looking than she was by you seeing her in the first place. And then she was really insulted by you saying you saw nothing worth looking at, so she made darn good and sure you would notice what she had this time. How did it make you feel?"

"Uncomfortable," he admitted. "It made me feel as uncomfortable as this conversation is starting to make me feel. Yes, she looked good, and I'll admit that she sure made me feel something. I felt nervous and embarrassed, and I looked real hard for a place to duck. Worse yet, I wasn't sure who I should be more afraid of, her or you."

Sarah grinned evilly. "Now why would it bother you that I was there?" She took another bite of ice cream. "I said you were more than welcome to wander. You could have had her the other night, and I wouldn't have said a thing."

Aaron was aghast. "You do happen to be my intended. I heard you tell that to Aybarra so it must be true even if it's news to me. To be honest, I thought you might cause trouble for Miss Hawks for undressing in front of me, and I was afraid you would start swinging at me for looking at her even if you two did play games with me that night, and then I wondered if you might not get familiar with her yourself when you were both in the shower."

Sarah turned serious. "Aaron, dear. I know now that we really come from two different cultures. Mister Aybarra showed me that when he was so surprised that calling you by your last name was an insult, and I am still having a difficult time dealing with the idea that a person's skin color is significant to others. Now, you have just given me further proof."

Reaching out, she took his hand. "You know there are at least three or four women for every man in Isabella. Women just have more female children than they have males. A lot of our males die in their first year for some reason nobody understands. Because of this, women have learned to share. We have to accept that men wander even after they are married. Most times, jealousy is the one sure method a woman can use to assure that she will never have children, so we never get jealous. If our men start seeing another woman often, we talk to her and then we sometimes invite her into our marriage. If we don't like her we forbid our husbands to marry her. The one thing we don't do is forbid him from being with her because our men always come back home to us. Always."

"I would find that hard to do," Aaron said. "The thought of my wife being with somebody else would drive me crazy. I don't even like the idea of a man running around on his wife."

"Women don't look for other men," Sarah said. "Getting one man is hard enough. The truth is, most men are quite happy at home. Almost every first wife I know actually chose the second wife and then arranged for her husband to be trapped. Most women really do not like the idea of having to take care of a man without some help, let alone caring for the children. Aaron, I once fought on the border with a man who had only one wife for ten years. One time, when the regiment returned to his hometown he found his wife was waiting for him with eight other women at her side, all of them friends she had made over the years. Before the day was out she made him marry every one of those women." Her smile grew at Aaron's horrified expression. "Now, I'll admit that my example is a little extreme. I don't know of anyone else with more than five wives, and a good number of men stop courting when they have only one. Now, I want some more ice cream so I'm running away. But I'll be back. Promise."

She stood up and then leaned over to kiss him. "Don't be surprised if Miss Hawks is not finished making your life miserable. She was really insulted."

After she left Aaron realized that she had never addressed all the points he had brought up. She had not said one way or the other if she had born thoughts of getting closer to Miss Hawks.

Gods, he hated this not knowing.

Later, Aybarra came to sit with them after they finished eating. Sarah allowed that he could since the meal was over, though she might have agreed only because she had eaten so much ice cream that her stomach bulged slightly. Miss Hawks was just as bad, if not worse.

"We would like to run some tests on you in the morning, Mister Turner," Aybarra said. Sarah smiled with satisfaction when he used the honorific. "There is some ability in your brain that allows you to do whatever it is that you do. If we can find out what that something is we might be able to come up with a way to duplicate the effect electronically. At the least, we would like to run some thorough scans in order to find out exactly what the Militia doctors did to you."

Eyes intent, Miss Hawks leaned forward. "Why would you want to do that? Mister Turner can already access our world."

Aybarra shifted. "Well yes, he could before our doctors disconnected some of his wiring, and he will be able to do so again, but he is only one man. If something happens to him the Jefferson government loses access to your entire world."

"The government is not going to get access through me," Aaron said emphatically. "I played that game once and did not like it."

Sarah patted his leg encouragingly. "I see no reason to allow people into my home so they can exploit it."

"Somebody is already trying to mess up that world." Aybarra pointed out. "Please remember that your General sends people over there every few months through the efforts of Colonel Klein. They intend to assume military control over Klein's area, and then they plan on expanding their influence to other parts of the world. There is no telling how far they will go."

Aaron stared him straight in the eyes. "And you think I should let the Jefferson Government decide how to deal with the problem? Mister Aybarra, I have studied Jefferson's history. This country has been messing around in other nation's affairs for the last century but the results have not been good. Just look at the record. Almost every time our interference has caused far more problems than it has helped. I'll tell you something, Mister Aybarra. People are not stupid over there. They have their own governments. They have their own armies. I promise you, they will control Helmet, especially if I give them inside information. So no, I will not help you invade."

"We don't want to invade," Aybarra protested. "We only want to help. Look Turn--Mister Turner. We need to know how this thing works for more reasons than just the ones I mentioned. Two of the people you brought over with you escaped the bus station and have killed at least thirty people. We tried to stop them, but, quite frankly, nobody knows how to do that. They strike and then they are gone before the police get there. Thirty people dead, Mister Turner, in only four days."

Aaron went cold. "Four days?"

"You were unconscious for two of them."

"I really don't see how you can learn anything from me that will stop them." Thirty people dead in only four days. A blanket of guilt slid over him. He had brought Eric and Melissa over. People were dead because he had run away and brought them with him.

Sarah grabbed his hand. "Mister Aybarra, I need to talk this over with my future husband. I'm sure I can talk sense into him. Will you be able to run your tests in the morning?"

"Yes," Aybarra said cautiously.

"Why don't you get them ready?"

"We will, Miss Townsend."

"Thank you. Another thing, please. You probably understand that everything here is very new to me. I find myself longing for home. Could you please return all our belongings? Having a few familiar items from home would help me a lot."

"I think we can do that," Aybarra said slowly. "You do understand that your clothing has been destroyed. It was bloody and torn, but I will see to it that your shoes and pocket knick knacks are returned."

"Thank you Mister Aybarra. You are a gentleman. Aaron, Miss Hawks, I think it is time to return to our room."

* * *

"If you think--" Aaron began loudly in the corridor.

Sarah jabbed him in the chest. It hurt worse than it should have. Those once broken ribs were sealed but they were not yet solid.

"Darling," she said, "do you realize that I keep seeing the same six people wherever we go? Isn't it amazing how small a building this size can be?"

Aaron had not noticed, but he was not stupid. Now that it had been pointed out to him, her conclusion was obvious. The burly man far in front of them looked familiar, and so did the woman who had just turned into the corridor. Aaron could not find the others Sarah referred to, but he trusted her to know her business.

"I won't do it," he whispered furiously. "The government would do worse to your world than the militia ever could."

Miss Hawks nodded. "I see it that way too."

Mock frowning, Sarah looked him straight in the eye. "Aaron, don't do it." She grinned. "There, see what I just did. I talked sense to you just like I promised that nice man I would." She walked quiet for a few moments. "If I ran this I would have people posted outside our room in such a way that they can overhear everything we say."

Aaron started and mentally kicked himself in the head. She was right. Why had he not thought of that before? What an idiot.

"They have little machines," he admitted, "that can hear everything we say and pass it on to people." The two women looked uncomprehending. "Like the holovision in our living room," Aaron expanded. "Those people said the words you heard months or even years ago, yet we heard the words as if they were being said for the first time."

Sarah was quiet a while longer. "Miss Hawks," she whispered, "I think it would be best if you became frightened of sleeping alone tonight. I don't think you want to be alone. I know I don't."

Miss Hawks said nothing but Aaron knew from the set of her face that she understood.

The personal items Sarah had asked for arrived minutes after they entered the suite. For the most part it mostly looked like junk to him so he was stumped as to why she wanted them. Very little of it was clothing, and the rest had no real purpose inside this building.

Sarah, however, was pleased to see the folding knife Aaron had bought for her. She pocketed it immediately as well as the five gold and seventeen copper she had been carrying. Aaron pocketed his own money, another three and a quarter gold, eight copper. He wanted to pitch the rest of his personal junk away because he had a tendency to collect things, moving them from pocket to pocket until those pockets were full.

Sarah made him keep everything, three pebbles, an arrowhead that had a tendency to poke him in his thigh, a wad of tangled string, and the somewhat deteriorated refrigerator magnet.

He still did not know what Sarah had in mind.

She quirked a suggestive eyebrow. "Bedtime, darling. Are you coming with me?"

Twenty-five and still a virgin, Aaron did not need to be asked twice. He followed her to their bedroom, closing the door behind them.

Sarah drew back the blankets. Fully clothed, she climbed into bed and patted the mattress. "Coming?"

Aaron fought back a frustrated growl and turned off the lights. Stumbling in the dark, he made his way to the bed and crawled beneath the covers. Sarah instantly wrapped him in her arms and gave him a triple powered kiss, and yes, the kiss was nice. Sarah was warm and soft and hard. She smelled of fresh soap.

Taking his courage in hand, Aaron decided there was no way he would be careful with his hands tonight. He undid the top buttons of her blouse, and his breath caught tight in his throat when his fingers brushed against a small bit of soft cleavage.

Sarah pulled his hands away.

Frustrated, Aaron groaned. "I'm willing to admit that I'm a beginner at this sort of thing, but aren't we supposed to be undressed at this point?"

"Not when company is coming," Sarah said.

A tentative knock sounded at the door. Sarah sighed contentedly. Aaron sighed with exasperation.

"Come in," Sarah called.

The door opened. Blanket clenched tightly around her, appearing slightly hunched and trembling in the light coming from the living room, Miss Hawks stepped hesitantly into the room. She had disarranged hair and haunted eyes.

"M--Miss Townsend. Mister Turner. I--I--could I maybe spend the night here? I think it might help if I were not alone."

"Come in, dear heart," Sarah said gently. "It's a large bed. There's room for all of us if we scrunch tight."

_No there isn't_ , Aaron mentally wailed. _No room. Go away. Go back to your own bed. This one belongs to us._

Predictably, Miss Hawks did not listen.

"Thank you, Miss Townsend." Miss Hawks closed the door behind her, once again surrounding them in darkness. Moments later, Aaron heard the rustle of her blanket falling to the floor just before Miss Hawks crawled into bed beside him. She rested her head on his shoulder, placed one leg over his and laid her hand on his chest, right beside Sarah's hand. Their two hands intertwined, and Aaron automatically shifted so he could wrap his arm around Miss Hawks' waist.

It was a bare waist. In fact, he soon discovered that the rest of her was bare too. Sarah had been right. Miss Hawks was going to make his life very difficult.

"Call me Sarah, dear. I think people in bed with the same man should be on a first name basis. Besides, I really like you."

"Promise you won't laugh," Miss Hawks said.

"Laugh at what?"

"At my name. If you laugh, I will hit you."

"Promise," Sarah said, her voice almost too low to be heard.

"Kitty. My name is Kitty."

Aaron felt a brief convulsion run through Sarah. Tremors shook her, and he heard the beginnings of a snort.

"Your parents must have hated you," Sarah finally giggled.

"They weren't normal," Kitty admitted. "I have three sisters, Piglet, Filly and Heifer. My brother is named Pup."

Aaron found that unlikely composition of names somewhat unbelievable. The young Miss Hawks, it seemed, had a talent for fibbing.

"How about if I just call you Kit?" Sarah asked.

"I would love you for it."

"Good. Aaron, I would like you to meet Kit. Kit, this is Aaron." Sarah snuggled tighter to Aaron and kissed his ear. "Kit," she whispered so quietly her voice barely carried. "I wish you had worn clothes to bed. Your being naked makes things awkward."

Kit stirred and pulled slightly away. "Is this a problem for you?"

"No dear," Sarah said in a normal voice, "though I suspect it might be something of a problem for Aaron. Did you know he hasn't been with a woman yet?"

"Really?" Kit snuggled in tighter against Aaron. The hand holding Sarah's moved down his body to stop at his belt buckle.

"Oh don't worry about that right now," Sarah continued. "The thing is, your lack of clothing is soon going to be more of a problem for you than it is for him." She released Kit's hand and moved hers up until it cupped Aaron's chin. Pulling his head around, she kissed him soundly and firm.

"Hey, don't let me stop you," Kit jibbed.

Sarah kissed Aaron again. Her lips moved gently against his. Aaron strained to hear her whisper.

"Darling," she breathed into his mouth, "Get us out of here."

"What?"

Sarah's hand traveled back down Aaron's body. It paused when it met Kit's hand near his belt, and continued its journey until it reached as low as it could travel. Her fingers closed with a grip that threatened to crush cement, or whatever else they managed to get hold of.

"If you want to father children on mine or any other body, you had better transport us out of here now." Sarah emphasized her point by closing her fingers a fraction tighter.

"I can't," Aaron protested. "You heard Mister Aybarra. They took away my ability when they undid the wiring. Do you honestly think they would let us be together if I could just transport us away?"

"Try," Sarah insisted, squeezing her fingers just a little bit more.

Aaron grimaced and fought back a groan. Certain items had become more compact than nature intended. "Okay! Okay!"

She relaxed her grip but did not release it entirely. Aaron tried to concentrate. He pictured the lower cellar in his mind and wrapped his thoughts around the two women. Thinking about them was easy. Concentrating was hard. He almost had the proper feeling twice but each time it slipped out of his grasp. He tried transporting again and nothing happened.

He could not get a grasp on the lower cellar. For some unknown reason the image kept slipping from his mind. He remembered the apartment in Columbia City, wiped the image from his mind, and tried to grasp the lower cellar again. Sarah and Kit almost disappeared from his thoughts.

Sarah got a better hold on what she ought not to hold. Kit teasingly ran her fingers across his chest and flicked a fingernail across his shirt covered nipple.

"Do it," Sarah ordered. She clenched down.

Almost feeling like he was jumping from his skin, Aaron's mind grasped onto something, grabbed hold of both the women and then gave that peculiar twist.

Flicker
Chapter 23

Once he stopped banging into things and managed to turn on the lights, Aaron knew where they were.

That was good.

He wasn't where he wanted to be.

That was bad.

Sarah sat primly on a bed, knees tight together, hands folded in her lap. Kit sat cross-legged on the floor, a sheet wrapped around her and a blanket at her side. Apparently, Aaron had not been too specific when he had transferred them. Once again he had carried along more than he had intended. However, he supposed it wasn't a bad thing this time. At least Kit had a sheet to wear, and the apartment did not have any extra pieces of broken walls lying around on the floor.

"I thought," Kit said pointedly, "that the idea was for us to go back home. Why is it so cold in here?"

Sarah raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"This is an apartment I rented the last time I was in Jefferson," Aaron explained. "And I don't know how I got us here. I've never transferred between points on the same planet before. Let me turn off the air conditioning."

Leaving the room, he entered the main hall and found that the thermostat was set at sixty-two, though why it was set so low he did not know. A brief touch to the keypad changed it to seventy five. When he turned around he found that the women had already moved into the main living area. Motion sensors turned on lights for them.

"Aaron, this is really nice," Sarah exclaimed. "I didn't think you had the sense to decorate so well."

"Me neither," Aaron admitted after giving the place a once over. During his absence the walls had been painted soft beige and several landscape paintings had been placed on his walls. The smell of oranges surrounded him, suggesting that air fresheners had also been added.

Ever curious, Kit started opening doors. She soon found the kitchen, and then she found the bathroom. "Hey, there are two of those showerheads in here."

"So, can you take us back home, love?" Sarah asked. "This place is really nice but now that I've seen your first home I've decided I like the one I know better. Let's go. Now."

The furnace blower came on. Kit jumped.

"I don't know if I can," Aaron admitted. "The image I needed kept slipping out of my mind. Absolutely nothing happened when I tried to transport over to Last Chance. Maybe if I had a little more time to rest, or if you weren't playing games I might do better."

Sarah frowned. "There was no more time, and you needed incentive. What do you think would have happened when you refused to be tested?" Rising from the couch, she went to the bedroom, opened the door and went in. "This is one big bed," she called out.

Aaron rose and followed her. "Nothing would have happened to us. We've just proved that they can't hold a person who can just transport out."

"Don't be naive," Kit said from behind him. "They could hold me and Sarah separate from you, and I bet you wouldn't get very far if you had a load of drugs in you." Squeezing past Aaron, she walked over to the bed and then dropped the sheet covering her nakedness. After calmly pulling back the blankets she climbed in.

"Cold." Her voice shivered. "This thing had better warm up soon."

"It will." Sarah began unbuttoning her top. "Bedtime Aaron. Go away."

"There's only one bed," he protested.

"Love, I promised Cathy I wouldn't do anything wicked to you until she was ready to join in."

"Too late," Aaron muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said I need a shower anyway."

"Then go take your shower and get some sleep." She moved closer. "How about a kiss goodnight?"

To hell with it. Aaron leaned forward to gently kiss her, but his hands were much less than polite when they opened her shirt, only then it turned out that she wore one of his damned bras. When did Cathy sell her that?

Sarah pulled herself away. Her smile was soft and wicked and sweet. Tugging her shirt back over her shoulders, she ran the palm of her hand gently across his cheek, not bothering to refasten the shirts buttons. The blush she displayed ran down to her navel, but she did wear a pleased smile on her face.

"That was much better dear. Now go take your shower."

Aaron followed her advice. He took his shower. It was very long and very cold.

* * *

Breakfast was tepid water drunk out of his cupped hands. He groaned with pleasure when the water slid down his throat because the damn stuff was fluorinated. Sometimes a person just missed the small pleasures of home.

Hoping, Aaron tried several times to image the lower cellar in his mind. Each time the image slipped away. He pictured the bus station, the compound and the service station. All three images came cleanly into his mind, and he knew he could easily transport over to them if he tried.

But he could not go back to Isabella. By disconnecting the wiring connected to his spine, the government doctors had changed the focus of his talent. No matter how much he tried, he could not go back to his real home.

Damn.

So they were stuck in Jefferson, without extra clothing and without food. For that matter, Kit actually had no clothes. The entire situation was verging on intolerable, needed to be rectified, and there was only one way Aaron could see to do that.

The card for the cab company sat on the end table near the phone. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number.

"Is Kara available?"

"Which Kara? We got three of them."

"The one with the nose studs. Kara Perkins."

"No," the voice said. "She doesn't report in until noon today."

"Oh." Aaron tapped his fingers impatiently on the phone desk. "Could you have her call this number when she gets in? I want to hire her cab for a few days."

"Sir, a full shift's rental is fifty five dollars. A car rental will only run you five dollars a day." The man sounded quite patient. He spoke as if he were trying to explain something very basic to an idiot.

"I never learned to drive," Aaron told him. "Also, I said I wanted to hire her for a few days. I did not say I wanted to hire only her cab."

"None of our drivers are permitted to prostitute themselves."

Aaron rolled his eyes and wished the women were not in the other room because he really, really felt like cursing. In all, it took him ten minutes to convince the man to tell Kara with the studs to call the apartment's number.

Afterwards he turned on the holovision and watched it for a couple hours. When nine o'clock rolled around he started worrying about whether the women would bother to ever wake up. At ten o'clock he went to the bedroom door and knocked softly.

"Come in."

He found them entangled together, blinking sleep heavy eyes.

"I-um-I wondered if you were okay," Aaron stammered. "I haven't heard a sound out of either of you." Why was it so warm in here?

"We are just fine, love." Sarah rolled onto her back, modestly pulling the covers to her neck. "We'll be out in a few minutes but I want to talk a few things over with Kit first."

"So I see," Aaron said while his belly churned unhappily.

Thirty minutes later Sarah came into the main room. She glowed. "Is there a hair brush around here? Where's the food?" Her walk was panther smooth. She stopped in front of him and languidly stretched. "I've never slept so good. I swear Aaron, you have the most comfortable bed I've ever been in."

"I wouldn't know," Aaron said sourly. "I've never slept in it."

"Really? You are missing out. Where is my brush and what's for breakfast?"

"One brush, no breakfast," Aaron told her. "I need to buy a lot of things, especially for Kit. I won't have her prancing around in the nude like that."

Sarah smiled. "Poor baby. We are mean to you. Still, you more than deserve it. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

The phone rang, and Aaron rushed to pick it up. Sarah sat down and watched curiously while he talked.

"What were you doing?" she asked when he hung up.

"That thing is called a telephone. It allows people to talk across long distances, and I used it to hire us a cab for the day. The driver will pick me up in twenty minutes, and then we will go shopping for supplies and food, some clothes. Do you know what size Kit wears?"

Sarah chuckled. "Aaron, I don't know what size I wear. This is a totally different place from the one I know. I'll fall down in shock if they size things the same way. Tell you what. I'll take a bath and hand you my clothes. Use them to buy new clothing for both of us. Kit is almost my size. Her legs are a couple inches shorter and her chest is bigger. You'll figure it out."

She went into the bathroom. A minute later the door cracked open. Sarah tossed her clothes out and then a few moments later the shower started. Muttering small curses against women, Aaron collected the clothing and folded it neatly so it would be easier to carry.

The phone rang again. Yes, he told the front desk, he was expecting a cab. He would be right down.

The door guard greeted him cheerfully. "We haven't seen you about, sir. You must do most of your running during the night shift. Have a pleasant day."

Perk held the cab door open for him.

"Poked another hole in your face," Aaron asked. Three tiny pearls lay in a horizontal row along the side of her nose where there had only been two before.

"Just the one," Perk answered. "Been feeling a bit low lately so I went in and got myself jabbed again. So tell me, how come the arm and legs work now?"

"I saw some doctors," Aaron said truthfully after she closed his door and climbed in the other side. "What about yourself?" He gestured at the side of her face. "That is some bruise you have there."

She flashed him a smile in the mirror. "My foot slipped on the mat when I threw a kick. I was so upset about it that I forgot to duck afterwards and got decked. So, Mister Aaron Turner, where are we going today?"

"I want to exchange some more coins."

"Do you want to go someplace different than the last time? I have just the place in mind, but he charges an extra five percent, and he isn't bonded."

"I think so," Aaron said. "I'm not into getting beat up today."

The place turned out to be the dojo where she trained. Her trainer turned out to be no humble older man like Aaron had come to expect from the holovids. Instead he was big and loud and exuberant. He also had a very large safe that released several five hundred dollar bills and two single hundreds into Aaron's hands. Aaron handed over three of the coins.

Next on the agenda were clothes. Perkins raised her right eyebrow in surprise when he told her they were buying women's clothing, specifying that he wanted clothes offering free movement without being too baggy, figuring that not only were Sarah and Kit active women, they were also women who might soon need to run or fight.

Perk showed him the best shops and quickly became exasperated by his fumbling. Two hours passed before she was satisfied with his choices, but at the end of it he had two complete sets of clothing for each woman. Since he had absolutely no idea what size shoes they wore he picked two different styles of comfortable looking workout shoes and bought seven different pairs of each. With so many different sizes, he figured one of them had to be right for each woman, unless they both wore the same size. In that case they would just have to agree not to match.

Perk made him buy the undergarments. He moved into the department, bought the first items he saw, and then got out of there.

He even remembered to buy new hair combs and toothbrushes.

Afterward, Aaron let Perk choose his dishes and silverware. By the time the shopping spree was over he had spent well over thirty two hundred dollars, a very small fortune. The clothing he bought for himself was cheap by comparison.

It was five o'clock before he returned to his building. He told Perk exactly where he wanted her to park and then spent the next minute memorizing everything he saw. Afterwards he loaded her down with bags and grabbed the rest for himself.

* * *

"About time you came back," Kit exclaimed when he walked through the door. "Do you realize how much food is in this place? None."

She sat on the couch beside Sarah, which made them very easy to tell apart. Sarah wore a sheet. Kit wore nothing until she saw the cab driver. Then she dove into the bedroom. Aaron smiled. The more he saw Kit in her altogether the less effect she had on him. He had almost felt nonchalant and uninterested when he first entered the apartment.

Perk gave Aaron a half smile, quirked an eyebrow, and turned her gaze to where Sarah still sat on the couch with the sheet wrapped around her. She nodded towards the bags Perk held.

"I hope the clothes Aaron promised us are in there," she said just as Kit returned to the front room wearing a blanket and a red faced glare. Aaron had to admit that she was getting much better at that glare thing. She almost had it down to an art.

Somehow during his absence the two women had figured out how to turn on the radio. New age jazz filled the room. It was beyond Aaron how they had managed to do it, but they had. Of all the music he had heard in his life, new age jazz was his least favorite.

"Did the best he could lovely," Perk said to Sarah, dropping a bag of clothing on the floor. Her eyes immediately fastened onto Kit. "Nice assets, Godiva, but you could use a body tan if you're going to run around in your altogether. Nothing worse than a sunburnt butt. By the way, my name is Kara Perkins. You can call me Perk. Don't ever call me Perky. Nothing about me is Perky."

Sarah looked inquiringly at Aaron.

"I told you manners are much less formal here," Aaron explained. "First name usage is common."

She nodded and rose to awkwardly shake Perk's hand while still clutching her sheet. "I'm Sarah. Nature's beauty over there is Kit. I take it you are our savior. Please tell me you did not leave Aaron alone when he bought our clothing."

"Mostly not. Some of it he did on his own. Must have been some party when you people lost all the ones you had on you."

"I wouldn't call it a party," Kit said while riffling through the bags and pulling out clothing. She defiantly dropped her blanket, held up a bra and then looked down. There was a considerable difference in size. "I heard you sold these at the store. Really Aaron, I'm flattered."

The artificial skin on her breast now exactly matched her real skin. Aaron somehow got the impression that Kit was still totally unaware of exactly what had been done to her. She knew because she had been told--but she did not _know_. It was probably best to keep it that way.

"Here are some more," Sarah said. "Try this one on." She held up another bra. This one was a closer match to reality. "Aaron, show her how to put it on."

Aaron put his hands behind his back. "Not on your life. I need to visit the facilities." He almost ran for safety. Fortunately he had been prepared for their ploy. He took a science magazine with him. According to the first article he read a woman named Dr. Wise was doing amazing things with nano technology these days.

Forty minutes passed before he emerged. The three women were sitting on the couch, talking like old friends. All the goods were stowed away and the empty bags were folded. Kit glanced up at him and then turned her eyes away. She looked very nice with clothes on. Aaron hoped she continued the practice but he somehow doubted that she would. The woman was confusing, no question about it.

"Perk says there's going to be a problem," Sarah said. "Apparently only registered guests are allowed up here, and she is the only one of us registered. How are we going to leave without attracting attention?"

Aaron smiled happily. "Kit, can you remember this number?" He gave her his phone number. She repeated it back to him.

"Good. Here's some change. Public phones take these nickels. Put the nickel in the change slot, wait for three beeps, and dial that number. If I'm here I will answer it. This way, if I lose you I won't worry about you and Sarah. Now, what is that number?"

She repeated it. He had Sarah memorize it, too.

"Okay ladies. Wait twenty minutes before you panic."

Flicker

He had somehow forgotten that Perk did not know about his Talent. The how and why of that particular explanation took a while to get through. She seemed less than believing about Isabella when he finished his tale, but she was unable to deny that he could do something strange since her butt was sitting in a cab, as were Kit and Sarah, and not on his couch. Throwing the cab into gear, she shook her head and drove.

In retrospect, Aaron thought that he probably should have given all of them some warning before he transported them directly into the cab. Most likely, he would have done so if his two had not been doing such a good job of ganging up on him.

While Perk drove he wondered if Sarah and Kit might be angry. Their faces appeared angry, but he was not sure if what he saw was actual and true anger. They wouldn't say. If fact, they were not saying anything. Not only were they not talking to him, they were not talking, period.

So yeah, they were pissed.

Of course Perk did not speak either. It was possible she was angry, or she might be contemplating this new addition to her world-view. On the other hand, he and Perk had spent a good deal of time not talking in each other's presence. Maybe she was just following through on habit.

Eventually, Perk pulled into a very fine restaurant that boasted dim lights and a soft atmosphere. After Aaron handed over a modest tip to the greeter, they were given seats near the large front window where they could watch people passing by. Instead of looking out the window, Perk watched the three of them like they were strange life forms that had sprung from the ground at her feet. Sarah and Kit sat stiffly, holding menus in white-fingered grips.

Since nobody seemed to be communicative Aaron ordered for everybody.

"Aaron," Sarah said shakily right after the food arrived, "You are one of the bravest men I know. I will never make fun of you for being shy of horses again. Never. Now I have some idea of what you faced. I'm telling you, I have never been so terrified in my life. How did Perk keep that wagon from hitting anything? What made it go forward?"

"Amen," Kit murmured, hands quivering as she raised her teacup. "I wanted to close my eyes and scream, but I was afraid to even do that much. I didn't want to miss whatever it was that killed me."

Aaron was flummoxed. Not angry, they were frightened. How could they be scared of a simple taxi ride? It was a taxi, for God's sake. It wasn't as if the thing could turn around and tear a chunk out of them just for the hell of it. God invented horses to do that.

Eventually, the women thawed out over food, and Aaron decided that things were going very nicely. He reached in his pocket and tossed Perk a gold coin. "Here."

She caught it. "What's this for?"

"I want to reserve your cab for the next week or two."

He divided the rest of his cash money with Kit and Sarah so they would not be destitute if they got separated. After all, this was his world. They were the ones at a large disadvantage now.

And then he suddenly realized just how lost Kit was. Quite likely, a good part of her acting frightened last night had not been acting. Many of her later actions could have been nothing more than an attempt to forget what had happened and what was happening to her. Then again, she could have just been getting back at him for the imagined slight he probably had not given her. Kit was something of an enigma. Maybe the true answer lay in a combination of different factors. Then again, maybe the woman was just pure contrary. She was a woman. Contrary was a natural part of her nature.

Had Sarah been doing nothing more than comforting Kit this morning? Sarah was better prepared to deal with this change of worlds than Kit. She had spent many evenings talking to Aaron about the world she now found herself in. Before yesterday Kit had known nothing about it. She had known not one single thing of alternate realms and Aaron's Talent.

A thought struck him. Did Kit know that Mister Moorehouse was dead? He had not mentioned it to her or to Sarah. Did Sarah know?

Kit shifted in her seat. "Would the two of you think less of me if I confessed that I feel uncomfortable with so many men around us? I feel like I'm at some party where I don't belong."

"Me too," Sarah admitted. "There are too many men. This much testosterone makes me wonder what I'm doing here. I'm sorry Aaron, but your world just feels unnatural. It has too many hairy faces."

Perkins looked at them like they were crazy. "Are you two dykes? I'll have you know I love being surrounded by men. I think they are scenic, and they snuggle nice. It's only when you want to live with them that they become jerks."

"Dykes?" Kit asked.

"Yeah, you know, women who do it with other women."

"Do it? Are you talking about sex?"

"Well, yeah."

Sarah and Kit gave each other wondering looks. "Of course we like having sex with other women," Kit finally said. "Most of us would have pretty lonely lives if we didn't."

Perk picked her jaw up off the table. "You people are just too weird." The arrival of food broke the conversation.

Aaron watched Kit and worried when they left the restaurant. Her actions seemed out of character. Sure, she was upset with Aaron, but there were other ways for her to get back at him. Was she trying to engage his emotions? Was she trying to give him cause to feel protective to ensure that he would not leave her here on her own?

That hardly seemed possible. Aaron did not know her well, but he knew she was an independent and resourceful woman. However, he wasn't sure she knew that about herself. After all, her whole life had been spent on a ranch. She dealt with people only in small numbers. Conversely, Sarah had traveled during her early years. She had seen cities and fought in a war. She had--

He stopped.

A shield glittering around him, Eric stood in front of them. He raised a finger and zeroed it on the small group.

"I am so happy to see you," he said cheerfully. "Melissa was not at all sure if her minor Talent could find you. Incidentally, if I see anyone look like they are even thinking of leaving my party I will do my best to explode you all. I can do that, you know. I've learned how. Melissa, please grab my lady love for me?"

The Gargoyle stepped into view and grabbed Kit. "He was really disappointed," she hissed to Kit. "But don't worry. We will have you good and cold for him tonight." She grinned cruelly. "I get your heart."

Kit curled her lip in distaste. "You stink."

And she was right. To Aaron, Eric and Melissa looked worse for wear. They wore cuts and bruises. Their clothes were ragged, and they smelled worse than any sewer Aaron had ever run across. Still, their appearance and smell did not affect their mood. Eric wore a mean, happy smile beneath cold, dead eyes. The Gargoyle looked exactly as she had before, mayhem impatiently waiting to happen.

Perk had no idea what was going on. She snarled and spun a sidekick into the Gargoyle, knocking Kit free from her grasp.

Melissa raised a hand to Eric. "Mine?"

Eric nodded. His finger jerked, and Aaron fell to the ground. Head aching, Aaron's vision became suddenly fuzzy. He rose up on one elbow to see Eric standing still, a smile on his face and his finger pointing. Sarah lay on the ground.

"I would hate for you to interfere with my lady," Eric said just as Melissa leaped at Perk.

Perk hit the Gargoyle a full two dozen times while the Gargoyle flailed at her. Aaron silently despaired of the unequal battle because Perk had no idea what she was dealing with. Using all the skill she had built up during years of lessons, she hit the massive woman half a dozen times in mere seconds. New cuts opened and fresh blood flowed down the Gargoyle's iron features, but it was no good. Perk eventually moved too close. The Gargoyle struck out another awkward blow, but this one managed to connect with Perk's blocking arm. Bone snapped.

Perk gasped and backed away, but the damage had been done. The Gargoyle kicked out and a leg broke. Splintered bone tore through skin. Perk fell with a shriek, only to scream again when the Gargoyle stamped on her other leg and shattered it too. Perk tried to squirm away from the next kick, but she was too slow. The foot caught her in her back, sending her rolling twenty feet. She stopped, unmoving, her body unnaturally bent.

People stared, horrified. Eric laughed and gestured with one hand. A woman fifty feet away split open from throat to waist. With a slight movement of a single finger Eric killed one man and then another.

Aaron threw up. His face was wet with tears and his thoughts refused to solidify. "No. Please--no."

Eyes narrow, jaw clenched, Eric did something, cast some force that struck Aaron's head. Opening his mouth, Aaron tried to yell, but then he suddenly could not move.

Around them, people screamed and ran. The Gargoyle caught one man and ripped his head off. Eric killed yet another woman. "You see what we can do," he demanded. "Disappear on us and fifty people die tonight. One of you brought us here. One of you is going to take us back. I'll even make you a promise because I'm a forgiving sort. I'll let the person who takes us back live despite my brother being dead. Never liked him all that much anyway. Melissa, where is the other woman?"

The Gargoyle looked around in confusion. She shrugged. "Gone," she rumbled. "Ran away." After scratching her head for a moment she pointed. "That way."

"Get these two in the wagon. With your talent, we can pick up my girlfriend whenever we want."

The Gargoyle grabbed Sarah and Aaron by the back of their heads and pushed them towards a car. Sirens sounded in the distance. Across the street, a man babbled excitedly into a cell phone. Eric was already behind the wheel when Aaron and Sarah were shoved into the back of the vehicle. Melissa got in with them and then the force holding Aaron immobile disappeared.

"Which one of you is the traveler?"

"We both are," Sarah quickly said. "It takes both of us. The power to move requires the elements of man and woman both. It takes time to build up the energy of it though. We transferred only a couple hours ago so it will be another day, perhaps two, before we can do it again."

"Damn!" Eric slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "Well no help for it. Just have to hide you for a while." The car slowed and stopped in the middle of the road. Peering between the seats to look at the dashboard, Aaron saw that the voltage gauge showed a low charge.

"Everybody out," Eric ordered. "It's time to change wagons. Remember, if you make trouble for us more people will die."

He used the direct method to find a new car. They walked until Eric saw a vehicle with only one occupant inside and no one else close by. The Gargoyle approached the passenger door while Eric engaged the driver in conversation. Melissa easily tore the passenger door open, reached inside, and pulled the panicked man out. A quick twist of her hands killed him before she tossed him aside. Eric flicked his fingers, and the man exploded into an unidentifiable mass.

