 
## Once We Were Human  
Book One of "The Commander"

Randall Allen Farmer

Copyright © 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016 by Randall Allen Farmer

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form. This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

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Once We Were Human  
Book One of "The Commander"

"Life is like arriving late for a movie, having to figure out what was going on without bothering everybody with a lot of questions, and then being unexpectedly called away before you find out how it ends." – Joseph Campbell

Part 1  
A Deeper Sea

"Although the screaming headlines may proclaim otherwise, the Shakes has been shown to be an actual disease, what doctors now call Transform Sickness. The first scientifically verified report of Transform Sickness occurred only two years ago, but anecdotal evidence of the disease goes back to the second World War. Transform Sickness proved to be a bacterial infection earlier this year, linked to two previously undiscovered strains of bacteria of the Listeria family. Doctors suspect some five to ten percent of the population are carriers of the bacteria and may never get Transform Sickness. The new Listeria strains that trigger Transform Sickness are not transmitted by direct personal contact, but come from tainted food, soil, dust, sewage, and many other sources." [UPI report (July 30, 1953)]

Chapter 1

"Wash your hands before and after touching any uncooked food. Wash your food three times before eating it. Cook all food to 160 degrees or more. Eat any leftover food within 1 day after cooking; always fully reheat any leftover food. Only you can prevent Transform Sickness!" [Department of Agriculture flyer, 1954]

Carol Hancock: September 12, 1966 – September 16, 1966

The nightmare seized me and refused to abate, a torment of dead babies, of giant steel balls chasing me in a pinball machine the size of a building, of immense crowds judging every word I spoke. Voices echoed through my terror: my husband Bill, my mother, my eldest daughter Sarah, nurses, doctors, police, others. Each segue led back to the endless pinball game, where death awaited even the tiniest miscue.

Later, I would wonder what I had been experiencing. The future? The past? Hallucinations? The subconscious mind sometimes figures things out before the conscious mind does. Not that my conscious mind was any great shakes at the time. But still. My subconscious had figured out I had plunged into deep deep shit. Even as I write this as the Commander, a decade later, I still have no idea how. No matter.

What I thought I knew was bad enough.

When I screamed myself awake, nothing had changed. Metal cot. Straitjacket. Legs shackled together. A single tiny light bulb on the ceiling, behind a metal cage, bright enough to hurt my eyes.

I wiggled so I no longer faced the light and looked around. I found myself in a small room, perhaps eight by eight feet across, with cinder block walls and a metal door with no doorknob but with an ominous slot at the bottom.

The last time I awakened, I'd misplaced my name and screamed my throat raw in panic. I knew my name now: Carol Hancock. Mother and housewife. I couldn't tell where I was. I didn't know how long I'd been here. I had no idea _why_.

This time, at least, I didn't panic.

I had more problems than my location: my body ached, my head spun, and stomach acids gnawed at my insides as if I starved. My clothes, drenched in foul smelly perspiration, failed to protect me from the cold. Neither did the straitjacket I'd somehow acquired. A pressing need I couldn't satisfy sucked at my soul, a longing deeper than the normal hunger for food. A craving.

I had to pee. I looked around the room, still squinting because of the bright light, and found the facilities, a metal toilet of brushed stainless steel with no toilet seat. Besides the straitjacket, I wore some kind of coarse hospital gown, rough linen more suited for a drop cloth than someone's clothing. No panties. The gown wadded up indecently around the strap between my legs. I rolled off the metal cot and stood, more of a production than it should have been. My legs wobbled after two steps and I fell with a clank of metal shackles to the concrete floor. I attempted to stand, but with my legs shackled together and the rest of me constrained by the straightjacket, I only managed to slip across the concrete, a baby who hadn't learned to crawl.

"Darn it." I gathered my strength for another try, each breath deeper than the last. In time, I wiggled myself into the corner formed by the toilet and the wall and pushed myself vertical with my feet. It took me four tries.

I sat and peed, making a disgusting mess of my gown. I had no idea who might have imprisoned me, but nothing else made sense. I'd never done anything to justify this kind of treatment. I was a white middle class housewife, with a businessman husband, three children, a habit of volunteering for good causes, and a clear conscience. Not at all the sort of person likely to find herself shut away in some awful cell.

Gaps in my memories lurched me off the toilet; I didn't remember how I'd gotten here! Tears slid down my face as I made my way back to the cold metal cot, each step an aching sob of misery. After I sat, I turned away from the light and screamed until my throat hurt too much to stand, and the pain forced the screams to fade away into sobs of hopeless misery.

I jolted awake later, winced and turned away from the light. Someone had slid a tray of food through the ominous slot at the bottom of the door. My gourmet dinner consisted of oatmeal, crackers, and a bowl of milk like you would set out for a cat. I hobbled over and knelt carefully by the tray.

A roach crawled over the surface of the oatmeal. I grimaced in disgust, but I blew on the roach until it ran away, too hungry to let disgust deter me. I licked up every crumb and drop of my minimal meal, making even more of a mess of my hair and face. The food did little but awaken my ravenous hunger and the other craving for which I had no name. I howled on the floor in agony afterwards.

Something was dreadfully wrong with me.

Next time I awoke, I found myself back on the metal cot. The door opened with a clang and I shrank back against the cinder block wall of my cell. A wall of state troopers, dour and angry, stood in a semicircle around the door.

Each one of them had his gun drawn and pointed at me.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked.

They didn't answer.

"Who are you? What am I doing here? What's going on?"

Two of the troopers came into the room, grabbed hold of my bound arms and yanked me roughly to my feet.

"I'm just a housewife. I haven't done anything wrong!"

The two troopers dragged me out through their half dozen compatriots, every gun following me as I passed.

The lights outside my room slammed into me, bright enough to hurt. I squinted my eyes shut and turned away from the fierce brilliance, but the brilliance still burned. I howled at the misery and felt an unfamiliar hard and painful impact on my cheek in response, enough to knock my head sharply to the side and send me lurching into the trooper who held me. Someone hit me, actually _hit_ me. Shock made me open my eyes and I caught a brief, burning glimpse of the wooden handle of a gun retreating backwards away from my cheek.

I screamed in pain, keening loudly as they pushed me forward. Still, I kept my eyelids cracked open despite the burning, desperate to _know_. Five steps later I quieted my screams and listened, my hearing now as painfully sensitive as my vision. Between my two senses I recognized my location, the jail in Jefferson City, my home town. After the troopers dragged me up to ground level I heard the sounds of traffic, the sounds of arguments, and an immediate hush that followed me wherever the guards took me. As best I could without blinding myself, I searched for people I knew and found none. I'd prayed my husband or my friends would come rescue me, but seeing only strangers my hope evaporated into my pain.

The troopers took me through the jailhouse, part of the county government annex I had known so well during my City Decorations Committee volunteer work four years ago. Off down one of the bare linoleum-floored hallways an argument resolved itself, a verbal spat between a lawyer and some important state trooper. The lawyer argued they had no right to take me, Mrs. Hancock, anywhere without the proper legal niceties. The state trooper didn't agree.

Oh. There _was_ something so bad, so horrible, that it caused the authorities to routinely ignore the legalities, something from a few years before the marvelous modern year of 1966. I tried to remember and failed.

The troopers hustled me out the back entrance into the warm September sun and down the wide stairs to the parking lot, where a bus waited. In the bright sun I couldn't open my eyes at all, and they streamed with tears. One of the troopers jerked on my arm and pulled me, blind and stumbling, into the bus. Inside, the trooper untied the arms of my straightjacket and chained me by the wrists to a metal stanchion.

Hiccupping with sporadic sobs, I listened to the troopers around me for several minutes. My tears slowed and I dared crack my eyes open again. I was the only prisoner, outnumbered ten to one by the guards, chained up like Al Capone or Bonny of Bonny and Clyde. The troopers had placed me in a convict bus, one more commonly used to transport chain gangs and other prisoner work gangs to their jobs. The bus had steel mesh across the windows and a strong metal gate between the driver and the seats.

The men wouldn't talk to me. One of them actually kicked me in the calf as he passed by me to his spot at the back of the bus. Another murmured, "damned murderess," to the man next to him. There had to be some mistake. I prayed so.

The bus drove on for hours. Pain, hunger, tears, loneliness and confusion warred with unfamiliar thoughts that bled through my mind. I cried and cried, beads of salty rain dripping down my cheeks to collect on the point of my chin.

"God damn it. Quit with the fucking tears already," one of the state troopers in the back said.

The trooper across the aisle from me leaned forward. With a sharp motion, he hit me in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. I gasped and cringed backwards as far as I could, crying harder. The trooper laughed. "At least if she's going to cry, she can have something to cry about."

A trooper in the front said, "Hell, Rudy, what did you go do that for? Now she's never going to shut up."

The trooper across from me shrugged. "She wasn't going to shut up anyway. She's been crying for the last four damn hours." He jabbed his rifle butt toward my stomach again and laughed when I cringed.

The brilliant light faded into evening as the convict bus drove on. The state troopers didn't relax their vigilance or treat me any better in the cooler twilight.

"Hey, Snapper, you think she's a good fuck?"

The man two rows behind me grinned. "Sure. You gonna go for it, Clete?"

The first man laughed. "It's not like she's going to live long enough to make any trouble over it. I'm just not into dogs." He punctuated his remark with a kick at my legs. "You can, though. Just bend her over the seat and take her right up..."

Frisky now, the kicks, blows, and appallingly graphic descriptions of their sick desires didn't stop for many miles. I'd never even heard of some of the abuses they proposed. Yet, except for the blows and the kicks, they didn't approach within six feet of me.

I cringed as far away from them as my bonds would allow and tried to pray, but I failed: furious, not penitent. I raged at God for letting me fall into such misery and I raged at my family for the same.

The troopers didn't give me any food, or any water, or tell me my destination.

Night soothed my eyes; I'd never seen a night like this before. Everything lit up, as if the moon had taken lessons from the sun. I watched through the steel mesh, mesmerized by the vivid night, as the farmland turned to suburb, suburb to city. St. Louis? Likely. We circled around the city proper and headed away, into the land of freight trains and warehouses. The convict bus stopped at a heavy steel gate, backlit by city lights staining the sky. The gate interrupted tall walls with barbed wire on top, the loopy kind of barbed wire all prisons seemed to have. Three guards tended the gate.

One of the guards entered the bus, checked me over from a distance, refused to answer my questions, and extracted signatures from the boss trooper. The convict bus rolled over pipes, an unlikely cattle guard, and into the compound.

I expected to see a well-lit state prison, huge and impersonal. Instead, I found a single poorly lit U-shaped building, three stories tall, not large, but surrounded by a brick wall. Along the a quarter mile road to the U-shaped building were concrete slabs, the remains of bulldozed buildings and long unused roads. I frowned, mystified.

The building had no signs, no markings at all. A few lights shone from ground floor windows, breaking the darkness. An acre of graveyard lay four hundred feet to the side of the road, with hundreds of small identical white crosses, tightly crammed together, as if the graves held cremated remains. I'd seen this a long time ago, not this building, but similar. I dredged my mind, trying to remember.

Newsreels. Newsreels, while I attended college.

My God.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach.

They'd taken me to a Transform Detention Center, one of the old ones where they took Transforms to die in the bad old days, before they had discovered Focuses. I thought the authorities had closed down all the Detention Centers.

I raged for a moment, furious I'd been sent _here_ in a prisoner bus. Transforms were dangerous! What a horrible thing to do to an innocent God-fearing housewife.

Then I got it. They thought I was a Transform.

I looked at my handcuffed hands, and, yes, they shook a little. The Shakes was one of the most horrifying diseases known to mankind, nearly as bad as Leprosy and the disease they described once on the Dr. Kildare show. The one that makes your skin fall off. They called this disease the Shakes because your hands shook, at least at the start of it. The proper term for the Shakes was Transform Sickness. You got it and you never recovered. You became something else. Someone else. Transformed.

This shouldn't have happened to _me!_ Transform Sickness was one of the ways God worked in the world, the hand of his wrath upon the blatant sinners.

The Shakes wasn't supposed to be a death sentence for a woman if diagnosed early enough. I'd learned the truth in Parade magazine and Readers' Digest: Focus households wanted woman Transforms and regularly took them in. Male Transforms, though, often couldn't be saved and had to be euthanized or face a death too horrible to describe. Back before World War II euthanasia had been illegal, but because of the horror of the Shakes many state governments had legalized euthanasia, including Missouri. When the end came, male Transforms often went psychotic and tried to kill everyone around them. Women Transforms became Monsters if they weren't taken in by a Focus, literally demonic monsters. Killing them was a kindness.

A rare variety of Transform, the Focus, saved other Transforms from death by moving a special Transform-only compound all Transforms had in them, juice, from one Transform to another. Only women transformed into Focuses, and only after spending several days in a coma. However, salvation from becoming a Monster or psychotic didn't save the Transform from the eternal punishment of sterility, or the other marks of the curse they wore.

Now, I wasn't a blatant sinner – or sprouting fur or growing claws. So why bring me _here_?

Was I a Focus?

The bus approached the brick wall around the u-shaped building and went down a ramp into a bright well-lit basement. Through the cracks in my eyelids, I saw tall concrete pillars, parking spaces, and a roped-off, pock-marked, discolored wall: the shooting gallery, where authorities shot women transforming into Monsters in the bad old days.

The wall looked freshly washed to me, though.

The bus rumbled by the wall and stopped.

We waited.

Ten minutes later a doctor in a white lab coat, flanked by two well-armed orderlies, came up to the bus. The doctor tapped on the door and the driver opened it. After he walked up the bus steps he held a huddled conversation with the officer. They talked, exchanged paperwork and signed papers. They took a moment to point at me and talked some more.

Eventually the driver opened the gate into the back part of the bus. The doctor turned to the guards, waved his hands at me and said "Bring her". He turned and left, ignoring my presence.

"Hey. Talk to me," I said. He didn't. Sudden hot hot anger erased my tears and I slammed the cuffs against the metal pole. "I" slam "Want" slam "Some" slam "Answers!" slam.

The cuffs broke.

The Goddamned cuffs broke.

Rach – rat! went the guns in the guards' hands. I held my hands in front of me in disbelief. I was a housewife, a town girl. My wrists bled red under the broken cuffs, with actual strips of skin laid open. Oooh! Yuck. The wounds should have been horribly painful, but no. Not too much. They did make me want to throw up when I looked at them, though. My anger melted away along with my blood as it dripped on the metal floor of the bus.

"Mrs. Hancock?"

I looked up at the firing squad of terrified state troopers in front of me and wanted to shake my head. The doctor had spoken, on the other side of the guards. He had come back into the bus. The nametag on his white lab coat read 'Dr. Peterson'.

"Yes, Dr. Peterson?"

He slipped back a few feet when I addressed him by name, his face ashen. "These men are going to fire their weapons and kill you unless you allow us to shackle you again, Mrs. Hancock."

At least he knew my name.

"I saw the shooting gallery as we drove in, Doctor. All of a sudden, I feel safer in here than out there. You wouldn't want to puncture the gas tank shooting up some Monster, would you?" Phooey. I was making things up as I went along.

"Monster?" the doctor said. "Where'd you get that idea, Mrs. Hancock?"

"Why else would I be here? Why else would you treat me like this?"

"Truthfully, Mrs. Hancock, we don't know what's going on. None of us has ever even heard of a Transform like you. Unfortunately, you were involved in an apparent homicide."

"You've got to be kidding."

"When you started your transformation coma, Mrs. Hancock, you took four women with you. You killed them." The doctor flipped through his papers. "A Mrs. Susan Holtwich." Paper flip.

"No," softly. Transformation coma? Me?

"A Mrs. Alice Winslow." Paper flip.

"No," agonized, louder. Kill?

"A Mrs. Beth Farragut." Paper flip.

"No," pain, terror, agony, and louder.

"and lastly, a Sarah Hancock, a minor, age twel..."

"You _lie!_ " I screamed teary agony at the top of my lungs and launched myself forward. Guns fired. I ripped the clipboard from the doctor's hands, ran headlong out the bus door and fell to the concrete. A siren to my left screamed air raid. I got up with barely a pause and ran as fast as I could with the shackles on my legs, faster than I believed possible. Behind me, boots pounded on concrete like a herd of horses. I stopped, looked at my bare feet, and noticed a growing red pool around them.

My blood.

I bolted, backtracking to the ramp the bus had used. It didn't take me long to find it or to realize the futility of escape. The authorities had set up this place for people like me, for horrid monsters who killed their own daughters and their best friends. Instead of an open ramp, I found a floor to ceiling metal mesh net blocking my way. Beyond the mesh net sat a row of steel bars; behind that, another net. I turned right and ran along the edge of the underground garage, searching for another way out.

I started to slow, lightheaded and weak, overwhelmed by the worsening craving. I reached a corner and had to turn right again, past the shooting gallery. I could smell death there, recent death. The freshest blood on the concrete had spattered on it less than a month ago.

I had no idea how I knew that.

It hit me that I had no way out. I was dead. They would kill me if I didn't bleed to death first. The people who chased me didn't seem to care.

I sat behind a pillar, covered in cold sweat and woozy, a narrow stream of blood slowly snaking away from me. Only the state troopers in the truck had shot at me, not the men who chased me. The men who followed me walked and ran differently, though again I had no idea how I knew that.

I read the doctor's paperwork. They had my name right. My husband was in custody, for striking a police officer and for four counts of involuntary manslaughter.

That puzzled me for a moment until I worked it out. The authorities blamed Bill because he hadn't taken me to a hospital or police station. I'd read about cases like this. I actually considered it appropriate punishment – or had.

The paperwork listed me as "Transform, unknown variety". I had killed my daughter along with three other women, probably while they took care of me...

I flipped back to the first page in sudden shock. There it was: coma onset. I checked the transfer paper remanding me from the custody of the Jefferson City Jail to the St. Louis Transform Detention Center and found the date. I'd been in a coma for three days. Strange. The transformation coma that produced a Focus lasted four or five days. I'd never heard of three.

Memories flooded back, dim memories of my couch and women caring for me. Some sort of rapture, ascension to heaven, pleasure akin to passionate love with my husband but something else. Then darkness.

Somehow, I'd killed them all, right there and then.

The authorities were right. I deserved to die. Transforms were monsters. I was a monster.

I'd killed my own daughter. I must have recognized my condition. I wasn't stupid, I knew the symptoms of the Shakes, and I knew to be on the lookout for them.

However, the Shakes was the curse of God, punishment meted out to sinners and unbelievers. I was neither. In my pride at my sinless life, I must have denied to all that I had the Shakes.

Well, sinless life no more, if I'd done that. I stood and almost passed out. Tossed the paperwork away. "Go ahead. Shoot," I said through my tears. I deserved it for what I had done. For being a Transform. They didn't shoot. "Yaaaaah!"

I stumbled toward one of them.

The men were not the state troopers. They were armed hospital orderlies, men with experienced eyes.

Something hit me with the force of a jackhammer on the back of my head, and down I went.

\---

"Hello, Mrs. Hancock? I'm Dr. Peterson."

I awoke on the floor of a featureless concrete cell, right next to a six-inch grate in the floor that smelled like a neglected woman's restroom in an east Texas highway rest stop. In a heat wave. The straightjacket and chains were gone and I wore a hospital gown. I cautiously levered myself into a sitting position.

The voice came from a speaker set in the ceiling. "Hello. I'm hungry," I said. It took me a few moments to remember how I got here. I was surprised I was still alive. My annoying craving hadn't left; I now guessed I wanted juice, the strange life-chemical of Transforms I thought of as the Devil's soft drink.

"Now that you're awake, let's start out with some information." Dr. Peterson's tinny voice from the speaker echoed off the concrete walls. "Technically, you're a multiple murderess. However, in my medical opinion, you haven't harmed anyone of your own volition. Thus, if we can come to an agreement, I _would_ like to work with you in a less confined situation. You would have a real hospital bed, receive medical care, and yes, we would feed you. You wouldn't be tied down."

"I'm confined to a Transform Detention Center?" Let it all be a mistake. Please, God. Let it all be a mistake.

"Yes," Dr. Peterson said, dashing my hopes and prayers. "Confined for the safety of the surrounding community. Although you're human now, things can happen quickly to those with Transform Sickness."

I took a deep breath and accepted the situation. "Yes, yes, I have the Shakes, if I turn Monster or am about to, you'll shoot me. Fine. I don't have a problem with that. Can I have some breakfast?" The horrors in Dr. Peterson's paperwork evaporated, replaced by numbness.

"Yes. You should know that all of us in the Transform Detention Center have signed waivers. If we're taken hostage, the guards here will shoot to kill the person who took us hostage. If we die, so be it."

"Hard life."

"Hard life, and government hazard pay at two and a half times normal."

"Good for you, Dr. Peterson."

While I waited, I counted bullet wounds. Four, none through my torso. Five, if you counted the long red welt along my ribcage, a graze. Amazing. I must have been out for weeks to heal so much.

The secret cell door opened to reveal five orderlies. "Mrs. Hancock? I'm going to push in a tray of food. When you finish eating it, leave it in place, and stand."

Looked like dinner, not breakfast, to me, but I didn't complain. I ate it, a man's portion, but still felt hungry afterwards. I was used to dieting to keep my figure trim and expected to be hungry after eating. The hunger normally went away after a half hour or so.

I stood.

"Mrs. Hancock, you've been approved to be a status four prisoner," the lead orderly said, a tall, thin man with a complexion problem. "You'll be allowed to walk from room to room, but only when accompanied by four or more orderlies. Two will accompany you in front, two in back. You won't be restrained."

"Okay."

"Two of us will now enter the room. Please do not move."

I obeyed orders and the orderlies did a complicated dance of positioning, ending up with me between the four of them. The two in front did not put their backs to me, but walked half sideways, half backing down the corridor in front of me. The orderlies pointed guns at me the entire time. They hadn't mentioned that as part of being a status four prisoner.

They brought me to see Dr. Peterson.

Dr. Peterson offered me a chair and I sat. The armed orderlies boxed the room, their guns still aimed at me. The cold men with their guns seemed odd in such an ordinary office.

"Mrs. Hancock." Dr. Peterson said to me from behind his oversized wooden desk. "You present us with many problems."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't ask for this to happen." To my surprise, I was already famished and wobbly. On top of my annoying craving for juice and my stiff joints, hunger made my mind feel like old molasses. It would be impolite to demand another meal so soon, so I decided to tough it out.

"I understand," Dr. Peterson said, laying his hands flat on the desk as if it would rise up if he didn't hold it down. He was in his forties, with dark hair and facial stubble like Nixon. He had a round face and a solemn look of professional competence, which I might have believed more if he hadn't been so callous in the bus.

I'd killed my daughter Sarah. My thoughts hurt too much to face, so I turned my mind away from them.

"As best as we can determine," Dr. Peterson said, "you contracted Transform Sickness and started to make a Focus transformation. However, something unexpected happened soon after you slipped into a coma, while your friends and daughter were trying to call for an ambulance."

"Transform Sickness did something that killed two friends, a neighbor, and my daughter." A Focus transformation induced transformations in nearby women, but didn't affect children. Sarah must have been barely old enough.

Phooey. I didn't believe my own words and rationalizations.

"Yes, that's the right way to look at it. You're not at fault, Mrs. Hancock, save that under the archaic laws of the state you still might be prosecuted after you're released from the Detention Center."

"What can you do for me here, Dr. Peterson?" I asked.

"You're of course familiar with the fact," Dr. Peterson said. He paused and brought his hands together on his desk to make a little church steeple. "That if a Focus cannot be found for a Transform, he'll die."

I nodded. "Men go into withdrawal and go psychotic, women turn Monster."

"We can predict to within the hour, these days, when this is going to happen. A day ahead of time, the authorities take unfortunate unwanted Transforms from a Transform Clinic and ship them here. This Detention Center also deals with the aberrant cases, of which there are plenty. For instance, there are two women Transforms on the third floor who..."

All of a sudden I knew their location. That's what had been bothering me. I wanted them, a strange sexual arousal mixed with a deep hunger. I needed them. They could satisfy my mysterious craving.

"Yesrightthere, Doctor," I said, turning swiftly and pointing up. We must have been on the ground floor. "Let's go. I need them."

Dr. Peterson blinked at me. "You _need_ them?" He backed away, white as a sheet and breathing rapidly, and slowly rose to stand with his back against a window. Thin stripes of black shadow from the thick metal grate on the outside of the safety glass dappled his white lab coat. Terrified, he slid along the glass to stand next to an armed orderly.

"I need them. _Now_ ," I said, and hissed.

"Mrs. Hancock," Dr. Peterson bellowed. He gathered himself. "You have just been reassigned as a status six prisoner," he said, with authority. "Bend forward and place your hands on the desk."

"Will that get me to those women?"

"Yes, yes," Dr. Peterson said. "Absolutely."

Sure. Anything to arrange a visit with those two women Transforms. I bent. They shackled me with heavy shackles. When I looked up, Dr. Peterson had left the room.

I waited and examined my situation, suspicious of Dr. Peterson's smooth assurance. There were little half-moons cut in the office carpeting. I had noticed them when I came in. The guards had peeled one of them up, revealing an eyebolt embedded in the concrete floor. They had shackled me to it.

A few minutes later I felt the woman Transforms moving closer to me, arousing my desires. Then, to my appalled anger, they moved farther away. When they left the building, a couple minutes later, I howled in agony and danced around the embedded bolt, pulling furiously at my restraints. I don't know what I would have done if I'd actually managed to break free; the armed guards watched my manic performance with cold indifference. Eventually, the women went so far away I couldn't sense them anymore.

I swung the chain at the floor in a futile display of anger and sat back down in the chair. I cried, furious and miserable with the loss of those two Transforms. They were mine. I needed them.

Dr. Peterson returned and wove his way in through the guards. "Yes, now that that has been taken care of, Mrs. Hancock, where were we?" he said as he settled in behind his desk again.

"You bastard," I said. Hot anger. "You lied to me."

"I apologize, but it was necessary. You're a Major Transform, Mrs. Hancock."

"You said I'd failed my Focus transformation." I said, still livid with anger. Those Transforms had been mine!

"You did. You're a Major Transform, but you're not a Focus."

His comment made no sense. To me, Major Transform and Focus were synonymous. Like Santa Claus and Kris Kringle. It didn't help that my mind felt like mush.

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I," he said, and artfully raised one and only one eyebrow. His smarmy air of smug superiority galled me. I tensed. "This is outside my area of expertise. However, I have an expert flying in to deal with you who predicted you'd be...what you are. So, other than the fact that I have to keep you shackled up and that you are indeed some form of Major Transform, are there any other questions I can answer?"

He lied. I wished I'd spotted his lies the first time. I despised doctors and their arrogance, not the least when regarding Transform Sickness. They spouted glib explanations for something far more complicated than they understood. I suspected Transform Sickness was supernatural.

I broke down in tears as the misery hit me again. I was alone, among cold-blooded men who lied to me and thought nothing of my pain. I wanted my husband and my children. I wanted friends to care for me and my minister to pray for me. Instead, I had a lying doctor who wouldn't even tell me what little he knew. This wasn't the world I knew.

None of the cold guards surrounding me would even pass me the box of tissues. They wouldn't come that close. Eventually, Dr. Peterson tossed me his suit handkerchief. I caught it (momentary surprise) and bent my head down so I could daub my eyes with the hankie in my shackled hand.

My weepy behavior stung my own pride. I took a deep breath and did my best to push the tears away. "I have some questions, Dr. Peterson. Where's my husband and my family? Since it's been a week, they should have..." I stopped as horror filled Dr. Peterson's face.

"Mrs. Hancock. Your coma ended a little more than two days ago. You arrived here last night around nine. You woke up today at two-thirty in the afternoon."

I looked at my arm and my once-mangled wrists. The bullet wounds were still red, but that was about it. "Well, whatever I am, I heal like the dickens."

"Yes, you do," Dr. Peterson said. He took off his glasses and searched his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe them with, but of course, I had it.

"Okey dokey, I can live with that. So, what's the status of my family?"

"Your daughter's funeral was three days ago. Your husband is out on bail but can't leave Jefferson City. Your father attended the demonstration in Jefferson City, shouting 'death to monsters' with the rest of the Monsters Die crowd." Monsters Die was an activist organization, like the NAACP, but instead of pushing for civil rights for colored people they wanted the Transforms eradicated or confined. "Your mother has been hospitalized in Pilot Grove with exhaustion. Your widowed mother-in-law is staying at your house, taking care..." Dr. Peterson let his voice tail off, because I'd started bawling again.

Eventually, I stopped. "Until your specialist gets here I think I'd just prefer to be left alone," I said. Dr. Peterson's bedside manner repelled me. He sat up more stiffly and pushed his glasses back farther on his nose. "Do you have any of those prisoner cells with any amenities, like those fancy tin cups that prisoners get in the movies? Or am I stuck with concrete slab number six, complete with five inch grate?"

He grimaced at my sardonic comment. "You'll be in a locked cell, but one far nicer than you awoke in earlier."

I stood, moaned from a set of unexpected phantom pains in my extremities, and waited for the guards to unhook me from the floor. "Another thing. I seem to be famished. Hungry. Can I please have some extra food?"

"I'm sorry," Dr. Peterson said. "Until our expert arrives, you're on standard Transform rations."

I hadn't expected my second floor cell to be a reinforced hospital room, single occupancy. The room had all the plugs, valves, sinks and do-hickies of a modern hospital room, plus an electric bed, a nurse call button, a pitcher of ice water, a vase with plastic flowers, and the day's newspaper. I could hardly believe it was only Wednesday, September fourteenth. I'd probably have cards and flowers by now if I hadn't killed all my best friends and put my family in jail. An armed orderly stood guard outside my door, which they locked. From the outside.

The guards hadn't removed my shackles, but they had done something to them to increase the slack. They gave me a new hospital smock to wear, cut to go around the shackles. I changed and went to the bathroom (down the hall, second left), escorted by armed orderlies. If you ever want a challenge, try going to the bathroom in heavy shackles.

All alone in my room, my mind turned to better things. My old life. My daughter.

I cried.

I was born in Macon, Georgia, a simple town girl, named for my great aunt Carol. My maiden name was Stevens. My father lost his dry goods store in the middle thirties, blamed the Republicans, and moved his family to Missouri. I don't remember ever having a Deep South buttery molasses accent, but my mother Eunice did, a constant joy to listen to. Ann, my older sister, always fought with Mom, and our younger brother, Jeff, always fought with Dad. I was the good kid, the saintly middle child; I got along with everyone.

My childhood memories centered on our home in Pilot Grove, Missouri. Dad, or Old Jeff as everyone in town called him, bought himself another dry goods store in the early forties, which later became a combination feed store and small town grocery. I was exceptional in school, and much to the chagrin of my siblings graduated as Valedictorian from Pilot Grove Normal. With Mom's blessing and Dad's mute acceptance, I went off to college in the middle of the Korean War. The ivy halls of Iowa State were filled with men when I arrived, ever more so in the following years due to the GI Bill, a tidal wave of older men who had been through World War II, ready to make a new life of their own. Younger men returning from Korea soon joined them. I majored in history and never got a bad grade. My dorm friends and I were all studious, save when we were dating, which we did as a group as often we could.

In my third year of college, I met Bill Hancock, a new freshman. Wounded in the Korean War, he had finished his long military service career. Bill was five years older than I was, bright, witty, and driven. He knew what he wanted from life. Later, I would realize how much he resembled Dad, not physically, but in attitude and interests. Business was Bill's life. He liked nothing better than to make a sale and close a deal. He wanted to be more than a salesman, though; he wanted to start a business, build it, and make it successful. Bill was in college to learn how to do so.

I didn't finish my junior year at Iowa State. Bill set his sights on me, won my heart, swept me off my feet, and sold me on his vision of the future. Wife. Mother. Homemaker. The works. I was no looker, not even close. I had no sense of fashion and my appearance had never been a top priority. My dream had been to teach at a women's college somewhere, a dowdy academic spinster. My time in college had shown me one thing, though: I was one of those people who found changing light bulbs a challenge. My family had taken care of me and I never had to learn much about the work-a-day world of houses, cars and gardens. Bill's presence reminded me that I needed someone to care for me, at least for the physical things of life.

Mom and Dad approved of Bill, a pleasant surprise, as they had frowned at both my siblings' choices. He sold them on his dreams as well. A June bride, I had a house of my own by the end of summer, thanks to the vacuum cleaners Bill sold on his summer vacation.

The next decade flew by fast. Two miscarriages, then Sarah. I learned to cook and keep house, although it became clear after awhile that I needed a maid for certain things. I put work into cooking, though, becoming an excellent cook. After college Bill started up a dry cleaning chain and later took it national. We were never rich but we were never poor, either. I expected to be rich by the time I had grandchildren. We entertained constantly and my cooking expertise was an essential ingredient to the sales made during our parties.

One of the last things I remembered about my former life was my daughter Sarah's big birthday party as she turned twelve. She spent the first part of the summer helping me with the Jefferson City Library Volunteers and had won them over with her warm smile. Mom came up from Pilot Grove and she entertained the birthday party with her rich accent and elegant southern charm, telling stories about her childhood as well as stories about her fabled sister Bea, now a fine upstanding and refined Dallas lady.

If my memory wasn't playing tricks on me, Sarah had been twelve, Billy was ten, and little Jeffrey was seven. I was Vice-President of the Jefferson City PTA, Chairwoman of the Jefferson City Library Volunteers, and Secretary of the Jefferson City Junior League. Hundreds of people knew me by name. I had dozens of friends. Jane, the second wife of our district's City Councilman, was one of my closest friends. I was popular, a social success, a good woman.

Never, in my wildest dreams, did I ever imagine I would find myself a _Transform_.

\---

Breakfast finally came at seven-fifteen in the morning, after I spent a very hungry night pestering the nurses for extra food they couldn't legally give me. Standard Transform rations were larger than I expected; the breakfast included a large stack of pancakes, four rashers of bacon, a large mug of orange juice, and toast. I finished the meal hungry. I still wore the shackles, and as much of the meal ended up on the floor as in me.

"Good appetizer," I said to the nurse. "I'm ready for the main course now."

The nurse frowned and shook her head. She didn't appreciate my humor. "I can't give you anything more. I shouldn't have given you anything last night. Dr. Peterson left specific orders. Anything, absolutely _anything_ out of the ordinary, has to be approved by him first. He'll be coming in this morning, and you can talk to him then. You aren't going to starve to death in a day."

"I'm starving to death right now," I said, half in jest, still very hungry. The nurse ignored me.

I checked the clock every five minutes as I waited. At nine-oh-five, I heard footsteps in the hall and several low male voices. I sat up straight as Dr. Peterson stuck his head in my room. He nodded at me and stepped in. Three men followed him, and a woman.

"Good morning, Carol," Dr. Peterson said. "I have some people who would like to talk to you. This is Dr. Henry Zielinski, one of the nation's top researchers in the field of major transformations, and this is Special Agent Bates of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

I nodded to them, though the presence of an FBI agent sent shivers up my spine. Dr. Peterson didn't introduce the third man, one of the Center's orderlies, or the woman, a nurse.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hancock," Dr. Zielinski said. Dr. Zielinski was medium height and balding, fiftyish, thin, his dark brown hair salted with gray. His deeply creased well-worn face didn't match his surname; like some older French gentleman he had a narrow face with a high forehead. He projected an air of competence and wore a white lab coat over his starched white shirt, suit pants, vest and expensive Italian silk tie. He spoke with a noticeable New England Yankee accent. "Before we speak, I'd like to look at your chart," Dr. Zielinski said. Dr. Peterson rushed over to the foot of my bed and, almost fawning, presented Dr. Zielinski with my chart.

"While Hank here deals with things medical, I'll start things off," the FBI man said. "Mrs. Hancock, I'm not here to investigate or harass you. I'm here as your friend." He turned to Dr. Peterson. "Why don't we start by removing her shackles? We won't need them."

"Agent Bates, she's quite dangerous, and..." Dr. Peterson said. Bates interrupted him.

"I believe we can count on your perimeter security, Dr. Peterson. However, I'll have to have a few words with your Chief of Security, whoever that is. Later."

"Dr. Manigault, the Director of the Center, personally handles all security arrangements," Dr. Peterson said, agitated.

"I see." Bates turned back to me. "In any event, remove the shackles, please." Dr. Peterson whispered to the orderly, gave him a set of keys, and the shackles were removed. I took a heartfelt breath of relief and rubbed my sore wrists. I smelled bacon on the orderly's white coat and my stomach rumbled with hunger.

Dr. Zielinski looked up from my charts. "It states here that she attempted to escape, but doesn't list the details."

"She panicked during the transfer from State authorities to Center authorities," Dr. Peterson said. He didn't mention his own role in that debacle. "Two killed, five wounded."

I hadn't known. I was in such trouble...

"Let me guess," Dr. Zielinski said. "She panicked, ran through a wall of state troopers, and they tried to shoot her on the way by. They probably hit her, too, but didn't get in any lucky shots." He rolled his eyes. This Dr. Zielinski actually _rolled his eyes_ when talking about a situation where two state troopers died and five were wounded. Six wounded, if you counted me. He was so arrogant he was likeable.

Dr. Peterson silently nodded. Agent Bates shook his head. Dr. Zielinski went back to reading my chart.

"My wife is a Transform, Mrs. Hancock," Agent Bates said. Oh. "A Transform woman, in the care of a Focus. I belong to a minority of people who believe that Transforms need protection, not protecting from. I'm here to answer any questions you may have about your new legal status as a Transform, to educate you on how to survive as a Transform, and, if all goes well, to offer you a job, a new career."

"You've got to be kidding," I said. Me, an FBI agent? In cahoots with a bunch of Communists who thought Transforms were ordinary folk, not some kind of unnatural abomination? Insane.

Mr. Bates was a tall man, about Dr. Zielinski's age, dressed in a dark blue suit, dark tie and white shirt. He reeked of cigarette smoke. I pegged him at about six foot three, a hundred and seventy pounds. A walking cadaver, complete with sunken cheeks. He had white blonde hair cropped short and it was starting to gray. He spoke with a muted western drawl and his eyes were always on the move.

"We can talk about this later, once you get more acclimated to your status as a Transform," Mr. Bates said. "Until then, understand that I'm here to help."

"I'm hungry," I said. If he wanted to help, he could start by getting me food.

"Mrs. Hancock!" That was from the nurse, Callahan. She must have caught an earful about my behavior last night.

Dr. Zielinski raised his eyebrows high and turned to Dr. Peterson and the nurse. "You had no way of knowing, but a Transform such as Mrs. Hancock needs a great deal more food than even a Focus. Nurse Callahan, I want you to go down to the kitchen and have them send up three more 'standard breakfasts'. I want you to come back up here immediately with a full quart bottle of orange juice." Callahan left without batting an eyelash.

Three more standard breakfasts. I was in love. Tears leaked slowly out of the corners of my eyes. I cried from the misery of the night before, from pain, fear, hunger and for those I had killed. In a moment, it all came out in wrenching sobs.

"What's her juice reading?" Dr. Zielinski said, with a glare at Dr. Peterson. My muzzy mind thought he meant orange juice again, before I realized he meant Transforms' juice.

"118, as of yesterday evening."

Dr. Zielinski and Agent Bates glanced at each other. "Right," Bates said. "The healing. This is going to change things. I'll get right on it." Dr. Zielinski nodded to him and Bates hurried out.

I let myself fall back onto the bed, curled up into a fetal position, and wept, face in my hands. I needed Bill, needed him to say he loved me, that everything would be all right.

Dr. Zielinski quietly sent Dr. Peterson and the orderly out of the room. He sat down by my bed and waited. After a few minutes, my tears diminished into occasional sniffles. Nurse Callahan slipped in, delivered the bottle of orange juice to Dr. Zielinski, and slipped out again.

"Are you up to drinking some orange juice?" Dr. Zielinski said, his voice quiet. This started up my tears again, but I sat up and took the bottle from him. I choked on it more than once as I drank, but the orange juice was the best thing I had ever tasted. After I finished I was still ravenous, but did feel better. I felt foolish for drinking the orange juice from the bottle, though. My mother would have said I acted like I was raised in a barn.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and looked around for a box of Kleenex. Dr. Zielinski reached over to the nightstand next to his chair and handed me the box. He was the first person I'd met who was willing to come close to me. I blew my nose, wiped my eyes, and tried to make myself presentable again.

"I'm sorry," I said to Dr. Zielinski, my voice hoarse from the tears. "I don't usually look like this. I don't usually act like this either."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "New Major Transforms are never at their best. Are you still hungry?"

I nodded. My tears started to leak again.

Dr. Zielinski nodded. "We'll do something about that. You're going to need more food than you're used to and you're extra hungry because of your wounds."

"This is because I'm a, a..." My voice choked on the word "Monster".

"Because you're an Arm? Yes. Your body is going to be capable doing of a lot more, but this requires more food intake."

I shrieked in shock and surprise. "Arm? I'm an _Arm_?" My voice broke and I started to cry again.

Arms were some sort of rare new form of Transform. Story was, you became an Arm, you died. Save for a woman named Keaton. _She_ escaped custody to become pretty much the top person on old J. Edger's ten most wanted list. I thought there was an Arm in Europe and one in Canada who had also lived through their transformations, but I wasn't sure. Keaton was the law enforcement disaster of the decade, the biggest one-woman crime spree ever, the person responsible for the terms 'serial killer' and 'spree killer'. A true spawn of the Devil, a woman my preacher termed 'the Antichrist', her example proved the evil of all Transforms.

I shivered in sudden cold, afraid of myself.

"They didn't tell you? Women suffering from Armenigar's Syndrome need to buy into their treatment as soon as possible, before irrevocable problems begin," Dr. Zielinski said.

"What's," sniffle, "Armenigar's," sniffle, "Syndrome?" I asked. "You," sniffle, "said," sniff, "Arm."

"Sorry," Dr. Zielinski said. "There are a small number of one of a kind transformations we call Sports. Armenigar was the first failed Focus found by the medical community. After Armenigar broke free from her Canadian doctors and juice-sucked four tagged Transforms, the media christened her an Arm, from her name and because of her strength. A couple years later, Mary Chesterson repeated the exact same form of failed Focus transformation and became the second Arm. She later died, but if there have been two, it's not a Sport but a category of Transform, what we call an Armenigar Syndrome Focus. Her autopsy showed she indeed had a metacampus."

"Oh." Sniffle. 'Juice-sucked', he said, as if it was something that happened every day. All Transforms needed juice to survive. Normal women Transforms produced juice, but I already knew I wasn't a normal woman Transform. I did know the metacampus was the little organ a Focus grew in her brain, which allowed her to magically keep the Transforms in her household alive, but I hadn't known that Arms had one.

The good doctor wasn't even the least bit rattled by my display. He continued as if I hadn't interrupted. "You're always going to be a little bit hungry. I'm not going to authorize as much food as you'll want, but you'll be eating a lot more than you have been. For now, I'm going to give the order for six thousand calories a day, and we'll see how that works out."

"Six _thousand?_ " I asked. Calories I knew about.

"Six thousand," he said. "You're going to want more than that, perhaps much more. You won't be able to eat as much as you want, but there's no reason for you to be totally miserable with hunger, either. You'll have to forgive the staff, here. Few people know anything at all about major transformations, and even fewer people know anything about Armenigar's Syndrome."

"Thank you," I said. I rubbed at my wrists again. They still hurt from the long night in shackles.

"I'll talk to the Detention Center staff and see if I can convince them to back off. Arms have a bad reputation. Your escape attempt frightened everyone and they over-reacted. I've worked with Arms before and they're not all mindless killers. I should be able to talk the staff down."

"Are you going to be staying here? Are you going to be the doctor caring for me?" I asked. I took another drink from the empty bottle. I thought I saw a few drops at the bottom.

"Yes, I'll be in charge of your case. For the moment, you're going to be confined here. Agent Bates and I will stay and help you as long as we can."

"So what happens now? What happens to me?"

He smiled at me. "First you eat breakfast. I'm going to look through your chart in more detail and start arranging your care. I'm also going to start you on an exercise program, as our experience shows that an Arm will be much healthier if she gets a lot of exercise. There will be some folks coming through to run tests on you. You can have visitors occasionally and we can get you magazines, books and other things."

That sounded permanent. Fatally permanent.

"How long do I have to stay here? Will I be tried as a criminal?" I asked.

"Agent Bates can answer the latter question better than I can," Dr. Zielinski said, with a smile. "In regard to your other question, well, there haven't been enough Arm transformations to establish good statistics for how they progress. We'll just have to take things as they come and hope for the best."

Dr. Zielinski didn't think I'd leave this Detention Center alive. I barely kept my tears from leaking down my cheeks. I'd always wondered about the expression 'a lump in your throat' and what it might mean. I found I couldn't swallow without crying. A lump in my throat.

I choked out another question. "What am I supposed to do about juice?"

Dr. Zielinski looked away for an instant.

"Juice," I insisted. "Transforms need juice, right? Where do I get it? I don't see any Focus around here. Where do Arms get juice?"

"Mrs. Hancock," Dr. Zielinski said, gently. Now I looked away, abashed.

Reader's Digest had written about Keaton and Arms once. They were demons who grabbed people like storybook vampires, but they drained juice instead of blood as they killed their victims. I had a vision of myself with giant canine teeth and red droplets hanging from their tips. A lust of a new sort ran through me and I found myself looking at Dr. Zielinski almost in hunger.

"You said Armenigar sucked juice from Transforms like a vampire," I said. "The Transforms died?"

Dr. Zielinski sighed and scooted his chair backwards a couple of feet. "That isn't the best way of looking at it. The people you need are Transforms who are already dying because they can't find a Focus. You'll make their deaths a lot less unpleasant than they might be otherwise. You don't suck their blood; you're not a vampire. You'll take their juice, a painless process when done by an Arm. Taking their juice prevents them from going into withdrawal or becoming a Monster. As you said, they won't live through it."

"I'm not sure that's something I can do," I said.

"Your choices are limited, Mrs. Hancock," Dr. Zielinski said. I heard rattling and squeaking coming down the hall, and smelled food. A kitchen lady wheeled in a metal cart with the breakfasts on it. Doris, her nametag said. She gave me a friendly smile and started transferring the food to my bed table. "It's a hard decision you face, I know. Yet, if you don't take juice, you'll die in withdrawal too." He took my hand in his and I could feel his strength. "Would it help if I told you that the other Arms have had to deal with the same issue?"

"How did they deal with it?" I asked. I took my hand from his and helped the kitchen lady arrange my bed table. I dug in.

"It's hard for all of them. Mostly, though, they realize eventually there's nothing to be gained by refusing to take juice. Transforms without hope of a Focus are brought to Detention Centers like this all the time. They'll die here with or without you. If you take the juice from them you continue your own life." He paused and gazed deep into my eyes, as if he was looking for something in my mind. "One other thing: I'm a Doctor and Tommy Bates is an FBI Agent, but we're also researchers. Any Major Transform case, whether a Sport or a known type like a Focus or an Arm, is so rare as to be a potentially valuable research subject. If you cooperate, you allow us to continue our research efforts on Major Transforms. What we learn about Major Transforms is important, because without them, none of the other Transforms would live. What we learn from you could conceivably save thousands of lives, Mrs. Hancock."

"Carol," I said. Dr. Zielinski blinked a couple times and nodded. He made an impressive case, down to earth and inspiring.

"Carol," he said. "Good to have you on board."

\---

Dr. Zielinski was right about the food. After an absurd six thousand calories I was still ravenously hungry and still over-stressed. I spent the day in the lab. Blood samples, urine samples, x-rays, weight, blood pressure, heart rate, monitors, eyesight. Those I could understand. Tests of strength, reaction time, and flexibility I didn't understand.

I was no athlete or Jack La Lanne, but remembering my escape from the prisoner bus I did better than I expected. I wondered what I was becoming. Magazines talked a lot about the extra abilities Major Transforms acquired and I'd never heard a scientific explanation for any of them that made sense. It was magic, maybe, or a gift from God or more likely the Devil. I wondered if I would develop those supernatural abilities myself.

Next came more tests I didn't understand. There were nurses, orderlies, Dr. Zielinski, Dr. Peterson, doctors I didn't recognize. There was even a psychologist, a Dr. Richard Bentwyler. He had the best psychologist name I ever encountered. I bet no one contracted his first name to Dick! He gave me IQ tests, Rorschach tests, and I spent two hours talking while lying on a couch. I doubted my childhood relationship with my father had anything to do with Transform Sickness, but they were the doctors. I hoped they knew what they were doing.

The tests started after breakfast and continued 'til seven at night. Half the time they didn't even stop while I ate.

At least the tests kept me distracted.

Between tests in the afternoon, Agent Bates came by to check up on me as I waited for the next doctor to come through. I sat on an examination table in a cold room with worn linoleum tile and shiny metal instruments. The examination table had metal rings bolted to it, which held heavy canvas straps. I wondered how often they had to strap someone to that table to do their examination.

We talked while I snacked, about his wife, his children and about life in a Focus household. It didn't sound pretty. He loved his wife but they were nearly estranged. She had gotten stuck in a California Focus household after she transformed. To my amazement, his small government salary was one of the few reliable sources of income her household had.

Agent Bates also filled me in on some of the darker aspects of life as a Transform, part of his recruiting effort. I knew from my husband's business that it was difficult for a Transform to find a job. I didn't know people were often fired just because they lived in a Focus household. A known Transform often couldn't get service in stores and restaurants. Because of this, many Focuses moved their households to large cities for anonymity. However, banks rarely lent money to Focuses and Transforms, which meant they had to pay cash for housing. He also told me how the justice system rarely prosecuted crimes against Transforms.

"There's one thing I'd like to know," I said, after he asked me if I had any questions and I had pushed away my plate. The institutional mystery meat in the snack had been tough and overcooked, but tasted delicious anyway. I could have eaten another six servings.

"Yes?"

I explained what Dr. Zielinski had said about where I'd be getting juice. "If my killing someone is supposed to be better than withdrawal, I'd like to see what it is that makes withdrawal so awful. Surely you have a movie of it, or something. They never talk about it on T.V. or in any of the magazines or newspapers I read."

"I don't think that's a good idea." He glanced out the window, but there was little to see past the bars and the thick wire mesh.

"Why not?"

Agent Bates lit a cigarette, a foul unfiltered Camel. "Some things a person is better off not seeing. Withdrawal is horrible. You don't want to see movies of withdrawal." He paused. "We show these movies to men who are facing withdrawal themselves to convince them that suicide is a better option." I shivered, thinking of these men trying to convince some desperate Transform to commit suicide. Was withdrawal bad enough to justify such a thing?

I looked at his sunken eyes, still bleak with old horrors, and didn't wonder anymore.

"Mr. Bates, if I'm going to kill people I need to be able to live with myself afterwards. I'd like to know."

He looked at me for a long while, judging me in some studied FBI manner. I looked back at him. My stomach rumbled in the middle, and ruined the effect, but finally he said, "I'll see what I can do."

I returned to my room after seven and found three bouquets of flowers and a plant waiting for me. Perhaps life wasn't so bad. Despite all that had happened and all I had done, I still had people who cared for me enough to send flowers. There was a bouquet from the Junior League and one from the church. There was a philodendron from the school and a bouquet from Ann Henley, who was Jeffrey's second grade teacher and a good friend. There were even cards from several other friends and neighbors. It wasn't reasonable. I was a murderess. I was a demon. I was a monster. Normal people should not want anything to do with me.

No visitors, though.

Bob Scalini: August 12, 1966 – September 18, 1966

Bob Scalini cowered under the 9th Street bridge in downtown Miami and shivered in fear. He was an ordinary looking man in his early forties, balding, with the soft flabbiness of someone who sat at a desk all day. He wasn't the sort of man who should be wearing filthy clothes and three weeks' worth of beard, or cowering under a bridge at two thirty in the morning.

He had no idea how or why he had fallen into such a state.

The city was silent. When the occasional car passed overhead, his heart raced in panic and he curled up in pure unvarnished terror.

For three weeks every noise and every human contact brought more terror. He hid under bridges and in abandoned buildings, scrounged food from garbage cans, barely slept at all, and fled from anyone who tried to come near him. He had never experienced terror like this, not even the one time back in the War in Italy when he had been shot at. The terror went on and on, day after terrible day, for three endless weeks.

He didn't understand why he was filled with such terror.

Four weeks ago he had been a respected engineer, happily married, with four kids. Three weeks ago, he had been a homeless man on the streets, fleeing from everyone and everything.

He had no memory whatsoever of the time in between.

Another car passed overhead, sending a strong enough surge of panic through Bob that he wanted to cry. He couldn't do anything about the fear. He thought again about approaching a doctor, but even his innocent thoughts filled him with such consuming terror he knew he couldn't do it.

The panic was the worst, but he had also acquired a craving, a constant hunger for something besides food. Without the craving he wouldn't be out here in the dangerous night, but his craving drove him despite his fear.

He also saw things that weren't there, as if he had a new sense.

"The only logical explanation," Bob said to himself, "is Transform Sickness. How else could I be sensing a Focus and her household?" He had figured this out a week ago, but blocked the discovery out of his mind, the idea itself too terrifying to contemplate.

Not now.

Bob smiled. "I've got to be sensing their juice. Nothing else makes sense."

His smile vanished as he waited for the terror to come. It didn't.

"The first problem with my logic is that the only Transforms with an extra sense are Focuses, and Focuses are always women." He did a great deal of talking to himself now, crazy words for crazy thoughts. "The second problem is that the range of a Focus's juice sense is short, only a hundred yards or so. I can sense juice for miles." He could nearly sense the entire city of Miami. "I wonder how."

This new sense wasn't any form of fictional extra-sensory perception; Bob's engineering background made him instinctively discard supernatural explanations. The sense faded in and out at range, and the quality of the sense varied with the weather, wind direction, and the presence of electrical power lines. Apparently, his extra sense was something like radio or television, mixed in with a chemical sense like the sense of smell. His explanation bothered the engineer in him. "What's the transmitter? Transmitters take energy and Focuses aren't radio stations. Someone would have noticed." A lack of a scientific explanation didn't make the phenomenon supernatural, though.

He didn't remember ever reading anything about the panic. Something was seriously wrong with him, perhaps a nasty psychological malady, but he didn't even know if there _were_ any psychological maladies like this.

The panic from the car faded and the craving took hold again, stronger than before, a compulsion strong enough to override his fears. His hands shook and his legs would barely hold him, but he forced himself to stand. One step, another step. If he stayed low, surely no one would notice as he walked along the dry creek bed in the middle of the night. He forced himself forward, one quiet step at a time. The mosquitoes swarmed in the thick humidity.

He crept along, watching warily around him with his eyes and ears and with his new sense. Besides the terrifying glow of the Focus and the members of her household, each one printed with an echo of their Focus, he sensed _other_ things.

A strange fog surrounded the Focus's household. He had found other patches of fog in Miami, around the Miami Transform Clinic and also in a cemetery on the north side of town where a Monster had been buried a few weeks ago. Those patches of fog were gone because Bob had _fed_ on them, as if he had become, ludicrously, a fog vampire.

The fog wasn't real, though. He only sensed it with his extra sense.

"I've got to get closer," he whispered. The first time he tried to feed on the fog, the patch around the Transform Clinic, he had tried from miles away. The fog had satisfied something basic within him, but afterwards, he decided he had fooled himself. He had no more than tasted it. To _feed_ on the fog he learned he had to get close to it, within a block. It had left him happy and sated.

The Clinic's fog had been enough to satisfy him for a week. He had cowered in his hidden shelter, talking to himself, leaving only to scavenge food. While hidden, he tried to figure out what happened with this 'feeding'. None of his many explanations satisfied him.

A week later, the craving became intense enough to force him out again. He found the cemetery and fed, this time getting _inside_ the fog. This trick satisfied his cravings for two weeks. The only fog remaining in Miami hovered around the Focus household. For a proper feeding, he would have to get right up next to that household, inside the fog – but the Focus there terrified him. He couldn't even consider the possibility that the Focus might sense him, because when he did he found himself paralyzed with fear.

He crept along the path, which led approximately in the right direction.

Ahead of him, something rustled in the brush. Bob hit the ground and buried himself in the weeds. He froze, every sense alert, looking for the source of the sound.

Something inside of him started to work backwards. All of a sudden, his little remnant of juice spewed out in a rush of fog, vomit from the intestines of his soul. He shivered and felt himself start to black out from the terror.

But not quite. He waited, sweating and shivering. Eventually, a small calico cat slipped out from under the underbrush.

A cat.

Bob didn't allow himself to relax. Possibly some owner was out looking for it. He wondered if the cat might possibly have rabies or some other disease. He looked, but the cat didn't have a collar.

After a long moment, the cat disappeared back into the brush. Bob waited several minutes. The fog vomit swirled around him, small, but calm and peaceful, only a little different from all the other fog he consumed.

"The hell." Hunger outweighed his fear that this different fog would poison him and he slowly drew the fog back in. It didn't seem to hurt him.

Several minutes later, he got up and resumed his journey.

"I'm losing it," he said. "Not only am I out here at night whispering to myself, but I'm so messed up a cat can panic me enough to sick up on it!" His mind continued to work as his senses watched. The fog was a chemical waste product of juice, he guessed, produced by other Transforms.

"I need more fog," he said. He thought about the Focus and her household again and nearly curled up in a panicked ball.

Tears leaked from his eyes. The crippling fear left him so wretched and incapable. Without his overwhelming terror he might even be able to cope with the rest of this Transform Sickness business, figure out how to survive, go back to his wife, and live like a human being. Still, he needed the fog. Ten minutes later he managed to ignore his terror and stand.

As he edged carefully through the large drain that carried the creek under Magnolia Street, Bob had a terrifying thought: what if he needed this overwhelming fear to survive? He _had_ transformed into something else. Perhaps there was a real reason for his fear. Many animals lived in fear, shy retiring creatures that startled at noises and attempted to stay hidden. Rabbits, mice, deer. Many other animals. In every one, fear was a survival characteristic.

Perhaps he should learn to use his fear.

Bob wanted to kick himself. For three weeks, he had functioned on instinct and panic. It was far past time to use his head. He could use this fear. Stay quiet and hidden. Put work into staying safe. When he did need to do something risky, he would think about it, plan, and make it as safe as possible. Use the fear to keep him alert when he exposed himself to danger.

"I have to figure out what's out there that justifies this kind of fear," he said. Prey animals that lived in fear had predators that hunted them. That could explain his reactions.

The Focus household would be a good test. It scared the daylights out of him. He would learn to harness his fear to serve him, to get as close as possible to the Focus's house without risk. If he succeeded, he might be ready to travel. He already realized he would have to leave Miami to find more of his fog.

Yes, he thought to himself, he could learn to use his fear, instead of letting the fear use him.

If some big predator didn't get him first.

\---

The squeak-squeak of his undersized bicycle still bothered him. The bike had been squeaking for the last five hours, since he had pedaled into a pothole near Holopaw. The problem, as always, was fear. The squeaks sounded too loud to Bob. Still, three in the morning was a perfectly safe time to be out riding a bicycle on a country road near Orlando, his destination.

He would have done damn near anything for a shower. The nights were warm and humid in central Florida this time of year and his progress left him drenched in sweat. Worse, for four and a half weeks he had worn the same clothes. He had a significant beard by now, scruffy and filthy, like some sort of backwoods mountain man. Any policeman who saw him would arrest him on the spot or chase him out of town.

At least the bicycle he found in that Miami dump still worked. His night vision was good, but not perfect. He _had_ missed the pothole until he pedaled into it.

This wasn't the sanest method of travel, but the bicycle was the safest he had been able to come up with. Everything else he thought up involved being trapped in a small space with _other people_. Terrifying, beyond contemplation. Still, he didn't have any choice. He had gone too many days without the fog he craved.

An hour later, he smiled and allowed himself to whistle. The wild scrubland on the left gave way to a suburb. Orlando, finally. He wasn't tired. When he had started, his legs had pained him from the pedaling. Much to his surprise, the muscle pain had stopped on his third day of travel.

Five minutes later, the road dead-ended at a main street lined with businesses. He was tired of the exposure, of the danger of being out all night long, night after night.

From the shadows he carefully took in everything with his eyes, ears and the new sense. A car rumbled by on the main road. Small animals rustled in the brush, amid faint noises from early risers in the nearby homes. They weren't as scary as they had been a week ago. They left him wary, but not immobilized by terror.

He sensed none of the fog he desired at all. He did notice the color of the nearest house, startling him. He threw himself off the bicycle and down into the ditch, laying there for a moment with a tight grip on the bicycle. "How could I have missed that before?" he said, his voice tremulous. The siding of the house was a blue tinted off-white. "I can see colors in the dark." He already knew his eyes and ears worked much better than normal. Six weeks ago he had worn thick glasses.

The enhanced eyesight and the extra sense he gained hadn't been his only changes. He had been living on garbage for weeks now. He hadn't gotten sick despite his exposure to the elements. He choked down food he could never have eaten before. These changes from Transform Sickness still unnerved him.

He would trade his soul for an engineering manual that described these changes.

Bob entered the city proper around four in the morning, still filthy with mud from the ditch. He hadn't sensed any Transform Clinics or Focus households, but he kept going anyway. He didn't plan to stop until he satisfied his consuming, distracting hunger for fog.

He cycled the quiet streets past the center of Orlando, through wide boulevards lined with oleander and narrower streets surrounded by darkened businesses. A few glass towers filled downtown, growing up like space-aged marvels among the older brick buildings. Orlando would be wonderful if he sensed some hint of the fog.

He pedaled down Rosalind, passing Lake Eola, when he sensed something, a dim murky thing at the extreme edge of his range, strong and alive, a glow that faded into the background if he didn't pay attention. Only his desperate need for fog allowed him to sense it. He stopped and studied. The murky thing didn't have the hard brilliance of a Focus or the smaller glow of a Transform. He had found something new.

Bob had a suspicion. He had wondered how he appeared to another like himself. One of his guesses had been something like this.

The prone figure awoke and looked straight at Bob. From five miles away, the man made eye contact with Bob as if he was across the room. It _was_ another male Major Transform. Bob felt like he was naked in front of a firing squad, filled with instant terror. He turned his bike around and pedaled in the other direction, his heart booming in his chest.

Bob lost track of the man after a couple of blocks. He didn't stop, because he had no reason to assume the man's sense range wasn't longer than his own.

"I'm not thinking," Bob said, minutes later, and stopped his bicycle. He found himself still near the lake, in the shadow of an empty bandstand. The Robert Meyer Hotel was right across the street and a big copper domed church was to the south of that.

The man didn't follow him.

Bob would have liked to keep running. He wasn't far enough away to be safe. He wouldn't feel safe until he was out of Orlando completely. Truth was, he couldn't leave. He needed fog. He wanted to contact another of his kind. Panic wasn't something he could afford. He had to live with this. Somehow.

This was one of those calculated risks he dreaded: to use his fear rather than let the fear use him. The situation grabbed him excessively fast, leaving him with no time to get used to the idea. He squeezed the handlebars of the bicycle and whimpered. "This is too hard," he said to himself. "I can't deal with this."

Bob put his foot on the pedal, then willed the foot back to the ground. He had to be rational and figure things out. Face his panic. The stranger might be able to help.

If the stranger was like Bob, he was likely scared as well. Bob took a deep breath, steadied his will, and turned the bike around. Slowly, as the sweat of terror joined the sweat from the heat, he went back. Two miles. Two miles, and the man was still there, still prone, still gazing at Bob. Was the man on a bed? Perhaps in a house? Bob stopped. The man didn't move. Bob came a few feet closer.

Nothing.

A few feet closer.

Still nothing.

Bob gritted his teeth and pedaled a hundred yards. He stopped, because he couldn't make himself go closer.

He waited, long minutes.

Finally, the other man sat up. Bob panicked and pedaled away, almost falling in his urgency.

However, he stopped again, fifty feet farther away.

The man still looked at him. He didn't move.

Bob pulled his nerve back together and came back the fifty feet. He waited.

After long moments, the man stood. He began to walk around a small area, and made odd motions. After several moments of confusion, Bob realized he was getting dressed. To come out.

Bob's nerve almost broke again, but he held it, clenching the handlebars of the bike so hard he was afraid he would bend them. However, he didn't move.

After a few moments, the man moved farther out, and down. It seemed he was on the second floor of a building. He came out of the building and took a few steps toward Bob.

Bob took a few steps back.

The man backed up two steps and squatted down, waiting.

Bob moved closer again.

The man moved closer again, and this time Bob did not retreat.

Bob started his approach approximately five miles from the man. It took almost two hours for Bob and the other man to come close to each other, a cautious dance of advance and retreat. Once, Bob's nerve broke again and he fled for more than a mile.

They met in the parking lot of Christ the King Missionary Baptist Church, on the north side of Orlando, at three minutes after seven in the morning. The sun was up but hidden behind the nearby buildings.

They didn't come close to each other. The man stopped at one end of the parking lot, and Bob stopped at the other, a hundred feet away. The man sat down on the curb.

"You can call me Sinclair," the man said. His voice was soft and non-threatening. Sinclair wore a hat and a suit, decent and clean. Clean-shaven and washed as well. His dark blonde hair was wavy and neatly trimmed. He looked like a normal young man, no more than twenty-five years old. He spoke so quietly no one should have been able to hear him from as far away as Bob was.

Bob heard him.

He was the first human being Bob hadn't run away from in four and a half weeks.

Bob didn't sit. He stood by his bike and shivered, ready to bolt at the first sign of threat.

Sinclair sat quietly. He didn't move or fidget. After a few minutes, Bob relaxed his grip on the bike.

Sinclair spoke again, still softly. "I've been a Transform for two years." He paused, but when Bob did not panic again, he continued. "Looking at you, I'd guess that you're new at it."

Bob nearly did panic at the man's observation. He wanted to flee far far away from here.

Bob stayed where he was. A shivering started, deep within him.

"It gets better from here," Sinclair said. Bob looked at Sinclair with the first hope he had felt since his transformation. "The panic will diminish as you learn to know what's more dangerous and what's less. As time goes on, you'll learn how to live with it, how to control it, how to deal with other people. You've learned some control already, or you wouldn't be here."

"I'm not insane? It isn't just me?" Bob asked as quietly, his voice hoarse.

"You're not insane," Sinclair said. His voice was a soothing whisper. "You're a Major Transform, if you haven't guessed that already."

Bob nodded. "What're the real dangers?" This was the most important question. He had to know the threats. His terror wasn't gone, but he forced it away from him.

"Stay away from the authorities. Police, other people who might make you their business. Don't talk to Focuses or their household Transforms. They know too much. Stay away from doctors and medical people. They could discover too much about you."

Bob nodded again. Sinclair's explanation made sense.

"Normal people are less risky," Sinclair said, in his hushed tone. "You can find safe ones, who won't even know you're there. Use the fact you can see in the dark to move."

A part of Bob wanted him to collapse. Someone, finally, understood what had happened to him! Another part of him remained wary. Never assume, always be on guard.

The wary part won out. He stayed standing, on the other side of the parking lot.

"What are we?" Bob asked, desperate.

"We're Crows." Across the parking lot, Sinclair looked sad and sympathetic. "The doctors don't know about us. The Focuses do, at least some of them, and don't trust us."

"Us?" Bob asked.

"I don't know how many of us there are. My guess is a couple of dozen in the entire U.S. Some of the senior Crows, the ones who transformed years ago, think there are nearly as many of us as there are Focuses." Bob knew there were between a hundred and fifty and two hundred Focuses in the United States. He shivered.

Sinclair fell silent. A mockingbird trilled in the dawn shadows. "You're one of us now. The bright thing you can sense is juice. The muted thing you sense is a different kind of juice, something that no one besides Crows knows about. We call it dross, because it's the waste left behind from juice use. Our bodies turn dross into juice. Always heed your metasense."

"Metasense?"

"That's the name of a Major Transform's extra sense. Our metasense can sense farther than a Focus's. The metasense helps us identify dangers and spot usable dross at a safe distance."

Bob didn't move, but stayed where he was and listened.

"Learn to control the panic," Sinclair said. "Learn to deal with people and blend in. Find a way to earn money and to blend in among the normals."

"How?" Bob asked. He couldn't spend money if he had any.

"I write," Sinclair said. "Under a pseudonym. I never use my real name anymore. Come up with a name of your own to use. Pseudonyms are safer. Find another way to earn money. I know one Crow who's an artist. He calls himself Merlin. I know another named Waveguide who collects junk and sells it. His extra watchfulness makes him good at it. Be aware of your surroundings and be on-guard. Your senses are getting better. Be alert to everything around you. Never let yourself get low on juice. Low juice affects your judgment."

Bob had figured that out. "How do I find dross?

"With great care. Avoid the big Transform Detention Centers. The senior Crows claim them and they'll chase you away. Small town Transform Clinics are good because they're too small to support even one Crow. The small Clinics are left for the itinerants. Find a stable unclaimed Focus household and force yourself to come close enough to take dross. The closer you get, the better the dross. You can take dross from as far away as you can sense it, but if you're too far away, it's just a cheat. Like trying to subsist on the smell of food."

Bob shivered. "How do I travel?"

Sinclair nodded, slowly. "Travel is always hard. Driving will work, but you aren't ready to drive yet. Trains are safer than most ways, in with people if you can stand it, in a boxcar if you can't. There are dangerous people you might meet riding boxcars, but you aren't defenseless."

"What?" Bob understood running away. Defense didn't make sense.

Sinclair smiled. "Think of a skunk," he said. "But there's another danger you should know." The smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. "I've heard rumors about another kind of male Major Transform, something like us, but _dangerous_. Something else the doctors don't know about, something halfway between a Monster and a human being. We call them Beast Men. If you ever run into one, stay away from it. They're powerful and crazy, and can sense you if you get too close. Other dangers exist, as well; Crows occasionally vanish for no known reason. There's more going on than anyone knows.

"You're going to have to go," Sinclair said. "There's not enough dross for you to stay in Orlando. But you can spend the day. I have an apartment you can use until tomorrow, with food, a shower and a few spare clothes. I'll write the address for you. I know of a Focus west of town. I've taken most of the dross there, but there should be a bit for you. There's a freight yard northwest of that."

Sinclair stood up and instinctively Bob backed up a few steps. Sinclair began to back away.

"Wait!" Bob said. He still had questions. He didn't know what he was doing. He needed help.

Sinclair turned toward Bob, and the morning sun shone on his face. Sweat beaded on Sinclair's temples and his eyes had narrowed. It hadn't occurred to him that Sinclair might also find this hard.

"What?" Sinclair asked, tense.

"I...I just wanted to thank you. You didn't have to do this for me, especially waking up in the middle of the night to help some stranger. This is a tremendous amount of help you're giving me."

Sinclair inclined his head. "Thank you. We're all we have. You're doing extremely well for a young Crow. Help some other young Crow sometime."

Bob nodded as Sinclair turned and walked away, in his clean suit and businessman's hat, the illusion of a normal young man going to work. Bob watched him a long time as he went.

Then he went over to where Sinclair had sat, and found a paper with an address written on it, a key and a ten dollar bill. By that evening, Bob was shaved and showered and looked like a human being again. He suspected he still had a long way to go. Someday, he would re-pay Sinclair.

\---

The steady clack, clack of the boxcar thrummed in Bob's ear. At sixty miles an hour, he relaxed enough to try to get some sleep. Sinclair had been right. Once he got past the terror of boarding, this wasn't a bad way to travel.

He had boarded this particular train in a freight yard outside Nashville, around midnight. Nashville hadn't been bad, but he had only stayed a couple of days. Another Crow already lived in Nashville and he had picked the place clean of dross.

Bob's lack of dross left him with an edgy, unsatisfied craving. He had to find a decent source sometime soon, because this constant emptiness was hell. He hoped St. Louis would have something real for him.

The noise of the countryside around him began to change just before dawn. The train slowed as light began to creep through the cracks in the boxcar door. If his guesses were correct, this should be a rail yard in St. Louis. Bob braced himself; he needed to get out before the train stopped. He didn't want to show himself to the rail yard workers.

As he readied himself to leap off the train his metasense picked something up to the west, at extreme range, something he had never seen before.

It was _brilliant._

He thought Focuses were bright. This was far brighter than a Focus, so bright he couldn't even sense what it was. The sheer strength of the glow numbed his metasense with terrifying intensity.

His first instinct was to flee. He looked down at the ground as it sped by and waited for the train to slow further.

At two miles, he spotted the dross underneath the brightness, more dross than he had ever seen in his admittedly short experience as a Crow. He no longer wanted to flee. He needed it.

He did worry about the dross source and whether the brilliant Transform could sense him or not. He had no sense of contact such as he shared with Sinclair, though. No sign the Transform had noticed him at all.

Bob squatted as the train took him past that terrible brightness and out of range again. With a start, he realized the train had almost pulled to a stop. He had to get out _now._ He opened the boxcar door, jumped from the train, tumbling as he hit the ground, and ran.

"Hey!" a man shouted behind him, but he continued running.

Bob never looked back, but ran for the next two miles, along roads lined with factories, mills and warehouses. Then he walked toward where he had sensed the brightness, unable to resist the temptation. Fifteen minutes later, past more mills and factories, he sensed the glow again, an immense sea of dross.

He sensed carefully all around him. No other Crows. "Maybe they panicked," Bob said. "Or perhaps this is just too dangerous."

Maybe he, too, would be wiser to leave this mystery alone. The sea of dross, larger and deeper than he had ever seen before, could easily be the bait in a trap.

The temptation was too great. Bob needed that dross. His hands shook at the mere thought of leaving it behind.

His tongue went dry and an almost sexual anticipatory pleasure coursed through him when he metasensed it. He hadn't known how bad his craving was for dross until he found _this_.

He would stay until some more immediate threat drove him off.

It would have to be a very large threat.

Bob suspected he would be here for a long time.

Chapter 2

"The Focus Transform is unique. In the major transformation the bacteria crosses the blood-brain barrier of a woman and grows an extra organ in her brain called the metacampus. The metacampus gives a Focus the ability to sense and manipulate juice, and thus keep other Transforms alive. Only women experience major transformations." ["Don't Panic – It's Just a Disease", by Dr. Lewis Jeffers, as printed in many magazines and newspaper supplements in 1955]

Tonya Biggioni: September 17, 1966 – September 18, 1966

At the checkpoint, Tonya's driver Danny rolled his window down. Crisp Appalachian air wafted in as the grizzled police officer leaned down to inspect the four in the car. "No entrance to the public," the policeman said with a wave of halitosis-scented warmth. "There's been a Monster transformation. Authorized personnel only."

Tonya sighed. She had a hundred things she needed to be doing, most of them far more important than driving out to the Appalachian hills to goggle over a Monster transformation. Nothing to be done about it, though. She turned away and let her people deal with the cop.

From the front passenger seat, Ralph watched the man with wary hostility. He and Danny were Tonya's bodyguards, and Ralph was good at wary hostility. He thought Tonya ought to have four bodyguards. Always. Tonya's household could not afford it.

Danny gave the officer a small leather folio containing Tonya Biggioni's FBI-issued identification. The man inspected it and backed away after he read the contents. He handed the folio back through the window with the tips of his index and middle finger, as if he feared contamination, and waved his hand in the general direction of the small road behind him. "Agent Bates is waiting for you up at the scene, ma'am. You folks are cleared to go on through."

Tonya rolled her shoulders to ease their ache. Her secretary, Rhonda, noticed and gave an encouraging smile. Tonya took a deep breath of the chilly, pine-scented air, now clear of the odor of tooth decay, and exhaled with a sigh. Her muscles often ached on long car trips and they were hours from Philadelphia. She needed a full body, muscle-straining stretch, but she did not intend to do anything so undignified at a police checkpoint.

'On through' took them a hundred yards before the narrow drive became too packed with parked vehicles for Tonya's car to pass. Danny shrugged, found a tiny patch of dirt and parked their car. They exited and walked up the drive. Tonya scrutinized the long line of official vehicles as they passed – police cars, county vehicles, vehicles emblazoned with the insignia of obscure state agencies, unmarked vehicles, even an empty ambulance. Clusters of police and FBI gathered beside their vehicles, smoking their cigarettes and waiting.

The air was fresh and crisp, the sky a brilliant blue and frost sparkled on the tree branches. Tonya enjoyed the exercise until she overheard one of the local police mutter something about 'fucking monsters', and 'never should have let them out of Quarantine' in a voice meant to be overheard.

She didn't give them the pleasure of a response but Danny bristled with outrage beside her.

Tonya smelled the crime scene long before she reached it, the ripe stench of violence. About a quarter mile up, the winding drive ended in a small clearing occupied by a clapboard shack of uncertain color and shabby appearance. Decades had passed since the shack's last painting. Beside her, Rhonda grimaced. She had come from a place much like this and her old memories weren't good.

Several men gathered near the front door of the shack as she approached. Tonya picked out Agent Tommy Bates by his height, pale hair, and the ever-present cigarette. Neither he nor the other men seemed bothered by the stench of death surrounding them, but then, their noses were merely normal. Tommy was an old, well, 'friend' wasn't quite the right word, but they had worked together before, and most of the time they had been allies. Many years ago, Tommy's wife had come down with Transform Sickness. She survived and now lived in a household out on the west coast. Since then, Tommy had gone out of his way to help the victims of the disease. Prejudice against Transforms was rampant and his support and that of others like him was like a bulkhead against a sea of hate.

"Focus Biggioni," Tommy said and put out his hand. Tonya took it graciously. Around them, the other men stepped away when Tommy named her a Focus. Tonya flicked her gaze at them and smiled, a little too sardonic to be the purely social smile she owed Tommy.

Men and women Transforms looked like average human beings, but that wasn't true for a Focus. Tonya's major transformation had given her excellent health, the body of an athlete, the charismatic presence of a politician or a movie star and the appearance of a nineteen-year-old, despite her fifty-odd years.

She used every bit of her Focus transformation benefits to keep her household financially afloat. Money was always a problem.

"What's the emergency, Tommy?" Monster transformations happened all the time.

The other men jumped again at the sound of her voice. It was rich and musical, with undertones that shivered along the spine.

Tommy was used to her, though, and merely ground his cigarette out under his shoe. "Looks straightforward on the surface. Alice Colson, wife of Clem Colson, caught the Shakes and didn't realize it. Made a normal transformation. No Focus to stabilize her, of course, so in time she went Monster and attacked one of the men here. Killed him. Clem and the Vinote brothers, Pete and Zach, managed to shoot and kill the former Mrs. Colson before she killed anyone else. However, we've got a problem."

"A problem?" The heavy air still carried the scent of conflict. Tonya recognized the ozone smell of Monster transformations and dead Monster mixed in with the reek of death. The scents brought back unpleasant memories from when she had been a young Focus.

Tommy tilted his head toward the house. "Look for it," he said. "You'll see it better than I can."

Tonya frowned. Tommy didn't refer to her vision, but to her metasense. She spotted Rhonda and Danny first. They wore the tags Tonya used to mark her household and they shone with the bright glow of Transform health. No problem there. Her metasense found no sign of Ralph. Again, no problem. He was a normal, not a Transform, part of her household because his wife had transformed.

Farther afield, though, behind the decrepit shack, Tonya spotted another Transform. A woman. She was untagged, not a part of any Focus's household. She was certainly not a part of Tonya's household, and so her presence was ill defined. Tonya sensed little else about her.

There shouldn't be a Transform here. Transformations didn't happen in clusters, and the appearance of a second Transform so soon after the death of Alice Colson, especially out here in this sparsely populated country, stretched the bounds of credibility.

"That is _not_..." Tonya said, but voices from inside the shack interrupted.

"Ya cain't take her," one rural-voiced male said.

A second male voice replied firmly and authoritatively. "Sir, it's state law. Her remains have to be taken to the State Transform Detention Center for autopsy and burial."

Trouble. Tonya entered the shack through the broken door and nearly gagged. The air reeked of blood and death, raw on her sensitive nose. She stepped carefully through a wasteland of broken furniture, blood and bullet holes, depressed by the familiar poverty of the tiny hovel. The Monster transformation had taken place inside. The resulting fight had started here, traveled out the back door, and finished outside.

A flannel shirted man brandished a hunting rifle in his arms at two gray-coated officials. Next to him, a second local watched the confrontation with tight lips and hard eyes.

Sometimes normals amazed Tonya. She couldn't fathom how they ignored the fetid odor, but they seemed oblivious.

"I refuse! Ya cain't, I won't let ya," the first man bellowed with a wave of his rifle. The official who had spoken carefully laid his hand on the other man's rifle and gently lowered it.

"We got a family burial ground," the second local said, his voice softer than his eyes. "Got'a honor the dead, even if Satan cursed 'em."

What a mess! Tonya shook her head and lassoed the eyes of the local with the gun. "It's the right thing to do, Clem Colson," she said. "The officials know their job."

"Yes, ma'am," Clem said. He lowered the rifle and turned away to hide his tear-stained face.

The two officials backed away from Tonya, knowledgeable enough to recognize Focus charisma in use. One of them muttered the Lord's Prayer.

Tonya pretended not to notice their prejudice. These officials weren't too far removed from the backwoods themselves and hadn't lost their suspicion of all things unexplained. The early years of Transform Sickness had generated many superstitions – the mark of the devil and all – and many of those lingered. Science had made great progress in the years since, but rational explanations always traveled slower than fear.

These officials hadn't even been the ones who'd survived Alice Colson and her Monster transformation.

Tonya turned to Tommy Bates, who, along with Rhonda, Danny and Ralph had followed Tonya into the now crowded shack. "Would you be so kind as to introduce me to the woman in question?"

Tommy nodded and led them out the back door and into a small clearing behind the shack. The gory remains of Alice Colson and her victim were scattered together, making red mud of the packed-dirt yard. More officials and police officers milled about in the sullied red yard, taking notes and pictures, ready to pack up the deceased.

Tonya noticed a human arm in the morass, still attached to an unrecognizable lump of a body. Not quite human, though – the fingernails had curled to form sharp claws, the first major change for many Monster conversions. Tonya grimaced in aversion, reflexes of long years hunting down Monsters with her household. If Clem and his friends hadn't shot Alice, the changes to her body and damage to her mind would have accumulated until she had transformed into a true Monster: mad, dangerous and inhuman. Clem and his friend had done a service to the world when they shot the woman.

While Tonya examined the mangled remains with cold disdain, Rhonda took one look and ran for the edge of the clearing, where she vomited miserably at the foot of a towering ash. "Sorry, ma'am." She wiped her mouth and avoided looking at the gruesome remains again.

Danny and Ralph were tougher. They had been with Tonya back when Tonya's household used to hunt Monsters and they had a lot of experience with scenes like this.

Tonya turned her attention from the bloody remains and picked her way to the shed on the far side of the clearing. In front of the shed, a woman in chains and shackles sat on a large log and cried. The Transform. Several men, including two policemen, huddled nearby, talking in low voices.

"What is the meaning of _this_?" Tonya asked.

Startled, the men jumped but one of them stepped forward. "Ma'am, please. I'm Dr. Dossett. This woman is about to turn Monster."

Not hardly. The sobbing woman's hands still shook, a sign of the initial transformation and the source of the colloquial name of the disease, 'the Shakes'. It took two weeks on the average after a woman transformed before she went Monster.

"Am not," the sobbing woman said, pain in her voice. She looked up at the new arrivals and lifted her hands to shield her eyes from the sun. She fidgeted, unable to sit still.

Tonya inhaled in surprise and examined woman again. Light sensitivity, pain and fidgeting were classic signs of a woman Transform about to go Monster.

"Tommy, can you explain this?"

Tommy shrugged. "I was hoping you could."

Wonderful. Now she knew why Tommy had thought this scene odd enough to justify her attention. Tonya crossed her arms on her chest and considered the woman. If she was about to convert into a Monster now, the smart thing to do was to kill her before she could kill anyone else.

A Transform, male or female, needed a Focus to stay alive and human. Tonya was a Focus and maintained a household with over three dozen Transform and non-Transform adults and children, but a Focus could only support a few dozen Transforms. Tonya, like any sane Focus, was full up. It was too bad for the woman, but it was too bad for many Transforms.

However, Focuses did grow in capacity slowly over time and it had been years since Tonya had expanded her household size. She might be able to take on this suffering woman.

If Tonya failed she could destabilize her entire household, risking the lives of innocents.

Hard choices. The world was full of them. Tonya decided to take the risk. She knelt, took the woman's chained hand and made the woman part of her household, using her metacampus to make a small chemical change in the woman.

"Oh," the woman said. Despite the shackles on her feet, she dove into Tonya's arms. Tonya sat on the log and held the woman, rocking her gently. She took careful inventory of herself as she did. No headache, no queasy stomach, no light sensitivity of her own. She did have enough capacity to support this woman.

Tonya wanted to weep; the doctor had been right. Now that she was part of Tonya's household, Tonya could sense her juice level. She had been due to become a Monster in six hours. Tonya fixed that in an instant.

Transform Sickness didn't normally behave like this. The Shakes had come up with a nasty surprise for them. Again.

"I think it's time you unshackled this woman," Tonya said, meeting the eyes of the doctor and the two policemen beside him. This time, she wielded her charisma like a club. The researchers didn't know much about how Focus charisma worked, except they theorized it involved chemicals called hormones and pheromones. All Tonya cared about was when she said 'jump' in that tone of voice, men did.

The men freed the woman from her shackles in moments.

"Hon," Tonya said to the woman, "what's your name?"

The woman sniffled and Danny lent her his handkerchief. She blew her nose and dried her eyes. "Delia. Delia Vinote. Alice's my sister." Delia looked like she was in her early twenties, sturdy and not at all like she had recently come down with a deadly disease.

"Did you have a bad illness in the past month?" Tonya asked.

"No, no ma'am. You a Focus, ma'am, like on the television?" Delia looked Tonya over and her eyes widened. "You're the Focus on the TeeVee from Philly!"

Tonya nodded. She was, alas, a minor local celebrity. Anything to bring in extra money for the household. Prejudice made jobs scarce for Transforms, and so everyone did what they could. The local CBS network affiliate paid her a tiny salary to be their resident expert on Transform Sickness and Transforms. Once or twice a month she had a few minutes on the local news. The exposure generated an astonishing amount of hate mail and death threats, but the money helped and as a Focus she needed the bodyguards anyway. She certainly wasn't the first Focus who had been attacked in public. Nor would she be the last.

"No sickness at all?" Tonya asked, eyes on Delia. Tonya could use her years of experience and a Transform trick or two to tell truth from falsehood.

"No, that was Alice. We thought she had the flu. My hands didn't start shakin' 'til after Pete and, and..." Delia glanced over at the remains in the clearing. Her voice trailed off and her eyes teared up again.

Truth unfortunately. This was bad.

A person could become a Transform in one of two ways. The first, the normal way, was for a person to catch Transform Sickness. He became sick, he transformed, and he either found a Focus or if the world was kind he died.

The other way a person could transform was via an induced transformation. On those rare occasions when a woman began a Focus transformation, several women around her would transform as well, with no sickness at all. There were all sorts of good biological reasons for this, which weren't relevant right now, because no Focus transformations had happened anywhere near here.

Delia had made an induced transformation anyway.

Two years ago Lorraine Rizzari, a Focus colleague of Tonya's, had made an impassioned presentation before the local chapter of the national Focus organization. She asked the Focuses to be on the lookout for obscure cases of induced transformations. Rizzari, then a PhD student, had come to believe atypical induced transformations were possible, and had been looking for evidence to back up her theory. She had theorized that induced transformations were a significant and steadily more common source of transformations and would eventually outnumber those caused by disease.

Right now, fewer than 4000 Transforms lived in the country. Rizzari's thesis was that within the next couple of decades, induced transformations would significantly increase and Transforms would number in the tens of millions.

Her presentation had been dismissed by the powers-that-be, who decided the sporadic reports of induced transformations were mistaken, attributable instead to people who didn't recognize their symptoms when they caught Transform Sickness the usual way.

If Rizzari's theory was correct, the implications were terrifying. The mortality rate from the Shakes was over ninety percent. Deaths would number in the millions. Tonya felt like she was staring the Grim Reaper in the eyes. It made her legs rubbery and stomach sour, for fear of the lives of future generations.

"Nobody else shows any signs? Any other women around at all?"

"No, ma'am. Just Alice'n me."

Tonya took a deep breath. "Well, Delia, you may not have been sick, but you're a Transform anyway."

"That's what the doctor said." Delia paused, wiping the tears from her face with the handkerchief. "I'm scared, ma'am. What's gonna happen to me?"

Delia worried that she would become a Monster, Tonya knew. It was a legitimate worry. "I've made you one of my Transforms, Delia, and you'll have to move to my household in Philadelphia. You'll live with a couple dozen other Transforms. Your husband, too, if he wants." Big "if". Fewer things broke up a marriage faster than a transformation. It had cost Tonya her own husband and cut off most contact with her children.

"What am I gonna do in a city?" Delia said. "I'm just a country girl. I cain't support myself _there_."

"You can cook, cain't ya?" Rhonda said. Delia looked up, surprised at the homey sound. Rhonda had slipped back into her native backwoods accent. "We need all types, girl. At least you'll know how to work, not like some of the laggards I deal with."

Delia nodded slowly. "I can cook."

Tonya grinned, heartened, and pushed the unnerving memories of Focus Rizzari into the back of her mind where she could worry about them later.

Footsteps clunked down the back steps of the house and Tonya saw the second local man from the house stalk through the mud towards her. He was a strong man, with corded muscles, a hard face, and he wore anger like a cloud around him. Tonya wondered what some fool of an official in the house had said to set him off. He glared at the doctor and the officials, but when he saw Delia unchained, in Tonya's arms, the glare faded into a smile, an unnatural expression on that hard face.

"Ma'am, my name's Pete, and this here's my wife, Delia. You clear up this nonsense about her bein' a Transform?"

"Pete," Tonya said. "Delia is a Transform. I've had to make her a part of my household to save her life."

"Oh," Pete said. "Damn." He paused and studied Tonya for a while. "You the Focus from Philly?" Tonya nodded. Pete licked his lips. "She's gonna have to go live with you, right?"

"Yes."

"What about me?" Pete asked. "Do I get a say in this? Can I come visit her?"

"No, I'm sorry, but you don't get a say in this." This was the hardest part, especially for a normal man dealing with a newly transformed wife. "You're more than welcome to join my household also, Mr. Vinote. We have a great many jobs for strong men." Tonya didn't use even a hint of her charisma as she spoke. This decision he had to make on his own. "What do you do?"

Pete laughed bitterly. "Logging. Not much call for that in Philly."

Transform households needed two Transform women to support each Transform man. From the days of Anne Marie Sieurs, the European Focus who discovered how to move juice from Transform women to Transform men, households always needed more men. "Willing to learn to be a bodyguard?" Tonya said.

"Sure, ma'am, if your people'll teach me."

Tonya nodded. Delia flew from Tonya's embrace into her husband's arms and beamed back at Tonya. She smiled back, happy to see something work out well for once.

Delia's joy wasn't enough to banish the nagging fear from the back of Tonya's mind. "So this anomalous induced transformation was what brought you here today, Tommy?" she asked, on the way back to her car a few minutes later. He normally delegated problems of this nature to others.

Tommy leaned over, close to Tonya's ear. "No, ma'am," he said. "There's been an Arm transformation. We have the new Arm in the St. Louis Transform Detention Center and we need your help with her. Desperately."

Tonya's stomach clenched. Arms were trouble...and Arms were one of Tonya's official responsibilities.

\---

Sweat dripped down Focus Tonya Biggioni's back as she concentrated on the telephone conversation with the Arm, Stacy Keaton. Tonya was the appointed (and supposedly elected) Northeast Region Representative on the Focus Council of the United Focuses of America and Stacy's contact with the Focus Network. As an important Focus she did enough business to merit an office, but it was small, hot and sticky, even with the door and window open. She had spent the last day on the phone dealing with the problems this new Arm transformation had caused.

Even at her best, Keaton was nearly impossible to deal with and always stressful.

Today, Keaton was not at her best.

"We talked about this six months ago, Stacy," Tonya said. "You said you wanted to get hold of the next Arm who transformed and break her in, because you'd decided that there was no way for a young Arm on her own to survive."

"The original idea, bitch, was that both of us would be involved," Keaton said. Something in Keaton's voice when they were negotiating always reminded Tonya of wild animals. Dangerous wild animals.

"The Council, in their inestimable wisdom, has forbidden me to get directly involved with this new Arm," Tonya said. "If I were to push that limit, you're likely to find me out of a job on the Council and you being hunted down by Focuses. They're not going to object if you get involved, though. I can provide indirect help, but that's about it." If Stacy got herself killed, quite a few of the more senior Focuses would have a party – at least those who didn't have the stomach to hire her, through Tonya, for intimidation and wet work. Over the last eighteen months Keaton had received quite a few significant payments from the wealthier Focuses for that sort of job. Many of the payments Keaton received from the less wealthy Focuses were in trade or barter, in the form of surplus Transforms extracted from nearby Transform Clinics. Tonya wondered, at times, what their tame FBI friends would think if they knew some of the Focuses they were helping and protecting had been pimping surplus Transforms to an Arm.

Part of Tonya's job was to make sure they didn't find out, one of the many reasons her negotiations with Keaton were so stressful.

Tonya heard something crash and break on the other end of the line. "Fucking first Focuses," Keaton said, referring to the cadre of Focuses who'd arranged the breakout from Quarantine and who were still very important. At least Keaton knew the politics involved. "Is it because those shit-faced whores are afraid of exposure, because they're afraid you'll get to much fucking political power, or have they just lost their goddamned minds?" About the only time Keaton didn't sprinkle her language with obscenities was when she was about to do serious physical harm to a person or needed something badly. Or when she fell into a psychotic rage, in which case she rarely said a thing as she ripped people apart.

"They're spooked by the new Arm's attempted escape and the deaths of those two State Troopers," Tonya said. "What Suzie said was that this Arm is too dangerous to take a chance on." Focus Suzie Schrum, the eighth Focus to transform in the United States, 'retired' from 'public' Focus politics three years ago but served as Tonya's political boss. Tonya often felt she was little more than Suzie's mouthpiece. Only about a quarter of the time, though, as Suzie didn't care about most issues, which made Tonya's political post bearable. It didn't help that Tonya's other major backer, Shirley Patterson, was the leader of the first Focuses. Shirley's patronage made Tonya's dealings with the rest of the first Focuses politically tricky.

"Suzie's a fucking loon," Keaton said. Tonya didn't argue. "Hancock panicked and the idiot Troopers shot each other. The fact that some cops died and Hancock's still walking is a plus in my book. On the other hand, the scene around the St. Louis Detention Center is hot, crawling with State Police. Some fucking turd-town Mayor's raised hell or something."

"Too high profile for you?"

"Look bitch, face facts. That's my face on the damned wanted posters in all the goddamned Post Offices, not yours. I've got my own problems to deal with, and I can't just waltz in and start training some motherfucking baby Arm without attracting the wrong sort of attention."

Tonya wiped her face with a handkerchief and took a deep breath to steady herself. "Be patient. You know how this will play out. The locals will quiet down once the FBI takes over security and I've already made sure that it's our FBI people."

"You got Bates?"

"Bates got me."

"You got Focus Adkins?"

First Focus Wini Adkins indirectly ran the Midwest Region and thought of the St. Louis Detention Center as hers. She had been Tonya's Focus mentor early on; they were still friends. Wini had hired Keaton, through Tonya, several times. "No. She doesn't want to get involved."

"Figures. You got Zielinski?"

"He got himself." That damned doctor – Secret Agent Zielinski, her pet name for him – had already been in St. Louis when she had found out about the new Arm. He was nearly as annoying to work with as Keaton.

"At least that's something. I'll just wait, then," Keaton said. "I'll check back next month."

Tonya tapped a pencil on her desk and counted to ten, backwards. Damn Keaton! "You said that if you waited too long you weren't sure you'd be able to reach a new Arm and get control of her." What Stacy had said was if the new Arm was anything like her, after a few months nobody would be able to tell her shit because she would be too full of herself. Tonya sure wouldn't disagree with _that_.

"You get me in then, Tonya. You're the devious Focus bitch."

Tonya's pencil snapped in her fingers. She threw it across her desk and shook her head, looking over the roster of Network people involved in the Hancock situation. Keaton may have be the most frightening human being Tonya had ever met, able to terrify her even in a telephone conversation, but the stress of dealing with her did keep Tonya on her toes. It helped her think.

Tonya liked stress. The stress often weighed heavily on her household, but that didn't bother Tonya. That's what her household was for. "I think I've got an idea," Tonya said, after looking over her paperwork.

"Talk to the phone, bitch."

Tonya told the Arm about her idea.

Dr. Henry Zielinski: September 18, 1966

"Have a seat, Hank," Special Agent in Charge Paul Gauthier said, snapping his eyes up at Dr. Zielinski as he came into the room. Gauthier went back to ladling sugar into his oversized coffee mug.

Dr. Zielinski sat at the conference room table and passed up the doughnuts left from the last meeting he had attended six hours ago. A moment later, Dr. Bentwyler sat down beside Zielinski, a pen clenched tightly in his teeth and a sketchpad in his hands. Special Agent Tommy Bates already sat at the end of the table, the ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. He wore dark circles under his eyes from his travels of the past few days.

This quickly organized meeting had yanked Dr. Zielinski out of his office with a mere five-minute's notice. Not that he had been working. The Hancock case already had the bureaucratic paperwork piled high, but he had done enough of _that_ for one day. Instead, he had pushed the piles to the side and taken out his photos and slides. His photography hobby was even defensible as part of his work on Transforms; it helped him spot the physical changes Focuses and Arms accumulated over time. He had gotten academic papers published based on those photos. Before he had started the paperwork, he had made a phone call to one of his Network contacts to fill them in on what was going on. All normal routine.

The fact someone had flushed Gauthier out from under the floorboards before the shit hit the fan meant the FBI was more serious about this new Arm transformation than normal. Paul Gauthier was the Special Agent in Charge for Transform Affairs. He reported directly to the Assistant Director in charge of the FBI's Washington headquarters, who reported directly to Director Hoover. Gauthier's younger brother was a Transform in Focus Elisabeth Holder's household. It gave Gauthier a more compassionate perspective on Transforms than most.

Perhaps there was some hope for the Hancock project, despite Dr. Zielinski's worries. He hated situations where he didn't have full responsibility over a newly transformed Arm. Not good for the Arm and not good for his career.

"What brings you here, Paul?" Zielinski asked as Gauthier looked up, ready to speak.

From long association with the FBI, Dr. Zielinski knew that unless he took control of the meeting he wouldn't learn anything useful. Gauthier frowned at Dr. Zielinski but answered his question anyway. "It's been awhile since I've worked with either you or Dr. Bentwyler, so I decided to touch base with the two of you before we really got going on this Hancock project." Gauthier took a long sip of coffee. He was a tall man, just over six feet, athletic despite being in his early fifties. He wore his gray-flecked red hair in a crew cut, and had been out in the sun recently, because his freckles were prominent. Gauthier still drank coffee by the gallon, Dr. Zielinski noted, and his teeth were still coffee stained. "So far, none of my peers or superiors in the FBI has shown any interest in Mrs. Hancock's transformation. On the other hand, my phone has been ringing off the hook with questions from various important Focuses, including the Network head." Focus Michelle Claunch, not one of Dr. Zielinski's favorite people. "There's some disagreement among the Focuses as to whether we should help Mrs. Hancock or make sure she dies."

Nods around the table. The leading Focuses had changed their minds several times on the Arm issue, and the official position of the Focuses this year was to cultivate the Arms. 'They are our fellow sisters! They could protect us.' He hadn't believed the Arms would be able to get along with the Focuses until he had spent some time with the one Arm who'd survived, Stacy Keaton. She had proven him and many others wrong, but her help didn't keep a sizeable number of Focuses from agitating for Keaton's death.

"You have a plan?" Zielinski asked. Outside, the sun made the day bright, the sum total of what he could tell of the outside world through the barred windows. If this place didn't have air conditioning it would be unbearable.

"I have interests," Gauthier said, as he looked Zielinski over. "I'm counting on you for the plan, Hank." Gauthier took another swig of coffee. "Since the last time we worked together my main interest in Transforms has changed from placement of new Transforms to the Monster problem." Zielinski nodded. After the '64 elections, the Johnson Administration established a department within HEW to support the Transforms (at least with lip service) and to direct research on Transform Sickness (millions of dollars of pork barrel spending, often wasted due to needless duplication and unnecessary bureaucratic overhead). For the last eighteen months Dr. Zielinski had been butting heads with the HEW, who thought they possessed all the answers and didn't respect his expertise. The FBI had once placed the new Transforms into Focus households due to a historical accident. Not anymore. Gauthier continued: "I've given Tommy authorization to hire Mrs. Hancock to help us with the Monster Eradication Program. We don't like to publicize this, but some large sections of Federal land have gotten so Monster infested we've had to close them off to civilians."

"I see," Zielinski said. He hadn't realized the Monster problem was so bad. "How are you proposing to handle the juice issue?" Arms were juice consumers who got their juice by killing Transforms and the public was understandably squeamish on the subject.

"The usual," Gauthier said. All Detention Centers had surplus Transforms, many who chose suicide as opposed to withdrawal or becoming a Monster. Some of these people would go to Mrs. Hancock. It was one thing, though, to provide her with surplus Transforms while she was confined as a ward of the state, another to provide her with surplus Transforms as an employee perk. That would be unprecedented, and Dr. Zielinski couldn't imagine the legal issues involved. The public outcry wouldn't be pretty, either. "Unfortunately, as you well know, we can't work out the details until we have a living Arm on board. We're going to be counting on you, Hank, to provide us the Arm. Before we can train Mrs. Hancock to be a Monster hunter, she has to survive her initial transformation and stabilize."

Dr. Zielinski nodded. It sounded like he might actually get the support he needed to keep Mrs. Hancock alive, which would give him a leg up on his own goals as well. Any support, beyond the normal government ambivalence toward Arms, would be good.

The history of government involvement with Transforms wasn't promising; before their escape near the end of the Eisenhower administration, all Transforms had been locked up in Quarantine. The Kennedy and Johnson administration had accepted the Transforms' escape from Quarantine and implemented plans to integrate the surviving Transforms into local communities, in households led by Focuses. This was fine for Transforms and Focuses but left a gaping policy hole concerning Arms. What came next was anybody's guess, except in the last presidential election the Republicans pledged to put all the Transforms back in Quarantine 'to stop this deadly scourge in its tracks'. Zielinski had always voted Republican, but hadn't been able to force himself to vote in the '64 elections.

He didn't say that if this Arm was anything like the other two who had lasted more than a month, there wasn't a chance in hell she would agree to hunt Monsters for a living. Two Arms weren't a large enough sample to be worth even a side comment, though.

"Although I have my own experiences to draw on regarding Arm transformations, for the Hancock project to succeed we're going to need the records on Stacy Keaton's transformation and adjustment period," Dr. Zielinski said. He had dealt with Stacy Keaton in a few terrifying episodes these past two years, but he hadn't been able to convince the touchy Arm to reminisce. She was the one Arm he hadn't been involved with during her initial transformation, and it irked him that she was the only one who survived her transformation and succeeded as an independent Arm. Unfortunately, as a one-woman crime wave, she had soured the public and medical community opinion on Arms, enough to prompt the local officials in Missouri to agitate for Mrs. Hancock's immediate execution.

"I wouldn't mind getting hold of those records myself, but they're just not available," Bates said. Gauthier nodded.

"According to Director Hoover, that episode officially didn't happen," Gauthier said. "As you know, we weren't involved in the Stacy Keaton affair." "We" being the Network-affiliated pro-Transform FBI Agents. "All I know is that the Assistant Directors involved were asked to retire afterward and that the records were sealed." Gauthier's explanation fit Dr. Zielinski's knowledge on the subject. Keaton had been abused while she had been in the custody of the FBI, likely driven psychotic, and after her escape, she became a criminal to survive, a profound embarrassment to the FBI.

Dr. Bentwyler looked up, startled. While the rest of them had been jawing, Dr. Bentwyler had been sketching a picture of Mrs. Hancock from memory, Dr. Bentwyler's equivalent of Dr. Zielinski's own photography hobby. "You were involved with other Arm transformations besides Rose Desmond?" he asked Dr. Zielinski. The Rose Desmond affair had made the national media. Everyone knew about Dr. Zielinski's involvement with Rose Desmond.

Dr. Bentwyler's official title was Staff Psychologist of the St. Louis Detention Center, but his main purpose here was to act as the Focus Network's spy. Dr. Zielinski suspected Bentwyler reported directly to Focus Claunch and didn't envy him one bit. Dr. Zielinski's Network 'boss', Focus Tonya Biggioni, was difficult to deal with, but even she was more reasonable than Focus Claunch.

Dr. Zielinski nodded. "I consulted on the Julie Bethune case, and after Desmond, on the Francine Sarles case. The last Arm who transformed, Elsie Conger, was also in my care. You wouldn't have heard anything about Conger. She didn't even survive to her first juice draw due to severe problems with her initial transformation." Her death had been unavoidable. The medical community was slowly putting together a set of guidelines on what to do and what not to do with a new Arm. What not to do was a longer list and he had written most of it.

Dr. Zielinski occasionally wondered if he had made a horrible mistake when he turned his attention to Arms. He had been in medical school during World War II, married young, and in his early career he had been a surgeon. During the Korean War he had been recognized as an exceptional surgeon. After Korea he had moved into academia, taught in several East Coast teaching hospitals, and gained his first academic kudos doing research on improved surgical techniques. By the time he wrangled a plum teaching position at Harvard Medical in '57, he had already become interested in the epidemiology of Transform Sickness, which became his second successful research specialization. He hadn't fully specialized in Transform Sickness until after the Quarantine ended and the government started letting new Focuses establish Focus households in the general population. By then, he had already done enough innovative research on Transform Sickness to be considered one of the top six experts in the field.

There was very little he hadn't done during the peak of his career. He had put his minor prestige on the line to help those new Focuses get their feet on the ground, and it had helped his career as much as it had helped the Focuses and their households. Since its beginning he had been involved with the Focus Network, the sub-rosa support group the Focuses had put together to help them survive. Paul Gauthier and Tommy Bates had been involved just as long.

As a new department head at Harvard Medical, he had turned to the knotty question of Armenigar's Syndrome. At first, the Focuses had been sympathetic toward Arms, willing to take all sorts of risks to help them. The Arms were failed Focuses, right? It was soppy humanitarianism, and he warned the Focuses from the start the Arms were likely something entirely different from what they expected. He had used his reputation to gain full control over the third Arm, Rose Desmond, right after she transformed. Rose had lived beyond her initial transformation and adjustment period, and he thought he had mastered the subject and secured his reputation forever.

Then, disaster struck. Early in Rose's seventh month as an Arm, Dr. Zielinski and Rose tried an experiment. It failed spectacularly. Rose went berserk, killed people, wounded him, and in the end, was shot dead. The media exposed the method he had used to provide Desmond with juice, volunteer unclaimed Transforms from the Transform Clinics, the same as they were going to use to keep Mrs. Hancock alive. The media moralists had drowned out his supporters and the Dean succumbed to pressure and fired him as department head. Rose's death had broken his heart, but he had long since recovered his dispassion.

His career hadn't yet recovered.

Dr. Zielinski wanted his reputation back. He wanted his standing in the medical community back. To get either, he needed a success. His most obvious prospect for success was to shepherd an Arm through her transformation and adjustment period and graduate her as a free and independent Arm. An Arm who could do good in the world and erase the horrific public perception of Arms created by Stacy Keaton.

He turned to Gauthier. "If you want Mrs. Hancock to live, _give her to me_. The Transform Department in Harvard Medical has a much better setup than this place. She'll be much less exposed to the vicissitudes of life."

"There are too many Missouri legal issues," Gauthier said. "We can't do that."

Dr. Zielinski frowned. "Make them go away and I'll get you your Arm."

Gauthier shook his head. "I'll look into it, but Stacy Keaton's made it a lost cause. Until we can first show that Arms aren't unredeemable killers, we're not going to catch any legal slack."

"Speaking of which, any information we can get on Arm capabilities would be much appreciated," Tommy said. "The FBI bosses would love to find a way to kill or capture Keaton."

"What about our friends?" Dr. Bentwyler said, referring to the Focuses. "They're not going to be happy if you do that."

"If we can present Mrs. Hancock to them as a replacement for Keaton, they'll be fine," Gauthier said. "Keaton's a serial killer, remember. Bringing her to justice for the non-Transforms she's killed is still our goal."

Dr. Zielinski wasn't so sure about how 'fine' the Focuses would be if Keaton got arrested or killed. He knew of at least two leading Focuses who would be livid if either happened. He needed to be careful himself; his own contacts with Keaton were far more extensive than either of the two FBI Agents knew. From the expression on Tommy's face, Dr. Zielinski suspected the other FBI agent didn't agree with Gauthier's assessment. Tommy's comment about information to help catch Keaton was window dressing, simply for Gauthier's consumption.

"In any case, we need Hancock," Gauthier said. "That's up to you, Hank. You're in control of this Arm's care from now on. Make me a plan. Tell me what you need."

"I'll do my best," Dr. Zielinski said, and let a small smile creep across his face. He could do this. He was positive he could do this.

Rover (Interlude)

He ran through the trees, up and down the rocky hillsides and steeper mountain slopes, chasing the blowing early fall leaves. The pain was gone. Yesterday, he found love, in the form of a Monster. He had loved the Monster to death, fulfilling some need he didn't understand. Hungry, he had eaten the Monster as well and fallen asleep in a faint.

Perhaps he slept for more than a day. The day he loved the Monster to death had been hot and sticky. Now, it was cool and crisp and pleasant. He didn't care. He could move without pain for the first time since he had been a man. All because of the good loving.

There was only one problem: his man memories were still fading.

Why worry now? The world was filled with scents and noises and places to run. A world filled with cool breezes and wet earth, with foxes, songbirds, squirrels, chipmunks, hawks, and deer. He knew them all by their scents, which struck him as strange. He ran, along an abandoned trail, and caught another scent. Human.

He hadn't lost enough of his human memories to forget that humans might be dangerous.

He went the other way, farther up into these pine forest hills. Into the mountains whose tops came deliciously close to the clouds themselves. Hours of padding up switchback trails, following power lines, jumping fences. He wondered what he was that he could move this way.

He stopped under an immense fir and looked himself over. The air smelled safe here under the towering pines, safe enough to stop moving. He no longer had hands. His arms were now legs, his hands elongated, large paws with nasty looking short claws on them. With a little difficulty, he bent himself around to glance at his rear. Yes, he had a tail back there. His waist was narrow, his legs huge and muscular, ending in paws. His dick had grown huge as well, sheathed like a dog's.

He was a dog.

He sure as hell hoped he was a big dog.

Hours later, the creek he followed plunged over a small waterfall into a pool. The pool was a little thing, a few feet across, edged with mosses and ferns. The sun crept lower in the west, the last of the high clouds having cleared. It would be pleasant tonight, near freezing but not quite. Clear tomorrow; rain the next day and warmer. He just knew.

He studied his reflection in the pool. Yes, a dog, but not a dog's head, a man's head with a snout and floppy dog ears. His gray fur had red highlights.

He thought dogs were color-blind. Well then, he wasn't quite a dog.

Below, he heard a car chugging up the mountain. He ran toward where the noise came from, unable to stop himself.

Several hundred feet below, a road gently switch backed up the mountain toward a low pass and went on by. Another road came in from the left, several hundred feet lower down. That road paralleled the mountain slope, and ended at the first road in a complicated intersection. He crept down toward the road, anticipating.

Anticipating fun.

He hid himself in the overgrown tall grass by the side of the road and waited.

The next car didn't come until the sun fell to within its width of the horizon. A small car, a... _Mustang_. A young woman and her daughter rode inside. After the car passed him, he took off running, barking in pleasure. The hard running exercised all his muscles.

The woman in the car saw him in her side mirror and screamed, but couldn't speed up. Not on this twisty road. In fact, soon she would get to the stop sign where this road met the second.

He caught up with the _Mustang_ at the stop sign.

Nope. He wasn't a small dog. He was a large dog, pony sized, taller than the _Mustang_ but not as long. He expected the woman to peel off, drive away, but he sensed something wrong with her. She wouldn't look at him. He sniffed. Terror.

"Mommy! Doggy!" the little girl said. She wasn't terrified.

He didn't want to be terrifying. He missed people. He had been a man once. Being around people quieted the ache inside, made him feel like he wasn't slipping slipping into a world of no words.

"Hello," he said. Poorly. He didn't get the 'h' sound right, and the 'l's weren't there at all. In fact, it sounded more like a bark than a 'hello'.

The woman squinched her eyes shut and held the steering wheel with corded muscles, unmoving. No fun here. He went around to the other side of the _Mustang_ and tapped his nose on the window.

"Play?" he asked the girl. Her eyes lit up. This time, his word sounded better, more like 'blay' than 'play', but much more of a word than a bark.

The little girl opened the Mustang door and stepped out. She was about eight, and cautious. He bent down to just below his shoulder level and licked her face. "Nice doggy. Where's your house, doggy? Where's your collar? How do I know what to call you if I can't find your dog tag?" Inside the car, her mother started to make strange mewling noises.

The little girl petted him.

He shivered in pleasure, the shiver reminding him of something else: sex. His dick grew hard.

"Name?" he asked the little girl for her name. The word sounded perfect when it came out.

"I'll call you Rover," the little girl said, misunderstanding his question.

"Rover," he repeated. A good name, even though when he spoke, the word came out more like 'robber' than 'rover'.

"You're like that huge dog in the books for babies I read last year," the little girl said.

"Uh huh," he said.

The little girl's mother ran out of the car, screaming like a lunatic. Rover couldn't resist. He turned away from the little girl and chased her mother down. He nuzzled the woman and screwed her, which didn't take long.

After he finished he licked the woman's face. Nothing. She didn't have any of the good loving the Monster possessed and he wanted more of. He had just raped the woman, hadn't he? Quickly, not dog-style. He backed away, scared of himself.

He couldn't figure out why he had raped the woman. Had he lost the will to stop even his most miniscule impulses?

"Bad Rover," he said. The woman, who had curled up in a ball after he raped her, began to scream again. "Sorry."

He turned back to find that the little girl had climbed back inside the car and locked the doors.

Good for her. Scary things prowled the darkening night.

He couldn't think of any way out of his mess. Fun as it was, he couldn't live this way for long. Hungry again, he scented food in the trunk of the _Mustang_. He padded back to the _Mustang_ 's trunk.

No hands. Angry, Rover growled and clawed at the trunk. To his surprise, the trunk gave with a horrid rip and opened awkwardly. Now the little girl screamed as well. "Bad Rover," he said. His stomach rumbled anyway.

Other humans would come. That wouldn't be good. He gobbled food with a few choice bites – they had hamburger! – and fled up the mountain.

This was no way to live. What was he going to do?

Carol Hancock: September 19, 1966 – September 22, 1966

Right after breakfast, Nurse Fitzpatrick told me to get ready for my first exercise session. I shrugged. After three days of tests I didn't care what they did to me, as long as it was quick. Nurse Fitzpatrick gave me some exercise clothes to wear, out of her infinite stash of institutional clothing, and led me downstairs to where the center's staff had converted a lounge into a gymnasium. Orderly Cook followed behind, hand on his gun.

I glanced at the gymnasium and its contents, turned around, and demanded to see Dr. Zielinski. The nurse and the orderly shrugged, and led me off. He had settled into his office, with books on the shelves and diplomas on the wall. Along the wall to the side he had littered a table with a microscope, slides, photographs, a slide rule, dark glass jars filled with chemicals and other equipment I didn't recognize.

He glanced up from his paperwork and indicated a chair. "Carol, you have to use the gym and exercise your body. I know you don't like it, but it's necessary," Dr. Zielinski said, before I had time to state my complaint.

"I don't have any problem with the bicycle. I don't have any problem with the treadmill. I'll do jumping jacks until I'm blue in the face. But that thing in the corner just scares me. I'm not going to lift weights. I don't want to get all muscle-bound and ugly!"

"I understand, but exercise is still necessary." Dr. Zielinski tensed, as if he had gone through this argument before and lost. "Carol, trust me on this. The exercise will be good for you. You'll only harm yourself by refusing."

I glared at him and didn't say anything.

He frowned. I thought for a minute he might get angry with me, but he drew a breath and brought himself back under control. I felt foolish about my petty complaint. He was right; he was the expert. My argument was unreasonable. I didn't care, though. I was _not_ going to lift weights. Only men lifted weights.

"Alright, Carol. Let me explain why this is important," Dr. Zielinski said. "Arms are physically oriented Transforms and they grow muscles. You're already growing muscles, and your muscle growth is responsible for your aches and pains. We can't stop your muscle growth unless we put you on a starvation diet. If you exercise enough you develop those you need to use. If you don't, _the muscle buildup will happen somewhere else_.

"If the only muscles you use are in your legs, your legs will swell up with muscle, like balloons. Maybe the growth will all go into your jaw muscles, from eating. You'll develop several inches of muscle buildup on your jaws. It will hurt, too. Your bones can't adjust to muscle growth of this magnitude in an instant. If you exercise, the muscles will build up evenly. Otherwise, you'll get uneven muscle buildup and, eventually, death. I understand your viewpoint. Weight work isn't womanly, not at all. Unfortunately, you can't think about this from a normal woman's viewpoint. You're a Major Transform now." When Dr. Zielinski got emotionally involved, he really got going.