"I'll have so much fun when we get back home," he said minutes later as they drove away. He licked a bit of something slimy from the back of his left hand. "I have no idea why I never learned this before. What's the matter, Melissa?"

Aaron found it hard to believe Eric could tell something bothered the monster. She looked and acted the same as before.

"You ruined the heart," she complained bitterly.

"Hey, I lost my toy, too. You let her run away. Next time I'll try to save you something. Okay?"

The Gargoyle nodded mutely, but her face was filled with childish hurt.

Aaron tried to speak to Sarah, but she did not respond. She sat stiff and white, her fingers clenched into fists. He wanted to transfer out of there so badly he could taste the desire in the back of his mouth. He could have left in an instant except Melissa sat between him and Sarah. Unfortunately, he could not take Sarah with him unless he carried the Gargoyle along, too. Besides, he had brought these monsters to this world. They were murderers, and they were sick, and it was Aaron's responsibility to do something about the mess he had created. People had died because he was a coward. More people would die if he ran away with Sarah. He could not let that happen. It was his chore, but the thought of confronting either of these two made him want to throw up again.

An hour passed before Eric stopped, pulling off the road and onto a drive leading to a farm house. Aaron squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the owners would run. Minutes later he sighed in relief. No one was home. Sarah relaxed and started breathing normally once she realized that the car was no longer moving. Her color returned. Mouth firming with resolve, her eyes darted from one feature of the farm to another.

"Aaron," she said after a few moments. "What is this place?"

"It's a farm. Instead of using horses to plow they use those machines we saw in that large building. This farm is probably better than a mile square, and you can see that they only grow one crop. Those long stalks have ears of corn on them."

Sarah nodded. "I suppose that would be an informative answer if I knew what corn is. Look, I want to go inside the building. I've never seen a home like that before."

"You will sit on that bench until it's time to leave." Eric gestured toward a picnic table. "I won't have you wandering around."

Sarah sulked. "I want to see it. What can happen if I just go look? Send Melissa with me, and I won't dare try to escape. Besides, you will still have Aaron."

"No."

Sarah's face turned hard. "You need me if you want to return to Isabella. Aaron can move you, but I choose the location. How would you like to find yourself on top of a mountain? The air can be really thin and cold up there."

"I don't believe you want to just go look at the house."

Frowning, Sarah gave him a dirty look. "All right, do you want me to be crude? I want to see the house because I have to take a crap, and in this world, people crap inside their homes."

Eric smiled wickedly. "I'll turn my back."

"Like hell you will. Just remember. You need my good will if you want to end up someplace short of the southern ice lands."

The argument lasted several minutes but Sarah eventually won her way. Aaron was not surprised. As a rule Sarah usually got what she wanted.

Before she left she took a moment to kiss Aaron. "Take care of Eric for me. I don't want him to go flying away while I'm gone." Walking proudly, she headed for the house with Melissa on her heals.

Eric looked strangely at Aaron. "Women are hard to understand, Storeman. She doesn't know if she's going to be dead before the day is over, and she still insists on modesty. She has to make a fuss. I really don't understand women. That's why I like them properly dead."

"Maybe she likes the idea of preserving her dignity," Aaron said.

"Even more senseless. Why bother making all this trouble when she will be cold meat shortly?"

"I thought you were going to let us live if we transferred you back."

Eric laughed. "Get real. You live. She dies. I promised Melissa."

Aaron looked toward the house and watched Sarah open the door. Turning to speak to the Gargoyle, Sarah held out an arm and then suddenly lunged with blinding speed. The Gargoyle cried out in rage as she stumbled back. Gathering herself, she righted and then leaped for Sarah, but Sarah had already darted into the house.

"The bitch!" Eric growled. He raised his hand and then lowered it only when he realized Sarah was out of sight. The Gargoyle screamed and plowed inside the house.

Taking advantage of the moment, Aaron hauled back and punched Eric in the nose. It broke with a satisfying crunch. Eric fell back and raised his hand angrily but then changed his mind. A shield sprang up around him just as Aaron tried to hit him once more. Aaron's fist slid smoothly off the shield.

Nose bleeding, Eric laughed. "I won't kill you, Storeman. I need you too much." The shield flickered, and Eric's fist lashed out, catching Aaron in the stomach. Aaron doubled over, gagging even though there was no special Talent behind that punch. Eric was just strong and very well trained.

"We could have done this easy." Eric deliberately straightened Aaron with his left hand and slugged him once again in the stomach. Lungs straining for air, Aaron fell to his knees. Far away Melissa screamed with impotent rage and pain.

Eric's foot caught Aaron in the face. Aaron's cheek split open, and he flipped onto his back. His vision wavered until it finally focused on the smiling, bloody face leering over him.

Far above Eric was a thin layer of high-flying clouds. Gaps of blue showed frequently through their powdery white.

Eric's mouth twisted evilly. His shield glimmered. "You know, I think the bitch actually did for sweet Melissa. Doesn't matter. I'll go take care of her. Maybe I'll remove her legs. That way she can still do her part of moving me back where we belong."

There was no way Sarah could defeat this man, not when he had that shield. Fighting to catch his breath, Aaron tried to pull himself erect.

Eric stomped on his stomach.

"Arrrghh!"

Mouth gaping, Aaron fell back once more and curled around his pain. He rolled slowly to his back. Far above him, the lowering sun stared accusingly from its western horizon. Wispy clouds formed mocking faces. The sound of Eric's steps grew fainter.

Damn it, he had to do something or the monster would hurt Sarah.

Unnaturally quick or not, Eric would maim and then kill her after he got what he wanted. From the sounds of it, Sarah was having trouble dealing with Melissa. The battleaxe still screamed. Melissa was one hard, tough woman.

Moving slowly, Aaron sat up and pulled himself to his feet. "Eric."

His voice was a hoarse whisper, far too faint to be heard far away.

"Eric!"

This time Eric heard his call. He turned to look back as Aaron fought for breath and staggered toward the madman.

"She lied to you," Aaron gasped out brokenly. "I have all the power. She is nothing. She cannot set you on a mountain. She--" A thought struck him. Sarah had said something to him.

Laughing, Eric raised a hand and wiped at his bloody face. A smear of red pulled across his cheek. More blood trailed from his nose. "Is it all you then, little man? Are you the one to move me? Why then, now I really have no reason not to kill the rank bitch."

"I can only put you places I have seen, places I've memorized." Aaron gathered his thoughts around him. He would move them both someplace where Eric could not reach Sarah. Someplace high. Sarah had mentioned mountains so she must have wanted him to put Eric someplace high. Aaron looked up at the clear blue sky.

Another scream sounded from the house along with a crash of glass. "Did you hear that?" Eric asked conversationally. "Dear Melissa is still trying to play. I thought she was dead, but she must have just found the wit to shut her mouth for a change. I hope she leaves your sweetheart's body in good enough shape for my enjoyment. Goodbye, Storeman. I'll see you soon." Shield still glistening around him, Eric turned away.

From inside the house, Sarah cried out.

Aaron focused his thoughts, gathered Eric into them.

He struck.

Flicker.

White spots swirled through Aaron's vision. His limbs turned weak, and his body struggled uselessly to remain erect. He staggered and then fell to his knees.

In all, it was a long time before he managed to pull himself back to his feet. He straightened just as a blue car pulled into the farmyard, hesitated, and then drove towards him. Stopping a few yards away, four car doors opened, and four men holding strange guns stepped out. One of the men looked familiar. Sergeant Aimes.

Aaron could not bring himself to care. He raised his eyes to the clouds. There, a black dot descending.

His arm stung. Looking down, he saw the protruding end of a pneumatic dart.

He looked back to the sky. The dot grew closer as Aaron's vision began wavering, but he was still able to make out the shape of a man tumbling through the air. The body fell limply, uncontrolled. Smiling contentedly as his vision blackened, Aaron fuzzily wondered if he had sent Eric high enough. He had looked at the gap in the clouds and into the deeper blue above. He had sent Eric as high as he could see. Hopefully, it had been too high for Eric to breathe the thin air. Hopefully, it had been too high for Eric to remain conscious for long, too high for him to remain awake and aware and able to maintain the shield that could possibly save his life when he finally hit the ground.

When it arrived, the impact was impressive and quite final. Aaron closed his eyes, satisfied and tired and wanting nothing more than to sleep as drugs coursed through him. He felt content and whole. He had not failed. This time he had gotten it right. He had not failed.
Chapter 24

General Field was not a pleased man. Even with the drugs running through his body Aaron was able to tell that much. He tried to pull his thoughts together, but they remained a jumbled mess. He tried to transfer, but the drugs or his tumbling thoughts or something else kept him from succeeding. No matter how hard he tried, he could not form a proper image in his mind. He could barely even think of forming a proper image.

Of course, matters might have been easier if his arms did not ache from the ropes fastening him into the interrogation chair. More than anything else, he wished he could scratch his face. It itched where bandages and stitches held his split and broken cheek together. His face itched and hurt, and the mixed sensation drove him crazy in a distant sort of abstract way. Even to his fogged mind it was obvious that they had not bothered to glue his broken bone or to seal his wounds.

Gods, it seemed like all he did lately was break bones and bleed over things he should not be bleeding over.

"So," Field said simply, "you went and turned traitor." He shook his head sadly. "We raised and trained you. We gave you back your body, and you chose to repay us by turning traitor."

Aaron tried to focus on the wavering face, but he could not make out the details of Field's eyes or nose or chin. Then, fuzzily realizing that they must have given him truth drugs, he concentrated on pulling his thoughts together, but it did no good. He could not lie. He could not even think of a lie. His vision wavered again, and then it firmed up enough for him to make a few details, create a plan.

"Sir," he said, his voice straining, "Not traitor. There are--here--though." He tried hard to maintain his plan. He had a plan. He knew he had a plan. He just wished he could remember what that plan was. Damn, but his head felt so thick he barely had room in it for a thought. They had dosed him too high. Aaron remembered Aimes saying that. The drugs given him had been measured out for a much larger man.

Suddenly aware of another presence, he jerked his eyes to the side and saw Sergeant Johnston. For some unknown reason, Johnston was the only person in the room his wavering vision could actually make out.

The Sergeant stood tall and confident. His face was chiseled handsome. It was the kind of face women swooned over. It was a face that made Aaron want to puke, or maybe that was just the drugs.

Wearing a faint, superior smirk, Johnston winked. "I told you I'd have a chance at you."

"I want pri--cy, sir. A--Aimes stays--John--go. Have in--in--fo--mation. Stow--way. Ki..naa. Gov."

"What is he talking about?" Field asked Aimes.

Uncaring, Aimes shrugged. "The drugs make him tell the truth as he knows it."

"Turner," Field demanded. "Are you saying we are compromised? Keep your answer simple."

"Yesss."

"Johnston, you are to leave now. Turner, does the government knows of our plans?"

"Yesss," Aaron answered as Johnston left. Short true answers were easy to get out.

"From you!" Field's anger hit Aaron like a shovel across his face.

"Sssome," Aaron told him. "Me some--some here."

"You told them something about the project while you were here?" The General sounded frustrated. A small part of Aaron felt sorry for him.

Aaron bobbed his head in the semblance of a nod. "Yesss. You--too. Shipment. Spy."

"Oh for God's sake. Aimes, this is going to take forever. How can we speed this up?"

"We can't, sir," Aimes said. "His thoughts work very slowly and not very well while he is on the drug. We have to plan on a long session."

"The hell we will. Turner. Look at me."

Aaron did not understand the order. He'd never stopped looking.

"Aaron Turner," Field demanded, "are you a traitor?"

Aaron's thoughts turned to the other side. That was his home. He had been a traitor to it, but he wasn't any longer. Now he defended it. His mind mulled over the question. Was he a traitor? The question seemed to ask if he was one now, not if he ever had been one.

"No," he slurred.

"Sir," Aimes interrupted. "Perhaps I should question him. Your questions are open to interpretation."

"I am the one in charge here," Field snapped. "I will ask the questions. Turner, did a government agent slip over to the other side with our last shipment? How did he manage to overcome your restrictions? How did it affect you?"

"Sir! One question at a time," Aimes protested.

Aaron struggled. His head felt slightly clearer. "Agent under--tarp. Changed shipments. Stronger. Makes--blood--a' over."

He wondered if he had answered correctly. His answers were true. The time frames differed but the answers themselves were true.

"This is too slow," Field complained. "The man said he is not a traitor. Sergeant, give him the counteragent to the truth drug but not to the one that suppresses his ability. Since he said he is not a traitor while under your drugs, he must be loyal. I want to have a real conversation with the man."

"Can't tran--fer. Tried."

"Sir, I don't think--."

"That's correct," General Field said. "I'm the one who thinks. That's why I have all these bars on my shoulder. I wouldn't have made myself a general if I counted on you to do the thinking."

Aimes' face was a disjointed study to Aaron's eyes while Aimes reluctantly shoved a needle into Aaron's arm. His features seemed filled with doubt, and resolve, and several other things Aaron could not discern. The injection burned Aaron's arm muscles terribly, probably an indication that the fluid should have gone into his butt since there was a great deal more muscle to absorb it there.

Field waited impatiently for a full fifteen minutes before the counteragent took full effect. "Report, private." he finally ordered.

Aaron weakly wondered what had happened to his promised promotion to Corporal.

"Sir," he said shakily, "the last time I left you I had a bite to eat and then went straight to my supply room to transfer out. The supplies had been covered by a tarp since I last saw them. Later, a day or so after I transferred over, I discovered that the original supplies had been removed and empty boxes had been put in their place. Still, transferring was difficult. I arrived at my destination very weak and covered with blood. Before long I fell over, unconscious. When I woke I discovered the switch in the supplies. Then, a few days later I was struck in the back. A wound was opened in it by a knife, and I had stitches put in. It was only afterward that I realized my wound was somehow affecting my performance. When I transferred over here, during a time when I was being assaulted, I ended up in an area I had never been to before. Several of my attackers and the government infiltrator were brought along with me." He paused for breath. Neither of the two men looked very convinced.

"I was captured by the government. Soon a man came to talk to me. I recognized him as someone I had first met inside this complex a few weeks ago, a Captain under the command of General Mays. He told me part of what he knew, and then he had me taken to be interrogated."

Aaron tried his best to look ashamed and grieved. It was easy. He thought about his Sarah, wondering what had happened to her. He thought of Perk's broken body lying in the parking lot, and he thought of Kit being lost in a city where she did not know how to survive.

"Sir," he whispered through tears, "they learned everything I know. I am so sorry. I tried not to tell but--" He let his voice trail off.

"Continue." Field's voice was unyielding.

Aaron's voice firmed. "Yes sir. I did learn some information from them. The Captain is a black man named Aybarra, Major Samuel Aybarra. He works for National Intelligence. While being questioned I discovered that National Intelligence has several operatives placed in our organization, the same as Aybarra had been infiltrated into General Mays' Militia."

Aimes looked less skeptical. "I have a file on this Aybarra. His name has come up in more than one report."

"He is a Major in Intelligence," Aaron helpfully supplied.

"Maybe there is something to this," Field speculated. "The transmitter could have been tampered with. Turner, how did you get to that farmhouse?"

"I don't know," Aaron said. "I kept trying to transfer and trying but nothing happened, and then I was at that farm. I wanted to find a number in the phone book so I could contact you, but I was scared to go inside until I was sure nobody was in there."

"How much later was this?" Field asked.

Aaron thought quickly. "Maybe two or three hours. I had to wait until the owners left."

"Yes," Field said. "That makes sense. The government initially found you the same way we did. A beacon is implanted in your right thighbone. It puts out a signal that is too weak to be captured inside a vehicle or near a city, but it shows up pretty clear once you get into the more open areas. The city has too much interference, I am told. It has too much EMF or some such thing. Fortunately, a technician who was cleaning his equipment saw your signal flashing on his monitor. He was, I am told, rather surprised."

"He wasn't nearly so surprised as I was when that man fell out of the sky," Aimes supplied. "I listened to the news earlier today. They say he fell out of a plane. Said he made one hell of a mess when he crashed through the farm roof."

Aaron tried to not look alarmed. "I suspected there was a trace on me, sir. Honestly, the thought gave me comfort since I knew you could find me if I someday became lost. I'm not sure I could survive for long in this world without your support. I no longer have any idea how a person operates here." He paused for a moment. "I'm not sure I understand about the EMF, sir."

The General harrumphed. "I don't understand it either, private. I believe it actually has something to do with all the power lines and the magnetic flux in the vehicles or something like that. But you and I don't need to be concerned about it. We pay educated soldiers to worry about the details on such matters."

A light-bulb suddenly flashed inside Aaron's head. Breath shallow, his hands began trembling. Of course! That was it!

"Where did you get the money and the other items you carried?" Aimes asked.

"I stole the stuff I didn't carry with me from the Isabella side. Some of it I stole from the government place. Some of it I stole later."

"Untie him," the General ordered Aimes. "Kill the beacon. I want this man to get some food inside him. Give him a chance to get his head straight before we cut on him later today."

* * *

They put him under the knife that afternoon. When he woke the bandages were gone from his face. The broken bone had been glued and his wound sealed.

His left arm curled up to his chest. His fingers formed a claw, and his legs ached fiercely.

Tossing the dice of probability inside his head, Aaron was willing to bet that a small explosive once again nestled near his spine and that a certain electronic device had been reconnected. A few moments of internal testing proved that the drugs preventing him from transporting still ran through his veins. That fact, and Corporal Benson standing guard over him, showed he was still not fully trusted.

Later, word came to him. Field was having everyone associated with the project investigated. Private Gore had been found dead with the side of his head caved in, and Private Hill was missing. The word around the compound was that both men had far more money in their accounts than was justified by their wages and investments. Even their well-known scams and grafts did not account for the large amounts they had amassed.

Once Aaron's accusations were seemingly justified Field became more openly friendly toward him. Aaron was not yet restored to his position of being the golden boy, but he was treated with a bit less distrust. However, Field still ordered that Aaron's ability stay suppressed until a governor was installed into his hardware. When called, General Mays assured Field that the initial design for the new transferral machine was finished. The actual hardware should be completed in three weeks, but there was a hitch. Apparently his organization had been infiltrated. Aybarra was not the only traitor.

General Field looked like a man whose kingdom was falling apart when he ordered Corporal Benson to remove Aaron from the premises immediately so the government would not have a chance at getting their hands on him again. Benson accepted his orders, and before the hour was out Aaron was treated to a long car ride into the country and back into the woods. After traveling for many miles he and Benson reached a run-down A-frame cabin where two men waited. Neither man appeared surprised by the handcuffs adorning Aaron's wrists. Benson gave Aaron an injection and transferred him to a truck the new people provided them. After that Aaron did not know how long they traveled because his head did not quite work right. The sun sat low in the sky when the truck pulled up to a rickety plywood shack seemingly located a hundred miles from nowhere.

A very old and severely weathered man, stooped and bowlegged, left the shack to greet them. Gray streaks ran liberally through his short hair and long, unkempt beard. He carried a gun and smelled heavily of old sweat.

"Evening, strangers. Long way away from everything ain't ya?" He spat out a wad of tobacco juice. Spittle, gleaming wetly on top of the dried remains of previous misses, caught in his beard.

"Yep," Benson agreed. "Heard there was a run of rainbow in the cricks here about."

"Ain't been rainbow in these parts for going onto twenty years," the man replied. "Maybe you mean to be over by the Willow Way."

"Willow Way?" Benson sounded surprised. "Isn't this the Willow Way? First turn past the lightning struck oak, I was told."

The old man stepped forward and held out a hand. "Name's Hank Helder. I'm always glad to meet someone who believes in the cause."

"Corporal William Benson." Benson shook the grimed hand. "This here is Aaron Turner. The General wants us put on ice for a few days. Maybe a couple of weeks."

The old man cackled. "Well then, come along. I'll show you your new home."

He led them into the shack. Once there, Aaron peered around distastefully. The place was a pigsty, literally, because a pig lay in one corner of the small shack. The single room boasted one hand-built bunk, a wood stove, a water barrel, and a lot of cracks in the wall where the plywood had split.

After stamping first on one floorboard, Hank moved a few steps over and stamped on another. Then he walked over to the barrel and grunted as he leaned into it. Reluctantly, it swiveled aside to reveal a round hole with a ladder leading down.

"In you go," he called cheerfully. "I'll check in on you once every day or so."

Releasing a small smile, Benson pulled his gun and pointed it at Aaron's head. "You first."

Aaron's legs, already complaining, protested the entire way down the ladder. His left arm gave him not one whit of support, and the climb was made more difficult because of the handcuffs that were still wrapped around his wrists. The metal abraded his skin.

When Aaron reached the bottom he hobbled to the side to make room for Benson's descent.

And then he looked around.

Impressive. His new prison, with its institutional cement walls, had to be at least thirty feet wide and in the neighborhood of forty feet long. From where he stood he saw enough bunks to sleep at least twenty people, but the tables running down the center of the room could seat at least half again that many. Freezers and canned goods lined one wall. Nearby were two stoves and four microwaves. In the closest corner sat five toilet stools and six urinals. Everything he saw was white or brown or stainless. Overhead, the lights, with their strangely orange cast, appeared to be mercury vapor. The setup made Aaron wonder just how rich Field's parents had been. Apparently the man's influence and wealth was greater than Aaron had thought if he could build something like this and keep it secret.

After throwing his carryall up on one bunk Benson began prowling. Aaron pulled a chair out from a table and eased into it. His legs were extremely grateful for the relief.

"All the comforts of home, hey," Benson called out cheerfully, tossing Aaron a key fastened to a small ring. "That will unlock the cuffs."

Aaron thought of his small loft with its straw ticking as he freed his hands. He wondered how Cathy was getting along, and then he wondered how Mister Moody's cows were doing. Of late their milk production had been worsening, and Moody had been worried. It was possible Cathy and Brian Haig would have to go someplace else to get the milk they needed for their deliveries.

Within the next few days Mistress Golard would be running for her bi-yearly reelection, but he had no worries there. She was so well liked that nobody would challenge her for a job with no perks and no wages.

Gods, he wanted to go home. This was not the stress-free life he had hoped for. Not at all.

"Not the comforts of my home," Aaron told Benson quietly. "I sleep on straw beds and crap in outhouses."

"See, this is so much better." Benson plopped himself down and dropped a cardboard box in front of Aaron.

Last Chance was a whole other place from this. Cathy's sixteenth birthday was right about now too. In Last Chance many girls married when they were fourteen if they got the opportunity. Cathy was old by that standard, but Aaron had to admit that her youth had put him off. Fifteen was a crime. Sixteen though, sixteen was at least possible.

But was fifteen really too young? Cathy was more mature and self-reliant than many older people. He remembered the feel of her in his arms. She was softer than Sarah. She had fewer hard angles and, he had to admit, she owned a fuller and more feminine figure. Several romantic evenings had proved that. In fact, Cathy had proved that every time she pressed herself against him.

On the other hand, Sarah's attributes were not exactly lacking. He had seen that much before he was banished from his own bedroom. Though a bit sparse in certain departments and her skin was not quite pristine, she was definitively female.

Perhaps her reluctance to take things faster was not entirely due to Cathy. Might Sarah be self-conscious about her scars?

Damn-it. Sarah was the one he worried about. Undoubtedly she had survived her bout with Melissa, but she was now trapped in a land she did not know. Possibly wounded and in need of help, she would certainly need food and water.

An image flashed through his mind. A body lay crumpled on the pavement, bent and twisted and broken. Oh Gods, Perk.

"Do you play?"

Did he love Cathy? He did not know yet, not really, because he wasn't quite sure what love was. If he didn't love her, he was sure that one day he would, just as he was sure that one day he would be positive he loved Sarah, if he did not already. Hell, he had better love Sarah because it appeared he was going to marry her. She had said as much so it must be true, though he was damned if he could remember ever being asked his opinion. Maybe he should get it over with and marry the both of them when he returned. Now that would be a wedding night to remember.

"Turner?"

And then there was Kit. She would be in need too. She was less familiar with Jefferson than Sarah because she had not been there when Aaron had spoken of his home. Yes, Kit was a tough gal, but there was something vulnerable about her, too. Though she was one of those people who could not be stopped when they were in their own environment she might also one of those people who folded when they were confronted with something new.

"Hey! Turner!"

"Huh?" Aaron jerked himself into attentiveness and pushed his worries to the background.

"I asked if you play." Benson pulled a chessboard out of the box and watched Aaron expectantly.

"I play. I just don't play well."

"Well," Benson said happily. "Before we're done with this place you'll know how to play much better than well because I am going to teach you. It just so happens that I am ranked as expert. Fact is, I used to play in the tournaments when I was a kid."

"So what happened? Why don't you compete now?"

Benson shrugged and smiled. "I quit getting better. About the time I hit puberty I reached a level I couldn't get past, but that won't stop me from raising you a level or three. I teach chess pretty good."

He was right. Aaron learned more about chess in the first four days of his captivity than he had learned in a lifetime of occasional play. Benson was an avid player and a bona fide chess fanatic. Chess was his vocation. The Militia was only his hobby.

Benson was more than willing to play chess for days, which he more than proved.

Every one of those days the old man came down for an hour or so and watched them play. He looked pretty beat the first time he visited them. Benson asked if anything was wrong but Hank told him everything was fine. He had just finished ditching the truck, was all. After taking it to a cabin more than twenty miles away he had run back, and so he felt a bit tuckered.

After Aaron looked at the old man's worn-out frame and thought about what a twenty mile run would do to him, he decided that he was not going to get Old Hank mad if he could possibly help it. Apparently, Hank was tougher than he appeared.

By the sixth day Aaron was more than tired of chess. No, that was not right. He was heartily sick of losing time after time after time. His only consolation was that the games had grown longer. One of their harder fought games had gone on for almost an hour.

Once each day, before the old man went up the ladder, Hank pushed his chair back from the game board, pulled his gun, and pointed it at Aaron while Benson injected Aaron with another dose of the drug that prevented him from transferring.

The old man did not show on the ninth day. He did not appear on the tenth day either. On the eleventh day Benson lost his fervor for chess and spent a good deal of time staring at the ladder. It seemed to Aaron that Benson only now realized that they were dependent on Hank to release them from their prison. With the way this place was designed there was no way the two of them could open the trap door. Eventually, Benson climbed the ladder and tried to move the pivotal slab of cement but he did nothing but raise a sweat. Frustrated, he even pulled out his pistol and shot at the slab. The ricocheting bullet missed Aaron by more than four feet. It felt like three inches to him.

Aaron spent most of those two days lying in his bed. He daydreamed of Cathy and Sarah and cried over Kara Perkins. He even thought about Kitty Hawks and of how she had looked when she was angry, and then he remembered how she looked when she teased. Most of his hours were spent worrying about the two lost women, and he often wondered if old Hank had gone and had a heart attack on them. After mentioning this possibility to Benson he was roundly cursed in reply. The possibility that Hank had gone and died on them was there, Benson insisted, but it was not a strong one because they could sometimes feel vibrations coming through the thick floor. Something big was going on overhead, but they had no idea what it was.

Even though Aaron's ability might be their only way out of this prison, Benson still insisted on giving him the shots. On the thirteenth day Benson looked like he was willing to shoot Aaron with his gun instead of the needle. He began blaming Aaron for their being trapped, disregarding the fact that Aaron wanted to be anyplace else but where they were.

Day fourteen arrived. Aaron woke to the sound of Benson's shout and the sight of light at the top of the ladder. He scrambled out of his bed, but he was too late. Benson was the first one there.
Chapter 25

The fire burned while she lay dying. The fire burned, and the smoke of burning children filled her failing lungs. This grim moment was the beginning of her people becoming a nation, the beginning of their survival, but Birsae ak Mondar could not find it in herself to rejoice. The fires burned, and on those fires lay the bodies of the Clan's warriors, its daughters and sons. The fires burned, and the Clan's strength bled away.

She mourned. It did not matter that these first deaths were nothing more than markers in the game of war. Her faulty Talent was strong enough for her to have looked into the hearts of the dead when they still lived. Only three had been people of great worth to the Clan. The rest were good for little more than creating fond memories in the minds of others. They would be missed by few, soon forgotten, but Birsae did mourn.

She gasped. Pains ran through her chest, constricting her heart, running up into her left arm. She felt weak, knew she was pale, and her breath seeped from her lungs in faint panting grunts. This was the death she had foreseen for herself, the death she had prayed would come to her so she would not see the best of her people fall. She had no doubt they would fall. The brightest sparks of the Clan's youth, its leaders, and its bravest warriors would fall beneath the magic of the invaders. Almost all the elite of an entire generation would disappear, but the dregs of those remaining were the ones who truly mattered. They were the ones who would change her people, drag them up from the savagery they embraced and lead them into the ever changing world. They were the ones who would embrace, plow, and hammer, the ones who would learn the secrets of scratches on paper, and they were the ones who would learn the intricacies of statesmanship. The pathway to this learning was bloody and painful, but it was the only path she could find that led to something less than the total destruction of her people.

Releasing a shallow breath, Birsae let her head fall to the side so she could see the man who would destroy her people.

"Call me sick," Haarod Beech said cheerfully, "but I enjoy the smell of burning flesh. There's something about it that just refreshes the soul." He idly twirled Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac in the same manner he would have played with a common stick. Birsae winced as another pain raced through her. She wanted to cry as Beech spun his toy once more. Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac struck against a tent pole and bounced off. A small chip of wood flew free. Birsae groaned as her heart gave another flutter, but she did not groan over her failing heart. Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac was a sacred and ancient treasure of her people. In a thousand years not a scratch had been allowed to mar its holy surface.

"Oops." Beech studied the length of wood. "Looks like I broke off one of the squiggly lines. Really, Mondar, you people had best do a better job when you make these things. Not durable, just not durable at all."

Bersae fought to draw in a deeper breath. Her lungs were unwilling to comply, but her will proved to be the stronger force. She drew in an entire half breath before stars began swirling before her eyes.

"Why?" she managed to breathe out.

"Why?" Beech looked at her curiously. "Why what? Why am I sitting in here with you, watching you die while the party is going on outside? That one is easy. You are the Clan's last Shaman. You are sacred, and I am powerful. I have all sorts of ideas for the prophesies you are about to make just before you kick off. Sorry old gal, but you are going to help me run this war even after I shovel the hot coals over your smoking corpse."

Bersae managed to shake her head no.

Beech released a short barking laugh. "Ah, you want to know the other why. Why am I running this war at all? I bet you've gathered that it's not out of concern for all those dear, sweet people out there, the ones who smell like rancid grease and think dried ears on a string is a fashion statement. No indeed. I'm running this little war for two reasons only. You see, I like to kill people. It's a rush. Giving death is a thrill like I never knew until I turned up a shovel full of dirt while digging a fire pit and came up with my very own Talent Stone. It's really great to be able to kill people when you know there's not a single thing that can be done to you." Beech smiled and spat. The spittle landed on her face.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I'll clean it off once you are nicely dead. And you know, since you are dying I'll continue being honest with you. I do have a second reason for what I'm doing. In my opinion, it is a very fine reason. You see, when I am not killing people I like telling them what to do. I like having them obey me. Right now I can do that very easily as a Clan General. It'll be even easier when this war is over, and I rule them all. Really, Mondar, there's nobody who can stop me. Not when I have my Stone and my Sword and you are dead, there isn't."

Bersae could not help herself. The impulse was mean, and it was petty, and it was beneath her dignity at this moment when she was so close to drawing in her last breath. None of those issues mattered. She tried to moisten her dry cracked lips with her dry and swollen tongue. Straining, she found that her arm was almost too weak to lift. Her fingers barely managed to pluck at his sleeve.

Beech looked at her irritably. She tried to whisper, but the words would not come while the new future unfolded before her. It became clearer as her heart trembled its last, and her lungs deflated, never to fill again. The entire future of her people and this man opened to her as her sight failed and her eyes closed. Trying to speak, she found that she had no breath. She had no strength, but she needed to try--if for no other reason than the satisfaction it would give her.

Her lips trembled, parted, and then quivered in a feeble attempt at speech. Little sound came forth, perhaps too little for him to hear, but she knew the content of the words she shaped.

"There is someone," she whispered. "The Chosen. Bringer. He will stop you."

Beech looked at her with arrogant incomprehension. Contempt for her and all her people gleamed in his eyes.

And then the earthly light was taken from her own eyes--but the other light--that glorious golden light of the One God shone before her mind and beckoned her home. She let loose her corporeal form and followed where it led. She died, but she died satisfied because of that last pointless act. One small act of defiance gave her death some greater meaning.
Chapter 26

"About damn time," Benson shouted angrily as he leaped from his bunk and peered up to the opening. "Where the hell have you been?"

He was answered by silence.

"Hey, who's up there?"

After climbing painfully out of his bunk Aaron hobbled to stand near Benson.

Benson drew his gun and stepped quickly to the ladder. Looking carefully up, he shrugged and climbed cat-footed up the rungs. As he neared the top, he stopped and peered as best he could through the round opening. Apparently he saw nothing, because he climbed two more rungs with his feet while his hands held his upper body in the same position. Now crouched on the ladder, he glanced down at Aaron, looked up, and lunged erect with sudden speed. His gun rose, and his body twisted as he leaped through the opening.

Aaron heard a double thud. Benson's body sagged limply and slipped back into the opening, scraping two rungs as he dropped further. Hands caught his limp body and pulled him back up.

Aaron stumbled back from the opening. One leg twisted and bent painfully. He fell awkwardly backwards to land on his butt. Jerking his eyes around, Aaron desperately searched for a weapon. There was nothing he could use except the chairs, the pans, and the chess set.

"You can come up now." Sarah's head filled the opening. The smile she flashed when she saw him sitting on his butt was relieved and amused, but her eyes were wary as she searched for others.

Aaron stood painfully while relief surged through him. With her hair tangled and her face covered with dirt, Sarah was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Gods," he whispered. "I was so scared for you." He limped forward so he could be nearer. Her eyes grew big when she saw his curled arm and limping gait.

"Oh, love!" She clambered down the ladder almost faster than he could blink. "What did they do to you?" She touched his arm gently.

Aaron wrapped his good arm around her, pulled himself into her embrace, and pulled her head down to bury it on his shoulder. A relieved laugh caught in his throat. He fought it back.

"I was so scared for you," he whispered feelingly. "I kept seeing you lost, and hurt, and dying, and I couldn't--" He clutched her tighter. Her arms cradled him gently.

"I'm fine, darling," she whispered into his shoulder. "It was you I was worried about. I spent five days hiding after I killed that monster with the folding knife you gave me, and every one of those days I was scared of what they were doing to you. Perk and Kit found me, and then we found you."

Aaron raised his head, unbelieving. "Perkins is dead. She died."

"The hell I died." Perk and Kit both stood beside him. "It takes more than a broken back and a few other broken bones to kill me. After they scraped me off the pavement them docs had me glued together before the day was finished, and they released me six days later."

Perk grinned like a maniac. Aaron pulled away from Sarah and grabbed soundlessly at the other two women.

"I waited for Perk to get herself free," Kit said. "Remember, my Talent is finding, so I knew where she was the entire time. After she was released from the hospital I walked through most of the city until I reached her home, and then the two of us went after Sarah because she was closer than you. Aaron, what did they do to you?" She pushed at him until he was an arm's length away and gave him the once over. "You're a mess."

"You don't need to worry about him," Perk interjected. "He looked this way when I first met him."

"There is a machine in my back," Aaron told them. "A lot of wires run from it to my brain and spine. When we were in government hands they cut me open and disconnected the machine and that allowed me to look normal again. When the Militia caught me they put it all back together again so I went back to being this way. After we transfer back to the other side I'll be as you remember me. Some of the natural laws are different over there so the machine doesn't work like it is supposed to. That's why it doesn't twist me up like this in Isabella."

"Why did they do this to you?" Sarah looked angry enough to kill.

Aaron smiled at her. Gods, she looked good. Even scratched and dirty and stinking, she looked terrific. They all looked terrific.