I studied the floor, visions of Monsters in my head. The sweat doesn't bother me, Dr. Zielinski, I wanted to shout. Proper women did not lift weights! Besides, muscular women were ugly and I didn't have much slack in that department to start with. Not that I'd say anything of the sort to any man.

"You go back into the gym and do what Mr. Borton tells you, Carol," Dr. Zielinski said. "Perhaps you'd like to examine some pictures?"

I went. One of the Arms in his care had died of this muscle buildup problem; I saw her death on his face.

I understood the effect inadvertent deaths had on a person.

I went back to the gymnasium, filled with trepidation. Once inside I took in the place, but my fears didn't recede. Mats, an open area for calisthenics, a treadmill and a stationary bicycle filled half the room. The other half of the room, filled with dumbbells, barbells, weights and strange looking machinery, bothered me a lot. Surely a bunch of equipment shouldn't make me so fearful?

The exercise instructor they found for me entered the room from the side, and my breath caught. "Hancock, come here," Mr. Borton said to me, with a hungry smile. "Call me Larry. I need to take a look at your muscles."

I practically ran away on the spot. Mr. Borton was an impressive man, short and perfectly built, his muscles bulging out of his shirt, a caricature of Charles Atlas, or Johnny Weissmuller playing Tarzan. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five.

Something twisted coiled inside him, though. The others in the center were ordinary people, professionals and such. Mr. Borton came from a prison yard, hard and dangerous. He took up too much space, walked with casual arrogance, and his cold and dead blue eyes never left me. If someone told me he spent his free time murdering children in their beds, I might have believed them. This man agitated even the strange supernatural sense that had shown me the two woman Transforms, back during my first interview with Dr. Peterson.

Larry came up to me. I took a step back. He stopped, studied me with his cold eyes and I flushed. I took a deep breath and made myself hold still. He wasn't impressed.

He poked and prodded me like a doctor, had me raise my arms, spread my legs, bend over. "Not good," he said, as I tried to hide my uneasiness. "The hypertrophy has already started. The speed you're gaining your muscles is insane. Far too fast."

At least now I knew why the authorities had brought in a person like Larry: he knew how to help Arms. I'd just have to live with the danger and hope the authorities had enough control over him to keep him from doing something awful to me. I wondered how he had managed to meet those other Arms.

I was too afraid to ask.

Larry had to show me how to do everything. I guess I expected Jack La Lanne, jumping jacks, calisthenics and such. I felt like an idiot and Larry's cold contempt didn't help. He told me all about the importance of stretching and warming up, about the latest research on 'physical development', and how these strange machines worked the various muscle groups. Borton also went on at length about the benefits of lifting weights. I did my best to appear politely interested instead of suspiciously wary.

After stretching we exercised. I could foresee myself getting tired of Larry Borton. I did what he told me but I had a hard time putting any passion into my work. My lack of enthusiasm didn't matter, as Larry had enough drive for both of us. All he had to do was walk close to me and stare, and my nerves would jump. I would work and sweat and exercise until exhausted.

The exercise session lasted for a very long hour.

A full-length mirror hung on the left wall of the room. My first uncharitable thought was that Larry put the mirror there to look at himself. No, the point was so _I_ could look at _myself_. Larry positioned me in front of the mirror, showed me the locations of my muscles, how they appeared when I flexed them, and what I would look like when my muscles developed – as if my muscle development was the most important thing in the world.

I studied my reflection with bleak depression and wondered if this was the last time I'd ever appear normal. I was thirty-three years old and I'd had three children. I sagged a little, but I was still a size ten. I had a little extra padding on my hips and thighs, my hair was a sort of bland dark blond, I stood too tall and my face was too long. I dressed up well, though, when I put my mind to looking good.

This occasion didn't count. I wore an old navy tennis skirt and a loose white shirt, my makeup had worn off and my hair was a mess. I considered my appearance an omen for the future.

\---

After I finished the exercises, Agent Bates came to visit.

"Looks like you're having all sorts of fun. You done here yet?" Bates asked Larry. The words were friendly but the tone wasn't. Those two clearly knew but didn't like each other.

"Just finishing up, Bates," Larry said. Almost a growl.

"Good. Mrs. Hancock, when you're done, would you come with me, please?"

Larry had me stretch one last time, muscles bulging as he showed me what to do. I made an unsuccessful attempt to imitate him and fled, relieved to be out of the gymnasium.

Agent Bates escorted me to the first floor conference room, silent after another desultory attempt to talk me out of watching his film. He had me sit down and as he turned off the lights Dr. Zielinski joined us. "Back in '58, before the end of the Transform Quarantine, a plant maintenance engineer in the FBI building came down with Transform Sickness. No Focuses had room for him. For religious reasons, suicide wasn't an option, nor euthanasia, not even any medications. He volunteered to allow his end to be filmed in the name of science." Bates paused. "I was there. This film covers the last four days of his life. If he and his family hadn't agreed to withhold food and water from him, he would have taken two weeks to die."

I shivered and hugged my torso, but couldn't take my eyes off the screen. The film started with the man on the floor of a padded cell, in a straitjacket. The man had corded muscles and he bared his teeth in a snarl.

"He's in pain, but he's not in withdrawal yet," Dr. Zielinski said. "He's in the worst of the low juice states, what we call periwithdrawal."

Fifteen minutes later, the man began to howl, his muscles corded tighter than before. A minute later, blood began to ooze from his skin like sweat. Another minute later, he exploded off the floor and threw himself at the door. I flinched and covered my mouth in sudden terror. I'd never seen anyone move that fast or hit something that hard.

He bounced back, spat teeth, and did it again. And again. Bloody spittle flew from his mouth, nose and ears, to mix with his bloody sweat. He never stopped. I could only tell the cuts in the film by the changes in his endless screaming as he screamed his throat raw.

In the end he died thrashing on the floor, his limbs broken, his body puffy and warped as if he was changing as he died.

I let Dr. Zielinski take me by the elbow and lead me, shaking, to his office two rooms down the hall. Bates followed.

"His death happened so dramatically because he was confined and didn't have access to food and water," Dr. Zielinski said. He had come out from behind his desk and was sitting with Agent Bates and I, as if he was an ordinary human being. The film had ended fifteen minutes ago and supposedly I'd recovered. "A withdrawal psychotic in more normal circumstances is much more like a zombie from a horror movie, mindless, shambling and dangerous to all around him."

I finished drying my eyes on Dr. Zielinski's handkerchief. "Doctor, I don't understand how this works," I said. "I know I'm supposed to take juice from someone who's about to go into withdrawal, but if a Transform runs out of juice how can there be anything for me to take?"

"A man in withdrawal still has a lot of juice left."

I waved my hands. "So if the guy in the movie still had juice, why'd he go into withdrawal?"

Dr. Zielinski steepled his fingers and paused. "Once a person contracts Transform Sickness, juice permeates his body and becomes an integral part of his metabolism. The large majority of any Transform's juice is tied up in supporting his life. That's called his fundamental juice. The rest is supplemental juice. If the supplemental juice is used up, a Transform goes into withdrawal. If the supplemental juice climbs too high, roughly eighty percent of the fundamental juice count, a Transform becomes a Monster. What makes this interesting is that the juice counts in question are different for Transforms, Focuses and Arms."

This hadn't made the Sunday supplements. I leaned forward intently and frowned.

"Focuses manipulate supplemental juice to keep Transforms alive," Bates said. "You, as an Arm, can't sense the difference between the two types of juice."

His comment was a stab right at my heart. _I didn't ask to be crippled._ _I didn't want the Shakes_. Instead of commenting, I pretended I wasn't some kind of unnatural abomination, only a rational woman whose life hadn't gone completely out of control.

I had wondered sometimes during the long sleepless nights what supernatural force had claimed me. I'd always recognized the world contained forces operating in the world beyond the grasp of science. God and the Devil, certainly. Maybe others as well. I tried to believe in those unnamed other forces when I considered my predicament, but honesty made me recognize my rationalization. What force would be responsible for a monstrosity who had to kill other people to survive? What force would drive a psychotic murderer like Stacy Keaton? What force would have a person kill her own child when she was unconscious? Rev. Smalley in Jefferson City had certainly been clear enough when he talked about Transforms. The more I considered, the more I came to suspect I'd slipped into the Devil's grasp during those three days while I transformed.

I nodded to Bates in understanding. An Arm was a creature of Satan. When she drew juice from a Transform, she took both types of juice and killed him.

"Are these different kinds of juice, or are they stored in different locations?" I asked Dr. Zielinski. "Are you sure about all this?"

Agent Bates startled at my words and pointed to the doc. "He should know. He's the one who discovered the difference between the two."

Dr. Zielinski wasn't bothered by the praise, the arrogant cuss. "Location. Fundamental juice is spread uniformly throughout the body, while supplemental juice is stored in the lymphatic system and the skin."

I didn't have any more questions, and they let me go back to my room.

During my afternoon exercise session I could actually observe my muscles as they developed, what my unnerving trainer called an 'Arm trick'. He pushed me to exhaustion and beyond, the monster.

That evening, I got a letter from Bill. He tried to sound loving and supportive, but it was easy to read his unexpressed anger. I'd killed his daughter. He didn't mention Billy and Jeffery. He said he prayed for my soul, as if I had killed our daughter on purpose.

I had nightmares that night, and for many nights after. I hadn't realized Arms had near perfect memory until I saw that movie over and over in my mind.

\---

Monday, I didn't get out of bed in the morning. What did I have to look forward to? I would spend the rest of my life trapped in a Transform Detention Center, aching with pain from the exercise, surrounded by armed orderlies, far from my family, death by withdrawal poised over my head like the sword of Damocles.

They wanted me to kill. I saw myself in the padded room whenever I closed my eyes, and yet I couldn't imagine killing someone. I was tired, depressed and cranky. I figured I had cause.

My mother visited me after my afternoon exercise session. "Knock, knock," she said, and looked in the room with a smile.

"Oh, Mom!" I stood and gave her a big hug, which elicited an "Ow!" from her. I guess I needed to watch my strength.

"So, how are you doing?" She stepped back, and looked me over. "You're getting to be quite the athlete, aren't you, dear."

"Oh, you would not believe." I told her about the endless exercise sessions. "The sessions help, much to my surprise. At least after the mean trainer here makes me do my stretches. Then he goes and ruins it by making me do all this exhausting exercise. How is..."

How is everyone doing? The words refused to come out. She had a tissue in my hand even before I knew I was going to cry.

"We'd best not think about certain things, dear," she said, and frowned. "Your father isn't being very adult about this whole business. The fool seems to think you're at fault, that you could have somehow avoided the Shakes."

"Why? How?"

"Oh, well, hun, you know Old Jeff. Your father's always had a rather Manichean viewpoint on things. Everything is either all good or all bad. I swear he still thinks Transform Sickness is a mark of the Devil, not a disease. A moral affliction."

I turned away. I once thought the same. "I've always suspected Transform Sickness was something other than what the doctors said it was. Why did _I_ get it, though?" What was my mortal sin? Mom had no answer for me. I wondered if she thought I had been seeing another man on the side or stealing from the collection plate. Mom had always called me her perfect angel. Clearly, I was an angel no more. We sat for a long moment, until Mom stammered something about the antics of Firestone, their new spaniel-collie mix, and I relaxed.

Mom and I went on to talk about other family matters, some big get-together her sister Bea had hosted in Dallas that went bad, her favorite flower shop going out of business, that sort of thing. The chatter was a welcome bit of normal life, but it finished sooner than I wanted.

\---

The next morning, Tuesday, I didn't get up on my own. I was even more depressed and had a headache besides. Achy muscles. A sharp pain in my abdomen, under my right lower ribs. The nurse came in and tried to get me out of bed. I ignored her. They sent for Dr. Zielinski.

Dr. Zielinski sat down in the chair beside my bed. I opened my eyes briefly, closed them again and ignored him. It reminded me briefly of the first morning, when I'd been so hungry, and he had come for the first time. I was still hungry.

He just sat for several minutes and didn't say anything. I wallowed in my misery.

"I'm hungry."

"Hmm," he responded, non-committal.

"I'm hungry and I have a blistering headache and I hurt. I hate the stupid exercises and I hate having armed orderlies always following me around and I'm tired and I don't want to kill anybody and I hate it. I _hate_ it, _hate_ it, _hate_ it!" I turned over and buried my face into my pillow. Even to myself I sounded like an over-tired two year old.

"Your problems are because you need juice," he said.

"What?" I took my face out of the pillow and looked at him.

"Your juice level affects your mood. As your juice level falls, you get more depressed and feel worse. When you take juice, you'll feel much better, and be cheerful and optimistic and generally pleased with life. Unfortunately, you used a lot of juice to heal, after they shot you. Normally, we have over two weeks before a new Arm has to face the need for more juice."

His words appalled me. Life was going to get worse. Dr. Zielinski wanted me to kill someone to get over my depression. I couldn't even visualize the corresponding good side. I buried my face back in the pillow and cried.

"You can't survive unless you take juice," Dr. Zielinski said. "We're in the process of locating a suitable volunteer. You're just going to have to be patient."

I tried to brush his arm off the bed with a swipe of my hand. He fell backwards as if I had punched him.

"Carol, you need to get up," Dr. Zielinski said from the floor, voice firm. "People are depending on you and you have a responsibility."

I dragged myself out of bed. Slowly.

I didn't function well that day. I hated the exercise session and I was cranky with everyone. When Nurse Callahan did a sloppy job of finding my vein to draw blood, I vented all my pent-up hostility and depression at her.

"Did you actually go to nursing school?" I said, my voice as cold as ice. "Or did you go and just sleep through the classes?" Everything came out at once and I couldn't stop my river of vitriol. "No, you used your time trying to get a husband, but you weren't any good at that either. Now you're not married and you're still a lousy nurse. So now, you're trying to get Mr. Cook to go after you. Except he's smart enough to figure out that you're stupid and incompetent, and he's too smart to want anything to do with a cheap whore like you. How did you manage to get this job, anyway? I would have thought that for something this important they would have gotten competent staff. Or were you just here and they didn't bother to get rid of you when they brought in people who knew what they were doing?"

I didn't have the slightest idea where I'd come up with that hateful garbage. Nurse Callahan just stared at me all through my diatribe, then whispered "No, it's not like that..." before tears filled her eyes and she fled the room. Tears filled my own eyes, from anger, misery and disgust with what I said. All I'd really known was that she seemed serious when she flirted with Mr. Cook and she didn't seem to think well of herself. I should have apologized to Nurse Callahan when she came by after lunch to take my blood pressure, but all I did was glare at her, aching from my exercises. She left the room quickly and I never saw her again. I learned later she quit. The story of what I did made the rumor mill among the staff, lowering my already low reputation.

Mom tried to cheer me up later, but she had no luck. "You'll just have to work your way through all these changes, dear. I know this has got to be difficult." She left after I turned away, hiding my tears. The flowers and letters had stopped. I was passing out of people's memories, a bad dream they didn't want to think about anymore. After Mom left, I railed at the unfairness of my life and broke two of the flower vases.

\---

Wednesday, they didn't even try to get me out of bed. Two orderlies came in and moved me bodily to a gurney. For the rest of the day they hauled me around, baggage to be tested.

All day long, my head throbbed and my muscles and joints ached. My stomach was a cavern inside of me. My skin felt raw and every touch was painful. A thick goo coated my teeth; every light was too bright and every noise too loud. Depression descended on me, a curtain in front of my thoughts. I curled my arms over my head and tried to shut everything out.

Thursday they left me in bed as I pleaded and cursed for relief, not fit for company at all. Later in the morning the orderlies came, hauled me into a room overlooking the entrance to the Detention Center and sat me in a chair facing the barred window. They had to strap me in to keep me sitting up. We waited as the minutes dragged by in an eternity of torture.

An eon later, I discovered how different I was. I noticed something coming, something beautiful, pleasant, a soothing touch on my raw nerves, a well-done picture or a pure note. My extra sense picked this up as it came into the Detention Center, similar to what I had sensed in those two Transform women on my first day here, but even more alluring now.

I turned toward it. Beside me, I heard someone say, "She's got it." Someone else said "About 1400 feet. Maybe 1350. Call it 1375. Mark her down for a range of 1375 feet with her metasense. Second best I've seen."

_Metasense_? What a word. I smiled and focused in on the beauteous wonder that approached. I tried to go towards it, but couldn't. Dimly, remembering my restraints, I pulled absent-mindedly at the straps.

The soothing harmony came closer. I forgot my other senses and focused only on this _metasense_ , the one showing me the beauteous wonder.

It was in the building; the elevator; closer still. I held my breath, clenching my hands into fists, again and again.

I _liked_ it.

Now it was in the room next to me and stopped. I made a little whimpering noise. I wanted it closer.

"Wait," someone commanded, a voice I was accustomed to obeying. Dr. Zielinski, I eventually realized. The same voice who called out the distances on my metasense. I tugged again at the straps.

"Wait." I heard again.

Finally, a different voice: "We're set. Let her go."

I thought I would have a choice whether I killed or not. I was a fool back then.

I was an Arm. Taking juice was never my choice.

The hands guiding me pushed me against warm flesh, flooded with juice. They laid my hands directly on the skin, and my body thrilled to the touch. The hand of God was upon me, my whole psyche pillowed in warmth.

"Pull. Draw it into you. Drink down the juice. Pull it into you. Carol, take the juice..."

I pulled in the juice, just as Zielinski commanded. I had no control. None.

The juice was ecstasy. The first tiny fragment of juice entering through my hands rang like a glass of pure crystal. My body sang in that pure moment of utter clarity and purpose, the infinite now, that both lasted forever and lasted no time at all, poised at rapture's edge. However, my initial pleasure was only the prelude. In the next undefined instant, the juice surged into me as a tsunami of purest unadulterated bliss, better than life, better than sex, beyond heaven. Like the flowing of the tide, the juice inexorably drowned my thoughts and words in overwhelming sensation. Love and lust gripped me in swirled union, mixed with wondrous emotions that I, then, could not name. I touched heaven and beheld God. As the juice swept in and through and beyond me it thrilled my body and mind, touching delight in every way imaginable. I pulled and pulled until there was no more, yet still the pleasure went on and on and on. I lost myself and the ecstasy consumed me. That which had been me succumbed to the mindless and exhaustingly vital bewitchment that was the wondrous drawing of the juice, and there had never been anything so perfect in my life.

I awoke in the afternoon, in my hospital bed in the St. Louis Transform Detention Center. My body thrilled to the lure of sex. Every touch on my body was a stimulus. I ached with need, thrilled with joy, and moaned with pleasure. My nipples were hard with excitement and every nerve in my body longed for a touch. I panted with need and my breath came in ragged gasps.

I lay alone in my bed. No one would come near me for the rest of the day, not even Mom, who fled after she took one look at me. I rubbed against the bed rails, the headboard, anything. I couldn't satisfy myself. I wanted more. More. More!

No one would come near me.

I groaned in frustration.

I stared at the ceiling and masturbated over and over. On the eighth day after awakening from my transformation coma, my conversion into an Arm was complete.

Bob Scalini: September 23, 1966 – September 25, 1966

Bob curled up in the pile of old blankets under a bent metal counter, nestled into the corner of the kitchen of the burned-out St. Louis restaurant. He was no longer the wild-looking mountain man, thanks to a shave, a bath and the hand washing of his worn clothes.

To his left, sitting on the blackened floor beside his little nest, he kept two glass milk jugs filled with water. He stashed a ball of soap scraps and a nicked razor in the remains of the cabinet over the sink, with a neatly folded stack of old rags beside them. Two ovens had survived the fire almost intact; he hid the small supply of extra clothes he had collected in the rightmost oven. The left held a loaf and a half of stale bread, three dented cans of Libby's cut green beans, and a can opener. The can opener was new, rather than old and battered. Bob had spent real money for it.

Nestled in his cozy cave, Bob watched. More technically, he metasensed.

Three miles to the south, he metasensed the St. Louis Transform Detention Center. Four and a half miles to the northeast, he metasensed the only Focus household in range, a household that had recently completed a house move. The other Focuses in the St. Louis area were located in distant suburbs, outside of his metasense range.

He didn't know the names of either the Focus or the brilliant creature in the Detention Center, so he made up names of his own to call them. The Focus he named Ishtar, after the Babylonian Goddess of fertility and motherhood. The Transform held in the Detention Center had to be a woman, so he named her Tiamat, after the Goddess of death and destruction.

He laughed to himself about the names. He had hated the Ancient Myths course when he took it in college, but for some reason he had become fond of the Babylonian myths. Enough to remember the names of dozens of Babylonian Gods, though he swore he had forgotten them all before he transformed.

Ishtar was in with the babies again. He wasn't sure how many babies the household had, but she always seemed to be holding one. He recognized the motions her arms made as she held a baby, and the easy way she managed the juice when she was content. Sterility was a tragedy for Ishtar. She put the baby down and moved to a different room, unhappy.

Ishtar needed to get better control of her moods, Bob decided. They were life and death to the people of her household.

Bob had expected a Focus household to be like any other group of normal people living closely together. He expected fights and squabbles, but they would get along the way people normally did. He figured the household would have a loose organization, led by one of the older men, and the leaders would spend significant energy taking good care of their Focus. A big happy family.

Too bad he had been wrong.

The problem was the juice. Ishtar's concentration often failed, and when it failed her emotions controlled the household's juice. If she was happy and relaxed and content, the household had a comfortable amount of juice. If she was sad or depressed, she shorted the household's juice. When she was angry...

The first time Bob saw Ishtar angry she ripped the juice right out of a woman Transform, and her hapless victim visibly _cringed_.

Ishtar's Transforms both loved and feared her.

The household's old place, an ancient hotel, had been worse, rank with some form of old foul dross that reminded him of sludge. The sludge dross hindered Ishtar's ability to move the juice from one Transform to another, making her and everyone else miserable. The only reason Bob came up with to explain why they hadn't moved earlier was cost. Bob had tried to consume the plentiful sludge dross, but like eating water and calling it food, the sludge dross was useless.

Bob metasensed more details than when he had first arrived in St. Louis. He followed the bright hum of the juice as it flowed from the women (who all produced a surplus of juice) to the men (who used more than they produced). The intricate pattern of the juice within the Focus herself and the dimmer juice inside the Transforms was a skeleton that supported it all. His metasense even caught the precise shape of bodies, almost good enough to recognize faces and expressions. He followed every breath they took and every move they made. He metasensed them use the toilet, make love to their spouses...and sometimes make love to people who weren't their spouses. He felt uneasy knowing so much about other people.

He watched.

His improved metasense also kept track of Tiamat in her solitary glory in the Detention Center. He was glad they kept Tiamat caged; a couple of days ago she killed a Transform man by taking his juice, in an instant of brutal violence. The dross had flowed from the victim like blood afterwards.

Bob had never seen someone killed before, not even in the War. The death of the Transform had been swift and brutal, without hesitation, with no hint of any reservations.

Tiamat was indeed a good name for that one.

What was _wrong_ with those people? Didn't they have any conception of what they were doing? Didn't they realize some monsters were too dangerous to hold? Hell, had they forgotten the story of King Kong?

Tiamat's growing inhumanity reminded him of what he was going through as a Crow. He only used a fraction of the juice Tiamat used, though, making his changes only a dim echo of hers. He hadn't run in fear, now used to Tiamat and her blinding metasensed brilliance, so dangerous and so starkly beautiful. Her radiance held far more allure than Ishtar's dimmer glow.

Every evening he went out to sip from the deep sea of dross that seeped away from the Detention Center. It was disconcerting to think of something so wild, so dangerous, as the thing that gave him life. It was also disconcerting to realize Tiamat lived in a place so foul with sludge dross that it made Ishtar's old hotel home look new and fresh. It couldn't be good for her, either, and he wondered what so much sludge dross and juice was doing to her.

He doubted he would ever know.

\---

Two days later, he gave up on the wretched Ishtar and her flaws. The dross she and her household produced was too meager to sustain him unless he risked himself to come up right to her house. The more he metasensed her, the less she seemed a Goddess and more a normal human woman trying to do something too hard for her.

Ishtar's dross reminded him of yesterday's oatmeal. Tiamat's reminded him of pizza with extra cheese oozing off the crust, topped by far too much red pepper. An acquired taste, one Bob quickly learned to appreciate. Tiamat's dross even seemed more potent than Ishtar's.

Tiamat now attracted his full attention. The juice affected Tiamat differently from the way the juice affected him. He took in so little, so slowly, with no great highs and no great lows. By extrapolation from the juice's effect on him, he figured those great highs and lows were enough to drive Tiamat insane. He sympathized with her, his Goddess of destruction, despite the danger she posed.

After the sun set, he crept out of the burned out restaurant to take his own dross from Tiamat's sacrificial alter that was the Detention Center. He crept into the shabby old-industrial part of town south of the city center, a bustling place of warehouses and rail yards during the day, much quieter at night. Occasionally the smell of roasting hops from one of the beer distilleries on the far side of the old-industrial district would waft over, which Bob found homey.

He sipped from Tiamat's dross as it imperceptibly oozed to the north, away from the Detention Center. Like some watery lava, the dross flowed away from the Detention Center along a channel set in foul sludgy dross almost too old to sense.

For several days he had sensed something else in the Detention Center. The 'something else' only appeared at the edges of his metasense and disappeared when he focused his attention on it. The 'something else' bugged him, and he kept trying to get a better look at it.

While he sipped dross, concealed in the comforting shadow of a Burlington Northern boxcar, he let his metasense wander...and there it was again. He stopped sipping dross and concentrated his metasense on the flickers.

Bob froze in utter terror. He shrank back in on himself in some instinctive juice-powered reflex, unable to move.

This new thing walked across the Detention Center parking lot, got into a car, drove off toward the inner security gate, and then south through the outer security gate. Not, thank heavens, toward him. This new Major Transform wasn't another Crow or a Focus.

_Th_ _is_ Major Transform had found a way to hide from Bob's metasense. Bob hoped he had just done the same, because he _knew_ this other creature was a predator, perhaps the predator that preyed on Crows. He metasensed the predator drive off into the night, eventually out of his range.

Relieved, he could move again. His first instinct was to run, run and never look back. Danger! Yet, the predator showed no sign it had noticed him. "What's a predator like that doing at the Detention Center?" Bob asked himself. "Who did it hunt? _What_ did it hunt? How often did it hunt?"

The predator felt female to him, and she had a human shape. Her metasense protection prevented him from metasensing anything more. She walked around the Detention Center as if she owned the place, which meant the center unknowingly held a viper to its breast, a trouble-maker. Bob thought, and decided to name the predator 'Zaltu', a Goddess of strife.

He went back to sipping dross.

Tiamat was a predator as well, he decided. She killed for her juice. Unlike Zaltu, she wasn't hidden at all, but her metasense glow was similar, if not the same. These Major Transforms could exercise and drive cars and such, so they had to be invisible to society. Evil and dangerous.

He lived well because he lived off Tiamat's leavings, but she was a clear threat to humanity. He ought to condemn her completely. He didn't.

What did that make him?

The next day Zaltu returned. Bob found her with little effort, now that he knew how to look. She still showed no sign she knew he even existed.

He weighed options, and his mouth went dry and his hands shook at the idea of leaving Tiamat's sea of dross behind. He decided Tiamat's dross was worth the risk.

How could he stay, though? Whenever Zaltu appeared to his metasense, Bob froze in terror, hour after hour, cowering in fear.

He found it difficult to believe he had found _two_ of these predatory women.

"An experienced Crow probably wouldn't be this stupid," Bob said to himself. "But I can't bear to leave just because of some predator who doesn't even know I exist." He couldn't give up on this sea of dross...and he had never liked to be pushed around.

He just hoped a _third_ one didn't show up.

Chapter 3

"Transform Sickness is manifested differently in men than in women and doesn't appear at all in children. A person must be past the age of puberty to fall victim to it. Most victims are between the ages of fifteen and forty-five, and it's extremely uncommon among the elderly. Symptoms of the active phase of Transform Sickness may include shaking hands (from whence the common term "the Shakes" derives), high fever, depression and irritability, joint aches, sensitivity to light, and coma. Ten to fifteen percent of those inflicted with Transform Sickness do not survive the initial active phase of the disease. Five to ten percent of those who do recover are immune to the chronic phase of Transform Sickness. Thus, about eighty percent of those who contract the initial phase of Transform Sickness progress to the chronic phase of Transform Sickness. A person with the chronic phase of Transform Sickness is commonly known of as a 'Transform'." [CDC pamphlet, 1956]

Dr. Henry Zielinski: September 23, 1966

The phone rang. Dr. Zielinski lay on the hard hotel bed and massaged his temples, trying to banish his headache. He thought he had seen everything with Arms, but Hancock took the cake.

Carol Hancock, supposedly brilliant, educated and refined, a society leader among women, had regressed to about the social and emotional skill level of a four year old. Even though he treated her with kindness, she still behaved like a superstitious spoiled preschool brat. Her test results said she had a genius IQ, yet she often sounded and acted borderline retarded. The worst new Arm he had seen. No matter what he tried, he couldn't figure out what was wrong with her. His leading hypothesis was that she had a new transformation problem, one he hadn't encountered before. Perhaps she just didn't like him and was being uncooperative on purpose, which didn't feel right.

Whatever the reason, Hancock's reactions made his project twice as difficult as it should have been at this stage. Dr. Zielinski sighed and rubbed his temples. The phone rang for a second time. He ignored it.

The St. Louis Transform Detention Center could be, for some unknown reason, just a bad place for Transforms. Focuses complained all the time about certain places 'going bad', and although he had never been able to find any physical reason for it, he couldn't dismiss their complaints. He looked through the Detention Center records and found several other anomalous reactions. Nothing similar to Mrs. Hancock's reaction, though.

The phone rang for a third time. He sighed and picked it up, hoping it was his wife.

No such luck.

"Tell me about it," the beautiful voice on the other side of the phone commanded. The voice belonged to Focus Tonya Biggioni, his highest ranking contact within the Focus Network. She was his boss, at least for Transform community issues. He had many bosses, starting with Dr. Josephs, the head of the Transform Research Department at Harvard Medical, Dr. Jeffers in the Communicable Disease Center, Gauthier with the FBI, and a revolving set of National Science Foundation bean counters. Biggioni thought she had a stronger claim than the rest.

He didn't argue her claim. Biggioni had enough raw power to turn a normal's bowels to water – and unlike many of the leading Focuses, she was a decent human being. At least some of the time. When she remembered.

"If she lasts to her next draw I'll be surprised, Stalker," Dr. Zielinski said. Stalker was the name of the Focus's cat. They had used this ruse several times before, a tip off that he thought someone had bugged his phone. After his conversation with Paul Gauthier, he suspected as much.

"That bad?"

"She took a swing at _me_ , even before her first draw. She thinks Transforms are an abomination, Transform capabilities are supernatural, and of all things she's decided she's become a minion of Satan."

"I see." Biggioni paused. "Someone we know is interested in Hancock. A certain someone of a similar persuasion that you've spent time hanging around with."

Hanging by one foot, head down over a fifty-foot drop. Dr. Zielinski broke into a cold sweat at the thought of that person getting personally involved. She was the proverbial bull in the china shop.

"How interested? Can she help us with, um, our supply problem?" Every time Bates found a surplus Clinic Transform, something would go wrong. Bates blamed bad luck, but Dr. Zielinski suspected enemy interference. Figuring out which of the Arms' enemies to blame for the seeming jinx was beyond his skill level.

The woman on the other end of the phone laughed. "Your friend is much more likely to swipe your supply out from under your control before you can get it to your new charge, you know. No, I think she may be interested in trying her hand at training."

"You're joking. Tell me you're joking." Dr. Zielinski shivered. That would be like giving the Easter Bunny to Stalin for training. No, more like giving John Glenn to Che Guevara. He had no idea what _she_ could turn Hancock into, if Hancock survived.

"No joke. The Network concurs, as well."

"The Council?"

Another laugh from Biggioni. "We're all a little hesitant, but we're willing to give this a try. For the moment. A vocal minority of Focuses wouldn't mind at all if your new charge died."

He was surprised it was still a minority. "What should I do?"

"This person of similar persuasion will contact you. I've given her your phone number at the hotel. If she doesn't contact you and you want to talk to her, use your normal contact methods." Tonya paused, and Dr. Zielinski heard her footsteps as she paced around her Focus household in Philadelphia. "For the moment, I've convinced her to be patient, not to go John Wayne on us. She's muttering about cost. I think to get her to do it our way we're going to have to provide some, um, incentives."

"Jesus wept."

"Oh, and Hank..." Tonya paused. Paper rustled in the background, over the phone. "I have a list of three St. Louis Focus households that you might want to visit while you're in the area. They need reassurance that everything is under control. You know how it is." They feared an Arm going after the Transforms they protected.

The Focuses wanted the Arms on their side. Or dead.

Focus Biggioni's request would take him away from his more important work with Hancock. He sighed, and thought. Could he afford to annoy Focus Biggioni and say 'no'? He didn't receive any grant money from the Network, but when the Network was active on his side, things seemed to work better, especially when dealing with government or academic bureaucracies. The Focus Network had friends in high places these days.

He could not afford to say 'no' if he wanted his reputation and academic career moving again.

Carol Hancock: September 23, 1966 – September 26, 1966

The bed was a mess. I found wads of tissues amid the tangled sheets piled on the floor. I was sweating, wet and sticky. The room reeked of sex, despite the fact I was alone and my husband nowhere in sight. I wrapped myself in my robe and went down the hall to the bathroom for a shower. The robe rubbed against my nipples and my loins still ached with need. My mind buzzed and an ocean of juice, drowning and loss still buried whatever reason or rationality I once possessed.

The orderly followed me to the bathroom an extra two paces farther back than normal. I turned to enter the bathroom, showing him my knee and calf, and looked over my shoulder at him with frankly bedroom eyes. He blushed, I winked.

Somewhere deep inside me some remnant of sanity screamed, a remnant buried deep beneath layers of lust and sensation. My act was sinful and wrong, but I couldn't make myself care.

"I think you should go take your shower, Mrs. Hancock," Mr. Cook, the orderly, said. Distant and formal. I turned away from him and moaned in frustration. I'd issued many invitations to my little party, but had gotten no takers yet.

Inside the bathroom I fell against the shut door and groaned my frustration. The morning sun shone brightly through the only unbarred window in this place, a tiny window high above the commode, but it didn't cheer me. I took my shower and dreamed about the juice. In the soapy shower, one of my hands brushed against a nipple and sent fire through my body. Another touched between my legs.

The shower took a lot longer than usual. Even after I finished, it wasn't enough.

\---

"So, Carol, tell me what you're feeling," Dr. Bentwyler said. He had me lying on a couch in Dr. Zielinski's office. Across the room, Dr. Zielinski sat in a chair, a notepad on his knee, his camera on the floor beside him. He had taken several pictures of me, for "immediate post-draw comparisons", in his words. I was a bit frisky, and they both had to talk me out of stripping.

"I'm more alive than I've ever felt in my life," I said, my voice lusty.

"Yes?"

"It's like there's an electric current running through me, lighting me up like a light bulb. I'm alive, alert, and filled with energy! So much that it's impossible to contain and it's bursting out at the seams. I can see everything. I'm aware of everything. Every nerve in my body is tingling and the juice inside me is like an orgasm that just goes on and on and on." I smiled an open invitation to the Staff Psychologist and he blushed.

"Did you enjoy taking juice, Carol?" Dr. Bentwyler asked, red-faced.

The memory of taking juice came back to me again. I lost myself again in the ecstasy.

"Carol?"

"Oh, yes." I breathed. "Oh, yes."

"Good," Dr. Bentwyler said. "You can expect to feel quite good for the next two days. This will gradually fade, and you can expect to have about two days of relative normality. You'll only gradually go back into the depression and irritability that you've been experiencing for the last few days."

How unfortunate. "How soon do I get more?" I asked, huskily.

Dr. Zielinski looked up from his notes. "We're aiming for every ten days. This isn't something we can completely control, as I'm sure you can understand, so your juice draws will sometimes happen sooner and sometimes happen later."

"Can't you get me juice any earlier than _ten days_? What if someone becomes available tomorrow? We wouldn't want them to _suffer_ , now would we?" I spoke the last with a deep throated whisper, as I rolled on my side and stroked my left ankle along the inside of my right leg.

Dr. Zielinski shook his head. "This is a tricky enough legal situation to begin with. You'll get another draw when the time's appropriate. Not before."

I sighed a coquettish "Please?"

"No."

Dr. Bentwyler took a deep breath. "I'm sure you can tell that high juice – what you have now – causes an increase in libido. Your libido is excessively high for your juice count. I trust you're attempting to control it as much as you can, but we all understand the power of juice."

I adjusted my blouse under my ample breasts, making them bounce. "Your libido will fade over the next couple of days as your juice count goes down," Dr. Bentwyler said.

Dr. Zielinski tapped his foot on the ground. "I've already warned the staff what to expect from you, _and to behave_."

"Darn it."

"I hate to mention this, but what form of birth control do you prefer to use, Mrs. Hancock?" Dr. Bentwyler said, deadpan.

"What?" I said, shocked out of my vamping.

Dr. Bentwyler didn't respond and waited me out.

"I would never," I said with a sniff. "That would be immoral."

Both doctors raised their eyebrows. "We don't know if Arms are as infertile as Focuses," Dr. Bentwyler said. "We can't take any chances. Some Focuses transform when they're pregnant, and several of those pregnancies ended in disaster. You need some form of birth control."

Hmm. He expected me to be able to trip someone up. I sat up on the couch, smiled and stretched. With an extra little sensuous wiggle. "Well, okay, how about the Pill?"

"That won't work because of the vast changes Major Transforms go through," Dr. Zielinski said. "I'm going to get you fitted for a diaphragm this afternoon – hmm, no – tomorrow afternoon, and I'll give you a supply of condoms, in case someone around here...it's up to you to use them."

I nodded again, this time more intelligently. "I understand." If I was immoral enough to trip up someone besides my husband, I could be immoral enough to use birth control.

"You can control yourself. Several of the other Arms I worked with learned self-control. Think of something pleasant, such as art." He had a book of abstract expressionist art under his camera. German abstract expressionists, of all things. The cover was an apocalyptic Kadinsky.

"I'll do that," I said, and grabbed his book. I wasn't interested, just perverse.

"Good," Dr. Bentwyler said. "Do you have any questions about what's been going on? I understand how difficult this has been for you."

I firmly kept my mind on juice. "Can an Arm be trained to tell the difference between fundamental juice and supplemental juice? I mean, there are all those stories floating around about Keaton's wicked supernatural powers. The stories imply that she trained herself, that Arms can learn new tricks. Hasn't anyone tried to teach an Arm to take just supplemental juice?"

Dr. Zielinski hesitated, his face unreadable. "Yes. I've tried. Unfortunately, an Arm can't be taught to sense the difference. However, even if the Arm could sense the difference, think about how difficult it would be for an Arm to learn to take only fundamental juice when she's down on juice and drawing. How much control did you have?"

"Um," I said. "None. What use is the fundamental juice, anyway?"

"All Transforms benefit from being transformed, and fundamental juice makes the benefits possible."

I frowned. "Benefits? Oh. You mean the demonic powers Transforms are said to get." I'll admit, I was yanking his chain a bit, but he reacted so nicely whenever I suggested there might be more to Transforms than science could explain.

"Transforms don't possess any supernatural powers, Carol," Dr. Zielinski said, predictably exasperated. "The benefits a Transform gains are not overwhelming and are easily explained by science. Transforms are more heat tolerant, can go without water for about twice as long as a normal person, can function better on starvation rations, and appear to be more acutely aware of their surroundings. This is true of Focuses and Arms as well, of course."

'Easily explained by science,' he said. Well, he was entitled to his opinion. "Surely the extra sense I have, what you called a metasense, is supernatural."

He gave me a surprised look. "The metasense is primarily an olfactory sense. Smell and taste."

Right. Smell and taste let me sense through walls. Not hardly. I shrugged.

"May I ask where you learned that term?" he asked.

"You used it when the orderlies wheeled in the Transform. I thought the word sounded neat."

He took copious notes for a minute but didn't explain. I didn't think I'd done anything wrong. He was surprised, not angry. "So, if I wasn't demon possessed when I took juice, then what was going on? From a scientific point of view, that is." My voice was sarcastic and wicked.

"Demon possessed?"

"I didn't have any choice in the matter, Dr. Zielinski. I didn't consciously _do_ anything. I touched the Transform and the juice flowed into me." I hated not being in control of my actions.

"Ah. You possess a great many hormones that are unique to Major Transforms. These new hormones and the other purely physical alterations of your transformation work with existing behaviors to create what we term Arm instincts. For Focuses they create Focus instincts. They will shock you upon occasion because of their unfamiliarity but they are not supernatural. These new hormones cause effects similar to the instinctive 'oh how cute' feelings most of us get when cuddling a baby. Your instinctive juice drawing is but one example of an Arm instinct."

"Humans don't have instincts. Only animals have instincts. We have rational minds, instead. That's what God gave us to separate us from the animals," I said.

Dr. Zielinski looked unhappy and didn't explain further. "Any more questions?"

I nodded. "When I took the juice there didn't seem to be anything physical involved. How sure are you that this isn't supernatural?"

Dr. Zielinski's unhappiness deepened. "A thin plate of glass could have stopped your juice draw. Physically, you took less than a drop of water from the man. Just because the quantity is small does not mean that it can't be measured. Anything else?"

I shook my head. These fools couldn't see the supernatural even when it hit them between the eyes.

"Alright. The techs are waiting for you, Carol. We have a whole series of post-draw tests to perform." He smiled encouragingly at me. "Things are going just fine."

So off I went to do tests and to exercise. I think I managed to make a serious pass at every male technician I saw. Whatever Dr. Zielinski had said to them had been effective, though, as I didn't have any luck. Borton, the creep, had come up with a yardstick, and prodded me or hit me with it when I got fresh or slacked off my exercises. I didn't know what to do about it so I ignored it for now.

Only one of the men, a tech named Mike Artusy, showed any interest. When we were in Lab One for a blood test and no one was looking, he grabbed a fistful of my rear and squeezed. In response, I smiled, moaned and pushed myself up against him. Things didn't go any farther, as we were in public.

Sadly, Mike's shift ended at dinnertime. I didn't return to my room until after midnight, and I was so frustrated I was tempted to swear again.

I wanted Bill. I wanted to do what a married woman was supposed to do in this condition.

Except, I had to admit, I was deluding myself. A night of Bill wouldn't solve my problems. The lust I felt wasn't remotely normal. Despite Dr. Zielinski's reassurance, I recognized the touch of Satan. He wanted my soul and his offer was endless pleasure. If I gave in, I would be his creature, a slave to my own body's lusts.

I got up out of my bed and paced the length of the room. I wanted more juice. I needed more juice.

However, if I let Satan take me I was gone. I had to resist this for the sake of my own soul. No matter how fiercely my body's needs drove me, I had to reject my weakness. If I didn't, I'd become nothing more than a mindless demon, a soldier in Satan's army.

In the last several days, three magazines had turned up at the Detention Center, each with articles about Stacy Keaton. I suspected the staff was expressing their opinions of me, but I read the articles anyway. She was a brutal monster, mindlessly killing, torturing and raping. The articles recited a litany of her horrors: killing police, killing innocents, torture for the fun of it, and some of the most spectacular atrocities in modern history. Rev. Smalley had called her the antichrist and I couldn't disagree. Keaton had succumbed to Satan's call, and now Satan called me.

I wasn't going to go. If Satan filled me with lust, then fine, I would resist. No more indiscriminate advances on whichever man came near. No more private masturbation. I was a human being, not a monster. I refused to give into temptation, no matter how alluring.

I knelt down by my bed, to ask God for his forgiveness and his help. I folded my hands and bowed my head, and almost started to pray.

Almost, I dared to face God. Almost.

For long moments, I knelt and gathered my nerve. Yet, every moment I hesitated, I thought more of what I was and what I'd become. I _had_ killed. Worse, I'd enjoyed doing so. I had given my body over to lust. I'd already lost control and fallen into Satan's grasp.

Worst of all, I wanted more juice. Even though it meant the death of another human being, I wanted more juice. I needed more juice. Hell, right this instant, I would sell my soul for more juice.

How could one such as I dare approach God?

God was not for such as me, a monster who lived on the deaths of other people. God could not forgive that.

I didn't pray. I didn't dare. Instead, I laid my head down on my bed and let the tears come. I told myself that if I regained my self-control, maybe then I might slip from Satan's grasp. Maybe God would love me again.

Just control myself. I had to.

In the morning, my only burning desires were for juice and breakfast and I worked at being as pleasant as possible. I behaved myself, but the damage had already been done. As Nurse Wilson put it, "She has some nerve calling anyone _else_ a cheap whore."

Some of my pleasantness paid off. Doris Trotter in the kitchen slipped me an extra waffle. Almost as good, I convinced Allen Patz, one of the other techs, to give me some information about my thrice-daily blood tests. The Doctors were measuring my juice level. He showed me a graph of my juice level since I had come out of my coma. The curve showed a steadily decreasing amount of juice. My juice level shot up all at once when I took the juice, and then started to fall again, quite quickly. Today, of all things, the rate of decrease had slowed to the same as before the juice draw.

In the evening, Mom came to visit, bringing me the family pictures I'd requested. I apologized for my behavior after my draw.

"No need to apologize, dear. That nice Dr. Zielinski explained it all to me," she said, turning away to blush. "I brought Reverend Akins with me. He's out in the waiting area. He wants to talk to you, but I didn't want to have him barge in on you."

Meaning 'who knows what my daughter is rubbing up against, so I had better make sure she's presentable'.

Reverend Akins had been my childhood preacher, the longtime pastor at Pilot Grove Baptist. I was surprised he would speak to me, first because of how I had fallen from grace, and second because his opinion of me hadn't been positive.

"Sure, Mom." I followed Mom out to the waiting area, followed by one of the armed orderlies. I was polite, as I'd decided to resist my animal tempers, but I didn't expect this to be pleasant.

The Reverend waited alone in the waiting area. At the sound of our footsteps he turned. "Hello, Carol. Mrs. Stephens." He looked uncomfortable.

"It's so wonderful of you to come and visit," I said, polite again. The waiting area was small and the chairs were cheap, standard for this Detention Center. I sat as far away from him as politeness allowed.

"No problem, especially after I heard."

"Heard what?"

He looked at Mom, who shrugged. "Your own pastor..." He paused. "Reverend Smalley has been insulting you in his sermons."

Reverend Smalley firmly believed Transform Sickness was an affliction of sin and the devil, God's righteous punishment upon the wicked. I had a little trouble with his beliefs; while I might be a minion of Satan now, I had a hard time thinking of myself as having been wicked before I transformed, especially compared to my behavior _after_ I transformed.

"Thank you," I said.

"I don't believe in his brand of self-righteous moralism," Reverend Akins said, pursing his lips. "Or in anything that tempts us to label some other group as more sinful than ourselves. All people stand as sinners before God and all of us stand in need of God's abundant grace." Reverend Akins, fortunately, didn't know how sinful I'd been since my transformation.

After he made his point clear, we talked of my old church, the people, church politics regarding a little petty theft by the organist, and the lives of a few of my childhood friends who never left Pilot Grove. For a while, I forgot my personal problems.

"Have you given any thought to what you're going to do with yourself afterwards?" the Reverend Akins asked, unexpectedly.

"After what?"

"After you leave here."

I turned away. "Truthfully, Reverend, I hadn't given it any thought. My condition isn't going to go away. There's no cure for Transform Sickness."

Reverend Akins laughed. "You're alive now, Carol. I know you. You never let anything stop you. There aren't many girls in Pilot Grove who have the gumption to go to college, even these days."

The Reverend had a point. I could be tenacious, a trait I thought he didn't appreciate. "If I ever get out of here, I'm likely to get thrown in jail."

"For what? Being a victim of a disease? I've seen the reports. What sort of case would they have? 'She killed four people while lying in a coma'. Several Focuses have been tried for involuntary Transform Sickness conversions, but there hasn't yet been a single successful prosecution. Despite the prejudice against Transforms."

Focuses often triggered transformations in a few women around them when they made their own transformations. I ignored the question of the guards who shot each other as I ran past them. "Say I can get out," I said. "I guess I'd go back to being a housewife." Flee Satan and this miserable place and go back home.

"Carol," Mom said, in a familiar exasperated tone of voice. "Could you? Where would you get that juice stuff from?"

Right. "I have no idea."

"Seems to me, there may be another option," Reverend Akins said. "I read a few of the articles on Arms, seeing as though we had one in the family." His eyes twinkled. "The accounts I read all mentioned bright lights and voices when people transformed. I was reminded of Paul's conversion on the road to Damascus. Carol, have you given any thought to the idea that you might have just been called by God?"

"No. No I hadn't." The thought was ludicrous, but I did remember my nightmares. In one recurring image, I spoke to a surly crowd. Preaching? Still, the bright light I'd seen had been nothing more than normal light. All Transforms are light sensitive, especially early on.

Yet the Bible said Paul was blind for three days and did not eat or drink anything. Same as I. As if Paul was a male Major Transform, save there were no such things.

"It's worth some thought," Reverend Akins said, and pressed on. "God's call can take many forms, and can lead someone into a totally new life."

Reborn in Jesus? A juice-sucking killer Arm? "Reverend, Arms have to kill to take juice or they die." The call came from the other side. I didn't have any control when I took the man's juice. Arms were demon possessed.

I was demon possessed.

"Carol, over nine out of ten new Transforms die terrible deaths, either by becoming Monsters, dying in juice withdrawal, or being shot in front of a blood-spattered concrete wall like the one they have downstairs in this place," Reverend Akins said, a preacher's intensity in his voice. "I know Christians who refuse to work to change this, or even to pray to God to end these horrible deaths, for to them, the spread of the evils associated with Transform Sickness indicates that the end of days is upon us, heralding Jesus' return. I do not believe this is so. Transform Sickness is just another disease, one of many, and I believe that Arms have a role in the alleviation of this evil. Think about it. I don't know what role the Arms will play in the healing of this evil, but I know in my heart that you and the other Arms do have a proper role to play. For all I know, you might even be able to subsist on Monsters and men in withdrawal, protecting society from their mindless wrath."

"I hadn't thought of that." Dr. Zielinski hadn't even mentioned it as a possibility. Hah. If it was possible, Dr. Zielinski had tried it. Probably another disaster he didn't want to talk about. "I don't know who I am anymore, Reverend. There are times, as an Arm, when I'm no longer in control of myself."

Let him conclude I was demon possessed. I couldn't say it, myself.

"New Focuses often say the same things," Reverend Akins said. "I don't know the medical reasons behind their statements, but they do remind me of something. Do you remember the changes you went through, Carol, when you were thirteen, fourteen and fifteen? I remember."

I blushed. "That's just puberty."

"Just?" Reverend Akins laughed. "I remember talking to you, Carol, when you went through puberty. I recall you made a comment, once, about how all of a sudden you thought everyone around you had gotten slow and stupid. Another time you told me how your body kept doing these horrible things to you that you couldn't control. Do you think being called by God into a higher responsibility as an adult is going to involve less tumultuous changes than puberty?"

Yes, I had spent some time as a teenager worrying that I'd been possessed by Satan. I hesitated to accept the Reverend's explanation, as I hadn't been killing people when I went through puberty, but he had given me some weighty issues to think about. Perhaps Dr. Zielinski was right and it was nothing more than hormones.

I made polite chitchat and escaped back to my room. I found that although I could put the pictures of Billy and Jeffrey on display on my nightstand, whenever I saw the picture of Sarah I cried. Her picture, along with my husband's, I put in the front of the Gideon's Bible that came with the room.

\---

The next day was Sunday and I felt normal again for the first time. The aches in my muscles had gotten worse and the craving was a constant burning need, but I was sane enough to reflect on my experiences as an Arm. My life was an out of control roller coaster: the terrible lows, the stupefying highs, so fast, so extreme. The intensity left me breathless. My reasoning was stunned. Even now, my mind tried to cling to that glorious high.

I told Larry my muscle aches were getting worse, and he had a predictable solution. "We need to work you harder and longer." He did some paperwork, and starting Wednesday afternoon, my exercise sessions were now two hours long. I wasn't sure what to do about Larry's continued use of his yardstick as a prod to keep me exercising hard. For the moment, I decided to do nothing. Larry seemed to know what he was doing, although the results were hard for me to cope with. Amazon woman, indeed. For the first time in my life, I could see muscles all over my body. I had, in Larry's terms, muscle definition. My body fat was melting away, fast enough to be noticeable on a day-to-day basis.

Larry also had another tidbit for me, regarding last night's conversation. "As I was leaving, yesterday, I happened to overhear you talking to your former Minister. Arms can take juice from Monsters and withdrawal victims, but they have problems afterwards."

"What sort of problems?" Larry's knowledge of Arms and their problems was extensive. The other day, he told me the horrible story of the young Arm who had died of muscle hypertrophy, a goad to push me harder on my exercises. The story was one of the reasons I put up with his yardstick.

"A couple of years ago, a new Arm named Francine Sarles refused to take a second volunteer Transform kill. Instead, she and her doctors tried something risky. Her next kill was a psychotic man in the depths of withdrawal. Francine was able to take the juice but it did something to her mind. Made her psychotic, I guess. Anyway, she killed herself three days later."

"Killed herself?"

"Bullet to the brain. You Arms might think you're invulnerable and can heal from everything. Not true. There's a rule I think all Arms need to learn: bullets are faster than juice."

I wasn't sure what to make of that and went back to my leg presses.

\---

On Monday I was a little down, but still mostly normal. The tests were beginning to bother me again. Another blood sample, a little more pain. I wanted to snap at people, but was able to hold back.

Dr. Zielinski seemed bothered about my muscles. He did a bunch of X-Rays and wasn't happy with the results.

"I think we have your exercise time cranked up as far as we can take it for now," he said, spreading the X-Rays over the metal counter in Lab One. I looked over his shoulder. "We only have one other option. You're not going to like it, either, Carol."

"What?"

"Less food. Let's take things back to 5500 calories."

"I'm already hungry all the time, Dr. Zielinski." My food!

"You're putting on muscles too quickly, Carol, some in the wrong places."

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. "You give the order, I'll attempt not to complain too much."

"Good."

He collected his X-Rays and started out the door. I shook my head. Put my hands on my hips and stared. "How am I supposed to do this, anyway?" I asked. "This 'being an Arm'? I'm a housewife."

Dr. Zielinski turned and looked me over. "I don't have all the answers, Carol. In many ways, you're quite similar to the other Arms: they've all been intelligent, willful and talented. Not a shrinking violet in the bunch. None of them had extraordinary backgrounds."

"But I'm..." I shook my head again. "I'm clueless about medicine, biology and chemistry. I was the sort of girl who got a bookish boy with thick glasses to dissect my frog for me in High School. I don't know the questions to ask. Darn it, Dr. Zielinski, 'the big answer' could walk right in front of me and I wouldn't be able to tell you."

Dr. Zielinski nodded, and unconsciously took off and polished his glasses. "I know that feeling, as do many of the other Major Transforms."

"The Arms all _died_ , Dr. Zielinski."

"In America, all but one," he said. I didn't immediately bring up _her_ name. Neither did he. "Adversity can be overcome. One of the important Focuses I work with transformed at age fifteen, during the Quarantine. Despite her youth and inexperience, she elbowed her way into a leadership role when the Focuses found a way to escape the Quarantine a few years later. She – Focus Claunch – is a bitch and a half."

I drew breath to complain about his language, but cut myself short. _That hadn't been an insult._ "You're not saying..." I reddened and let my voice tail off. Dr. Zielinski didn't answer. "I understand," I said, a few moments later. "I thought I've already been too unladylike."

"To your face, Focus Claunch is an elegant classy lady with a wicked sense of humor," Dr. Zielinski said. "It's not how she says things, but what she says and when. And who she says them to."

"I'm supposed to cope with these darned Arm mood swings and muscle problems by _feminine wiles_?" I said, and put my hands back on my hips. "I suppose that's why I'm growing all these muscles."

"The problem is, Carol, no one understands what you or the other Arms are growing those muscles for," Dr. Zielinski said. "Or why Arms have any of their other transformation benefits. There's no obvious use for an Arm, as there is for a Focus. The biggest thing we need your help for, Carol, is to figure out why Arms exist."

"So why do you try to save Arms, then? We're killers. Keaton is a serial murderer as bad as any in history. The world would be better off if we all died." I was a minion of Satan. Someone should have killed me while I was still in my transformation coma. "Why do you try so hard to save my life?" I asked, almost plaintively.

Dr. Zielinski gave me a thoughtful glance and sat back down in the room's single chair. He waved me to sit and I hoisted myself up on the examining table.

"Did you ever think there might be a purpose for Arms?" he said.

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Arms are complicated. You have to kill to survive. You have all sorts of extra capabilities: strength, healing, better reaction time, eyesight, and hearing. The list is endless. It doesn't make sense that something as complicated as an Arm is an accident of nature."

"Okay, I'll buy that," I said. "But what's the purpose?"

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I don't know. However, Transform Sickness is a huge puzzle and you don't solve a puzzle by throwing out one of the pieces. More people are dying of the Shakes every year, while we all stare blankly at a collection of puzzle pieces we can't fit together." He looked up at me, intently. "I don't understand what the purpose of an Arm is, but I do know that Arms are a crucial piece of the puzzle. You're too complex and too powerful to be otherwise. If we do fit the puzzle together and figure out how to make it all work, Arms will be a critical part of the final solution."

He shrugged and leaned back, casual again. "So I research Armenigar's Syndrome and try to help Arms survive."

I shivered. I heard what he told me, in his secular, scientific rationality and translated it into terms I understood: Arms were a part of God's plan and the only reason Arms seemed so evil was that we limited humans couldn't understand the plan.

It sounded so good in my head. In my heart, I knew better. I was evil, doing the devil's work, and fine words wouldn't change my damnation.

It did make me think, though.

I turned away and watched the barred window. I could barely see a courtyard outside, through the bars and mesh and layered glass.

While I stared silently at the window, Dr. Zielinski slipped out.

Special Agent Bates stopped by my room on Monday, a couple of hours after my talk with Dr. Zielinski.

"Mrs. Hancock," he said. "Have you given any thought to my offer?"

Offer. Right. Joining the FBI. His crazy idea.

"Would I be able to go back to my family?" I had to ask.

"Probably not. As an Arm, you're too dangerous to be out in the community." There's that refrain, again.

"I'd be locked up? I thought this was employment, not enslavement."

Bates turned red. "It would be employment. I can't guarantee your freedom, at least until you prove yourself. There are political realities to consider, Mrs. Hancock. Arms are not normal people."

Not much of a sales pitch. I'd have signed the contract already if Bill had been selling me this deal. "You mean like the fact I acted like an animal when I killed the volunteer Transform? Like the fact I acted like a whore after I took juice? Like I'm cruel and foul-tempered when I'm low on juice?"

"That's part of it, Mrs. Hancock."

"How about the fact that all I can think of, today, is getting more juice. Getting another volunteer. How I would do anything to get more juice. That sort of political problem? Can you guarantee you'll have volunteer Transforms ready for me, whenever I need to kill one?" I leaned forward and snarled the last, unhappily.

"These are just little problems we can work through," Bates said. "Keep thinking about my offer."

"I will," I said. What I wanted was my normal life back. Nothing else would suffice.

Tonya Biggioni: September 26, 1966

"...so this project was assigned to me because of the Arm connection," Tonya said. "I'm passing the job on to you."

No reply from the other end of the phone line; instead, Tonya heard the sound of someone chewing something, most likely a sandwich. Most Focuses would have at least paid Tonya the courtesy of putting down their lunch to talk to her. Not this one.

Most Focuses didn't work in an office away from their household, either. This one did. Most Focuses stayed home to run their Transform households. Not this Focus. Actually, this Focus broke a great many of the rules about how Focuses ought to behave.

What aggravated Tonya was that despite her rule breaking, this Focus was quite successful. If you measured success by the number of Transforms she supported in her household, the most successful ever, period – and her success bought her a tremendous amount of slack in the Transform community. If she wanted to go the celebrity route, the world would kneel at her feet. However, this Focus avoided publicity like the plague.

"So you drew the short straw and get to deal with me," the Focus said. "Why don't you emulate Focus Schrum and just send me the information through the mail?"

Tonya tensed, angry. "This is an emergency, Lori."

"Yelling at me isn't going to get it done any faster," Focus Lori Rizzari said. "You're not my mother, you know."

"You're the Focus responsible for hunting down Monsters in the Northeast Region," Tonya said. "The target is a problem Monster. This is your job."

Chomp, chomp. "My household and I bag ten times as many Monsters as any of the other Focuses with the same job in the other regions." Chew, chew. "Don't give me any grief about my performance. It's not warranted."

Tonya sighed. Rizzari, according to her reports, killed eleven times as many Monsters as the Focuses in the other regions _combined_. What was worse, Rizzari was the only Focus Tonya knew who would underestimate her success instead of exaggerating.

Twisting Rizzari's arm wouldn't work, either. Several years ago, Rizzari pointed out some information about the Focuses' formally non-existent male Major Transform counterparts, eliciting an official reprimand. After the senior Focuses drove Rizzari to near insanity by Focus juice-powered mind games, she still gave them the finger. The senior Focuses had to threaten to ruin Rizzari's household before she did what they wanted.

Tonya had to admit she didn't understand Rizzari at all. Focus Schrum was one of the Focuses involved in the reprimand, but as far as Tonya could tell, Rizzari didn't hold a grudge against Suzie.

"Lori, I have 'Monsters Die' protesters outside my household. They don't like the idea our people are trying to save a new Arm when there's this killer dog Monster we're ignoring." Truth be told, Tonya didn't mind the 'Monsters Die' group's anti-Monster work. What bothered her was just their disturbing tendency to label _any_ Transforms who got in their way as 'Monsters'.

The problem with hate was that hate was contagious.

Tonya didn't like Monsters one bit. She had killed more than a few in her day. She quit for two reasons: first because Monster hunting cost her too many members of her Transform household, and second, because she had grown to enjoy the killing. She didn't think it healthy for a Focus to enjoy killing.

"Go outside and use your charisma to convince one of them to throw a brick through one of your windows, then call the cops and get him arrested," Lori said, amid the mildly disgusting gurgle-gurgle-gurgle sound that announced she was drinking something. Tonya winced. Lori had gone off into what Tonya called Lori-land, where the unreal and unrealistic ruled. Lori had no respect for authority, Transform or otherwise, and her view of political reality was just as skewed. "If you weren't a Transform celebrity, they wouldn't even know where you lived."

Tonya wanted to throw something. Preferably at Lori. It wouldn't do any good. "This dog-Monster's taken up residence on the south side of the Pepacton reservoir in the Catskills of New York. It's killed five people and dozens of cattle."

"In how long?"

"In what 'how long', Lori?"

"How many head of cattle is this Monster going through in a month?" Rizzari asked. No more sounds of eating; instead came the sound of paper rustling and Lori taking notes.

Tonya didn't bother asking Lori why she cared. The answer to that would certainly involve Lori-land. Lori, as an academic, these days an actual Professor, almost by definition was interested in nonsense. "Thirty-seven cattle kills in seven weeks."

"Dead, or dead and eaten?"

"Dead and mostly eaten."

"Itch-bay! That's not typical Monster behavior," Rizzari said.

"You're right," Tonya said, remembering her and her household's Monster hunting days. At least _she_ was flexible enough to admit her mistakes and flights of fancy, unlike Lori. If only Tonya could convince Lori to move far away, life would be so much better. "That's a lot of food for a Monster, especially for a pony-sized dog. What do you think is going on?"

"I don't know but I'm going to find out," Rizzari said. "I'll get right on it." Tonya sighed. Rizzari had refused a direct order, and then changed her mind for no good reason at all. Simply because of her curiosity. "Send me all the information you have on it and direct the police working the case to my household. You know the phone number."

Click.

There were times when Tonya thought Rizzari was annoying on purpose. Most of the time, actually.

Carol Hancock: September 27, 1966 – October 4, 1966

The craving for juice gnawed demonically on my nerves from the inside. Dr. Zielinski had implied the craving wouldn't be as bad once I knew what was going on. He was wrong. Knowing made the craving worse.

On Tuesday morning, I went down to Dr. Zielinski's office and pleaded for juice. I forgot every promise I made to myself about control and used all my _feminine wiles_ to try to convince him to come up with something. I tried logical argument. I begged, I screamed, I cried. I didn't care what I looked like, or what he thought of me. I needed juice. He ignored me and sent me off to exercise.

On Wednesday I tried again, with the same result. I offered him money. I begged. I sat in the chair in his office, shook with need, cried, and pleaded with everything I had, if only he would get me juice. Nothing!

The only thing that kept me sane on Wednesday was my time in the gymnasium. Larry seemed to understand and pushed me harder than ever. I didn't care what I did to my body or what muscles I grew. The pain of the excessive exercise kept me from stewing about my low juice.

On Thursday, they wouldn't even let me visit Dr. Zielinski, or go exercise. I screamed and clawed at my skin until I drew blood.

They strapped me down into my bed to keep me from hurting myself.

On Saturday, nine long days after my first conscious draw, they finally brought me another Transform.

This time, the Transform came at dawn. They had me in the same room I had been in the first time, strapped into the same chair. Once again, my metasense felt the tingle, saw, _heard_ that glorious energy coming to me. I focused on it, tensed...

"Wait."

The Transform still came toward me. I could wait, if the Transform kept coming. If he stopped, if he made one move in the wrong direction, I was going to go berserk and rip the chair apart. This was _my_ juice. _Mine!_ It was too late for anyone to take him away from me.

Closer and closer the Transform came, minute by agonizing minute.

He stopped in the room right next to mine. So close, so very close. I wanted it all. I needed it all. I pulled at the straps. They resisted me yet again.

_That was my juice!_ I pulled harder. Again, harder still. Something gave around my left wrist. Success! I pulled again, as hard as possible.

The strap came loose. I pulled against the other straps as I stood. They too began to give. I yanked, and they gave. I ran for the door. People called to me, upset at what I had done. I didn't care. I brushed past them and through the door into the next room.

This time he wasn't drugged. The man lay on a cot, curled up into a fetal position. He was absorbed in his own misery, but he opened his eyes when the door slammed open and I appeared.

I suspected the man had made a rational decision to sacrifice his life, based on reasoning, sense and the information he had available. It's a lot harder to be rational, though, when your death is walking toward you. Survival instincts can be a powerful thing. Seeing me, my draw screamed and practically levitated to the far corner of the room.

"No. No!" he said. "I didn't mean it. No, no, no!"

A cacophony of voices pummeled me. "Stop her. Somebody stop her." "What do we do?" "Carol, come back here. You can't kill that man." "Get more orderlies. Where's Cook?" " _Stop_ her."

I ignored the voices and ran past the people before they had time to do more than shout. My victim tried to run past me, so I stepped in front of him and hugged him to me. My right arm crossed over his upper arm, my chin rested against his neck, my bare legs rubbed against his and I pulled.

I thought drawing juice couldn't possibly be as good as I remembered. Nothing could be so pleasurable, so intense, so perfect. I was wrong. The juice was better than the first time. Just as pain can be too intense to remember, so too can pleasure. I learned ecstasy again and let the tide of juice take me beyond the realm of thought.

This time they strapped me to the bed until my post draw lusts naturally wore off. The only human being who visited during the next two days was Mrs. Calhoun, who fed me and cleaned me up.

I was a joke, something for the techs to laugh over. I was sure they were. Some woman so horny they had to tie her down to keep her from throwing herself at them? What an excellent story to tell.

Betrayed and humiliated, furious and frustrated, yet unable to do a single thing about it. Strapped to a bed in this condition was the next worst thing to hell.

No. It _was_ hell.

\---

By Monday morning, I mostly come back into my right mind.

I burned with embarrassment over the fact I'd been tied down.

I hurt. My muscles screamed at me. I had a stabbing pain in my left shoulder and the pain in my abdomen had returned, worse than ever.

The highs and lows of the juice cycle, the terrible cravings, were too much. I was angry. I was lonely.

Every day, I found myself doing things that made no sense, saying things I didn't mean to say. I made promises to myself and then the intense needs of the moment would overwhelm me and my promises would disappear as if they had never been. My sanity slipped from my grasp like water through my fingers. I was a child again.

Dr. Zielinski came personally to release me. I cried when he came through the door. He unbuckled the straps that held me to the bed. I curled into a fetal position. Even my muscles ached.

"What are we going to do with you, Carol?" he asked me.

"Please, don't make me go through that again." I pleaded through my tears.

He sighed and shook his head, as if he had never seen an Arm overcome by her body's needs before. Some Arm expert he was.

"We're supplying you with people's lives because you need juice to live. We can't supply you with sexual partners. You're married. I'm sorry, Carol, but you don't need sex to live."

I curled up tighter and cried.

After breakfast, the orderlies led me to the gymnasium. Larry wasn't present so I did my stretches and started working on the rowing machine. I hurt. I had trouble with even the simplest exercises.

Ten minutes after I gave up on the rowing machine, Larry stormed in. "Finally," he said. "Up. Let's take a look at you, see how much damage these idiots have done to you."

I couldn't figure out why Larry was so angry until he detailed the muscle problems that had accumulated in the four (and only four) days without my exercise sessions. "We had the hypertrophy licked, dammit," he said. "Now we're going to have to start over from scratch." I cooperated, and the more I worked, the less I ached. The orderlies had to practically drag me away from the gymnasium after two and a half hours of exercise.

They let me take a shower after my morning exercise session, a mistake if they wanted to keep my libido under control. My lust had not worn out, it had only taken a short vacation.

The shower was long and enjoyable.

The rest of the day I was frisky. Flirtatious, not wanton, but making my desires clear. I remembered the time after my last draw I'd tried to fight this, but I couldn't remember why. In any case, I got a good response from the tech, Mike Artusy, again, but nothing from anyone else.

That night, my efforts paid off. I had no idea how he got into my room past the around-the-clock armed orderlies guarding my door. But he did.

About the only sensible thing I remembered to do was to stick the diaphragm in and require him to wear condoms. My first sex as an Arm, with a random lab tech with roaming hands, was wonderful. Unbelievable. Stupendous. My body responded in ways I never knew it could respond. I also made Mike's body respond in ways he never imagined, or at least not since he was sixteen.

I should have stopped once he was exhausted but I was lost in my own needs. I found I could make him respond again and again. I used him until he scrabbled away in terror, grabbed his clothes, and fled naked from my room. Even then, I was not satisfied.

No one said anything about it the following day, though someone had to know. To my relief, the lust had finally faded. Tuesday was the third day after my last draw and my mind and body had finally settled back down.

How did I think about breaking my marriage vows for the first time? I wasn't sure. Now that I knew what sex as an Arm was like, though, I had no doubt I could make the indiscretion up to Bill. Sex that good would make up for a lot. I'd just have to be careful not to overdo it. Bill wasn't a young kid anymore. What I'd done to Mike might give a man Bill's age a heart attack.

I couldn't shake the vague disquiet inside me, as if I had broken more than my marriage vows. There was something deeply immoral about being an Arm. Every day it sucked me farther down into Satan's abyss. The muscle growth, the killing, the insane quantity of food, the absurd lusts, the emotional roller coaster ride – all these changes harmed my soul.

No matter what I did, I couldn't fight Satan's seductions.

About two in the afternoon, they brought me to an unfamiliar section of the Transform Detention Center, on the ground floor in the far part of the U. An interview room. The orderlies wouldn't explain. They had me sit, and shackled my legs to the chair. To a chair someone had bolted to the floor.

The orderlies left. A few minutes later, a man I had never met entered the room and sat in a chair behind a desk well out of reach. He was a grey haired man in an impeccable suit, in his late fifties, with an old fashioned thin moustache. Fear hid within his exterior expressions, which radiated power. A manager of some sort.

"Mrs. Hancock, my name is Dr. Harold Manigault, Director of this Detention Center. Pardon me if I don't shake your hand."

"What's going on, Mr. Director, sir?" From long experience hosting Bill's many dinners and parties, I knew how to deal with powerful men.

Manigault gave me the willies, though. Something was wrong with this man.

"I've been authorized to offer you a job."

"A job?" After a moment of confused thought, I understood. I was a commodity, a valuable commodity. Carol Hancock, second Arm to survive. People would bid for my services if I kept myself alive. I was flattered. I'd never participated in Bill's negotiations but I knew how it was done.

"Yes. The State of Missouri is prepared to offer you the position of Executioner of Unwanted Transforms."

"Oh." Chilled, goose bumps on my arms, I flashed on something Dr. Manigault projected. He had pulled the trigger on many a Transform and enjoyed the killing. I wanted to run. My skin wanted to crawl off my body.

I was in the presence of evil.

I had no idea how I knew this, or what to do about it.

"I have an employment contract for you to sign. Would you like to look it over, Mrs. Hancock?"

"Yes, I would," I said, and he slid the contract over the wide desk to me. I picked up the contract and read it over.

The contract offered a thousand a month, before taxes. I would be traveling constantly, between the main Detention Centers in Springfield, Kansas City and St. Louis, and one I had never heard of, down in the boot heel, near Caruthersville. While in transit, they would hold me 'in close security'. I would live in whichever Detention Center needed me. The contract was for a single year. The State of Missouri would drop all legal charges against me.

"The terms may seem onerous, Mrs. Hancock, but the pay is excellent. After the contract is up and you have proven your worth and safety, the onerous conditions could be altered."

"Of course, sir," I said. I suspected I would see a clause like that one in whatever deal I took. "Sir, as an Arm, I need Transforms for juice at specific intervals. I don't read anything in this contract regarding that."

"That's out of our hands, Mrs. Hancock. Some months we have as many as ten to deal with, others, well, I've seen as few as two."

"Two?" I would die. I would go into withdrawal myself.

"We all have risks in this profession, Mrs. Hancock. The risk of withdrawal will be yours," Dr. Manigault said, and smiled.

Lust filled his smile. He had seen withdrawal many times. He _enjoyed_ watching someone die of withdrawal.

I pushed the contract back to him, queasy. "I'll take your offer under advisement," I said. "I want fifteen hundred a month and no more than ten days between kills." A negotiating position. I was prepared to go as high as twelve days. Perhaps thirteen.

"Well," he said. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Hancock, my hands are tied. I cannot alter this contract. You can take it or you can leave it." Dr Manigault stood, hiding a smile on his face. "Give the offer some thought. You'll get no better offers." With that, he left.

A minute later, an orderly came in and unshackled my legs.

During my afternoon exercises, Dr. Zielinski stuck his head in the room. I was doing curls with a huge barbell loaded with more weight than most men could lift. "Agent Bates and I are arranging something special for Wednesday, Carol," he said. "Some physical tests outside the Center. Think you'll be up for it tomorrow?"

I slowly lowered the barbell down to rest on my thighs. Outside, he said. I thought for a moment. I was feeling good today. Tomorrow would be worse, but it would be only the fourth day after a draw. "I'm game."

"Good," Dr. Zielinski said, and left.

Larry relaxed. He hadn't greeted Dr. Zielinski, and had kept his face turned towards me during the short conversation. "It's not quitting time, Carol," he said, with a sharp whack of the yardstick on my rear. "Let's get a move on it!"

Mom came into my room right after dinner. She had been out over the weekend. I guessed she didn't want to visit me right after a draw, and I couldn't blame her.

"Bill has been causing problems, dear," she said, after we had chatted about traffic and one of her friends who was in the hospital in Columbia. My husband?

"How so?" Bill's last letter had arrived last Thursday, when I was low on juice. I hadn't gotten around to answering it yet. He had been his kind and loving self. I made a mental note to answer his letter tonight.

"He won't let me visit Billy and Jeffery. I'd hinted at it several times, and nothing, so I finally asked him point blank. He refused."

"Whatever is he doing that for?" This didn't sound like Bill. He was normally very smooth with people.

"I can't figure it out, Carol. Do they think I'm carrying the taint of Transform Sickness with me because I visit you? Because I'm your mother?" She paused. "It's so unfair. They're my grandchildren, too."

"Do you want me to put in a good word for you in the next letter I write? Think it will do any good?"

Mom's voice dropped half an octave and moved back to Alabama for a while. "What I'd like you to do is chew your husband out, Carol. This situation is bad enough without him being so rude and unfair about things."

Things. Plural. I put two and two together. "Bill got the legal charges against him dropped, didn't he?"

Mom nodded, and turned away. I pushed the books on my end table away from the tissue box and offered her a tissue.

"He could be visiting me, the bastard, and isn't. How long?"

"Two weeks."

Damn. Since before my first draw. He could have been here and comforted me, loved me, if he had wanted to. Mom blew her nose.

"He blames me for Sarah's death, doesn't he?"

She nodded.

I put my head in my hands, tempted to take Sarah's picture out and hug it. I couldn't take any more of this. Even my husband thought I was a monster. Mom hadn't wanted to tell me, and again I didn't blame her. "Don't feel bad for me, Mom."

"It's so unfair, Carol! You shouldn't be suffering through this horrendous disease without Bill's support. Without the support of anyone in our family except me."

"I'd be doing it too, Mom, if I didn't have Transform Sickness. None of us would give a Transform the time of day. Bill wouldn't hire a Transform on a bet." No more than we would give the colored folk or a Jew, or even an Italian immigrant the time of day. Or hire one. What did this say about my other views on things, eh? I didn't ask to be a Transform. Of course, no one asked to be born colored, or born into the Jewish faith, or for their parents to have immigrated to the United States.

Certainly, _that_ prejudice wasn't the sin that had landed me in Satan's claws. Why, if it was, nearly everyone I knew was similarly doomed.

"They might be right, Mom. I'm not the woman I once was. I've killed, now, twice, of my own free will."

"Don't say that, Carol. It isn't proper to think about."

"I've got to, Mom. It's my life. I hate what I'm forced to do, but it's my life. Reverend Akins is wrong. If I've been called by anyone, the call came from the devil." These thoughts had occupied my nights ever since Reverend Akins' visit. The killing, the lusts, the amorality of the juice. I was working on the seven deadly sins one sin at a time, even gluttony.

"Oh, Carol," she said, grabbing me, hugging me, crying. "Please don't think that. Y'all in this Center are doing what you have to do. You don't have any choice in the matter."

"We choose to live, Mom. We choose to live in sin." I reached for the Gideon's, for a passage from Paul, which I thought described me to a T. I'd read all of Paul's writings after Reverend Akins' visit. Called? Not likely. "I do not understand my own actions," I quoted. "For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree that the law is good. So then it is no longer I that do it, but sin which dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells within me, that is, in my flesh. I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin which dwells within me." I could have read it from memory, but I didn't want to upset my mother more. No, Christianity was not for Transforms, or at least, not for Arms.

Mom held me, and cried and cried.

She left without a word.

After she left, I opened the Bible again to the front page, where I kept my daughter's picture; I cried. No loving God could have put me through this horror.

\---

Dr. Zielinski came and got me in the morning, wheeling a massive gurney. Dr. Peterson trailed behind him, fretting. "Are you ready to go?"

I nodded. "Certainly, Dr. Zielinski, Dr. Peterson."

"There's one unfortunate thing that we need to ask of you, though," Dr. Zielinski said. "Since we're going to be transporting you out of the Detention Center, Special Agent Bates wants us to be sure of security. He apologizes to you about this, in advance."

Oh, wonderful. I knew where this led.

"We're going to need to restrict your movement a bit. If you'll please lay down on the gurney, we'll transport you."

I laid down on the gurney. They chained me by my wrists and ankles, and then wheeled me to an ambulance waiting out front.

On the way to the ambulance I got to see the sky, for the first time in days. It was early October, the sky was clear and blue, the air, cold and fresh. They covered me with a blanket to keep me from getting cold but I could have done without, simply to experience the wonderful fresh air.

I rode for about an hour and a half in the ambulance. A military truck led the ambulance, and another one followed behind. The trip took far too long with far too little movement. By the time we arrived I was ready to scream in pain.

We didn't pass any Transforms on the way, probably a good thing. I might have made a scene.

We ended up at a military base. They unloaded me from the ambulance at the edge of what appeared to be an obstacle course. Armed soldiers filled the entire area. The air held the scent of metal, wild grass and male sweat. They took me out of the truck but didn't unchain me. Instead, they left me lying on the gurney at the parking lot edge. The blanket had fallen off when they took me out of the truck and I forced my legs together to keep soldiers from looking up my skirt.

Agent Bates approached me from the lead truck, followed by Dr. Zielinski, Dr. Peterson and a uniformed man I didn't recognize. "Mrs. Hancock," Bates said. "We're going to free you now. Please don't make any moves we don't ask you to, because we're guests here and these soldiers don't know you. They're a little nervous having an Arm on their base and their orders are to shoot if you misbehave."

I studied the hundreds of soldiers, and every one of them watched me. Hundreds of soldiers to stop me if I went wild? Unbelievable.

Agent Bates released me and I stood, attracting a murmuring of voices as they all got a look at me. I overheard every word they said, but I didn't know why they considered me so interesting. I wore a blouse and skirt, from the stock of institutional clothing the center supplied, with stockings and low pumps. I didn't think I looked any different from any other woman. I stretched, trying to work out the pain in my muscles without screaming. I was ravenous. More juice would have been good, too.

The uniformed man, whose name turned out to be Major Collins, spoke up. "I don't care what you say about her capabilities. She's not doing this wearing those clothes."

Chagrined, my doctors agreed. It was a three-ring circus getting me proper clothes.

"Carol," Dr. Zielinski said, once I finished dressing in their ill-fitting khakis. "We need you to run this obstacle course. The results here will give us some important information."

I imagined so, for them to go to this much work.

"Hancock," Major Collins said. "We have soldiers stationed all along this obstacle course. Don't even think about trying anything."

I didn't understand their worries. I was a housewife.

They positioned me at the beginning of the obstacle course. A Corporal stood with a stopwatch, and after studying me for a moment, shouted, "Go!"

I ran to the first obstacle, a whole series of tires set into the ground all against each other. I stopped, having no idea what to do. Bates muttered curses and got the Corporal to cancel the run. After talking for a few minutes, they directed a Sergeant to walk me through the course. First was the tire section, which I was supposed to run through, putting my feet into the center of each tire. Next was a wooden wall with a rope I was supposed to climb. Next, a rope swinging between two wooden towers, which I was supposed to swing on like Tarzan on a vine. After a tromp through the mud, they had a network of wires I was supposed to crawl underneath on my belly. The course continued after that, so many things to crawl over, under and around, all extremely intimidating. I was supposed to do it as fast as I could, then turn around and run back. The Major was right about the soldiers posted along the course. They were everywhere.

They set me up again and the second time I ran their obstacle course for them. I didn't have any trouble running out of breath, which I hadn't expected. I thought the wall with the rope attached would be difficult, but I grabbed the rope and pulled myself right over, which brought a grin to my face.

When I returned to the start, I was pleased with myself and much less achy.

"Six minutes, thirty-seven seconds," the Corporal with the stopwatch announced.

The men at the start greeted my return with deafening silence.

I thought they would be pleased with my performance, but they didn't look happy at all. Their stone-faced expressions made me uneasy. I worried about what I'd done and where I'd fouled up. I hadn't gone all out. I'd been nervous about making a fool of myself.

I looked from face to unhappy face and wondered how to make things right. "Let me run the course again, please," I said. "I'll do it a lot better now that I've done it once."

Special Agent Bates smiled, a vaguely sickly smile. "Yes," he said. "Why don't you give it a try, Mrs. Hancock?"

I ran the obstacle course again. This time I pushed myself. I ran as fast as possible. I practically flew through the tires, over the wall with the rope, and through the other obstacles.

"Five minutes, twenty-two seconds," the Corporal said.

Their stone-faced expressions did not change.

"Could you stand over there for a few minutes please, Mrs. Hancock?" Agent Bates asked me.

'There' was a group of a half-dozen soldiers, all with rifles in their arms. I stood. Quietly.

The observers watched me as I walked over. Major Collins said quietly to the others, "The current record for that course is five minutes, forty-one seconds."

Very, very interesting.

My crew of observers went over to a table about a hundred feet away. They laid down several pieces of paper and began talking quietly, privately. I heard them clearly. I could also read their papers.

My hearing had always been fine, but never this excellent. My eyes? The only reason I hadn't worn glasses before I transformed was vanity.

I expected some improvement, based on the Detention Center tests. I hadn't expected anything like this, though – but all those tests had been in small rooms, indoors. Not only did I read their papers, I could count the leaves on every tree and practically make out the stitching on the uniform of every soldier here. I saw everything around me that clearly. Perhaps Arms were _meant_ to be outdoors. For the first time, I began to think about my transformation in terms of what I did, instead of what people did to me. The possibilities made me giddy.

For instance, why hadn't Agent Bates made me stand farther away? He ordered me over here so I couldn't overhear their conversation. However, from the results of the hearing tests in the Detention Center, they all knew how acute my hearing had become. Either they didn't realize what that meant out in the real world or else they didn't think about my test results at all.

I decided not to enlighten them. I stood quietly and eavesdropped as they took me apart and tried to figure my future physical improvements. I didn't understand their guessing until Major Collins put an X on one of the curves, at the three year mark, and said "Keaton".

I'd become part of the effort to capture Stacy Keaton.

They had me run the obstacle course again. They had me go through several small parts of the course separately. They had me run a hundred yard dash several times. They had me run for longer distances. They tested my jumping, height and length. They set up one strange arrangement where they had me run between two lines of soldiers dodging tennis balls they threw at me. I lost count of the number of things I did.

We stayed at the obstacle course all that beautiful day, and I enjoyed being outdoors enough to joke with Agent Bates and Dr. Zielinski. Not with Dr. Peterson, who seemed unhappy that I was enjoying myself. Once, after I stumbled and fell while trying a Tarzan leap from one rope swing to another rope too far away, several of the soldiers cocked their weapons and pointed them at me. I waved at them, turned to Dr. Zielinski, and said "What are they worried about, anyway? Don't they know the first rule of Arms, that bullets are faster than juice?"

Of all things, Dr. Zielinski turned pasty white. "Where did you hear that from, Carol?" he asked, in his most persuasive voice.

"Oh, that was just something Mr. Borton passed on to me. He knows all sorts of interesting tidbits about Arms." Dr. Zielinski's hand shook as he helped me up, but by the time I was standing, he returned to his normal doctoral self.

"Next time," he said, "try and hold the rope near the _bottom_." The suggestion worked, and then I went on to the next test.

The tests didn't stop until after the sun went down. At the end of the day, by the light of a lantern, they fed me one last meal and the soldiers packed in the equipment.

I felt wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. The day had been magnificent. I'd even almost gotten enough to eat.

I loved the exercise. I didn't care that I shouldn't have been able to do so much, that the juice was making changes in me I did not want. I simply felt too good. I wanted to do it all again. A full day of exercise had done miracles for my mood and had worked out the aches in my muscles.

It was a beautiful feeling.

I ate slowly and tried to make the day last. Finally, though, they made me lie back down on the cart, chained me up and took me home.

I thought a long time about that trip to the obstacle course. I'd done things they hadn't expected. The obstacle course itself was the most obvious. However, my vision and hearing improvements were similarly interesting. Even my sense of smell had improved.

Everything I discovered today led to a great many questions about myself, and about Arms in general. I'd never before thought of my transformation as anything but a curse, but now I did. Satan, it seemed, richly rewarded his minions.

I thought about the day some more, and another thing bothered me: all this extra information from my senses didn't overwhelm me. I didn't have any trouble sorting out the various conversations I'd overheard. There really was something supernatural about me. I wondered if the doctors, with all their research, had figured that out.

I suspected not, or they would not have left me so close to them.

I decided I didn't have any real desire to let them know.

Dr. Henry Zielinski: October 4, 1966

Stonehams's Bar was more downscale than Dr. Zielinski normally frequented, and he found himself more nervous about the clientele than the person he had arranged to meet. Which in itself was worth a chuckle. Stoneham's was filled with working men, shot and beer fellows grousing about their wives, jobs and what they picturesquely termed 'lack of pussy'. Although Dr. Zielinski had arranged the meeting using his Network phone contacts, the other party had chosen the location and the time.

He weighed the 'bar' or 'table' options, and chose a table as far away from the bar as possible. Only a moment later, a man he overlooked stalked over, grabbed a chair and sat down opposite Dr. Zielinski.

"Long time no see, Hank," the man said. He was a short muscular guy, clean shaven, with black Marine-cut hair and the bottom of an anchor tattoo peeking out from under his blue shirt sleeve. "Why couldn't we talk over the phone?" The man's voice was a deep growl, the sort to instantly awaken a Marine private.

This was the person Dr. Zielinski had arranged to meet.

"Because, Larry, we have a few issues to discuss," Dr. Zielinski said. The disguise was good. Larry didn't match his normal Detention Center appearance: a little taller, darker skin and features, longer nose and less muscular.

"Took you long enough, doc," Larry said, referring to Larry's _other_ disguise. "You didn't answer _my_ question." The last bit he spoke with a hint of threat, not anything beyond normal. Part of Dr. Zielinski's desire to meet in person in a public location was to prevent the 'beyond normal' from taking over. He had enough 'beyond normal' in his day job.

Dr. Zielinski smiled. "The FBI's wiretapped my phone at the center and, likely, my hotel phone."

Larry shrugged. "You're getting better at finely shading your answers, doc," Larry said. "But I understand you better as well. Hancock has you spooked, doesn't she? Spooked _and_ frustrated."

A waitress frowned at the weight of her tray as she slammed it down on the table in front of the two men. Zielinski's order was a beer and a small basket of peanuts. Larry's order included the biggest steak on the menu, a double order of country fries, a baked potato heaped with butter, cheese and sour cream, two ears of corn-on-the-cob, and a pitcher of water. The waitress kept trying to inch away from Larry, as if he carried some sort of disease. Whatever it was about his companion that bothered the waitress, it didn't bother Dr. Zielinski.

"You ordered for me," Dr. Zielinski said.

"Of course," Larry said. He cleared his throat.

Right. Dr. Zielinski couldn't allow himself to woolgather. He had to pay close attention to everything Larry said. Or asked. If he didn't answer Larry's question, bad things would happen.

"You're right. I'm frustrated. Hancock has her own ideas about what Arms and Transforms should be and do, and she's proven to be difficult to educate," Dr. Zielinski said.

"Goes with the territory," Larry said, rapidly chowing down on the baked potato.

"The other reason I wanted to talk to you in person is our mutual friend out east. She has her own expectations about this assignment, and in her eyes, we're not meeting them." Earlier this evening, Tonya had said 'If between the two of you, you can't get this baby Arm to say 'how high' when either of you yells 'jump', you're both slacking off.' Said over the phone, safely from Philadelphia.

"She has no right to complain," Larry said. "I agreed to study the situation, nothing else. No promises. I taught Hancock some of the basics, but I'm not impressed with her either. Or your little set up, doc. Do you have any idea how fucked up that center is? It's like a Focus household gone bad, only ten times worse. I doubt you could get a Focus to come to the Center if you paid her, and that's saying something. Damned if I know what the place is doing to Hancock but I doubt it's good." Larry started in on the steak, slicing through it with unrepressed violence. "I'm not sure _I_ want to work at the Center much longer."

"Careful, Larry. You're scaring people by the way you're cutting your steak."

Larry didn't reply to Dr. Zielinski's sotto voice suggestion, but he did cut his steak more sedately.

"You think there's a bad juice problem with the Center?" Dr. Zielinski asked. A bad juice problem would support his hypothesis about Hancock's mental issues.

"That's what I said, wasn't it?"

Dr. Zielinski sighed, frustrated. Even if this hypothesis was true, he had no way to validate or fix it, and no way to move Carol anywhere else. All he could do was keep an eye on Carol and hope he spotted any effects before they became too serious.

"What do you think of her, Hank?" Larry asked. "Beyond her stubborn preconceived notions."

Dr. Zielinski took a deep breath and decided to take a calculated risk, portraying Hancock's weakness as a positive. Tonya had ordered him to work on Larry's 'lack of interest' problem. "Actually, she's much worse than your experience training with her might suggest. She's a social circuit butterfly. I'm not sure she even went through a tomboy phase when she was a kid. She doesn't garden, didn't do any outdoor activities at all. The least pain and she's practically weeping on the floor." He paused and examined his companion's reaction. Blank, utterly blank. Damn. "Each of your peers is different, and our new charge continues the pattern. The biggest difference is her, um, post event lusts, um, which are far beyond what my experiences, and..."

"All your experiences?"

Larry's question referred to an incident when Dr. Zielinski had seen too much. Experienced too much. The events of that day still bothered him. He had stared death in the eyes and gotten death to blink first. Someday, he feared, he would lose one of those gambles. The incident was one of the reasons why he had grown careful in his dealings with all Transforms, and...

"Skag," Larry said, cutting through Dr. Zielinski's thoughts. At his frown, Larry smiled a nasty smile. "Was. Mine. _Worse_?" The tone of that quiet demand emptied the two tables next to theirs. One of the men, in an oil-stained red-plaid shirt, turned toward Larry with the itch to fight in his eyes. Larry flickered a quick look at him. He backed away and fled at a controlled walk.

Damn. He had gotten distracted. Again. "Yes," Dr. Zielinski said. "Hancock's is the worst." So much for avoiding anything 'beyond normal'.

"Hmmm. Anything else?" Larry asked, calmer now and shoveling in the fries.

"You've seen her temper and her muscle development," Dr. Zielinski said. "Both are outside of the range of my experience."

"About fifteen times faster than what I've seen," Larry said, referring to the muscle development. Dr. Zielinski took mental notes, especially concerning this quite informative tidbit. "Any idea why?"

"My best guess is compensation, because she didn't have much in the way of muscles to start with, but I'm not sure the explanation is sufficient. We're giving her a standard diet, nothing out of the ordinary. Normal bowel movements, water consumption, hemoglobin levels, and juice levels. She even grouses to me about the mild physical training you're putting her through."

Larry shook his head. "What's your opinion about her sanity?"

"Aside from her reluctance to turn away from religious explanations, her sanity is quite good. Only Desmond was better at this stage of her development."

"You think so, eh? Perhaps I _will_ make your new charge an offer. You also need to give her more help. Show some commitment," Larry said. "Stop being an information hog and tell her about the Transform community. Give her some proper incentive to get off her ass and exercise. She needs to know about the pitfalls involved."

"No problem."

"She also needs a weapon to defend herself. I think a weapon will calm her. You should get her one."

"Me?" Dr. Zielinski asked. Calm her? Larry's strange statement was again quite informative. "Getting her one sounds like your specialty, not mine. Why don't you do it?"

"Look, cocksucker, I'm assigning the risk to you. Here, give her this," Larry said. He reached down and came up with a knife in an ankle sheath.

That was quick, Dr. Zielinski thought.

Larry dropped the knife in Dr. Zielinski's lap and paused, as if he was sensing something nearby.

"Well, I've got to run," Larry said. Dr. Zielinski blinked and Larry was gone. Dr. Zielinski tapped his fingers on the knife and wondered how he was supposed to deliver it.

The waitress came by and gave him the bill. Dr. Zielinski glanced at the tab and grimaced. That had been Larry's second meal!

Not only had Larry ordered for Dr. Zielinski, the putative exercise instructor had stiffed him with the check.

Bob Scalini: October 5, 1966 – October 9, 1966

Bob hid himself in the alley behind Bellmore's Steak House, a couple of miles south of downtown St. Louis. The Steak House closed at eleven on Wednesday night, and the staff started cleaning. At about midnight the kitchen garbage usually came out. That's what Bob wanted.

The regular garbage came out all evening, the usual selection of half eaten steaks, ground into skins of baked potatoes, shreds of salad, cigarette butts and hunks of bread, all glued together with butter, cheese, grease and various kinds of salad dressing. Bob would eat the regular garbage if he got desperate.

The kitchen garbage was a different thing entirely, food that had been left uneaten in the kitchen at the end of the evening. The cook at Bellmore's prided himself on his fresh ingredients. He didn't keep anything that might not be perfect the next day: whole heads of lettuce, fresh bread, baked potatoes, even salads.

Best of all was the prime rib. Every Wednesday evening was prime rib night at the Bellmore, and every Wednesday evening they went through racks of prime rib. Each rack had two ends, rich and dark and juicy. They didn't serve the ends to the customers. They accumulated them to the side. Every Wednesday night at about midnight they threw them out.

The thought of prime rib made Bob's mouth water. He waited among the garbage cans across the alley, next to the back door of the Handy Dry Cleaner. It was an overcast October night with a cold north wind, the best time to scavenge. It was too dark to be seen and cold enough to drive most people indoors.

Not Bob. He wore a heavy flannel shirt, warm enough for a Crow in this weather. A dim light, by the back door of the restaurant, illuminated the path to the garbage cans. The other side of the alley, where Bob hid, was almost black.

Although Bob focused his sight and hearing on the Bellmore and its staff, he focused his metasense elsewhere. Tiamat's 'older sister' Zaltu had wandered around nearby St. Louis last evening, which had unnerved him. Not hunting him, though. Shopping and bar-hopping. He no longer froze in terror when he metasensed her, but he always moved with more care, always worried, when she appeared.

The more he studied Tiamat and Zaltu, the less human they seemed. They dispensed life and death as passionate goddesses, primordial, demanding and accepting sacrifices. Bob stopped himself when he began recognizing those kinds of thoughts in his head. Goddesses? Tiamat and Zaltu were only normal humans with Transform Sickness, human and dangerous. He couldn't afford to think otherwise.

Every week or so Tiamat's captors brought her another male Transform nearing withdrawal. He understood. Tiamat's captors kept her alive on purpose, a lioness in their zoo, fed raw meat to sustain her.

Bob couldn't decide if they were crazy or evil. Tiamat could be the predator he feared. On the other hand, Tiamat might _hunt_ the predators that threatened _him_. Still, her captors' actions were perverse; keeping her a prisoner and still feeding her Transforms.

While he pondered Tiamat's fate, cans rattled at the entrance to the alley. Bob's heart leapt into his throat as he pulled his attention back to the here and now. Human beings, not twenty feet from him. He smelled them and recognized the acrid stench of filth and alcohol. He remembered the scents – two bad apples, bullies who preyed upon the other street people. How did he let them get so close?

Bob froze into rigid immobility, heart pounding, sweat pooling in his armpits. He rode his fear, wondering whether it was safer to flee or continue hiding. The taller one, unwashed, grizzled and missing most of his teeth, led the way down the alley. The shorter one, broader, with a mashed nose and one torn ear showing under the flap of his hat, followed.

Nowhere to run! Lightheaded, Bob attempted to quiet his growing panic. He failed.

"Yeah, Jimmy. 's a good idea. Be a lot a food. I'd like a taste a good meat, all hot 'n drippin'. It'd be a good..."

"Shut yer face," the first one said, not two feet from where Bob crouched, frozen, not breathing. Bob wished he believed in God, because he damned well wanted to pray.

The first one looked away from his flat-nosed companion, dismissing him with contempt. He turned and his gaze chanced to land where Bob crouched.

"Hey, whadda we got here?" the man asked. His hand came out toward Bob and his expression got mean. Flat Nose turned to look. Bob stood up, back against the wall behind him. "I think we got somebody what gets to do some sharing. You gonna share with us nice-like, right?"

Bob stopped breathing. The man had a broken piece of glass in his hand, razor sharp and wrapped at the bottom with duct tape. He poked his weapon toward Bob like lightning. So fast. Homeless street bums, and they were going to kill him for his worthless possessions. All the stark terror came out of him, his uncertain fear of Tiamat and Zaltu as well as the consuming panic at the surprise appearance of these two men. The juice within him roiled and spewed out of him as a violent vomiting of half-digested dross. His dross vomit spread out over most of the length of the alleyway.

Bob sprinted to the other end of the alley, and out. Behind him, the two bums shrieked. He didn't know what all that half-digested dross had done to them, but he sensed them now with his extra sense. The dross clung to them, dim outlined silhouettes rolling on the ground. They writhed and clawed at themselves.

Bob ran two hundred yards through the quiet darkness before he convinced himself they would not follow. He stopped in front of the dark windows of the Bookworm Book Store four blocks away. His attackers no longer moved.

'Skunk,' Sinclair had said. Bob had sicked-up dross like a skunk lifting his tail and spraying. He wasn't defenseless! Although he still shook in fear, he wanted to laugh giddily. Worried and exposed, he ducked into the nearest alley to hide again. Blocks away, his attackers still writhed on the ground. The sicked-up dross spread out away from them and began to seep through the walls of the buildings.

The sick-up didn't metasense like normal dross. He had done something to the sick-up while he had it within him. Dross was everywhere and people didn't react to it this way. Hell! Crows were goddamned two legged chemical factories.

Bob slunk back to where his two attackers had fallen. The sick-up seeping toward the Bellmore was enough to poison the place. He couldn't allow that...he would lose his free meals. Besides, the restaurant staff didn't deserve to be poisoned. Hidden in the shadows by the entrance to the alley, he gathered the dross back in, as much as possible. He didn't touch the two men.

He should, he thought. Rationally, he doubted now they would have killed him. Roughed him up, yes, but not killed him. Probably.

Maybe.

The dross hurt them, poisoned them. He wondered if he should draw it off them. He decided not to. Yes, theoretically, they deserved a trial, but he was a street bum, like all their victims. Who cared what happened to street bums? Or Crows? His jaw clenched as his two attackers writhed helplessly on the ground, a vicious anger twisting inside of him.

A door slammed open, and people called out. The Bellmore kitchen staff must have finally come out with their garbage. They would probably call an ambulance. Bob eased farther away.

No prime rib tonight.

His stomach rumbled as he slunk his way through the network of alleys and small streets. He didn't look forward to a dinner of stale bread.

Then, to cap his day off, far to the north, at the edge of his range, he sensed a flicker.

The dim but powerful sign of a Crow.

Bob laughed. He couldn't help himself. The only other thing he could have done was cry.

What a day. Bums had attacked him. He had discovered a way to defend himself with his sick-up. Hell, he had overcome his frozen terror of the Zaltu predator not so many days ago.

Now another Crow had arrived. This he didn't need.

He slid his back down the alley wall until he sat on the ground and shivered.

\---

Bob stood by the drinking fountain in Willmore Park, where he came every night to fill his jugs with water. The jungle gym and swing sets loomed like giants in the shadowed darkness. The slide, merry-go-round and the little horses on springs hid farther back. There were benches around him, but his nerves wouldn't let him sit. The sun wouldn't rise for several more hours.

A half-mile north of him, the other Crow still approached.

He had approached steadily since Bob first metasensed him. This wasn't one of the shy ones, terrified to come near. Bob felt an urge to run himself in the face of that confidence. Still, the only Crow he had ever talked to had been Sinclair. That had been a long time ago. Bob was lonely and curious.

He missed the human contact. He missed Gina, his wife.

He talked to normals these days, but he couldn't reveal himself to them as a Crow. Not too long ago, he couldn't even talk to normals. He even had manly urges again, but not toward normal women. Instead, against his will, he found himself attracted to Tiamat. The very thought made him want to retch. Although he missed Gina, her wavy brown hair and little upturned nose, Bob suspected he would no longer find her attractive.

He hated being a Transform. Yet, for him, it was the only game in town.

For companionship, he was stuck with this new Crow, whoever he might be.

In time, he saw a shadow slide past the houses on the other side of the park. The Crow walked slowly and cautiously. Bob stayed hidden, unmoving.

The Crow came through the gate in the fence and past the playground equipment. Bob saw him clearly, despite the overcast. The other Crow was tall and thin, with short black hair, and looked to be in his early twenties. Bob realized, with a start, that the other Crow's skin was brown. He was a black man. His clothes were worn but clean. He looked civilized and respectable.

Bob had no experience dealing with colored folks. They lived other lives in other places. It had been that way his entire life. It was a disconcerting jolt to discover a colored man was one of his own kind. He had no idea how to deal with someone like that.

Bob was uncomfortably aware of his own unshorn head and the stubble on his chin. He still carried the whiff of garbage.

The other stopped, about a hundred feet away.

"I'm Midgard," the man said. Bob shifted awkwardly and wondered what the man would expect of him.

Well, for a start, his name. Bob had expected the question to come someday, and had an answer prepared. "I'm Gilgamesh." Gilgamesh, a mortal man in a land of gods and goddesses, searching the world for the secret of life.

"I just came here from Kansas City," Midgard said, not challenging Bob's name at all. "I sensed a Focus household nearby, but it looks like you haven't been taking from it?"

Midgard's voice had been soft and non-threatening, a whisper only a Crow would notice. Bob made sure his voice was the same.

"There are other Transforms here, in the St. Louis Transform Detention Center. They generate such a large amount of dross that I had no need of the other."

Midgard nodded, thoughtfully. "I can metasense one in the Transform Detention Center. A Monster, I think. I'd like to know more about these creatures," he said.

Bob stiffened. To his surprise, he had no urge to keep what he knew about Tiamat and Zaltu a secret. However, what he knew would take too long to explain and he wasn't prepared to spend long hours dealing with another person.

Midgard picked up on his unease. "Not now," he said. "Later. I have things I can tell you." He stopped and looked at Bob. "I've been a Crow for a little over a year," he said.

It was a question. "I became a Crow almost three months ago," Bob said.

Midgard nodded, approving. "You have very good control for someone only three months past your transformation. Whatever's in the Center produces more dross than any Focus household I've ever sensed. Just the idea of that much dross sitting in one place is dangerous to think about. I'm not sure I could creep close enough to take it." Bob realized with a shock that the other man had been judging him. It was an uncomfortable sensation.

He nodded to acknowledge the compliment.

That did leave the question of why Tiamat's sea of dross had drawn him in, when it appeared to terrify Midgard. Bob was a Crow. He was supposed to run from danger. He hadn't run.

"I'll live on the north side of town," Midgard said.

Bob shook his head. Midgard was the only human contact Bob had. "No, come farther south. I'd welcome the companionship and there's too much dross there for me." He wanted to share it – and share the implicit danger of the unknown predator. Midgard's offer took a load off Bob's mind. His fear of leaving Tiamat's dross sea behind made him wonder again if he had gone mad.

Midgard nodded, and then shook his head. "Sorry. I'll come south, but I can't face going anywhere near that Center. I can't imagine taking any of that dross, at least not yet. I'll write my story down on paper for you. I'll leave it hidden under those bushes over there." He nodded toward the bushes over on his right. "You can write your story and leave it for me."

Bob nodded back. He liked this Midgard person. The fact he was colored didn't seem to matter. Perhaps skin color didn't matter if they were both Crows. Perhaps it didn't matter to normals either.

Then he shook his head again. Of course it mattered to normals. It was only because they were Crows that things were different.

He laughed to himself. Crows were black birds. Perhaps they were all black now, on the inside.

Carol Hancock: October 5, 1966 – October 6, 1966

The day after the obstacle course was the first day I slapped a nurse. The new nurse, Givens, was the one. I'd finished a morning blood test and Givens wanted me to put my shoes back on. No, I wanted to carry them. They hurt my feet today. She wasn't being rude or anything, merely insistent. So I slapped her. Nurse Givens bounced off the wall and ran, and I had panicked orderlies with weapons pointed at me, ready to shoot. Cook, of all of them the most familiar with me, kept shouting, "Get down, get down."

I got down.

I had a problem, though. I enjoyed slapping Nurse Givens and I wanted to do it again.

The slap bought me another visit to the scabrous Dr. Manigault. He sentenced me to half rations and solitary confinement for the rest of the day. He repeated his employment offer. I turned him down again.

The solitary confinement cell was new to me, somewhere up on the third floor, and the room smelled funny, a sour chemical odor I couldn't place. The eight feet by ten feet cell had a twelve-foot ceiling, so I felt like I was at the bottom of some odd box. Several water pipes crossed the cell, up by the ceiling, and a metal grating reinforced the drywall. The small sink was set in a tin cabinet, all sharp edges and metal points. The bed, a glorified footlocker, had body bags inside it, along with thick rope, extra sheets, and on top, a knife.

In case I didn't get the hint, someone had tied a hangman's noose on the rope. Dr. Manigault had thrown me into a suicide chamber, the sort of place the Detention Center incarcerated unwanted Transforms while waiting for their inevitable deaths.

I slammed the bed back down without further thought, enraged.

At night, I dreamed again of the man in the film. I'd dreamed of him before, in my nightmares, first his withdrawal then myself in withdrawal. This time I came for him with my arms extended, to envelop him and give him death, and he hugged me. I held him to me, I pulled...

I woke up in the grip of a craving so fierce I shook with it. It was only the fifth day since the last time I had taken juice. The craving shouldn't have been this powerful yet. I held my pillow tightly, and lay on my side and shivered.

As I turned in the bed, I realized something else: the dream left me aroused. I thought of that man in withdrawal, the juice he represented and I wanted him. I wanted his juice, I wanted his body, I wanted him inside of me in all ways.

I was sick. Bad mind sick. My skin itched, as well. I didn't like this room.

Every time something good happened, like with the obstacle course, another ten bad things happened. I was so overwhelmed by my emotions I couldn't think straight anymore. I hated this!

I couldn't get back to sleep. I hadn't needed more than two or three hours of sleep a night since I'd transformed. I daydreamed that one of the staff would come down with Transform Sickness. First thing in the morning, one of the staff would come in and he would be a Transform, filled with juice. Right next to me. I could reach over and drain him dry.

Sometime just before dawn, I sat straight up in the bed and put my head in my hands. A knife? I scrambled out of bed and looked again in the chest. I hadn't been mistaken. A knife. Someone had put a goddamned knife in with the suicide equipment.

I picked up the knife in awe. This was no normal kitchen knife. It was huge, a foot long black steel monstrosity, sharp on both sides at the end, serrated like a kitchen knife on the front side starting half way down, and with a short section of saw-like serrations on the other side opposite the front serrations. The knife came in a hand-tooled custom holster with straps top and bottom, and the holster looked well used. I sniffed the scent of old blood and the heavy odor of its owner, unrecognizable. Much fainter, I smelled the odor of a person I recognized. Dr. Zielinski.

I'd say the knife was too big for dainty-ol'-me, but I found something comforting about it. I closed the lid on the footlocker bed and sat down to think, the knife cradled in my arms, held baby tight. I thought for a long time.

I couldn't make myself believe it was a coincidence that the knife had shown up right after I'd slapped the nurse and right after my trip to the obstacle course. I came up with only one rational conclusion: Dr. Zielinski had given this to me because he thought I needed the knife to defend myself.

I'd also assumed the Detention Center staff monitored the entire place with closed-circuit television whatnots, but the appearance of this knife here was a good indication they didn't monitor this room. I was surprised, but then remembered that the Detention Center was a decade old. They hadn't kept the place up to date.

I couldn't figure out how to get the knife out of this room. I couldn't carry it. They frisked me too often for me to conceal the knife under my clothes. Worse, I ended up half-naked far too regularly during the damned medical tests. I puzzled over the straps attached to the holster and after a while realized they would fit well around someone's lower leg. That had to be how Dr. Zielinski got the knife in.

Although, looking at the worn spots on the leather straps, I decided the original owner had big legs. Dr. Zielinski's lower legs weren't as thin as mine, but they were still thin. Even at its tightest, I had to put the sheath right below my knee to keep it on my leg.

I played with the knife and noted its lethal sharpness. Thought about the uses I could make of it. No, this knife was only for emergencies, something to give me a fighting chance if the Detention Center scheduled me for termination, a tool to help me if I needed to escape. Dr. Zielinski had put the knife here because he knew I would end up in this cell if I got in trouble. I couldn't carry the knife with me but the cell had ample hiding places. I doubted the government had built this this room to serve as a maximum-security holding tank. Storeroom would have been my guess. Therefore, I hid the knife on top of one of the overhead pipes.

I figured if I wanted to get the knife, I would just slap another nurse.

I did have one problem, though: I didn't know the first thing about fighting, with or without a knife. I needed to talk to Dr. Zielinski. I knew not to mention the knife but I could talk to him about his experiences with other Arms. There was a message here I didn't get.

I needed to understand that message.

After a half day of confinement in the suicide cell my muscles were noticeably worse. I couldn't sit still for long, as immobility made the ache intolerable. When they released me from the suicide cell, I went to see Dr. Zielinski. Instead of giving him an apology for yesterday's behavior or asking questions about his experiences with other Arms, I lost my temper.

"This transformation thing is getting worse," I said, after I sat down. "My body aches and my mind is full of mush. I swear I'm becoming some sort of Monster!"

"Despite what certain people have said, I can assure you that Arms are not Monsters," he said, with a barely muted eye roll.

The arrogant bastard didn't even take me seriously. "How in the blazes do you know that? I suppose in your infinite wisdom you know everything about me." I glared at him, angrier by the second.

"No, I don't," he said, steepling his fingers and looking off to the side. "Unlike some who've become fixed in their belief and faith, medical researchers find out that they're wrong every day. That's how we learn and..."

Jerk. "So you admit you're wrong?"

"When the data are wrong, certainly," he said, with a small smile on the edges of his lips.

'Data are'? My face grew hot at his utter pomposity, but he didn't notice. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?" he continued, as if he spoke from a canned script.

"I _hurt_ , damn it!" I said, my voice loud and an octave higher than normal. "I can't even hold still. Every time I sit still my muscles hurt. My stomach has hurt for two weeks now, my shoulders hurt, and everything just keeps getting _worse_."

"Carol, I understand you're in some discomfort," Dr. Zielinski said, nervous now. He watched me with a tight, tense expression. Wary, as if he didn't trust what I might do. "This is normal. Your body's undergoing a lot of changes, as you're not fully an Arm yet. As time goes on, the pain should decrease. Until then, I know..."

"You don't know _anything._ " I was profoundly angry. "You don't know _anything_ about what I'm enduring."

"Carol, I thi..."

"Shut the hell up! You sit there and tell me you understand what I'm going through, yet you've never experienced the pain or the craving. What gives you the right to decide when I get juice and when I don't?" I shook in anger. The only thing that kept me from more violence was the freshness of the memory of the suicide cell.

Dr. Zielinski's face went white. He had the deep breathing and artificial stillness of someone in real danger. He slowly pushed his chair back from his desk to leave his legs clear. Why? Why did he move his right hand inside his suit jacket, near his left shoulder? A gun? Did he think I would pull out that knife of his and stab him?

I took a deep breath of my own and tried to bring myself under control. I breathed again and counted to ten. Across from me, Dr. Zielinski didn't move. I counted to ten again, then backwards from fifty.

"I hurt," I said, my voice tight with barely controlled anger. "This is _not_ some minor 'ache'. The pain in my muscles is intense, getting worse every day. The ache today is a lot worse because of the time I spent in solitary. I can't hold still anymore. You're a _doctor_. Do something about this."

As I spoke Dr. Zielinski relaxed, just a bit. He nodded when I finished speaking.

"If a single day without exercise can cause such discomfort, you're right and we have a problem. If you're up to it, we can start some tests right now to ascertain how bad your problems have gotten."

I nodded. This was what I wanted, that he take my complaints seriously. The anger still smoldered under the surface, though, barely banked, ready to come out and blaze again at my next loss of control.

Dr. Zielinski ordered a full set of X-rays. They covered my entire body and it took hours to take them all. Afterwards, he consulted with the center's other doctors and placed several phone calls. Dr. Zielinski didn't identify the problem, but I didn't like the frown on his face. He even called in Larry Borton to consult with him about what he saw on the X-Rays.

It was only after he finished the diagnostic work that he called me into Lab One and told me what changes were in store for me.

"God _dammit_. Isn't there anything real you can do? What kind of quack are you?" I said to Zielinski, after he increased the amount of time I spent with Larry each day up to three two hour sessions and cut my calorie intake to five thousand calories a day. "Where's the pills? Where's the surgery? What's with you about all this diet and exercise crap, anyway?" My voice had lowered into a throaty growl, though I didn't feel half as menacing as earlier.

Borton grinned at Dr. Zielinski, one of those 'I told you so' grins, I decided. Dr. Zielinski sighed, exasperated with me. Well, I was exasperated with him, too.

He tapped my aching shoulder with a pencil. "I suppose I could operate and physically remove some of your extra muscles," he said. I nodded. This sounded at least a little promising. "But you'd have to sign a waiver, Carol."

"A waiver?"

"Because of what's happened with the other Arms, and because no one's ever done any sort of procedure like this to any Arms or Focuses, there's no telling whether the procedure would work. Or if you'd even live through it," Dr. Zielinski said, a caricature of a mad scientist. "Or whether you'd come out crippled. Or if the removal of these muscles would trigger an even worse muscle growth cycle. Of course, the most likely outcome is that something totally unexpected would happen, such as what happened to the CDC's Dr. Wilson when he tried to fix a broken leg on a captive Monster he had somehow acquired."

"What happened, Hank?" Larry Borton said. He had been standing in the doorway the entire time, laughter in his cold eyes at my discomfort. "You haven't told me this one."

Dr. Zielinski raised a single eyebrow and gave my face a sidelong glance. "The Monster went into some previously unimagined type of juice shock. While Dr. Wilson worked on its broken left leg, the Monster's limbs broke off from its body at the joints and each of the Monster's internal organs slithered away on its own," Dr. Zielinski said, still tapping on my shoulder.

On my shoulder _joint_.

"Which is why I need you to sign a waiver," Dr. Zielinski said to me.

At which point I turned, wobbling unsteadily, my anger now abject horror. No experimenting on me, thank you very much! Borton at least covered his face when he laughed, the bastard.

"Since you now understand why I'm prescribing changes to your diet and exercise schedule, I expect you to start your expanded exercise work immediately, Carol," Dr. Zielinski said.