"I think it changes the focus of my Talent," he said. "When the machine was unhooked I was able to transfer from one place to another on this planet. I could do it without using much energy, and without having to wait long periods between jumps. When it is hooked in properly I can only transport between points on the separated planets, which is good because once the drugs in me wear off I can take us back home."

"They did this to you so they could invade my home?" Kit looked angrier than Sarah. "Aaron, how could you agree to let them do this to you?"

Aaron shook his head. "Uh-uh. I never did agree to it. Was too young at the time. You see, I was in an accident when I was ten, and by chance, the man in the bed next to mine was the only other traveler the Militia has ever found. Since he recognized something in me that Field wanted, the Militia paid for my operations and assumed my care. My parents were more than happy to get out of the financial burden." His voice lowered. "The original operations actually left me much worse than this. It was years before I could walk again, and I never did learn to walk well. Every doctor I spoke to told me that I had inoperable spinal damage. They cut on me a lot over the years, and it wasn't until a few days ago that I discovered they had implanted a transmitter and explosives."

Perk grabbed his head and stared him in the eye. "Aaron, no spinal damage is permanent. I had a friend whose entire spine was replaced. Nowadays they can grow new ones that are better than the one you were born with."

The other women appeared confused. Perk talked quickly for several minutes before they had a glimmer of the miracles that medicine and science could produce. During the conversation Aaron discovered that he did not know it all either. Apparently, the militia had ensured that he remain ignorant.

When the explanations were finished he needed help climbing the ladder. Though he would have preferred transferring over to the other world right then, he could not because Benson's last shot was not due to wear off until the next day. In fact, so far as Aaron knew, it might be two or more days before he was once again functional.

If the shack had looked bad before, it was a disaster area now. Holes were torn in the walls. Most of the floorboards were gone, dirt was removed, and cement was bare to the eye. The water barrel and the pig were gone. Only the pivoted cement slab remained. Two short rods protruded from the cement, triggers for its opening.

The old man and Benson lay tied in the center of a pile of dirt. Hank glared hatred at the women. Benson looked betrayed.

"Put them in the hole," Aaron heartlessly said. "Somebody will be out this way in a few days. If not, there are enough supplies to last them for years."

The two prisoners were untied and sent below. Just to make sure they did not spend an eternity down there, Aaron wrote a note and tacked it on the broken door. When the Militia came to visit they would check the bunker.

Aaron followed the women out of the shack, drew in a deep breath, looked up the two-track trail, looked down the trail, and grabbed Perk's arm as Kit and Sarah walked around the shack's side. "Where is the car?"

Perk squinted her eyes and peered south. After a moment, she pointed. "About four miles that way, as best I recollect. All we had was my taxi, and its suspension wasn't tough enough to come this far."

Aaron took stock of his trembling legs and shuddered. "Then we better start walking."

"Nope," Kit said. She stepped back into view with Sarah at her side. They pulled a long contraption of sticks and rope behind them. "We walk; you ride. We figured you might be in bad shape, so we made plans." She nodded at the contraption. "This here is a travois. Get on, and we'll pull you."

Aaron eyed the thing. Two long branches were held about thirty inches apart by smaller branches and rope. Apparently, the idea was for him to climb onto the thing, let the women pick up the front end, and get dragged.

"I'll walk," he said emphatically.

He rode.

Two hours later Perk pulled brush off the hidden taxi. Sara and Kit set the travois handles down with relieved sighs.

Sarah gave Aaron a long stare. "Have you gained weight?"

"Not an ounce," Aaron assured her. He studied the three sweat streaming faces. Every one of the women seemed a bit whiff. "You all look tuckered."

"Try dragging a hundred and forty pounds of dead weight for four miles, and see how you feel," Kit muttered.

Aaron looked at Perk. "I offered to walk. Did you hear me offer to walk?"

"You wouldn't have made it," Perk said tiredly.

"Maybe not," Aaron agreed, "but I did offer." For some reason, he felt amazingly good. "Is there any wine in the taxi?"

"NO," all three women said at once.

Not long afterwards they rolled down the road, traveling the way God meant man to travel--on wheels. Aaron stayed crouched on the taxi floor when they passed an A-frame cabin. Sarah and Kit waved happily to a couple planting flowers. Once past, Sarah pulled him up onto the back seat and placed him between her and Kit. She kept him pressed against her side. Her hand reached out to touch him as if she sought reassurance that he was still there. Leaning against the far door, Kit's eyes would not leave his face. Nervous, Aaron reached across to lock her door. The last thing he wanted was for the door to spring open and for Kit to go falling out of the cab. He thought about making the women put on their seat belts but decided that nothing would convince them to restrain their ability to move when they felt surrounded by enemies.

The drive was slow. The taxi was not made for travel over unpaved roads so its suspension kept bottoming out as it bounced over ruts and roots. By the time they reached a decent road, Aaron's legs and arm were a constant throb of pain, and the taxi's undercarriage rattled dangerously.

"Gawd damn thing is going to fall apart in the middle of nowhere," Perk muttered. "Going to cost a fortune to fix it right."

"If you don't find someplace to stop soon, this seat is going to need a good cleaning," Kit told her.

Muttering quiet curses, Perk pulled into a service station that was all too familiar to Aaron. Kit was out the door before the taxi came to a complete stop when Perk pulled into a battery recharge bay. The boy waiting beside the recharge cables smirked a bit when he saw the cab, but then his expression changed when he spied Aaron sitting in the back. His eyes jerked towards the store window where the female clerk sat, and then he gave Aaron a knowing smile.

"I'll have this baby charged in no time," he promised, and gestured to an idle serviceman. "Dave, this cab needs some work. Get the windows, and I'll grease up the bearings."

Before Perk could say aye or nay they had the fast charger hooked up and were washing down the cab. The entire procedure took less than fifteen minutes, which was longer than Perk needed to relocate her fallen jaw. Looking considerably relieved, Kit returned halfway through the recharge.

Finished, the servicemen approached the window for their pay.

"Give them an extra ten," Aaron told Perk. "Each."

Perk fumbled out the money, handed it to the attendants, and looked over her shoulder at Aaron. "Made quite an impression when I dropped you off here, didn't you?"

"Apparently word got around that I tip big," Aaron told her. He looked at Dave. "Is there someplace to eat around here?"

"Most places are closed," Dave said, "it being a holiday and all. There's a greasy spoon about two blocks down the road, but it's not anyplace I would recommend. In my opinion it should be shut down, only the inspector is the restaurant owner's uncle. Matter of fact, one member of their family or another owns most of this town."

"My stomach isn't very particular right now," Aaron said. "It just wants food."

Perk stopped at the greasy spoon located not too far from the service station. Aaron thought the place was perfect for their purposes. Its exterior was run down and dirty. Old cars and Electra Bikes decorated the parking lot, indicating that their ragged appearances and less than odor free bodies would not seem out of place here. In a more respectable eatery their disrepair might draw unwanted attention. The Militia would not be looking for Aaron yet, but the government would be, and unlike the Militia, the government knew about Sarah and Kit.

The restaurant was small, seating only twenty people at five bench tables and another eight at the curved counter. The vinyl covering on most of the burnt orange chairs was torn and stuffing peeked boldly from the rips. The cheap faux wood tables were cracked and canted on an angle indicating that the owner had either found a manufacturer incapable of building a level table, or the place had a very uneven floor. Cooking smells and cigarette smoke filled the air in a haze too thick for the single popping smoke-eater to handle. Scattered across the floor was a literal carpet of stale cigarette butts.

After looking at the crowd of street toughs and wannabes, seeing a woman dressed in stained leather with the hair shaved from half her head and a pair of jobless truckers hunched over coffee, Aaron lost any worries he might have entertained about government agents eating here.

The waitress had stained hands and chipped nail polish. The menus she handed them were seven items long. Aaron peeked at what the other patrons were eating and recommended that everyone order a dry ham sandwich.

When the food came he almost regretted his decision. The ham was old, heavy with gristle and quite tasteless. The bread was dry, and the coffee was undrinkably bitter. Another look around showed that, yes, this really was the best choice. Everything else appeared considerably worse.

Their waitress brought them their bill after they nibbled on the edible parts of their sandwiches. When Aaron asked about a restroom she pointed to a doorway where two young toughs, laughing loudly while their hands slapped together in a congratulatory manner, were just exiting.

"Only got the one, honey," the waitress said. "Men and women both." She smiled an open lip smile, showing that three of her front teeth were missing. "Usually some of each in there. Lots of times there is some business going on, if you know what I mean."

Kit looked at Sarah. "Perk. Watch over our things. Aaron is not going in there alone." She patted the back of his hand. "Don't worry, dear. Sarah will turn her back."

"Should have gone at the station," Perk muttered.

Sarah helped him up and led the way.

As expected, the bathroom was filthy. Grime covered the walls, and the stale urine ammonia smell was strong enough to kick a person's eyes out. The only urinal was filled to overflowing; a puddle covered the floor in front of it. Passing it up, Aaron entered the first of two stalls and found that it was even worse than the urinal, almost. Standing back two feet when he did his business, he was not too concerned at all about missing his target. No one else had worried about it, so why should he? When he finished he looked down at the yellow, wet floor and allowed his eyes to follow the growing flood. It lay in front of his stool, flowed toward him, and then veered to run beneath the wall of the second stall. The urine stopped three inches past a pair of bare feet, small with multiple scabs covering their surface. As Aaron looked at them, a drop of blood landed beside one foot. Another drop fell, mixing with the yellow pool.

Faces twisted in disgust, Kit and Sarah still stood guard when he left his stall. He gestured toward them and then jerked open the other stall door.

The young woman inside was naked, battered, used. Any clothing she had once worn was missing or stolen because none of it lay near her. Bruises decorated her arms, breasts, stomach and thighs. Scratches ran down her left breast, and her lips were mashed and bleeding. One eye was closed; the other glazed as she looked at them. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she rallied when she saw them.

"A dollar?" she asked hopefully. "Fi' cens?"

"What happened to the money I gave you before?" Aaron gently asked.

"Money?" She struggled to focus her vision. "I know you."

"We met outside the service station. I gave you a lot of money."

She tried to smile and failed. "Nice. Mamma war happy. Gone now. Mamma nee more. Dollar?"

Sarah stepped past him, a wet, filthy cloth towel in her hands. Stooping, she began cleaning the girl as best she could. "Some things about your world are not good, Aaron."

"Yeah. Well, it's not my world. Not anymore."

Sarah straightened. "Kit?"

Kit had pulled out Benson's gun. "How does this thing work?"

Sarah shrugged. "We won't need it. Give it to Aaron." Straightening, she waited until Aaron slipped the gun into his waistband before handing him the bloody towel.

"Love, would you rinse this out for me, and then finish cleaning her up?" With a quick flick of her hand, she reached into her pocket as she moved away from him. Aaron heard a click of her spring-loaded knife opening before she opened the door and left with Kit following close on her heels.

Aaron dropped the towel over the chipped stall partition and hobbled after them, exiting out of the bathroom door just in time to see Kit hand the waitress a large wad of money.

"Dinner and damages," she said to the bewildered woman.

Rushing behind the counter, the waitress stuffed the money into a slot in the safe.

Watching the room, Sarah opened her knife, closed it and opened it once more.

Every eye fastened on either the waitress stuffing cash into the safe or on the woman who had given it to her. Smiles formed when the realization struck that somebody who had that much to give away was sure to have more.

Chairs scraped and six tattooed men and women stood up. One of the men Aaron had seen leaving the restroom gestured for the others to close in on him. In Aaron's estimation the man stood at least six inches over six feet and weighed more than three hundred pounds. Most likely, he was not the smartest of the group, but his sheer brawn ensured that he was the leader.

"Bitch, this is your lucky day. I got just what you need, and you get to pay me for it."

Nodding in full agreement, Sarah spoke in carefully modulated tones. "Yes, I think there is some payment due. There is a young girl in the restroom who has been beaten and raped. She is in need of clothes."

Another man spat. "Hell, you mean Mary? She wasn't raped. We paid her a dollar. That's what, fifteen, twenty cents each. Tell you what. We'll give her your clothes when we're done with you. That should make you feel better." He moved forward, carefully watching her knife. The others closed in. With a sudden move he reached for Sarah, shifted, and grabbed for Kit.

It was a mistake.

Kit jabbed a finger into his eye, spat in his face, and kicked him in the crotch so hard his feet left the floor. He screamed, dropped, and lay on the floor, writhing and clutching both his crotch and face. The others backed up and looked at each other. Without a word, they pulled out chains and knives and spread out to give each other room. Several tables were kicked out of the way. Sarah calmly slammed her heel into the screaming man's head. He quieted.

"Next time you can clean up your own mess," she complained to Kit.

"Sorry."

Chain swinging in knowing patterns, the big man moved in. Sarah moved so fast she became a blur. The chain went flying, and the man screeched while his wrist spewed blood. His hand dangled, hanging by skin and one uncut tendon. Grabbing his wrist, he stumbled back while blood shot between his fingers and fell to the floor.

Sarah watched him alertly, concentrating on his threat. Aaron saw her mistake, tried to yell, but he was too late. A swung chain caught her knife arm. The knife fell, and she yelped surprise.

Somebody else yelled. Head swimming, Aaron stumbled into the room, spastic hand clutched tightly to his chest, but he had one good hand, and he had one gun he could shoot with that hand.

"Oh shit," he heard Perk say.

Things got busy. All the noncombatants ran out the door before five more breaths could be exhaled. People yelled. Chairs crashed. Tables broke. Other patrons joined in the fight. Perk fought desperately against an opponent who not only had not suffered a broken back less than two weeks earlier; he seemed to know more about martial arts than she did.

Sarah took down a woman and a man before a blade cut into her oft abused collarbone. A four foot long brass chain caught her in the side. Staggering sideways, she grabbed the chain and pulled its wielder to her. Throwing a wild swing, her fist sent him stumbling back just as another chain caught her along the side of her head. She dropped to the floor and was pulled back upright, unable to fully use her speed because she was entangled.

A woman jumped Kit and slashed at her with a knife. Twisting, Kit trapped the knife-arm between her arm and her side. She jerked and fell; the knife-arm snapped. The woman screamed fury and clawed at Kit's eyes with her unbroken arm. The other woman slammed a kick into Kit's kidney. Kit's head spastically snapped back.

Panting, Perkins spun on staggering feet and sent a weak kick into her opponent. He swayed back and momentarily lost his balance. Perk used her opportunity well. One hand sliced at his throat. The other hammered into his temple. He dropped. She spun wearily toward the others and was knocked to the floor when a chair crashed into her back.

Off to the side, a leather clad woman had one foot pressed into Kit's back. Chains wrapped around Kit's neck, and the woman hauled up against them. Meanwhile, Perk struggled weakly to escape from the man holding her. Another man lunged forward, his knife extended, edge up, pointed for Sarah's belly.

Aaron aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. Gunshots echoing in the small room, the knifeman reeled back and fell into Sarah, his blade already sticking into the floor.

"FREEZE!"

Though Aaron leaned awkwardly against the restroom doorframe, his gun hand was steady. He felt cold and hard, like a machine running on automatic.

"Drop the weapons."

The woman pulling on Kit's neck sneered and jerked the chain. Cursing, Aaron fired again.

She dropped the chain and fell, blood spurting from her leg. Leaping forward, Perk clubbed on the back of his neck the man holding Sarah. Reaching, she grabbed his hair in an iron grip and wrenched his head over the top of Sarah's shoulder. She swung, flattening his nose, once, twice, three times with quick, trip hammer blows. Cursing through bloody lips, leaking red from his nose, he let go of Sarah and backed away, hands held protectively before him.

Sarah fell to her knees and shook her head weakly. Nobody else moved.

Aaron gestured to the man with the smashed nose. "You! See if your leader still lives. Tie up his arm. Perk, collect Kit and Sarah and get them to the taxi."

Choking, Kit held her hands to her bruised neck. Sarah stood uncertainly.

Aaron pointed at the woman with the broken arm. "There's only one way out of the restroom. That way is past me. There's a naked girl in there. You are going in. She is coming out. When she comes out she better be wearing clothes. Get in there.

The waitress slowly rose from behind the counter, eyes unbelieving as she looked around.

"Bastard," the broken armed woman hissed as she moved past him. Aaron was careful she did not get within reach.

Several people became busy tying up bleeding limbs. Aaron moved carefully to the front entrance after Perk left with the two women. Five minutes later the restroom door opened, and Mary stumbled out, pushed forcefully from behind. She looked around in bewilderment, stared at the waitress.

"Mama?" she asked tentatively.

"Get the hell out of here!" the waitress screamed. "Look what you caused. My new place is ruined. I got no insurance, you damned whore."

Mary held out a dollar in a shaking hand. "I ha' yer money, mama."

"I ain't your mama! Get the hell out of my life!"

"Mary," Aaron called gently, "Come with us."

"Dollar?" Mary asked hopefully.

"Even more. Come on."

Leading her outside, he helped her into the back of the taxi while Perk held the gun in a ready hand.

"I hope this is one of those areas where nobody calls the police," Perk said once she started the car. "It's kind of hard to hide in a beat up, broke down taxi that comes from a completely different city. Oh, and Aaron, you better take the gun back. I don't know how it works."

They drove in silence for several miles. Utilizing her retrieved knife, Sarah sliced off the bottom of her shirt and used the material to cover the cut on her shoulder. A purple black bruise was already forming on the right side of her face, and Kit had a raw welt across her neck. More than twenty minutes passed before Kit could breathe without a harsh rasp. Mary sat between her and Aaron, not speaking, reeking of stale urine and old sex. The stench was almost unbearable even with all the windows rolled down.

"My teachers always told me," Perk finally said, "that you never believe the holos. You never go against superior numbers or people with weapons unless you are desperate or insane. Would you care to tell me which category you people fall into? I don't care how good you two think you are. What you did was stupid." Her face was battered. A small cut bled under her right eye.

"Have you seen what they did to this girl?" Kit demanded. "What else were we to do?"

"A. Take the girl and leave. B. Get even. Come out quietly and tell me what is going on. We take out three or four of them when we attack without warning, and then we back up to where Aaron is with his superior weapon. He calmly shoots anyone who protests. _Then_ you pay the woman for the damages."

"I wasn't thinking," Sarah admitted. "I was so angry I couldn't think. I really do know better."

"She called the waitress her mother," Aaron said in a subdued voice. "The woman was pimping out her own daughter."

Kit groaned. "And I gave her the last of my money."

"Pimping, maybe," Sarah agreed. "But not her daughter."

Perk drove in silence for a few more minutes. When they reached a red light she stopped and waited until it turned green. She did not go. Instead she swiveled around to look into the back seat.

"Hey, Turner."

"Yeah?"

"The next damn time you feel hungry we get take out."

* * *

Since Aaron was the only person who was both lucid and not bloody, he was chosen to rent the motel room. With a resigned sigh because he really did not like putting his deformities on display, Aaron got out of the taxi, struggled to open the motel's office door, and paid the clerk after filling out the registration. Of course, it cost extra for a cot. The clerk brought out a cot for him, which meant that he had to then struggle back through the door while dragging the cot behind him.

Sometimes, it sucked to be Aaron Turner.

Once in their room the women took Mary into the bathroom and cleaned her and themselves in the shower. After they exited the bathroom, dressed in nothing but towels, they wrapped themselves in blankets from the two beds. Since he felt gritty and was tired of his own stench, Aaron wasted no time hopping into the bathroom so he could shower. Unfortunately there were no unused towels so he reused the driest one he could find and hoped it wasn't Mary's because he was not sure how much wildlife she had crawling over her. At least she smelled like soap now. That was a definite improvement, though a certain fragrance of residual B.O. still hung around her.

They stayed in the room the entire next day. Aaron left only to pay another day's rent, exchange towels and order pizza delivery.

In the morning Mary grew lucid briefly, and then she became agitated and violent and started screaming. Five minutes later she was bound and gagged and thrashing on the cot while Aaron and Perk taught the other two how to play cards. After several hours Sarah used her knife to cut the blankets into strips that could cover the women more comfortably, but first she sent Aaron outside to pace around the motel until they were decent. The dirty, bloodstained clothing had been deposited in the tub by the time Aaron was permitted back in.

And then it was back to cards.

Kit liked Hearts. Once she learned that gambling was involved she liked poker even better although she moaned and griped about having no money to bet. She made Aaron promise to bring lots of cards over with him when they returned, and then they ordered another pizza delivery even though the women universally agreed that they hated it.

Eventually, Mary stopped fighting and grew quiet so they untied her. Upon examination, her breathing seemed shallow; her skin dry and hot, but there was nothing they could do to help her.

Evening rolled around, and Aaron was finally sure that the injections had worn off. From some source deep inside his soul he knew that he had regained his skill.

And so he sent Sarah, Kit and Mary back to the other side without a hitch. Sarah gave him a kiss and the last of her money. Twenty-three hundred dollars and change.

Before he and Perk left the motel Aaron placed two hundred dollars on the night table. The women had taken the blankets with them and left a bloody mess of clothing in the tub, so he owed the motel and its cleaning crew extra.

After driving two and a half hours in a beat up taxi, they ended up at his apartment. Aaron gathered everything that was loose, put it in the room with the liquor, sent the entire load over to the Isabella side, and went to bed for the night. Perk slept on the couch.

In the morning, he and Perk disassembled every piece of furniture that could be broken down. They shoved all the furniture Aaron owned into the bedroom, tossing a couple chairs on top of the pile. Aaron sent that to the dining hall of the Manor. Presents for Kit.

And then they went shopping. Playing cards sold for a nickel a pack. Aaron bought a thousand.

Columbia City boasted three Universities. Aaron's money ran out at the bookstore of the first one. When he was finished buying at that store he owned complete manuals for every technical course the University offered. He also had fifty paperbacks for trash reading. Though the bundle came to a lot of books, Aaron griped that it was not enough.

At which point Perk convinced him to take money from her. After all, she said, he was the one who had given her most of it. She stopped at a branch of her bank, withdrew her money, and then they exchanged the last of his gold coins for more. Feeling loaded, they visited the two other colleges and three bookstores, buying every volume that might in some way be useful or entertaining. Perk had to stop at his apartment twelve more times so he could unload and make more room in the taxi. They made two very serious liquor runs.

Inside, Aaron felt hollow.

After Perk cooked him dinner and they watched the holovision news together. War was breaking out in the Mid East. A hurricane was heading for the East Coast. Dr. Wise announced from the Mercy Bend institute of Science and Technology a tremendous breakthrough in nano technology. The government confirmed that the bodies recovered on the Hilness Farm were indeed those of the two murderers who had rampaged through Columbia City, Gains and other nearby areas. Despite an intensive search, no sign of their mysterious weapons were discovered. It was confirmed that the combined death toll for the two was now standing at eighty-three. Coming up, an interview with the family of one of the victims.

Aaron grieved. A swath of innocent lives had fallen due to his mistakes. Countless more lives were emotionally maimed. If he had never crossed back, if he had allowed Beech to kill the three of them, more than eighty people would not be dead and hundreds of others would not be left grieving.

Perk shushed him as the news changed to a report on three missing people, two women and a man. Aaron did not see his picture displayed, and Perk did not point it out to him.

Changing the channel, she found other news of interest. Outside the city of Gains, Intelligence had raided an Everlasting Life Militia compound, known locally as Field's Militia. Illegal weapons and explosives were taken, as well as over half a million in cash. Plans for the disruption and eventual takeover of the government were discovered. Charges had been filed--thanks to the efforts of Captain Grant Hill--medals would be presented--retire after this last--

"Yes," Perk said, "they died, but they did not die by your hand. They died because two others were evil. Those two are now dead. Other people are dying out there too, Aaron. Children are hungry. Women die in birth. Make a difference, Aaron. All you can do to make amends is to make a difference. Here you can't make much of a difference but over there--"

She left, and when she returned she was dressed for bed. Taking his hand, she pulled him after her, pulled him down into the bed, and she comforted him.

Later, when she offered her body, he raised his head. "What about your boyfriend?"

"That one is history. If you have to know, it was him what put the bruise on my cheek a while back. I'm never that clumsy in practice. The problem, Aaron, is that most men do not like women who are better than they are. So, do you want to do it?"

Aaron thought the matter over. Yes, he did want her. After all, his hormones were stirred, and his emotions were shredded, but no. He owed his loyalty to Sarah and Cathy. He was soiled, but he still held a few rags of honor, of integrity. It did not matter that those two did not expect fidelity from him. He expected it from himself, and on this matter he refused to yield.

Perk said she understood and rolled over to go to sleep. Watching her, Aaron figured she had not been all that enthused on the issue anyway. Most likely, she had not offered him her body because she was interested in him. Her offer had been one of compassion, not passion. She was only being a friend.

* * *

Perk woke him early the next morning when she gently moved his head off her shoulder. While he sleepily tried to blink morning crud from his eyes, she informed him that he was to stay in while she went out and made some purchases of her own. When he finally managed to pull himself from the bed she fed him breakfast and left. Having nothing else to do while she was gone, Aaron sent the massive amount of the previous day's purchases down to his cellar. The transferral added a good deal of space to the living room and kitchen. It was nice not to walk through narrow aisles.

Around noon, Perk returned with at least ten pounds of every type of garden seed she could find. Each seed package was carefully marked. After she told him that she was going back out, Aaron asked her to make some specific purchases for him. These, he decided, were going to be his last days on the world of his birth.

A few hours later he figured that enough time had passed for the women to have the items he had previously sent over stacked up against the cellar walls. Even if they didn't, it was a big cellar that covered more area than just under his store, and now was one of the prearranged times they had agreed to be out of the cellar entirely. The last thing he had wanted was to ship goods over and have those goods crush the women.

To be safe he only sent the seeds over. The surge of power drained him hardly at all, but that did not surprise him because he now knew the secrets of his Talent. He had done nothing but play with the least possibilities of it before.

Perk returned in the evening. She had bought the items he specifically requested, hundreds of other books that he had not purchased before, and a steel box holding what he did not know. After pocketing one of his special items, he sent the others over in separate lead wrapped packages, each marked with a particular name. "Set these aside immediately," was written on their labels, along with "Do not open." Once the last of those packages were gone, the books followed.

He put the other items, also lead wrapped, in a large crate, locked it, sent the crate over and looked at what remained. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, he reached out and flipped open the lid of the steel box. Frowning, he looked towards Perk.

"That's all silver bars," he said nonsensically.

Perk nodded. "One hundred pounds of it. Can't see no reason to be broke when silver is so cheap."

"Take it back," Aaron said emphatically. "I'm already rich over there. More silver won't do me much good, and you need the money more than I do."

Perk lowered her brows. "You better believe I need money. That's why I borrowed everything I could lay my hands on to get all this silver. Right now my bank has my floating loan up to its limit, and you don't even want to see my credit cards. No sir, you are going to ship this stuff over there, and then you are going to take me with you, 'cause if you don't I'm going into bankruptcy. Before we go bye-bye you are taking me shopping because I want a new wardrobe."

Aaron felt cold. "Are you sure? Think about what you're doing. It's a whole other world. You won't fit in there. If you come with me the move is going to be permanent, Perk. I will never cross over again. I swear it. I won't."

Perk laughed bitterly and made an angry gesture. "Ohhh, I'm sure. I've thought this over for two days now, and I've wanted something like this for more than two years. Aaron, I want to go someplace where I can be more than a small bit in a computer file. I want to go someplace where I am not looked down on because I haven't finished high school, someplace where I can make myself over again. Okay, I'll admit I don't like all the girl-girl thing that apparently goes on over there, but I do like the idea that men are something of a rarity. So yes, Aaron, I want to go."

"No showers and no cars and no holovision or radios or real hospitals."

"It's a lot to give up," Perk agreed. "I think being filthy rich will make up for a few of the inconveniences."

She had a point so Aaron reluctantly agreed to carry her over. She spent the next day shopping, and then formally called in and quit her job. The call turned out to be unnecessary since she had been fired two days earlier for not showing up to work for the last several days. Her former boss did have one specific request. He wanted his cab back. Wearing a faint smile, Perk promised to have it back to them in two days, just as soon as she finished having it washed and detailed.

Once Aaron emptied his apartment, Perk took him to her house where he shipped everything she pointed at. She did not want much, just her linens, her chairs and her waterbed. The waterbed took the most work since it had to be drained first. From the way Perk talked, Aaron gathered that the bed was her most prized possession. She told him that she understood refilling the thing would be a real chore, but that was all right because she was willing to fill it with a thimble if she had to. Personally, she thought there was nothing quite so fine as crawling into a warm waterbed on a cold winter night.

Aaron did not have the heart to remind her that waterbed heaters required electricity.

While they were looking over the last of her things Aaron heard a click from the front door. Alarmed, he automatically stumbled to the side and fell to the floor so the dart missed him by inches and thudded into Perk.

Empty dart gun in one hand, a small device held in his other, Aybarra watched him from the open doorway. "Turner, if you move you are dead. If I release this button a signal will be sent to a satellite. That satellite will send its signal to several others, and they will do the same. The lot of them will broadcast another signal that covers this entire continent, and that signal will blow the bomb implanted in your back no matter where you send yourself."

"Wow," Aaron commented. "That seems like a lot of bother just to invite me to the party. Why can't you people just leave me alone?"

Aybarra grimaced. "Orders. We have two hundred men out there looking for you. It's unfortunate that I'm the one who found you, but I did. Turner, the militia compound exploded when we raided it. The entire place was mined, so don't believe what you heard on the news. They blew themselves up, and they took out half a dozen of us when they did it. Nothing is left, and we have no idea who died and who escaped. Klein may not be back again, so you are the only access we have to that other world. We need to study you. We need to learn how to duplicate what you do, and then we will have new areas to expand into. There are too many people, Turner. This land won't support many more so we need a place where we can send our excess, our waste. Then we can grow again."

"W--won't be ssstudy if--kill him," Perk said, her voice drug blurred. She tried to pull herself up from the floor, hesitated when she halfway succeeded, and then fell heavily back.

"We will have his brain if he forces our hand," Aybarra said, "and we found some partial notes and prints for a machine that might copy what's in that brain. Cooperate, Turner, and we'll reconnect your neural transmitter. You'll be able to go back again. I'll see to it."

"And if I refuse?"

"You'll be declared a traitor," Aybarra said.

Smiling mirthlessly, Aaron readied himself as he slowly rose. "Well, I don't want that so I'm willing to work with you for as long as I stay on this world."

Aybarra stood transfixed a moment too long. It took half a second for Aaron's twisted arm to register with him, another half second for him to realize exactly what that twisted arm meant.

Aaron's smile turned crooked. "Time's up."

Aybarra's thumb reflexively released the dead man trigger, but he was too late.

Flicker
Chapter 27

Crash.

"Oomph--Arrgh." Thud.

"Next damn time, Turner," Perk cursed, "pick a smoother place to land."

Aaron grinned because her clear words showed that transferring defeated drugs. He flexed his shoulders experimentally and found that they moved quite freely. That meant he did not have a hole blown in his spine.

What an absolutely wonderful thing.

"Miss Perkins, there will be no future landings." He flicked on his pocket flash. The lower cellar was a shambles and not much else. Perk lay on the floor, a tipped over reclining chair across her legs. Her arm was caught in the drawer from the waterbed pedestal. Cursing again, she plucked the dart out of her trapped arm and tossed it away.

"Aaron, get off your lazy ass and get me out of here!"

After carefully picking his way slowly over to her, Aaron bent to lift the chair up. "Two mistakes in that sentence. First names are not used except under special conditions. Between men and women it means they are related, married or are considering marriage." He tried to open the drawer, only to find that it was jammed against her body. "Help me out here. Scoot over a few inches."

She managed to gain him enough room to open the drawer two full inches. He pulled her arm free and helped her stand.

"Second mistake is your use of profanity. That is considered very improper in this world. In fact, it's extremely rude. I've even seen one instance where it caused a duel with knives."

She looked shocked. "For swearing!"

Aaron guided her to the ladder. "This particular incident referred to a young woman's sexual practices. She took offense and declared a challenge. Fortunately, neither woman knew how to use weapons so both of them escaped with only a couple minor cuts. Up you go."

With the agility of good health and youth Perk quickly climbed the ladder, opened the trap door and was gone. Half-crippled, Aaron struggled against his slowly straightening arm as he reached for a rung, grimacing when the pain shot through his arm and shoulder. Since he would never go to Jefferson again, this was the absolute last time he would have to go through this ordeal.

By the time he climbed to the ice room, Perk had already made her way to the back room. "Somebody's out there."

Light flickered under the door to the main store.

Aaron shrugged. "Nothing to worry about. This is an honest town." He opened the door. Maybe Cathy and Sarah were waiting out there. God, he missed them both.

Kit sat on a chair beside the counter. A lantern flickered beside her, and one of Aaron's shotguns lay across her lap. When the door opened, she jerked her head around and grinned.

"Thank the Lord and the Lady. We thought you were going to stay forever." She peered behind him. "Miss Perkins, is that you?"

Perk pushed past Aaron. "Sure it is. I had to see what a real world looked like."

"Sarah said you were coming over, especially after some of the stuff we hauled out of there yesterday. Aaron, Sarah won't be around until tomorrow. The council has her pretty busy right now. A lot has happened while we were away, and we need to talk about Miss Ba--"

She rose as Aaron moved past her when he heard noise coming from Bayne's Reading Emporium. Smiling, he felt warmth run through him because Cathy was in there. She waited for him, and he no longer entertained doubts. He loved her. He really did love her. Their time apart had proven that.

"Aaron, wait a minute. There's something you need to--"

Quietly opening the connecting door, he saw Cathy kneeling on the floor, a box of books beside her. She was putting an armful of them on the shelf.

Aaron stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of her. She looked so damn good it made his gut ache. Young, fresh, vibrant, hair pulled back, baring her face. Never a classic beauty, she appeared striking in her blue and green dress. Eyes large with surprise, her full lips parted slightly when she saw him. Awkwardly dropping the books she held, Cathy turned more fully to him, clenched hands rising to press against her breast.

Gods, it was good to be home. She looked so damn lovely. Emotion filled him, rushed through him. Love. He wanted to weep for the joy of it. This woman standing before him was his girl, his woman child, his beloved. He did love her, and he wanted her, and he wanted to cherish her for the rest of his life.

Slowly drawing in a shaky breath, Cathy released it with a shudder when Aaron dropped to his knees beside her. He pulled her to him and reached hungrily for her lips, touched them--for one brief moment he pressed his lips to the softness of hers.

And then Cathy jerked away.

She leaped out of his arms and stood with her back against the shelves, chest heaving, hands held protectively in front of her. Tears trickled from her eyes.

"Mister Turner--p--p--please I--don't. I--I'm so sorry. I can't--I can't love you. I've--somebody else."

Crying, she rushed to the front door, fumbled a moment at the lock, and ran into the night.

Stunned, Aaron remained on his knees. His stomach churned. His chest ached, and his face hardened into a mask.

The front door swung slowly closed on its hinges, clunked into the doorframe, and then gently swung back open.

Standing carefully, Aaron tottered woodenly to the door, pulled it to him. latched it shut.

Kit stood in the open connecting door. She looked stricken.

"Miss Hawks," he said with slow deliberation, "would you be so kind as to visit Steven Knight in the morning and inform him that our truce is ended? I will call him out within the next day or two."

She shook her head. "Mister Knight has nothing to do with this. Mistress Halfax told me that he tried to protect your interests while you were away. According to her, he tried to interfere and talk sense into Miss Bayne for several days. Mister Turner, what are you going to do?"

Watching Kit, Aaron felt totally lost and bemused. He looked slowly around the Emporium. The shelves were filled. The room was crowded with tables and chairs and carpets covered more than half the floor and woven baskets decorated the newly painted walls. He walked slowly to the table where two kerosene lanterns burned, blew one out, then the other. Turning in the suddenly dim room, he looked at Kit standing in the doorway.

"Could you take Miss Perkins to the Traveler's Rest, Miss Hawks? I am going to bed now."