Chapter 4

"All victims of the chronic phase of Transform Sickness ('Transforms') produce a new chemical in their bodies called para-procorticotrophin. This chemical is commonly referred to as 'juice'. Unfortunately, male Transforms produce too little of it and women Transforms produce too much of it. Luckily, a special type of Transform has been discovered, the Major Transform, who is able to move juice from women Transforms to male Transforms. Without the Major Transform, commonly referred to as a 'Focus', male Transforms quickly run out of juice and go into withdrawal and women Transforms quickly accumulate too much juice and become overdosed. Withdrawal is fatal; overdosing _transforms_ a woman into a literal monster. It is the fate of the woman Transform that is the source of the name of the disease. It takes two women Transforms to support one male Transform." [CDC pamphlet, 1957]

Rover (Interlude)

Rover remembered his mistake. That's why these creatures hunted him, he was certain of it.

He shouldn't have made the mistake, but he needed the good loving. He had gone so long without the good loving he had gotten stupid, careless, and heedless of danger.

In the same way he sensed Monsters, he sensed the ones who hunted him from a long way off. Save for one, the ones who hunted him had so little of the good loving in them. The one? The one scared him, a _something_ far more dangerous than a Monster. The _something_ held almost as much of the good loving as a Monster, but if the _something_ wanted to kill him, it would, he knew. He also knew the _something_ was a woman.

Why did he make his first mistake?

He had been stupid from lack of good loving, that's why. The Monster hadn't acted like a normal Monster. It hid among a herd of sheep, for one thing. It appeared different from the _newspaper_ pictures of Monsters he remembered – not a snake, a dragon, a wolf or a tiger. A sheep. A sheep with ripping, tearing teeth like his.

He had held back and watched the sheep Monster for days. He had been stupid and he even told himself so at the time. The sheep Monster hid in the herd of sheep, protected by a man, a teenage boy and three dogs. The man and the boy had _guns_. Rover remembered _guns_. _Guns_ were dangerous. They could hurt him from far away.

The sheep Monster didn't eat anywhere near as much food as Rover did. When the man and the kid worked elsewhere, or especially at night when they slept, the sheep Monster hunted rabbits, squirrels, mice, snakes, frogs, anything small and edible. At first, Rover wondered how the sheep Monster had fooled the man and the kid, but then he figured it out. The sheep Monster had eaten one of the sheep and taken its place. The Monster even fooled the sheep dogs.

Rover figured the men who made _newspapers_ didn't know about such things as the sheep Monster. If they did, it would have made a _good story_.

He should have run when he figured out the mystery. Heedless of danger, Rover instead plotted the sheep Monster's demise. He gave in to temptation, attacked at night, but the sheep Monster fought back. The other Monsters he had loved tried to fight back, but this one succeeded. The sheep Monster hurt him. He hurt it back. They made enough noise to attract the man, the kid and the rest of the family. Out came the guns.

That's where his memory failed him. The next thing he remembered, he was eating. Famished and eating. He had been eating the family. The people. His second mistake.

He still hadn't gotten over the horror of that discovery.

Now these creatures hunted him, these Monster-like non-Monsters. He knew they weren't Monsters, because he sensed their shapes, their human shapes, with his extra sense.

They tracked him. He tried all sorts of tricks to lose them. He walked on paved roads through the piney mountains. He doubled back on his trail. He kept to the rocks. He walked in streams.

Still they followed.

He had to leave the area. Leave the big water behind.

That night, he got himself on one of the paved roads and ran. He hid from cars and trucks, instead of chasing them. Eventually, when morning came, Rover found himself far far away from his old territory. He went up into the hills and low mountains in his new territory and cowered. Waited.

He no longer sensed the ones who tracked him.

Now he had to avoid any more mistakes.

Dr. Henry Zielinski: October 7, 1966

Dr. Zielinski stopped in his tracks when he found Tommy Bates huddled up in a corner of the Detention Center's impromptu gym, by the dumbbell rack, deep in conversation with Larry Borton. He assessed the situation carefully. Tommy's hand wasn't on either of the two sidearms he normally carried. Larry's weapons remained hidden as well. Dr. Zielinski decided it was safe to join them.

The two of them glanced at him quickly as he walked over. Dr. Zielinski noticed a large red mark on Tommy's pale cheek. Tommy seemed more nervous than normal.

Dr. Zielinski licked his lips. "Do we have a problem?" he asked.

Larry shook his head, but Tommy nodded. "The damn bitch Hancock slapped me," Tommy said. "For no good reason. Our friend Larry here seems to think this is a positive sign."

He promised himself to tell Tonya about this one. She would appreciate the story. He hadn't realized Tommy was in on their little secret. "Hancock is progressing much faster into the second stage of Arm post-transformation adjustment than my only," clear throat, glare at Larry Borton, "Arm charge who survived to this point."

"You need to get her out of the Detention Center more often," Larry said. "The one obstacle course test wasn't enough. She needs to burn off those bad chemicals her body is producing and she can't do it penned up in this hellhole."

"I shot my bolt with the obstacle course idea," Dr. Zielinski said. "If everything goes according to plan, we can repeat the test at the end of October, for another set of data on the improvement curve, but I can't think of anything more along the 'test the Arm to predict Stacy Keaton's current capabilities' line that would get her out of the Detention Center."

Tommy Bates turned a most amazing shade of green.

"I don't think Focus Biggioni would be amused to hear that one from you, Hank," Larry Borton said.

"I see you two know each other better than I realized," Tommy said.

"Ditto," Dr. Zielinski said. He wished he had his camera with him. This would make the most delicious photo.

"I've got an idea along those lines, but my plan might take me a couple of weeks to set up," Tommy said.

"I'm all ears," Larry Borton said. Dr. Zielinski glared at Borton and Bates, and Tommy shrugged.

"My plan's nothing like that. I think I can get Hancock invited to a Monster hunt. There's a huge ruckus going on about some overly talented Monster in the Catskills," Tommy said. He relaxed when his comment appeared to reduce the tension. "I'm not sure how long my plan will take to set up, though. I need to convince my superiors that Hancock's not going to escape, and that's proving to be a big problem."

"Escape is the last thing you need to worry about," Borton said. "You're supplying her with juice. If you dropped her in the middle of nowhere, she would come back to you voluntarily."

"Stacy Keaton escaped, and she was being supplied with juice," Tommy Bates said.

Borton shook his head. "You'd have to talk to her about that in private someday, if you want the real story. Me, personally, I'd rather not be there when you pop that question to her. She's psychotic, remember? On the other hand, I overheard Special Agent Patrick McIntyre say he broke her out of the FBI's special Arm prison out of the goodness of his heart."

"Which is why McIntyre hunts Keaton like a man obsessed?" Tommy said. Borton shrugged.

Dr. Zielinski echoed Borton's shrug. He ought to be a nervous wreck from a conversation like this, but, truthfully, he enjoyed it. He was good at it and he knew it. "So, Larry, do you know of any additional equipment we can get for Hancock's gym to help her with her issues?"

"I have a list," Borton said. "But it won't do us any good unless she somehow acquires the motivation to use it." Borton walked off, leaving Dr. Zielinski shaking his head.

Carol Hancock: October 8, 1966 – October 14, 1966

On Saturday, seven days after my last draw, Mom came by to visit after my afternoon exercise session. She knocked at my door and stuck her head in.

"How are you doing, Carol?"

I shrugged. Down on juice, I was depressed. Not as bad as the last time, and I hadn't been reduced to begging yet. This time I had escaped into violent fantasies.

"I have some bad news," Mom said. I looked up and paid attention to her. She had been crying, and she held a manila envelope in her hand.

"What, my euthanization order?" I asked. "How are they going to do it? Firing squad or confinement until I go into withdrawal?"

Mom turned white. "Carol?" She paused. "If this is a bad time, perhaps..."

"It's always a bad time, Mom. What would make you think there's ever a good time?"

"You're not making this any easier," she said. Sighed. She pulled over a chair, sat down, and handed me the manila envelope. I tore it open, sending papers everywhere and dropping a white letter envelope on my bed. I looked in the envelope and found Bill's wedding band.

"Give me those," I said to my mother, as she tried to gather up the spilled papers. I grabbed them from her and read. Divorce papers. I ripped them up and dropped them on the floor.

"Fuck. The bastard bribed my guards. I'd wondered how that twit Artusy managed to get into my room."

"You did what Bill is accusing you of doing?" Mom asked. She put her shaking hands in her lap, clenched tight together.

"Hell, yes. That was the only sex I've had since I became an Arm. The only thing wrong with fucking Artusy was the fact he ran away before I finished. I'd like to break his neck." Bill, that is, but I didn't bother explaining.

"What is wrong with you, Carol? You never..."

"Shut up, Mom. You have no idea what things are like in this place or what I'm going through."

"Well," she said. Sniffed.

I took my engagement ring and wedding band off. "Here, take the goddamned rings. Bury them with me when they kill me. If I kept them here, one of the nurses would steal them." I wanted to do more than rip things up. I wanted people to hurt. I wanted payback. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Bill would win if I got angry with him. I couldn't let him win. I took another deep breath. Better.

I looked Mom over and saw something disturbing. I wasn't sure how I knew. Something in her fidgeting fingers, the slight furrowing of her brow, perhaps.

"Last visit, huh?" I said. "Is your deceit the price for seeing Billy and Jeffery again?"

"You're mistaken, Carol. They..."

I had her. I knew her secrets. I couldn't help but rip them open. "You were always weak. You act like you're strong, put on a good show, but you always do whatever the last man you talked to asks you to do." Her face flushed and she backed away from me. "Dad has you marching around with 'Death to Monsters' signs, doesn't he? It didn't take you long to betray me, did it? I'm surprised you were able to hold out for three weeks."

"I'm here to comfort you, Carol. You..."

"I'm supposed to cry? Perhaps I don't feel like crying today. That's what you trained me to do: cry whenever the going got rough. Some man will always take care of you if you cry, right? How can you stand to see yourself in the mirror?" Mom took the letter envelope with the rings and stood. Her face flushed, she walked to the door, her step a little unsteady.

"Goodbye, Carol."

Bitch. My own mother was just like the others. I stared at her, imagined slapping her the same way I had slapped Nurse Givens. Mom turned wide-eyed and pale faced, stumbled back across the hall, and ran.

I laughed.

How could everyone betray me so easily?

I opened my Bible, took out Bill's picture, and ripped it into tiny shreds.

A half hour later, I realized what I'd done and broke down in tears. Only then did I want to apologize. By then it was much too late.

I never saw my mother again.

Once I composed myself, I walked down to Dr. Zielinski's office, trailing the usual guard, and stuck my head in to see if he was there. He sat at his desk, talking on the phone. I sat. He wasn't pleased to see me and put the phone down in its cradle. I swore Zielinski spent every spare moment talking on the phone.

Dry eyed, I told him what I had done.

"Doc, is there a medical reason why I'm behaving this way, or am I just losing it?"

"There's a reason." He studied me carefully. "Are you interested in learning why?"

I nodded.

"We don't understand the details behind all your changes in behavior, but we do have some information. Your body is producing testosterone in incredible quantities, as is normal for an Arm. Testosterone is the male hormone we think is linked to aggressive male behavior. We don't believe the testosterone is the only cause of your behavioral changes, but it's at least part of it. If a normal woman was producing testosterone in these quantities, she would be shaving twice a day."

I reflexively rubbed my chin. No stubble at all. "Not Arms," I said.

He nodded.

"I'm getting dangerous, aren't I?" Earlier, before I insulted my mother and chased her off, I shoved aside another nurse and hurt one of the orderlies, Mr. Kelsey, after I grabbed his arm and squeezed.

Dr. Zielinski nodded, again.

"You'd better get me a draw immediately, Doc. I need more juice. I don't want to kill anyone by accident." On purpose, yes, by accident, no.

"Special Agent Bates is working on the problem. Unfortunately, he's being interfered with."

Interfered with? Guess people didn't like Arms. Not surprising with the damned Antichrist Arm, Keaton, on the loose. Nevertheless, they were the professionals at this, not me. "So?"

"I can't say any more. Save for your exercise sessions, I think we need to lock you down for your own and our own safety."

I shrugged. If my rages were due to me being an Arm, they were something I would have to learn to live with. Eventually, I hoped, control.

This reminded me of the promise I made to myself several days ago.

"I apologize for the way I've been behaving," I said. "Perhaps since I now understand what's happening to me, I can control the rages." Dr. Zielinski didn't respond, but kept his face stone blank. No encouragement. He didn't think it would be easy for me to control my rages.

Of course it wouldn't be easy. Nothing useful was ever easy.

"So, Dr. Zielinski, what can you tell me about the other Arms you've worked with? Did they have the same problems? All these changes I'm going through are difficult to cope with and I do value your experience."

His stone blank expression stayed unreadable. Perhaps I'd laid it on a bit too thick with that trowel. "I've worked with four other Arms after their transformations," he said. "I can tell you about my experiences, but you may find them disheartening."

"I coped with the movie of the man in withdrawal. I can cope with your earlier failures as well."

Dr. Zielinski nodded and leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. "Very well. The first Arm I worked with was Julie Bethune, back in '61, the second known American Arm transformation. I'd been called in to consult; I had no real power over the situation. The people in charge of the CDC's Virginia Detention Center were of the opinion that since she was a female Transform, she would eventually start to make her own juice. I predicted otherwise. After she exhausted her initial juice supply, she slipped into withdrawal and went on a psychotic rampage inside the Detention Center. After they managed to restrain her, she died of the wounds she suffered during her rampage."

I shivered. "Idiots."

Dr. Zielinski nodded. "The second was Rose Desmond, about a year after Julie. I'd recently been installed as the head of the new Transform Research Department at Harvard Medical." Whoa! I was impressed. I sat up straighter and paid more attention to his story. I'd had no idea. "I managed to snag Desmond out of a Detention Center and set her up at Harvard. She survived six months, but died in an accident."

Six months. Hell. I hadn't survived a month. Six months was a hell of a long time. I hadn't known any of the deceased Arms had lasted so long. "What sort of accident?"

"Like you, Carol, Desmond was bothered by the morality of her juice draws. She convinced me to try to find a way to save the Transform she was drawing from. Over a six-week period, Desmond found a way to slow down the juice draw from instant to several minutes. The plan was to remove the woman Transform after Desmond had drawn about a quarter of her juice. We tried, but the plan didn't work. Instead, Desmond snapped and went berserk. The woman Transform went into withdrawal and Desmond didn't snap back when we returned the Transform to her. She grabbed a guard's gun and shot up the lab, and in the melee that followed she got shot in the head and died. If it wasn't for the head shot, I'm convinced Desmond would still be alive today."

Dr. Zielinski's mask of indifference broke, and I could tell he was still upset about what had happened. "The idea to remove the Transform was yours?"

He nodded. "Experimentation with Transform Sickness is very dangerous. Anything new we try with any Transforms runs the risk of blowing up in our faces." His voice lowered to a whisper. "In far too many cases, we don't have the option to avoid the new."

"I'm surprised she didn't kill you, Dr. Zielinski." Even if Desmond had agreed to the experiment, he was the one who had arranged everything.

"She tried and damned near succeeded."

"You got shot."

He nodded.

"How dangerous is a six month old Arm? How strong?" What did I have to look forward to?

"About the same as a year old tiger with a human intellect...but remember, this was before Stacy Keaton and no one had any idea how dangerous an Arm could become. Not only did we test for the wrong things, we trained the wrong things as well: metasense and draw techniques instead of physical activities." Her muscles must have come in slower than mine did. "Desmond was restrained during the experiment and she broke restraints strong enough to hold the world's strongest human men." He paused for a moment, chewing over something. Ah. He blamed himself for the weakness of the restraints.

Great. Just great. Not only was I was going to be some monstrous killer, I was going to be pug-ugly and muscle-bound as well. What was the purpose of an Arm, anyway? Why, for heaven's sake, did God create Arms? Were we nothing more than Satan's spawn, doomed to howl like animals and kill?

Why were we so strong?

Dr. Zielinski met my eyes and grabbed my attention. "You need to know that her musculature developed about a third as fast as yours is developing, Carol, and that her rages came most strongly in her third and fourth month." Ah hah! I'd been right. "By the time of her death, she only lost control if her juice count fell below a hundred."

Blessed hope. What I was going through now was not permanent. If I progressed as fast on the control issues as with the damned muscles, I would be back in control of myself in a month or two. "The other two?" I asked.

"Both in '64. The first, Francine Sarles, was stuck in the Bakersfield Transform Detention Center in California. I wasn't in charge. She couldn't cope with her first draw and refused to kill again. The people in charge of her case offered her a man already in withdrawal for her second draw, and she accepted. I argued against the plan, got ignored, argued that she should be heavily restrained and got ignored again. Her mind snapped when she took the man in withdrawal. Afterwards, she freed herself, got hold of a gun, and put a bullet through her head." Bullets are faster than juice. I had heard that story from Borton. "The second, Elsie Conger, transformed in New York City and had problems from the day she woke up from her transformation coma. She weighed over three hundred pounds before she transformed and the transformation tried to convert her fat to muscle. Her body couldn't cope and she fell back into a coma less than a week after she awakened. Eventually her kidneys and liver failed. By then, she had been moved to Harvard, under my care, but there wasn't anything we could do to save her. By the time she lost most of the fat, her muscles had hypertrophied and shattered her arm and leg bones. We amputated, but it was too late: her ribs shattered and she died."

Elsie Conger must have been the Arm that Borton warned me about to goad me into more exercise. "What about Stacy Keaton? She survived."

He nodded. "She survived. I wasn't involved with her transformation. No one was. An FBI team captured her about a month after she transformed; they used a live male Transform as bait and trapped her like a wild animal. She got whisked to a secret FBI facility and supposedly cooperated with them for several months until, for unknown reasons, she went insane and escaped. There are rumors that her captors messed up her care, but I'm not sure how much faith I have in those rumors. The FBI refuses to pass any information along about Keaton. Truthfully, I must admit that nobody knows how to handle an Arm transformation. Not even me."

I wasn't impressed. "So it's been one failure after another? Have you had any successes with anything?"

He wasn't angry at my words. Too arrogant for that. Instead, he smiled, happy to talk about a better subject. "Plenty. Besides the Arms I've told you about, I've been working with male and female Transforms, and Focuses, since '57."

"Since before the Focuses broke out of Quarantine?"

He nodded. "Did you know the St. Louis Detention Center was one of the main Detention Centers where the first Focuses and their Transforms were held during the Quarantine?"

I shook my head.

"I know quite a few interesting stories about how the first Focuses managed to get out of Quarantine", Dr. Zielinski said. "Their plight was bad enough to gain the sympathy from many of their captors, and those who worked with them, including myself. They even convinced their captors to help them send messages to each other, even messages from one Detention Center to another."

Oh. I leaned forward and made sure Dr. Zielinski knew he had my full attention. "How did they manage to do that?" I asked.

"Notes under plates and in their laundry," Zielinski said, with utter nonchalance. I couldn't believe I was hearing this. He was flat out telling me how to get around the authorities! "It's amazing what sort of cooperation Transforms can get from the staff members at Detention Centers if the staff members think the Transforms are being mistreated."

I sniffed. "So this is some sort of hint I should stop slapping around the nurses? If they treated me right to begin with, they wouldn't have any problems with me at all."

Dr. Zielinski's face darkened, but I smiled at him and tapped my lower leg, right where my knife would go. His eyes widened and he nodded back when he realized I hadn't meant what I said. If he could be cagey, so could I. If someone listened to a tape of this conversation, they would conclude I'd rejected his advice.

"Carol, what do you want to do when you get out of here?" Dr. Zielinski asked.

I hadn't been prepared for his question. I could think of only one answer, though. "Survive."

He nodded. "Anything else beyond survival?"

"I'm not stupid enough to consider anything beyond survival until survival is assured." To agree to anything less would be foolish.

Dr. Zielinski frowned again. "For Transforms of any stripe, survival is not a sure thing. Focuses die as well, though not often. Transforms die in droves every day. No one can guarantee the survival of an Arm at this point."

"I'll take anything close to the survival rate of Focuses," I said.

My answer pleased him more. I half expected him to make me an offer, as Bates and Dr. Manigault had done. "In that case, Carol, I think I might be able to find a way for you to give yourself a chance of survival."

I waited, but didn't say a thing. I wasn't sure what to say. His comment didn't sound like an employment offer, but I couldn't tell what it actually was.

"I can't talk about it, yet," he said. "Later."

I nodded, depressed.

\---

Immediately after my conversation with Dr. Zielinski the orderlies manacled my legs and put me back in the suicide room. Punishment for shoving the nurse and hurting the orderly. The next day, they put me in a new room. This one was padded. After my exercises they put me in a straitjacket. Apparently, the only one who could handle me was Larry. The rest of the time, I was a prisoner again.

Agent Bates wasn't able to get me a draw until a few more days had passed, more than ten days after my second draw. I don't remember the days in between. I'm told that I was loud.

I lay on the floor of that rubber room, and there was nothing left of me but need. I couldn't even speak words anymore there was so little of my mind left. The world was pain, and need, and endless, eternal agony.

They were smart, this time. They sedated the draw, a poor male Transform, into total unconsciousness before they brought him into the Detention Center. I don't remember when they removed me from my straitjacket, or even who did it, but I suspect they did it before my draw was in range. I do remember the moment when they wheeled him into my padded cell. I do remember when I ripped his clothes off and drew the juice.

That I never forget. Never.

They left me in the padded room after the draw, save for the necessary exercise sessions. Agent Bates provided the entertainment this time. Not personally. He brought me an entire box of sex toys, which drew embarrassed guffaws from the orderlies and a red-faced stammer from the much more puritanical Dr. Zielinski. My amorous advances strained my exercise sessions with Larry. He was interested in my advances but was not in a position to carry through. Instead, he pushed me to exercise so hard I nearly had to crawl back to my padded cell. Luckily, Bates' sex toys, some of which I had never before imagined, had taken enough of the edge off to allow me to function with a semblance of normality.

\---

Two days after my third draw, Agent Bates had me dragged away from my solitary entertainments and into an unused office. I hadn't had a bath or shower since they tossed me into solitary, and I had no way to redo the chipped nail polish on my toenails. I knew I smelled like a cathouse but I didn't give a crap anymore. The only pieces of normality I craved were the pictures of my children. The rest could go hang.

"Mrs. Hancock, have a seat."

"Hell, Bates, just close the door and fuck me, why don't you?" I said, with a smirk. "You understand my needs. Do it."

"I thought you were over that," he said, and lit one of his Camels.

"Yah, but since you've been so nice to me, I thought I'd offer. Last time I checked, men liked sex like this."

He laughed. "Tell you what," he said. "You take me up on my employment offer, and once I get you out of this damned place, I'll make sure this lack goes away."

"Is that a _personal_ offer?" I batted my eyelashes at him.

"No. I'm a married man, but several of the agents working for me are unmarried. Some of them like it rough."

I smiled. He did understand.

"In a few weeks, I think I can temporarily free you for a trial run on my employment offer. We're billing it as a way to get you some more exercise and as proof that you can work with FBI agents and other authorities," Bates said.

"So, what's the damned offer?" I asked.

"A Monster hunt."

"You want to employ me to hunt Monsters?" I'd wondered what possible job the FBI might offer me, and I had to admit Monster hunting sounded better than I expected.

It still sounded lame.

"What's the fucking catch?" I asked.

"Before you can be let out of the Detention Center in such an unsupervised manner, I need at least a verbal agreement that you're going to accept the employment offer," Bates said. "It's the only way I can get around the local Missouri legal problems."

Fucking blackmailer.

"Well, I've got a catch as well. I need juice. Much more often than I'm getting it here."

His face fell. Bates tried to hide it, but failed. "Sure. No problem."

"You're lying."

Bates turned away from me. "If I can get you out of here, and mobile, I'm sure we can fix the sort of problems we're currently having."

Another lie. "You're just guessing. You have no idea how to get me Transforms regularly, do you?"

"I'm...

"You're just leading me on. Dammit, Bates, without juice I die! With low juice I end up doing insane things, like slapping people around all the time. You get the juice problem solved and I'll sign on. Not until then."

"We can't afford to wait."

Now he told the truth. "How come?" I asked, with as much control over my emotions as I could muster.

"Politics. Politics in the FBI."

"Solve them."

"I need you first, Mrs. Hancock. I don't have enough to bargain with." Bates took a drag and polluted the air. "You're not a housewife anymore. You're starting to get rough and tough. Not enough, though. You need training, you need experience. You're not getting any of that here. Only way out of here is to take chances and get out in the real world. Your best chance is going to be with me." He was telling the truth with his assessment of my expertise, but just guessing about the last.

I laughed. "Without juice, going with you is suicide. Fix the juice problem and I'm yours." I had an idea. "You're wife is a Transform, right? She's got a Focus, right? If worse comes to worse, then..."

He turned back to look at me, his face livid with anger. "Transforms under the care of a Focus are off limits to you. Any household Transform belonging to any Focus," he said. I'd never heard Bates angry before. He growled like a bear. "The whole point of the job I'm offering you is to protect those household Transforms, Mrs. Hancock. Taking them for your juice would be murder. I'd kill you if you even _tried_ to take one of them."

"You would try," I said with a growl of my own. I wanted to fight. I looked him over and noticed he had drawn his handgun and had it pointed at me. A big handgun, with a barrel wide enough for me to stick one of my fingers down. Probably made to take down Monsters and Arms.

"Get out of here, Mrs. Hancock. Our conversation is done, today."

I had the urge to fight him for the hell of it. Luckily, I'd drawn juice two days ago and wasn't feeling stupid. I could control my urge to fight. Barely. Yes, there was a little voice inside me that screamed that I was an idiot to think that I, Carol Hancock, former housewife, might be able to fight a big strong man with a gun.

"Fine," I said. I stood and backed away toward the office door. "You want me for your FBI program, arrange for the juice first. Then we'll talk."

"I doubt I'll have the chance, Mrs. Hancock."

On that ominous note, I left. The orderlies chained me up and I remained chained the rest of the day, even during my exercise sessions.

Bob Scalini: October 9, 1966 – October 16, 1966

Bob Scalini sat in the Medical section of the downtown branch of the St. Louis Public Library. He had a favorite table at the far end of the stacks that escaped most people's notice. One small table, with two chairs. He could surround himself with books and periodicals, and study to his heart's content.

The library was an excellent place, once he got used to the idea, silent and solitary. No one bothered him, even if he spent long hours there. He had been able to do all sorts of reading, especially research on Transform Sickness.

He didn't trust what he read. The books and articles sounded so confident and authoritative when they talked about the Shakes. Yet, so much of what they said did not match the things he experienced. The literature didn't mention dross. They talked of men and women Transforms as if they were all the same, but he saw variation among the Transforms when he looked at them. Not only was he convinced there were things about Transform Sickness the researchers didn't understand, he was sure most of what they wrote was mistaken.

Today, he wasn't reading, he was writing. After finishing the letter, he realized he had slipped up and signed his name as Bob Scalini. He angrily ripped up the last page of the letter. He wasn't 'Bob' anymore. _Gilgamesh,_ he thought to himself. Gilgamesh!

He had to stop thinking of himself as Bob.

Bob Scalini was dead.

Gilgamesh rewrote the letter. Letters were a wonderful idea, and he had already thanked Midgard for suggesting them. They had exchanged two letters, and it had turned out to be a pleasant way to exchange information. The letters provided human contact and information, but without the stress of a physical meeting.

Midgard's letters were a delight to read.

\---

Midgard

Congratulations on taking dross from the Detention Center. No, I don't mind, and no, it's not just you – it was disturbing to me too, the first time I took from the Center. I've been spending time in the library and I've found out a lot of information on the Transform woman held in the St. Louis Detention Center.

She's an Arm, and her real name is Carol Hancock (I like Tiamat better). She's what they call a 'victim of Armenigar's Syndrome', a 'failed Focus'. They're fools. She's no more a 'failed Focus' than I am.

All but one of the previous American Arms died soon after their transformations. The one who lived is Stacy Keaton – yes, Stacy Keaton the serial killer. I'm convinced she's Zaltu. I'm not surprised both of us fear her, despite the fact that as best as we can tell, she can't sense us.

Hidden in the far back of the library, I found a book on Transforms you might enjoy: "The Transformation of a Species" by a Dr. Earnest Hammel. To him, Transform Sickness is not just a disease, but a single mutation caused or activated by a disease trigger. He says the differentiation of Transforms into male Transforms, female Transforms and Focuses is an example of specialization, a natural next step when a species evolves. He also says: "Although the problem of female infertility among Transforms would normally preclude the specialization event's success, we do believe that the Transformation Sickness is not finished with humanity, and that something will turn up to address this problem".

I find his thesis interesting, even if he doesn't say anything about Crows, but I have a problem with the idea of a single mutation causing the six known Transform varieties (if you count the Beast Men rumors as true). And multiple simultaneous mutations seems to me to be beyond the bounds of probability. So I suspect no one knows what Transform Sickness is in truth.

Take care.

Gilgamesh

\---

Gilgamesh

Thank you for the information on Tiamat and Zaltu. I cowered for several hours after I realized that we might be playing with Stacy Keaton, but I came out of my panic when I realized that to her – like to everyone else – we Crows are invisible. I don't know if you've run into this little treasure before, but there are times when I actually have to attract a normal's attention before he'll notice that I'm standing right in front of him.

I should warn you, though, about the rumors that Focuses can sense us if we get too close to their households. I'm not sure how long their metasense range is but according to the rumors it's around a hundred feet.

I need to think of a more calming subject, so why don't I tell you about my past. I transformed in Birmingham, Alabama in mid-September of last year. Another Crow, by the name of Phobos, found me just after I awoke from my coma. He took me to his home and calmed me. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you during your transformation, out on your own and in the world-hell of panic. He taught me the basics, and then sent me on my way because there wasn't enough dross in Birmingham. As if there's ever enough dross anywhere.

I've never found a spot to settle down. I've run into other, older Crows during my wanderings, and it's strange, but the older the Crow, the more abrupt and less kind they were to me. Still, even the older Crows speak kindly about the ones they call the 'senior Crows' – likely the first Crows in America. I know of two living somewhere in the New York – New England area: Thomas the Dreamer, who lives in a cabin in Maine and Shadow, who owns a stationery shop in New York City.

Crows I've met include your acquaintance Sinclair (he sure does get around – I met him in Memphis), Hephaestus in Dallas, Rook in Baton Rouge, and a scary older Crow named Wandering Shade in Kansas City.

I think you can count the Beast Men rumors as true. All the older Crows warn you to watch out for them, and several have met and fled from them. According to what I've learned, Beast Men are dangerous because they can sense us – and because they are as mindless and violent as these Arms.

Take care.

Midgard

\---

Midgard

Thanks for the information on Beast Men. If my suppositions are correct, they're the predator who preys on Crows. On the other hand, I'm not sure the Arms are mindless. I've read the newspaper articles that refer to them as the Monster version of Focuses, but from watching Tiamat, I believe she can still talk. Zaltu goes shopping and bar hopping, for gosh sakes. I suspect the Arms can even pass as normal women.

What do you know about Monsters and psychotic men? The papers say how dangerous and mindless they are, but I do wonder how correct these reports are, given how incorrect the papers are about everything else.

I've found quite a few puzzling spots of dross scattered around St. Louis, unconnected with any known Transform activities. They are located...

... and so those two spots in the hospital are my fault. I hadn't meant to kill the two men who attacked me. I'm not so sure how sorry I am, though.

Good luck.

Gilgamesh

\---

Gilgamesh

As far as I know, we're as invisible to Monsters and psychotic men in withdrawal as we are to normals. Not something I'd bet my life on, though. I went and looked at the hospital where your two attackers died. It turns out they made normal transformations before they passed away – something in the transformations went wrong. I fear we're as deadly as Focuses and Arms – you did know that Focuses can kill the Transforms they care for if they're not careful? I'm not sure how to take being deadly. It's very disquieting. I'm also not happy that we have the power to do such things as induce transformations. How can we, us always-scared Crows, be at all powerful?

I can't figure those dross spots, either. I've seen Monsters, though...

...and Crow terminology is more messed up than normal language. For instance, if you look at the roots of a many words like 'lukewarm' you learn they mean 'warm warm'. Waste dross, for instance.

As you said, I do have some amazing benefits from my transformation. Illness isn't a problem anymore. Nor is cold. I can run for miles without tiring and I can leap about ten feet in the air if I'm startled. I only need a few hours' sleep, and as you wrote about yourself, I too need to eat more than I used to. But I can eat nearly any meat or plants, save grass and wood chips, and I think my reactions may be faster than they were before. No, I don't have anything like your bald spot that's growing new hair, but I don't need to shave as often as I did as a normal...and I'm losing – rapidly – my facial hair.

I think this is all from the effects of juice. According to what I've read, even men and women Transforms get healthier than they were before. Focuses are much more amazing, almost as if they discovered the fountain of youth. All Focuses are young in appearance, even the ones who transformed in their forties, and if what I've read is correct, they don't age, either. Compared to what's happening to this Tiamat, though, our changes are minor.

Have fun studying at the library.

Midgard

Tonya Biggioni: October 14, 1966

After getting no answer at his hotel room, Tonya tried Hank Zielinski's office at the Detention Center.

"Dr. Zielinski speaking." He had picked up the phone on the fifth ring. Slow for him. He was likely noodling with his photographs again.

"Stalker." Tonya moved papers around on her desk. Where had that note gone? She swore it had been on top of the pile before she dialed.

"I phoned in a report to Rhonda yesterday," Hank said. He paused. "Sorry, I forgot. I phoned in the report two days ago. Do you have some questions about it? I still haven't been able to get the details of why Tommy's so pissed off at Hancock."

Dr. Zielinski would be a treasure if he didn't have a little problem about his own personal agendas, Tonya decided. He was cooperative, friendly and liked Focuses. He didn't have to fake it and he wasn't the least put off by the often un-human peculiarities of Focuses and their households.

Ah, there was the note, right under the Rolodex she had flipped through to find the Detention Center phone number. Tonya smiled.

Delia, on kitchen duty since her improbable transformation, brought in a tea service platter. She sat the platter down and asked wordlessly if Tonya needed anything else. Tonya waved her away.

"We've got a problem, Hank," Tonya said. "Your old sparring partner from the Mary Beth Julius affair is going to be coming by your current job site to take over." Special Agent Patrick McIntyre, to be exact. Nadine, a Network contact as well as a secretary in the FBI secretary pool, had provided the information, as well as a comment that McIntyre had blown a gasket when he realized how many Network people were at work on the Hancock project. A ten-minute temper tantrum, according to Nadine.

Hank groaned. "He's in a real bad mood about what's going on," Tonya continued.

"That's not good," Hank said. "Are you going to be warning our other friends?" Meaning Keaton and Special Agent Bates.

"The official one already knows. The other I'll take care of."

"Thank you," Hank said. It was much safer to speak with Keaton about such a thing from the other end of a telephone. They both understood Keaton's loosely held temper.

"Good luck, Hank," Tonya said, and hung up. He was going to need all the luck he could gather, as was this new Arm. McIntyre and his boys didn't appreciate Transforms. No, not at all.

Carol Hancock: October 15, 1966

On the day the world fell apart, Dr. Zielinski called me down to Dr. Bentwyler's office. The guards followed me in and I sat down in one of the chairs opposite the desk. No Dr. Bentwyler.

"You may leave Mrs. Hancock with me," Dr. Zielinski said to the guards.

"If we're going to leave her alone with you, we're supposed to lock her down," the tall blond guard responded. His name was Ole Strommen, and I didn't know much about him.

"Very well," Dr. Zielinski said. "Probably a good idea."

The guards chained me securely to the chair and left the room. I was tired of the chains, but didn't say a thing.

"Carol, I'd like to talk to you about something," Dr. Zielinski said.

I grunted. Three days after my draw gave me an almost normal temper. The chains only made me irritable, not homicidal.

"We have a problem," Dr. Zielinski said. I didn't pay attention to him and glared at the chains. He hesitated. "Your situation here at the Detention Center is about to get worse."

I didn't respond for about thirty seconds. "Worse?"

"Much worse," Dr. Zielinski said, and licked his lips. "I'm afraid we're about to lose control over how we're treating you. I can guarantee that the next obstacle course session and Special Agent Bates' plan to get your help on the Monster hunt aren't going to happen."

"That's too bad. I was looking forward to the obstacle course session. I can't say I was looking forward to the second, as Bates was trying to blackmail me with it into accepting his employment offer."

"You don't have to worry about the employment offer anymore," Dr. Zielinski said. He tapped a pencil eraser on his desk. "Special Agent Bates has been reassigned. In addition, your trainer, Mr. Borton, has quit."

I sat up straight and paid attention. Something was wrong, bad wrong, wrong enough to scare Dr. Zielinski. "What's the reason for all these changes?"

"I'll get to details in a few moments. As we talked about before your last draw, you know that nobody understands how to handle an Arm transformation. However, there's someone who's more of an expert on the subject of _Arms_ than any of us here."

"Another doctor?" I asked.

Dr. Zielinski ran his hand through his thinning hair. "No. The person who understands the most about the subject of Arms is another Arm."

Of course. The Antichrist herself. "Stacy Keaton," I said in a whisper. I leaned as far back from Dr. Zielinski as my restraints would allow. What was Zielinski trying to do, get me killed? Get all of us killed?

"Stacy Keaton," Dr. Zielinski said. "She's psychotic, murderous, and dangerous. However, she has survived as an Arm for three years, and I know how interested you are in survival. The fact that she is alive and has eluded the best efforts of the FBI to capture her implies a lot about her knowledge of survival. Unfortunately, she won't talk to me about it. She'll talk to you, though."

"You're in contact with Stacy Keaton?" I asked, astonished. I remembered watching him help in the effort to capture her, back at the military base.

"She wishes to speak to you," Dr. Zielinski said, evading my question. "She's going to be here in two hours. She'll be speaking to you alone."

I shook my head in disbelief.

"Why? Why are you doing this? Aren't you going to get in trouble with the FBI?"

Dr. Zielinski looked at me, face blank. "Later today, a different group of FBI agents will be showing up. These Agents are members of the Arm Task Force, the group hunting Stacy Keaton. Special Agent Patrick McIntyre, a man obsessed with hunting Keaton, leads them. I'm not privy to their plans, but they're not here to help in your care. Special Agent Bates' superiors had unrealistic expectations and when Bates didn't pull off a miracle, they reassigned him and brought in the Arm Task Force. McIntyre and I don't get along, and he has a radically different opinion of how Arms should be treated. I can't guarantee I'll be your doctor after McIntyre and his men take over.

"You do need to keep this quiet," Dr. Zielinski said, before I could get a word in. "If Special Agent McIntyre finds out about any meetings with Stacy Keaton, he will shut down the whole research effort and take you into his custody. You would never see the light of day again. Don't talk to anyone else about this except me. This is dangerous for everyone involved."

That explained why Dr. Zielinski chose Bentwyler's office for this conversation. If any place in this building was free of surveillance, Bentwyler's office was. Nothing important ever happened here.

I shook my head again, trying to understand the changes whirling around me. "Why is _she_ doing this?"

"Listen to her, listen to her experience," Dr. Zielinski said, evasive as usual. "She may have an offer for you. Listen to the offer closely. It may mean the difference between life and death."

\---

I sat alone in the stark bare conference room. The plain curtains over the closed and barred windows needed replacement, worn with age. A covered bulb in the ceiling illuminated the room and two guards stood on the other side of the door. I sat in a chair on the far side of the conference table and listened to the heater ping as I tried to understand what I'd gotten into. Outside, I overheard the low murmur of the guards as they talked about Ole's new pickup truck.

What kind of a person was Keaton? She was a killer, they said, but I had no idea if she shot her victims, or seduced them and killed them in their sleep, or did it some entirely different way. The press had reported several horrible massacres they blamed on her, bodies dismembered and other atrocities, but I no longer trusted those press reports.

The door shut. I looked up and found Larry Borton, my former physical trainer, standing with his back against the wall. I started to say something, but Larry shushed me, climbed on the conference room table and pulled the cover off the light. He reached into the socket, pulled something out and dropped a tangle of wires on the table.

I examined the tangle and found a strange bulge at the end of one of the wires. A small microphone. "What..." I started.

Larry kicked the chair out from underneath me, grabbed me and slammed me against the wall, holding me by my throat. With one hand. My feet dangled and my neck stretched painfully.

A nasty smile, nothing like his normal expression, covered Larry's face. "You. Will. Be. Respectful," he whispered, not in his normal voice.

My bowels turned to water. "Yes, sir," I said. Respectfully. I'd been right, back in the beginning, when I decided something ugly lived behind those eyes. "Are you going to be here, sir, when Stacy Keaton shows up?"

He paused. " _I_ am Stacy Keaton," Larry Borton said.

Part 2  
They're All Monsters

"The reason for the quarantine of surviving victims of Transform Sickness is not a fear of the spread of it or an irrational desire to punish the victims of the disease. It is that despite the best efforts of Focuses, some male Transforms still have been known to go into juice withdrawal and some women Transforms still have been known to have juice overdoses – both conditions which are severe public safety risks." [CDC pamphlet, 1958]

Chapter 5

"...and it's limbo, in many ways worse than the Quarantine. I, and everyone else in my household, am illegal. De-facto non-citizens. We're free of the Quarantine, but at the cost of society's opprobrium, at the mercy of any crusading District Attorney who wants to make a name for himself, and powerless against any employer who finds out that one of us is a Transform. On the other hand – the Federal Government is not going to prosecute us for freeing ourselves from the Quarantine because they and their lawyers know that they don't have a case. We were illegally detained for health reasons, backed by no science at all, forced to prove a negative – that we weren't contagious – simply to have freedom. Perhaps in a year or two, when our cases reach the Supreme Court, the Bill of Rights will be finally seen to be worth more than the paper it was written on..." [Focus X, as reported in Newsweek, October 1959]

Carol Hancock: October 15, 1966 – October 17, 1966

I stared at my exercise instructor in utter disbelief. "You can't..."

Larry Borton glared at me, and as he did so, something changed. The illusion of the dangerous but friendly yardstick-wielding trainer fell away, revealing the killer underneath. Cold blue eyes gazed at me with a flat deadness, muscles far stronger than mine, and an inhuman grace as she moved. She was everything I was, except older and far worse. The strength, the temper, the aggression. The killing. She had taken the path to Satan I had been trying so hard to reject.

He shifted posture slightly and my mind started to play tricks. I saw his teeth at my throat, my guts ripped from my body, my head severed from my neck. Before I had time to flinch, my muscles turned to rubber, my heart thudded at twice its normal rate, and my bladder cut loose.

Jesus save me!

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

I was a fool. The Antichrist herself had been training me the entire time. I'd never thought it strange to be able to pick up Larry with my metasense, as a faint glow. He'd – no, _she'd_ buffaloed me but good.

My feet pumped air as I tried to run away. I thought she would be human, but in this small conference room her true animal nature showed through. It showed in the way she moved, the deadly hunger in her eyes. Like a tiger, not a human woman. If she cut my throat, she would enjoy it, a tiger killing an antelope for its dinner.

Human lives meant nothing to her.

"You're a fool," she said, and smiled a hungry smile.

The small, primitive part of my mind that recognized terrible danger screamed in panic. I tried to scrabble out of her grip.

Her flat eyes watched me as I failed to escape, or even wiggle her arm. "You expect me to kill you," she said, speaking in a medium alto instead of Larry's masculine baritone. Her voice shivered along my nerves.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. Squeaked. I'd never squeaked in my life.

She smiled. "Maybe. Probably not today." Keaton released my neck and backed off. I stood with my back flat up against the wall and sucked air, trying to control myself. I didn't want to give her any excuse to kill me.

Keaton watched me for a moment. Then she moved toward me again, with an impossible cat-like grace, until she stood nose to nose with me. Even her strong odor threatened. She no longer smelled like Larry. I recognized her scent from the knife Zielinski had given me. It had been hers.

"You'll die on your own just fine, without any help from me. Just like the other Arms," she said. "Unless you come with me today."

The incompetence of Dr. Zielinski and the other doctors had killed the other Arms.

Faced with the horror of Stacy Keaton, I decided I would still rather gamble on Dr. Zielinski's competence.

Her smile twisted into a sneer of contempt in response, even though I hadn't said a thing. I had the uncomfortable feeling she read my mind. "You're going to die because you're too stupid to live. The real FBI is coming, Hancock. They're not interested in keeping you alive. All they want is a lab rat. You won't last two months."

She brought her hand up and ran her fingers along my cheek. I was too terrified to speak. I was too terrified to move.

"McIntyre's going to test you so he can figure out how to kill me. You'll perform like a nice little lab rat. Zielinski won't save you; he'll just stand back and take notes. When McIntyre's done, the fucking pride-of-the-FBI's going to perform one last experiment. He's always wanted to learn what happens to an Arm when she goes all the way into withdrawal. There won't be a damn thing you can do about it."

Keaton ran her hands down to my shoulders and kneaded the muscles there. It hurt. She dug an index finger into the joint and I hissed in pain. I tried to pull free, but her hands held me in an iron grip and I couldn't move. She took her finger out of the joint and I gasped for breath. Tears slid down my cheeks from the pain she inflicted. To my surprise, she smiled at me.

"We've almost got your muscle problems licked. Only I can exercise you hard enough to keep your muscle growth under control." She continued to knead my shoulders. The ache in my muscles increased to a fierce pain. I gritted my teeth and struggled to breathe.

"Without me, your own muscles will betray you. Soon, without my help, you'll wake up each morning in pain. A few weeks later you'll wake up each day screaming and you'll spend the day in agony. No matter what you do, those muscle problems will keep getting worse. Eventually you'll start to have convulsions. Then, because your bones won't be able to support the strain, they'll break. The convulsions will keep them from healing and you'll grind them to powder. With no bones, you won't be able to work your muscles at all, and there will be no relief from the pain. With no bones, your body will lose its shape, and you'll be nothing more than a simple amoeba, pulsing futilely in the air." She smiled wider. "Don't worry, though. You'll have gone mad from the pain long before."

She let go of my shoulders and the relief from pain went through me like a shock. I staggered to the side, but I didn't move my back from the wall.

"Come with me and _I'll_ save you from all this."

I flickered my eyes at her and knew my future. If I went with her I would become like her, a killer, an outlaw, a figure of nightmare, slaughtering innocents, torturing, killing everyone in my path. Rev. Smalley had been right. She was a supernatural monster, the Antichrist. If I went with her, it would cost me my soul.

I didn't answer her.

"Or you can kill yourself. Hell, if you want me to, I could kill you now," she said. "It's the most pleasant alternative you have. That way McIntyre won't learn a fucking thing about Arms from you." She would do it in a heartbeat and never look back.

No. I would never kill myself.

"Too bad. Then you'll die in hideous withdrawal, if your muscles don't get you first."

She _was_ reading my mind. Damn. Dr. Zielinski had tried to convince me that Arms were not supernatural monsters. He lied. The proof stood in front of me.

"No!" I said. "I'll never join you."

"Too weak," she said, with utter disdain. "Just as I predicted. Zielinski's a fool. You don't even believe me. All you see is some preacher's boogey-monster. Supernatural powers. Idiot."

I lowered my head in shame, but I still refused to surrender my soul.

"At least McIntyre won't learn anything useful from a delusional Arm like you." She paused and shook her head. "You'll learn from them, though. Wait and see what McIntyre and his boys do to you. Eavesdrop on your keepers. Even _your_ ears will be good enough. Find out how long McIntyre is going to play with you before he sends you into withdrawal."

She smiled, a terrible, predatory thing. She backed toward the door, ready to leave. If she wanted me, why didn't she knock me out and take me?

Oh. She didn't want me unless I was willing. She wanted my soul as well as my body.

When Keaton reached the door I could breathe again. I shook, and tears streamed down my face.

"Ma'am," I said, as respectfully as possible. I had a hard time getting the words out. "I can't go with you. Should I try and leave here and go out on my own?"

"Huh." Keaton paused at the doorway, as if that chuff of air was her laugh. "You're too stupid to live on your own. You don't have the first idea about what it takes to survive as an Arm. How would you get kills? You don't have any idea how to hunt Transforms. Even if you did, what would you do? Lie down next to the dead body for six hours while you were too stoned to move? Then wander around looking for someone to fuck? How long do you think you would last doing that? The FBI will hunt you down like a rabid dog. What do you know about avoiding a manhunt? You wouldn't last a week on your own. You can't handle your current problems. If you leave here by yourself, all you do is add a new set of problems. Your only hope is to come with me."

The foulness of her language was a slap in the face. Like my language in the last few days. "I can't do that. Ma'am." Not with the evil Antichrist.

Keaton smiled that evil killer's smile. "Goodbye, Carol. It's been nice knowing you.

"You're dead."

She was gone. I blew my nose and dried my eyes. My soul, I hoped, was still my own.

\---

Mr. Cook took me down to the main conference room to meet the new FBI agents. I'd taken a shower, dressed and prettied myself up as best as possible, a problem as my plain institutional clothes no longer quite fit. I drew a breath and braced myself. I willed myself to control my body, to walk naturally despite nerves, pain, and stiff joints.

Mr. Cook opened the door for me and I went in.

The conference room's large rectangular table seated ten, but the table seemed small in the room. Everyone in the room stood, ignoring the ten wooden chairs, twins to the chair in my room.

Dr. Zielinski stood at the head of the table. Dr. Manigault huddled with Dr. Peterson and Dr. Bentwyler on the near side of the table, as meek as I had ever seen them. They faced, across the table, three men in suits who stood with a kind of coiled energy and hard-edged arrogance. Each of them took up enough space for two men. A short, ratty looking doctor stood next to them, taking up less space than I did.

The controlled arrogance on the FBI agents' faces clouded to anger when I entered the room. The near one spoke.

"What's she doing here?" he said. He was a lean man, no more than medium height, although he gave the impression of being taller. The blue suit looked more like a uniform on him.

"Mrs. Hancock is an interested party. I invited her here," Dr. Zielinski said. He wasn't happy with me. He thought I should have left with Keaton.

" _Mrs. Hancock_ is a rabid animal and has no business being out of a cage," the man said. My jaw dropped. I'd never in my life been so baldly insulted.

"If you have evidence of her involvement in a crime, take it up with a grand jury," Dr. Zielinski said, his voice clipped.

"Excuse me." I said.

No one noticed.

"Failing that, she's a citizen of the United States, a person with a severe medical condition, someone never formally charged with a crime," Zielinski said. He matched the arrogance of the FBI agents with his own, revealing an intense forcefulness I had never witnessed before. "Perhaps you've forgotten that it's the citizens of the United States for whom you work."

The FBI agent stared back with bullet eyes. "She's a killer, regardless of how you define what she does, or where her 'volunteers' come from. She's nothing more than an animal. I have every legal right to do whatever I want to with her."

"The paperwork that brought her here mentioned a Mr. Hoover, if I recall," Dr. Zielinski said.

"So does my paperwork, Dr. Zielinski, and my orders authorize my task force to take over the detention of this Arm. Which, if you care, includes the right to decide which of you so-called doctors have access to her."

"Mrs. Hancock is participating in a very valuable research effort." Dr. Zielinski said. "Putting her in a 'cage', as you so quaintly put it, would disrupt our efforts and..."

"Agent McIntyre?" I said to the FBI agent who sparred with Dr. Zielinski. This agent was the only one here with enough starch in his drawers to deserve Keaton's mention.

"She's a risk to an untold number of lives, _now._ " McIntyre glared at Dr. Zielinski and didn't even acknowledge my existence. I disliked McIntyre immediately, and for more than the insults. I'd never before known someone I could legitimately label 'enemy', but I knew one now. He sparked an anger I didn't know I had in me. I did my best to push it down. I couldn't afford temper, not here. "Treating her as a rational human makes everything worse. She's _dangerous_."

Dr. Bentwyler jumped in and confirmed my surmise. "McIntyre, you don't understand the value of the research we're doing." The other FBI agents frowned when Dr. Bentwyler left off 'Agent' McIntyre's honorific. I'd walked into the middle of a years old argument. Bad, very bad. "This has the potential for a medical breakthrough. You can't just come in here and screw that up."

"I don't give a rat's ass about treatment or breakthroughs, Dick," McIntyre said. Bentwyler frowned. "I'm interested in knowledge. I don't know enough about Arms. You have an Arm. She's going to teach me everything I need to know. End of story." McIntyre slapped his hands together.

"The only danger..."

Dr. Manigault held up his hand, interrupting Dr. Zielinski.

"Dr. Zielinski. You're a guest here at our facility. If you'd like to remain here, you'd better remember that. I have no problem with Agent McIntyre's new plans and procedures. We weren't getting anywhere before." Dr. Manigault gave me a sadistic leer.

I wasn't getting anywhere trying to break into the conversation by being ladylike. Years of holding offices in PTAs and women's groups had taught me how to bring a room to order. I wasn't fool enough to use those techniques here. I was the only woman in the room. Assertive was not the image I wanted to project.

As McIntyre responded to Dr. Bentwyler, I edged over to Dr. Peterson.

"Dr. Peterson?"

He looked over to me and listened, uneasy.

"Do you think I might get a few words in?" I asked.

He grunted and rose to his feet. "Gentlemen!" His voice cut through the other noise. "Mrs. Hancock would like to say a few words."

The men turned and looked at me. I took a breath, and told myself to remember _meek_ and _non-threatening._

"Agent McIntyre," I said to him, eyes properly downcast. "I apologize for any danger I may pose to anyone." I kept my voice low and mild. I wanted them to think of me as a normal human woman, not some rabid murderess. "I didn't choose to become an Arm. This isn't the sort of thing a proper woman wants to become. I'm trying to do the best I can despite my transformation, so I'm helping..."

McIntyre cut me off. "Legally, Arms are classified as Monsters. Like any other woman Transform who's gone Monster, you're subject to summary justice by any agent of the law, at any time." He drew his weapon, a duplicate of the gun Bates carried, and pointed it at me. "Now. Shut up." I got the point, and shut up. McIntyre turned to Mr. Cook. "You. Take her out of here and put her in Detention Cell 1-B. I don't want to see this Monster again until I ask for her. In writing, in triplicate. Got that?" Cook nodded.

1-B was the padded room, my new home away from home. I was quiet and polite on the way to 1-B, but inside I seethed. I ached at the way I had been treated. I lusted for my knife, hidden in the suicide cell. I longed for my personal belongings, especially the family pictures. I attempted not to consider that Keaton might have been right. I'd thought I could handle the new FBI agents. I hadn't had any problems with Special Agent Bates.

Less than four hours after I turned Keaton down, I already suffered second thoughts.

\---

The next day, Dr. Peterson had me brought down to Lab One, where he introduced Dr. Fredericks to me and left. Dr. Fredericks was the FBI doctor, the short fellow with the rattish face. "Today we're going to study how Arms respond to some common chemicals," he said. An orderly I hadn't met before copied notes on a clipboard. Dr. Fredericks' man, presumably.

Dr. Fredericks instructed the orderlies to tie me to the examining table, while he instructed the clipboard orderly to wheel in a footlocker filled with chemical bottles, many of which were marked as poisons. No, he hadn't asked my permission.

"Hey! What..."

"Gag her," Fredericks said, with an offhand wave of his hand. The orderlies did so before I could even flinch. I panicked and thrashed, to no avail. They fitted me with an IV and catheter, and the test commenced. After each test, Dr. Fredericks took blood samples and urine samples. They monitored my heart and breathing as they tested. I was aware enough of Dr. Fredericks to know he really enjoyed his job, got off on it.

The chemicals went into the IV line. Some of them stung, some of them made my heart beat off rhythm, some of them hurt like hell. My body was doing something energetic with most of them; I became feverish and dehydrated in moments. They ended up having to change the IV bag every ten minutes. Other tests made my vision blur, others made me feel full of energy, others made me woozy, and one made me pass out and sent the heart monitor machine screaming. Hours of agony later, they finished, wheeled me into my padded cell, and unceremoniously dropped me on the floor. I'd never been so hungry in my life, but they did not give me extra food.

Chalk one up for Keaton. To Dr. Fredericks, I was nothing more than a lab rat.

\---

The next morning I wouldn't move and I wouldn't let them drag me from my cell. Eventually, they called in Dr. Peterson, who told me to cooperate or there would be no food, no water and no juice. After a mere moment of hesitation, I cooperated. After the previous day's horrors I had little resistance left in me.

The first test was one of Dr. Zielinski's. If anyone could help me, he could. My guards led me down to Lab Room Two, the room with the fancy equipment where the doctors performed the most complicated tests. Dr. Zielinski waited for me in the room, along with Dr. Fredericks. The orderlies strapped me down, in what seemed to be the new standard procedure.

Dr. Zielinski turned from the papers he was looking through and frowned at me. Dr. Zielinski's frown was frightening: cold, distant, and impersonal, without affection, the same as the other doctors' frowns. I thought of the calves on my uncle Herbie's farm. Cute and cuddly, but the children knew better than to love them, because they were slated to die.

"Carol, how are you feeling today?" he said, cold and impersonal.

"No worse than normal," I said. He already knew about the pain, the hunger and the craving.

I felt like one of Uncle Herbie's calves.

"We have something a little different we need to do today. We need a sample of your bone marrow."

"All right," I said. I didn't see anything special about that.

"Excellent. There's going to be some discomfort associated with the process."

"What do you mean, 'discomfort'?" I said, suspicious of his cavalier attitude toward pain.

"Well, we'll try and make the procedure as painless as possible, of course. Unfortunately, we already know that painkillers don't work on you, and..."

Dr. Fredericks coughed. Loudly.

Dr. Zielinski looked over at Dr. Fredericks, his face dark. Dr. Fredericks looked back at him and didn't say a thing. I wondered what was going on and I decided Dr. Zielinski must have violated some new security rule. I guessed I wasn't cleared to know the results of research done on my own body.

Dr. Zielinski looked away from Dr. Fredericks without any of his normal fight.

Keaton had predicted this as well.

"I can't go into the details. You'll just have to trust us to do the best we can," he told me.

"What if I don't want to?" I hurt and I was irritable, and I wasn't interested in their test.

"I can't help you with that problem now."

The orderlies tightened the straps to make sure I didn't move at all when they took the sample. The sample was to come from something called the Iliac Crest.

When I was completely immobilized Dr. Zielinski brought out his bone marrow needle, a large, heavy thing. I was lying on my back, and he began to force the needle in through the skin over my left hip.

That needle hurt. When the needle got down to the bone, it more than just hurt, it was agony. I screamed. I screamed with everything I had and no one cared. Dr. Zielinski kept pushing the needle. "Hold her," he said to the guards, as I tried to buck.

The needle went in, bit by agonizing bit, deep into the bone. I screamed and kept screaming. The orderlies held me down and the needle kept going in.