Not waiting for her answer, he pushed past her and walked to the ladder of his loft. He climbed the ladder, found his bed and lay down while the sound of footsteps and the soft thunk of a closing door echoed beneath him.

Hours passed. He counted ten thousand sheep. After a long while he threw away the sheep and counted grains of sand, but he still could not sleep for the racing of his brain. His mind ran circles and more circles, and then he remembered turning circles to the sound of distant music, remembered the feel of Cathy in his arms while they did slow circles around the floor Cathy's voice murmuring "And one, and two." He remembered, and he hurt, and he remembered until his confused mind refused to remember any more, and then there was nothing left but restless sleep where he dreamed of heartache and betrayal until the wounded parts of him wanted to curl up like a salt covered slug.

* * *

Aaron skipped breakfast in the morning. Instead, he rummaged though his goods until he found a specific package, and then he carried it to the doctor's. Four minutes of hard knocking passed before the door opened. Blinking sleepily, Mistress Alda Gunther's brows creased with worry.

"Mister Turner. What is it?"

Aaron turned to look at the barely visible sun with his burning eyes and saw that it only peeked over the horizon. Maybe he had come a bit early. "Is the doctor available, Mistress Gunther? I need to speak with him."

"Is this important? He was up late last night. He really needs to--"

"I really need to see Mister Turner." Hair uncombed, shirt buttoned unevenly, Doctor Gunther looked over her shoulder. "A bad case you dropped in my lap, sir. The girl will not respond to anything. At the moment she is unconscious, breathing very shallow, and cold. What can you tell me about her condition that might help with her treatment?"

"She's addicted to drugs," Aaron said. "I don't know what kind. Right now her body is protesting because she quit taking them. Maybe I can help you out, Mister Gunther. I'm told that everyone has a Talent. Is this true in your case? Could you tell me what it is?"

The doctor looked at Aaron speculatively. "There must be a reason behind your request, Mister Turner. The direction of a person's Talents is usually considered too personal for idle conversation. Mine, naturally, is healing. Though not an especially strong Talent, it was strong enough to lead me to this career. I'm afraid that I barely get any help out of it at all--but sometimes--sometimes it gives me a hint or a hunch. To be honest, if not for my Talent I would have become a bricklayer like all three of my mothers and both my wives." He smiled ruefully. "I probably should have anyway. There is more honest labor in bricklaying, and bricklayers get paid for every job they do."

Aaron handed him the package. "Please open this when you are alone. Don't let anyone else touch it"

Missy waited for him at the store.

"Mister Turner, I haven't seen Cathy since yesterday. Did you see her? Was she here last night?"

Opening the store's door, Aaron guided her in. "Yes, I saw her. No, she was not here all night." He moved behind the counter and checked the cash box. It was full. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Mistress Halfax doesn't want me or Ann working mornings or nights now that the Guard is here. She says our ears are too young to listen to them." Missy drew a deep breath. "Mister Turner, I'm so sorry about Cathy. I've told her that I think she's stupid. We've argued almost every night for weeks, but she insists that she loves him. How could she love him after she's been leading you along all this time? You are so good and strong and kind that I would never let you get away if you cared for me like you do her."

Aaron sighed sadly. The ache in his breast would not go away. "Sometimes people are just not right for each other, Missy. I wasn't sure how I truly felt about her until last night. I knew I liked her. I was infatuated with her, but I wasn't sure I loved her until it was too late. Can I blame her for being confused about her emotions when I had no idea what my own were? Missy, I am twenty-five. She is still a young girl."

"Well!" Missy stamped her foot. "She could have remembered that we would have starved last winter if not for you. She could have remembered that much!"

"I'm sure she does," Aaron said. "However, gratitude is nothing to base a relationship on. Look, I won't lie to you. This hurts. It hurts a lot, but I will get over the hurt, and I will still care for her."

Clapping sounded from the doorway.

"How noble," Perk said dryly. She moved into the store. "Now get your head out of your butt and smell the roses. The girl did you dirty. Did you know she is already married? She got married the day after you left. I heard that one while Sarah was treating me to breakfast. It's all the morning gossip along with the latest news on the war. Aaron, I want you to remember that some friends stay loyal, and I'm one of them. You want some butt kicked? I'll do it for you once we find out who the fellow is."

Astonished, Missy stared at Perk's piercings. "How do you get those stones to stay on the side of your nose?"

Perk ignored her. "Well?"

"Don't kick any butt for me," Aaron begged, "and don't go looking for a name. I don't want to know who she married. Not yet. Not until I'm ready. Until then, just stay my friend."

"Easy enough to do."

"Sure is," Missy agreed, "but I know who Cathy married, and if you ask me..."

"I don't want to know," Aaron repeated. He gave her a thin smile while jealousy clawed relentlessly at his gut. "Missy, as a favor to a friend, could you talk to Mister Sever for me? Tell him I want this connecting door removed and the wall put back up."

"Of course."

Missy left on the run, and then Aaron convinced Perk to watch the store for him while he visited the bank. Remembering his earlier visit, he slipped on an apron and put a revolver into its front pocket.

Mistress Banks was glad to see him and astounded by his requests. She readily searched her records for a medium sized home that was for sale, and she even knew of an empty, overlarge farmhouse just outside of town that had plenty of rooms, though it needed plenty of work too. Afterward, she drew up the papers he requested and redrafted his will while he looked over the notes on the farmhouse.

He bought the farmhouse as well as a smaller, seven-room home on the north edge of Last Chance because it was more than past time he moved out of his loft. Finished, he left the bank and returned to the store.

When he walked through the door he found Perk trying to intimidate Cathy by her very physical presence while Kit exuded a wave of intense, disapproving cold over the girl. Mister Sever stood by, looking nervous.

Cathy was having none of it. Though younger and slighter than the weight lifter, she stood up to Perk with a defiant pride. Back straight, chin lifted, there was no give in her toward either of the women.

Aaron gestured to Sever. "Can you have that doorway sealed today?"

Sever nodded uncomfortably. "I can set one of my men onto it before the day is over. Don't see why he can't have a wall up for you by dark, although it will be a day or two before he can fix the seam so it won't show."

"That doesn't matter," Aaron said. "After he is done send him out to the old Dunham farm. I want the place put to rights, never mind the cost. I'll need four bunks set up in every bedroom except for the three smaller rooms where I want only a single double bed. Twenty-eight bunks altogether. Make sure there are dressers and closets to match. Sturdy furniture for the rest of the house."

Sever whistled. "That's a lot of work. I'll have to pull people off other projects. May I ask what is going on? The information might help me decide how to go about this."

Aaron walked over to him. "You may. I intend to open a house for homeless children. I will provide funds for their clothing and food as well as wages for four adults to care for them. While they are in my care they can plant crops and learn the benefits of work on a farm." He looked at the others in the room. "A lot of people have suffered because of me. It's time I made amends."

Sever grinned hugely. "Mister Turner, I would be glad to do that for you and at little more than cost, too. A grand undertaking it is and one I have never heard the likes of before." He left with a swing in his step.

"Mister Turner," Cathy asked, "may I speak with you in private?"

Appearing hesitant and nervous, her attitude was a huge change from the defiant woman who had faced Perk. She wrung her hands, and her left eyelid twitched.

Aaron looked to Perk and Kit. "These are my friends. You can talk in front of them."

Cathy swallowed nervously and straightened bravely. "Okay. I--I never wanted to hurt you. I still admire you, Mister Turner. Revere you even, only those feelings could have been the problem between us. You seem so much bigger than ordinary people. I thought I could love you as more than a friend. In time I would have." She bit her lip. "I'm not saying this very well. I'm sorry. The thing is, I really would have learned to love you, but I started talking to someone else, and I found I did love him."

"Does he love you back?" Aaron asked. His voice somehow came out normal despite the large knot closing off his throat.

She shook her head no. "But he will love me eventually, and he does respect me. After all, everyone knows that a man doesn't need to love all his wives so long as he respects them, but a woman has to love her husband because she only gets the one." Biting her upper lip again, Cathy looked at him beseechingly. "I know that you'll hate me forever. I won't make this harder on you so I'm going to quit working in the store. You don't have to fire me."

Aaron's face felt like stone. "You are sensible, Miss Bayne. I will not allow you to work in the store." Reaching in his pocket he pulled out a piece of folded paper. Stepping forward, he handed it to her. "This transfers ownership of the Emporium into your name. Consider it a wedding present. The building and all its contents are now yours to do with as you desire. I ask only that you return some of the gift back to the community in the next few years."

"You are right," Kit said quietly to Perk. "He is a noble fool."

"Told you. Could tell the first time I met him that he's the sucker type."

* * *

Late that afternoon, Aaron finally realized what had been meant by the earlier mentions of the Guards and war.

More than two dozen new customers visited him that day. Some of them were Guard; some were Movers wanting to buy on credit. They were Movers--only this time they were moving back to their old homes.

He questioned a few of them carefully enough to discover that only return traffic went through the pass. The savages had banded together with a number of earlier Movers, and now they were burning out and enslaving the newcomers. Every man was killed outright, and women were turned into domestic servants and field hands. Any Mover who had crossed the pass in the last two years was at risk except for a few who were particular cronies of Beech.

In all, there were better than forty women and children begging for food on the streets of Last Chance. Most of the children had no parents. Of the eight Mover women, only five had children still living, and those children only numbered fourteen. That left more than eighteen kids with nobody but themselves to care for their needs.

Aaron made inquires. Many of the displaced people were going back to their families in the east. All they needed was enough to survive on until they made it back. To these he gave money and supplies. He wrote their names down in his ledger, carefully noted the amounts he loaned them next to their names, and accepted their promises to pay him back in full. Despite their promises, Aaron expected less than ten percent of his money would be returned. Kit predicted the amount would be much more because more than half the refugees were Zorists. She said those who believed in the One God, were almost fanatical in paying back their debts. They considered fulfilling their given word to be one of the seven sacred obligations.

Aaron listened to Kit, but he did not believe her. Yes, there was a debt owed, but the debt ran from him to them, not the other way around. They were running east because of a war, and the scope of that war was partly of his own making. No self-delusional denial could make him forget Beech's boasts. Mister Wagon Master, despot Haarod Beech had the greatest Talent Stone amplifier on this world because Aaron had provided him with a steel sword. Undeniable guilt lay heavy on him. More people were dying, and the dying was his fault.

With this thought he sent the other two women and the parentless children out to the farm, which was now renamed Turner House. Nothing was set up for their permanently living there yet, but a rundown farm was better than what they had now.

Later, he talked to Mister Moody about supplying them with food and milk. Moody promised to see to their needs even though he did not have enough of everything since his cows were still not producing proper like, but his neighbors would be sure to help him out. After all, that was what neighbors were for. He would send Pate out to talk to them as soon as he got home.

Aaron went through the motions of living, wishing Sarah could be with him but knowing she was conferring with the Guard or dealing with some other matter in her capacity as Marshal.

The indications, according to Mother Rumor, all showed that the savages were preparing to invade. Several contacts had been reported. Half a dozen of the Guard were dead. Two dozen others were wounded.

He did not expect the visitors he received shortly before he closed the store at the end of a very long and uncomfortable day.

The outer door clunked when it swung shut, and Aaron looked up to see a young woman with a hard angled face staring at him. Her eyes were dark and intense; her bearing was determined, and she wore a tightly pressed and very cheap business suit. When she looked towards him Aaron raised an inquiring brow. She nodded and stepped forward. "Mister Turner?"

"Yes," Aaron said cautiously.

"My name is Amanda Bivins. Three months ago I graduated from the N'Ark University of Law third from the bottom in my class. Because of this I found myself with a pretty diploma and no job while creditors demanded that I start paying back my college loans. I could have taken up a position in one of the larger law firms as a low paid legal assistant, but that path has no appeal to me since it would take me years to pay off those loans and even more years to rise through the ranks. I am not that patient."

"It's a long way from N'Ark to Last Chance," Aaron supplied.

"Yes sir, it is," Miss Bivins admitted. "I came here to see you. Twice in the last year I have had the opportunity to use one of your writers. I found them to be easy and convenient and wished I had the funds to buy one or two of my own. I became fascinated by the idea of them and did some research with the thought of investing a little money in the company, but there was no company: there was only you...until two months ago. A conglomerate specializing in manufacturing, Barnes, Nod and Strunk, began producing their own writers based on your designs without the benefit of giving you a commission on sales, which is required by Isabellan law, Heinlav vs. Norland, because your writers are the first documented case of an original intellectual and real product of similar design."

She drew in a deep breath, which made her chest swell impressively, released it, showing the first signs of nervousness when the corner of her lips twitched. "Sir, I took the liberty of drawing up papers that will make me your legal representative in this matter. Any and all of the clauses can be changed, but I believe the terms I am proposing are more than fair."

Watching silently, Aaron studied her. Her poise began to slowly crumble. Her hopeful eyes became despairing while his silence continued, but then they flared back to life and her shoulders firmed.

"Miss Bivins," Aaron asked, "if I refuse your offer, how are you going to get back to N'Ark?"

Shrugging, she blushed and gave him a half smile. "Walk."

Aaron returned the smile and accepted the papers. "This might take a while."

"I can wait," she said.

Once broken down, her offer was fairly straightforward and clear. She asked only ten percent of his profits for the first two years of sales. According to her preliminary figures, his estimated profit during those two years could exceed seven hundred and fifty full silver which would net her seventy five silver, a rather optimistic prediction in Aaron's opinion, but she was very young and not very experienced.

When he finished reading, Aaron looked up to catch her biting her bottom lip. Nodding agreeably, he signed the papers because he really did not care if she scammed him or not. He had nothing to lose, and if she were honest, she had just potentially earned herself five times the normal yearly salary of a first year graduate lawyer with this one deal.

As she was about to leave the door banged once again. An older man with thin dark hair entered the store carrying one of Aaron's steel knives. When he saw Aaron he released an excited laugh.

"Mister Turner. Miss Hawks has allowed me to look at some of those books of yours. They are a treasure trove of scientific information, sir. A treasure trove. There are things in there that astonish the mind. I tried to copy some of it down, but Miss Hawks said I must have your permission first."

"Books?" Aaron asked. With everything that had been going on today, the books had completely slipped his mind. "Where are they, and why do you care about them?"

Laughing again, the man held out a soft hand. "They have been moved to the Traveler's Rest, and I am a Science and Practical Mechanics professor at N'Ark University. So many exciting things have been coming out of Last Chance that the Elders asked me to journey here and see what I could discover. They gave me this wonderful knife of yours that appears to be made from some derivative of iron, though how you managed to acquire so much iron is a mystery to me. To the best of my knowledge, there are not more than fifty chunks of iron in the entire world that are large enough to have produced this."

Miss Bivins stepped forward. "The mystery, sir, is why you expect free access to Mister Turner's intellectual property without providing Mister Turner with guarantees and recompense. Those books represent a considerable and real part of Mister Turner's plans for financial gain, so the free dissemination of their contents is contrary to his best interests."

The professor studied her for a moment and then he blinked surprise. "Don't I know you? I believe you were a student at the university recently, and a not very good one."

"I was an excellent student," Miss Bivins corrected, "considering that I only had three years of formal schooling before entering University. My first year there was mostly spent learning everything I missed by skipping pre-law."

He snorted. "That's impossible. Nobody that unprepared is allowed--"

"I lied on my entrance forms," Miss Bivins said, "and I graduated, and I am now Mister Turner's representative in these matters."

"These are books," he protested. "He doesn't need a lawyer to let me look at books."

"He needs a lawyer before _you_ look at those books," she corrected. "Your department has something of a reputation for piracy, sir. I recall reading of more than one investigation into the matter."

Aaron cleared his throat. "Actually, I planned on donating them."

The professor drew in a quick, excited breath.

"I have no problem with that," Miss Bivins said, "so long as it is only a loan, and so long as there are provisions that you receive the standard five percent from the gross of any new products developed from information contained within the books." She gave Aaron a quick look. "If Mister Turner agrees, I can draw up the papers tonight, and we can sign them tomorrow."

"Five percent," the professor said doubtfully.

"For the lifetime of that product's production," she clarified, "and also five percent for any products evolved from the original one."

"That would be a difficult agreement to enforce," the professor pointed out. "It could become impossible to determine how far the information has been disseminated and to what extent new discoveries owe their existence to Mister Turner's information."

"That," said the unflappable Amanda Bivins, almost purring with satisfaction, "is why we have courts."

"I don't have the power to sign your papers," he tried again. "That belongs to the university's Elders. However, I can give you my word that any information I retain at this time will not be used without Mister Turner's permission."

"That's okay," Miss Bivins replied. "Mister Turner can give me power of attorney, and I'll go back to N'Ark with you. We will hash things out, and then you can look at the books." She looked towards Aaron. "Mister Turner?"

By the end of the conversation, Aaron had agreed to make Miss Bivins his permanent lawyer. She would go to N'Ark to settle all the details and open all the lawsuits needed to assure that Aaron received his just due. Aaron signed papers she just happened to have with her that gave her power of attorney. Finally finished, he was preparing to kick everyone out of the store when a boy arrived from the post with a letter addressed personally to Aaron from one Mistress Idella R. Catlow--Member and Minister of the Department of Internal Affairs. Aaron did not have a snowball's chance in the hot place of getting rid of anybody once they saw that letter. Apparently, Mistress Catlow was third in line to take over the reins of the Presidency if anything happened to the Honorable Mistress Penkally.

So Aaron opened the letter and read it silently while his audience stewed in their own curiosity. He then neatly folded the letter, ripped it into tiny little pieces of confetti, and threw the litter into his wastebasket. _Then_ he kicked everyone out. When they were gone he sat down and thought about what he had read. It seemed that the high powers of Isabella were aware of his particular Talent. They were alarmed and hereby enjoined him to cease all travel between his birth world and his new home. If he agreed to this provision he was more than welcome to stay in Isabella. "Please understand that this injunction is not a reflection upon our opinion of your integrity and honor. It is merely a distrust over the intentions of those who might gain control of you and force you to do their will. Oh, by the way, welcome to Isabella. You have any and all privileges of an Isabellan citizen, but citizenship cannot be conferred onto you due to a recent law which requires that a full citizen either be born within the borders of Isabella or have an Isabellan parent. Please expect a representative of the government to arrive shortly." The end.

In other words, more crap was coming his way. Gods, he hated everything to do with politics.

Forcibly shoving the matter out of his mind, Aaron focused on his aching gut and wondered who Cathy had married. Did he really want to know? Probably not. The answer could provide him with nothing but more pain.

His eyes burned from lack of sleep.

He looked at his newly built wall separating the General Store from the Emporium. Cathy's place would soon be filling for the evening. Missy would give reading lessons to her captive audience and Doctor Gunther would read aloud to those who did not want to learn to read but did want to hear a good story. In a short while the room would fill with pleasant talk while checker and chess players competed and cheated with good humor and gentle laughter. The thought of lying in his loft and hearing the sounds of merriment coming through his walls was depressing. A vindictive part of him wished he had not given the Emporium to Cathy. In fact, he was not really sure why he had done it. Maybe Perk was right. Maybe he was a fool.

Fool or not, he was not going to stay here where his eyes could not help seeing the signs and touches of Cathy's presence. The neatly arranged shelves were the work of her hands. She had made the new wall hangings. Every place his eyes touched was a place where she had made a change.

He would not stay here. He had another home to go to now, even if it was a home loved and furnished by someone he had never known. Just so long as the house did not bear the decorative touch of Cathy Bayne he did not care.

After locking the store Aaron made a lonely walk down the street to his new house. Along the way he found himself puzzled by the strangely quiet night. No sounds came from Jorrin's smithy, and the streets were almost empty of people.

He neared the edge of town and found the green house with beige shutters and fresh flowers in the planters beneath the windows that he had been told to look for. The place appeared bright and cheerful with its small clipped yard and the newly whitewashed fence in front. It looked like a happy home, a comfortable home, a home that did not match his somber mood.

It was, he discovered when he reached the front door, a home entirely too full of people.

Mayor Golard opened the door for him with her husband and two co-wives standing behind her. Inside, Jorrin talked to Flo and Bun. Ann Flinders squealed and hurried over to Aaron, a full plate of food held in her hands.

"We were about to go get you. Mistress Halfax said you had nothing to eat today so we made you this, and you had better eat it because you'll need to keep your strength up for tonight."

Team Haggarty's guitar music sounded from another room. Aaron looked around in confusion because this was not the house he had expected. When he had purchased it from Mistress Banks, she had told him the place was furnished, but he had expected the furniture to be used. The furniture around him was anything but used. The smell of freshly cut wood and new finishes filled the air.

Mistress Turnbull waddled into the front room. "Mister Turner. A wonderful home, sir. Plenty of room for you to expand your family and so nicely decorated too." Holding out her large, sagging arms, she gave him a hug. She was so huge that Aaron was engulfed by the shear bulk of her fat. Not only her arms gripped him. Her fat seemed to suck him into her embrace. He coughed and felt smothered but did not care because she was warmth and friendship and one of his most favorite people.

"My Mister," she said after she let him go, "it is in the Master Bedroom he be, talking to the ladies. The Mistress Banks is in there too, along with others. Plenty of time, you should have, for your dressing."

Aaron held his arms out wide. "I am dressed. The rest of my clothes are at the store. What is going on here?"

She looked surprised. "You know not?"

"No," Mister Golard said, "he doesn't. Mister Turner never had any say in the matter. Come to think of it, I doubt I had any more say my own self." He studied Aaron appraisingly. "Son, you really should have come in for that haircut. You look a sight."

"First thing in the morning," Aaron promised.

"Be too late then. The time you need it most is tonight."

"I suspect those clothes will have to do." Jorrin supplied. "I doubt the women will let him go back to the store to change."

"I suppose that means I don't have time to cut his hair."

"Will somebody please tell me what is going on?" Aaron had only thought he was confused before.

"You'll figure it out." Mistress Banks entered the front room. "I have to tell you, I had a terrible time keeping a straight face today. Imagine, selling you a house you already owned. Why, Miss Townsend bought the place for you a few weeks ago, and we have all been busy putting everything to rights since."

Screaming, three of the Turnbull children chased each other into the room. They looked apprehensively at the adults and ran off, still screaming while they played.

Mister Townsend entered. His two wives clung to either of his arms, dragging him along more than being led by him. All three smiled though Mister Townsend appeared a bit aggrieved. Immediately following them came Perk, and then Mister Turnbull came into view, wearing the same black suit he wore when he gave the Lord's Service.

The room was definitely crowded.

But only until Sarah left the Master Bedroom. When she entered the front room everyone else disappeared. Beyond any doubt, Sarah was the most lovely, most loving sight Aaron had ever been blessed to see. Bare shoulders pale beneath the lantern light, she wore a simple white gown that reached down to brush the floor. Her hair was immaculate, piled and pinned luxuriously. Fragrant white and red roses crowned her glory.

But Aaron did not see her dress or her hair, and he did not smell the flowers. All he saw was Sarah and her love. It shone. It radiated. Her love reached out and pulled Aaron into its embrace.

With hope pouring from her eyes, she stepped hesitantly forward. She looked excited and scared and unsure of how he would react to the brazenness of her actions. Her face spoke of love and compassion and sorrow.

He was not worthy of her. Aaron felt himself to be fool's gold in comparison to the pure tones of her silver strings. He was a small and grubby man, spirit torn and life beaten. In comparison, she was large with living, the shinning bright possessor of a soul capable of encompassing the world.

But he could deny her nothing because she deserved everything he had to give. Truthfully, she deserved more than he was capable of delivering.

No, he could not deny her. She saw it in him, and her radiated happiness filled the room.

Sarah's lips parted and moved silently as she glided to his side. Without making a sound her lips formed words. "I love you."

Mister Turnbull cleared his throat and gestured toward the crowd. "Gather round, people."

"Me too," Aaron's lips answered. Tentatively reaching out, he took her hand in his own. Together, they turned to face Mister Turnbull.

"Dearly beloved," the preacher began. "We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman..."
Chapter 28

Terlew Terlew

Terweet

Terlew

"Mmmmm." Sarah kissed his chest soothingly, and that was good because his chest needed soothing. Mere moments earlier it had boasted five lone hairs growing in one small isolated patch. Now those hairs were gone, victims of female whim and quick fingers.

"Do you hear them?" she whispered, crawling higher on his body until her lips touched his ear. "The birds are waking and singing us a song of joy. You can hear a primbol singing 'It's Morning! It's Morning!' and the sparrows are crying 'Happy Day! Happy Day!' Is it a happy day, love?" She kissed his ear gently.

Aaron turned his head to nuzzle her shoulder. "It is. Sarah, I want you to know. I do love you."

She pulled up higher so she could look down at him. "Do you? I didn't know. You never really said until last night, and I wasn't sure if you were speaking true or just being polite in a moment of passion."

"I wasn't entirely sure what I felt until a couple of days ago," Aaron admitted. "I knew you excited me. I knew I wanted you and wanted to be with you. I knew you mattered to me--but hon, I have never felt love before. I wasn't sure if what I felt was love or only a case of indigestion until--"

"Until Cathy left us," she finished. "I loved her, too. I even spent a couple nights with her, and I hoped the two of us could marry you at the same ceremony, but that didn't happen, and she has missed out by choosing second best."

Rolling off him, she pulled him around until he leaned over the bare shape of her body. "Enough of that. Let's talk about me. Husband, you've been trying to get an eyeful of me for a long time so you might as well get an good look now. I hope you like what I have, but I'm afraid the goods are damaged. After all, I'm not as pretty as Kit, and I'm not as young as Cathy."

Aaron let his eyes roam, and yes, her body was not traditionally beautiful. A small puckered scar, remnants from a knife wound, marred her left shoulder. Another scar, long and jagged, traveled diagonally from the inside of her left breast to the bottom of her right ribs. A third scar, angry red and puckered, marred the smoothness of her right thigh for several inches. That scar said she had been touched by fire at some point in her past.

"Well, Kit has some scars too." Sarah's eyes laughed at him. "They just aren't as big as mine."

"I didn't look closely enough to see if Miss Hawks has scars." Aaron said primly. "From what I recall, you had more opportunity to notice her attributes than I ever did."

Sarah ran her eyes down his body. "You sure noticed something, Bucko, because just saying her name sussed you out. Men don't get that reaction from the sight of a woman's eyes, and I saw more than a little of that reaction on you because of Miss Hawks while we were in Jefferson."

"Due to nothing but a pure hormonal response to being in your presence. Miss Hawks' appearance had nothing to do with it."

"Bull crap," Sarah laughed. "You fellows will react to the sight of an old hag on her deathbed."

Aaron laughed at her. "I do believe you are sidestepping the subject. Tell me true, Mistress Turner, you are attracted to our young kitten. In fact, I think you were far more interested in what she had to show than I ever was."

"Maybe I was," Sarah teased. "Maybe I wasn't. You will have to ask me that question later. As for right now..." She rolled him on top of her. "We have better things to do than to talk, and we have to be up and out of here in half an hour 'cause I made an appointment for you. I suggest you hurry up with what I have planned because you only got ten minutes before we have to get dressed."

* * *

Afterwards, Sarah walked him to the store because she had promised that he would be there no later than eight, a promise she had found it necessary to make to keep a certain Sub-Commander Marius completely away from Aaron on the previous day.

They reached the store in time to see Brian Haig drop off his empty milk containers. He seemed unusually quiet, almost skittish. Since Aaron was in a good mood in a melancholy 'I lost my girl but got married anyhow' sort of way, he thanked Haig and gave him a five copper bonus.

The store, he found, was already open. Kit had Sarah's shotgun on the counter beside her as she tried to run up a line of figures. Black circles surrounded her eyes, and Aaron realized she had been playing guard inside the store the entire night. Quietly smiling, she looked up when she heard them.

"I hope the night went as well as your face says it did."

"Passably well," Sarah admitted. "There were a few awkward moments due to a certain young gentleman's inexperience, but all in all, things went better than well after I got him to slow down a bit."

"Hmmm--I hear tell these things get better with time."

Sarah grinned impishly. "We will find out, won't we?"

"Do you two mind?" Aaron discovered that he was sweating. It was a warm morning already. Mighty warm. Prickly skin warm.

Kit laughed, and then she came from around the counter to kiss his cheek before patting it gently with her hand. "Poor baby. We pick on you just terrible, don't we?" Her face turned serious. "Aaron, I'm sorry, but I have to run back out to the Manor today. I have a home to arrange the repairing of, and I was just told that my handyman, Mister Moorehouse, was murdered back when we made our little trip. I need to see that he gets a marker, and I need to talk to his family."

"Thank you for your help," Aaron told her while a flush of guilt ran through him because he never had got around to telling her of the murder. "Let me know what can be done for the family."

"I will, but Aaron, you need to find somebody to guard the store at night while I'm gone. Too many people suspect you have a fortune hid away in here. I don't think you will have any trouble with the locals, but there are a lot of strangers in town."

"Miss Perkins will guard it tonight," Sarah said. "We already talked it over. Until we figure out something different, she is sleeping in the store at night, and Aaron is going to teach me how to run it during the day."

Aaron frowned thoughtfully. "Hon, I'll be more than glad to show you how to run the store, but what about your job as Marshal?"

"I had to quit," Sarah said. "I went to visit Doc Gunther. He used that amazing little present you gave him on me and that started the process of making sure I had to quit my job. Sometime last night you finished that process. Sorry, hon. I'm afraid we lost my public servant's income." Her smile was pure mischief. "The rules say pregnant women have to resign. When he finished with me Doc said it would require a miracle for me to miss, and I say that if we missed last night we are bound to hit sometime this week."

Aaron's felt his knees turn weak. Kit squealed enthusiastically. "Fantastic! And probably on your first time together, too. How did he do it?"

"Hmm. The usual way the first couple of times. After that we experimented--oh--you mean how did Doc do it? Aaron gave him a Talent Stone, and now Doc is spinning cartwheels. He almost has that poor Mary girl healed already." She looked over at Aaron and laughed. "Honey, why are you so red? By the Lady, you are sweating buckets."

Coughing delicately, Aaron waved a nervous hand. "Wait here please."

He left and made his way to the lower cellar. Once there he found their packages among half a dozen others. Perk's silver was still down there, too. He would have to do something about that because nothing in the cellar was totally safe when there were so many new people in town. Not when he had far more value in his cellar than the bank had in its vault. For that matter, his small bank now had more worth in its vault than did that of most major banks.

The packages were heavy so he was panting by the time he returned.

"Here," he said, handing one to each woman. They looked at him curiously, turned the packages around, and pulled the brown paper free. Underneath the paper was a cardboard box.

"What is this?" Sarah asked. "It can't be a wedding present because I forgot to inform you we were getting married. Maybe it's a belated birthday present."

"What birthday? You never mentioned having a birthday."

"Of course not, silly. I was too busy getting married at the time. Figured my birthday was the perfect day to get married since there isn't much chance that I can forget the date. Sweetheart, I'm afraid you married an old hag of thirty."

Aaron smiled and gestured toward the package. "Just open the box, please."

She and Kit both did. Inside the box was a mass of newspapers. Hidden inside the newspapers was a lead box sealed with lead tape. Inside that--

Kit lifted hers up, let out a gasp and slid to the floor. She lay there, writhing while Sarah watched. Looking over to Aaron, Sarah raised her eyebrows.

"It's a good thing I trust you," she said, and then she took her own present into her hand and instantly collapsed to the floor. Nonplused, Aaron was unsure what to do. He tried to take the objects away from them, but their fingers clenched so tightly that he was frightened of breaking their fingers. After too long a time passed, Sarah sighed contentedly while Kit let loose with a low moan and shuddered. Kit's eyes opened. They were distant.

"The new herd will be here in seven days," she shakily said. "Aaron, that was a nasty thing to do, and there you stood the entire time watching me just so you could get your jollies. All I have to say is that you better behave yourself from now on because I will always know exactly where you are." She looked down at the object she held in her hand. "Imagine, my very own Talent Stone."

"I don't understand what happened," Aaron admitted. "What did it do to you?"

"You don't know?" Kit rose weakly. "Look to your wife. If you did things right last night the answer should be obvious."

Aaron looked down at Sarah. Her eyes were closed but a smile was spread across her face. Oh yes, now he knew. Sarah's back arched.

"I think I had better close up the store."

"I think you had better," Kit agreed archly. "Next time you do this, make sure the gift is opened in private. Much less embarrassing that way."

They tried not to watch Sarah for the next half-hour. It proved to be an impossible task because she was so active...and vocal. Aaron hoped that someday he would be as impressive as the Talent Stone apparently was, but he knew he could never measure up.

After a very long time, Sarah stilled. Her eyes opened to focus on him. A smile of contentment spread across her lips.

"Oh my," she said. "My, my, my, my, my." Rising, she stretched herself luxuriously while Aaron watched carefully. He was not careful enough. With impossible speed, she blurred, and then she was gone.

"This is impressive," she said from behind him. "I wasn't able to move nearly that fast on the Jefferson side. What a wonderful present." She pulled his head around and pressed her lips against his. "Thank you, love."

Kit pulled her away with a firmly insistent hand. "It _was_ a wonderful present." The kiss she gave Aaron rivaled any of those he had received from Sarah, probably because Kit was not the least bit shy with her tongue. "You just wait," she promised when his oxygen ran short. "I'll show you exactly how grateful I am later."

Aaron's voice squeaked. "Kit, I'm married!"

She looked puzzled. "What does that have to do with anything? You're a man, and men will screw anything that holds still long enough. Besides, you only got married the once last night, so you got another one coming when I get back from the ranch tonight. Sarah and I worked it out that morning back in your apartment just before you caught us making out."

Aaron turned cold. He did not want to give offense but it had to be said. "Kit," he said carefully, "I like you a lot. I really do. I admire you even. The thing is, I hardly know you, and I'm sorry but I certainly don't love you."

She shrugged. "I never thought you did. It doesn't matter. I love Sarah. She loves you, and she sort of loves me, too. And then you and I do like each other. Don't worry. The three of us will work it out. Look, I could get away with the occasional tumble with you, but that isn't what I'm interested in because Sarah is off limits now that she's married, so I have to marry you if I want to continue with her. That way we are all satisfied." She patted his cheek. "Don't worry, baby. Between us, Sarah and I will let you know how to run your life." She smiled at Sarah and then looked back at him. "Aaron, please tell me you aren't so stupid that you thought all that running around naked was for your benefit?"

Aaron chose to ignore the question.

"Well," Kit conceded, "maybe a little of it was. That first time anyway."

"Honey, I think you just got the answer to the question you asked me this morning." Sarah flung her arms around Kit and kissed her deeply. Then she pulled Aaron into their embrace and kissed him. "If you thought last night was something, you just wait for tonight. Kit, I told Doc you would be over to see him before you headed for the ranch.

Kit laughed and pulled free. "Uh uh. Don't want no kids running around. You can keep that stuff to yourself 'cause I'm not the mamma type. Gotta run."

* * *

Sub-Commander Marius was a large woman, perhaps the largest woman Aaron had ever seen. Though she stood an impressive six feet eleven inches plus change tall, she was no beanpole. The muscles packing her bones were enough to match Jorrin's and more. Her voice was a deep rumble emitting from lips hidden in the thick black brush of a heavy beard, something Aaron had never had the joy of seeing on a woman before. And when she focused on him he saw eyes that were steel gray and just as hard.

Sarah deferred to her. That told Aaron a lot. A person had to be special before Sarah would defer to them.

When asked, Aaron had no trouble deciding to give in to the Sub-Commander's request. Overriding guilt demanded it of him. After talking matters over for a while they decided that distance was an important factor, followed by accuracy.

Aaron owned five, bolt action .375 rifles with scopes. Each rifle held only three cartridges at a time, which Aaron thought was good since he had a limited supply of ammunition for the things. Because the rifles would be in inexperienced hands frequent reloads meant fewer shots fired, which translated to fewer shots uselessly wasted.