Finally, forever later, red fluid came up the needle into the vial at the end. I shook and whimpered. Sweat pooled all around me and tears dripped down the side of my face. One tiny vial filled. Dr. Zielinski swapped it out and replaced the vial with another one. Slowly, that one filled also.

With one smooth motion, Dr. Zielinski pulled the needle out. I shrieked again as it came out, but he was done. I shook and shivered with sudden cold, and sobs came out of me in a storm. I cried with heartbroken, exhausted pain.

Dr. Zielinski bent over my miserable form, right next to my ear. "I'm sorry, Carol," he said.

"I need to talk to you in private. Please," I whispered urgently, gulping back my sobs. "I'll explain everything I've learned about Arms." The information from Keaton. "I want what you promised me. Back when we talked about the Arms who died. A way to survive." He had promised me he would find me a way to survive.

"You turned that down just before Special Agent McIntyre arrived," Dr. Zielinski said, in a whisper.

My last hope turned to ashes in my mouth. His promised way to help me survive had been to give me to _Keaton_. The bastard!

Still, I was desperate. "Please?"

Dr. Zielinski's face turned to stone and he turned away without an answer. I had no idea if I would get to talk to him in private. As Keaton had predicted, Dr. Zielinski was now on the outside, standing back and taking notes. Or worse, in collaboration with the enemy.

They wheeled me back to my room. As I was leaving the lab, I heard Dr. Fredericks say, "I still think you should have had monitors on her. There was valuable information regarding pain responses that we could have recorded."

The door shut before Dr. Zielinski answered and I could not hear through the closed door and my own tears. I'd learned a valuable and painful lesson in the past three days: I was surrounded by men who played a game for high stakes and that my wants and desires were only a small thing.

I was but a pawn in their game, at best a minor pawn. Soon the pawn would be sacrificed and the game would go on without me. I didn't like that at all.

Keaton had been right. I'd screwed up. I was dead.

Dr. Henry Zielinski: October 17, 1966

Dr. Zielinski frowned as the guards unhooked Hancock from all but one of the chains and handed the one chain to him. He thought he had arranged for normal security, the standard four guards to accompany him and Hancock in the Detention Center courtyard. Instead, no guards, and they handed Hancock a weapon she could use against him.

He smelled McIntyre's devious mind at work here, born out when he examined the empty enclosed courtyard and found a dozen FBI agents stationed in the shadows behind open second story windows.

His position here grew more untenable with each day. He had hoped Hancock would go with Keaton, but she hadn't. Stubborn, not yet desperate enough. He hoped she didn't harbor him any ill will over the way he lied to her about Keaton.

McIntyre had the FBI set up in a position where if Hancock as much as twitched, they could blow him away without any administrative or legal risks. The setup explained why McIntyre had easily approved his request to talk to Hancock alone. He only had to promise not to reveal any of the information gained from the tests.

Hancock frowned when she noticed the arrangement in the courtyard. Still shackled at the feet, she couldn't run well, but Dr. Zielinski knew the Arm could still escape the courtyard if she desired, with only a small chance of being fatally shot. The FBI underestimated her capabilities if they thought they were safe. Dr. Zielinski didn't. Instead, he hoped her excellent mind would be able to override her more violent Arm urges and she wouldn't make any threat displays and spook the FBI agents. If she did, he was dead. If she was still angry about the bone marrow test this morning, she would kill him herself. This conversation was a gamble, but he wagered Hancock valued survival over revenge.

Once the last of the guards backed off, out of the courtyard, Hancock leaned over to him.

"They don't like you very much, do they?" Hancock asked, mild. She had seen the marksmen. Dr. Zielinski relaxed. The Arm was desperate for allies and not out for revenge.

"Agent McIntyre would like to see me dead today more than he would like to see you dead today." The FBI was listening.

Hancock didn't respond as they ambled in a slow circle around the small courtyard. "I want to apologize for messing up my last talk with Larry," Carol said, her words filled with as many hidden meanings as his. "I've been an idiot. A fool. I'm really worried about my future. I would like to accept Special Agent Bates' job offer. Please?"

"I'm sorry, Carol," Dr. Zielinski said. "You must be hallucinating again. Special Agent Bates never gave you any job offers. He was only here to consult on security."

For a moment, Dr. Zielinski saw the true killer behind the Arm's eyes, the eyes of someone who had come to grips with the knowledge she had to kill to live. She bit back her snarl as she worked out the double meanings and warnings.

"I need help, Dr. Zielinski," she said. "I know you don't think much of me anymore, but these FBI tests are going to drive me insane. Is there any way we can get them stopped, or at least slow them down?"

"The FBI's test schedule runs about six weeks. After they finish, you'll be left in peace." As in 'rest in peace'.

She caught the hidden meaning immediately and looked away from him. She was focused on survival. Like Rose Desmond, the only other Arm he worked with who had lasted this long, Carol had started the process of simplifying her emotions. Soon, all her old emotions would be overwhelmed by the 'Arm basics': a bloodthirsty focus on survival, winning confrontations and juice. Dr. Zielinski suspected it was a progressive transformation effect. When he first met Keaton, she had still been in that state, but he and Tonya had been able to quickly re-socialize her. How long the dominance of the Arm basics would last in Carol was an open question.

"What do they want of me in the long term?" Hancock asked, a few moments later.

As she already knew the FBI's plans for her, her question referred to a different topic. Such as 'Why are you still here, Dr. Zielinski?' "I'm guessing their superiors want you to eventually work for them. At some point, they're going to be willing to help you, but not yet." He hated to string her along, but he was short on ideas. Biggioni and her Focus cronies – his superiors, if you looked at the situation from the right direction – wanted another Arm on the team, but he had a nagging suspicion they weren't willing to pay the price for Hancock.

"That's good news. I take it you're willing to be my agent and represent me?"

"Unfortunately, I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to be able to stay here," Dr. Zielinski said. "You'll have to use some of those contact methods we talked about earlier. In fact, you should give some thought to the idea that your situation may be similar to those people we talked about earlier, who were similarly unemployed." Meaning the first Focuses during the Quarantine. Any messages she sent would end up in Tonya's hands and Dr. Zielinski hoped Tonya would be able to come up with a way to save Hancock's life.

Hancock nodded. "Gotcha. Larry was convinced, though, that I wouldn't be able to keep my Arm muscle problems under control without his help. Will they be able to give me any help?"

The Arm meant her juice supply problems. "You're going to have to teach yourself how to deal with that problem. Larry's so annoyed at you that he's not likely to ever want to speak to you again." Once you made Keaton's shit list, you never wanted to deal with her again. Unless you wanted to die. He was sure Tonya or some other Council Focus could come up with Transforms for Hancock. What he doubted was whether they would want to.

Hancock frowned. "Are there any others of his specialty available? He was sure I'd die before I mastered the muscle control techniques." So hunting down Transforms for their juice wasn't as easy as he supposed, eh? Dr. Zielinski rubbed his chin and didn't answer for a few steps. He had thought the Arm instinct package would provide, but apparently Keaton didn't agree. That was bad news...and also put a new light on some of Keaton's comments and behaviors. She had been covering up the fact that hunting down Transforms was difficult.

"We've talked about this before, Carol. Larry's skills are quite unique." No, Dr. Zielinski didn't associate with any other Arms. He didn't have any good answers for any of Hancock's needs.

"I guess I'll just have to cope on my own."

To his surprise, she didn't try to kill him or escape right then and there.

\---

"Dr. Zielinski, have a seat," Agent McIntyre said. The FBI Agent had claimed Dr. Bentwyler's office. "I didn't like your conversation with Hancock. What the fuck did you think you were doing, anyway?"

"With regard to what?" Dr. Zielinski asked. McIntyre still thought Dr. Zielinski had helped Keaton evade him back in Keaton's early years, after she escaped from FBI detention. It didn't help that he was right. McIntyre just hadn't been able to prove it.

McIntyre slammed a stack of typewritten papers down in front of Dr. Zielinski. He looked them over, and to no big shock, they were a transcript of his conversation with Hancock. "On the third page, you said we were going to offer her a job when this was over. You had no right to say any such thing."

"Then what are you going to do with her?" Dr. Zielinski asked.

"That's not for me to decide, that's for my superiors to decide. Whatever they decide, I can guarantee we won't be offering a Monster any form of employment." McIntyre grabbed the transcript back. "You agreed to be her agent."

"I most certainly did not."

"Bullshit. She asked you, and you didn't say 'no'," McIntyre said. "You and that Focus-loving bastard Bates are trying to grab Hancock for the bitch underground you help, aren't you?"

McIntyre meant the Focus Network. "I don't know what you're talking about," Dr. Zielinski said. He had disliked McIntyre since the instant they met. Anti-Transform bigots always got under Dr. Zielinski's skin, and McIntyre was one of the worst because he knew enough to know better, and chose not to.

"You pussy-whipped Focus-lovers never do," McIntyre said. He smiled and cracked his knuckles. "You're fired, Zielinski. Pack your stuff up right now and leave."

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds I don't trust you," McIntyre said. "Tell you what. You resign today of your own accord and I won't release this transcript of your conversation with Hancock." McIntyre slid a second transcript across the desk, holding on tight. Dr. Zielinski read a few paragraphs, not surprised to read that in the altered transcript he had revealed the test results to Hancock.

The dismissal was, unfortunately, inevitable. If he resigned, it would save both of them the ensuing political fights.

"I understand," Dr. Zielinski said. "Since I do have pressing business back in Boston, I believe I will have to resign, as you've indicated."

He pitied Hancock. Without his input, minimal as it had been in the last several days, conditions here were about to get much worse.

\---

Dr. Zielinski put down the telephone in his Detention Center office and kept his face stony blank. That was his final status report call on this project.

Had he covered his tracks as well as he covered his emotions?

Everyone involved was unhappy, as the Detention Center staff blamed him for McIntyre's appearance. Dr. Manigault had called an all-hands meeting to go over the situation. All hands except Hank.

Dr. Zielinski called his local travel agent and requested his return ticket to Boston. He didn't look forward to the journey home. He had lost another Arm, suffered another failure, and taken yet one more step backwards in his academic career.

He walked down the hall, down two flights of stairs, and found the meeting room Dr. Manigault had mentioned. He took a seat outside the door and waited for the meeting inside to finish. While he waited, Dr. Zielinski wrote slanted reports in his head.

Three hours later, Dr. Manigault stalked out of the meeting, angry. On the way by, he dropped a piece of paper in Dr. Zielinski's lap, an exit interview waiver. McIntyre and the FBI agents still argued among themselves in the meeting room, unusual disunity. Patrelle, McIntyre's boss, must have been up to his old heavy-handed tricks again. Dr. Zielinski wiped his face with a handkerchief as he stood to leave.

So far, no one suspected Keaton had been here only a few days ago.

Carol Hancock: October 18, 1966 – October 21, 1966

I learned about Dr. Zielinski's resignation first thing in the morning, from Dr. Fredericks. As he and the FBI techs ran through the day's tests, at first I silently cursed Dr. Zielinski for failing me. After more time passed, I began to realize how much I had lost. He had protected me and helped me, and I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that my insistence on our last conversation led to his resignation, his _forced_ resignation.

They tested my reaction time, hand to eye coordination, and resistance to electrical shock today. The last was extremely painful, left me with burns all over my body, nothing more than torture. I wanted to scream 'I'm a human being. You can't do this to me!', but they wouldn't have cared. Dr. Fredericks would have probably enjoyed it.

When the day's tests ended, around ten in the evening, the guards escorted me to my padded cell. Again, no time to exercise today. I curled up on the floor in agony, and as best as possible, thought.

I didn't have anything else to do in my padded cell. I no longer had my television. Before McIntyre and the new FBI team came, I watched Johnny every night. The laughter from the television had been a sound from some other world in the ghostly darkness of my room, but it had been at least something. Now, nothing remained for me to do except read the books and magazines I had already read, and attend to a stack of old coffee-ringed newspapers and a pencil for finishing the half-finished crossword puzzles. I wasn't sure they knew about the pencil.

I hurt, I was hungry, and I felt betrayed by the world. Alone. Dr. Fredericks reveled in my helplessness and refused to explain anything. The FBI techs didn't speak to me at all. They didn't consider me human.

I was lonely and friendless. I was helpless, tied up whenever I was an inconvenience. I had no control even over myself.

I hated that lack of control.

The images in my mind of my family dimmed, to where my sharpest memories of them were the pictures my mother had brought me. Those pictures I recalled with Arm-clarity of memory, unlike the memories from before my transformation, which had faded. I wanted my family back. I wanted Sarah alive again. I didn't want to be a Transform!

After an hour of pointless self-pity, I realized the only person responsible for my situation was _me_. I could have taken up Agent Bates on his offer, rolled those dice and taken the gamble. I could have gone with Stacy Keaton and entered her mad world of violence and domination. I chose neither. Hell, I might have even accepted Dr. Manigault's offer.

I didn't know what to do about my current situation.

I owed it to Sarah, though, to do _something_.

I didn't fall asleep until around two. I woke up at five, fully refreshed. Three hours, as always, was enough.

The next day, more tests. My juice was a day lower and the tests got on my nerves. The slightest hint of temper, though, would leave me restrained, so I began to cultivate stoicism. I hated the restraints.

First, they tested my reactions to various light levels. They knew already I saw in the dark, and those tests were fine. They tried lights of different colors and brightness, which went fine except with my low juice, all the light was too bright.

The rest of the day, they hooked me up to a machine I didn't recognize. They shaved patches on my head, the bastards, and attached dozens of electrodes to my scalp. The tests started, testing my reactions to many things, including a gunshot from behind me when I didn't expect it.

At night, I curled up on the floor and thought again, anything to keep my mind off my unending muscle pain. FBI techs had talked about being here for Thanksgiving but home for Christmas, positive they would be 'finished here' by then. Keaton was right. The FBI planned to pull the plug on me sometime early in December. I wracked my mind in an attempt to explain that date, and remembered a conversation Dr. Zielinski and Dr. Fredericks had when they tested my resistance to poisons. Dr. Zielinski had said 'the muscle growth curve will lead to problems in mid December', and Dr. Fredericks answered with a cheery 'nothing we need to worry about'. Also, Dr. Zielinski had said the FBI would 'leave me in peace' in about six weeks.

From this, I concluded my muscle problems were intractable without Keaton to drive me into exhaustion, and my own muscles would immobilize me a week or two before Christmas. Then the FBI would pull the plug on me. The idea that I lived under a death sentence chilled me.

I still didn't know what to do.

I did get up and start some stretches and exercises, though.

The third day after Dr. Zielinski's departure I didn't go hungry. Dr. Fredericks wasn't being kind. No, today they tested food poisons. They restrained me, catheterized me and fed me, with a needle up my right arm for near constant blood draws. The show was good enough to attract McIntyre's personal attention. Some of what they fed me I vomited up almost immediately. Other things they fed me gave me intense bloody diarrhea within a half hour, or filled my urine sack with awful red, black and orange fluids. One vile thing – botulism toxin, if what they muttered to each other was correct – made blood seep from my body right through my skin. Just like a male Transform in withdrawal, not a pretty sight.

I kept myself awake by force of will. McIntyre and the FBI techs whispered to each other most of the day, softly enough they thought I couldn't hear them. Hah. I learned a lot from them, none of it good.

After a huge dinner, they led me to the weight room for more tests. I reveled as much in the exercise as in their discomfort with my near instant recovery from their poisoning.

Back in my padded room, I went back to my calisthenics. From what I overheard, I now knew how I would die. It turned out Arms didn't have exactly the same withdrawal symptoms as male Transforms. An Arm did go through a wild and violent psychotic phase, but after some unspecified amount of time the Arm curled into a ball and went catatonic. I remembered Dr. Zielinski telling me about Julie Bethune, who died of her wounds while in withdrawal. I guessed they wanted to see what happened to an Arm in withdrawal who wasn't wounded.

I was close to being useless from lack of juice, either tomorrow or the next day. I was terrified of the yawning blackness of need. My craving for juice crept up on me, a dark shadow of an unknown beast stalking me and overwhelmed me with despair. I tried to pray but I doubted God heard me.

I hated myself for the choices I had made, choices turning me into the title character of my own Greek tragedy.

Blood, death and fear filled my dreams these past nights. And juice. Always juice. The terrible craving never stopped. My dreams echoed the terrible highs and terrible lows that wore me out and wore me down. Lack of human contact had dried out my voice and my humanity.

I became powdered hate, my tears acid rage.

I came to understand Keaton's kill or be killed viewpoint toward our fellow humans, or at least one of them. I had never met anyone before like Agent McIntyre, only heard of his kind of people in stories. To him, I wasn't a human being, I was a puzzle to be solved to give him the knowledge he needed to go hunt down that great white whale of his named Stacy Keaton. Doctors Manigault and Fredericks were sadistic, but they needed human targets for their sadism. For them, at least I was human.

A little after midnight, tired of my calisthenics, I sat down on the floor of my cell, closed my eyes, and began to think. Mom had told me a million times if I didn't like a situation, I needed to change it. Good advice, which I had passed on to my children. Well then, I needed to change my situation. Take risks, because all the options I thought of involved risks.

The question was which risks to take.

I assumed, first off, that everything Dr. Zielinski had told me was meaningful. As a hidden ally of Stacy Keaton, he had to have something going for him. She would have killed him otherwise. Based on his comments, I knew I might last six months or more if I had juice and proper exercise, even if I didn't learn whatever secrets Keaton knew to keep herself alive indefinitely. Based on Dr. Zielinski's comments, I could pass notes to this underground thing the Focuses ran, and these notes would be delivered to other conspirators, such as Dr. Zielinski, Agent Bates and if my assumptions were correct, Stacy Keaton herself. I doubted he would have bothered to speak about the Quarantine otherwise. Also based on what he said, I should be able to get help from the staff members at this Detention Center, because the low-end staff members here were naturally sympathetic toward Transforms. If I behaved myself.

I came up with several possibilities. First, I needed to get a message out. For that, I needed an ally. It would have been better if I had allies among the staff already, but I hadn't been that smart. Instead, I needed to depend on a little history. I needed someone on the staff who had been here back during the Quarantine, which I hoped meant he or she would be inclined to help a Transform in trouble, and also still had connections to the Focuses. I ran down my mental list of the people on the staff I had remotely friendly dealings with, and found one, and only one, who had been here since the fifties. Doris Trotter, the kitchen lady.

If she was actually willing to help me, I would be a hell of a lot luckier than I deserved.

I wrote two letters, one to Dr. Zielinski and another to Agent Bates, and in both I asked them to help me get out of this place. They would go under my plate at breakfast. If the FBI found out, I would end up back in the suicide cell, which lead down another avenue of minor hope. I would have Dr. Zielinski's knife back.

I also made the overdue decision to start befriending the staff in my own right. Based on my observations, save for the doctors, they weren't all bad. At least compared to the FBI people. If none of my letters helped, I suspected that with the help of the Detention Center staff, I still would be able to find a way to escape. I didn't have any idea where to start, so I considered that option far riskier than the letters.

I still didn't know how to get juice on my own, but I was more afraid of the possibility the FBI would drive me into withdrawal in this hideous place. Besides, if I was going to die, I didn't want to give McIntyre and his sadistic crew the pleasure of being the ones to do the job.

I also decided to keep up with my hygiene. I was a woman, dammit. I wanted to look like a woman again. Act like a woman again. I had to get over my annoyance at the damned muscles that made me look so mannish. If those female Olympic athletes found a way to work around their muscles, I could as well. I vowed to take a shower every day, especially after any exercises. Brush my teeth. Wear deodorant. Wear proper makeup and clothes; if I couldn't befriend one of the women here and get her to provide me with real clothing, I deserved what I got from the FBI.

I dealt with one more decision, and that one bothered me more than the others did. Keaton. She was a killer, a monster. I might write her a letter and put myself in her hands, if she would take me, but doing so would cost me my soul. Assuming my soul hadn't already been damned. No church would ever welcome me, because of what I had already done. Yet, placing myself in Keaton the atheist Antichrist's hands would go far beyond my previous actions.

I didn't remember anything in "Thou shalt not kill" along the lines of "unless you're an Arm about to go into juice withdrawal". Or "unless the person you're about to kill has volunteered to die for you". To survive, I would have to kill unattached Transforms. Sure, I would save them from a worse fate, but that was nothing more than a fancy argument. God knew better. I thought I had been a good Christian. No. I _knew_ I had been a good Christian.

Not anymore, not since I became an Arm. Not from the moment I transformed.

Those church doors closed for me just because of what I was. Those church bells rang now for someone else. I was on the other side. The only question I had yet to resolve was _how far on the other side_. If I gave myself to Keaton, I would be giving myself to someone so far on the other side of God as to have joined the pantheon of names like Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun, Hitler, Eichmann, Stalin and the rest of those termed Antichrists in the books I'd read and the sermons I had listened to.

Surely, Keaton would not require me...

No. I couldn't predict Keaton. That was obvious. If I placed myself in her hands, all I could do was hope.

Therefore, in the end, I gathered my courage, calmed my nervous hands, and wrote a third letter, to Keaton. I asked her for her help. I put myself in her position and decided that since I rejected her help once, she wouldn't likely want to help me. It didn't feel right to me, as an Arm. I had to offer something.

I thought for a long time, and looked at the problem from all sides.

I really had only one thing to offer. Myself. My meager skills at business, organization of volunteer groups and entertaining all went into the letter. Weak, but those were my strengths. I didn't mention I could clean house, cook or care for young children. I couldn't imagine Keaton would have any use for those skills.

I looked the letter over and almost crumpled it up. My gut said my offer wasn't enough. I chewed my lips for several minutes and added, at the end, that I would do whatever she wanted.

I gave up my soul in that letter. I had considered my soul worth preserving, once. Now, to hell with my soul. I wanted life. I wanted the disease's taking of my daughter Sarah's life to be something more than a pointless tragedy.

Now I had to hope.

That hope was all I had left.

Chapter 6

"There is no known cure for the chronic phase of Transform Sickness – once caught, the effects last for the lifetime of the Transform. Although the need for continual maintenance of juice levels is a significant burden for a Transform, they have been noted to possess improved health and physical stamina. The amount of juice within a Transform influences his mood and activity level. For this reason, Transforms should not be considered suitable for high stress jobs, or any other job in which the employer is uncomfortable with an employee of varying moods and activity levels." [Department of Labor circular, 1960]

Dr. Henry Zielinski: October 18, 1966

Focus Iris Casso's St. Louis household had recently moved, for reasons she couldn't even put into words. Iris was tall and thin, with wavy black hair done up in an old fashioned style that reminded Dr. Zielinski of what his older sister looked like back in the forties. Not the brightest person he had ever run into, but she tried hard. The Focuses he normally worked with lived in New England, but the Network always liked him to meet new Focuses and make sure they were coping with new situations, such as an Arm in a nearby Detention Center.

He knocked on the door to the household's new home, some sort of run-down converted apartment, one of the large pre-Depression city houses with brick-embossed shingles on the exterior walls. One of the ladies in the house answered the door, furtively, and he introduced himself. She invited him in and led him back to Iris. He took off his hat, and followed.

Like every Focus household he had ever visited, the place was packed with people and smelled off. Close, with some extra odor unique to Focus households. It wasn't the too-many-people odor of a crowded room with no ventilation. Many Network people had remarked on the odor over the years, but none of them had been able to figure out where it came from.

People in Focus households didn't notice the odor, ever. They took to crowding better than most as well. They had to, if they expected to live.

The Transform led him to one of the bathrooms, where Iris was giving a bath to three squirming toddlers. She looked up at him and smiled, up to her elbows in suds. "Dr. Zielinski! Come in," Iris said. She frowned. "Have you got the Arm out of St. Louis yet?"

Dr. Zielinski shook his head, looked around, and found a place to sit on the commode lid. One of the toddlers splashed water at him and grinned. He grinned in return and turned back to Iris.

"No. She's still in the Detention Center, but a different crew of FBI agents arrived and got me fired."

Iris frowned. "Then who from the Network is in charge of her?"

He had hoped to learn more from Hancock than he had with Elsie Conger, the last Arm he dealt with. Instead, he left with more questions than he had to start with. Hancock's mental problems headed the list. Her fast development progression into aggression and muscle hypertrophy was second. Even her incredible post-draw lusts needed explanation.

He had so many questions, about Transform Sickness in general and Arms in specific. The Network had some ideas, but no proof. Their only contacts with Arms, worldwide, were with Keaton (homicidal, insane, and too often for his liking _his_ contact) and with Erica Eissler in West Germany. The only other Arm Dr. Zielinski knew about, in Canada, refused to cooperate with doctors, researchers and the American Focuses.

No one could say whether Eissler was sane, but in any case, she was more communicative about her life as a Transform than the other Arms. She refused to talk about her personal life at all, though, and none of the researchers could figure out how she managed. Tommy had based his FBI job offer to Hancock on Eissler's job, as she did the GDR's mercy killings of extra Transforms, at government request. Such a job wasn't possible in the United States, because of bad publicity, which was why the public part of his offer involved hunting down Monsters. All a lost chance now.

"Nobody, Focus Casso," he said. He waited while the Focus slowly worked out the implications of his comment.

"I'm having bad dreams, doctor," she said a minute later, turning away from him. A toddler slipped in the tub, and Focus Casso caught her before she banged her head. The little girl whimpered experimentally a couple of times before she decided tears weren't worth the effort and went back to her play.

This wasn't the first time he had heard a Focus complain of her dreams. It always gave him chills. He thought of Hancock and her stubborn conviction that Transform Sickness was supernatural. "What kind of dreams?"

"I dream of a killer on the loose. A Monster who kills Transforms. I see a big knife with a serrated edge and a huge dog running through the woods. Rape, murder. Monsters with huge teeth, and slaughtered normals."

Iris turned back to him, intent. "You have some kind of mindless Monster living in the Detention Center, Doctor. This Monster is endangering to my people. You've got to help us."

"Focus, Arms aren't mindless. An Arm can speak, and think, and has a fully human intellect." He had told her this before, but she had forgotten. Focus Casso forgot many things. The media reported that Arms were Monsters, and so people thought of them as mindless beasts. Monsters might be cunning, but they weren't human, and they couldn't talk. No matter how many times he explained that an Arm transformation made an Arm more intelligent rather than less, his comments never seemed to take. "There are certainly no huge dogs in the Detention Center. You must be dreaming about something else." He remembered Keaton's knife, that big knife with the serrated edge, and wondered what else Focus Casso had seen.

Iris ignored him, plucked a little boy from the tub and wrapped him in a towel. She turned back to him, a Madonna with a little child in her arms, charming as only a Focus could be. "We might just kill them, you know. Like wolves. _Or you might take care of the Arms for us._ " Oh, oh, I'm so helpless, I need your protection, please save me! The reaction Iris wanted was akin to falling in love, without any aspect of lust involved. If a person fell for a Focus's charm, he would do almost anything for her. A Focus took several years to fully develop her charisma, thanks heavens, according to his extensive personal experience. The better Focuses learned to control their charisma, which made their charm harder to resist, but most Focuses, like Iris, used their charisma automatically. He had a lot of practice resisting Focus charisma, though, from Focuses much more experienced than Iris.

Iris wasn't the only Focus who wanted the Arms dead. It was a common sentiment among many of the Focuses he had dealt with. There were far too many misunderstandings about Arms. The official medical literature still claimed Armenigar's Syndrome was the result of a failed Focus transformation, a story he was 'requested' to parrot to any new Arms he met.

"We're not sure killing them would be right," Dr. Zielinski said to Iris. "We still don't understand what the proper function for an Arm is in Transform society. We might need them, remember."

Iris snorted. "That's what everyone keeps saying, but I don't believe it. I mean, all these extra Transforms are dying in agony because there aren't enough Focuses, and Arms may be the proper solution to the surplus Transform problem. But how can an Arm determine which Transforms are safe under the care of a Focus, and which aren't? I mean, I know which ones are mine, but I can't tell if the Transform isn't mine. Can these failed Focuses tell?"

"We don't know," Dr. Zielinski said. That, alas, was another of those nasty unanswered questions.

Rover (Interlude)

They were back. The moon had gone through half of her phases since these hunters last found him, but they had found him again.

"I'm Rover," Rover said to himself. He had to talk to himself. If he didn't, he started to forget how to talk. He hadn't made any big mistakes like the one that put the teeny Monster-like hunter and her followers on his trail to begin with, but he found there were some things he couldn't resist. The worst was cars. Every day or so, in the early morning or early evening, he found he couldn't resist chasing cars. He also found he enjoyed terrifying those in the cars with his loud barks. He could taste their fear, and liked it. He had gotten good at picking out good places to chase down cars, and gotten very good at picking out cars with groceries in their trunks. He had been shot at many times now, hit many times, and while painful, he learned that after a few days, he healed so completely he couldn't even tell he had been shot. He was a magic dog! He also learned that if he barked a lot and avoided the people in the car while he went after groceries in the trunk, he almost never got shot at.

That's how these hunters had found him, he decided. The car chases. He was a stupid magic dog.

"I'm Rover. I hunt cars."

Soon, he needed to find more of that good loving. He smelled Monsters down in the valleys, hidden among the humans, minding their own business. He had already taken one, a Monster in the form of a donkey save for the ripping and slashing teeth. There were more, for when he needed them.

If he stayed here long enough, he might even find out why the last Monster he had taken the good loving from hadn't died. It had slunk off, afterwards, and hid down in a river bottom. They always died before.

He might have to move, though. The hunters.

He climbed to the top of the mountain, in the nastiest and rockiest part, and waited. Come at me here, Rover thought. Unexplainably, this time he wanted to fight. The stupid part of him was talking again, and he listened.

Five of them came up toward him, about noon, a group of two and a group of three. Not the Monster-like woman. She stayed a half mile away, down in a valley. A cold rain fell, glistening on the rocks, and Rover growled. He would show them. "I'm Rover," he barked out. "I hunt you!"

They froze in place. He slunk toward the group of two, and they raised their weapons at him.

"No," a woman in the group of three said. "Don't shoot him. He said something!"

They understood him! Even though he was a stupid magic dog. "Go 'way. Leave Rover 'lone," Rover said. He didn't like the looks of the guns these hunters carried. The holes in the center of the barrels were twice as wide as the rifles the rural folk around here used. His stupid side fled when he saw the hunters' guns.

"Your name is Rover?" the woman asked, fearless. The others were terrified, as they should be, but this one was utterly nuts.

"Sadie, you're going to get yourself killed," the woman standing beside her said.

From the valley floor, the Monster-like woman took off in a run toward the five hunters who confronted him. Fast. Her good loving was terrifying and beautiful, hypnotic and cold. Huge and powerful.

"We can help you," Sadie said. She put down her gun and walked toward him.

He would take her good loving, paltry as it was, and kill her if she got too close. Then they would shoot him. Or the Monster-like woman would kill him.

"I no want to hurt you," Rover said. He fled as fast as his four feet could carry him, across the rocks and low mountain peaks. He didn't stop until the next day.

The next day, he cried. Cried, and was surprised he remembered how.

Gilgamesh: October 19, 1966

Gilgamesh walked down the busy St. Louis streets, enjoying the cool and crisp afternoon. Above him, the sky was blue with not a cloud in it. Soon it would be dark. The streets were comparatively quiet now, but in a few minutes, the rush hour traffic would start to build. The heavy rumbling of a bus shivered the pavement under his feet. No one noticed the plain man in the worn clothes, walking along the sidewalk as if he had a purpose.

The sounds of the sixties were around him, society transforming on its own without the help of Transform Sickness. Being a Crow made Transform Sickness seem all-important, but on the greater stage of life, it was well below the radar. People worried about the escalation in Vietnam, about the Cold War, about Dr. Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement while they listened to the Beatles. Hell, they worried more about the length of their son's hair or daughter's skirt than they worried about Transform Sickness. Gilgamesh sniffed the air and smiled as he watched warily around him. Mostly he preferred the night, but a day like this almost convinced him otherwise. Despite the smell of exhaust and people, bustling city and big river, he smelled the hint of freshness. The weather was cold and windy, but his thin coat was enough, and he felt healthy and alive. As Midgard had noted, he had changed considerably after his transformation. He used to have a potbelly. He used to be sedentary.

Not anymore.

Behind him, a light turned, and the lead car in the left lane didn't move. The man in the next car sounded his horn. Gilgamesh leapt into the air, turning as he came down, and froze, his system roiling and ready to vomit up the bad dross.

A horn, damn it. Just a horn.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he forced the dross back down by raw will. Beside him, a woman with two children by her side looked at him suspiciously.

Damn. He had attracted attention. That was dangerous. He had to pull himself together.

Midgard said Crows could earn money doing day labor, and although it had taken Gilgamesh several attempts, he had managed to earn a few dollars pushing brooms and mopping floors. Now, if he found a way to quell his panic, he would be able to buy himself a Coleman stove. He could live on garbage, but he _liked_ warm food.

He forced his muscles to relax. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said with a smile, as he barely quelled his panic and backed away. The woman turned away and dismissed him from her mind.

Gilgamesh caught a flash with his metasense, and he high-tailed it into an alley. For a moment, he wondered if Zaltu had returned from wherever she had gone. After a moment, he realized what he sensed was another Crow. Not like any Crow he had ever metasensed before. First, he had appeared out of nowhere a mile away from Gilgamesh. Second, he glowed nearly as brightly as Tiamat did.

Third, he vanished from Gilgamesh's metasense as quickly as he appeared. In the instant he had been visible, he had waved and pointed to Gilgamesh with obvious meaning. 'Come here'.

There was no mistaking the strange Crow's location: smack dab in the middle of Forest Park. Gilgamesh's first instinct was to run.

Phooey. If he ran from everything new, he would never learn anything. Gilgamesh began the walk to Forest Park.

\---

Midgard joined Gilgamesh as he walked. They walked silently, and Gilgamesh found his thoughts drifting back to Tiamat, as they had ever since that new crew of tormenters had arrived at the Detention Center. What they were doing to her was little more than torture. Horrible, horrible things. He feared for Tiamat's life.

Gilgamesh and Midgard didn't arrive in the deserted park until just after dark. No children claiming a last few minutes on the slide, no strolling lovers enjoying the evening, no exercise enthusiasts running for their health. It was as if this Crow had driven the normals away. Gilgamesh hadn't imagined any Crows possessed such power, and guessed the visiting Crow was what Midgard termed a 'senior Crow'. When Gilgamesh got about a quarter mile from this Crow, he metasensed the Crow again and found him stuffed with dross, an immense amount. The dross roiled around the visiting Crow, ever changing, as if it was under his control, doing something.

Gilgamesh wound his way past the yellow duck on the giant spring. Midgard stepped away from him, and lingered in the shadow of the slide. "I'm Echo," the Crow said from the picnic tables, a thousand feet away, with what Gilgamesh thought of as a loud whisper. The term 'loud whisper', borrowed from Midgard, brought a smile to Gilgamesh's face as he thought it, remembering Midgard's comment about Crow terminology. "Who might you two be?"

"Midgard." Midgard spoke in his own loud whisper, and stopped coming closer.

"Gilgamesh," Gilgamesh said, his voice eerily similar to Midgard's. He kept walking, through the baseball fields and the belt of trees, and stopped about two hundred feet from Echo. Echo was on the short side, a young man like any other, but well dressed. He had light brown hair he wore long, in the style of the modern youth.

So close, Gilgamesh recognized some of the dross on Echo as taken from the Detention Center.

Echo must have cleaned the place out to get so much.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," Echo whispered. His expression was smug and his tone was patronizing. "The St. Louis Detention Center is reserved for the followers of the Crow Guru Chevalier, and for no others. If you take dross here, you'll be interfering in the business of other Crows."

Damn. A cold fear crept through Gilgamesh, and his thoughts turned black. He had discovered Tiamat. That was his dross!

"Isn't there enough for all of us?" Gilgamesh asked.

"That's not your business, but the answer is 'no'," Echo said. "I have uses for dross in that quantity, for as long as it lasts. Arms always die, and the usable dross will run out." He smirked. "Your infinite dross supply was due to dry up in a few weeks anyway, so don't get so offended that I'm pulling rank."

Gilgamesh tried to think of something to say. This was horrible. Arm dross was so much better than any other he had found, and no interloper had the right to steal it from him. Worse, he had come to feel some affection for the terrifying Arm, and he didn't want her to die.

He couldn't think of anything to say, though.

"Interesting," Echo said, after a long pause. "I'd assumed the two of you baby Crows would run after I named the source of the dross. You know about this monster of an Arm?"

"Her name is Carol Hancock," Gilgamesh said. Midgard backed away, and made a throat cutting motion at Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh wasn't ready to give up so easily. He had never liked being bullied, and that huge sea of dross was too much of a treasure to abandon without a fight. "She's not a Monster. The other Arm, Stacy Keaton, has been through here as well, I believe to help the new Arm cope with her transformation. Neither of them can sense Crows. Both can pass as normal women."

Echo flinched when he heard Zaltu's name.

"I expect her back any day now," Gilgamesh said. Echo flinched again, then crossed his arms across his chest and stared at Gilgamesh.

"Good try, kid. Ain't gonna work."

Crap.

"Don't convince yourself the Arm is human. She's a Monster," Echo said. "They're all Monsters, all the other Major Transforms. Horrible disgusting Monsters. Even Focuses."

"But it's Beast Men who we need to fear," Midgard said. His voice was faint with distance, but he stopped edging back. "They're the predators who prey on unwary Crows. Not Arms."

"You think that just because Arms can't metasense you that proves they're friendly?" Echo said and laughed an ugly laugh, loud enough to cause Gilgamesh and Midgard to take several steps back. "Fool. We Crows are the universal prey. Everyone preys on us if they get a chance. Even the goddamned normals. All we're made to do is run in fear. Run run run." He paused, and his dross presence turned _nasty_. Echo seemed bigger and dangerous, full of unpleasant surprises for any obstinate Crow. "Don't worry. I'll make sure the Monster dies, like all those other ones. She's too dangerous to live. I'll keep watch. If she tries to escape, I'll make sure the authorities know. I'll help the police track her down if I have to."

Midgard ran.

"That's horrible," Gilgamesh said, edging uneasily away. He had liked the previous Crows he had run into, but this one pissed him off. Crows had enough trouble in life without other Crows purposefully making their lives miserable.

"Tough. You annoy me, Gilgamesh," Echo said, still _nasty_. "I hereby ban you from St. Louis due to your interference in the affairs of senior Crows. Get out of here."

Gilgamesh still did not flee, though his feet were definitely thinking about it. "I'd heard that the senior Crows were kindly, sir," he said. "Why are you acting like this? What harm..."

Echo laughed again. "I'm no senior Crow. I only transformed back in '62. I work for the senior Crows, though, and they've taught me a few tricks. Now, get a move on! Or I'll show you a few of those tricks."

Echo did something terrible with his writhing mass of stolen dross and a wave of overwhelming panic washed over Gilgamesh. His feet took off on their own initiative. He didn't stop fleeing until he jumped on a freight train. He didn't care where it took him, as long as it was elsewhere.

In a graffiti-covered boxcar, he curled himself in a tight ball and cried.

Carol Hancock: October 21, 1966 – October 31, 1966

The messages vanished from under my plate the next morning, and found me my first real friend in Doris Trotter. She was the staff cook and nutritionist, and to my surprise she checked up on me personally at lunch. Strode right up to the FBI boys who made my life miserable.

"You think she's an animal, but I haven't noticed she can't talk," Doris said, to McIntyre. "Besides, do your boys enjoy feeding her?"

"We can't allow her to have silverware," an FBI agent said. "Too dangerous."

Doris held up a cheap wooden spoon, nothing more than a stamped spoon-shaped thin piece of wood, the kind you might find as a kid with your half-pint cup of ice cream. "This too dangerous for you?"

McIntyre snorted. "A real Arm, which she isn't, could kill you with that. Still, she's chained to the floor, so you'll be the only idiot at risk if she does anything violent. Your neck. Feed her. Be my guest." To my great pleasure, the FBI men strode off.

Doris and I chatted as I ate my food. Despite my juice cravings, I held my temper and stayed pleasant. At one time, before I transformed, I held the opinion I could befriend anyone. During my first month as an Arm, I became one of those people who could antagonize everyone. I had to change that, now.

In the midst of a conversation on rude men, Doris slipped in a neat double entendre to let me know she had found my letters and passed them along.

The first step of my gamble, it seemed, had worked. Now I had to wait.

McIntyre's sadism of the afternoon tested my reactions to having the blood drained from my body. Exsanguination, he called it. I play-fainted at the end. If I messed up their tests, all the better. While they drained my blood, I talked to them about intimate woman's issues and the resemblance to their test. McIntyre had to pull his gun on me again to get me to shut up.

Charming as I was to the rest of the staff, I wanted McIntyre and his crew to be as uncomfortable as possible. Intimate woman's issues were the best weapon I knew.

Next time? Penis length comparisons...

\---

The next several days I suffered through low juice, until they got me a new draw. Their only tests were repeats, to show what differences low juice made. The tests were so dull McIntyre didn't bother to show. After I recovered from the draw, they returned to the real tests. However, when I became myself again, I had a surprise waiting for me: a return letter, unsigned.

"You know, if you'd written while I had any of my people there, I'd be able to help you. As it is, you've stuck your neck in your own noose. If you get free, use the telephone. Ask for the name."

Cryptic, but Doris whispered the name, "Focus Michelle Claunch, Baton Rouge, Louisiana," to me later. I recognized her as the important Focus Dr. Zielinski worked with who had transformed at age fifteen a decade or so ago. I wondered _why_ she was important, but didn't have anyone to ask.

I also made several more friends among the staff after I recovered from the juice draw. Two were techs, Mike Artusy and Fred Parrish; another was Nurse Wilson. Artusy had papered over the memories of our night of never-ending sex and now looked at me as if I was some sort of nympho sex machine that he wanted to try for a second time. A few glances at him and a kind word was all it took for his interest in me to stiffen again. I doubted he would have a chance, but hope proved to be a good lure.

I attracted Fred into my orbit with a more grown up emotion: compassion. To lure him to my side I simply told him exactly what the FBI had done to me. He was less willing to bend or break rules than the others, but he talked and didn't care what secrets he told.

I got to Nurse Wilson in an entirely different fashion: she feared several of the dark-spirited men who worked at the Detention Center, including all the current FBI team, and especially the chief FBI doc, Fredericks. All I had to do was to stand up to them when she attended me, back her up when they hassled her, and make things easier for her when she worked with them.

I did all this instinctively, quite strange, and it worked out better than I anticipated. All I had to do was approach the situation with the desire to befriend the staff and I found I could. I didn't know whether I'd discovered a new Arm trick, or whether, in my desperation, I'd recovered my old social skills. Maybe some combination of both. I doubted I could have claimed Nurse Wilson before, though, a woman who had once hated my very existence. Something supernatural? I had no idea. Right now, I would settle for results and skip the understanding.

I also learned as much as possible about the Detention Center, to pull off an escape. I kept track of routines, I made mental maps of the place, and I paid attention to everything going on around me. I kept track of my observations easily, which surprised me and made me wonder again what I was becoming. This time, though, I didn't doubt I'd learned an Arm trick.

What was an Arm? That question occupied me through the empty hours. A Focus helped a few Transforms live. Stacy Keaton was the mirror image of that, but she didn't restrict her killing to Transforms, she killed anyone who got in her way, in job lots. Or had. I couldn't remember reading about any new depredations in the past eighteen months or so. My instincts thought this important, but I didn't have any idea why. Keaton had suffered an 'accident' before her escape that had turned her 'psychotic', supposedly. I had no faith in the small bits of information I had collected, and no way to judge whether Keaton's path of murderous mayhem was the destiny of all Arms.

In the rest of my free time, I did calisthenics. The pain continued to get worse, but I only let the agony out in my cell.

After my latest draw, I no longer understood Dr. Fredericks' tests. They had entered a technical realm I had no background to comprehend.

The tests were still painful and humiliating, but in an impersonal way. Two days of painful biopsies, including one where they drew fluid from my left eye. On the first day, they also cut off my left earlobe. They took a bunch of pictures and measurements, and then repeated the measurements every day. I guessed they wanted to learn how quickly my earlobe grew back, which it did after about three days. They also staged several other painful tests involving an apparatus, which pulled at my arms and legs.

Agent McIntyre was unhappy with the tests, and several times he and Dr. Fredericks argued. I didn't interfere or attempt to befriend either of them; each time I edged toward that, I got a bad feeling and stopped. These two were beyond my influence, and my instincts knew it.

I still didn't get enough exercise, and I'd been reduced to doing push-ups and sit-ups in my padded cell to ease the pain. Jumping jacks and running in place had become too painful.

Unexpectedly, on the evening of the twenty-ninth, four of the FBI techs grabbed me and moved me from the padded room to the suicide cell on the third floor. I writhed in itchy agony the entire night from that foul room, deathly afraid that the next day they would drag me down to the Detention Center basement and shoot me.

I cradled the knife in my arms and wondered if I would have enough nerve to use it.

The next morning, two of the Detention Center techs, Fred Parrish and another named Lewis, came into the suicide cell with welding equipment, heavy metal shackles and chains. Six well-armed soldiers accompanied them, all soldiers new to me. For a moment, I decided I had been right and this was the end, but the soldiers didn't do anything more than immobilize my arms. The Detention Center techs started their work and the soldiers left.

"What's going on?" I asked Parrish, once he and Lewis started setting up the welding equipment and the shackles. I'd put the knife back in its hiding place after I awakened. I wasn't desperate enough to attempt an escape.

"There's a new team on your case," Parrish said, as he welded the chain to the shackle on my left leg. "They've decided to hit you with the terminal stage procedure. We do it for all the Transforms, toward the end." He rattled the chain between the heavy shackles.

Terminal stage procedure. I nodded. For a Transform, that would be when all hope of a Focus had fled, and he was about to go psychotic with withdrawal or cross over to Monster if the Transform was a woman. I had experience with leg shackles and knew they cramped my style. I suspected they would make even a newly turned Monster more tractable.

"I'm not getting any more draws, am I?" I asked, voice shaky.

"Rumor has it there are still more on the way," Parrish said. At least he put a piece of leather between the metal and my ankle when they welded the shackle on.

"What's this about new management?" I asked.

"The FBI doctor, Fredericks, is gone. So are a bunch of McIntyre's techs. Some FBI big-wig, Joe Patrelle, just showed up and is causing all sorts of ruckus. He brought his own techs and doctors with him."

I smelled office politics, FBI faction politics and perhaps outside pressure of one variety or other.

I shivered, scared, and wondered what this change was going to bring. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew this wasn't the right time for an escape attempt.

At least I was in the room with my knife.

An hour later, my guards brought me in to see Dr. Peterson. He sat up straight and attempted to look confident, but he still looked lost behind that huge desk.

"I'm in charge of your care again," he said. "By my orders, you now have unlimited time in the exercise room." He glanced at his telephone and I decided he had called Dr. Zielinski for advice. "I've also arranged for you to move around on your own again. You'll be guarded, but the nonsense of wheeling you around from place to place chained to a table is over."

"Why the change?" I asked. Low juice slowed my thoughts. Dr. Peterson's news was a pleasant shock, but I feared the cost.

Dr. Peterson didn't answer my question. "The new FBI team, under Special Agent Patrelle, has a test scheduled for you at one PM." He dismissed me.

I went to the exercise room and took a good look at myself. Yuck! I had biceps, plainly visible biceps for gosh sake. Hard as rocks, too. If I squinted, I could see those tiny triangular things on the side of my neck. More muscles. If those things kept growing, I was going to join the no-neck brigade. My tummy had shrunk down to where it had been before my first pregnancy, which was good, and it had picked up a few of those funny lumps Keaton called 'abs'. Not prominent, but enough to see.

In the mirror, I realized my breasts were shrinking, as well. Disgusting. No wonder I thought the elastic had gone out of my brassiere and girdle. Still, I would rather be funny looking than have these horrible joint and muscle pains.

Needless to say, I worked myself into chain-clanking exhaustion, imagining Keaton, as Larry, hounding me. Access to the exercise room was good.

The procedure change bothered me, though. So did Dr. Peterson's attitude.

I learned why at one PM.

The FBI brought me out into the courtyard, where someone, likely the FBI techs, had buried a concrete I-beam in the interior courtyard at the far end of the U. They had a chain attached to the concrete I-beam, light enough for me to rip apart if I had a good set of gloves and ten minutes. It clanked in the cold breeze, and I smelled the ozone odor of a coming storm.

They put a shackle around my right wrist and attached the chain to it. Opposite me, out of chain range, stood ten marksmen. They each wore a blue jacket with FBI written on the left pocket, and watched me with hard eyes. The cold didn't bother me, but I shivered anyway.

McIntyre was there in his own FBI jacket, still in charge. Whoever this Patrelle was, he didn't show his face. "Today, Carol, you get to play target. These men are going to shoot at you. They need to experience how fast an Arm moves. No, they won't shoot purposely at your head. You win if you survive. My men don't get to reload."

The shock flushed my face and I snarled, my good intentions about my temper gone in a flash. I had assumed Dr. Fredericks had been chased out because of his sadistic tests. Now, I realized the most likely explanation was the exact opposite: the sadistic Dr. Fredericks had left in protest over tests like _this_.

I lost it.

"Fuck you!" I had never said that in my life. The profanity seemed appropriate. "I refuse to serve as a training target for your Arm hu..."

McIntyre drew his weapon, not an Arm-killer, thankfully, and shot me in the lower left leg. He lifted his weapon and pointed it at my head. "Dance with me, or die."

That did it. I did rabid dog imitations for the next ten minutes, doing my best to rip the chain off the pillar and avoid headshots. I didn't calm down for hours afterwards. I couldn't believe my fellow human beings would do such a thing. I couldn't believe even the most inhumane members of the Detention Center staff would put up with someone else doing such a thing.

I practically passed out from blood loss and lack of food before I would let even my new Detention Center friends near me. Eventually I let Doris feed me, and as she did, tears rolled down her face. Food helped me recover my sanity.

Later, I got to eat an unlimited amount of food for dinner.

Dr. Manigault came by to inspect me personally, after dinner, clucking over my wounds, astonished over how rapidly they healed. He had a rock solid erection. I noticed, and told him so.

That was the last time I saw Dr. Manigault.

McIntyre, the bastard, staged the exact same scene again the next day.

Tonya Biggioni: October 23, 1966

Rhonda handed Tonya the day's mail and left Tonya's office. The day had been pleasant, with no emergency phone calls she had to make when the long distance rates were high, no pressing emergencies. Nothing bad at all. She had taken advantage of the abnormally warm mid-October weather by taking the morning off and going to Fairmont Park with the non-working mothers and young children of her household. She had even opened her office window to let in the fresh air.

The first letter was a plea from a Focus Ellen O'Donnell, who Tonya had met only once, at the last Northeast Region meeting. Ellen was a young Focus, twenty months past her transformation. Her letter was a series of complaints about how Tonya's boss, Suzie Schrum, had taken more interest in Focus O'Donnell's household than Ellen liked. Tonya couldn't stop Suzie's interference, unfortunately, and so she answered Focus O'Donnell's letter with a few choice platitudes about perseverance.

The second letter had a post office box in Quebec City as its return address. The unknown Canadian again. Tonya suspected the unknown could be a legendary Focus who lived in Montreal, but whoever this person was, she was cagey, very cagey.

Tonya

You, more than I, know what is going on in your life. Beneath the surface, events and currents are moving in ways you will not enjoy. Tests, choices, and change come. Now it starts, the conflict I warned you about after you witnessed the induced transformation of Delia Vinote. Are you on the right side? The conflict will destroy you if you are not, body, mind and soul. Although we've never talked about it before, I am familiar with how much you worry about how the choices you've made have harmed your soul. Worse choices are to come, and the obvious choices may not be the correct ones.

Your Friend

Tonya carefully folded up the letter and put it in the file with the other letters from this person. The file went into the small safe she kept for her private business. The message bothered Tonya but didn't surprise her. She had felt the turn of the tide in her dreams; the relative stasis that had held for nearly six years, since the Kennedy administration had officially forgiven the first Focuses and their households for their escape from Quarantine, was drawing to a close. Shirley had hinted the same in her last phone call, when the leading first Focus had ignored the unstated chain of command to quiz Tonya about Keaton and Hancock.

Tonya had a hard time believing she would be allowed any real choices on the important issues. Suzie would make those for her and Tonya couldn't do anything about it. Too many of Tonya's orders called on her to harm her soul, and she couldn't avoid any of them.

Still, the unknown writer thought differently. Tonya had learned to take those rare letters seriously over the years.

The third letter was from a Philadelphia businessman acquaintance. He had some inside information about a pending and unannounced hotel bankruptcy, the hotel located in a marginal section of South Philly. He wanted to know if Tonya and her household were interested in purchasing the property. Tonya put the third letter in her 'to be researched' file, which her moneyman, Marty Fenner, would take a look at.

The fourth letter was from a Marie Caravello, a Network volunteer in the Midwest Region. Inside Tonya found another letter, addressed to Stacy Keaton, marked urgent.

Tonya sighed. The day had started out so promising. She called the immigrant lady who she paid to be her answering service for sub rosa affairs and left a message for Keaton to call ASAP. Keaton used the immigrant lady as well, for the same purposes, and the lady was the standard way they contacted each other.

"It's her," Rhonda said, after dinner. Tonya, who had been snacking on a deliciously gooey coffeecake Delia had made, begged off Marty's bridge game and took the phone call in Rhonda's office.

"Biggioni," she said, licking the last of the caramel goo off her fingers.

"What's so urgent, oh most magnificent queen of darkness," Keaton said. Stacy had been on Tonya's case ever since the FBI chased her out of St. Louis. Keaton's voice today was of a tremulous beaten-down man; Keaton often practiced her play-acting when she dealt with Tonya.

"I have a letter addressed to you, marked urgent," Tonya said. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Smell the letter and tell me what it smells like."

Keaton had never made that request before, but Tonya's nose was good. Not as good as Keaton's nose, which Keaton had taken great glee to point out on several occasions, but good enough to make a mockery of anyone else's nose that wasn't attached to the face of a Major Transform. "Antiseptic hospital, bacon and maple syrup."

"The letter's from Hancock. Open it and read it to me. This ought to be worth a laugh or three."

"If you insist, Stacy." Tonya opened the letter and began to read.

Mrs. Stacy Keaton

My name is Carol Hancock, the new Arm who is imprisoned in St. Louis as a laboratory experiment. I am scheduled to be terminated in two months or so, if I survive the tests I'm currently being put through. I don't want to die. I would like your help. I have made many mistakes already as a new Arm, some of them that you are familiar with, and I'd like to rectify them and learn how to be a proper Arm, as you are. I understand you will wish payment for helping me, so I'm offering myself as payment. In my former life I learned much about my husband's rapidly growing business, and learned much about his accounts by looking over his shoulder. I know how to entertain important clients, and how to win them over. I'm an expert at organization of volunteer efforts, of which I did often. I'm positive I can help you in one way or another. I thank you for taking the time to consider this offer, and hope for a positive reply.

Mrs. Carol Hancock

After Tonya finished, Keaton had a long belly laugh. Tonya found the letter strange, more of a cold contact letter than one to an acquaintance this Hancock thing had met. Either Hancock was well deluded, or she was being devious in some fashion. Tonya wasn't sure what to make of 'Mrs. Stacy Keaton'. That was a strange way to address an Arm. "Are you going to help?" Tonya asked.

"You've got to be kidding."

"I wouldn't either," Tonya said. "Not after she turned you down already. This one's too uncooperative to save."

"Wait a minute, bitch," Keaton said. "You're the one who's supposed to be trying to sell me on this. You're the Transform-protecting soft-hearted altruistic Focus. Not me."

Tonya smiled. "I deal with forty-one Northeast Region Focuses, Stacy. I don't have the time or political capital to help every Focus who gets into trouble. If one of them ignores me, rejects my advice, or works counter to my interests, they have a problem. Anyone who wastes my time in such a way is going to have to pay excessively before I'll lift a finger to help her. That's just the way of the world."

Which was one of the things her Canadian friend had warned her to watch, Tonya decided. The standard obvious responses and choices.

"Oh, mamma, you're a nastier bitch than I realized," Keaton said and chuckled. "That was a compliment, by the way."

"I'd guessed," Tonya said. "So since this is settled, I have a different offer to talk to you about." Tonya had been sitting on this one, waiting for one of those instances where Stacy was in a good mood. "One of my people," Janet Paugh, "is fluent enough in German to catch articles on Transforms. I'm proposing a clipping service from one or more West German newspapers."

"Keep talking," Stacy said.

Tonya gave Keaton the entire prepared spiel. The lure was the West German Arm, Erica Eissler. "What do you want out of this, anyway?" Stacy said. "For me to grab Hancock?"

"Be serious," Tonya said. "What I want is a little debt collection muscle. Personal, for my household's businesses. We're running up quite a few unpaid debts from people who believe the legal system won't give Transforms any help if we complain."

"We already have an agreement on that subject," Stacy said. Which was true. The payment had been in surplus Transforms stolen by Tonya from Clinics.

"You turned down my last offer."

"I'd had a good run of finding my prey and didn't need any extras," Stacy said. Tonya shook her head. Keaton had a screwy notion she was some sort of predator, rather than a human being. Tonya knew better than to try to convince her she was as full of beans as Rizzari. "That isn't always the case."

"Debt collection is, unfortunately, timing dependent, which is why I'd like to change our earlier agreement. I'd like to save the Clinic style payments for less timing dependent services."

Keaton paused for a moment. "Send a contract to my New York City PO Box," she said. The Arm had agreed, but it wasn't Keaton's style to admit it out loud.

There wasn't a court in the land that would arbitrate this contract if it showed up on their docket, but she and Keaton worked their relationship this way anyway. The formality made things easier on both of them.

"I'll have it out tomorrow."

"Great," Keaton said. "About Hancock? Tell you what, since I'm in a forgiving mood: I'm positive that fucking idiot Zielinski still wants her out. Tell him about the letter, and tell him that if he wants Hancock out, he gets to pay." Keaton chuckled. "Have him provide me a surplus Transform."

Tonya smiled. Secret Agent Zielinski would have kittens, him being a doctor and all. "Consider it done," she said.

Nor would she help Zielinski provide the surplus Transform. That was exactly the sort of thing the Council had forbidden her to do when they ordered her to avoid any direct involvement.

Chapter 7

"Transform Sickness is a very rare disease. In 1961, there were fewer than 5,000 cases in the whole country. That means your chance of contracting it is just under one in 30,000. You're much more likely to die in an auto accident. There's no need to panic over Transform Sickness. Many factors determine whether someone catches Transform Sickness, including general health, hygiene, age and perhaps even the local climate. The medical establishment hopes to be able to pin down the specifics of this within the next year or two and have a cure within the next three years." [CDC pamphlet, 1962]

Dr. Henry Zielinski: October 24, 1966

Dr. Zielinski wasn't sure he was interested in establishing a new Focus contact so soon after the debacle with Hancock. His highest priority was the Keaton payment problem, and solving it required a disproportionate number of phone calls to his Network contacts. He wished Tonya's project was his only problem, but he struggled with several others. The fact he had returned to Harvard without an Arm in tow was the worst. Dr. Josephs, his incompetent department head, was irate. Dr. Zielinski had even gotten a phone call from Assistant Dean Franklin not so gently reminding him that they sent him to St. Louis to come back with an Arm, not with complaints from the FBI. His work with Hancock wasn't going to help his reputation one bit, especially if she died.