He spent the rest of the day explaining the use of the powerful rifle to a group of people Marius had picked, mostly archers because they were trained to stand still when danger approached. He had no trouble explaining the importance of a steady stance or of bullet drop. Explaining how to handle recoil was a big problem. As it turned out two of the original five archers could not learn to anticipate the powerful kick. They had a serious case of the flinch. A third person was just too small to lift the heavy gun without soon tiring. She left in tears when Marius pulled her from the group.

Eventually, Aaron had a team of five marksmen with incredible potential and growing abilities. They certainly almost out-shot him after convincing him to show them what he could do. The problem, of course, was that Aaron knew the basics of shooting a rifle, but he had just never done it before. If it had not been for his minor Talent he would not have hit anything.

After holding a long conversation about the terrain they would be covering, Aaron decided to set the scopes at four hundred yards. Experimental shots showed the marksmen how much to raise or lower their aim for a few varying distances. By evening they were all exhausted and five percent of Aaron's total ammunition for the .375s was expended. While studying the remaining ammunition Aaron decided that any future practice would have to be with one of his two .22s. Since he had well over one thousand bricks of .22 ammo it was unlikely they would run him out.

He was on his way to fulfill a promise when he was stopped in the street.

"Mister Turner."

The woman approaching him wore the most powerful power suit it had ever been Aaron's privilege to see. True, he had not seen all that many of them. Still, he doubted one existed anywhere that was more powerful than the one this woman wore.

"Yes?"

"Sir, my name is Mistress Harriet Bestrow. I work for the Minister of the Interior. A letter was recently sent explaining that I would be speaking with you."

"I received the letter yesterday," Aaron admitted. "But I have not had much time to think of its contents. Yesterday was my wedding day. First marriage."

This Miss Bestrow was one serious looking woman. Tall and thin, her face looked like it could freeze a lake if she bent down to drink from it. Aaron had serious doubts that a smile had formed on her lips in the last several years.

"Yes. I heard," she said emptily. "You have my congratulations and that of the government. Would I be correct in assuming you have decided to remain in Isabella?"

"That is correct," Aaron said. "I won't cross back to the world of my birth ever again. I reached that decision several days ago, so I'm afraid the letter had no impact on my plans." He started walking down the street just to see what she would do. What she did was follow him, which told him that he was in the superior position. If she were about to give him orders he was supposed to obey, she would have ordered him to stop.

"Sir, the Minister and the most Honorable are both well aware of your unique origins. They have sent me out here to express their appreciation for your having chosen Isabella as your country of residence. I was instructed to discover whether you are happy with your new home or if you desire added benefits to induce you to keep Isabella as your home of choice."

Huh. This was not the way Aaron had pictured this particular conversation.

"Excuse me." Amanda Bivins stepped before them.

"This is a private matter, Miss," Bestrow instantly said.

"I agree. This matter is private between the government of Isabella and my client. As his advocate, it is my duty to listen to the government's offer and to interpret it for his understanding. Since my client has not been in this land for an extended length of time he is not familiar with all its laws. Before the government takes any legal action against my client which may threaten his freedom, it is legally required to give the particulars of its case to me."

Aaron gestured for her to be quiet. "They want me to stay in Isabella," he explained.

"Well, of course, they do. You are an important man and you have a great deal to contribute." Miss Bivins took a one eighty in her figurative stance without blinking an eye. "Because Isabellan law forbids them from giving you citizenship there is actually very little reason for you to remain within her borders. On the other hand, she has many lucrative reasons to wish you to remain."

Bestrow sighed unhappily. "That is basically the gist of it. I would have taken a bit longer to get it all said. Sir, simply put, we want to know your intentions toward Isabella."

Aaron did not have an opportunity to speak.

"His intentions," Amanda informed Bestrow, "are to find himself a nice comfortable country that is friendly to business. Mister Turner has expressed his desire to open a factory or three, but he has also expressed his concern to me that Isabellan taxes are exorbitantly high. One of the countries presently under considerations is Nefra. They have been in consultation with us and are in agreement that the corporate taxes of any venture Mister Turner is involved in are completely and totally rescinded for the next twenty years."

"That," said Bestrow, "is ridiculous. Nefra will be expensive for him to do business in even if he doesn't pay taxes. The services there are horrible, and the prices of basic commodities skyrocket daily. In comparison, Isabella has a better infrastructure and offers more opportunities to get his merchandise to market than Nefra does. Besides, do you think Mister Turner is willing to settle down in a country that advocates the taking and selling of slaves?"

"Cheap labor," said Miss Bivins. "However, some of your other arguments do hold true. Because of that we have also been looking at Jutland."

Bivins was young and inexperienced. Her clothing was neat and professional, but it was also of an inferior weave because the young Miss was fresh from University and had not two spare coppers to rub together. Though she was obviously a neophyte in both law and finance when compared to Harriet Bestrow, Aaron put his dime on Miss Bivins.

The preliminary negotiations went on for half an hour right there in the street while foot traffic and horses and wagons flowed around them. By the time that half-hour was finished Aaron had been turned into nothing but a spectator to a battle between two titans. Eventually, the women agreed to retire to the inn after giving Aaron their leave to go on about his business since he was not really needed.

"Well now," Mister Golard laughingly exclaimed when he saw Aaron step through his doorway, "about time you got that haircut. I was starting to think you didn't like me anymore. How do you want it?"

"Anyway you want to cut it," Aaron said. "Just get it short so it doesn't wave around in every direction."

When Mister Golard finished his floor was littered with Aaron's hair. Aaron paid him and went to the inn to see how Miss Bivins was doing. Once there he discovered that he had a tentative ten year moratorium on taxes for any business venture he became involved in so long as that venture was related to the manufacture of some item not seen before his arrival to Isabella. The tax moratorium started with the first product run out the door, not from its moment of conception or from the laying of a building's first brick.

Bivins was ecstatic while Bestrow seemed resigned. They agreed that the necessary papers would be drawn up and signed within two weeks.

"This is fun," Bivins confided to Aaron once Bestrow left. "I wouldn't have got nearly so good a deal if it had not been for the books. Once she found out about those she had to make sure you stayed here. I have to go now. Got a lot of t's to cross and i's to dot."

When Aaron finally made it back to the store Sarah and Perk were arguing about where the new stock should go. Perk wanted the most expensive items placed near the counter where a better eye could be kept on them. Sarah wanted them placed where people could more readily see and touch them. This, she said, was Last Chance. The people of Last Chance were honest. The argument broke off when they saw him.

"Aaron," Sarah said, coming over to him. She ran appreciative fingers through his freshly cut hair. "Why don't you tell her I'm right?"

Aaron shook his head. "I don't know that you are right."

"See," Perk said.

"I don't know that you're wrong either," Aaron said. "Why don't you two hash it out between yourselves?"

"You're no help," Sarah complained. She turned back towards Perk. "Look. It's obvious that--"

Aaron stood back and enjoyed the show. Sarah was animate energy. In comparison, it looked like Perk's excess energy had been sucked out of her earlier in the day. She was a mess. Her clothes were scuffed and dirty. She had scrapes on her hands and elbows. From all appearances, she had been through an absolutely wonderful day.

Once the unsettled argument stopped Aaron asked her about it.

Perk grinned. "I had a bit of a disagreement with a couple of the Guard. They thought they could fight, and I thought they were posers. Actually, they weren't bad considering they've had almost no formal training, but they sort of got tired of falling down while I was explaining this to them, and then their captain arrived."

Aaron frowned. "I hope this doesn't cause you trouble."

"It's going to cause me plenty of trouble because it got me a new job. Captain Leron wants me to train her people in unarmed combat." Perk's smile faded. "I'm not really qualified to teach, but she convinced me that she has nobody better. Guess I'll give it a try."

Kit stepped into the store, Mister Turnbull in tow. She quirked an eyebrow at Aaron. "Ready?"

Cathy stood in the doorway.

"Sarah, I wanted to--"

Sarah stopped Cathy with a cold stare. "My name is Mistress Turner.

"Oh--I--" Nervous, Cathy brushed at her hair with a shaking hand. Aaron glimpsed a bruise on her cheek. "Congratulations, Mistress Turner. Mister Turner."

"Congratulate me, too," Kit said. "In a few more minutes I'll be the second Mistress Turner." She slapped her pants. Range dust broke free, creating a brief cloud that smelled strongly of horse. "Put on my best outfit for it."

"Oh." Cathy almost glared at Aaron. "Somebody else already?"

"I insisted," Sarah said dryly. "What do you want, child?"

"I wanted to talk to you in private--as the Marshal."

"I resigned my position. I no longer qualify as Marshal. In fact, I won't qualify for at least nine months."

"Um," Cathy looked embarrassed. "I guess I'll find your replacement then."

"That would be Mister Tower. He promised the council he wouldn't get pregnant anytime soon."

Nodding sadly, Cathy turned to leave. She paused, turned back, and bit her lip. "Um--congratulations. Congratulations on everything."

She left, limping. Though some part of Aaron wanted to reach out and pull her back, he did not try. He had his wife and his intended at his side. It was not his place to look after Cathy. She had a husband of her own.

Looking over to Kit, he wondered if other men had a say as to who they married or when that marriage took place.

Somehow, he doubted it.

* * *

Though the wedding was short, the wedding night was very long. It began with forcibly dumping Kit into a tub with the intent of making her smell like soap instead of horse. Unfortunately for Kit, Sarah accidentally on purpose forgot to add hot water to the bath. Kit gained revenge by pulling Sarah into the tub, clothes and all. Aaron elected to stay warm and dry so he backed off to what he figured was a safe distance while the women released a few outraged screams. Unfortunately, when they looked up at one point they caught him laughing. Moments later Sarah had stripped down, and the two women used her wet clothes as their weapon of choice. Those clothes were very effective weapons, especially since neither of the ladies were far from their Talent Stones. Sarah's was in her pants pocket, and that sucker hurt.

More unfortunately, the tub tipped over right after Aaron fell into it. That ended all the games until the entire mess was mopped up.

And then Aaron learned the true answer to his question from the night before. It proved that Sarah really did fancy Mistress Kitty Turner. It also proved that though the second Mistress Turner preferred women, she was not the least bit shy about making love to a man.

All in all, it was an interesting night. A most interesting night indeed.
Chapter 29

Last Chance became a town in flux. Weeks went by, and then months passed. The Guard moved into the mountain pass, and then they moved through it, and yet more Guard arrived to replace those who left. Many local youths joined the Guard and left town. New people arrived. A large number of farms were sold piecemeal to provide land for more homes.

Another store opened, and Aaron refused to raise his prices so they would be close to those of his competition. Another inn was built, but it soon closed its doors since it received only a few overnight guests. Nobody visited it during the days or evenings because The Traveler's Rest was too popular with the locals, and the locals pulled all the new arrivals to the inn's door.

Aaron bought the new inn, stocked it, and then he built a stage at one end. Afterward, he pulled out one of his reading books, rewrote Death of a Merchant to suit the local customs, and gave the play to several of the newcomers who were out of work. They presented the play once a week. After the third week the house was always full. Other people asked if they could perform. Some wanted to juggle; others wanted to tell jokes, and one young woman had written her own one act, one person play. Within the first month sixteen people approached Aaron who wanted to play instruments or sing. Since he felt that music belonged to the Traveler's Rest, Aaron did not allow the musicians to perform except during plays. He saw no reason to cut Missy's future profits.

During late midsummer he paid to have a playground built. In late fall Missy tearfully aborted her coming out party. What would have normally been a happy time in her life was not. Doyle had caught a virus and died despite everything Doc could do. Even the use of Doc's Talent Stone was not enough to save him. Unhappily, Doyle was not alone when they laid him in the ground. In all, more than a dozen children and two adults died during the outbreak. Aaron was sad to note that only three of the children and neither adult were female. Something in this land hated men. Males died too easily from too many diseases, and he had not the least idea why. Someday, he vowed, he would find out.

The University professor spent a good deal of time questioning Aaron about his birth world while waiting very impatiently for Mister Bronson's arrival. The man was determined to follow the load of Aaron's books on their journey to the University. Feeling stubborn, Aaron insisted that no one but his personal freighter ship them.

Once Bronson did arrive, Aaron talked with him and provided funds for Bronson to buy forty wagons with the mules to match. Last Chance and several of the surrounding towns needed supplies delivered more frequently now that they were all growing in size. Because nobody stepped forward to fill the gap, Aaron took it upon himself to do so. He figured he would most likely lose money on the deal, but that was a matter of small moment. After all, he made so much money from so many areas that a loss here and there did not matter. Truthfully, he no longer had a clear idea of exactly what he owned. He mostly counted on his various partners to come in and hand him some cash every now and again. Afterwards, he usually threw the money in the money box without counting it. Once every week or two he took the lot over to the bank and put it in his account. To his way of thinking that was the best way to do business. It was a good deal less stressful than trying to keep his books straight.

When Sarah discovered his method she instantly hired two accountants and wrecked his perfect system.

Kit went back out to the Manor but before she left she told him that she was pleased with all the furniture Aaron had left her. She was not, however, quite so happy about the work involved in moving the furniture around so carpenters could replace sections of wall and floor and collapsed roof. Once again, it was rubbed in Aaron's face that he had pulled far too much with them when they escaped from Beech and his friends.

Kit did not always stay at the ranch. Usually, she made a point of visiting town every couple weeks. However, she usually stayed over for only a day or two, during which time she grumbled and bragged about getting pregnant without Doc Gunther's help. Once, she pulled Aaron out to the Manor for two weeks, insisting it was only right that he know something about the business. It was a dirty ruse. She stuck him on the back of a horse every single day. After all, she chortled, if she could survive the rolling wagons in his world, he could learn to ride a horse. To Aaron's way of thinking, her argument was not exactly fair since she would never have to face an automobile again while Aaron would be surrounded by horses and horse people for the rest of his life.

Their days at the ranch were short and filled with laughter. After they spent their first night together without Sarah, their nights were spent sleeping alone. That one night let them know there really was no sexual chemistry between them without Sarah. Kit loved Sarah. Aaron just came with the package. Though she valued him as a friend, she could not wrap her mind around the fact that he really was her husband. Truthfully, that was fine by Aaron. He hated feeling disloyal to Sarah--and--in some strange way--to Cathy.

When he returned to town he was bruised, dirty, and sore. Sarah was delighted with Kit's lessons. She thought going for recreational rides was a tremendously good idea. After all, she needed the exercise, and there were those two hunters eating hay in the stable. Pleeeeze.

So he learned to ride, and while he hated horses in general he learned to actually be fond of Surefoot. Surefoot and No Bit were two very docile and contented horses, proving to be easy to control and very responsive. Probably, Aaron reflected, they were so docile because they each had a good thirty or more little horsey sons and daughters running around the countryside--with more on the way. Pure contentment resided in both their horsey faces.

Turner House filled to capacity, and Mary Cunningham asked Aaron if she could purchase a new building to handle the overflow of orphans. He agreed.

Mary became a greatly changed woman. Off drugs and with no access to new ones, her eyes glowed bright and intelligent. She became interested in everything around her once she discovered that her past profession was lost. Being stubborn, she made one attempt to thank Aaron with her body and another to use it with a newcomer in order to raise money. Both attempts failed. Aaron had vowed that he would remain faithful inside his marriage, and female prostitution was unknown in a land where men made up less than a quarter of the population.

In late fall a delegation from Burnridge approached Aaron and requested that he build an orphanage to house the growing number of castoff children the returning Movers had left behind. Aaron hated to leave Last Chance, especially with Sarah and Kit growing larger, but they insisted he go. After Sarah delivered a passionate kiss goodbye, he rode Surefoot to Burnridge and actually enjoyed the ride in the cool fall air.

Once there, he bought another Turner House and found new help. This new Turner House was large enough for thirty children, and it was soon half full. Aaron made and posted rules that had to be obeyed if its residents expected to remain. Everyone over seven had to work, if only for a few minutes a day. Older children cared for the younger ones, and since the place was not a farm, they had to spend a segment of each day cleaning the streets and sidewalks of the town.

No one refused. Following his rules beat starving.

More than two months passed before the house was set up to Aaron's satisfaction. While in Burnridge, he bought another inn and changed it to match the Traveler's Rest. On a sudden inspiration, he insisted that the members of Turner House provide entertainment at the inn every Sunday afternoon, figuring that his kids would have to learn to read in order to perform the plays. Also, the money they took in could help support the House. He hired a teacher to visit daily, and then he found a performer who taught several different musical instruments.

Since the inn would not support the entire cost of Turner House, Aaron bought another general store, and then he spent a week hiring people to start a lumbering company. Miss Churnfelt, a woman well over fifty, who had spent forty years hanging around and working in lumber camps in over four nations, agreed to oversee the project. Aaron had a lot of confidence in her.

Burnridge boasted two lawyers. Aaron hired one to oversee his local interests and to handle his Turner House finances.

When he finally returned to Last Chance a December snow fell heavily. Despite her huge belly, Sarah gave him a very private and very enthusiastic welcome home.

While he was gone Perk had bought land and built herself a home with a separate attached gym. Once the gym was finished she opened classes. When he heard this Aaron was only slightly interested. However, his interest increased when Perk stopped by to inform him that his sessions were on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays from four to six. During that time slot Aaron would be her only student so he had better not stand her up. Aaron informed her that there was no way she was going to get her sadistic hands on him.

Sarah said yes there was.

Aaron went.

The winter snows fell with a vengeance, and the Guard found that deep snow put a big damper on chasing murderous savages over hostile terrain. On the plus side, the depredations of the savages dampened too. The two factors nicely balanced each other out.

To give them their due, the Guard had suffered heavy losses. They inflicted some losses of their own, but they were the definite losers in the matter of numbers killed. The savages had two known Talent Stones to contend against the eight owned by the entire Isabellan Guard. Unfortunately for the Guard, one of those stones belonged to Beech, now universally recognized as The Talent Master. Beech had enough Talent and power to offset every advantage the Guard had in numbers and Stones. Aaron knew the difference between the two forces was as simple as a sword stolen from Sarah. The Talent Stone holders in the Guard said they received some boost to their ability when they held a rifle, but the boost was not equivalent to what the sword provided the Master. Perhaps the shape and design had something to do with the magnifying capabilities of steel. Maybe it was because the sword was made of carbon steel instead of stainless.

Aaron thought about breaking out a few of his spare Stones to pass to the Isabellan forces. He and Sarah spent more than a week wrestling with the morality of giving the Stones to a force that would ultimately use them for violence. Since she had once been a member of the guard Sarah wanted to give them over. She held too many memories of serving with people similar to those who died now. Many of the people she had served with died during their skirmishes, and she remembered holding a lover in her arms while the woman bled out the last minutes of her life.

Aaron did not have much of an argument against that. His best argument was that he did not want more deaths caused by changes he initiated. Scoffing, Sarah pointed out that deaths caused by inaction were just as much his responsibility as those caused by his actions.

In the end they both relented. Aaron gave the Guard seven Talent Stones. The Guard Commander thanked him and then politely requested that he hand over the rest of his supply. Not trusting any government overly much, Aaron had prepared for this event. When the Guard came looking there was nothing for them to find. They brought in a sniffer, a woman who had the ability to sense the presence of Talent Stones through the amazing strength of her singular Talent. She found nothing either. The lead wrapping did a more than adequate job of hiding them from her.

Aaron had also had the forethought to move all his and Perk's silver into the bank. Maybe he was paranoid, but he did not fully trust any government body. Governments were made of people, and all people were fallible at some point in their lives.

In March, a rifleman caught Beech and the other Talent Stone holder in his sights. His first shot killed the lesser Talent. His second shot flattened on Beech's shield, as did his third and his fourth shots. There was no fifth. Showing nothing but faint disdain, Beech's power reached out and folded a cliff over him. The rifleman's spotter managed to escape detection and return to tell the tale.

Kit gave birth first. In early April, not long after the snows began melting, she came into town driving a wagon and looking as big as a tub. When she walked, she waddled worse than Mistress Turnbull, and she grunted when rising from a chair.

Her face was the same one Aaron remembered, though. Pert and freckled pretty. After their months apart, the smile she flashed on them was bright when she saw him and Sarah. The two women were like huge blimps crashing together when they met in a welcoming hug. Aaron made sure not to get between them.

Despite her condition, Kit insisted on being friendly that night because she felt some responsibility to fulfill her wifely obligations. Feeling slightly repulsed by her reasoning and her advanced condition, Aaron politely declined her invitation.

Three days later Kit gave birth to triplets, two boys and a girl. Four days after that Sarah gave birth to another boy. Aaron named them Autumn, Bret, Chet and Ernest.

Even though it was the women who delivered the children, Aaron was treated as the local wonder. Three boys out of four children was unheard of. Over the next month Aaron was propositioned at least twice a day. Every woman who approached him assured him that she was not interested in marriage. Two were already married but wanted a secret bedding anyway. Most had no interest in ever getting married. They belonged to that twenty or thirty percent of the female population who not only would never marry, but they had no interest in men except for the begetting of children.

Claiming fidelity as his excuse, Aaron refused every offer. When word of what was happening made its way back to Sarah and Kit, they laughed their heads off. Sarah told him to go ahead and have fun if he wanted to. Aaron decided not to play the fidelity angle on her. He told her the last thing he wanted was to have children out in the world he could not personally take care of. She seemed to understand that argument.

Despite Aaron's protests, Kit took her three babies to the Manor in mid May, leaving Aaron with the promise that he and Sarah could come for weekly visits. After she left the house somehow seemed empty when he had only one wife and one child.

Ernest was intensely spoiled.

Eventually, Sarah went back to work at the store. Ernest slept in a crib behind the counter when his Grandpa David and Grandmas Beth and Cindy allowed him to sleep. Jorrin was almost as bad except he was so gentle when he picked Ernest up that the baby seldom woke. Jorrin was still pained from Doyle's death. Having no living male children, Doyle had filled a hole in Jorrin's life as well as in that of his wives'.

Although she was only three months pregnant Cathy miscarried shortly later. Seeing her pain tore at Aaron's heart, and he had to admit to himself that he did still love her, even if those feelings were not so strong as they once had been. He was jealous of her husband even though he still did not know who the man was. As yet, by deliberate choice, he did not even know what last name Cathy went by. He never saw her walking with someone who acted as if he were her husband, and they seldom spoke during those times when she purchased something at the store. When they did business, he simply addressed her as Mistress.

But he did worry. Much of Cathy's fire was gone. She was still the queen of her Emporium, but outside her castle she had become quiet and withdrawn.

Reinforcements arrived for the Guard in mid May. The Guard began a bigger push into the new land.

A couple weeks later the ammunition for the .375s ran out, and they were returned to Aaron. By that time the guns had done their jobs. More than half of the savage leaders were dead. Aaron put the worthless weapons away.

With their leadership devastated and Beech's promises discredited, the tribes separated during the second week of June and moved back to their traditional lands, leaving Beech in the unenviable position of having almost no soldiers to prosecute his war. A few isolated war bands tried raiding for a few short weeks, but then they faded away, taking all knowledge of Haarod Beech's whereabouts with them. Peace was declared. Treaties were signed, and the footings were set for the savages to become part of a new nation governed by a council instead of the dictatorship provided by Mister Beech.

Aaron hated the sound of the man's name. Beech reminded him of that morning in the Manor when Kim and Sarah and he had come close to dying.

In July Miss Bivins arrived with the much delayed papers she wanted to personally see him sign. The government of Isabella did hereby place in abeyance all taxes due on any and all future enterprises that Mister Aaron Lee Turner, presently residing in the town of Last Chance in the prefecture of Minimanisac in the state of Glencow, did now and in the future cause to exist through his efforts or through the means of certain unnamed sources that were at his disposal.

There was a good deal more to it since the entire document ran on for one hundred and thirteen pages. The thing had been written up by government lawyers, so Aaron only understood about every fifth word. Fortunately for him, Miss Bivins understood it all. She had him sign his name in twenty-seven places. She also informed him that the only clause in the entire document that truly limited his actions was the one preventing him from undertaking any financial endeavor outside the boundaries of Isabella for the next ten years. To offset that clause, Isabella agreed to finance twenty-two percent of all the Turner Houses that he cared to establish.

On a more somber note, she informed him that the Balandices, a very politically influential family, were doing everything they could to damage Aaron's claims. Apparently, Miss Bivins said, two of their more distant relatives had been hung in Last Chance over some minor issue quite some time back. Since there was nothing they could do to harm the actual town, they had set their sights on the town's most visible member.

Not to worry, she informed Aaron, because with the papers he had just signed, there was very little they could do. Aaron would have been reassured if she had not looked worried when she said it.

Later that day, Aaron mentioned to Sarah how impressed he was with Miss Bivins dedication. She had made one fairly long journey just to make sure he signed those papers. Laughing, Sarah pointed out that the woman no longer wore bottom of the barrel clothes. Miss Bivins' fortunes were rising at the same proportional speed as Aaron's. Yes, the young miss was certainly diligent. She was also very mercenary. Before long she would turn Aaron's fortune into something phenomenal and make herself very rich along the way.

Aaron was still impressed.

And then, two days after Miss Bivins headed back to N'Ark, he did something he had put off for far too long. He sat down and wrote a long letter to the Minister of the Interior that detailed everything the Militia had planned. Then he wrote another letter that informed the Minister of Helmet Klein, feeling both traitorous and angry as soon as he put Helmet's name down on paper. The man had treated him like a son. Helmet had given him trust and love, but he had also left Aaron in a position where he had been deliberately crippled to further the Militia's cause. The contradiction confused Aaron, and despite all his efforts, he was not sure if he could find it in his heart to forgive the man.

Just as well, Aaron supposed, since with the writing of this letter Aaron was doing Helmet dirty. Payback, perhaps, but Aaron hoped he was motivated more by a desire to do the right thing.

Gritting his teeth, Aaron continued writing because, unlike Aaron, Klein was intent on conquest and rule. He had a greater tech base, more other-world personnel, and one hell of a lot of drive. There was no way around the question. Klein was dangerous to the established powers of this world. The harm he and the Militia had caused Aaron was minor in comparison to the harm Klein's ambitions could cause a large part of the world.

Still, in his deepest heart, Aaron hoped Klein had been ignorant of what Field had done to a ten year-old boy.

When Aaron finished, he went to bed. He lay down beside his wife and looked at her while she slept. Sarah's face was soft, composed, and gentle beneath faint light coming through the open window. Starlight and moonlight framed her and softened her, and Aaron was happy. He knew this was his world and his woman.

It was his twenty-sixth birthday and he was content.
Chapter 30

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG

Jorrin's tireless pounding resonated through the streets, sending echoes bouncing off the wooden buildings. Aaron smiled to himself. The sound of Jorrin's work was an old familiar noise.

"Did you hear about Miss Flinders?" Sarah asked. She joggled Ernest in her arms, making the baby giggle.

After setting his broom up against the counter, Aaron watched his son as Ernest grabbed at his mother's covered chest.

"Lucky boy," he said enviously, just loud enough so Sarah could hear. "No, I haven't heard a thing about Miss Flinders."

Smiling, Sarah pulled Ernest's hands away and then fastened the two buttons Ernest had pulled loose. Since it was expected, Aaron deliberately allowed her to catch him ogling. She mock glared at him and then slowly turned so he could see her in profile.

Yep, Aaron decided, breast-feeding had done wonders for her figure. Though not yet impressive, her shape had definitely improved.

"You sir," Sarah said, "are incorrigible. Rest assured, the pillows are still plenty comfortable, as you will find out tonight." She laid the tired baby down for a nap. Ernest fussed in his basket.

"Getting back to the original question, it seems that our Miss Flinders went and married on us. Exactly one week after she turned fourteen she corralled your guitar player, Team Haggerty, and forced him to propose."

Aaron winced as he thought about how that particular event could have happened, and then he thought of Team Haggerty's first wife, a true harridan in everyone's opinion. Young Ann would have her hands full with that one.

While he mulled that over, Mistress Hornway came in. He weighed out fifteen pounds of cornmeal for her while the Mistress asked Sarah if they still sold those female things that improved the figure. Sarah directed her down to the Seamstress shop, telling her Miss Hale handled those now. All the female specific items had been moved down there the same way all the rope and tack had been moved to the livery. With all the changes, Jorrin's smithy had turned into more of a hardware store and repair shop. Fortunately, Jorrin seemed to like it that way. It gave him more money and more free time, something Jorrin needed since he refused to take on another apprentice.

Aaron smiled. Jorrin's idea of utilizing free time was to make interesting new devices in his smithy. In other words, he worked as hard as he ever had; only now he worked on his own designs and hobbies.

"Fourteen seems awfully young," he said after Mistress Hornway left. "Women can die when they give birth so young."

"I took her to Doc's, and we talked about that. He says there's no problem because Ann is sterile. Thankfully, she doesn't seem too upset about it." Sarah's eyes sparkled. "I think you're just upset because Missy is thirteen. You'll have to call her Miss Bayne soon."

"I already do," Aaron admitted. "I gave Mistress Flo Halfax forty silver yesterday and sent her and Mistress Bun Halfax to Centrail to open a new Turner House. Between us, we decided that this House is going to be an inn, and the kids will help run it. I tell you hon, from the reports I've seen this inn is amazing. It has thirty-seven rooms to let and a ballroom. I figure we will use fifteen of the rooms for staff and to house the kids. The rest will be rented out. As a present from us, once they finish opening the house and hiring the right staff, Flo and Bun are going to roam the country on a year long vacation."

"So who runs the Traveler's Rest now?"

"I handed that to Missy. She's more than capable of running it if the staff helps a little."

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG

Listening to Jorrin's hammering, Aaron remembered when he was new to Last Chance, back when the constant noise of Jorrin working had been an irritant that set his nerves on edge and made him want to climb the walls. That time was long past. Now, the sound of hammer on anvil was soothing. It was a comfortable sound that brought memories of slow days and warm evenings and reminded him of the friends he had made and the life he had developed here in Last Chance. Yes, he was being altruistic with Missy and with Flo and Bun. He was doing good things for them, but the way he saw matters, he would need to do ten times as much before the books of their debts to one another became balanced. He owed them for their support and friendship. He owed them for their time and their care and for their acceptance of who he was. He owed them more than any money or gift he threw their way could repay.

They had given him their friendship and love. No material thing he could give them would ever equal that gift.

Aaron watched Sarah check Ernest one last time, loving the maternal in her, and he felt his heart swell when Ernest smiled sleepily. After tucking the baby's blanket in tighter around him, Sarah hurried over to Aaron. Her hug was warm.

"Aaron, you are wonderful. Did I ever tell you that? This is what, the fifth Turner House? These places are costing us a fortune, but you don't seem to care, and neither do I."

Turning his thoughts away from those who were not there, Aaron gave his attention to his wife.

"You apparently don't check our accounts all that closely," he said dryly. "Every House is supported by one or more local business so we fork out almost no money after the initial start-up costs. In fact, sometimes I even get extra money sent to me because the associated businesses are bringing in more than enough to cover the costs. Besides, have you seen any of my mail from Miss Bivins?"

"No," Sarah admitted.

"We have more than twenty-seven thousand silver on account in N'Ark. I'm telling you, that young lady has gouged every penny she could out of everyone using other world ideas, and it's only going to get bigger from here on."

"My husband," Sarah crooned into his ear. "Mister Rich Tycoon. Are you planning on moving to the big city?"

With a slight shudder of distaste, Aaron shook his head. "No thanks, I like being an average little town Storeman. Besides, we won't be so rich for long because I've asked Miss Bivins to open half a dozen more Houses. N'Ark is big." He pushed her gently away. "I have a floor to sweep, woman."

"You have a lot of things to do," she playfully replied. "Do you realize that you've yet to make it to a town meeting despite every pressure we've put on you?"

"Creative avoidance," Aaron explained.

"Right," Sarah chuckled, and then she started when her eyes focused towards the door. They grew huge, shot to Ernest, and suddenly became warrior hard. Without a word she blurred into motion, leaped behind the counter, and flashed back to his side before Aaron had time to finish turning around.

Rack Rack

"Mister Beech," she said grimly, "it is time for you to leave." Her shotgun pointed unwaveringly.

Protective shield glimmering faintly around him, Beech stood in the doorway. Appearing nonchalantly smooth despite his rough appearance, he ignored Sarah; ignored the shotgun. Sarah's steel sword hung at his side.

"Hello, Storeman," Beech said. "I bet you thought I was finished with you. Sorrrry, but I just can't leave you alone. You see, Storeman, you owe me. If not for you and those damn noise sticks and all the Stones you gave the guard, I could have been a king. But thanks to you, the Guard went and killed off all my best officers."

He scowled and raised his hands expansively. "How am I supposed to run a war with no officers?" His frown grew deeper. "I can't. Without officers, all my nice bloodthirsty savages were only good for running around in disorganized groups and getting themselves killed. You owe me an empire, Storeman. I came to collect."

Aaron wished he still carried his pistol. "What do you want?" Should he break his word and transport over to the other world with Sarah and the baby? If ever there was any justification to do so, it was now. Then again, it was likely that if he did transfer over he would not live ten seconds since he still had a small charge of C4 in his back, and the Jefferson government probably still transmitted its firing signal. After all, an electronic signal was a very easy and inexpensive thing to run.

"Money," Beech said simply. "I understand you have a good deal of it. I need a few tens of pounds of silver." He paused and then smiled expansively. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. I could use some of the Talent Stones you have left. In fact, I could use all of them. Given to the right men, I can still have my little Empire. In a few years I can even own Isabella."

"There are no more Stones," Aaron lied. "The government took all I had left."

Beech shook his head. "Tsk, Tsk. I don't believe you. Tell you what. Since I'm a fair man I'll give you a choice. You can die slow before you show me where they are, or you can die quickly afterwards." He glanced at Sarah. "Stop waving that thing around, Mistress Turner. It can do me no harm."

"We'll find out," Sarah said. Her voice was cold and hard, and Aaron felt that aura of confined terror pour off her. She was suddenly her old self, death and mayhem and justice waiting to be released. "Aaron, there's another shotgun beside the back room's door. Get it?" Her voice held no inflection at all.

"I think not," Beech said. After drawing his sword, he started to raise it.

Sarah fired.

Multiple flashes lighting up his shield, Beech's face twisted with shock. He staggered backward, lifting his sword toward Sarah.

Moving unnaturally fast, she was gone before his move was finished. She moved Talent fast.

Rack Rack BOOM Rack Rack BOOM Rack Rack BOOM

Running full out, Aaron threw open the back room door just as Beech splintered six shelves with his power. Boxes tore apart and cans burst with a spray of smashed vegetables and pulped fruit. Aaron jerked his head around to see Beech rolling across the floor, trying to line the tip of the sword up with Sarah's elusive shape. Beech's shield wavered, became more visible to the eye and cracks showed on its surface. Its transparent hue became a translucent muddy green. Growling, Beech sprang to his feet.

BOOM

Rack Rack

BOOM

Aaron's first shot followed close behind Sarah's last. Beech, his face twisted with hate, fell to his knees. His eyes tried to focus on Sarah as she grabbed a box of shells from the behind the counter. Back in his bassinette, Ernest screamed.

On his knees, Beech laughed hysterically while blood broke through his skin. His sword jerked around, and his laughter took on a note of satisfied cruelty.

"Damn if they don't hurt me after all," he crowed. "The hell with you then." He laughed again and his sword lined up, pointing at Ernst.

"Nooooo!"

Aaron fired off his last shots, knocking the sword wielding arm aside just before Beech released his energy. The connecting wall between the store and the Emporium blew out, filling the air with a thick cloud of splinters and wood dust that choked his lungs. He could barely see.

BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM

Screaming defiance and fear, Sarah fired again and again. The shield surrounding Beech flared and crackled, spitting out jagged shards of almost solid light. Beech screeched when the force of multiple explosions against his shield sent him to the floor and rolled him out the doorway to land on the boardwalk. Sarah quickly shoved more shells into her shotgun.

And then she fired again.

Beech fell back into the street. The sword pointed toward--

Sarah fired twice more.

Knocked to the side, the sword's aim changed. Searing flames shot up from the street's dust and mud while two arrows reflected off the thinning shield. The sword's aim moved to the doorway in a quick jerk of Beech's wrist. It swept further. Its tip pointed at Aaron's eyes, and then it moved further until it pointed at the store's interior where a small shocked bundle screamed out its tiny lungs.

"Waaah--ah--ah--ahhhh."

"Gods--" Aaron reflexively jerked the trigger even though he could barely see through the wood dusted haze.

Beech's shield flared in only two places. The sword did not waver. His eyes squinted in concentration.

"Ernest!" Sarah screeched. She leaped behind the burning counter in a blur of movement, stooping and reaching. Shotgun falling from her warrior hands, her face twisted in anguished fear.

Aaron dove through the fog of sawdust to land in the doorway so he could make his body a shield against any direct attack Beech could throw.

"Kill me then!" he screamed. "Take me!

"No," Beech said conversationally, "I still need you." Blood ran down his face, leaked from his nose and his eyes and his ears. More blood, thin and watery, seeped from the pores of his skin. Surrounding him, the shield was a morass of cracked imperfections. Another arrow hit the shield. It stuck there, seeming to stand still in midair.

With a quick curse, Beech tipped the point of his sword up and released a stream of energy. Fire streaked over Aaron's shoulder, entered the store, and was met by a wall of drifting wood dust.

BAAAROOOMP

Aaron flew forward as flames erupted around him while Ernest screeched mortal agony. Aaron landed on Beech, bounced across his shield, and then desperately twisted to look at his fire engulfed store just in time to see Sarah burst out of the flames. Talent fast, she blurred into the street with the blackened form of Ernest clutched to her chest. Hungry flames rose from her hair and clothes and skin. Oxygen starved, the fire inside the store blew itself out in a billow of smoke. Gasping, burning, Sarah fell to her knees in the dusty street.

"Oh no," Aaron whispered.

Horrified, he watched Sarah's one remaining eye fasten on the remnants of her child. Her charred lungs fought to draw in air. Her head lifted. Hate and fury and anguish shot from her single eye to land on Beech. After trying to draw in one more breath, she changed her single eyed gaze to Aaron. Her eyelid closed. Her lips moved faintly, paused.

"Noooo! Noooo!"

Ernest still clutched tightly in her arms, smoke rising from her clothes and hair, Sarah leaned forward, fell, and then lay still.

"Gods--oh Gods--no--"

Unbelieving, Aaron stumbled forward, fell to his knees, landed in the dusty street, and then his hands were in the dirt, and he scrambled and crawled and knelt next to her blackened and still smoking body. Gently lifting Sarah, he drew her into his arms while tears dripped from his face, fell on her, giving her his salt, his moisture, his grief, because that was all he had to give. Sarah's arms loosened, opened, and the charred remains of Ernest fell from her dead hands. A voice wailed. His voice. Scrambling, sobbing, he tried to pull both his dead wife and his dead child to him. Sarah's seared face glistened wet from his falling tears.

Beech laughed shrilly.

Turned his grieving eyes toward the monster, Aaron saw that Beech's shield flickered and bled, saw that it was on the verge of failing, but that truth had no meaning. Nothing had meaning.

Beech pointed a finger at Aaron. "Now that was a handy revenge. Killed by the sword you gave her. I'll let you live with this memory, Storeman. The next time I come around, you might be more willing to obey my orders." Beech tried to smile, failed. "One more wife, three children." Lowering his finger, he grasped the sword handle with both hands.

A gun bellowed.

Beech's shield flickered and flared. Eye-searing light burst where the bullet hit...and then the shield died.

Like an inexorable, harbinger of doom, the gun fired twice more.

Cursing, Beech fell back with blood spurting from his arm. His face twisted in a sick semblance of concentration, and then his shield flared weakly back to life.

New shots sounded. One. Two. Three. Cathy stood in the street. Eyes wild, .38 gripped firmly in two hands, she fired her revolver again and again.

Light roared off the shield with each shot. Beech tried to raise the sword with both hands. Failed. Releasing his hold with one hand, he pointed a finger and gestured.

Cathy screamed and dropped her revolver.

Aaron looked up, his eyes blurred with tears, and then he stood erect with Sarah in his arms, their dead child at his feet. His anguished soul bled around him.

Arrows struck at Beech, and the shield showed signs of failing once more. Staggering to his feet, Beech saluted Aaron as Aaron let Sarah tumble brokenly to the ground. Crying, sobbing, Aaron stumbled toward Beech for one step, two, and then he gathered himself and ran while hate and rage and grief boiled inside him. Beech sheathed his sword. Aaron's hands grabbed.

"Goodbye, Storeman."

Beech closed his eyes while Aaron clutched uselessly at his shield. Arrows struck. One glanced and cut a line along Aaron's shoulder. Beech weakly smiled through a mask of blood, briefly pointed a shaking finger towards Aaron, and then teleported away.

Flicker

* * *

The store was a ruin though the fire brigade did arrive in time to douse the building flames before they spread. Their quick action saved the lower levels of the store but they could do little for the upper floor. The back room was still intact but all Aaron's stock was broken and ruined. Next door, Cathy's Emporium suffered from smoke and water damage. It had some charring on one wall where fires had tried to start and then died in the thick, oxygen poor smoke. Somewhat fortunately, most of Cathy's books had not been stored on that wall. Even so, over half of all the books were ruined.

But Cathy lived.

The town consensus was that Beech must have been weak and conserving his energy when he struck at Cathy because she suffered nothing more serious than a badly burned face. While holding Sarah's stiffening fingers Aaron heard Doc promise that Cathy would not show a single scar.

When the immediate crisis was over, and Aaron had no busy work to do, he did the one thing he most desired. He collapsed.

Three days went by. Three nights passed. At the end of those days he stood by while they buried the charred remains of his wife and child. Sarah's father and mothers stood by. Crying shamelessly, Aaron fought not to fall apart while Mister Turnbull gave last rites to Sarah and Ernest. He was not the only one who wept because almost the entire town was there.

That night, Aaron lay down in his empty bed in his empty house and, once again, could not sleep. His belly rumbled, demanding food he would not give it, and his soul felt empty.

Somebody knocked on his door while he lay in bed, but he ignored it. The knocking became insistent. Aaron blinked once and then again.

Creee-squunc

With a crack of splintering wood the front door broke open. Footsteps approached, and then Kit entered the bedroom, strode quietly over to him, and lowered herself to lie down beside his stiff body.

"I'm thinking," Aaron said. Nodding quietly, she cried while he held her close.

Later that night he finally slept, and he dreamed of a blood covered, laughing face that sneered at him while he held Sarah in his arms. Her ash caught in the wind and blew away until he held nothing but her one remaining eye in the palm of his hand. Within its depths he could see the dead charred bones of Ernest playing.

He woke from the nightmare hours later, cursing the betrayal of his mind and swearing he would never sleep again. Holding Kit close, he continued thinking. There had to be a way.

* * *

Perk arranged to have the store emptied. Everything except for the guns and ammo, the knives, the little remaining silver and the buried packages of Talent Stones were moved into a warehouse. The rest of the goods were moved into Aaron's home where Kit and Perk stood guard over them twenty-four hours a day.

The store was torn apart from the roof to the ground, but because dozens of townspeople lent their labor the building was rebuilt in less than a week. Within a few days Cathy reappeared, her face covered with new, shining skin, compliments of Doc's Talent Stone. She reclaimed her gun and begged more ammunition off Kit. After accepting ten boxes of ammo she cried on Aaron, clinging to him and kissing him half a dozen times before she left.

Ten days after the funeral Aaron's eyes opened with the barest hints of reasoned sanity reflecting within them. He looked to Kit when she came to him, and pressed his lips into a hard straight line.

"Are you done thinking?" Kit asked.

Aaron nodded. "We have a job to do."

She nodded. "I know." She got up to leave. "I need to see Doc."

"Why?"

"Aaron, you may die doing this. I want more of you left behind. I won't lie to you. I don't love you, won't even pretend that I love you, but that doesn't matter. Something in you is part of Sarah. I want that. I want more children to remind me of her."

He thought the matter over and decided that the issue had no weight with him. Yes, Kit did not love him, but there was no pain in that because he had no love for her. He had never loved her, and he could no longer feel love for his children by her. At this moment, at this time, he had no love or liking or care for anyone alive. He had no room for anything but hate and hurt and an intense desire for revenge. Admittedly, he might not be sane, but he did not care because no sane man ever tried to kill a Talent Master.

"Okay," he said emptily. "Just hurry it up. We have things to do."

Beech was out there somewhere. He was out there.

"I'm coming for you," Aaron whispered.
Chapter 31

Jorrin's hammer was silent when Aaron slipped into his workshop. This unusual condition was explained when Aaron found him busy filing a new edge onto a saw. Watching him for a while, Aaron felt envious of the peace in the man's soul. Aaron's life had been peaceful once. Only two weeks back it had been filled with peace and contentment, filled with the love of a wife and children.

No more. That time was over.

Jorrin finished a section, looked up, and spoke carefully, almost as if he were afraid of shattering something infinitely fragile and precious. "Aaron."

Aaron thought about telling Jorrin there was no reason to worry because Aaron was not brittle. He was not the man he had once been. No, that time was over. Disappeared. This was Aaron's time of rock. He felt granite cold and granite hard.

"Do something for me." Aaron's voice, flat and unemotional, sounded cold and empty. It matched the way he felt inside. He was dead and empty and cold and hard.

Without waiting for an answer, he held out four steel knives. "Melt these down. Make small round pellets out of them."

Jorrin gave the knives a doubtful look. "I'm not really sure how to do that."

"Make it hot. Make it really hot, until they melt. Let drops of molten metal fall into a barrel of cold water."

Jorrin took the knives. "I'll do what I can. I won't make no promises. This here is a metal I've never dealt with before." He gave Aaron a close look. "Are you going to be all right?"

Turning abruptly, Aaron left without answering because he did not want to lie to Jorrin. Some part of honor, some part of integrity still remained.

And then he decided that it was time to see Doctor Gunther. He started down the street, ignoring people who tried to stop him, not wanting to hear empty sympathy. He made it halfway to Gunther's home when the fight started.

A man, his back to Aaron, stood beside a low wheeled wagon and screamed invective while Cathy cowered before him.

Suddenly feeling grimmer than the death that was his constant friend, Aaron stopped and narrowed his eyes while new anger roiled through him. Some small part of his mind separated out and formed a new thought.

Not Cathy. Not the Cathy who had spent two unaided years raising her siblings, had stood up to everyone and feared no one, had faced death and suffered injury battling Beech in defense of Aaron. Nobody had the right to make her afraid.

Feeling even colder and harder and more empty, Aaron's eyes narrowed even more, and he released a low growl. This was wrong. Cathy might be an inconstant bitch, but she had tried to kill Beech in Aaron's defense, had stood her ground. He owed her.

The man raised his hand, struck Cathy down, and Aaron started walking towards them with slow, deliberate steps.

"Damn you! Give me money. I owe people."

Cathy shook her head. "Gambling debts," she whispered as Aaron drew nearer. Her hand fumbled at her bodice.

"Never you mind why I owe it. Give it to me now." Scowling, the man reached down and tore her bodice open. Coins spilled free when her breasts were partially bared. Drawing nearer, Aaron looked at the soft swell of her milk white breasts and saw purple and yellow finger sized splotches marring their upper swell.

Taking one more step forward, Aaron reached out, grabbed the man, and spun him around.

The man was young, stood inches taller and broader than Aaron, and wore a sneer. Brian Haig, the milk wagon driver.

"Mister Haig, you're fired," Aaron said simply.

"Do you think I care?" Haig turned his head and spat, missing Cathy's face by less than an inch. "She makes ten times the pittance you pay me."

Nodding, Aaron half smiled, though he still felt empty inside. "If you touch her again you will die."

"Mister Turner." Cathy pulled herself to her feet. "Please don't interfere. He's my husband. It's his right."

"I'll not let him strike you again."

"Hear, hear." Mistress Golard called out from the gathering audience. Every eye looked disapproving.

"Fuck you, Turner. You're just pissed because you never got to screw her yourself."

"I am pissed," Aaron admitted. Unbelieving gasps sounded around him. "I'm pissed because Cathy married herself to low-life scum who beats up on his wife because that's the only way he can make himself a man."

Haig bent, twisted, and threw a swing.

After swaying his head to the side to avoid the clumsy blow, Aaron throat punched the man, then leaped forward and broke Haig's eardrums by slamming his cupped palms simultaneously across both of Haig's ears. Stumbling backwards, Haig called out hoarsely and pulled a bronze knife so Aaron broke his elbow with a quick grab and twist and then shattered his kneecap with a snap kick.

"Gawds," Perk muttered from nearby. "I ain't sparring with you no more."

Aaron looked down on the crying wreck. He had destroyed a man and felt nothing. Nothing at all.

"Cathy," he said emotionlessly, "you can leave him or not. Just know that you are safe. If he hurts you again, I will kill him. If I'm not here to do it, someone else will." Turning on his heel, he pushed his way through the stunned crowd.

* * *

"No," Doc Gunther said. "It's a dangerous operation. Anything could happen. I might kill you, or worse, I could cripple you for life."

"You have a Talent Stone," Aaron pointed out.

"Yes, but I don't know if I have steady enough hands. One slip of the knife would be disaster."

Aaron studied the man. Gunther looked nervous, but he looked interested, too. Something inside the man wanted to do the operation but lacked confidence. "Somebody will do it if I throw enough money at them. You're the only doctor I know with the Talent and a Stone. I want you."

"But I don't--"

Aaron held up a hand. "I want you."

Sighing, the doctor gave in. "Let me get a bottle of whiskey. You're going to need it."

Aaron finished the entire bottle before he took off his shirt and lay belly down on the operating table. He flinched when Gunther cinched the first strap over his arm. When the third strap was added Aaron glared because it did not feel right.

"Make it tighter," he demanded drunkenly.

Grimacing, Gunther tightened all the straps. Before long Aaron was fastened to the table with four straps on each of his limbs. Being careful, Gunther placed blocks around Aaron to keep him from shifting, and then strapped him down from his waist to the middle of his back. The last strap went across his head.

When Aaron was finally immobile, Doc Gunther picked up his scalpel and carefully cut into the oft healed scar on Aaron's upper back. He cut deep into the old wound.

Even drunk, Aaron had to moan. He gasped, tried to rip free from his restraints, but could not move.

"I see it," Doc said. "At least I see something. In fact, I see several somethings."

"Take them all out," Aaron hissed. His back burned. It flamed the way Sarah and Ernest had burned in the flames. He gritted his teeth and did not scream because this pain was nothing compared to what hid inside his heart. "Leave the wires if you must but take out the transmitter and the explosive."

"Be glad to do that if I knew what you were talking about. I'll just jerk out everything I see that I ain't ever seen inside a body before."

Aaron knew the man was being careful. Part of him appreciated Gunther's professionalism as he dug and carved the flesh around Aaron's spine. Another part of him begged the man to hurry. Unfortunately, Gunther did not listen to Aaron's silent pleas.

"An awful lot of tiny wires here," Doc observed calmly. "Do I need to disconnect them carefully or can I just cut them away."

"Cut the damn things." Aaron's jaw hurt. He heard his teeth grind. "They won't be used again."

"You know, this Talent Stone is wonderful. Normally I would have blood all over everything. Why, this here operation of yours is doing me good, Mister Turner. It's teaching me that I can do more than I ever knew." The doctor's voice hummed with contentment. "Hey, did you know that I can look right inside your organs."

"Always glad to help. Now hurry up. This hurts like hell."

"Please, Mister Turner. Watch your language. Hmmm. How about if I do this?"

The lights went out.

* * *

Aaron woke to a serious amount of discomfort. If he were anywhere else he would have said he hurt like hell, but this was a doctor's surgery. According to the tens of dozens of doctors who had cut on him in the past, he never suffered pain, only discomfort.

Humming contentedly, Doc Gunther stood beside the operating table while he removed blocks and unfastened straps. When he saw Aaron's open eyes, he winked. "Guess what? You survived. I hope these are what you wanted pulled out of you because I won't do any more than I already have."

Shifting uncomfortably, Aaron accepted two items that Doc picked up off a side table and passed over. One was a blood smeared piece of electronic equipment. The other was a small lump with the impression of his spine in it. C4. Still sitting on the side table was a ball of twisted up and blood coated wires.

"Is that it?" Gunther asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. I'll leave you here then. I have to see to the boy you destroyed earlier today."

Aaron was too drunk and too hurt to leave the office so he slept on the operating table that night. The next morning Kit came, took him home, and laid him on the bed.

One day later, despite his wound, Aaron pulled himself from the bed and stiffly walked down to the smithy. Once there, he collected the steel shot Jorrin had made for him and took it home. Kit watched while he pried open shot shells and poured out buckshot. His back spat fire into his brain.

"What are you doing?"

"Experimenting. Beech's shield stands up to a hell of a lot, but it does eventually fail. I thought I might make it fail sooner if I tried something unusual."

"Watch your language around me," Kit commanded. "I am your wife."

With a bit of creative packing Aaron discovered that he could fit fourteen pellets in each shell, on average. He worried while he loaded because most of the pellets were slightly tear shaped, which meant that their flight pattern would be erratic. Well, no matter. He would just stand close to Beech when he shot him.

The steel knives had made more pellets than he thought they would, but he only made thirty shells, figuring thirty would be more than enough. If he could not kill Haarod Beech with that many shots, he would not be able to kill him at all. Hell, if he managed to get off more than three or four shots he would be lucky. After all, he did not have even a tenth of the speed Sarah had owned.

Well, they would either do the job, or they would not. He had nothing else to attack Beech with but anger and hate.

"You're bleeding again," Kit said. "We need to change the bandages."

Thinking about Beech, Aaron sat still while she tended to him. When she finished he took a bloody rag from her hand and swiped it across the top of half a dozen shells. Those would be the ones he used first. He would attack with his blood and hate, as well as with powder and steel.

By late that evening the shells were loaded and crimped.

Aaron wanted to leave for the hunt immediately the next morning, but good sense told him to wait until he felt better. He was weak, and his system was brittle. It would not do for him to get sick and die before he had a chance to kill Beech. Besides, as feeble as he felt now, he was probably incapable of doing anything fatal to the man.

He did, however, try to transport. Picturing the Manor, he built the images in his mind. The dining room seemed as clear as when he had last stood in it a month earlier. The image was there, but the internal feeling would not come. He almost felt it. He reached, but it was--gone.

Aaron wasn't surprised. His was not a strong Talent. A few components inside the transmitter had given him a boost. Now that it was gone, he had nothing to draw on. His unsupported Talent could not do what he wanted.

Time to experiment.

He picked up a box sitting by his side. Brown paper wrapping bearing Cathy's name peeled away beneath his fingers. After pulling away the inside newspapers, he drew forth a lead wrapped object. The lead tape peeled away for two inches before it tore, showing the smallest hint of a crack through the wrapping.

Already, Aaron felt power tickling his Talent. He dug at the tape until he pried up a corner, and then he slowly pulled until its last inch separated from the wrapping.

His Talent palpitated. Power leaked from the revealed cracks in the wrapping, seeped into his body.

"Can you feel anything?" Kit asked anxiously.

Surprised, Aaron jerked his head up. The sensations going through him were so intense that hairs stood up on his arms. Looking at her arms he saw that her hair was curled and tangled. She showed no signs of feeling the Talent Stone at all.

"Yeah," he said, whispering softly. He breathed in deep and released a shaky sigh when another surge of power ran through him. This probing, this infusing, was better than sex. His skin tingled. His breathing grew rapid and ragged.

Removing the box cover, he quickly lifted the metal object inside. A sensual kiss raced through him.

"Use your Talent to seal it to you," Kit said pointlessly because Aaron's Talent was in full flare. He felt it reaching and caressing.

He turned his eyes to Kit and saw her leaning closer to observe his Talent Stone. "I never asked. Why are your Talent Stones shaped like a horseshoe?"

Gently caressing its curved shape, Aaron pulled the magnet to his lips and kissed it.

"Ready?"

She nodded yes.

* * *

When they transported into the Manor dining room Aaron found that it held crying children and a half naked woman. Miss Hurbage glared, hastily pulled her blouse shut, and fastened it.

"You could warn a person," she scolded while Autumn cried in protest at the interruption of her meal. "Really, Mistress Turner, if you are going to sneak around the place with your Mister you should let me know so I can maintain some dignity."

After opening her shirt to bare her breasts, Kit grabbed Autumn for nursing. As always Autumn reacted greedily. Of all Kit's children, she was the most demanding. "Sorry, Miss Hurbage. It won't happen again. Mister Turner wanted to see his children, and we were not sure if they were awake."

Aaron glanced questioningly at Kit before he lifted Bret and Chet and cradled them in his arms. "They've grown bigger."

Looking down, he saw babies, but they were not his children. They were not Ernest. He had seen Ernest every day. Ernest had smiled at him moments before he threw up over Aaron's hand the first time Aaron had tried to rock him. Ernest's eyes had lit up at the sight of Aaron. These two had eyes only for their mother. Aaron supposed he had loved them at one time. Probably, some part of him loved them still in some distant and abstract way. Another part of him hoped that when this was over his gentler emotions might come back into play. It would be nice to feel warm and emotional once more.

The babies started crying.

"Give me another one," Kit said. "Mama is so full she hurts." Aaron handed her Chet, or maybe he was Bret. One of them. The baby quit crying as soon as Kit set him to her free breast. The one Aaron held screamed protest at being left out. Frowning, Miss Hurbage leaped to her feet and grabbed him from Aaron.

"Ridiculous!" She stalked out of the room, a monarch defending her charge. "I'll feed this one in private."

An infant cradled gently in each arm, Kit settled into the vacated chair.

"How does it feel?"

Aaron considered. "Settled. I know it's there, but I only know it in the way I know Jorrin is working. Sometimes I can hear him, but I don't really notice that I do until the hammering stops. I think this Talent Stone could be that way."

He held up the silver tipped red horseshoe magnet and looked at it wonderingly. "I think it worked different when it tuned to me than it did for you. The pathways it used were already burned into me by the magnetism in the transmitter."

"Maybe," Kit said. "Probably."

Aaron turned the magnet in his hands, studying it. "Do you remember when we went to Jefferson? I had a magnet on me then, too. It was a little magnet that was supposed to go on the side of an ice chest. I think that magnet is why I was able to transfer so much more weight than I had ever carried before. It was stronger than the magnetism in the transmitter." He thought of Eric and the Gargoyle and the deaths they had caused. "Maybe it would have been best if I had never had it on me."

"We've been over that one before," Kit said.

"Yes, we have." Those deaths still weighed on him. They weighed heavy.

His hands stilled, and he frowned at the magnet they held. The sensations it had given him had been strange. Intense. He had experienced nothing like it from the refrigerator magnet, but he had started carrying that magnet on the Jefferson side. Had that made a difference? Were the physical laws between the two worlds that dissimilar?

Still cradling the children, Kit's eyes momentarily unfocused. Looking up from his brown study, Aaron waited expectantly, anxious and scared and hopeful. She turned her head and nodded toward the west. "About two hundred miles that way."

So they knew in what direction Beech lay, but Aaron was not ready to go after him yet. He still had healing to do.

Seven days passed slowly. Each day he asked Kit the question, and each day Kit reached into the wells of her Talent and drew forth an answer. Beech had moved further away. By the end of the week Kit guessed he was between three hundred and sixty to four hundred twenty miles from them. Then again, she admitted to Aaron, she had never been good at gauging distances.

One week later the doctor pulled the stitches and told Aaron to take care. Since Aaron refused to lie to the man he only smiled, said he would take care of something, and transferred back to the Manor. Kit waited.

"Now?"

Aaron nodded. "I'm going alone right now. I'll take you when I get closer."

"Agreed," Kit said, "but not yet. You might not return, and you made me a promise. I still want that baby to remember Sarah by."

Aaron did his mechanical duty. His finish was not too soon for either of them. Spent, he lay on top of her, looked into her dead eyes, and knew they reflected what was in his own. This would never happen again. They were husband and wife, but without Sarah, they were nothing.

Rising from the bed, Aaron dressed and went into the front room. Once there, he picked up an eight inch steel knife from a side table, shoved it into a sheath, and slid the sheath beneath his belt. He grabbed his shooter's vest from the back of a chair and put it on before grabbing loaded shells from two bowls that were also on the side table. In one pocket of the vest he put thirty of his homemade steel shot shells. In the other pocket he put two dozen ounce and an eighth, number eight shells. A sling allowed him to carry his Winchester Model 12 shotgun over his shoulder.

Fully dressed in her riding gear, Kit entered the room and smiled fearfully when she saw him. "Just remember, Beech is a Talent Master with dozens of Talents, and all of them are strong. You only have two abilities so he is more powerful than you will ever be."

Aaron scowled because he did not want to hear this. He did not want to think. He only wanted to do. He wanted to rip and tear and fill the aching hollow inside him with the fulfillment of his duty and the reality of his revenge.

"Aaron," Kit demanded. "Listen to me."

Flicker

After tranporting as far west as he could remember ever being, Aaron found himself standing far from the start of the pass. Behind was the outline of Last Chance, his home. A bitter home. A home of awful memories and betrayed love. A home of heartache and pain and a reminder of the things he had brought into this world.

He was responsible. He had helped create Haarod Beech, had helped equipped him. Because of Aaron, Beech was able to use Sarah's sword to pull men and women to his cause. With it Beech had murdered far more people than Eric and the Gargoyle had ever dreamed of killing.

Aaron looked back to the town he had loved and then betrayed because of love. He then looked ahead to the pass, several miles distant, and saw the flat top of a rock outcropping.

Flicker

* * *

The trail stretched half a mile before him. Far down the dirt track, just before it followed a rise, was a bent tree hanging ominously over the trail. He chose that tree for his marker.

Flicker

* * *

With every transfer he sometimes traveled a mile. Occasionally he traveled two or more miles, but those instances were unusual. On average his distance was less than four hundred yards. On many occasions he did not bother to transfer because even with the small boost of strength the steel in the shotgun and the knife gave him, transferring took energy. Sometimes it was easier to just walk a hundred yards or less when that was as far as he could see.

By the end of the day, he was exhausted. He had made it through the pass but had not gone much further. The mountains were still with him, an unending rising and lowering of ground that thwarted with its limited sightlines. He had crawled when he wanted to run. After transferring more than two hundred times he had covered no more than sixty real miles.

Exhausted, Aaron stopped when the sun settled in the west. He took a careful look at the area, memorized the flow of the land, the red splashed rocks and the smell of the earth, and then he transported one last time.

* * *

"I expected you more than an hour ago." Kit sat at the dining room table. Plates, dirty from a meal already eaten, sat before her. Another set, clean and neat, sat across from her. Platters of food rested between the two plates.

"The food's cold." Kit spooned potatoes and carrots onto the empty plate, looked closely at him, and then added a generous portion of ribs. "You look beat."

"I'm dirty."

"You are a mess. Sometime today you had a nosebleed, and I can see that you bled through your pores again. Sit down and eat. Drink a lot of water. You can clean up afterwards."

Aaron obeyed. His legs shook so badly they barely supported his weight as he stumbled to the table. That last translation had sapped most of his remaining energy. Sitting carefully, he released a relieved groan. "How far?"

"Beech is at least five hundred miles away," Kit said. "He must have transported today because he moved a little east and a long way north pretty suddenly. Since I was following you, I know where you stopped in relation to him. Aaron, you lost ground today."

"Damn!" The table shook under his fist.

Chair flying out behind her, Kit sprang erect. "May I remind you, _MISTER TURNER_ , that there are children in this house! If you must be profane you will be so only inside your own head. You will not pollute this Manor with foul language."

"The children are asleep!" Aaron snapped.

"I am here. These are my ears, and I am your wife. Do you have so little respect for me that you are willing to profane _MY_ air?"

Aaron felt exhausted. "Sorry," he muttered.

"WHAT!"

"I SAID I'M SORRY, DA--uh darn it. Sorry." He pulled his temper in. "Kit, you deserve more than this. I'm a sorry excuse for a husband. I treat you badly, and I--I," his voice drifted away. "I got Sarah killed."

"I did not hear that last."

"I said I got Sarah killed and Ernest and God only knows how many others." He looked at her. Despair and self-contempt filled him. "Kit, I've put you through it. I never meant to do that but I did. I--"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Shocked, Aaron snapped his mouth closed.

"You put me through nothing," Kit said in a coldly reasonable tone. "You put Sarah and Ernest and all those other people through nothing. They were done to by evil people, the same as you were. Are you to blame because there is evil in the world? Are you the Lord? Can you control everything around you? That is pure arrogance, Aaron. Your arrogance disgusts me. Why don't you just shut the fuck up and get off this pity track. You have a job to do. Do it. Kill that man--that--that bastard. Don't do it because he killed your family. Don't do it for revenge. Do it because it is something that needs doing. This man is an unbalanced killer. He needs to be stopped, and you think you can stop him. Well then, stop him. Kill him, and leave yourself alone. Fly off and kill him."

Face flushed bright red, Kit bent, lifted her chair, and sat.

"I've never said either of those words before," she confessed in a much quieter voice. "I never said them in my entire life. Sorry, Aaron."

Aaron ate in silence.

"Speak to me. Are you angry?"

Aaron shook his head. He was not sure what he felt, but he felt something that he had no words for. It was--it was almost like hope. "I'm not angry."

When he finished his silent meal and set his fork down, it clinked softly against his plate. "Thank you, Kitty."

She looked thoroughly confused. "What did I say?"

"You told me to fly off and kill him."

"And?"

"And that is exactly what I am going to do."

* * *

In the morning he felt too exhausted to continue the chase. The distance he had traveled the day before did not bother him, but the number of times he had transferred did. Each use of Talent required the same amount of energy no matter how far he traveled.

By late afternoon he felt well enough to give Kit's unintentional suggestion a try. After transferring out to the country he spent an hour practicing. By the time exhaustion set in, his mood had lightened. Overwhelming grimness loosened its grip and allowed him a breath of hope.

He looked off into the distance, past the mountains that had defined the limits of his life for the past two years. Nodding once, he raised a hand with a pointed finger, and smiled a smile that spoke of no joy at all.
Chapter 32

"Are you going to do the same thing to him that you did to Eric?" Following Aaron's advice, Kit had dressed heavily. She was ready for cold and wind, though she had argued against his idea. She called it insane and idiotic. Aaron had listened to her calmly, and then he asked for a better idea.

She did not have any.

Aaron finished tying his boot and straightened. "No. He's a Talent Master. He might be surprised when I put him above the clouds, but it would not take him long to transfer to safety. No, I just have to batter him until he folds. Ready?"

Kit nodded.

Flicker

* * *

Aaron watched Kit peer around in wonder. As best he knew, she had never been to lowlands on this side of the pass before, had hardly been anywhere, so Aaron knew she had never seen trees as tall as these. The trees surrounding them rose far above their heads, stretching upwards two hundred feet and more. Giant branches formed an almost impenetrable canopy overhead.

Birds called challenges to this intrusion. The air smelled of damp earth and sharp wood. Leaves stirred, rustling in the overhead breeze, and yet not a breath of air moved where Aaron stood.

"This is so--so beautiful," Kit said. She spun slowly in a half circle, a delicate dancer in paradise. Watching, Aaron reflected that three months earlier he would have spent an eternity happily watching her at a moment like this. Now he only felt impatience.

Aaron looked past her and saw the view that captured her. In his heart he knew what she felt, but none of it affected him. It was nature. Surrounding them were birds and trees and grass and flowers. All this was a celebration of life, but he had very little life left inside him.

"Which way do we go?"

Kit sighed sadly. "Aaron, sometimes you have to live with the moment. Life does go on." She pointed north by northwest. "About five hundred plus miles that way. It's probably closer to six hundred."

Pressing his lips together, Aaron looked skyward. One small opening existed through the leaves, giving him one tiny window to the sky. Hopefully, it was enough.

He pulled Kit along the path until they stood directly beneath the opening. From here the patch of sky looked like it was less than five feet across. Clouds floated overhead. Grim satisfaction briefly coursed through him.

"Hang onto me."

Flicker

Kit gasped when she found herself among the clouds, falling through the sky. Treetops rushed at them, hungry wooden arms reaching for their bodies, reaching to rip them from the air. Aaron looked far ahead, saw an edge of floating mist. He closed his eyes.

Flicker

Miles away. Aaron breathed in mist from the cloud's edge while white fingers trailed past them. After clearing the clouds they fell free beneath. Mouth open in a soundless cry, Kit clung to him tightly enough to almost crack his ribs. When Aaron caught a glimpse of her face he saw that her eyes were wild. After sucking in a breath of frigid air that burned his throat, Aaron caught sight of a cloud at the far edge of his vision. Focusing on a line of white clouds touched along the edges by a haze of gray, he closed his eyes when their falling bodies were still sixty feet away from the trees.

Flicker

And then they began their fall once again.

Flicker

And again.

They traveled more than a hundred miles in the next few minutes. Aaron fixed his eyes ahead and upward, looking for a new spot to transfer to. His mind kept a reserve site handy as a backup. If an attempt to transfer failed, he would immediately send them back to the Manor.

More than five miles passed with each transfer. He thought he could do much better but he did not want to take the chance. In order to transfer, he needed some detail, and he was not sure if he could gather enough details from a further distance, not with the time limits their falling placed upon him, not if he cared to have enough time for a second attempt if the first one failed.

"More to our left!" Kit called out. The wind snatched her voice from his ears. "We're going too far north."

Aaron transferred two more times before he let his gaze drift in the direction her pointing hand indicated. This type of travel took a great deal of concentration.

"Better?"

"Much." Her voice sounded less panicked. "This is doing horrible things to my stomach."

Above their heads, wispy threads of cloud were pulled apart and recombined by the wind. He transferred straight up.

Kit let loose a gasp.

Below them lay ranges of white mountains with peaks and valleys half a mile and more deep. Occasional gaps showed small spots of green. Cold wind bit cruelly at Aaron's skin. Up this high the air was almost too thin to breathe. Kit struggled momentarily and then stopped.

Aaron looked at the awning of hazy mist overhead. The upper layer of clouds were thin and ill defined. He hoped they were enough of a landmark to provide him with bearings. When they were this high up, he had a longer period before he had to transfer. On the other hand, if he ultimately failed, he and Kit were sure to hit much harder.

"Where are we?" Kit shouted. She seemed calmer. Maybe she was getting used to this. Gods, he hoped so. Maybe he should have got her drunk first. It worked for the airlines.

"Above the first layer of clouds. This gives me more time to get a fix on our next transfer point."

"I never knew clouds looked like this from up high. They look strange, and it's so cold that I think my lungs are going to freeze." Kit raised a glove covered hand and pointed. "More in that direction."

No, Aaron thought, she would never have seen a sight like this. Kit was a woman of the flat land. She dealt with cattle and farms on the rolling hills and flat plains. Because of this, she had never been high in the mountains on a low clouded day.

They fell into a valley formed by the lower clouds. A wall of white passed beside and above them, while a long stretch of clear air was before them.

Flicker

This time they traveled over fifteen miles. The air was once again cold and thin. Shivering in his arms, Kit's pointing hand adjusted its aim. He was still too far north.

Flicker

Three transfers later, she lowered her arm.

"Better."

During the next two hours she corrected him every fifth or sixth time he jumped them across the sky. When she only corrected him every third jump Aaron knew they were close so he traveled less distance with each transfer. He zigzagged across the sky while Kit attempted to triangulate on Beech. Several transfers later she jerked on his arm.

"We can't be more than twenty miles from Beech. Can we take a rest? I'm freezing."

"I have to find someplace to bring us to land," Aaron called back. "Don't panic when we keep falling."

More than half a minute passed before they exited out of the bottom of the clouds.