If, however, he found a way to pay off Keaton and get her help in extracting Hancock from the Detention Center, that led to other, more profitable, scenarios. The reality of a live and free Arm, willing to aid him in his research, without the baggage Keaton had with her criminal record and wanted posters, would be more than enough to salvage his reputation. He would be able to publish the data he had learned about Arms through his work with Keaton. Published papers meant official notice, award nominations, grant money, a new set of assistants, and a nicer laboratory. Perhaps a book or two for the popular press, rounds on the lecture circuit, and enough of the good things in life to keep Glory, his wife, happy for once.

He wouldn't hold his breath, though. Perhaps the next Arm would work out better...

Dr. Zielinski found the Network's information on Focus Lorraine Rizzari fascinating, if incomplete. Few Focuses possessed any sort of higher education, but Focus Rizzari had recently completed her Ph.D. The story behind her Ph.D. had to be interesting, but wasn't in the meager information packet. In fact, he hadn't even been aware that someone of Focus Rizzari's talents lived in the Boston area. He wondered why he hadn't been told.

Dr. Zielinski finished brushing his teeth and lathered up to shave. Glory disliked the situation. No, 'disliked' was putting it mildly. She had been on his case about his interest in Transform Sickness ever since his first NSF research grant dealing with Transforms, right after the first Focuses had broken out of Quarantine. She thought studying Transform Sickness was too dangerous. He couldn't disagree with the danger, of course, but no matter how politically hot Transform Sickness became, it still was a large public health problem, and it wouldn't go away if people chickened out and refused to study it. He finished shaving, washed his face, and studied the image in the mirror. He could swear his bald spot was getting bigger and his hair greyer by the day. He combed his hair over the bald spot, and made a face at how silly it looked. He decided to continue wearing his hat, even if hats had gone out of style.

Glory had become even more unhappy four years ago, when he started his work with Arms. Arms were dangerous! Then Rose Desmond had shot him. Glory had put her foot down, but he didn't stop working on Arms, costing him much of her trust.

He finished tying his tie and frowned. Glory had been livid after he returned from St. Louis. The FBI had come to their house and interviewed her, which played into her fears about his work. He suspected the FBI would grill him about Hancock soon; they suspected him of vague interference in their affairs. They smelled something _off_ in the St. Louis situation, but they couldn't put their fingers on what. He hoped they didn't suspect him of his work with Keaton.

Glory gave him a dirty look and stayed out of his way as he ate his breakfast, silent and brooding. He ate his Cheerios and his banana, slugged down his prerequisite two cups of coffee, and headed out the door to his office.

He ignored the rumble of traffic, the diesel exhaust of buses, and the annoyances of the city on his commute. Something was wrong with everyone's approach to the Arm transformation problems, including his. The FBI fixated on Arms as potential agents and actual lawbreakers. The medical community considered Arms nothing more than another lethal Transform Sickness effect. The Network Focuses considered Arms to be another sort of Transform to bring into Focus households as peons.

Until recently, he had viewed the Arm's problems as purely medical. His experiences with Hancock convinced him that all these views were wrong. If a man walking on a beach found an old rusty non-working pocket watch, would he then conclude that pocket watches were mere decoration, not meant to serve a purpose? Even with all those gears inside?

No. Arms were Major Transforms. They should have a powerful, positive and independent role in Transform society. He knew he was right! If only he had some proof.

If only the Arms could find their own role and _take it_.

His meeting with Focus Rizzari was not at his office or at her Transform household. Instead, they had arranged to meet at the Park Plaza, one of Boston's older hotels. The Park Plaza had been a fixture of Boston's downtown and theater district since the roaring twenties. Discreet. On the other hand, most Focuses felt more secure if you came to them. Focus Rizzari's desire to meet in a neutral location made Dr. Zielinski a little wary. Women Ph.D.s had always struck him as a little strange to begin with. A woman Ph.D. Focus might be far beyond strange.

He waited in the Park Plaza foyer, brooding about his career and his reputation.

Focus Rizzari came in with an undersized entourage of only two. Given their general air of health and energy, he guessed they were both Transforms. One was a woman, a surprise. A Focus's entourage was supposed to be her protection, her bodyguards, and Dr. Zielinski couldn't imagine what sort of protection a woman could afford this Focus, even if the woman Transform bodyguard was young, fit and taller than he was. Focus Rizzari herself was easy to pick out of a crowd. All Focuses were, for the cognoscenti; although nothing anyone could put into words or numbers, Focuses were just 'more there'. Focus Rizzari stood just under five foot tall and wore a subdued dress and blouse combination more typical for a high end corporate secretary than a newly minted professor. She wore her black hair bobbed short, and her hairstyle framed, in a severe way, her narrow face and her dark brown eyes. Her wide rimmed almost triangular glasses aroused his suspicion, confirmed when he shook hands and he got a good look through the lenses. Cheaters. Purely decoration. From what he knew, any Focus worth the name had twenty-twenty vision or better after about a year or two, and Rizzari had been a Focus for five years.

During the introductions, he put it all together. Focus Rizzari was into misdirection, into hiding who she was. Security conscious, the FBI would say.

"Call me Lori, Dr. Zielinski," she said right after introducing herself.

"Lori."

"Shall we have a seat?" She motioned to a couple of over-stuffed chairs with muted floral patterns, located near the far corner of the hotel foyer. Dr. Zielinski nodded.

"So..." He didn't know where to start. He had agreed to the meeting cold, probably not the smartest thing to do, but he was still rattled by the events in St. Louis. Normally he had a better feel for meetings of this nature, but he didn't even know why this Focus wanted to talk to him today.

"You're wondering why I needed to talk to you?" Focus Rizzari said, the sort of uncanny comment Focuses often produced. Focus Rizzari exuded calmness, not at all fidgety or flighty. She didn't have an academic feel to her, which puzzled him. Dr. Zielinski's Network contacts said she had started teaching at Boston College earlier this fall.

Her hiring by Boston College had to be a political statement, a reaction to the recent rumblings from the left, none of which made him happy. The civil rights struggle didn't bother him; more power to them if they lifted themselves up by their own bootstraps. The protests sparked by the escalation of the Vietnam War were a different story. When one's President called on Americans to fight in a war, especially against the Communists, one went and fought. He had done his time in Korea, as an MD. While it hadn't been pretty, it had been necessary. The war protesters tied their protests into the youth fads of the day – dirty, messy, longhaired beatniks – and, lately, they tied the treatment of Transforms into their lefty equations. That was the last thing Dr. Zielinski wanted to see. Transforms were resented enough already, and every time the details of life as a Transform or details of the disease were brought into the limelight, things got worse.

Perhaps Focus Rizzari's paranoia was correct.

In any event, Boston College had hired a few colored professors, a few longhaired liberal arts types, and now a Transform professor, all to head off any student protests against their school administration. So, here she was, the token Transform professor, Focus Rizzari. He didn't expect much.

"Yes," he said. "Our mutual friends only informed me of the basics: you're a beginning professor at Boston College, and you need some information I might be able to provide."

Focus Rizzari nodded, her face an emotional blank. "Although I'm going to spend most of my time teaching, I do want to help my fellow Transforms through my research. I don't know if our mutual friends told you, but my Ph.D. was in microbiology, and my thesis involved the identification of additional components in Para-procorticotrophin." Juice. Interesting. He hadn't recognized her name, nor did her dissertation topic ring a bell, so he suspected it hadn't yet been published. Probably her dissertation never would be.

"Through our mutual friends, I recently discovered that there's some unpublished work by a Dr. Liutraven Van Reijn in the Netherlands. I believe his unpublished work has some relevance to mine, and, well, you're the local expert in Dr. Van Reijn's work."

Dr. Zielinski nodded. Focus Rizzari didn't have any idea who he really was. He guessed she had read his recent papers and knew he was on the staff at Harvard Medical School, but he doubted she knew of his academic history, his long association with the Focus Network or his fieldwork. "Dr. Van Reijn's recent work is quite speculative and he's not ready to publish." He and Liutraven had been in contact with each other for a year or so, trading data on Transform Sickness and Transforms. Liutraven's ideas had good data support, answered many troublesome questions, and supplied quite a few disturbing hints and further questions. They weren't proven yet, at least to Dr. Zielinski's standards.

"So, Dr. Zielinski, can you tell me anything about Dr. Van Reijn's unpublished work?" No Focus charisma at all, not what he expected from a Focus with a Ph.D. Most of the time, but not always, the more intelligent the Focus, the better she wielded the various Focus tricks.

Dr. Zielinski glanced around the hotel foyer. No eavesdroppers. "Dr. Van Reijn is working on a radically different understanding of Transform Sickness. You're familiar with the standard research model for Transform Sickness?" As opposed to the medical establishment model, as popularized in the national press.

"The MRC model? Yes," Focus Rizzari said.

The MRC – the United Kingdom Medical Research Council – had established themselves as the early leader in Transform Sickness research back in the mid '50s. He wasn't so sure they would be able to maintain their early lead, not only because he supported the research done at Harvard, but also because he couldn't believe an organization tied to a socialist medical establishment could keep its standards up for long. He half expected they would be out of business by the end of the decade. The CDC and the medical researchers accepted the MRC model, while the AMA and an overwhelming number of practicing physicians promoted the medical establishment model. The fights between the proponents of each model always livened up any medical conference that dealt with Transform Sickness, even peripherally.

"Dr. Van Reijn's new model does away with the MRC's insistence that Transform Sickness produces a broad spectrum of effects derived from a single biochemical alteration," he said. "The Van Reijn model includes only eight stable states, not an infinite number of effects, based on three variables: gender, abundance, and presence of a metacampus; he also posits a large network of biochemical alterations." The metacampus was the extra addition to the hippocampus that made a Major Transform.

Focus Rizzari smiled, of all things. "Good. Someone with a little sense. As a Focus, the MRC model's insistence of an infinite gradation of effects between men and women Transforms, Focuses and Arms struck me as counterintuitive." One of the reasons the Focuses tended to discount the MRC model in favor of the medical establishment model. "Yes, I understand why the MRC model requires an infinite gradation of effects. Their premise. I'm very interested in what Dr. Van Reijn has to say about the MRC model's premise, especially regarding Sports."

"Hmm." Focus Rizzari's stock rose in his estimation. When Liutraven's name came up, he expected his information would disturb Focus Rizzari's worldview. Likely not.

Dr. Zielinski took out a yellow legal pad, drew two large crosses and filled in the eight varieties of Transforms that Van Reijn recognized. "In Dr. Van Reijn's model, the most significant division among Transforms is gender. He also recognizes axes of variation based on whether the Transform is a Major Transform, and another based on whether the Transform is a juice producer." The most shocking aspect of Van Reijn's model was his insistence on the inclusion of male Major Transforms. Leading Focuses never liked speculation about male Major Transforms.

"I think I see it, though several of the terms don't ring a bell," Focus Rizzari said, not visibly thrown by the inclusion of the male Major Transforms. "What's a Goldilocks?"

Dr. Zielinski smiled at his major contribution to Van Reijn's work. "Goldilocks is an MD term, not recognized by the MRC at all. They think we're crazy, but I've seen several. A Goldilocks is someone who goes through Transform Sickness and comes out clean, with no visible effects. They have juice, and they come out of their transformations with supplemental juice levels elevated by a point or two for men and depressed by a point or two for women. After about a month, their supplemental juice levels zero out, unless a Focus tags them and gives them juice. All they're left with is fundamental juice, but they don't have any of the normal low juice effects." He decided to leave the details for later.

Focus Rizzari's stone face wavered, but only for an instant. "Wild. Why isn't this in the literature?"

"At least four papers have been rejected on that subject, because there's no theoretical model to support the existence of the Goldilocks Transforms." An automatic rejection criteria for the medical journal referees. "Clinically, the Goldilocks Transforms are treated as ordinary Transforms and are put into Focus households, although they don't need Focus support after the first month. Perhaps not even before then. Many of us MDs suspect that there are dozens of these Goldilocks hanging around in normal society, undetected."

Focus Rizzari studied the male section of the diagram. "Chimeras I've read about. The so-called Male Monster. Are they actually confirmed? Real?" she asked. "I thought the evidence on them anecdotal."

Dr. Zielinski nodded. "They're quite real, though we would like to keep their existence out of the press, for obvious reasons. Like Arms, they consume juice." This brought Focus Rizzari's eyebrows together momentarily, which puzzled him. She didn't agree with his straightforward statement. Instead, she changed the subject, despite her obvious interest. He smelled a rat.

"How human are these Chimeras?" she asked, now focused and intense. "Can they talk?"

"They're not human at all. As with Monsters, they change into an animal-like form. However, at least one maintained a limited speaking vocabulary, even in his animal-like form," Dr. Zielinski said. "The four Chimeras in the records are all quite intelligent, however, and all retained the ability to understand language." And, if his information was correct, only one of the four still lived, hunting Monsters in the northern Canadian Rockies.

"Okay, I'll buy that. What's this about Male Focuses? In quotes? Don't you mean Crows?" Focus Rizzari asked. "Dr. Van Reijn's model has them under positive abundance, which doesn't match my experience."

"Crows?" he said, and shook his head. "I've never heard that term." Interesting. He hadn't expected to actually learn anything from Focus Rizzari. Perhaps this wouldn't be a total waste of his time.

"Some Focuses have met male Transforms who called themselves Crows," Focus Rizzari continued, causing him to shiver. Met. She said 'met', not 'heard of'. Damn. "Crows aren't comfortable with people and like to stay in the shadows. Met, though, might be too strong a word. Talked to on the telephone might be more appropriate."

"It could be a hoax." He had heard rumors about male Focuses for years, but without the Crow name. He suspected he even met a couple of them back during the Quarantine days. They hadn't called themselves either Crows or 'male Focuses'. Back then, he and several other doctors had classified them as Sports. Victims of anomalous transformations.

"Perhaps," Focus Rizzari said. "These self-named Crows knew things, though. They can sense Para-procorticotrophin," juice, "like Focuses and Arms do, which implies they're Major Transforms. They have enough accuracy to be able to tell a Focus where she's calling from, and enough range to do so from miles away. The reason I'm surprised is that they considered themselves Para-procorticotrophin consumers. No. That's what the Focuses deduced from the terms the Crows used. What the Crows actually said appeared to be utter nonsense. They have no understanding of what they are or how they work."

"Would you mind if I passed your information along to Dr. Van Reijn?"

Focus Rizzari shook her head. "No. No problem." She paused. "What does Dr. Van Reijn say about Monsters? How do they fit in?"

"He considers Monsters to be a failed state," Dr. Zielinski said.

"I disagree," Focus Rizzari said. "Unlike the male Transforms in juice withdrawal, who die, Monsters can live for an indefinite amount of time. Not only do they not deteriorate, they improve as they get older."

"You know this for certain?" he asked. He knew they didn't die, but he hadn't realized they improved.

"Personal experience," Focus Rizzari said. Enigmatic. "Have you encountered any information on any Monster juice capabilities? Juice weaponry? The ability to talk?"

"Not a word on any of those." Her questions were unexpected and intriguing. "I take it you have?"

She paused, looked him in the eyes for the first time, and didn't answer his question. "I think we're going to have to work together, Dr. Zielinski. What you've shown me today indicates that the rest of our medical and research establishment doesn't have a clue about what's going on with Transform Sickness. Especially considering what I discovered during my dissertation research."

"What was that, Focus...Lori?"

"Para-procorticotrophin is only a carrier. The biochemically active substances are trace hormones within Para-procorticotrophin. Several different varieties of trace hormones."

Dr. Zielinski took a deep breath, goose pimples rising on his arms. "Your results don't surprise me," he said, and thought fast. He didn't know much to say on the subject, or what would be appropriate, such as his knowledge of Transform pheromones. "That does lead into Dr. Van Reijn's conclusion, though. Dr. Van Reijn is convinced Transform Sickness isn't a disease in the standard sense, despite the fact we've isolated the disease vector behind it. Diseases cannot cause new organs to grow, or cause such a fine-tuned set of effects, in his mind."

"Then what is Transform Sickness?"

"His hypothesis states Transform Sickness is a reactivation of some part of humanity that, for one reason or another, went dormant a long time ago. His hypothesis requires a minimum of two mutated genes, one or both activated when Transform Sickness hits, with discrete physical transformation outcomes. Any gradations we think we see are what he terms archetype flaws, variations away from the distinct transformation outcomes instead of variants along a continuum. In his view, Arms aren't failed Focuses, but many of the other Sports are."

Focus Rizzari's face went blank. "I'll have to think about that. That fits with the work my people are doing."

Cryptic. She wasn't going to elucidate either, he realized. Or answer the other unanswered question. He realized she played her cards as close to the chest as he did. She didn't trust him.

"I know you don't trust me," he said. She raised eyebrows; she wasn't used to being read by a normal, but turnabout was fair play. "I can accept that. I do ask that you check into my background and my history with our mutual friends, including your regional representative to the Focus Council. You'll find the information educational."

"I see." Her head tilted to one side, momentarily, and within seconds, her bodyguards surrounded her. Interesting signaling trick, not one he had seen before. "Your FBI problems have arrived and I have no interest in talking to them today," she said. He wondered how she figured that out. Perhaps she guessed. "I'll get back in contact with you shortly." She stood, without a goodbye and walked a few paces away. She turned back to look at him. "No, I'm not immune to a certain Focus problem you were too polite to mention," she said, which proved she had read and understood several of _his_ papers. "If you ever come up with any ideas on how to get around that little problem, I would like to know." She and her entourage walked away, toward the back of the Park Plaza foyer.

He stood and turned. What she had mentioned was a tendency for Focuses to have memory problems and, because of the memory problems, suffer a diminishment in IQ and perhaps overall intelligence. He smiled for a moment, remembering the Hancock data, which showed Van Reijn's predicted opposite effect in Arms. Memory enhancement, with secondary IQ elevation, because of those large pulses of juice Arms got when they drained juice from a surplus Transform. Smart Arms, or at least Arms who started at the top end of the intelligence scale, such as Hancock, could easily end up being a real big problem as time went on. Something to watch for.

The memory problems didn't seem to bother Focus Rizzari as much as it had bothered some of the Focuses he had met, such as Focus Casso. Focus Rizzari clearly had been quite intelligent before her Focus transformation. However, her lack of Focus charisma meant that on the Transform side of the equation, she was a Focus without a future. The other Focuses, the big bitches with their overwhelming Focus charisma, would see to that. He would check up on her, anyway, but he couldn't see bothering to work with her.

He sighed. Somehow, Focus Rizzari had been correct. Two FBI agents waited for him as he walked out of the hotel.

Gilgamesh: October 25, 1966

Her name was Wilhelmina Minton. According to the newspapers in the archives of the Chicago Daily News, Miss Minton had transformed seven months ago, in March. She was a Focus, and a minor, barely seventeen. Her parents had initially kept control of her, but her household of Transforms had sought and received a court ruling declaring Miss Minton an adult, a ward of the Transforms whose lives depended on the actions of the Focus. They had filed suit against Mr. and Mrs. Minton to provide monetary support for them, after Mr. and Mrs. Minton had filed suit to reverse the court ruling against their daughter. A month ago, they settled, mutually agreeing to drop both suits.

Gilgamesh had no fear of this Focus. He and Midgard were able to creep right up to the apartment complex she and her household lived in and take dross. It wasn't enough, but it was better than nothing.

He had never felt so bad about anything in his life.

"I say we should rent one of those apartments," Midgard said, once the two of them had gone back to their hidey-hole in a culvert in the Busse Woods Reservoir. Midgard had hopped the same freight train as Gilgamesh, and they had ended up in Chicago. For the moment, they decided to work together. Gilgamesh had once found the thought of spending large amounts of time with the other Crow unnerving. Now they stayed together for convenience, but he doubted it would last long. "It would be safe for us. Her Transforms don't believe a single thing Minton tells them."

Midgard's observation wasn't surprising, as Miss Minton was a prisoner in one of the apartments, under strict discipline. If she didn't move the juice correctly, her household punished her, led by several of the male spouses of the women Transforms. Some of this 'discipline' had come out in the court case. The newspapers reported that if she messed up the juice flow a little, she was grounded, and if she messed it up a lot, she lost television privileges.

"Where are we going to get the money?" Gilgamesh asked, hugging his knees and resting his chin on his arms. Depression crushed down his soul, amplifying the emotional loss he had been experiencing since he left St. Louis and Tiamat behind. "What they're doing to Minton is criminal. I can't stand her pain, and I don't want to live near her." If the newspaper reports had been correct a month ago, Miss Minton's discipline had rapidly worsened. She was currently confined to a bedroom with several other female Transforms, on short rations, and in the short time Gilgamesh and Midgard had been watching the Focus she had twice been beaten with a belt until she bled.

Midgard nodded, and picked at a splinter off the wooden crates they sat on. They had collected the crates from behind the Sears, and piled them high enough to keep them from having to sit in the icy water that ran through the culvert. "You want to leave Chicago? I'll have to admit that I'm still a little unnerved by the three Arm kills we found. I'm sure they're Zaltu's."

Zaltu wasn't anywhere that Gilgamesh could find in Chicago. Nor was Gilgamesh bothered by the idea of sharing a town as big as Chicago with the Arm, despite her violent nature. "They're Zaltu's. If she didn't kill those Transforms, two of them would have turned into psycho killers and the other into a Monster. Yes, she's a killer, but she saves the lives of normals as well." Which was a hell of a lot more than Gilgamesh was able to do, which bothered him a lot.

Midgard shook his head and picked up a piece of the stale bread they had looted from some trashcans behind a diner. He leaned back against the curving concrete and gnawed halfheartedly. "About the only thing going for this place is that my bad dreams have stopped." Midgard had complained about bad dreams in St. Louis, and when Gilgamesh had asked about them, Midgard had said that Gilgamesh would get them too, when he got older. "Minton's no worse off than any of us are."

Gilgamesh paused and tried to find a more comfortable position in the cold culvert. As he moved the garbage, a car rumbled by overhead and the wooden crates shivered. "What's happening to the Minton Focus has no reason. She's not a killer. Her problem is that she's too nice a person."

"You want to save her, don't you?" Midgard asked. He polished off the last bite of bread and brushed the crumbs from his pants.

"Yes, of course, but I don't see how."

Midgard chuckled. "We're living in a culvert under a road, and you want to save this Minton Focus, and Tiamat, and on the side find a way to chastise Echo for chasing us out of St. Louis? You're too nice a person yourself, Gilgamesh. We're Crows, dammit! We're going to be lucky if we can find a way to keep ourselves alive."

They had hashed this out before and gotten nowhere. It was hard enough for Gilgamesh to be in close contact even with another Crow for so long. Minton's pain made it unbearable. "I'm bored," Gilgamesh said. "At least St. Louis was interesting, trying to figure out Tiamat and Zaltu. Watching a bunch of nasty old adult Transforms torture a kid Focus is nothing but horrible."

"Crows don't like things interesting," Midgard said. "However, if you want life to be interesting, head east. Many Crows live along the east coast, and bumping heads with them ought to keep you from being bored for quite a while. I might head there myself, but first, I want to check out Detroit, Cleveland and Buffalo."

Gilgamesh shrugged. "Good luck," he said. "I'll stick around here until I've grabbed the last of the dross from Zaltu's kills

"Good luck, yourself," Midgard said.

Gilgamesh nodded. After Midgard left, Gilgamesh walked south until he was out of range of Miss Minton, and found a condemned tenement where he could squat. Alone again. He thought dark thoughts about the lives of Crows. The lives of all Transforms. Why everything was so bad.

He wasn't able to come up with any answers.

Carol Hancock: November 1, 1966 – November 3, 1966

I exercised all morning after McIntyre's second target practice session. It took an effort of will, because what I preferred to do was curl up in my bed and wallow in the misery of my descending juice count. The ache in my muscles prodded me into motion anyway. With 'Larry Borton' gone, my muscles deteriorated faster.

Nurse Wilson snuck me extra food and I smelled Doris's scent on her. My friends were cooperating. Of all things, the extra food routine appeared to be part of the low-end staff's established clandestine procedures. With a little thought, I decided Focuses must need extra food as well.

After lunch, McIntyre's goons led me out into the courtyard again. I expected another target shooting session, but instead, McIntyre stood next to a tank of water. The tank was slightly larger than a coffin and about four feet tall. Slow raindrops plinked on its surface. "Chain her up and drop her in," he said.

For an instant, I thought they had come up with a novel way of killing me. Then I took a good look at McIntyre and his techs, and realized they all thought I would survive this. They tossed me in and I tried to hold my breath. That worked for a while. After I coughed out the air in my lungs, I didn't pass out as I'd expected I would. I bounced on the bottom, chained and immobile, and breathed water. Many minutes passed, and I went to sleep. Dreams and everything. I have no idea how long they held me under – over an hour, my guess – but the next thing I knew, I was awake and spitting out water. Apparently, breathing wasn't as essential as it had once been. I wondered how that worked and cursed the fact I hadn't had a science class since high school biology.

They hauled me into Lab One, and the techs started their work. I shivered, soaking wet and too low on juice to resist the cold. Six days had passed since my last draw, normally not a problem, but their tests cost me juice, the water test the most.

McIntyre proved to be chatty as the techs took post-test measurements and samples. My urine was the most obscene bright yellow I'd ever seen. "You know, Carol, it's too bad no one can trust Arms, because of what that bitch Keaton did when she turned on us. You'd make a hell of an FBI agent." He leered, and my skin crawled. "As it is, we're going to keep going today, even though Dr. Peterson says your juice levels are dangerously low. I even have some incentive for you – you're going to get a draw tonight. My people got lucky and found a man about to go into withdrawal at a suburban St. Louis Transform Clinic, and you get to keep this incipient psycho from dying in withdrawal."

Again, I refused to answer. My instincts on the subject had served me right before and I let them guide me again. The last thing I wanted was to encourage McIntyre or befriend him.

McIntyre's next test involved a rigged gurney. They attached me to it, wheeled it out onto the Detention Center roof, and dropped me three stories down onto concrete. I strained a few muscles and tendons when I landed on my toes, but didn't break a single bone. I was so shocked that, without thinking, I stood up.

Mistake. I shouldn't have stood up. Low juice made me stupid. Both Dr. Peterson and the FBI goons were so surprised they repeated the test a half hour later. This time, I writhed on the ground in agony afterwards, all a show, to convince them the result of the first test was a fluke.

I was glad of that test, though. Now I knew how I would escape from this damned place, if the time ever came: through the unbarred third story window in the bathroom I used, three doors down from the suicide cell. Before the test, I had decided it was too high to be useful. In addition, by taking me up onto the roof, they gave me a bird's eye view of the Detention Center and its surroundings, improving my map of the Detention Center.

My preparations for a possible escape progressed on other fronts as well. Mike Artusy and I had a routine going, where I took a late shower, and he was always available to escort me from the suicide cell to the bathroom. He got to feel me up and I got to encourage him. Low on juice, I could hardly stand to have him touch me, but necessity made me a good actress. My purpose was to provide him incentive to find a way to remove the two guards from outside the suicide cell so he could get laid again. He might not be able to pull it off, but I had many long shots percolating, and I only needed one to come through.

Now, because I'd learned I could walk away from a three story fall, I had other uses planned for my late night shower routine.

Patrelle's sadistic plans for the day weren't finished. Yes, I sensed my next draw, another volunteer Transform, come into the Detention Center, but they took him out into the courtyard. Like an obedient puppy, they led me on a leash to the courtyard, where I found my draw guarded by four starving attack dogs, German Shepherds.

I crouched down and studied the situation. I wasn't anywhere near as advanced as that Rose Desmond Arm that Dr. Zielinski had told me about, who could slow down her draws, but I wasn't a mindless juice-hungry zombie in front of a draw anymore. That is, I didn't attack the German Shepherds with my teeth and chipped-painted fingernails.

Instead, I let my instincts guide me. I growled the dogs into whining submission before I took the Transform.

I awoke back in the suicide cell. I amused myself as normal until, to my surprise, I got a knock on the door. My watch, which I still couldn't believe they hadn't taken from me, said it was time for my late night shower. Artusy.

I did him in the corridor. Now, I wanted him to touch me. We clung to each other, all hot hands and desperate post-draw urgency. To my shock, there was only one guard and he didn't interfere. "That's 'cause she couldn't get the dog," the guard said. "You shoulda seen her. Stoned off her ass, an' she's tryin' to make it with a fuckin' dog, only the dog wouldn't have her. McIntyre and his guys laughed so hard they were rollin' on the ground."

Someday, McIntyre would die for his laughter.

I didn't disappoint Mike Artusy. I figured twenty minutes would satisfy him beyond his wildest dreams and wouldn't drive him to flee in terror. I'd even gained sufficient self-control that I didn't make a pass at the leering guard, to my surprise.

The shower afterwards was abnormally long, though, and Artusy had to pound on the door to get me to finish after my allotted fifteen minutes.

The next day, they set up movie cameras and gave me a death row inmate to play with. He survived the experience. I probably would have gotten the clap or syphilis, save that as an Arm I was immune to nearly any imaginable communicable disease. I wasn't anywhere near as kind to him as I'd been to Mike Artusy.

After I fucked the diseased rapist-murderer into gibbering insanity, I realized I had changed my outlook on life since the shadowy Patrelle's arrival. To hell with my reluctance to sink to the level of my enemies. I'd go lower. I wanted revenge. Blood-soaked revenge.

Rover (Interlude): November 1, 1966

What was with these hunters! He hadn't even chased any cars since the last time they hunted him, or killed anyone. At least that he remembered. He stayed up in the mountains, avoiding humans altogether.

Rover panted and crept through the underbrush to the overlook to watch them. In his mind, he cursed them as carrion.

They pushed a cage into a clearing, a cage with a wounded and dying Monster in it, a Monster shot full of big holes. Luckily, Rover got some good loving a paw's worth of days ago. The hunters carried different thunder sticks this time, shorter and wider. He tried to understand, but couldn't.

He had made a mistake after the last good loving. He saw something in himself he hadn't seen before. A possibility. He tried something, after the good loving.

It worked, making his teeth sharper and longer. Sort of. He hadn't been able to make his existing teeth grow sharper and longer. Instead, he grew a new set of teeth that had forced out his old teeth. In the process, he lost things. Memories. Words. Like the real name of the thunder sticks. He had lost a bit of his humanity.

"I'm Rover," he whispered. A dog, a large dog. Only he was back to 'robber'. He had to remember not to try the trick with the teeth. He didn't have much more humanity to lose.

They put boxes around the Monster's cage. Rover shook his head. Traps of some sort, he decided. Nets. They wanted to capture him, not kill him.

Why?

"Go 'way," Rover barked down at the hunters. The not-a-Monster lady with the huge amount of good loving, who was tiny, about the same size as the little girl who named him Rover, looked up at him and met his gaze. Rover slunk back. He hadn't realized she could see him from so far away.

"Rover, we're here to help you," she said. Her voice was loud but beautiful, matching her personal beauty. He could almost believe her words, but not quite. She terrified him.

"Monster trap," he said.

He fled. They were too dangerous, and too precious. If he stayed with them, he would eventually need the good loving, and either he would kill them or they would kill him.

Tonya Biggioni: November 2, 1966

"Biggioni."

"Tonya, this is Lori."

"How did you get this number? My television station office's phone number is a secret."

"Focus tricks. Trust me, Tonya, you don't want to know."

"So, what's the occasion? You finally take care of the Catskills Monster?"

"No. Something else came up."

"Are you trying to get yourself in trouble? Taking care of the Monster is priority number one, and..."

"The Catskills Monster isn't a Monster. He's a male Major Transform, what's called a Chimera. The male version of an Arm."

"You're crazy. I don't care what this creature is as long as this creature dies."

"Tonya, he's got a name: Rover. He _talks_. He's as much of a Major Transform as either of us is. It would be wrong to kill him; he's not a mindless beast. Tonya, we need a plan to take care of him that doesn't involve killing. I don't think any of us should be in the business of killing Major Transforms of any variety. The consequences of killing Major Transforms might spiral out..."

"Kill the Monster. Without the excuses."

"Tonya, look, I convinced a Crow who tames animals and Monsters to try and tame Rover. Bring him into civilization; give him another alternative other than killing innocents. I'm gambling, here, but I think we need to give..."

"Lori, Crows don't exist. Chimeras don't exist. Male Major Transforms don't exist. You can't..."

"The fact the Council, in its infinite wisdom, refuses to condescend to admit they really exist isn't going to change the reality that they _do_ exist and the Council's refusal to recognize the existence of the male Major Transforms is going to bite them in the derrière some dark day soon, if not tomorrow and Rover is most definitely male and there's no mistaking his sex. His manhood is as long as my forearm!"

"I can't help you if you persist in falling into these delusions, Lori. Nor am I going to say word one about your delusionary report to the Council. Believe what you want, just so the Catskills Monster is taken care of one way or another."

"What I need is help. Men and women with guns, to serve as a perimeter, and..."

"That's your problem to solve. Solve it. Bye."

Gilgamesh: November 3, 1966

The automobile-laden freight train slowed as it approached another big city. Gilgamesh had no idea where he was; he had lost track of his exact location somewhere in Ohio. His food had run out and twinges of need for dross had him talking to himself again. Zaltu's kill spots in Chicago had been too small and too old, and he hadn't managed to eke out more than a few days' worth of dross from any of them. When the train slowed down to a crawl, inside the city, he rolled off onto the gravel siding.

He stood and examined his surroundings. The pothole-filled streets nearby crossed the train tracks with at best worn-down warning signs, and the nearby dilapidated buildings reminded him of pictures of 19th Century cities. The air was filled with a cold mist and the eastern sky held the hint of morning. He decided to walk, and as he went, he checked trashcans for edible garbage and ate things he didn't want to think about.

He got to a main highway ten minutes later and followed the boulevard, warily, as far from the pavement as possible. Ahead, Gilgamesh saw some newspaper men filling newspaper boxes. Once they left, he walked up and read the name of the newspaper: The Pittsburgh Post. He continued to walk, amazed at the lack of dross anywhere in metasense range.

Just after dawn, he found an abandoned factory, and caught some sleep.

He woke up in the afternoon. The weather had cleared and turned cold. Gilgamesh decided to go out anyway, despite the fact his jacket wasn't heavy enough for the weather and might turn some heads. The cold no longer bothered him; just another street bum, not worth anyone's attention. He could swear his beard would be completely gone in another two months. Reverse puberty? Surely not.

He crossed the Monongahela, skirted the city center, and headed northeast, away from the dross-desolate area he had been in. After another two hours, Gilgamesh found himself in an older residential neighborhood, on the other side of a university campus. Carnegie-Mellon. Finally he sensed dross, far to the northeast, a couple of sets. He couldn't figure out either of them.

Gilgamesh continued on his way. He metasensed no other Crows, nor any Focuses, although he did metasense several Transforms. One of the sets of dross he found resolved itself into a conglomeration of several small sources, around a large older source of sludgy ick. He recognized the pattern as that of a Transform Clinic. Certainly worth a visit, even though it was within two miles of the other, unknown, dross.

Night fell and Gilgamesh became more careful. City police wouldn't be at all tolerant of an unwashed bum like him in any fine neighborhoods. The Transform Clinic turned out to be located at the edge of a Veterans' Administration Medical Center, a sprawling expanse of hospitals, doctors' offices and outpatient clinics. The other dross source, close now, gave Gilgamesh chills. The Clinic was an abyss of black sludge, deeper and fouler than anything he had metasensed before. There were Transforms in it, though he lost track of them if he didn't pay attention to his metasense.

Gilgamesh had no trouble getting to the edge of the Transform Clinic, where he found two dross patches safely hidden in the parking garage. The Clinic was a busy place, even at night, but no one noticed him. He hid himself behind a trashcan in the parking garage and sipped dross. Neither he nor Migdard had been able to figure out what caused these dross patches, though they had spent many hours whispering theories about them to each other. Two patches were enough to satisfy him for the day, and he left to seek shelter. Perhaps find some fresher garbage.

"Young friend, this town is not safe for one like yourself," a voice whispered, from far too close.

Part 3  
What Is An Arm?

"Not surprisingly, it turns out that the Transforms have developed their own terms. When a Transform is 'stripped', their Focus has taken away his juice, often to punish him. When a Transform is 'pumped,' hisFocus has given him extra juice, which he often finds pleasurable. What a Focus does normally, to keep her Transforms alive is termed 'moving juice', which is best done imperceptibly whenever the Focus is close enough to her Transforms. Despite all these neato terms, the scientists at the CDC expect a cure for the Shakes any day now!" [Teen Glamour, August 1963 issue]

Chapter 8

"The tragic events in Las Vegas have been linked to the escape last year of the rogue woman Transform Stacy Keaton. This one-woman crime spree has now been linked to forty-two deaths and the theft of just over a million dollars in cash and jewelry. The FBI has questioned several members of the Transform community and has gotten nowhere. Several members of Congress are calling for the reintroduction of the Transform Quarantine to prevent such rogue Transforms in the future." [UPI report on May 12, 1964]

Gilgamesh: November 3, 1966

A Crow whisper!

Gilgamesh panicked, and as a tidal wave of fear flooded into his body, he ran. The whispered voice had come from his left, across the street and down a walkway to one of the hospital's emergency exits. Close. There hadn't been a Crow in metasense range before, but now Gilgamesh sensed him. Gilgamesh turned into the first alley he came to, a delivery driveway for a professional building, and slowed to a stop.

The panic vanished. Surprised, Gilgamesh flattened against the brick wall of the building, kicking aside a beer bottle in the process. He wondered if this sudden loss of panic was some sort of attack

Or perhaps he was just a mite too paranoid. Gilgamesh couldn't decide.

"I mean no harm," Gilgamesh said, to be safe. Hell. This had to be another of the older Crows, like Echo.

"I know. Come over here, so we can talk." Confused, Gilgamesh wondered if he should run, even though he wasn't panicked anymore. He decided against it, despite the strange way the panic had left him. He didn't pick up the same feeling of _nasty_ from this Crow he had picked up from Echo. He crossed the deserted road and cautiously entered the narrow walkway. The alley was a dark place, surrounded by tall hospital walls on three sides.

"My name is Rumor," the Crow said, once he came in sight of Gilgamesh's night vision. Rumor was a tall man, six two or so, athletic, with piercing eyes. A powerful aura of calmness surrounded him. He looked out of place among the trash and dirt of the neglected walkway, wearing a trench coat over a businessman's suit and a fedora on his head. Old fashioned. Unlike Gilgamesh in his light jacket, he looked dressed for the cold weather.

"Gilgamesh." Gilgamesh came two feet into this other Crow's crevice and stopped. The stars twinkled brightly in the clear air above, but their light didn't make it into this shadowed chasm.

"Ah, yes. Merlin heard of you through Sinclair." Gilgamesh frowned. He met Sinclair long before he had taken his 'Gilgamesh' name. "How's life treating you?"

Soft voice, confident. Rumor was forward for a Crow, Gilgamesh decided. "I could use a little more dross."

"I'm on a mission regarding that subject; that's why I'm so forward for a Crow," Rumor said.

"You read minds?" Surely not.

"I read juice, and juice mirrors the emotions. If you know what to look for." That made sense. "Unfortunately, I'm not going to answer any of your most pressing questions. I'm a firm believer in the school of hard knocks. Each Crow needs to make his own way in the world, discover his own place in our Transform society. My way is harsh, but Crows are one with nature. The need for us is not as great as the number of Crows. No Crow has ever killed another Crow, either."

Gilgamesh licked his lips and pondered the Rumor's words. Rumor was a strange Crow, filled with strange ideas. Terrible, terrifying ideas. To such a Crow, Gilgamesh was but a pawn, a flea.

His annoyance at his status didn't stop him from trying to figure out what was going on. "Your mission is to warn me against the blot of dross to the southeast," Gilgamesh said, tilting his head to indicate that direction.

Rumor nodded. "Sharp as a tack. You'll indeed need watching. I see you didn't need my warning at all."

"What caused the blot?"

"A fearsome ancient Focus, one of the first, lives within it. Several Crows have gone into her black stain over the years. None has ever returned. Many find the black stain alluring. I warn them away."

Rumor had the pattern of the blot within him, as well.

"You feed on it." Gilgamesh certainly had no cause to complain of any other Crow's choice to take dross from dangerous sources.

"Yes. There's enough dross for twenty Crows like myself." No other Crows lived here, though.

"I have no home. Can you teach me how to take the old Focus's dross?"

"I could, but I won't," Rumor said. He paced back and forth across the width of the grimy walkway. The huge weight of dross on him churned, and flickered through a series of half-realized patterns Gilgamesh barely sensed. Rumor was clearly doing something with dross, well beyond Gilgamesh's comprehension. "Come back in three or four years, Gilgamesh. Then I'll teach you, if you're still interested. Or find another home, and never return. Either way, this is no place for a young Crow such as you."

Yes, Gilgamesh realized. Rumor was right. Pittsburgh was no place for a young Crow like himself. "Thank you. It was nice meeting you," he said. "You quieted my panic, didn't you?" Gilgamesh asked.

"Of course," Rumor said. "Anything else wouldn't have been polite. We need the panic to flee from the many dangers of our world – Arms, Beast Men, first Focuses, doctors, the more powerful Sports, Monsters, the FBI and local police, withdrawal Psychos, perhaps even the Lost Tribe of Canada or the Purifier of Europe – but it can impede conversation between Crows."

Gilgamesh nodded; Rumor's name was no accident. He turned to make his way out through the dark streets, mind working to remember the many foreign references Rumor had mentioned. To his surprise, Rumor paced him. They walked silently, twenty feet from each other, as Gilgamesh headed south again, through the old residential area back toward the river and the freight yard beyond it. They were approaching the edge of Carnegie-Mellon when Rumor spoke again.

"I do wonder, though, who you ran into who gave you that?"

"Which 'That?'" Gilgamesh asked back.

"You couldn't tell what I did?" Rumor asked, and sighed. "Have you run into any other senior Crows recently?"

Ah. Confirmation. Rumor _was_ a senior Crow. "I don't believe so. I did run into a Crow by the name of Echo, who chased me out of St. Louis. He wanted to make sure the Arm held in the St. Louis Detention Center died." Echo's banishment still irritated Gilgamesh.

"He did? That's disturbing news," Rumor said. "I have a friend who'd like to hear your story. Thomas the Dreamer. Would you mind visiting him?"

"Cabin in Maine, right?" Gilgamesh asked.

"Not at the moment. He's in Kingston, New York, along the freight line between New York City and Albany. You show up in Kingston and he or one of the other Crows there will find you."

"What're multiple Crows doing in Kingston?" Gilgamesh asked.

No answer. Rumor was gone. Gilgamesh continued to walk and didn't stop until he left town.

It would be nearly half a decade before Gilgamesh had the skills to understand how Rumor had driven him away.

Carol Hancock: November 4, 1966 – November 9, 1966

Doris met my eyes and cleared her throat as she delivered my breakfast to me in my corner of the Detention Center commissary. I nodded, waited a moment, and ran my fingers under all my dishes.

The note was under my bowl of oatmeal. Sharp and alert, only three days past my draw, I kept the note in my palm until I got to the weight room. There, I read and ate the short letter.

Carol

Your sister received your note. She was not amused. All is not lost, though, and negotiations are occurring. Be wary of sudden diarrhea and be prepared.

Paul Klee

Dr. Zielinski. I recognized his pseudonym from the damned art book I had grabbed from him. He was the only one of my current acquaintances who knew the names of German abstract expressionist artists. The meaning of the note took a few moments to parse. My 'sister' was Keaton, she didn't want to help me, but Dr. Zielinski thought he might convince her to change her mind. Sudden diarrhea – sudden runs? Be prepared? Ah. I shouldn't escape on my own. Instead, I should be ready for Keaton. Assuming Dr. Zielinski convinced her to help.

Which meant I had damned well better be ready to escape when the time came. I had no idea what Keaton would need me to do, but from what I had seen of her, I needed to be ready for as many contingencies as I could think up. Dr. Zielinski had warned me that Keaton would never want to speak to me again, so even though it sounded like Dr. Zielinski might be able to patch things up with her, I doubted the next time we met she would be in a good mood.

The note was good for my spirits and I spent a bunch of time during my morning exercises smiling about good ol' Dr. 'James Bond' Zielinski. Where and how had he learned all this crap? I had a sudden inspiration that not only had he known about the first Focus's breakout from Quarantine, he had helped.

On other fronts, I decided my self-imposed morning exercises were keeping me from getting worse. Unfortunately, every time I went through low juice I stopped exercising and the muscle pain got worse. Each draw took me another step farther down the ladder of destruction. I hoped Keaton showed up sooner, rather than later.

At lunch, Doris sat down with me to talk. She wanted to quiz me over the note, which we couldn't do, not openly.

Eventually, Doris asked "We know you've had such a hard time here recently. Is there anything special you'd be interested in having us do for you?"

Meaning 'if you're going to escape, how can we help?' I had been waiting for her question, an integral part of my plan.

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "It's the staff who've had such a hard time, not me, especially with my growling and snarling at them when times are bad. I think the staff here deserves a party."

"A party?" Doris asked. She peered at me with owl eyes, confused.

"Oh, yes. I'm your first Arm," and if they were lucky, their only Arm ever, "and you've gotten me through the worst of my transformation. Handling me has to be rough, hard on morale, and a party would be just the thing to pick things up. Not only that, it has to be a surprise party, say with one day notice."

My request was perfectly stupid and female. No idiot male FBI agent would even bother to transcribe this.

"Oh, I understand," Doris said, and smiled. She thought I would use the party as cover for my escape.

"A late afternoon party, so both the day and night shifts can participate," I said.

She nodded.

"I even have some menu ideas." Doris's eyes widened as I read off my list from memory, and after the fifth item, Doris began to take notes. She had no idea how many parties I had planned and hosted in my former life. What I didn't know about food wasn't worth knowing.

I had planned the menu for this party with great care. The menu had enough sugary sweets and heavy dishes laden with starches to put an entire US Army battalion to sleep.

"Last, you need some of the special punch you told me your daughter made for her high school graduation," I finished. Her daughter had secretly spiked the punch with a quart or two of vodka.

Doris nodded and smiled.

This was going to be fun.

Patrelle's sadistic tests continued. The day of the note they had me fight a starving grizzly bear. With my bare hands. Me without the least idea about how to fight. Know what? I did the same as I did to the dogs. Then I sent the grizzly after the FBI. They shot the bear without hesitation. Later, I realized how stupid I had been, from an SPCA standpoint as well as "don't reveal your tricks to the enemy". Said grizzly bear was the last wild animal I saw at the Detention Center.

It didn't seem to bother the staff when I barked at the FBI. They wanted to do so themselves.

Three days after the grizzly bear test, my captors stuck a short wooden pole in my hands and had me fight a well-padded martial arts master, a Marine. He beat the crap out of me for two hours, and I carefully didn't let the rage take me. Instead, I studied his moves, especially his hands and feet, and carefully didn't copy them. I figured that by the end of the fight, I knew enough about this pole fighting business to beat a teenage boy. If he had asthma.

The FBI was using me to teach them what an Arm could do. I fought back by screwing up their tests as best I could whenever I could hold in my rage. More, though, I used the FBI to teach me about myself.

An Arm had to be some kind of athlete. I'd seen women athletes perform in the various Olympic Games, and although I hadn't thought much of their career choices, I'd come to grips with the fact that Transform Sickness didn't do much in the way of asking permission. If I lived and got out of here, I expected Keaton would put me through athletic training far worse than she put me through as Larry Borton.

I found 'Arm as athlete' a far better answer to 'What is an Arm?' than 'killer'. Perhaps God made the Arms to be bodyguards for the leading Focuses or something. The answer didn't satisfy me, but I liked it better than my earlier answers.

After the Marine had finished with me, and I lay on the ground staring up at the clear November sky and bleeding, McIntyre came up to me to sneer. "Loser, you might as well pack it in and let the center use your room for what it was intended. What Santa is giving me this year is a chance to piss on your grave, you grotesque parody of a human woman." He stuck his head down close to mine. "Given your recent fine cooperation, though, I'd rather you died cleanly than give the Director here a reason to jack off."

I agreed, but again my instincts counseled against answering McIntyre, so I said nothing.

The next morning, Doris met my eyes and cleared her throat as she delivered breakfast. Under the oatmeal bowl I found a Xerox of a part of the first page of a government document, regarding the financials for the 'Arm Carol Hancock Project'. The salient information was near the top: 'Project Termination Date: 12/21/1966'.

A deadline, by more than one meaning of the word.

Handwritten in smeared pencil was the following: 'You've got to get out of here! What more can we do to help?'

I had a list. I wrote down a few pieces of information I needed on the back of the note during my exercise session in the morning, and returned it at lunchtime.

For now, I had to wait on Keaton. I hoped she decided I was worth saving.

Gilgamesh: November 5, 1966

Gilgamesh rolled off the freight train at about three in the morning. He expected to metasense Crows in number, but sensed nothing. Not even any dross. The town was lit up around him against the low clouds and the rain had stopped, but the ground was still damp from earlier. He slipped into the shadows and headed in towards town. Rumor had said to go east to Kingston, and Gilgamesh had sometimes wondered the wisdom of his decision, but truthfully, he didn't have anywhere better to go.

"Over here," a voice whispered. Gilgamesh jumped and skittered behind the back of an Esso station. Nothing from his metasense. No idea where the voice came from.

"In the car."

Gilgamesh carefully looked around the area and found the car in question, lights off, chugging quietly in the night about five hundred feet away from the gas station. The car was practically invisible in the shadow of the racks of pipe in the storage depot by the road. Gilgamesh, even though he knew where the man in the car was, still couldn't metasense him.

The man wanted Gilgamesh to join him in the car. The idea terrified Gilgamesh.

"I don't do cars," Gilgamesh said, an answering whisper.

"You don't do cars?" His whisper voice echoed oddly against the ranks of bulk freight ready for transfer on to the trains. "You're in danger here. This place is too open." Okay, he was a Crow. No one else would have heard Gilgamesh's whisper from so far away.

Well, there's always a first time, Gilgamesh decided. He jogged over to the car, past pipes, coal, and crates of what he suspected were household appliances. Dogs guarded this particular lot, but they ignored Gilgamesh. He approached within twenty feet of the car and slowed. Cold sweat covered his body and his knees grew weaker with each step. Three steps farther and he stopped. He couldn't force himself any closer to the car. "Sorry," Gilgamesh said, bracing himself against a chain link fence.

For a moment, the Crow in the car looked at Gilgamesh with wide eyes. He nodded and exited out of the car. "I can protect you if you can stand being close to me." The car was the only vehicle on the desolate industrial street. The other Crow huddled close to the fence, as if it would shelter him.

"Protect me from what?" Twenty feet was such a small distance. Gilgamesh wondered if he should have come so close. At least the clouds hid the moon, giving the night a comforting darkness.

"We have a Beast Man in the area," the Crow said. He was an inch shorter than Gilgamesh, slightly stouter, with short-cropped black hair and dark eyes. He looked black Irish or Welch, and so confident while standing on the cracked sidewalk. "I'm protected from the Beast Man's metasense, but you're not. You're Gilgamesh, right? I can protect you if you walk with me."

"Yes, I'm Gilgamesh," Gilgamesh said, and walked over to the Crow. Given a choice between an unknown Crow and the threat of a Beast Man? No contest. He would chance the unknown Crow.

At least this unknown Crow, unlike his car, didn't feel like a threat.

"I'm Vizul Lightning," the Crow said, as Gilgamesh came close. "Guru Thomas and the rest of them are about five miles away. We can walk."

"Okay," Gilgamesh said, wondering if Vizul meant the same thing Echo had when he called his boss a 'Guru'. Disquieting, but certainly more interesting than Gilgamesh's first guess that 'Guru' was Echo's boss's first name. "So you've seen a Beast Man?"

"Me? You've got to be kidding. I'm just here to help Occum," the Crow said. Gilgamesh metasensed the same sort of roiling cloud of foggy dross on the Crow that had covered Echo back in St. Louis. No hint of _fierce_ , though. "None of us have seen or metasensed this beast yet, but reliable reports have him in the general area. Hunting the Catskills, it seems."

Gilgamesh licked his lips and relaxed. "Uh, aren't the Catskills miles away from here?"

"The last report had the Beast hunting near Indian Head Mountain, about five miles north of Woodstock, which is itself about five miles from here," Vizul said, and pointed off to the northwest. "We're all in grave danger."

Ten miles didn't seem particularly close to Gilgamesh, certainly not close enough to be termed 'grave danger'. On the other hand, Gilgamesh knew Arms, not Beast Men, and as Beast Men were supposedly able to metasense Crows...

Gilgamesh found his metasense focused to the northwest. Presumably, Beast Men were as dangerous as the rumors said. "So why are all these Crows gathered here?" Gilgamesh asked. The last place he would choose to gather was a town right next to a Beast Man.

"Occum thinks he can tame the Beast Man, if he can get close."

Gilgamesh stopped his sudden panicked run after a half dozen steps. He didn't remember starting to run; his feet had taken off on their own. Vizul stopped and waited for Gilgamesh to come back. "Taming a Beast sounds suicidal," Gilgamesh said, sheepishly. He guessed Occum was another Crow.

"Hey, you're not going to get any arguments from me. But Occum's a beast tamer; he's tamed just about everything up to and including Monsters. In fact, Occum has a bright idea that Beast Men ought to be easier to tame than Monsters. If you can believe Occum, he wants to use tamed Beast Men to help him tame Monsters."

"If Beast Men are anything like Arms, I don't think 'taming' is the right attitude," Gilgamesh said. "From what I've observed, Zaltu – Stacy Keaton – is the sort who will try and tame _you_."

Now Vizul ran. Gilgamesh found it easy to keep up with Vizul. The other Crow wasn't much of a runner, sedentary and citified, perhaps, at least for a Crow.

At least they would get to wherever they were going faster this way.

Vizul led him to a vacant farmhouse at the base of the hills that marked the edge of the Hudson River valley. They had to dart over two freeways to get to the farmhouse, nicely situated about a mile and a half from the nearest freeway and far from any concentrations of people. Vizul and Gilgamesh trooped through hundreds of yards of harvested cornfields, peppered only with pale brown stalks left over from the harvest. Closer to the house, there were apple and pear trees, and even a cluster of blueberry bushes. Gilgamesh followed Vizul around the bushes and found a man and a woman chatting on the back porch steps. The woman stroked a small tiger striped cat who purred happily in her lap. A Coleman lantern on the railing provided light. They metasensed as normals and Gilgamesh held back, wondering why Vizul would lead him here. Then Gilgamesh noticed, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a good view of the man's face. Gilgamesh saw him, but his features refused to stick in Gilgamesh's memory. Now that was an interesting trick.

The man had to be a Crow.

"Hello," Gilgamesh said. The man and the woman looked up at him. Gilgamesh resisted the urge to step backwards.

"Vizul, could you grab the camp stool for our new friend, please?" the man asked, and motioned to Gilgamesh. "I'm Thomas the Dreamer."

"Gilgamesh."

The woman waved. She was on the stout side, in her early thirties, with shoulder length light brown hair held back from her face by artlessly placed bobby pins. For a moment, Gilgamesh wondered why she seemed so plain, and realized she wasn't wearing makeup. Noting her calf-length, red-checked A-line dress, he decided she was one of those artsy loose women who hung around with Beatniks. "Sadie," she said.

Vizul disappeared into the house with a confident bang of a screen door; re-appeared with the aforementioned stool, sat it down about five feet away from Thomas, and vanished back into the farmhouse. The sky was no longer black, showing the first hints of sunrise in the east. It would be a cool, crisp day. Beautiful. The cat left the woman to investigate Gilgamesh. He must have approved, as he proceeded to wind his way between Gilgamesh's legs. Gilgamesh did his best to ignore the cat.

"Sir, what's the smell?" Gilgamesh asked. "And the snoring?" Someone in the house was snoring thunderously. "Have you captured the Beast Man already?" If so, Gilgamesh was about to see how fast he could run.

"Oh, that's Brunhilda," Sadie whispered. "She's Occum's latest Monster." Sadie's voice was expressive and powerful, even as a whisper. Gilgamesh pegged her as a singer of some variety. He wondered how she had gotten involved with this group of Crows. He doubted she was a local; she spoke with a noticeable Long Island accent and knew to whisper around Crows.

Gilgamesh gingerly sat on the stool, nervous to be so near to a Monster. And a woman. Well, if this Thomas Crow wasn't panicked, he didn't need to be, either.

"Rumor sent me," Gilgamesh said, to Thomas. "He said you'd want to hear my story. I found his suggestions hard to resist."

"Yes, yes, of course," Thomas said. "That's our Rumor. Is it true you transformed only four months ago?"

"Three and a half," Gilgamesh said. "Is that a problem?"

"No. Not at all," Thomas said. Suddenly, little blue robin's eggs appeared, a lot of them, floating all around Gilgamesh. They vanished. Gilgamesh jumped up, stopped and sat back down. The cat, offended, skittered a few steps away, and sat on its haunches to watch the fun. "How many did you metasense?" Thomas asked.

Gilgamesh furrowed his brow when he realized he hadn't seen the eggs, and had only noticed them with his metasense. He hadn't known Crows could create illusions or that his metasense could sense lifelike images. "I don't know, sir," Gilgamesh said. "I lost track at fifty-eight."

Thomas the Dreamer nodded, and someone softly whistled from inside the cabin. "Okay, how about this?" Thomas said. A dozen more eggs appeared on the ground at Gilgamesh's feet. "How many of these can you move at once?"

"Move?" Gilgamesh asked. Thomas nodded, and Gilgamesh took a closer look. Each egg was indeed its own thing of dross, separate from the others. Gilgamesh had never tried to move dross before, save when he fed. He tried to move one to the side. Nothing. He tried two. Still nothing. He tried to move them all. Nada. He shook his head, focused on one of the eggs, and bent his will and his capability to gather dross into the ability to move it.

The egg moved toward Gilgamesh and vanished. He had taken it as dross. "Sorry, sir," Gilgamesh said.

"That's okay. Next, can you command Sheila, here?" Thomas asked, and pointed to the cat.

"Command?" The question sounded absurd, but Vizul had mentioned that Occum could tame animals. Gilgamesh didn't know where to start. He tried mental commands, but the cat simply sat. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure what you're even talking about."