Beneath them, the land had changed while they flew. They had left the tree lined slopes of the mountains behind long ago. Now, they fell towards open hills. Lakes and rivers stretched out in front of Aaron, and he could see the occasional stand of ten or a hundred trees. Far behind them, the mountains were a thin blue and black line. Feeling slightly apprehensive, Aaron cast his eyes on the ground they fell towards. They were lower than he felt comfortable with and he had not yet decided where their last transfer would be. Then the dead body of a grazer caught his eyes. The animal was huge. Antlers flattened the grass around the body. He waited until they were less than thirty feet from the ground before deciding, feeling distracted because Kit began screeching in his ear. At the last second, he changed his mind.

Flicker

"Stop it! Stop it!" Kit's shrilly yelled. Green and brown spread before them.

Flicker

And then they dropped the last six inches. Aaron's knees protested when he landed. His arms released Kit, and she fell from him. Falling into water, he sank deep beneath the surface and rose, sputtering, with dark algae clinging to his face. Brown and green algae, smelling of rot, sucked into his nose when he tried to breathe.

"If you think you can get your jollies by--" Kit began when her head broke the surface of the water.

Aaron raised a hand. "I had to be close enough to make out all the details, unless you wanted me to land with my feet buried a foot deep into the ground. Truthfully, I'm not sure exactly how that would have worked out. I don't know if the earth would have made room for me, or if it would have been displaced, or if there would have been an explosion when too small a space tried to hold too many atoms. Since I really don't care to discover the answer through experimentation, I decided that a water landing seemed preferable."

Kit looked confused. "Sometimes I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about. By the Lady, it's cold. I hope you don't mind, but I don't think I can take much more of this today." Burying her chin into the water, she bulled her way to shore. Shrugging, Aaron followed suit. The water was walking deep for her, but he had to swim when the floating algae rose over his nose. Kit was that much taller.

By the time she reached the shoreline, her mood had equalized. She waited for him to arrive, held out a hand, and pulled him free of the lake. Apparently, there was no gentle slope at the shoreline. The water was two feet deep at the edge.

"Just a suggestion, Aaron. Maybe you should look for a cleaner lake the next time you decide to land. This one suffers from terminal growth." Slime and other things clung to Kit's hair and clothes. Something green and slippery and alive clung to her cheek. "We are both in need of clean clothes and a bath."

Aaron shivered. Exhaustion had caught up with him again. He was cold and wet and filthy. Unfortunately, he was also weak and that was bad because Beech was near. Kit could easily find the man but that did not mean they would surprise him. Beech was a Talent Master. Possibly, he knew exactly where Aaron was. Might be heading their way, and that meant that Aaron could be fighting Beech within minutes. The way he felt right now, it would be one very short fight.

No. This was not the time to put matters right. Tomorrow would be better, or the next day.

"Yeah," he agreed while looking around to get his bearings. "Clean clothes."

With a twist of Talent he took them to the Manor. Once she assured herself that they had arrived in one piece, Kit immediately chased him outside to clean himself up while she used the Manor's washroom. By the time he finished getting the slime off himself, peeling off green slugs and other things he did not care to think about, and then changed into fresh clothes, Kit had sandwiches set out.

Aaron felt flat out dead tired. Eating slowly, he let the food and the warmth suffuse his flesh. It had been a difficult day, but worth the effort because they had found near success. Unless Beech moved a substantial distance in the next couple days, he was Aaron's.

After finishing her sandwich, Kit pushed away from the table. "Just leave the dishes where they are. We both need our rest tonight."

And then she walked off to her separate room.

Aaron left the table and went to his own room. Spare and utilitarian, it was perfect for the small amount of time he spent living on the Manor grounds. He opened the door, walked in, and settled down on the bed. Once there, he took time to carefully check his weapons. Still clean and ready, they would serve.

He felt totally dead-beat-wanting-to-melt- into-the-floor exhausted. Although he had transferred less often than he had a few days before, his energy had not had time to fully recover between transfers. No, he had no choice but to rest another day or two before taking on Beech. The man was mean and tough, hard to face at the best of times. It would not pay to go after him while Aaron was tired.

Aaron wearily stripped off his clothes and dropped them in a corner. They were dirty and stained, but that dirt would help as camouflage if he had to scramble around on the ground. He would wear them again in the morning.

He lay down. His arms and legs ached, probably from holding them awkwardly while he fell.

Sleep came hard, but then sleep always came hard since the burning. Mind churning, Aaron counted sheep in his head, gave up on them, and switched over to counting the ways he would kill Beech. His mind continued racing, bringing forth visions of Beech crucified on a long stake, of Beech slowly roasting over a fire, of Beech begging for mercy while he knelt at Aaron's feet. Finally, just as the sun started to rise and his brain settled into a steady pattern, sleep found him. But just before he drifted off, Sarah came to him. Wild eyed, hair streaming behind her, she clenched Ernest in one arm. Eyes set with determination, her Winchester Model 12 dangled from the other. Sarah's was the face of a warrior who had survived dozens of battles. It was the face of a mother who would do what it took to save her child. It was the face of vengeance and grim purpose, and it was a face speaking of loss. Sarah's face swirled before him, and then he watched her die, watched her burn in the flames.

Aaron's mind clenched up, and then he saw Sarah in a series of still shots. He saw her rounding the corner-- _flash_ \--ducking down-- _flash_ \--screaming as fire burst around her--screaming while Ernest burned and her flesh charred--

"Aaron."

Throwing back his head, Beech laughed with derisive humor. He rose, strong and whole, climbing high on a long column of flame. The store shuddered around Aaron, screeching and groaning as boards ripped and nails tore free.

"Aaron!"

Aaron cowered before the giant figure. Laughing uproariously, the Wagon Mater pulled puppets of Eric and the Gargoyle from his pockets. He set them on his shoulders where they grinned and leered at Aaron. The Gargoyle held a red something in her hand. She raised it to her mouth and took a deliberate bite. Blood dribbled down her chin, streamed down her chest, covering her bared breasts and large belly. Eric laughed and held the naked corpse of a woman before him. Her head lolled loosely on her neck. Eric draped the dead woman across Beech's shoulder and climbed on top of her naked body. Suddenly, Eric's clothes were gone, and he writhed on top of the woman, his eyes fastened hungrily on Aaron. Eric's discarded clothes tumbled miles to the ground and round objects fell from their pockets. The objects fell in an endless stream, fell quicker than the fluttering clothes until they smashed into the ground. Bone fragments flew like shrapnel as skulls shattered on granite hard earth. One skull fell directly at Aaron. Reaching up with his hands, he caught it. Black empty eyes stared from a white skull's sockets. The jaw dropped open.

"You could have stopped him," the skull accused, and then it crumbled in his hands.

"Aaron!"

Other skulls fell, a cascade of them, an endless stream, and try as he could, Aaron did not catch them all. He tried to save them, tried to be there for everyone, for everybody. He caught some few and set the saved skulls down gently, but then in his attempt to save another falling skull, he trampled and broke those he had saved earlier.

"Aaron!"

When he broke their fall some of the skulls spoke to him. Others screamed, and many yelled accusations. Dead Guard demanded the reason why he had handed Beech the sword that increased his knowledge and power. Staring at him with their cracked and bare skulls, bleeding fresh blood, they accused him of not stopping the murder--

" _AARON_!!!"

Breath ripping in out of his lungs like the last gasps of a wind broke horse, he started awake to find Kit leaning over him. She wiped at sweat streaming down her face and loosened her frown. "You were screaming."

"We have to go. We have to go now." Throat raw, Aaron pushed her away, sat up and then grabbed the bedstead because the entire world swayed. Finally, after the world's spinning slowed, he stood and reached for his clothing.

"That wasn't our plan," Kit protested. "You promised to rest first. Aaron, look at you. You look closer to dead than you do alive."

Aaron jerked his pants over his legs, fastened his snap, pulled angrily at his zipper, and then bent to gather his boots.

"I've been thinking," he said as he pulled his boots on. "It takes too long to load a shotgun. I need to bring along at least four extras. If they are preloaded and carefully placed, I can easily reach them if I have need."

"Aaron!"

Purposefully ignoring her protest, he pushed his way past her. His eyes burned, but they did not burn half so fiercely as the memories in his brain. They pounded inside him, hammering for attention, demanding. He felt like his head would explode. Thoughts churned and grew until they wanted to shatter his bone to escape their prison. Pictures of falling skulls haunted.

All his guns were stored in one of the outbuildings. Steel and gunpowder, they called to him, promised him, so he tramped his way to the building, ignoring Kit at his heels, and unlocked the door. It swung open, giving Aaron a clear view of his private stash. Handguns, rifles, shotguns, he even had C4 explosives, but there would be no use for that in this battle. No, he wanted the shotguns, and they were stored in several long boxes along the right hand wall. After prying open the lids on three separate boxes, he collected the shotguns he wanted and headed back to the Manor House.

Back in his room, he pulled the shells from his shooting vest and loaded all the shotguns. Though each of the guns he had brought with him normally held five shells, he managed to load them with six shells by adding an extra to the chamber. Scowling, he made sure that the first shell in each gun had his blood on it. All the extra shells were returned to his shooting vest. He might need them later, though it was not likely. If matters weren't complete before he needed to reload, he would probably be dead.

One thing he had learned from the militia. You should never fight the other man's battle. Never fight by the other man's rules. Instead, a soldier should choose his ground, pick his time, and fight to win. Aaron hoped his training was better than Beech's.

He gathered the shotguns, transferred to the slime pond, and studied the terrain. The land was open and flat here. Although the weeds were not high enough to hide a man, they would hide a shotgun. All in all, Aaron liked this place. There were no innocents here and that was good because he was damn good and tired of innocent people dying on his behalf.

A small scrub oak grew close by. Since it was the only tree in the immediate area it represented an obvious landmark.

Aaron laid two shotguns on the ground near the tree, and then tore weeds loose and laid them on top of his weapons. If Beech noticed anything he would know the weeds hid something. He would not know that the something was firearms, and that was all Aaron could ask.

Another shotgun found a home behind a small boulder. He left his fourth gun in the weeds at the edge of the pond where a small stream left the lake. He would remember these places since remembering locations was a part of his Talent.

His fifth gun returned with him to the Manor.

Kit waited for him. "Do you insist on doing this now?"

Answering with a scowl, Aaron stepped forward and grabbed her.

Flicker

Kit's boots an inch deep in mud, they stood beside the pond.

"Which way?" Aaron demanded. He hoped to hell that Beech had not moved since the previous night. After all, the man was a traveler too. He could be five hundred miles from here by now.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Which way?"

She pointed.

Flicker

_"_ Now where?"

"He's a little more off to the right," Kit said. "Not more than ten miles from here."

Three more jumps placed Aaron within two miles of his prey.

And then Aaron made Kit lay down in the weeds and took his place beside her. Kit's Talent did not need her eyes. She did not need to see ahead to know where the person she sought was located, and Aaron did not plan on traveling far. He needed only to peer over the weeds to acquire a close landing point. That being the case, he saw no reason to risk being seen.

Four more jumps moved them to within half a mile, close enough to smell smoke from the cook fires and hear children yell as they played.

Kit pointed toward the noise. "If you can't find Beech from here, we got no business even thinking of fighting him. What do we do now?"

Aaron pulled her to him, pressed his lips to hers; felt them compact against her teeth. She jerked her head back.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed. Even startled, Kit kept her voice low.

"Our last kiss," Aaron whispered. "Kit, I'm sorry things aren't better between us."

"It's not your fault. I just don't know how to love men." She shook her head angrily and fingered her knife. "That has nothing to do with this. We have a man to kill."

"I can still be sorry." Aaron looked into her eyes and felt sad. Some part of him really did love her. Somehow, a part of her was embedded onto a shred of his old self. He did not want to lose her, too, but that was what would happen. It was inevitable.

Gods, he was tired of losing people. He was bone deep achingly, screw it all tired. "Goodbye, Kit."

Flicker
Chapter 33

And then he was alone.

Most likely, Kit was raging right this moment because he had transferred her back to the manor without asking her first. She thought that since she had loved Sarah and Ernest that part of this task was her duty. She wanted to feel her knife sink into Beech's guts.

Unfortunately for Kit's temper, there were dreams a person just had to live without. Aaron would not risk Kit's life. Though he felt little inside, she was still the mother of his children.

During the next hour Aaron gradually crept closer to the noise. Finally, he saw a small village of shelters created from hide covered frames, some of which were still being constructed, telling Aaron that this group of savages had not been here long. They were transients, nomads traveling their range.

Crouching low, Aaron carefully arranged weeds so he would be harder to spot. When the waving, seed-bearing tuft of one weed bushed against his nose, it took everything he had not to sneeze.

" _Bifore ne veloracsage. Gecace. Gecase_."

The voices of half a dozen children came to him. They ran around, playing tag or some other game he did not understand, being sure all the while to keep a watchful eye on the horses. Many women and a few men worked around the camp. Some scraped hides, while a few others ground meal. Amid all this activity one dedicated crew of about sixteen women and two men raised shelters. Sitting on top of a large, central fire was a copper pot, steam rolling from its top, throwing the smell of fresh stew into the air.

" _Mi necra wordont orgesnal ob ver das. Gersace_."

" _Bo dervan pealize ver ob der ober versalen_."

Sunset was two hours away when Aaron finally saw Beech leave a shelter and stride among the natives like he was their king. Four men and women, dark faces covered with ritual scars, all dressed in heavy leathers, trailed him. Peering through the weeds, Aaron could see that something swung at their sides, but he could not make out what it was. He shifted awkwardly, cursed reluctant muscles, and pulled out his binoculars.

Beech's guards had bows slung over their shoulders, crude axes at their belts, and long knives of copper strapped to their legs. Aaron watched as they walked arrogantly toward the largest tent. Just off to the side of that shelter sat a woodpile, only four feet from the door. With the binoculars Aaron could see that there was a small space between the wood and one of the hide walls. After studying the area for a short while he decided that it was the best place he could find in a poor situation.

Flicker

* * *

Terweet Terweet

Fluttering its copper colored wings in protest, the startled perigal chirped and twittered and then flew off in protest when Aaron suddenly appeared. After he settled himself deeper behind the piled wood, Aaron's ears picked up the babble of voices speaking a language he did not understand.

He nodded with silent satisfaction because this space was better than he had thought. A pile of uncured hides lay at his back, hiding him from prying eyes. But he could easily hear the rumble of voices coming through the thick walls of the tent. Moving closer, he pressed his ear against the taut hide.

"It can be done." Beech's voice rumbled, low and insistent.

"An' we die again," another voice, female, said with vibrant tones of anger. Her accent was heavy, almost unintelligible. "Our shaman be dead an' we have no more magic rocks. Only you be left to us. Is it being you protect us warriors wit yer powers? Is it you stop the sting things that are flung at us with a burst of noises, the things that do be cut down our best leaders and our bravest yout? Aye, 'tis you who be more powerful than any they. We willing to admit thiz truth. You be are powerful an' you be frightful an' we grants you reverence yer power deserve. You be still are one man. There be are more are the enemy than you. They more of magic rock have than you." The woman's voice was hard and bitter.

"The tribes not rise 'til new shamans found are," said a male voice. "When come they into power, when tell uz they signs are right we ride into morning zun. We kill the dezolators an' claim entire land to shores endless water ours be. One God nurture us 'til time right. Until thenz the enemy mons tech us thiz thing called govmen. Enemy mons tech uz much."

"And what if I tell you I know how to get more magic," Beech asked in a voice so low that Aaron had to strain to hear it. "What if I tell you I know where we can get enough Stones so all of your people with strong Talents will have one?"

"The land will turn red with our enemies' blood."

To Aaron, the words seemed formulaic. The speaker did not sound like she believed such an event would actually take place.

Beech raised his voice. "I know a man who owns many Magic Stones. I can take those Stones from him and give them to our people. Better yet, I think he knows where there are many more. I think he can Travel to a land where Talent Stones lay on the ground like pebbles in a stream."

"And thiz mon iz where? He iz in land far way? He iz, perhaps, something you create in yer mind zo we commit our youts to yer cause?" The woman's gravelly voice was scoffing, doubting.

"He is outside," Beech said triumphantly. "This man has listened to the words we speak."

And then the shelter flap near Aaron was swept aside.

"Please, Mister Turner, come inside. I've waited very impatiently for your arrival for the last several days. However, I must say that I'm very impressed by the progress you made during the last two. I have no idea how you managed to move so quickly over unfamiliar territory, but that unhappy condition is only temporary. I'm sure that trick is one of the many secrets you will teach me before much longer."

Fingers trembling, filled with shocked realization and cold fear, Aaron rose. Fear told him to transfer, to run, but he would not do either. His knees quivered. His legs shook with every step, and his heart pounded because he was caught between trapped panic and a deep seated, almost overwhelming desire to leap into the tent and rip Beech's throat out. Blood pounded in his ears; hate ate him. He wanted to rip and tear, but his innate self-control insisted he bide his time and wait until the moment was right. His fear said it was useless to attack a man so obviously his superior. Unreasoning terror rode on top of his anger, threatening to consume him.

Hesitantly, he stepped inside the tent. Behind him, the flap dropped back into place. Once inside he stopped and waited for his shaking to ease, waited for his fear to subside and for his ragged breathing to smooth out.

"Thiz iz yer mon?" The woman who spoke stood beside a younger woman who had the longest string of dried trophies hanging on her belt. The speaker looked well into her forties, perhaps even as old as fifty, but she could have been as young as thirty. A hard life in the wind, the sun, and the cold had wrinkled and spotted her skin past the point where Aaron could reliably place her age at all. An enormous, dark brown wart, more than a quarter inch round and half an inch tall, grew off the side of her chin. White hair waved gently from it.

"Doesn't look like much, does he?" Beech stepped forward firmly. Grasping Aaron's chin in his hand, he turned Aaron's eyes up to look into his own. Aaron felt the power of the man through those eyes. They blazed with fury and purpose. They persuaded, demanded, and pulled.

"A frightened little man is all he is. There is nothing special about him physically. There is nothing much to him at all except for the knowledge he holds in his head, but that knowledge, that wonderful alien knowledge, will do us well."

"Chosen," one woman said, and she kneeled to Aaron while the trophies at her belt swayed. "Is your time?"

Ears, Aaron saw. The trophies were dried ears.

"Stand up!" Beech demanded. "You kneel to me. Not him. To me!" He fastened angry eyes on Aaron when the woman refused to move. "Look. The little coward has nothing to say. He will be easy to control."

Aaron finally captured his rebellious breath. "How--how did you know? How did you know I was out there?" The Master's shield glittered, making Beech's skin sparkle in the dim light of the tent. Eight other faces stared at Aaron. He had the uneasy feeling that most of those stares were sizing up his ears, gauging the exact place to bore a hole through his lobes. He wondered if the rituals of the natives allowed them to string both of an enemy's ears from their belts or only one. Even the kneeling woman's eyes looked predatory. She wanted or expected something from him.

"Oh really, Mister Turner," Beech said. "Unlike you, I am a true Master of Talent. In fact, I am more so by several orders of magnitude since you so generously allowed me to take my toy away from your late wife." Beech gestured expansively toward his sword handle. "I am also much smarter than most of the people you encounter. Do you really think I would neglect to check up on your whereabouts from time to time?"

"I saw how long it took you to transfer when you were in town," Aaron taunted. His heartbeat had slowed. Beech's mention of Sarah had shoved his anger to the fore. That anger pushed fear aside. Rage waited to devour the anger. "It took you a long while. You aren't very good. Not good at all."

Beech frowned. "Because I am a just and honorable man, I will tell you a secret of the Masters, Mister Turner. Like other Talent Masters, all my Talents are not at the constant reach of my fingertips. I can only call up two or three of them at once, and even that takes more than a moment to do. We Talent Masters are generalists, not specialists. Besides, sir, you will recall that I was distracted at the time." The frown turned into a smile.

"There now, see how honest I am with you? I will always be honest with you, Mister Turner. I want to deal with you, and there can never be a proper deal except between two men of honest intention. So, in the light of honest revelations, let me tell you exactly what our bargaining chips are. You have items and knowledge I desire. I, on the other hand, have nothing you want except, perhaps, my life and some knowledge of my own. I am not willing to give you my life so all I have on my side of the slate is the knowledge that you have another wife and three living children. I know your wife recently conceived, and that she is in the process of losing the child already. I know that I can very easily kill her and all your remaining children. Afterwards, I can kill your blacksmith friend and the people in the Traveler's Rest, and then I can kill all sorts of other people who, I assume, have some meaning to you. In fact, Mister Turner, I have the ability to destroy your own particular conceit. I can tear down those nice little Turner Houses you have spotted around the countryside, and then I can kill the people in them. Do you see the possibilities of a deal? Do you see something you are willing to trade for?"

Aaron saw a lot. He saw filled graveyards. He saw a pile of new skulls looking accusingly at him--again. Damp sweat made the shotgun feel slick and unsure in his grip. Moisture trickled down his back. Building rage threatened to steal his voice. "Why do you threaten them? Why don't you threaten me? Tell me that, Beech."

"Mister Turner," Beech admonished, "please be respectful. I am used to being called Master Beech, Storeman." He smiled winningly, but his eyes bled death. "Now, an honest answer to your question. I do not threaten you because I cannot threaten someone who can flick out of my reach in an instant. Though I am able to follow your whereabouts most of the time, there is someplace you go that I am not able to reach. You once took Eric and Melissa and most of Gregory there. Fortunately for me, your family and friends are not so easy for you to protect. Them I can threaten. By the way, whatever did you do to my friends? I would like them back."

"Dead," Aaron supplied. "Eric never learned to fly, and Melissa met the wrong end of Mistress Turner's knife."

Intently studying Beech, Aaron gathered his courage and his fury and placed them within that part of himself where his Talent lay. He kept in mind that Beech was more than the sum of his body. His shield occupied a certain amount of space that had to be accounted for.

"Too bad," Beech said. "I have need of their Talents. See what you have done. You have harmed me in yet one more way." He shook his head sadly. "Really, Mister Turner, you do have a lot to pay for. Shall we get down to the particulars of our deal?"

Aaron would only have the one chance. If he failed, Beech would slip free and go after his family. Beech's shield made Aaron's task more difficult. It felt slick and unreal to his Talent. It defied him.

One of the savages rose. A male, Aaron guessed, though it was hard to tell in the dark interior. The man pulled a copper knife from his thigh sheath and pointed it at Aaron's shotgun.

"That be a the noise stick. I want."

"Delmac, sit down," Beech ordered. "Well, Mister Turner?"

"He not Bringer," the savage said. "Too soon. Give noise stick."

When the shape of Beech's shield finally firmed in his mind Aaron suddenly felt good. Standing up straight, he looked the defiant savage in his eyes, and then he smiled as the barrel of his shotgun swung through the air.

"Come and get it," he said just before he shot Beech directly between the eyes.

Flicker

Aaron landed on dry land. By design, Beech was not so lucky. Looking shocked, surprised, and angry, he landed in water that was almost up to his waist. His shield blazed off light as it absorbed hits from the pellets. Beech lifted a hand that had green slime clinging to it. Ice eyes fastened on Aaron as the flaring lights settled down. Beech growled.

"Damn you, Storeman. Nothing is worth this kind of crap. How about if I just rip a few things off your body? You will tell me what I want, and then I will kill you and your family. Yes, that seems right. I'm done trying to be reasonable."

Aaron swung the shotgun around until its barrel pointed straight at Beech. Beech sighed.

"Haven't we tried this before? I could swear we have. If you give me what I want, we won't have to go through this again." His voice sounded smooth, but his expression was wary.

Aaron fired.

Shield flaring with a half dozen spots of blue and green, Beech staggered back a step. He chuckled while the shield settled back to almost transparent, and then his hand raised with a ball of glowing energy resting on his palm.

Flicker

Beech stood half out of the water. A crater smoked where Aaron had stood and the energy ball was gone.

Aaron racked the shotgun. Fired. Racked it and fired again.

Beach stood on dry land, laughing. "Try this." An electrical storm formed between his cupped hands.

Flicker

Lightning shot from Beech's hand. Land disintegrated where Aaron had stood.

"Oh, good dodge," Beech called encouragingly. "You might even make this fun."

Aaron jerked the Model Twelve to his shoulder and released two quick shots.

Shield flaring through the color spectrum, Beech staggered, but the shield did not flicker or die.

"Some more of your steel, Storeman?" Beech crowed triumphantly. "What a fool. Steel only makes me stronger."

Without knowing how, Aaron found himself holding a new gun. He did not remember going after it. He did not even know which one it was. No, he was standing by the small tree, so it must be one of the two he had left there.

Eyes narrow, mouth set in a straight hard line, Aaron jerked the shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. His first shot knocked Beech to his knees. His second sent Beech falling to his stomach. Laughing hysterically, Beech lay on the ground while Aaron pumped shot after shot into him. Aaron emptied the gun while Beech laughed and chortled, and Beech's shield flared colors so intense they tore at the mind. Waves of energy roiled off it.

"Shit!"

Bad choice. Wrong guess, and that meant that the other guns were useless. Aaron had been so sure the steel would do the job that he had filled every gun with it. Only it now turned out that his preparations were worse than useless; steel shot built up Beech's strength even without it being in his personal possession.

Holding onto his empty shotgun, Aaron flickered a hundred yards away from Beech. Beech looked around. His body straightened, his head slowly turned toward Aaron, and his smile showed filed teeth.

Reaching into his vest with trembling fingers, Aaron managed to fumble two shells free. He shoved one through the loading gate and had the other halfway through when a hammer blow struck him in the ribs.

"Ooomph." He dropped the shotgun as another blow struck the pit of his stomach. He doubled over. A third blow knocked him off his feet.

Eyes dancing merrily, Beech stood in front of him and gestured toward the shotgun with a casual hand.

"Go ahead, Turner. I find this amusing. I'll wait." A ball of rotating air formed in front of him, large as a fist and harder hitting, as Aaron well knew.

Gagging and coughing, tasting blood, smelling defeat, Aaron reached out with feeble fingers, pulled the shotgun to him, and roughly pushed shells into it. He was not sure which shells he shoved into the receiver. More shells lay on the ground than were in his gun. Had he put in steel, the buckshot, or had he put in the target loads?

"You could always do what I tell you," Beech called. "You might as well. I'll have it out of you one way or another."

Aaron pulled back on the pump until the open chamber stared at him. His trembling fingers managed to slide one shell in. There now. He was full up, maybe-maybe, if he had counted right.

He closed the chamber.

He looked at Beech just as Beech laughed and released his ball of air. The ball raced across the distance separating them and slammed into Aaron's leg.

"Arrrgh."

Something snapped and then Aaron found himself laying face down with the shotgun three feet away. Sucking in a sharp breath, he jerked his gaze toward his leg to see jagged bone poking out of his bleeding thigh.

"I suppose you could go home," Beech said reassuringly. "Then again, I'd just follow you there. Tell me, Mister Turner, how will you feel when I kill the rest of your family? How will it feel to know that they are dead because you refused to be reasonable?"

Another ball of air floated in front of Beech. His shield had quieted back to its normal strength, so the effects of the steel shot had worn off.

"Why don't you give me what I want? Why do you have to be so stubborn? Just give me what I want."

Reaching quickly, Aaron grabbed the shotgun and...

Flicker

Standing precariously on one leg, holding the shotgun waist high, Aaron was eight feet to the side and fifteen feet closer to Beech. He pulled the trigger, rode the recoil, and eight lights flashed on the shield. The shield flickered stressfully then quieted.

Beech stopped smiling. "Well damn--you brought some of the other stuff too. Well the hell with you then. Die." He threw the ball of air straight at Aaron's eyes.

Flicker

Boom Rack _Flicker_ Rack _Flicker_

Aaron's shot staggered Beech sideways as five buckshot connected. Earth erupted upward a split second after Aaron transferred away from where he had fired. Flame roared through the spot where Aaron finished racking his shotgun. Damn, but he had almost been too slow that time. Wisps of smoke rose from his charred shirt.

Twisting, broken leg screaming pain, Aaron racked in another shell, and fired.

Beech's shield flared brilliant white when hundreds of pinpoint lights blew into energy all across the face of it.

"Turner!"

Staggering like a drunkard, Beech tripped and fell to his knees.

Aaron used the few precious seconds of Beech's distraction to beat out the building flames on his shirt. His chest yelled agony. His broken leg shrieked pain, and trying to breathe was pure hell.

Cursing, eyes singing murder, Beech rose to his feet and pulled Sarah's steel sword free of its sheath. "Enough of this shit. Game's over, Turner."

Rack Rack

Four flashes lit up the strengthening shield. Beech shrugged them off. The sword tip flared white heat--

Flicker

Earth exploded, thunder rolled, and a twenty-five foot wide swath of destruction stretched out in a hundred foot long swath.

Half of Aaron lay in water but his shotgun was clear and his powder was dry.

RackRack

BOOM

"Arrrrgh."

Beech's shield flared incandescent as hundreds of small pellets struck it almost simultaneously. Trying to raise his sword in a shaking hand, blood pouring from his nose, Beech jerked around to face Aaron. More blood seeped from the pores of his skin.

Aaron smiled grimly through the pain of recoil on his broken ribs. At least one of his ideas had born fruit. Talent took energy, and Beech's shield used as much energy to repel one large missile as it did a single smaller one. Bird shot might not have much weight. It might not be powerful or damaging when compared to larger shot--but there sure was one hell of a lot of it in a shell. Four hundred and sixty pellets, and each one took the exact same energy to repel as a larger, more dangerous missile.

Raising a hand, Beech pointed it at Aaron. A small ball of air formed.

Closer, Aaron thought. Closer.

RackRack _Flicker_

BOOM

The shield flared and died as more than three hundred pellets slammed into it. Opening his mouth in a soundless yell, Beech spun sideways and fell to the ground once more while the sword flew from his grasp. More than two dozen late arriving pellets bypassed his failed shield and peppered him.

Beat, exhausted, barely able to focus, Aaron dropped the empty shotgun because his vest held no more shells. He coughed, tasted blood, spat out red froth, and grimaced. At least one of his broken ribs had punctured a lung. No wonder he could hardly breathe.

Flicker

Falling to his knees, he felt the jagged end of his broken leg bone rip more flesh as he reached out, pulled the sword to him, and lifted its heavy, impossible weight. Sarah's sword. Haarod Beech's sword. It was the sword he had brought into this world. A sword of needless death.

Aaron's sword.

But he had remained still too long.

"GAHHH!"

Ribs cracked beneath the hammer weight of another ball of air. The blow pushed him across the ground, but it was survivable because Beech no longer held the sword. Lying on the ground, curled around his pain, Aaron watched Beech pull himself up to his knees, and then his feet. A bloody mess, too weak to shield, the man still had enough strength to raise a hand and point it at Aaron. A small ball of air formed.

"Damn you Turner! Why won't you die!"

Flicker

Aaron flew while Beech twisted around in a desperate search for Aaron's new location. Aaron struggled to straighten his fall, to correct his aim. Bracing the sword in his hands, stiffening his elbows, Aaron silently laughed while blood dripped from his mouth and poured from his leg.

Though he looked almost everywhere, Beech was too late, too slow at engaging his Finder Talent for it to do him any good. Most of all, he never looked in the right direction. He forgot to look up.

Bleeding, vision fading, but with the sword held in steady hands, Aaron fell. Finally, just before impact, something told Beech to raise his eyes, but by then it was too late.

The sword pierced Beech where his shoulder joined his neck. It reached down hungrily into Beech's body, propelled deeper by Aaron's falling weight, drove deep into him until its point burst from the small of Beech's back. Releasing a surprised grunt, Beech fell bonelessly. Still falling, Aaron's weight drove him into the ground faster than Beech's failing knees wanted to bend.

Aaron's body hit Beech and the unforgiving earth, and then it felt like everything he had inside him broke apart when the sword's hilt jammed into his already shattered ribs.

"GODS!"

Scrabbling, rolling to his side, Aaron's left arm flopped into slimy water, feeling numb from his effort of holding the sword steady as he fell twenty feet straight down to land on top of Beech. His right arm, he saw, was broken, snapped at the wrist.

Suddenly weak, unable to fully breathe, he stilled, turned his eyes towards Beech, and saw the man set a hand to the ground in preparation of rising.

Foam bubbling on his lips, Aaron collapsed. It was over. Haarod Beech had won because Aaron had nothing left to fight with.

But no! Damn it! No. Beech would not get his hands on Kit and...

With pins rippling up his left arm as circulation returned, Aaron tried to remember where he had left the remaining shotguns. Maybe he could club Beech if only he could...

Beech's eyes blinked-blinked again. His bloody mouth opened, and more blood poured from its opening. He started to stir, stared spite, hatred and disbelief.

"Why won't you d--," he began, and then his body relaxed and his lungs released his last breath.

Aaron watched the body slump, and he started laughing, only it hurt too damn much to laugh. It really was over. The fight was over, and that was good because he had nothing left but one leg and his head to fight with. A two year-old child could take him, only he did not have to contend with a child. He did not have to contend with anybody.

Vision failing, he turned his clouded eyes once more toward Beech, saw that Beech sat up and-

No-Beech had never completely fallen. He sat half upright, head lolling loosely, supported by a sword buried hilt deep through his body and into the ground.

Aaron closed his eyes in strained relief and distantly wondered if he would ever open them again. He felt weak and beaten and knew he was dying, but he wasn't angry, and for that he was glad. A man's last feelings should not be anger.

Forcing his eyes open once more, he looked at Beech to make sure that the man was really dead. Satisfied, he tried to spit to clear a foul taste from his mouth. Bloody froth rested on the surface of the torn earth immediately before him. Froth ran past his lips, dribbled down his chin. His lungs were on fire. His heart stuttered.

Sarah. Sarah. Coming to you girl. Coming to you.

No. Go home. Go home.

Miss you Sarah. Going to be with--

No. Go home love. Go home.

Terweet Terweet

Wings fluttered overhead.

Kerlew Kerlew

Terweet

Go home my love. Death is not for the Bringer. Not yet. Not yet.

Gods. Oh Gods. He wanted her. He wanted to be with--

_Your tasks are not finished_ , a deeper voice rumbled. An old woman's ghostly image hovered before him. _Go home Chosen, and prepare to save my people._

Aaron shut his eyes and let his mind drift free.

Kerlew Kerlew

Firmed, the little resolve he still owned drew on the dregs of the energy remaining to him. His heart stuttered, and he coughed up blood, and his eyes began to lose focus and--

Flicker

Terweet
Chapter 34

Light pierced his eyes. Coolness ran across his forehead, and a young voice hummed a song that Aaron sometimes sang around the store.

Slowly, unbelieving, he opened his eyes.

Cathy sat beside him, humming gently while sunlight streamed through the open window. Her face was turned away as she did something to the side of his bed. Golden bars of daylight surrounded her, lighting up her hair, making her features glow sweet and lovely. At that moment when he first knew he would not die, Aaron realized beyond doubt that he still loved her with all the passion that was left to his scarred soul.

She turned back to him, a damp cloth rising in a hand that headed towards his forehead, and then she saw his open eyes. Her expression became sweetly concerned. Her lips parted in a smile of pleased surprise. Aaron longed to rise from his bed, to place his lips over hers. Old memories surfaced: memories of rides, laughs, and quiet times when he and Cathy and Sarah spoke of their shared future. Memories of when times were good and when he was a man entire. His heart stirred, fluttered in his chest, and he knew that it was no longer dead inside him.

"You are awake." She spoke in a whisper.

"I suppose I am." His voice was low and weak. It did not sound like him at all. It sounded like the voice of a man who had seen too many years and too much life. "The question is whether or not I'm going to live."

Leaning down, Cathy gently kissed the corner of his lips. "Oh you will live," she said, suddenly speaking in a normal voice while she tentatively dampened his forehead with hands that were nervous flutters. "Doc says you will come out of this in fine shape now that he has had his hands on you." Her lips turned down in a concerned frown. "Mister Turner, you had us all frightened. When you appeared inside the smithy you were a real mess. Fortunately, Mister Bran was in there, and he did not waste any time at all. He ran to Doc's house and literally carried him to you. Doc operated on you right there on the floor of the smithy while Mister Bran kept the curious out. I assisted him even though I had no idea what to do."

Aaron tried to chuckle, but that turned out to be a bad idea. Absolutely everything hurt.

"You have to lay quiet," Cathy admonished. "Doc used his Talent Stone on you, or you'd be dead now. He had to operate to pull bone shards out of your lung. Mister Turner, your lung was collapsed. You had broken ribs and a ruptured intestine, and you were bloody all over and Doc, said lots of small bug type thing got into your leg because you had an open wound that had been in foul water. It was horrible. Both your arms are broken, and so is your leg. What did you do to yourself?"

"Didn't Kit say?" Aaron whispered weakly, finding it hard to speak. His voice had a catch to it even with those few words.

"Mistress Turner hasn't been here to tell us anything. I'm afraid nobody thought to tell her you were here until this morning. In fact, Mistress Golard didn't send a rider out to the Manor until just a few hours ago."

Oh Gods, Kit would be furious.

"So?"

"Hmmm."

"What happened?"

Aaron tried to speak, only nothing but a gurgle came out of him. He tried again, cleared his throat as the unreality of just what he had done struck him.

"I did Beech," he finally managed, "but I guess he did me too."

"Beech!" Cathy's voice rose to a squeak. "The Talent Master Beech?"

"Yeah." He searched back in his memory. Events were fuzzy. He knew what had happened, what he had done, but part of him was not sure it wasn't all a nightmare. "I think I killed him. I must have killed him." Feeling weak, he closed his eyes and allowed weariness to wash over him, allowed it to pull him away from the waking world and draw him back into sleep because Beech was dead and nothing would ever make losing Sarah and his son any easier.

"By the lady!" Sounding incredulous, disbelieving, Cathy's faint voice came to him through his drifting mind. "You killed a Talent Master. Mister Turner, you _killed_ a Talent Master."

The part of Aaron that was still aware did not blame her for doubting because he was not sure exactly what had happened anymore. He only knew that he was tired; he was sore; he was broken, and he was just plain sick of it all.

* * *

He next woke to the sound of loud voices shouting in the outside hall.

"You will let me see my husband. You will let me see him NOW!"

"He's asleep. It's not a good idea to wake him, Mistress Turner, because it was a very near thing. Right now, the more sleep he gets the faster he will heal."

Aaron opened his mouth. "Awake," he called hoarsely. His throat was sore, and just about everything hurt. Ominously, he felt dead skin peeling away from the roof of his mouth so he knew there was a chance he was forming ulcers.

Eyes glaring fury, Kit burst into the room. "Three days," she spat angrily. "Three days, that's how long I waited without knowing what happened to you. I waited for three days, three entire days before I knew a thing. What the he--what the heck did you think you were doing to me? I thought you were dead! Lord and Lady, I thought my children no longer had a father!"

Aaron thought of shrugging apologetically, but all the various hurting bits probably meant moving was a bad idea. Instead he smiled and tried to use the doubtful power of his voice.

"I'm sorry." He kept his voice meek and low. Maybe that would work. Kit sometimes responded reasonably to meek.

Not this time.

"I'm sorry! You come within a hair of dying, and I don't know where you are, and all you can say for yourself is I'm sorry?" Stamping her foot, she tried to kill him with her stare.

"It won't happen again," he tried. Dead skin fell on top of his tongue. His head throbbed.

Kit's face gathered dark clouds of anger. The storm was about to release its full fury.

"Here now." Pushing between them, Doc turned himself into a solid wall between Kit and Aaron. "I won't have you abusing my patient when he is in no condition to properly defend himself, Mistress Turner. If you want to abuse your husband, you'll just have to wait until next week since it's going to take that long before I have him back on his feet. Until then, Madam, he belongs to me. After I let him go, you are more than welcome to do whatever you like to him, but I will not permit you to damage him further while he is under my care."

"I understand." Kit's voice purred with suppressed emotion. "You get to heal him for one week, and then I am allowed to kill him."

"Exactly," Gunther agreed.

Aaron was not sure if he wanted to thank the good doctor.

"Aaron," Kit said in a more reasonable tone, "just tell me if it is over. Is it done with? Are you going to let Beech be? Will he leave us alone?"

Aaron closed his eyes and allowed a feeling of peace wash through him. His memory was back in full force. He knew. "It's done," he said gently. "He's gone."

"Oh." Gently. Softly. "Then--then I suppose I won't kill you after all."

Hard lips pressed down on his. "See, it wasn't our last kiss. Please hurry up and heal."

"I promise to give it my all."

"More importantly," Doc said, "I will give it my all. Move aside, Mistress Turner. I need to use this amazing Stone on your Mister again. Why, if it wasn't for this thing you would have to wait months before you got a chance to kill your husband."

"I don't feel like killing him anymore," Kit said.

* * *

Though he was still weak and officially bedridden three days later, Aaron could not wait any longer. He had a long discussion with the doctor and a longer one with Jorrin, but he had the ultimate argument to support his position. Neither of them could stop him from trying to do what he wanted. Not even straps and ties could keep him in his bed if he did not want to be there. So, Aaron gave them a choice. They could help him, or they could stand aside and watch while Aaron likely killed himself.

Since there did not seem to be much of a choice, Jorrin agreed to come along.

Aaron transferred them to the small, slime covered lake where he and Beech had fought their battle. Once there, he lay back in the tall grass and let the sun beat its warming rays into him while Jorrin did all the work.

Just to settle his mind that Beech was really dead, Jorrin spent a little time examining the corpse. He told Aaron that Beech was now lying on his side, curled up on himself, but the sword still pierced his shoulder and came out his back. Aaron had Jorrin pull the sword free and throw it into the lake, figuring that anyone who was willing to swim through the slimy water to search for it had to be a pretty desperate fellow indeed. Try as he might, he had a hard time imagining anyone being that desperate. Besides, the sword was only extremely dangerous when the person using it possessed a deadly Talent that was enhanced by a Talent Stone. Less than one percent of all Talents were actually deadly. Talent Stones were rare, and Talent Masters were almost unknown because very few people were born with the abilities needed to become a master. Fewer still ever found a Stone. The chances were very small that the sword would be found and used by someone who would cause further trouble.

Afterward, Jorrin gathered up the scattered shotguns from where Aaron had left or dropped them. He searched the area and found most of the empty shell casings and all of the full ones Aaron had dropped. While Jorrin searched, Aaron thought about Beech and his position among the savages. Beech was revered and hated by them. He was a messiah and a pariah. The more Aaron thought on the matter, the more uneasy he became. He did not want anyone to have any reason to search this area, because despite his reasoning, the sword was in the lake and could be found.

Jorrin carried Aaron over to where Beech lay. Looking at the man he had killed, Aaron felt nothing, no remorse, no anger, no hate, and no relief. His emotions regarding Beech were mostly dead, and yet he could feel other ones stirring about. Something inside him finally wanted to see his children.

As a last gesture Aaron transferred Beech to where the nomad camp might still remain. Hopefully, the natives would quit wondering and worrying about what Beech planned for them. They could get on with their own lives, lives that were no longer tangled with that of a charismatic monster.

When that task was finished, Jorrin lifted Aaron in his massive arms, and Aaron once again used his Talent.

Flicker
Chapter 35

The compound looked as if it had been the center of a minor war. All the buildings around Klein were skewed and broken and burned. Brick littered areas that had once been lawn and road. Glass shards pointed out of the ground and trees. Yellow tape and men dressed in real military uniforms walked with determined purpose.

Smiling grimly to himself, Helmet cautiously looked around. Possibly, he might have made a small error in deciding to return to Jefferson one last time. It looked as if sad fate had finally caught up to Mister Albridge Field and his toy Militia. So far, only pure luck dictated that the same fate had not yet landed on Helmet.

He took one more look at the remains of the Everlasting Life Militia Field Division Compound before he crawled back into the crumbling building he had arrived in.

Once there, he frowned. This turn of events was not a good thing. Not a good thing at all. He had counted on fresh supplies from the Militia, especially ammunition because his people thought rifles were a great idea. Rifles made a nice banging noise, and when used properly, rifles had it all over bows as a weapon of war. His tribes people loved their rifles to distraction, carried them everywhere they went, and used them in every battle and skirmish they managed to get themselves caught up in.

No problem. That was what the rifles were for.

The problem was that the tribes people loved their rifles too much. They loved their rifles so much that they constantly fired off any ammunition they got their hands on. The damn savages would shoot at rocks, bushes, and drops of water falling from the sky. Hell, they shot at the clouds and then looked disappointed when the clouds refused to fall down. Rationing ammunition helped some, but it was not the total answer.

Unfortunately, Helmet had to give them bullets so they could practice hitting what they pointed at. Also, they had to have bullets to make their weapons effective if they ran across hostiles. However, despite all his admonishments, most of his people could not keep a full clip for more than a day or two before they gave in to impulse and fired most of their rounds off.

And now he was here, stuck in the middle of the wrecked compound, surrounded by a few dozen too many uniforms because his people sometimes acted like children more than they acted like hardened warriors. No. This was not good.

Okay, Mister Klein, he told himself, now is the time for all the good little boys to turn deceptive. The first order of business was to get rid of his uniform and its identifying insignia. As best he knew, Field's Everlasting Life Militia was not all that overcrowded with Colonels. The last time he checked there were only four. Investigating four different names when they caught someone wearing a Colonel's insignia was not one hell of a lot of work, even for a government man. It wouldn't take the dimmest clerk more than about one short minute to decide he was the Colonel they wanted above all the others.

Well, if they wanted to talk to him they would have to work for it. Of course, if he did not want to have that confrontation, he would have to do a little work himself. For now, his first task would be stripping down and getting naked. The idea did not bother him because he was now a man of Chin. Modesty was a rare item among the nomads.

Helmet wasted no time stripping off his clothes, right down to and including his monogrammed underwear. Footsteps passed his hiding place as he stuffed the clothing into the smallest cubbyhole he could find. After the footsteps passed, he covered the cubbyhole with about three hundred pounds of debris.

When he finished, he stilled and took stock of himself. His lungs pumped a little quicker than he liked. His heart beat heavily, a faint sheen of sweat covered his bare torso, and his head felt light. Adrenaline high. Gods, wouldn't Sheem have a laugh if she were here now. Imagine, the indomitable Shahalla being excited by the small matter of being surrounded by enemies while he was naked and unarmed. She would ridicule him, and then she would show him exactly how SHE would rectify the situation.

Helmet chuckled, reflecting that this was not a seemly situation for a would be emperor. He doubted if the King of Jutland would ever be found running around nude in a destroyed camp while the enemy searched the area. Then again, he doubted the fat bastard completely disrobed even when he tupped one of the servant girls. King Fulgis was a man well known for his modesty. Since he had met the man once, Helmet fully understood Fulgis' reasoning. Anyone with that much fat rolling over his many ceremonial belts could not be a pretty sight in bare skin. Hell, the man had to be downright repulsive to any woman with standards.

Being naked did have some advantages. Naked was not only nameless, it also gave the appearance of vulnerable.

Somebody approached. Helmet heard only one set of footsteps, and that made him grin. One set was good. He could handle one. Two would be a problem because people sometimes had a tendency to shout when they were set upon. The last thing he wanted was an alarm.

Hating it, he grabbed a sharp bit of broken brick and gouged deep scratches into his skin. Blood welled forth from his arms and his chest and his bare legs. He dug the rubble into his sides and the small of his back and then he scratched his buttocks. When he was done, he tossed the broken brick away, rubbed his hands over his body to smear the blood, and then rubbed the blood over his face.

The footsteps paused outside as he artfully lay himself down. Moving almost soundlessly, he draped broken blocks and strewn furniture over himself, while the scratch of a striking match and the faint smell of cigar smoke reached him. He breathed the smoke in appreciatively.

Gods, he missed cigars. Smoking was one of the vices he would have to introduce to his Chins. Actually, it was the type of thing many of them would enjoy. He could just picture the consternation of some of the enemy tribes while his people ate fire and breathed smoke before a battle. Now that would be fun to watch.

Another set of steps approached just as Helmet was about to go through his routine.

"Got another?" a voice asked.

"What? Don't you Army boys get paid enough to buy your own?"

"We don't get paid crap. The army sees no reason to pay us when we can cage what we want off all you dumb Rangers."

"Well, it looks like you just found yourself another dumb asshole. Here you go."

"Thanks."

After several moments of silence Klein heard the hiss of a flaring match, an inhalation and then a satisfied sigh.

"Damn, you buy the good ones."

"No, I don't." The Ranger sounded smug. "Didn't buy these at all. Found them in the remains of an office three buildings back. Do you see that tire laying out there all by itself? These cigars were right by a hole in the wall to the east of the tire. Found them in a desk drawer by a bunch of clippings about the Vipers."

"What kind of idiot follows the Vipers?"

"The same kind of idiot who buys really good cigars," the Ranger answered.

"Are there any more?"

"I got all the ones in the desk, but I think there are some laying around on the floor, and maybe in some of the other desks too. I'll find out once I finish this smoke and do an official search."

"You really are a fool. I'm not going to let a treasure trove like that run free. You stay right here and smoke your cigar because that room is mine."

Footsteps hurriedly moved away. Helmet heard another slow inhalation, and then he heard the Ranger release a satisfied laugh.

"Gullible idiot," the Ranger breathed so low that Klein had to strain to make out his words. "I'd rather you do the searching than me, my friend. You just let me know what you find, and then I'll tell Sarge about it and get any of the credit due. There's a reason you're army, and I'm not."

Breathing in the rich aroma of a very fine cigar, Helmet smiled, released an artful groan, and then coughed.

"What?"

Helmet groaned again. He heard shuffling steps, and then the light striking his closed eyes was momentarily blocked.

"Well damn. It's a naked little oyster what lost its shell. Hang on, Mister. I'll be there soon as I finish my smoke."

Helmet heard another couple inhalations and a satisfied sigh.

"Ah now, army is right about one thing. This is a good smoke. I'll have to steal Sarge's cigars more often, but business first. Here I come, dude."

Clunk

"Shit. A person could get hurt in here. Mister, you got blood all over you. I don't know what mountain lion you tangled with, but I don't want none of it. Okay, got you uncovered, so let's see what we have."

When a shadow loomed over him Helmet opened his eyes to see the young visage of a uniformed Ranger. He smiled at the concerned face.

"Idiot indeed," Helmet said as the man's eyes began widening.

He struck.

After dressing in his stolen clothes and scrubbing his face clean of blood with a handful of dirt, Helmet bent to peer at his handiwork. The man lived, but he was definitely out of it. Helmet figured the Ranger had at least a concussion. He might have even given the man a small fracture.

Oh well. Such is life. If a man played in the big leagues he had to pay the price every now and again. Here in Jefferson that price would entail nothing more than a headache for the few hours it took to get the Ranger to a hospital. In Chin the price would have been fatal.

* * *

"I see you made it."

"Sure I made it," Helmet grinned. "I told you I'd be around. What the hell happened to the compound?"

Field laughed bitterly. "We were betrayed. Apparently, we had infiltrators running all through our ranks. Turner was captured; he squealed to them; he escaped, and we got Turner back with all the valuable information he had gained while a prisoner. He told us an Intelligence operative named Aybarra had infiltrated Mays' outfit and that we had moles in our own ranks. Problem is, he told us all this too late for us to do anything about it, and now everything is gone to hell. We mined the compound and caught some feds when they attacked, but there's too many feds. Can't kill them all, and now I'm on their most wanted list. My picture's on the holovid every night, and they have posters up in every convenience store window. Damn government has seized all my known assets, so all I have left is this place."

Klein took a careful look around. By most people's reasoning, the building they occupied represented plenty of assets and then some. He stood near the front entrance of an absolutely huge warehouse. The place was mostly empty, but there were goods stacked against one wall with half a dozen people sitting on them. He recognized Aaron's two worst enemies, Sergeants Aimes and Johnston. Benson, the chess-playing layabout was there, and so was Clack, the only man Helmet had ever repeatedly transported back and forth between the two worlds because Clack possessed his own minimal Transferring Talent. The only other man Helmet recognized was Johnston's favorite new recruit, Paxton, a young, hard-eyed bastard who had found a perfect fit in the Militia for his sadistic tendencies. The other two were a mystery to him. Off by itself was the half assembled monstrosity Field had been building for years, the one based on readings taken from his and Aaron's minds. Perhaps it was not so bad that Field's dream had gone bust before he got that thing finished.

In all, Helmet guessed the building and its contents were worth in the neighborhood of half a million dollars. The secret floors and supplies beneath the building were probably worth another six million. Smiling grimly to himself, he turned his eyes back to Field. The two of them did have one thing in common. Simply being rich was not enough. They both desired power. Right now, the main difference between them was that Field had lost most of his power while Helmet's strength was still growing.

"Yes," Field said bitterly, "this is all that is left. The rest has been stolen, and most of my people have run away. All I have left is this building and these few who are still loyal."

He laughed hoarsely. "These few, and the ones you have already taken over to the other world. It's time, Helmet. It's time you took me over there. It's time you took the last of these goods and the last of my people and shipped us all over. Jefferson has rejected us. I will not return here again."

"I can't do it," Helmet said while looking at the people and wishing they would get their asses off the piled goods. He could grasp the goods and run with them, but his Talent was not discerning enough to allow him to take only the goods he wanted and leave the sitting people behind. "Why don't you get Turner to try taking some of it?"

"Turner has some answering to do," Field growled. "Corporal Benson especially wants to have a private conversation with him. No, I'm afraid you are it. I want you to send over the men and what goods you can right now. In a few days you will be strong enough to handle the rest."

Helmet squinted in disgust while he thought that proposition over. The last thing he wanted was to send more of the General's people over to Chin. He had worked too hard to get rid of most of the ones he had already transported. All the ones who remained loyal to Field were gone. Only the opportunists, the greedy, and those willing to switch their loyalties were left.

Well, he could always think of this as a test. The people he looked at were those supposedly most loyal to Field. It would be interesting to see how many he could turn. Most likely, it would not be too difficult to make them see reason. Remaining loyal was a losing proposition because Helmet had no intention of taking the General over with him when they traveled.

"I can ship all the people and half the goods over now," he told Field. "The rest will go over in about a week. Will that make you happy?"

"Ask me that question when I'm finally sitting on my throne," Field replied. "Only that will make me happy--that and Turner's head."

"Your throne I will give you," Helmet lied. "You'll have to take Turner's head on your own."

"Don't worry; I'll enjoy handling that little chore myself. Ship what you can now."

Helmet nodded. After looking the situation over he directed the men to separate the piled goods into two unequal heaps. It was a good thing that this was going to be his last couple of chores for Field because until this moment Field had been left in ignorance that Helmet could ship a load over without traveling with that load himself. He could already see speculation revolving in Field's eyes.

"Are you ready?" he asked the men when they were positioned.

"As we can be," Aimes answered.

"Well hang on then."

Flicker

Helmet viewed the newly empty spot with satisfaction. The goods and the people were away. They would arrive in the regular place to be instantly surrounded by the Chin tribe's people, separated, and then distributed to a few far flung clans on the edge of the warring front. If the men survived the fighting and the inner clan politics, they would see Helmet in another year or two. He would evaluate them then, except for Clack, of course, since Clack had already been over and back half a dozen times over the last several years. His loyalty belonged firmly to Helmet, a fact of which the General was still ignorant.

"That's it," Field said decisively. "There's no turning back now. Nothing is left."

"No," Helmet agreed, "there is no turning back."

And then he heard a scratching behind him.

Clink Clink Clank

He stiffened. Nerves tense, he slowly shifted while Field turned white beside him. Several people, weapons in hand, had silently entered the locked building.

"General Mays," Field said cautiously. "This is a surprise. We weren't expecting you."

"I'm sure you weren't," that worthy replied. "Just as I'm sure that you're surprised to learn that my name is really Colonel David Feinstein of Intelligence, and this is Major Samuel Aybarra. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Thrunk

Looking down, Helmet saw the feathered end of a dart sticking out of his belly. The area around it was already numb.

Thrunk

Damn.

He folded.
Chapter 36

Clang Clang Clunk Clang

"Whoa there. What's the matter with you? Stop when I tell you to stop."

Brian Haig managed to halt the wagon in front of the store, ready to pick up another delivery of milk. He still held his arm as if it pained him, but Aaron knew it was no longer broken. Doc had finally given in to Aaron's urging and used his Talent to speed the man's healing.

"Cathy. Mister Turner." His voice was tight, guarded. When he looked at Aaron his eyes showed hooded deference and fear.

Aaron nodded from where he sat in his wide chair on the boardwalk outside his rebuilt store. Despite his frequent treatments and Doc Gunther's enthusiastic appraisal, he was not ready to move on his own yet. His bones were no more than half healed, his stitches had only just been pulled, and his body was still fighting off an infection from when the lake water had entered his wounds.

"Howdy," he said while Cathy, sitting beside him, smiled thinly at her husband. Haig gave her a long look and turned his eyes back to Aaron.

"Sir, are you sure about keeping me on? I know I did wrong and--"

Aaron waved for him to stop because, truthfully, he did not like the sound of Haig's voice. Its tones were meek, but it held undercurrents of resentfulness and sullen disrespect.

"No," he said, "I'm not sure, but you are Cathy's husband, and I owe her, so I won't take your job. However, I do have people watching you. If any sign of missing money appears, or if Cathy looks injured, they will pay you a visit that will make our last encounter seem gentle. Now please get back to work."

"Yes sir." Haig's voice almost sounded respectful, but his eyes glowered.

Cathy's gaze lay heavy on Aaron after Haig drove away. "Don't you think you are being a little hard on my husband?"

"I think he was more than a little hard on you. I won't let him hit you again."

"You don't have to worry about that anymore." Cathy patted her apron. "I gave him a demonstration. He is very impressed with me now that he knows what Baby can do. Actually, I think he might be more afraid of me than he is of you."

"Have you threatened him?"

"Not a word of it. I just let him see me practice shooting Baby three days ago. Been meek as a lamb ever since."

Aaron remained silent for a few minutes. "That's no way to run a marriage," he finally said.

"It's my marriage to run, and I don't see where I have all that much choice on how to run it."

Her eyes were big. They glistened with unshed tears and with care and concern. Aaron knew she was thinking of what they had been to each other. She was remembering their nights of holding and talking and the plans she and Sarah had shared between them, plans intended to run Aaron to distraction. Probably, Cathy had not loved him, not the way he had loved and still did love her, but she had truly liked him and now regretted her decision. From the things she had said and the way she hovered around him, constantly brushing her fingers over his arm or adjusting his chair, Aaron had no doubt she would willingly become his lover if he asked it of her.

It was a question he would never raise. Loving and making love to another man's wife in a land where divorce was not allowed was tawdry and low and a sure recipe for heartache and ruined lives. He would not compromise the tattered remnants of honor he had left, and he would never cause Cathy harm because he could not let the thought of her go.

"Here comes Mistress Turner," Cathy said half bitterly. "I think it's time you saw to your own marriage instead of worrying about mine."

She rose, one hand resting on his arm. Her fingers carefully squeezed his tender flesh, and her smile was a lie upon her face. "I will be fine, Mister Turner. My life will be fine. Don't you go wasting your worry on me." She walked away, shoulders stiff with pride, head held high in defiance of the life fate and bad decisions had given her. When he watched her outward strength Aaron wanted to cry because he knew the inside package had become brittle and weak. One small and unexpected blow could easily make her shatter. No, right now Cathy needed to be cared for and looked after, the way she had cared and looked after Missy and Doyle during those difficult years. She needed time for rest and healing, but he did not think she would get either. Brian Haig would not stay tame for very long.

"You don't need to worry after her," Kit said as she settled into the recently vacated chair. "You have a lot of friends, and so does she. They will make sure she stays well. She'll have time to pull herself together."

"In my land," Aaron said, "when matters become difficult in a marriage, one of the two people just walks away. In a year or two they go to a courthouse and have the marriage dissolved."

Kit was quiet for a while, watching the street and the people walking its length. Aaron understood because he loved the view too. He loved to see ordinary people going about the business of living their lives and raising their families. He loved them for those lives, and he ached to be one of them, but the truth was that he was not of their kind. He knew that now. He was different from these people. He could play their games and live his lies among them, but his life and his experiences kept him from living with the simple outlook that was natural for them. Nothing he ever did, no pretense, would allow him to entirely fit in here. He was not sure he would fit in anywhere.

"A man has no need to dissolve a marriage," Kit said. "He can marry as often as he desires. It's us women who are stuck for life."

Her voice was filled with quiet longing. Aaron wanted to console her, but there was nothing he could say that would help. Like Cathy, Kit had tossed her dice, and they had fallen snake eyes.

Clang Clang Clang Clang

"Jorrin's working hard."

"He always works hard," Kit said. Her voice changed. "I saw the doctor again. He said we tried too soon after the trauma of losing Sarah and the baby, so if we tried again I could conceive without a risk of losing the child."

Smiling sadly, Aaron shook his head. "I don't think I'm up to the effort."

Her hand reached out so her fingertips touched his arm. "Aaron, I don't want it at all. I'm sorry, but I don't want more children by you anymore. I hope this doesn't hurt you, but it needs to be said again. I don't love you. I don't want you as part of my life."

Aaron winced. Pain twisted up his belly. So, she did not love him. Not a surprise because it was something he had known all along; she had told him this before, but a part of him did not want to hear the words.

He laughed at himself, silently laughed at his own folly while pain and knots caught in his throat. How could he take this so personally when he did not love her either--but then--he could have loved her. He really could have learned to love her, except she had made it so plain that any love he bore would be carried alone.

"I don't want to hurt you," Kit continued. "You are my husband, and I honor you for that. I admire you, and if I could ever love a man it would be you, but Aaron, I cannot love a man. I don't have it in me. You are my husband, but I would be happier if you were just my friend. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Aaron said, pushing his injured pride and his inner pain back into the cage where they belonged. Reaching out, he covered her hand with his fingers. The healing bones in his wrist gave a twinge of warning but no more because he was always careful how he moved. "Yes, I do understand. You are saying no sex."

She winced. "That is a rather blunt way of putting it."

"This is a rather blunt subject, and I agree with you."

And he did agree because he wanted the same thing she did, but their agreement touched on a well of sadness inside him. An absent husband who was a friend and no longer a lover soon became ancient history. He knew this, and he could see in her eyes that she knew it too.

Kit shifted slightly in her chair when her wrist twisted beneath his hand, and her fingers wrapped around his. Squeezing his fingers slightly, her eyes fastened on the two Wiggins boys shouting halfway down the street because they looked as if they were about to fight. Moments later Mistress Wiggins rushed out of the bank and grabbed both of them. The subsequent cries were far worse than the punishment she meted out deserved.

Kara Perkins stepped out of the store. Wearing a flour-dusted apron and looking nervous, Steven Knight followed her.

"You'll do fine," Perk said. "It's really easy. After all, Mister Turner managed to run the thing, and if I ever saw a man more incompetent for the job than that fellow I can't remember who he is."

Aaron snorted and studied his friend. "Thanks."

Changing worlds had been good for Perk, he decided. Though she had always been fit and trim, she now appeared even more so, and a new air of competence surrounded her. She seemed to have a newfound faith in her abilities. Now that she was the teacher instead of the student, she was discovering just how much she had to give.

Of course, Aaron contemplated, being fabulously rich probably helped her attitude quite a bit too. With all the silver bars she had brought over she never had to worry about paying the rent.

Knight needed playful encouragement from her foot before he went back into the store. Once he was inside Perk stepped over Kit's outstretched feet, maneuvered past Aaron, and sat in the chair on the other side of him.

"I swear, that boy is more trouble than he is worth. Always dogging my heels and all the time sniffing, sniffing, sniffing. He wants a quick lay so bad it's embarrassing."

Laughing gently, Kit leaned forward so she could see past Aaron. Her finger pointed at Perk.

"Miss Perkins, you are one clueless person. Mister Knight is interested in something more permanent than a quick roll. From the conversations I have overheard, Mister Knight is very interested."

Perk groaned dramatically. "Gawds, just what I need, a tail wagging puppy chasing after my heels."

"It isn't your heels he is chasing after," Kit grinned.

Perk mock glared at the two of them. "He better be after more than my heels. If he is panting, he better be panting after the right thing."

Aaron tried not to laugh. It hurt to laugh.

"Maybe after he gets the store rolling along he'll attract enough attention from the ladies that he will leave you alone," he said.

Now Perk did glare. "He better not attract more attention. A man wants to chase after me, he better not pay much mind to anyone else. I won't have none of this one man three million women stuff. No sir. Any lover I have better stay loyal to just one person and that person is me." She looked pensive for a moment as her eyes saw something invisible on the distant horizon. "I tried it the other way a few times. I won't try it again."

Her expression softened and then firmed into something else. "Now that you have sold most everything you own, what are you going to do with yourself?"

Kit sat up straight. "Sold everything?"

"In a manner of speaking," Perk said. "The going rate appears to be four gold. You should have seen Missy when she found out she owned the inn. I helped Aaron stagger over to the bank yesterday so he could make the legal changes. By the way, congratulations on owning the Manor. You owe me four gold 'cause I paid Aaron for you. He also dropped four pounds of silver into your account. Kit, you are a well off woman in your own name now."

Sadness welling in her eyes, Kit looked at Aaron. She knew.

"Aaron, what about the kids?"

"I'll drop in," Aaron promised, acting as if he had known what he wanted all along. His decision to leave Last Chance for a time had only come to him with the arrival of the letter in his pocket. His decision to make the separation permanent had occurred only the day before. "I have my way of doing that after all. I don't want to be a stranger to my children."

"Your children by me, not by Sarah." Kit's regretful smile said she knew there was a difference.

"My children," Aaron said firmly. "Kit, keep my obligation to the farmers on the Manor. Remember, they get the land after ten years."

"I won't compromise your word, Aaron. I respect you too much for that."

Yes, Aaron thought. We do have that in common. We respect each other. Unfortunately, respect was not enough to build a marriage on. He wanted more, wanted something Kit could not provide. This knowledge showed in her moist eyes, but nothing in them said that she had any give in her attitude. So yes, he was walking away because their marriage was a pretense, a sham. If they tried to force matters, their respect for one another would fade in a few short years. Shortly afterwards they would grow to hate one another. One of the reasons he was leaving was to never give that hate a chance to grow. Kit's eyes told him that she understood.

After the two women left Aaron stayed in his chair, watching the sun set on a caring town. People passed by; some stopped to chat. Businesses closed their doors for the evening, their owners locking them firmly with a key before settling their hats and heading down the boardwalk on their way to a sound home and family. Mistress Banks walked by with her elbow held firmly in the grip of Mistress Moody while they discussed the possibility of bringing Mistress Banks into the family. Passing him, they paused for a moment to give him a friendly nod. Aaron smiled. These were good people. They cared about him just as he cared about them. He loved each and every one of them.

He loved them, but he did not love them enough to make living in Last Chance palatable to his scarred soul. There was too much loss here; too many happy memories had turned sour. Besides, this was no longer the town he had learned to love. Over the past year Last Chance had changed its character. People had left, and other people had arrived. Mistress Golard was no longer Mayor because the newcomers had voted in one of their own. Aaron did not like that idea. You could never be too sure who new people really were deep inside their skins until they had time to prove themselves.

Catching the direction of his thoughts, he snorted in self-derision. It had not been so long ago when he was new himself.

Cathy looked quite proper as she left the inn and walked over to open the Emporium for the evening. She smiled at him with an open, friendly smile. Behind that smile, hidden by her eyes, was secret pain, and her hand fumbled when she tried to open the Emporium's door.

Aaron remembered her crying over him, and he wondered if perhaps some small part of her loved him after all. Maybe the part that loved him wasn't so very small.

She was married. Cathy was another reason why he should leave.

Well, N'Ark should be distant enough for even the most critical of town wags. He would go there as Miss Bivins' letter had requested. During the last several months she had been very busy on his behalf and now matters were beginning to roll along. According to her letter his presence was needed for a few weeks if she were ever going to get his affairs smoothed out.

Well, the indomitable Miss Bivins was in for a surprise. He was going to N'Ark for more than a few weeks. He was going to make N'Ark his home and never come to Last Chance again. No, once he finally left, the closest he would ever come to the town would be when he visited the Manor and his children.

He closed his eyes as the last rays of the sun settled into the west. Thoughts of Sarah and the laughter they had shared ran through his mind, and this time he did not push her memory away. He brought up a memory of her sitting in his rocker, Ernest in her arms. Rocking peacefully, Sarah smiled gently at Aaron, telling him how much she loved their lives and how much she loved him. Sad, contemplative, Aaron wrapped his thoughts around her. She had been his wife and his love, but she had been much, much more. She had been a warrior and a justice maker, and she had been strong. If she were here to know of it, Sarah would be disgusted with his melancholy turn. She would berate him, kick him in the butt, and tell him to get on with his life because life was getting on without him.

And she would be right. It was time for him to get on with his life.

Footsteps sounded from inside the store. Steven Knight stepped out on the walkway and smiled at Aaron as he began sweeping the day's dust off the worn boards.

Clang Clang Clang Clang

Jorrin's lights were on in the smithy. He was a stubborn one, was Jorrin. He was always the last to quit on any evening.

Clang Clang Clung Clang

Steven stopped his sweeping for a moment and smiled at Aaron, leaning on his broom while his eyes roamed the street as the town shut down around them.

"I have to admit, Mister Turner, this is one of my favorite times of day. I like it when I open the store and get to watch the town come to life, but I like to watch it go back to sleep better." Straightening, he began sweeping once more. Dust and dirt rose gently in the air. "Yes sir, I like to watch it shut down, and I like to sweep the walk clean. It's soothing, and it sort of means that everything is done, but I get to sweep it again in the morning, and that tells me that everything is beginning all over again. Feels like everything from before is gone, and only the new is ahead of me."

Aaron smiled and closed his eyes.

Cathy began singing inside the Emporium. She sang a song of dark moody stanzas. She sang low and slow, and her voice broke near the end of her last words. Her song spoke of lost love, broken dreams, and a home torn by endless strife.

The tremor in her voice was as tragic as the song she sung.

Aaron listened, and he mourned with tearless eyes until Jorrin finished working and crossed the street to help Aaron stand and accompany him to the empty house where Aaron lived.
Epilogue

Sneering, Delmac listened while the Balandice woman explained the proposed terms of the treaty. It seemed fair, seemed just, but he was no fool. Words were nothing but air. Actions counted, and he had no doubt Isabella's actions would lean towards the peaceful destruction of his people. Within the next few years his people would be smothered under laws, custom, and treaties that stole their land, delegating his entire race to a few tracts of worthless land.

Birsae had promised more. She had promised a savior, the Chosen, and the Chosen had come, only they were not saved. They were trapped in a hell of their own making because they'd listened to a shaman and a madman.

Delmac waited while the other leaders had their turn, and then he set his mark beneath Tremon's on the piece of paper because he had no choice. Any other action would mean instant disaster instead of a slow decline. After all, there was still time. All was not lost. The Chosen might save them yet.

It had been promised.

Mark Eller has been exiled to a dank basement cavern by his wife, Daneen, because that is the only way he can ignore the distractions of family and eight parrots enough to be able to write. While trapped within his cave, in addition to writing short stories and books, he has recorded and released two audio podcasts, God Wars, a dark fantasy trilogy found at The Hell Hole Tavern, and Mercy Bend, a compilation of twisted tales. Both podcasts can be found at i-tunes. God Wars was written and recorded with Mark's partner, Elizabeth Drapper.

Mark has been published by a number of magazines, both on-line and in print, discovering along the way that in certain segments he has been classified as a horror writer, much to his surprise. He enjoys reading fantasy, science fiction, and mystery, but also has a strong preference for reading about archeology and history.

Mark invites you to visit his website at http://www.hellholetavern.com, or drop in to see him on my space at <http://www.myspace.com/markeller>. He can also be found at http://www.twitter.com under the name Mark Eller. If none of those options are exciting enough, you can e-mail him at Hellholetavern@aol.com if you have questions or just want to say hi.

Photograph by Darren Oxford, Oxford Photography

www.oxfordphoto.com