"No need to apologize. I was just testing you to find out what sort of skills you have. All us Crows are a little different in what we can do," Thomas said. It took all Gilgamesh's will not to run. Thomas the Dreamer was friendly and kind, as advertised, but he was still terrifying to be anywhere near. He knew so much! "So, why don't you tell us why Rumor sent you to me?"

"While I was living in St. Louis, taking dross from Tiamat – the Carol Hancock Arm, who's confined in the Detention Center in St. Louis – a Crow by the name of Echo came by and told me I was interfering in other Crow's business by taking dross from the Detention Center. Echo, who later represented himself as working for a senior Crow named Guru Chevalier, said that 'all Arms died' and if the Carol Hancock Arm escaped, he would betray her to the authorities, and threatened to help the police hunt this Arm down."

"You know the other Arm, Stacy Keaton, is rumored to be involved in the new Arm's detention?" a voice asked from the farmhouse. Gilgamesh guessed it was from the same person who had whistled earlier.

"Yes. Zaltu's terrifying, but she can't metasense me," Gilgamesh said. Like the voice of Thomas the Dreamer, this Crow's voice was comforting and kind, and again, terrifying, for what he knew and implied. Although Gilgamesh didn't have the feeling Thomas could 'read his mind' as Rumor had, he did have a sort of itchy feeling this hidden Crow had no problems reading Gilgamesh's mind.

"My name is Shadow, son," the voice from the cabin said. "You're one of mine, like Occum, though the question at hand, which is one of propriety, falls into Thomas's domain. Someday you need to come visit me."

"Yes, sir," Gilgamesh said. So both of the East Coast senior Crows were involved with this Beast Man affair. Gilgamesh took a slow breath and tried to relax. 'One of mine' sounded promising and disquieting. What sort of Crow dealt with Crows who mastered Beasts and Monsters, or dealt with Crows who dealt with Arms, like himself? From his conversations with Midgard, Gilgamesh guessed this Shadow Crow liked things interesting.

His nerves only held a moment, but broke when he noticed dross pooling at Sadie's feet. So much for calm; the sudden appearance of dross was too much of a surprise and he was under too much stress. He panicked and ran. He was only able to stop himself after fifty paces.

"What's the problem?" Thomas the Dreamer asked in his calm voice, still sitting comfortably on the porch.

Gilgamesh found himself in the harvested field again, among the dry, brown stalks. "I thought you were steadying me, the way Rumor did in Philadelphia."

Thomas shook his head. "None of us have been able to learn Rumor's trick. Come on back. Shadow here's just having a bit of stress tonight, after he got a surprise metasense glimpse of the Beast Man, and he's reverted to the behavior that earned him his name." Gilgamesh didn't move. "With his tricks, Shadow's metasense range is about nine miles, at least outside of New York City. The Beast Man is nowhere close, now."

"That isn't the problem, sir," Gilgamesh said. "It's just, um, I've never dealt with a Focus before."

Sadie frowned. "I'm not a Focus, Gilgamesh. I'm a woman Transform."

Gilgamesh crept back, his face red, and sat back down on the stool. "I humbly beg your pardon, then, ma'am. You're producing dross and I sensed it gathering around your feet."

"You sensed the dross?" Thomas asked. "Through my protections? I find myself intrigued. Can you tell why Sadie's producing dross?"

Gilgamesh took another metasense glance at Sadie. Now he knew what to look for, he vaguely metasensed she was a Transform through what Thomas the Dreamer called 'his protections'. "Sadie, ma'am, you appear to have a juice flaw, just under your ribcage on your left side. It's about four inches long, and my guess is your juice flaw is related to an old wound. I've seen that on Tiamat."

He heard some rustling from inside the cabin. There goes Vizul Lightning again, Gilgamesh decided.

Sadie's eyes opened wide, but she didn't run (Thomas the Dreamer didn't even twitch, not that Gilgamesh had expected him to). "I got the wound eight months ago while Monster hunting. The Monster's claws didn't touch me, but she used a short range juice weapon to knock me out." She smiled. "Now you're supposed to say 'Monsters can't do anything like that', just like the other Crows have said."

Gilgamesh shook his head. "The media and academic information on Transforms is either incomplete or a lie. I'm not surprised."

"Can you fix it?"

Gilgamesh shook his head. "All I can do is sense these strange things," he said. "I can't do anything as a Crow besides gather dross. I'm sorry."

"Yes, he's yours, Shadow," Thomas the Dreamer said, and sighed, an overly expressive 'I don't understand and I'd rather not understand' sigh. "Back to the real question. Gilgamesh, what is your concern for the fate of this Arm?"

Gilgamesh looked around uneasily. Tiamat was a killer, and he knew he should condemn her for it, but... "I would rather she lived," he said in a small voice.

Much to Gilgamesh's surprise, Thomas the Dreamer didn't seem bothered by Gilgamesh's support of a killer. "Why?"

Gilgamesh had thought about his reaction to Tiamat a lot during his meanderings since St. Louis. He took a breath and wrapped his arms around his torso. "Because it isn't her fault that she's the way she is. Because she provides huge quantities of wonderful dross. Because she's another Transform. Because... because nothing they say about Transform Sickness is right, and I don't believe they know what they're talking about with Tiamat either."

Gilgamesh shivered, but Thomas the Dreamer nodded. "As it happens, I agree with you, though it took me far longer than it's taken you to learn such wisdom."

"What?"

Thomas ignored Gilgamesh's interruption. "I've been considering the question myself as we discussed other subjects. I believe Echo is in the wrong. Nothing good comes of betraying other Major Transforms; I know this personally. Among the senior Crows, we _do_ have an agreement not to interfere. In fact, that's why I'm here, to judge whether what Occum is proposing to do with this Beast Man counts as interference. Tentatively, I have judged his actions are not interference, as this Beast Man can speak but a couple of words and is a menace to all. You're not the first to notice that the Arms are much more civilized than Beast Men and can talk and pass as human – and, yes, I understand how the common wisdom on the subject has been skewed by those who consider Arms to be mindless Monsters. Gilgamesh, you are free to stop Echo."

Gilgamesh nodded, delighted and surprised that Thomas agreed with him. He thought further and leaned forward with a frown. "Thomas, sir, I'm not capable of stopping Echo. He said 'scat' and I ran. He seemed to me to be a very dangerous Crow."

"Chevalier's cheating again, pushing the limits," Shadow whispered, from inside the house.

"And you're not?" Thomas said, to this Shadow Crow. "Also, not proven. But, old friend, I do have a test. Gilgamesh, did Echo do something like _this_?"

Suddenly, Thomas was _fierce_. Gilgamesh skittered back off the stool several steps, and nodded.

"How very unfortunate," Thomas said, his voice sad. The _fierce_ went away, and he was the calm, unmemorable Thomas the Dreamer again. "Shadow is right. Chevalier should not be tricking up a follower who cannot himself do such things. Such a trick is against many of our agreements."

"If you would be so kind, Guru Thomas, perhaps it would be prudent for you to aid Gilgamesh in a similar fashion, as to balance the situation," Shadow said. "As you correctly said, with your wise comment earlier, nothing good ever comes of betraying other Major Transforms." It took Gilgamesh a few moments to parse Shadow's oddly formal request. If Gilgamesh understood the intimations, Shadow had suggested that he, Gilgamesh, be 'tricked up' so he might right this wrong. Being tricked up actually sounded like fun, if he could avoid the panic long enough to receive said trick.

"And, friend Shadow, how many agreements will I break if I similarly aid Gilgamesh?" Thomas asked. He drummed his fingers on the porch step. "Yet, you're right. It's proper for Echo to be stopped. Gilgamesh, come back and have a seat."

Gilgamesh did.

"If you wish, I can help you against Echo. Unfortunately, we're busy here and none of us can go with you. Nor are there enough other Crows at my, ahem, command that I can send anyone else with you." The last sounded like a joke, though it was hard to tell what with not being able to see Thomas's face. "Would you be willing?"

"Yes," Gilgamesh said. "I'm not sure what you're asking of me, though."

"I can make you immune to Echo's trick, and give you a similar method of chasing him off," Thomas said. "However, my trick will look like dross to you. With your youthful lack of control, you can't draw any dross until you've settled the affair. You'd drain away my trick. It won't last more than a month in any event."

"I'm not sure I can last a month without dross," Gilgamesh said. He was already down low enough so the fresh dross by Sadie's feet enticed him. "Other than that, I'm in." Striking back at Echo would suit Gilgamesh fine.

"Take what you want from here, first," Thomas said. "Take a walk with Sadie."

Gilgamesh blinked and Sadie smiled.

"So," Gilgamesh said, as he poked at a rusted wheelbarrow in the half of the barn that still had a roof. "You have a Focus, don't you?"

Sadie settled gingerly on the still-sturdy remnants of an old-fashioned wooden barrel. "Of course I do, silly. This juice leak isn't anywhere near large enough so that I could go without a Focus."

"So this Focus knows all about Crows?"

"She's never met one in person," Sadie said, a tiny smile on her face. "That's my job. Oh, don't worry. I'm perfectly good at keeping Crow secrets." Pause. "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"

They talked.

Three hours later, with an impossibly complex cloud of dross hanging off him like a backpack, Gilgamesh was on a freight train, en route back to St. Louis. By way of Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland...

Dr. Henry Zielinski: November 6, 1966

Dr. Zielinski shuffled papers in his office at Harvard Medical, anxious after finishing his daily teaching responsibilities. Focus Ackermann had passed on the word that someone among the first Focuses had made sure he wouldn't get a surplus Clinic Transform to pay off Keaton. He saw no way to prevent Hancock from dying, or preventing his career, circling the toilet for the last time before the final plunge, from perishing as well.

His phone rang and he answered it. "Dr. Zielinski, this is Lori," the voice on the other end said. Focus Rizzari. He hadn't expected to hear from her so soon. "I know this is short notice, but could you come by my lab tonight? I have something I want to talk to you about."

"No problem," he said. He would do anything to avoid the damned paperwork, especially paperwork this unpromising. This was the second go-round on his St. Louis expenses, after the Dean had refused to cover the department's normal share of his travel money.

He found Focus Rizzari's lab in the basement of the Biology building on the Boston College campus. Beside the door were several cheery drawings done by young children, and above the drawings, "Dr. Lorraine Rizzari". He knocked, and a woman bodyguard opened the door for him. She stayed in the room with them. Not the same woman bodyguard as before. This one wasn't even a Transform.

"Come on in," Focus Rizzari said, without even a glance in his direction. She and a woman assistant were on the other side of the room, studying a set of three X-Rays hung in front of a light. Another bodyguard, male and likely a Transform, sat in a far corner and gave Dr. Zielinski the eye. Dr. Zielinski walked over, took a quick peek over the shoulders of Focus Rizzari and her assistant, and identified what they were looking at as X-Rays of a Monster. Focus Rizzari quickly took down the X-Rays and stuffed them into a large folder.

The lab was about as Dr. Zielinski had expected for a microbiologist: glassware, distillation tubes, microscopes and the like. He hadn't expected the autopsy table, an oversized model with shackles, built for Monsters, some of whom maintained disturbing and dangerous involuntary reflexes even after death. That is, if they didn't turn into poisonous sludge immediately.

Eventually all dead Monsters turned into poisonous sludge. Perhaps Focus Rizzari was attempting to figure out why.

"Come on over and sit down," she said, and led him over to her old, stained lab desk.

He settled into the chair opposite. "I hope this isn't too much of an inconvenience for you," Focus Rizzari said, as she pushed her microscope over to the side, to join the racks of slides and the remains of a sandwich.

"No, not at all," he said. He had researched Focus Rizzari after their first meeting, and found he had been thoroughly wrong about her. Far from being a 'nothing Focus', she had turned out to be the vice president of the Northeast Region Focus Council. Not only did she have excellent Focus charisma, but she also had her charisma so fully under her control he hadn't caught a whiff of it when they had met the first time.

He had also learned she was a rebel, which didn't surprise him given the content of their earlier conversation. She had been pushing the issue of male Focuses – Crows – for years. As usual, for reasons he still didn't understand, the other Focuses had reacted with their standard hostility.

"What can I do for you, today, Focus Rizzari?" he asked.

"Lori," she said, and took a deep breath. "How'd you like to get involved in the potential capture and taming of a Chimera?"

He paused momentarily, surprised at Focus Rizzari's words. "What possible use could I be?" he asked.

"I need warm bodies. Warm bodies with guns, to be exact, more than I have available in my household. The people who are going to be attempting to tame the Chimera are Crows, and I've been called in to help. They need people to help them hem in the Chimera so he can be approached and tamed using some secretive Crow talents." Dr. Zielinski frowned at Focus Rizzari's glib words. He had the sudden feeling he had stepped from one world into another. "I did some research on you, as you'd suggested I do," Focus Rizzari said, "and I happened to find out who you work with." She tapped a manila folder in front of her with a blunt fingernail.

"You want me to get the FBI involved?" he asked.

"Not officially. You're known to have quite a few mercenary friends, beyond your FBI contacts."

Dr. Zielinski sat back, rested his elbows on the chair arms, and put his fingertips together under his chin. His fake 'mercenary friends' were a cover for his involvement with Stacy Keaton. However, he knew Tommy could pull in quite a few people, both from inside and outside the FBI. Not only that, but there was opportunity here...

"How secure is your lab?"

"We sweep for bugs regularly," she said, surprised at the question.

"I also have a project with a problem," he said. He would have to trust Focus Rizzari's security. "You likely know by now that I'm involved with new Arms. The newest Arm, Carol Hancock, is being held in St. Louis against her will. The FBI, or at least one of the nastier parts of the FBI, is going to kill her or let her fall into withdrawal and die unless my allies and I find a way to spring her. For reasons you can likely guess and I can't speak about, I need an unclaimed Transform, near death."

Focus Rizzari's eyes widened with the look of someone who had stepped into a new world, one she had never imagined. Dr. Zielinski smiled. "Your mercenary connections, I presume," she whispered.

She knew of his connection to Keaton. That surprised him. "Yes. However, be forewarned. You don't want _those_ mercenaries anywhere near your project. They're impulsive and prone to dominance fights that, for what you're working on, would be impossible to avoid."

"Rats," she said. Dr. Zielinski heard rustling and a murmured 'shi-it' from behind him. Focus Rizzari's Transform bodyguard had figured out the unclaimed Transform he needed would to be fed to an Arm for juice. "I'm not sure it's worth the life of a Transform to save an Arm, even one who's going to die. I'm not convinced the Arms are worth saving."

Focus Rizzari's assistant pulled up a chair and sat down, uninvited. She was a plain looking young woman, sturdy and intense, with unkempt black hair and poorly applied makeup. Dr. Zielinski leaned back, surprised at her forwardness. "Bullshit," the young woman said, to Focus Rizzari.

Focus Rizzari glared at her assistant. The assistant glared back. The faint scent of juice in use caught Dr. Zielinski's nose, and he realized Focus Rizzari's assistant was a woman Transform. Not bodyguard quality. To his surprise, the woman didn't back down in the face of her Focus's irritation. "Lori, if my hypothesis is correct, Arms are essential and we should do everything we can to get more of them functional. Stacy Keaton is not, in my opinion, a good example of what an Arm should be."

Her hypothesis? Dr. Zielinski studied the woman. She was unexceptional, save for the way she talked. A Midwesterner. He couldn't figure out why someone like her lived in an East Coast Focus's household or why _she_ had a hypothesis.

Focus Rizzari didn't respond and continued to glare at her Transform. "I don't believe we've been introduced," Dr. Zielinski said, after shifting his position to attract their attention.

"Ann Chiron," the woman Transform said, her eyes not leaving Rizzari. He guessed she had been stripped, her juice lowered precipitously into a low juice state. Painful enough to force a Transform to behave. Rizzari's standard Focus trick didn't work on this woman. "I looked over Dr. Zielinski's file, just like you did. He needs to know this."

"He's going to laugh at you if you even hint at your idea," Focus Rizzari said. "Your hypothesis is too wild to present without proof."

"It's too wild for a hard scientist, but my background's in anthropology," Miss Chiron said. "In my field, we get to wave our hands all the time." Aha! Another academic, though if she was reduced to being Focus Rizzari's aide, she had been hit by the 'Transform Sickness Kills All Good Careers' malady. On the other hand, the odds against having two woman academics randomly landing together in one household were substantial. Something fishy was going on with this Focus Rizzari, more than he had been able to find out.

"You make a fool of yourself, then," Focus Rizzari said. She leaned back in her lab chair and gave Ann a wicked smile.

Miss Chiron turned to him, more relaxed now, and presumably no longer stripped of juice. "Dr. Van Reijn's hypothesis mirrors mine. I'm positive that Transform Sickness has appeared in the past, because it's in our myths. Gods, goddesses, monsters? They're all Transforms, or, more exactly, they're myths based on dim recollections of Transforms. What's an Arm if not one of the fighting woman goddesses? What's a Focus if not a mother goddess? Crows are wizards, Chimeras are gods and heroes. Or werewolves."

"Intriguing," Dr. Zielinski said, as he scrambled for something polite to say. "Like your Focus, I can't say your hypothesis does much for me, but you should pass it along to Dr. Van Reijn. It does fit with his work. On the other hand, I do agree with your assessment of Arms. There's something important they're needed for, we don't know what it is, and we can't ignore it. We can't afford to ignore any of our resources in our fight to cope with Transform Sickness."

Focus Rizzari straightened her chair, crossed her arms and glared at them. Myths? What a load of manure! The household dynamic illustrated here by the interaction of Miss Chiron and Focus Rizzari was new to him, though, and had his full attention. "Alright, then, now that we've got that bit of unpleasantness behind us – Dr. Zielinski, given your background, why are you having trouble obtaining a surplus Transform, anyway?" Flustered by Miss Chiron's interruption, Rizzari slipped and let loose her charisma. As he had feared, Rizzari's charisma was almost as potent as Tonya's.

He sighed. He could do without the top-end charisma. It gave him a headache every time. "The upper echelons of Focusdom have given up on Hancock. They don't think she's worth saving. They've shut off my supply of surplus Transforms."

"You disagree with their assessment?"

Dr. Zielinski nodded. "Yes. Absolutely. The other Focuses are making the mistake of confusing the young Arm with the old one they already know, forgetting that new Major Transforms are always a bit squirrelly when they're getting their feet underneath them. As they too once were." As Focus Rizzari once had been; about a year after transforming, someone had put a note in her file saying she was harsher than she needed to be with her household Transforms. Coming from Focus Schrum, such a comment said a lot.

Focus Rizzari studied him intently as he spoke, reading him to see if he lied or shaded the truth. It was as if she was absorbing his thoughts, though nothing in the chemical bag of tricks of a Focus allowed any such thing. She clearly wasn't using a standard charisma trick, as most Focuses would under these circumstances, but one of the advanced tricks the more talented Focuses rarely admitted they knew: the juice pattern.

Dr. Zielinski was impressed, and for the first time in a long time, found himself attracted to a Focus. Physically. Not a normal response, as nearly a decade of dealing with Focuses had long since immunized him against their icy charm. He doubted the attraction was intentional on the Focus's part, either for purposes of manipulation or for amorous reasons, as Focuses didn't have enough juice flowing through them to generate anything close to a normal libido. Some Focuses were much worse off than 'low libido'; he had run into Focuses who wouldn't even allow themselves to be touched by anyone outside their household. Dr. Zielinski ignored his response and gave thought to why he might be attracted to a Focus. They were all either fools or backstabbers, or both. He couldn't come up with any quick answers.

"Remind me to talk to you about post-human morality someday," Focus Rizzari said, deadpan, apropos of nothing. Dr. Zielinski carefully didn't react. "Some other day. About our mutual problems? I'll provide you your Transform if you're willing to throw in with our little bit of Chimera-taming nonsense." Focus Rizzari paused and caught his gaze again. "I should warn you that what I come up with will probably not be what you're expecting." She smiled at him, not the smile of a seductress but the smile of a practical joker who was about to pull the rug out from under him. He had a bad feeling she had noted his moment of interest in her.

"Thank you," Dr. Zielinski said. What in the bloody blue blazes was post-human morality, anyway, he asked himself. Sublimated sex?

"It's been entirely my pleasure," Focus Rizzari said, and on that cryptic bit of politesse, she bid him adieu.

Even afterwards, driving away in his Mercedes, he couldn't tell whether Focus Rizzari hated his guts, loved him dearly, or something in-between. Many of the leading Focuses hid their feelings and only showed what they wanted to show, but he had been around the block with Focuses enough he could usually pick up something. Not from this one. Focus Rizzari had to be one of the most closely guarded Focus he had ever run into.

He knew the usual reasons, but in Rizzari's case it wasn't innocence, fear, or megalomania. By process of elimination, it had to be the other reason, one he had seen only a couple of times among the more stony of the Focuses.

It was scars.

Gilgamesh: November 8, 1966

Gilgamesh shook in his hideout under a railway trestle bridge south of St. Louis. Not from cold, but from panic.

He had been able to talk to Rumor, Vizul Lightning and Thomas the Dreamer with only minimal problems. He could even talk to that strange woman Transform, Sadie. He wondered what possessed him to think he might be able to confront Echo. He couldn't even reveal himself to the man.

Tiamat depended on him for her very survival. The other Crows depended on him to handle a Crow who broke the rules. Gilgamesh depended on himself, because he didn't think he could live with himself if, equipped with all the tools he needed to save Tiamat, he couldn't summon the courage to do it. He imagined the rest of his life as a homeless vagabond, scrounging after little remnants of dross, always remembering Tiamat's endless sea of dross and knowing he lost both that and her because of his own cowardice.

Every time he pulled up the memory of Echo in his mind, his bowels loosened in mind-numbing terror and he wanted to weep. He had started to have nightmares. He startled at every noise outside his little hideout, afraid Echo had found him. The panic was nearly as bad as it had been right after his transformation.

Tiamat wasn't dead yet. Today she had fought for hours against a weapon-wielding opponent. Gilgamesh didn't know what sort of weapon her opponent had been using – perhaps a stick – but he beat her repeatedly. In the end, she lay on the ground for nearly three hours before she got back to her feet.

Her life was misery.

So was his.

Tonya Biggioni: November 9, 1966

The evening was cold and damp, and the station manager kept Tonya waiting for half an hour after the broadcast ended before finally showing up to negotiate her contract for the next year. If she had been given some warning the man wanted to discuss her contract, she could have sent Marty. Then the manager made her wait. 'I'll just be a minute,' for an entire half hour.

Tonya stalked across the wet parking lot, fuming about the profligate abundance of idiots in the world. Half way from the broadcast center to her car, Tonya caught a metasense flash at the edge of her range. Keaton.

Tonya stopped and scanned for trouble. The area around the parking lot seemed normal enough. A dented Chevy with peeling paint pulled into the parking lot, splashing through puddles on the way; the station's janitor, coming in for his evening shift. Two men in suits, leaving late, argued advertising rates while standing in the shelter of the center's doorway. A mother escorted her long-haired, short-skirted daughter down the sidewalk over towards the Woolworth's. All normal evening's business, nothing abnormal at all. Tonya motioned to her bodyguards to follow her, and went out toward the street, where she sensed Keaton. When she reached the spot up the block where Keaton had been, Keaton edged into her metasense range another hundred yards away, this time to the left and down a dark side street. Tonya sighed, and followed. Three more times this happened, and Tonya began to worry about treachery. She instructed her bodyguards to be ready to fight.

One hop later, Keaton stopped and waited for her in a real estate office, closed for the night. Tonya knocked, an absurd bit of politeness given how she had gotten here. Still, with Keaton, one didn't take chances.

"Come in, but leave your fucking trigger happy fools outside."

In Keaton's voice Tonya heard 'anger at the world', not 'anger at Tonya'. Tonya decided Keaton didn't plan treachery. This was Keaton doing inexplicable Arm things Focuses didn't have the instincts to understand. Tonya instructed her bodyguard detail to wait outside and carefully entered the real estate office.

The office was dark, lit only by streetlights and headlights of cars through the dusty windows. It was a cheap place trying to look elegant, with thin carpets and creaking floors. "Say hello to Focus Biggioni, David," Keaton's voice echoed out of the darkness. Tonya found the Arm sitting on the red vinyl sofa in the small waiting area, with a man kneeling at her feet. A car passed and the headlights strobed across the room, temporarily illuminating them all. Tonya recognized the man: David Moore, a plumbing contractor her household often provided with subs. She had asked Keaton to help her collect money from him. He hadn't been paying her subs.

"Focus. Tonya, it's not my fault!" Moore said, a horrible lie. He was terrified, shaking. Despite the dark, Tonya saw bruises on his face and blood on his clothes. "I had to." Truth this time.

Tonya shivered, vindictively glad to see someone who had hurt her suffering. She liked the raw side of power too much, she knew. But she had always loved power. She wasn't proud of the fact, but she couldn't argue with her love.

Moore's 'I had to' didn't make sense. She walked over to Moore, grabbed his head, and gazed into his eyes. Contact! Now she could use her charisma on him. Keaton rose silently from her spot on the coach and disappeared into the shadows. The skin on Tonya's back crawled to have Keaton behind her.

"What did you do?" Tonya asked.

The man shivered and sweat dripped down his bruised cheeks. "She ordered me to. The other Focus. She ordered me to never speak of it. I can't." He smelled sick, ill with extreme stress, more than she would have expected even under the circumstances. Some sort of war raged in his own head.

Her household was in danger! Adrenaline surged through her, and she was ready for a fight. "What was the Focus's name? What did she look like?"

"No name. Beautiful. I don't remember what she looked like."

Tonya leaned on her charisma to the fullest, nearly enough to ruin a man, enough to give him nightmares for life. " _Tell me what she had you do._ " His eyes peeled back in utter terror. She felt the presence of the other Focus in Moore's head, the remnants of the other Focus's commands, resisting Tonya's charisma. Futilely resisting.

"She had me arrange for her to talk to your subs. She talked with them for a long time, alone, without my presence. I'm sure they told her everything they knew about you and your household. After she finished, she paid me and told me to cut off contact with you in such a way that you'd never do business with me again."

Tonya staggered, figuratively punched in the stomach. Some Focus had grabbed leverage on her. Not her boss Suzie, though, as Suzie didn't have enough charisma to cloud Moore's mind like this. It might have been a Focus working for Suzie.

If she hadn't had Keaton collect the bill, she would have never found out. Tonya wondered how often this had happened in the past.

Her instant instinctive reaction had been right: her household was at risk. Old instincts surfaced, dormant since her pre-Keaton Monster hunting days. Back then, she killed to protect her people from the Monsters they hunted. The killing ate holes in her soul, but even so, she would do it again.

This man was a victim, a normal, not a Monster.

Still, he endangered her household. She couldn't allow that. Nor was he much of a victim; if he had been forced against his will, the Focus wouldn't have had to bother with the payment. The situation was a gray toned mess. Damnation!

Tonya dropped the man's chin. "Forget the bill collection angle, Stacy," she said. "I don't want to alert whoever's behind this that we've stumbled on her scheme."

"I sure as hell hope you're not going to object to what I want to do to this fucking thing," Keaton said from behind her.

The Canadian had warned her about choices of this nature. She didn't understand the larger stakes here, though, beyond 'her' versus 'everyone else'.

No. Not true. Truthfully, the situation was more like 'her and Keaton against everyone else', if she let Keaton carry through with her threat. Normally, Tonya would assure Stacy that she would handle it alone. Her charisma was good enough to send Moore running to South America or Africa, and ensure he would never return. It was what she should do to assuage her meager conscience. However, the Canadian had said 'the obvious choices may not be the correct choices'.

Damn it! Tonya wished the Canadian wasn't so consistently correct.

She considered the angles. Strategically, 'Tonya and Keaton against everyone else' would be better than 'I'll take care of the problem my way, thank you very much Stacy', and keeping the Arm at, well, arm's length. With this, she would plant the seed of 'harm the Focus, harm me' in Stacy's mind – or, in this case, 'infiltrate the Focus's household, you degrade my Arm security'.

Choosing this path would gain Tonya a closer ally.

"No, I don't object," Tonya said, with a cold internal shiver. Tonya needed all the allies she could get, and the Canadian said she needed to reach beyond her usual habits. An Arm was certainly a heck of a long way from Tonya's usual political Focus allies.

Yes, this time they had to do it the Arm's way. Stacy had been the one to discover the problem. Tonya had given the Arm the dubious benefit of deciding this idiot's fate when she hired her. Now, Stacy had offered that choice back to Tonya.

The Arm had been testing Tonya.

"You don't?" Stacy stalked into Tonya's view again, licking her lips. She gave the man a loving look. "Hot damn. Reality sinks in to the Focus, for once." Stacy paused. "You might want to leave, Tonya."

Tonya nodded, and backed away. "One last thing," Stacy said. "Hank's got me a surplus Transform."

"How?"

"Don't know. But I suspect we've made more enemies. Keep your eyes peeled."

Tonya nodded and left. Moore screamed, and Tonya reflexively glanced back into the dark room. Keaton was skinning a strip of flesh off the man's right arm. Tonya winced and quickly turned away, but the shut door didn't stop the screams, not given Tonya's acute hearing. As pleasant as Stacy had been with her recently, the Arm still was a violent sadistic killer. Tonya couldn't allow herself to forget that, not with her own dark urges pulling her in the same direction.

Tonya still heard Moore scream until the sound faded into the distance. She shouldn't have glanced back.

She hoped she made the right choice.

She knew it wouldn't be her last difficult choice.

She hoped she would still be recognizably human when the crisis ended.

Chapter 9

"Because of the effect of juice on the mood and activity level of a Transform, the Focus possesses a special responsibility and power over the life of her Transforms. Because the range over which a Focus can sense and manipulate juice is rather short (around the length of a football field), Transforms must live together in a household and be available to their Focus at regular times during the day so that the Focus can either move juice to them or from them. It is in the best interests of all to accommodate such needs. As a reminder, although the prosecution of this as a crime is rare, it is illegal to discriminate against Transforms in hiring matters. We trust you will deal appropriately with this issue." [Department of Labor circular, 1965]

Dr. Henry Zielinski: November 11, 1966

The volunteer's name was Jeff Johnson. Dr. Zielinski had heard of his problems, but hadn't expected to meet him, especially in a situation like this.

"They had to sedate me to bring me, but I'm okay now. Really, Dr. Zielinski. I don't have any real options guaranteeing survival. Seventeen Focuses have verified the problem, and the Network officially notified me I won't even be allowed to submit..." Jeff stopped talking, and sniffed. Dr. Zielinski gave him space for his own thoughts and stared at the worn wallpaper of the motel room.

According to the rumors Dr. Zielinski had heard, and the documentation he had received from Focus Rizzari, Jeff was an anomalous male Transform who Focuses couldn't support for more than a month. His personality wasn't the problem. Instead, Jeff was a male Transform Sport, and his particular variation made Focuses nauseous and drove them to constant tears or rages when they tried to support him. Jeff had been through many households, from the weakest Focuses to the strongest, and had the same effect on all of them. No Focuses would take him anymore, and Jeff faced death by withdrawal or suicide. What he was volunteering for, here, was a million to one chance at life...and a painless death, if the million to one chance didn't pan out.

The two of them waited in the shabby motel room, each huddled in their own thoughts.

"What's taking so long?" Jeff said, about an hour later. "I'd like to get this over with."

"I expect she's making sure this isn't a trap."

More waiting. Minutes passed, and Dr. Zielinski closed his eyes to rest. The cheap motel clock ticked through another fourteen minutes.

Jeff exploded off the bed, panic on his face. He scrabbled to a corner of the room and cowered.

Dr. Zielinski fully awoke and turned around. Stacy Keaton stood by the door, as always short, muscular, and dangerous. He hadn't heard her enter.

He stood and half bowed his head to the Arm. "Very good. I'll leave you two alone..."

"No," Keaton said. Dr. Zielinski stopped his first step in mid stride, color leeching from his face.

"No?"

"This is your bright idea, bucko. If this goes bad, I want to make sure you're here to receive your proper reward."

Dr. Zielinski gulped. "But you're going to..."

"Screw him silly. So? What, you're embarrassed? Take notes, then, dammit. There's nothing here you haven't seen or done before."

Keaton smiled as she came closer and chucked him under his chin. "You're cute when you turn red, you know." Keaton was as unpredictable as always. His thoughts raced with the million ways this scenario could go wrong, many of them ending with an Arm in a psychotic rage. He would rather be nearly anywhere else than here.

"I still..."

Keaton crossed her arms, cold, controlled, even more terrifying than her usual in-his-face I-am-death pose. "I'm tired of your schemes, Hank."

Something unnervingly final rattled through her statement. Dr. Zielinski's stomach churned. If she decided she wanted to kill him, he couldn't do a single thing do about it. He opened his mouth to say something, but Keaton's cold expression dissuaded him.

"You try to have it both ways," she said. "Inside with Transforms who have no choice but to risk their pathetic lives, and outside, safe to take notes, write papers, and embellish your reputation. Frankly, you piss me off with your fucking 'Doctor God' bullshit. Forget it. Not this time. You leave, I'll entertain myself, and then I'll leave. I won't lift a finger to help Hancock. You'll never see me again, and you'll never see Hancock again either, unless she comes by someday as a blood-drenched by-her-own bootstraps Arm seeking to clean up a loose end on her back trail."

Dr. Zielinski didn't back away or flee, but standing still took an intense effort of will. In his entire history of dealing with Keaton, he had only seen her like this once: cold, controlled, and with something she wanted to say. The other time he had seen her like this he had just given her the line about not having to act on her instincts, in the process saving the life of Focus Biggioni. He hadn't walked out of that confrontation; instead, he had been carted out on a stretcher. He had a bad feeling he wouldn't walk out of this confrontation, either. "I'm not pushing you, Stacy. Nor am I going to argue that you should hold to your word. You have the power here to do whatever you want." He sucked air, wondering if his next statement would get him killed. He had to say his piece, though. "But I'm not going to cooperate, ma'am, unless I know why."

"Why?" Danger appeared in a rush, the mad killer, the predator, standing with her face only inches below his. He hadn't seen her move. Her voice grew deeper and the threat in it sawed on his nerves. "I'm fucking tired of you lying to yourself, Hank. You want to save the world from Transform Sickness? Okay, fine, better you than me, but goddammit _commit_ yourself to it." Dr. Zielinski staggered back, as his heart skipped a long beat at the word 'commit'. Like in the grip of an eagle, squeezed tight, he was unable to breathe.

"Forget about 'I'll save the world but only if I can increase my reputation in the process' half-assed bullshit," Keaton continued. Her breath was hot on his face, rotted wind from a just-opened crypt. "Either you're in or you're out. It can't be both. That's one lie." He forced himself to take a step back, but Keaton followed forward. With a caressed whisper of leather, Keaton reached behind her neck and brought out one of her foot long combat knives, and held it in front of Dr. Zielinski's face. "You're not doing any of these Arms a damned bit of good playing safe. When the going got rough and the FBI nasties moved in, did you find some way to stop them and save Hancock from their sadistic games? No, you just sat back, took notes, and congratulated yourself about the horrible risks you thought you were taking. You think you're a hero. You're not. That's the second lie."

The heel of Dr. Zielinski's backpedaling right foot touched wall, followed by his shoulder blades. Pressed against the wall, a specimen between the slide cover and the slide, he had nowhere to go. The black steel of Keaton's knife touched the angle of his jaw, on the left side. His heart beat pit-pit-pit-pit, fast enough to terrify him all by itself. Her eyes inescapable, her nostrils wide as she drank in his terror, Keaton thrust her body against his in a cruel mockery of lust. "The third lie is so dumb I'm shocked you haven't caught on. The day is coming soon where the only way you'll be able to save your precious reputation is to sell out the Arms to the FBI and the Focuses. You keep telling yourself you're so damned good at manipulating people that you can skate past this problem without harming anyone in the process. It's not going to work, and everything you've done is going to go down the toilet." She backed away a half pace, still eye to eye with him. "It's all bullshit, Hank. Bullshit." She slashed her knife with each word, each slash a frisson of echoing fear from him, but the knife didn't touch him. He flashed back to a two-year-old memory of Keaton half beheading a police officer in Cincinnati, ending with him drenched in blood. The stench of blood filled the air.

What Keaton said might be true, but her words were all still misdirection, he realized. Even so, he didn't dare respond. He clenched his hands together in front of him to quiet their shaking, and the pain and muscle tension steadied him enough to speak. Keaton was good at terrifying people, and he sometimes wondered if she knew how exceptionally good she was. It took all his willpower and tricks to force a reply. He lowered his gaze to her feet. Feet were safe. No one could threaten an Arm if all he looked at was the Arm's feet. "There's more going on here than just my witnessing this test, isn't there, Stacy?" he asked, his voice unsteady and ready to break with each syllable spoken.

If Keaton got enraged and killed him over his impertinence, well, so be it. He refused to let Keaton bully him into something without knowing why.

"Yes, you arrogant piece of shit, but you're not cooperating," Keaton growled. The Arm stuck one of her impossibly muscular fingers in Hank's chest and pushed him back against the wall, a push for each word that followed. "You're not even safe enough for me to tell you what's going on." The anger crept away from Keaton, replaced by frustration.

He relaxed a little. Progress. He might live through this. "You need my help, and you expect danger."

Keaton's face became stone. "Yes."

He had a good idea where this was going. "I'm going to have to lie to the FBI and Focuses."

"Yes to the first. On the second, even I'm not sure."

Hell and damnation. To his surprise, he found himself at a loss for words.

"So, Hank, how much is it worth to you to save an Arm for real? For the first time." Keaton paused, and got back in his face when he didn't answer immediately. "Are you in or are you out?"

Dr. Zielinski thought and tried to quiet the Arm-induced terror that shook his legs and churned his stomach. What did he risk if he went along with Keaton? His career? Certainly. The FBI or a few Focuses could destroy his career whenever they wanted to. He avoided those dangers by being useful. His scientific reputation? Much more difficult to affect, but possible. He doubted it was worth the work. His life? Yes, even that, though Keaton was a far bigger danger in that regard.

His self-respect, though? Could he live with himself if Hancock died because he didn't have the guts to save her? The more he thought about it, the more he felt Keaton might be right. He never backed off from the more reasonable physical risks of dealing with Arms, only the more foolhardy ones, but he had backed off from risks to his reputation. Even minor ones. He played all the angles, played things safe. What kind of person did his choices make him?

A coward. Keaton's point. He couldn't find it within himself to disagree with her analysis.

He was well on his way to becoming one of the myriad of spineless doctors who swarmed around the Transforms, more concerned with helping themselves than helping the Transforms. It galled him that it had taken a mass murdering psychotic Arm to make him understand.

Keaton could force his cooperation if she wanted to and kill him afterwards to eliminate the risk to her security. That she didn't said something about how much she valued him. His help had to be worth something; a hell of a thing to base his life on, given whom he was dealing with.

Knowing what he knew now, he would never be able to look at himself in the mirror if he didn't ante up.

So he decided to ante up.

"I'm in, ma'am," he said. The FBI and the Focuses might destroy him, but he would make them work. He might still pull it out, but he wouldn't take the Arms down with him trying to do so.

She studied him for a moment. "Good enough for now."

"I'll sit over there," Dr. Zielinski said, pointing to a cheap motel chair at the far end of the room. He would rather be farther, but at least it was something.

"You," Keaton said, turning to Jeff. "Can you even talk?"

Jeff shook his head, still shivering in terror. Dr. Zielinski's confrontation with Keaton hadn't been good for this Transform, not at all.

She smiled a one-sided smile. "I guess we'll get right down to business, then." Dr. Zielinski didn't see her cross the room, but she stood by Jeff now. She ran her hands over his shoulders, gentle hands, calming him like a horse trainer might calm a skittish horse. As his breathing settled she came closer, holding and touching him, gentle caresses, not at all like the Keaton Dr. Zielinski thought he knew. Soon, Jeff's breathing became rapid once again.

Dr. Zielinski took notes.

"Jeff here's a lot better than your usual volunteers, Hank," Keaton said as she held Jeff in her arms. Jeff didn't seem to notice her words. Dr. Zielinski guessed the Arm's interest was enough to distract any man. "You ever pay any attention to the bullshit they feed the volunteers? Those 'surplus Transforms' sign all those waivers because they think they're going to get access to all sorts of experimental drugs and crap. Or the big whompum pain killers so it doesn't hurt when they kill themselves. This is the first time I've actually met a volunteer who knew ahead of time that he was going to be fed to an Arm. That's why they all freak out, you know. That's the sort of deceit that's corrupted the medical community and has the Focuses refusing to cooperate with you. Pure arrogance."

Dr. Zielinski turned away, his thoughts dark. It was one thing to catch that sort of grief from innocents and outsiders, it was another to hear a serial killer telling him the medical community was as evil as she was.

He had nothing to say on the subject, though. Keaton was correct. Her lesson? _This is what life's like on the other side of the needle, you fucking quack._

"So, do you think this will work?" Jeff said several minutes later, finally tamed by Keaton's rough charisma. "Can this reverse my transformation?"

They were naked, now, snuggling on the motel bed. The expression on Keaton's face was priceless. So filled with wonder and joy. Dr. Zielinski had never seen an Arm like this. Never.

"We'll find out, now won't we," Keaton said, her voice husky with a great many desires. She covered Jeff's mouth with hers, and the two of them passed beyond words. Dr. Zielinski found he could not look away. There was something riveting about what Keaton was doing, far beyond normal seduction and sex. Juice had to be involved, somehow, but Dr. Zielinski couldn't say how. Focus Rizzari's term, 'post-human morality', stuck itself in his mind and would not go away.

Keaton was beautiful like this, naked and seductive. Her grotesque muscles seemed natural, her movements graceful, her body feminine, some dark goddess of life and death and sex. She worked her allure into the primitive parts of the mind that had never learned thought and reason. The room was hot with passions civilized men kept leashed, the air thick with the smell of it.

He shouldn't be here. This was too powerful and too private. He could feel only an echo of the passions gripping the two lovers, but even so, his body was hot, his clothes binding, and he had to struggle to control his breathing. He couldn't believe his own arousal, or its depth. No amount of willpower let him look away.

Beautiful, sensual, this was something more than merely human sex. The act consumed the both of them, and him as well. Two bodies entwined, finding passion normal humans only dreamed of. Panting breaths, moans of lust and desire, screams of passion and pleasure. The goddess and the mortal man, re-enacting some ancient fertility rite, to seed the earth and bring the rains.

The act took Keaton twenty-seven minutes, a long, long time for an Arm draw, but she had been practicing. Jeff spent the entire time in the grip of lust and pleasure, and so did she. When she finished, Keaton gently rolled to the side, off Jeff, and lay on her back staring at the ceiling. She remained conscious, the byproduct of such an extended draw and the reason she had been practicing it.

Dr. Zielinski wiped the sweat from his face and stood to check on Jeff, to find out if their chancy attempt had worked.

"Back off," Keaton said. Dr. Zielinski obeyed, and sat back down.

"Ma'am?"

"He died. He was alive and sane right to the end, dammit. I thought I had it!" Keaton slammed her fist down on the bed, and her sweat-slick body and Jeff's corpse bounced. "Why didn't this work, Hank?"

Dead. Twenty-seven minutes of gripping rapture, and she had been killing Jeff the entire time. Dr. Zielinski still looked at her and saw the lover, the goddess. His body wanted her at the same time his mind recoiled in horror. Neither response was good, not here, not now. Keaton wanted analysis, the cold clinical Dr. Zielinski, to interpret for her. Unfortunately, his analytical skills lay buried under layers of primal emotion and a rock hard erection.

If she invited him to join her in her bed, he would go.

"You felt the pleasure of drawing juice the entire time?" he said finally, hoping he at least presented the illusion of impersonal logic.

"Yes, dammit. Logically, he should have been dead two minutes in." She turned to look at Jeff's body beside her, and the expression of loss on her hard face forced Dr. Zielinski to turn away.

Two minutes. That's what Dr. Zielinski had predicted. "I only have guesses and hypotheses, ma'am."

"Spit them out." If he hadn't seen the expression of loss on her face, he might have believed the cold tone of her voice.

"We don't know, biochemically, how Arms draw juice, ma'am. There's no physical vacuum cleaner attached to your body. Logically, unsupported by evidence, the Arm must take over her victim's body and essentially order the body of the victim to cooperate with the draw procedure and give you his juice."

"Order?"

"Hormones and pheromones."

Keaton nodded, still lying on the bed next to Jeff's corpse. They had talked many times about hormones and pheromones with regard to her metasense and Tonya's charisma. "Yah. Continue."

"Following this chain of logic, what must have happened was that you kept him alive during the procedure."

"Huh." 'Yes you idiot' in 'Keaton'.

Keaton thought for a moment, and her face softened. He had never seen that expression on her face before. She rolled over, kissed Jeff's corpse on the forehead, and gently arranged his body into a peaceful resting pose. "More." So gentle. This wasn't the Keaton he knew, certainly not the Keaton who confronted him a half hour ago. She was one of the least sentimental people he had ever met.

"If this wild chain of logic is true, what you did implies a great many possibilities for what else Arms could do with their capabilities." To be able to control the physical processes of another human being in such an intimate fashion was a vast and untapped capability.

"Disquieting." Keaton didn't look away from Jeff. She might be interested in potential opportunities later. Not now. "It was a blessed sacrament. A holy sacrifice. I got more juice out of him than I've ever gotten from a draw before. I'm not drained or woozy. I'm not horny either, so don't you be getting fresh on me, Hank."

That was a relief. Mostly. Now, if he could hold his gorge... A holy sacrament, she said. Such a close combination of sex and death was an abomination, and she called what she did a holy sacrament. One would have to be a goddess to consider something like this in such a fashion. Dr. Zielinski certainly wasn't equipped for such emotions.

Such gentleness. No understanding he had of Arms included such gentleness. Or respect for a normal human. Or sentimentality. Or any form of mysticism. His entire carefully developed image of Arms collapsed into pieces. He had thought they were intelligent Monsters, useful, but not complex. Now, he had no idea what they were, except that it couldn't be simple.

"I'd almost say this was a virgin sacrifice, save for the role reversal," Keaton said. "Never heard of anything like it, though."

Hank had, spurred on by Ann Chiron's hopeless hypothesis. He remembered old myths of Goddesses and their lovers, who always died as the price of loving their Goddesses. Myths. Even the thought unnerved him. Utterly non-scientific, specious and misleading. He put those notions far back into his mind. He had to.

"Goddammit, Hank, don't you go puking on me. Give me a hand here; we need to sanitize this place. The last thing I want to be doing is handing the fucking Feds any clues to work with."

"Yes, ma'am." He stood and went over to lend Keaton a hand with the cleanup. Her order came from the Arm he knew. Much easier to deal with. He would save his true reactions for later.

"Distract me. Ask your goddamned questions," Keaton said, handing him a body bag.

She knew him too well. "What's the problem with springing Hancock from the Detention Center?" Hank asked. Keaton should be able to do get in and out of the Detention Center in her sleep.

"Patrelle and McIntyre have fifty FBI agents holed up in some nearby fleabag hotel, lying doggo, doing nothing but waiting and watching," Keaton said, folding the body into the body bag. "They've set a trap for me. I can't discount the possibility that they've turned Hancock and that she'll betray me to them if I show my face. Nope, she has to break herself out before I'll touch her. Secondly, some Focus bitch farther up the food chain than Tonya fucking Biggioni wants Hancock dead." Dr. Zielinski nodded. "I see you already knew. Had problems getting this volunteer, eh? Did you do this yourself or with the help of a Focus?"

"A Focus named Lorraine Rizzari."

"The rebel? The one who believes in 'Crows'? She's a major pain in Tonya's posterior, which says a lot of good things about her." Dr. Zielinski nodded again. "I need you to hand deliver a message to Hancock."

Visiting the Detention Center would be suicidal. He hadn't promised to jump on his sword if he could find another way out, though. "I take it, ma'am, that you don't trust the Focuses in the Network to pass the message along without tipping the killer Focus?"

"Huh."

"What if I could pass the message along without involving any of the Focuses?"

Keaton slung the now filled body bag over her shoulder and motioned for Dr. Zielinski to follow her. "Acceptable. That way, I don't have to break you out of jail later. However, Hank, no more of your Network phone calls until this is over. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." There went his trust factor with the Focuses. He had the sensation this was a bad thing. Suddenly, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to follow Keaton's order. Hell, he had a nearly unstoppable urge to make a phone call _now_.

Some damned Focus must have got him bad with her charisma. Wouldn't be the first time. "Ma'am?"

"I see it. Fucking goddamned Focuses. Look at me." He did. Keaton's eyes were alive with bowel-clenching fire. "No more Network phone calls until this is over, or I'll skin you alive for a fucking _week_!" It wasn't an empty threat. He had seen her do nearly as bad when she was low on juice.

Hank's bladder let loose and he fell back, limp as tissue paper.

"That ought to do it, ma'am," he said, from where he had collapsed on the ground. He hadn't had that reaction to Keaton for several years. Her aura of danger had been worse than when she pushed him into committing to the Transform cause. No answer, though.

Keaton was gone, as was the corpse. He must have been out for longer than he realized. For a moment, he thought about phone calls, remembering her orders, and he shivered in terror. Nope, no phones for a while.

She had left him the note to deliver to Hancock, though.

Carol Hancock: November 12, 1966

I rested on my footlocker-bed in the suicide cell and recovered from Patrelle and McIntyre's goddamned test of the day, which had involved blindfolds, electrical shocks and a maze. I'd gotten another draw only three days ago, but the first fingers of miserable craving already worked themselves into my mind. I still hadn't met the famous Patrelle, or even heard his voice, but I could tell when he was near. The FBI people's posture stiffened and they became precise in everything they did.

By now, I had the entire Detention Center laid out in my mind, like a 3-D floor plan. I knew when the FBI people showed up and left. After Patrelle had taken over the FBI had dropped their round-the-clock surveillance. I suspected Patrelle didn't think I was nearly the threat that McIntyre did. I knew when each of my friends among the staff showed up and left. I had the guards schedules memorized, as well as their rounds, and, mostly, who they reported to and when.

I found it unsettling to be able to keep all this in my head. Save for when I was low on juice, I didn't have any problems with that sort of mental game. It was as useful as it was disturbing, because I had come up with a problem in my escape. The Detention Center had guards on the grounds all night long. Three at a minimum, and I couldn't find any path out of this place, once I exited the building, that didn't leave me in sight of one of them.

However, based on my conversations with Mike Artusy and Fred Parrish, I had found out the night guards did have a tendency to slack off. Fred had even complained about the night guards occasionally gambling and drinking, giving me hope.

What was I that I could keep this all in my head?

That night, as the guards escorted me to my nightly shower, I let my robe gape. "Like what you see, Mike?"

Artusy smiled and didn't say anything. He'd seen my assets before. I leaned in close to him. "You want to take some pictures? Impress your friends? I'll pose," I said. This place had a darkroom, and Artusy knew how to use it.

"In the buff?"

I nodded.

He gave me a sidelong look...and also a sidelong look at the door guard. "What do you want?" He knew me well.

"My family pictures and the Gideon's Bible from my old room. Several oversized steak dinners, a television and a radio," I said. "Oh, and some new books. I'm bored."

"You're out of your mind."

"Of course. But that's my demand," I said. My demand wouldn't be accepted, all a part of my plan.

He snorted. "I'll get you your Bible and pictures, no problem no charge. How about an extra dinner for the other?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Come up with a better offer than that and I'll pose for the pictures," I said, and went into the bathroom for my shower.

I bet myself I would be able to string Artusy along indefinitely.

In my mental plan of my escape, those photos of me would fit in perfectly.

Gilgamesh: November 14, 1966

Gilgamesh scrounged for his dinner in the back of a Big Boy in Mehlville, a suburban town about six miles south of the Detention Center, and thought his dark thoughts. Midnight had passed. He had been back in the St. Louis area for six days and he still hadn't been able to force himself to confront Echo.

Tonight, it rained. Yesterday as well. He had picked through a dump near Mehlville to find new clothing; his old set of pants had grown so mud-caked he couldn't bear to wear them anymore, and his last shirt had split up the back. His 'new' clothes had already soaked through, his pants muddy up to the knees.

He no longer panicked when he thought about confronting Echo. He had even tried, once, to come near the other Crow. He had gotten as far as the Detention Center, but after picking up a metasense twinge of Echo far to the north, he had backed off.

For the first few days, the huge amount of dross he carried left him logy and half-sedated, as if he had too many beers. When that passed, he swore he was more intelligent than normal.

"So low juice makes you dumb," Gilgamesh said, wiping the rain from his face. He had been talking to himself a lot in the past few days. "Still, even a moderate amount of Arm-produced dross is better than..."

He stopped talking, as he picked up something with his metasense, a Major Transform in a car at the far end of his range, about six miles south of him on the interstate. The car interfered with his ability to tell what kind of Major Transform and so he started to run, the soggy remains of a couple of hamburgers in his hand to eat later. The damned Big Boy was right off the interstate.

He didn't stop running for a half mile. By then, the car with the Major Transform had reached Mehlville.

To Gilgamesh's terror, the car took the Mehlville exit. He froze in his hiding place, a small patch of uncleared scrubland between a cluster of recently built homes and a fallow hayfield. The car turned west – away from Gilgamesh, much to Gilgamesh's relief – but didn't go far. A half mile from the interstate, the unknown Transform drove into the driveway of a house with a 'For Sale' sign out front that Gilgamesh recognized. He had checked it out himself a few days ago when he scouted for a lair, and rejected the place as too risky.

When the car door opened and Gilgamesh finally sensed the Transform clearly, his heart jumped. Zaltu. She yanked the 'for sale' sign from the front of the house, tossed it in the back yard, broke into the house, opened the garage and drove the car inside. She dragged what looked like a large set of weights from the back of the car and started a workout routine in the garage.

Gilgamesh burrowed deeper under a bush. He was less than a mile from Zaltu and she still hadn't reacted to his presence. He really was invisible to Arms. Either that, or as with the Focuses, the Arms' metasense range was quite short.

It wasn't anything he wanted to test.

After two hours of exercise, Zaltu took a shower and ate some food she retrieved from the car.

Gilgamesh waited and tried to ignore the cold wet as the leaves of the bush dribbled rainwater on his head. He swore Zaltu put on makeup. No, the last was a wig, he decided. She had put on a disguise.

Three hours after she arrived at the house, Zaltu tossed her weights back in her car, got in and sped north, toward the Detention Center. She was about to spring Tiamat and walk into Echo's trap, Gilgamesh realized.

He was too far away to help and had no way to get closer in enough time to be useful. Damn!

He had to get creative.

Inspiration came in the form of a grocery supply truck. The teamsters had finished unloading its last load and the truck headed up Lemay Ferry Road, back toward St. Louis and the Detention Center. While the truck idled at a light, Gilgamesh took a deep breath, told himself the truck was almost the same thing as a boxcar, and ran. His legs wobbled and his eyes dripped tears, but he had no time for panic if he wanted to save his goddess of destruction. He quickly opened the back doors barely wide enough to let him through, and slipped in. He slammed the door shut behind him as the truck began moving again.

The empty truck smelled like old spilled milk. Gilgamesh huddled in the front corner with his arms around his knees and took deep breaths, trying to calm his panicked nerves. He had a lot more work to do to stop Echo and he couldn't afford to fall apart before any confrontations happened.

The grocery truck passed within a mile of the Detention Center. Gilgamesh slipped out into an industrial wasteland of gravel pits, grain silos, and giant mounds of bulk freight. He walked north, nothing more than another street bum, as Zaltu circled the Detention Center twice. She came within a mile of him once (he froze, but she still didn't metasense him) before driving to the warehouse district south of the Detention Center.

She stopped and got out of her car. Gilgamesh froze again. To his north, he metasensed Echo coming south on a bicycle, at the edge of his range. Last time, he hadn't been able to metasense Echo until he got within a quarter mile of the other Crow. He wondered if his new ability to sense was a feature of his gift from Thomas the Dreamer.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and his legs turned wobbly.

Zaltu checked out the various warehouses, made her decision and broke into one. She wandered around inside it for five minutes, while Echo continued to pedal south.

Abruptly, four miles from the Detention Center, Echo turned and pedaled back to the north, much faster this time. For a moment, Gilgamesh couldn't understand. He thought through what had happened and decided Echo had only now picked up Zaltu on his metasense. Gilgamesh smiled.

The smile lasted perhaps a minute. Zaltu exited the warehouse, ran back to her car so swiftly she left a faint dross trail, drove the car back to the warehouse and stopped. She opened one of the large warehouse doors and drove the car inside.

Then nothing. She rested.

Gilgamesh thought through the sequence and decided Zaltu wasn't going to break Tiamat out from the Detention Center. Instead, she was waiting for someone else to break Tiamat out. Or, more improbably, for Tiamat to break herself out. Given Zaltu waited less than four hundred feet from the south border of the Detention Center, it led him to believe her metasense range was indeed tiny.

After Zaltu rested she hauled out her weights and exercised again. Then she climbed up to the warehouse roof and built herself a small outpost. From her hidden vantage point, she could _watch_ the entire Detention Center. Once she finished her nest, she froze in place and didn't move a muscle for the next hour.

"Now what?" Gilgamesh whispered to himself. Perhaps he didn't have to do anything. Perhaps Zaltu's presence would be enough to keep Echo away from the Detention Center, far enough away so Echo couldn't betray Tiamat if she escaped.

Gilgamesh worked out times in his head. If he could pick up Echo six miles away, and Echo pedaled his bicycle twice as fast as Gilgamesh ran, Gilgamesh would be able to get close to Zaltu before Echo got to him if Gilgamesh was three miles away from Zaltu.

However, if Echo used a car...

Gilgamesh decided to hole up on the far side of the Detention Center, two miles from Zaltu. Save for her exercises every couple of hours, Zaltu waited, motionless, for the rest of the night.

Carol Hancock: November 14, 1966

Doris's face was stern the morning of the fourteenth, and the plates on the tray jiggled as she lowered it to the table. She wouldn't meet my eyes as I carefully took the bowl of oatmeal, plate of eggs, bacon and toast, fruit bowl and glasses of orange juice and milk from it and sat them in front of me.

I found the note under the big plate, and was a long one, at least in comparison. As usual, I didn't read it until I reached the exercise room.

Carol

I've been thinking about your ongoing muscle problems, and I have the solution you've been asking for. Do all these with low reps and heavy weights: first, 5 sets each of medium-grip barbell bench presses, medium-grip incline barbell bench presses, close-grip barbell bench presses, wide-grip front lat pull downs, bent-over dumbbell rowing, standing medium-grip easy-curl-bar biceps curls, heel-high sit ups, and flat bench leg pull-ins. On each set, use a 10-3-3-3-3 rep pattern, save for the last two, where you do 50 per set. Start this within three days and you can escape your problems. I'll be awaiting your results. If you tire while doing these exercises, imagine the alternatives.

Larry Borton

Keaton! She had decided to help me! I wanted to cheer, but instead I puzzled out the hidden message. It took me a while, because five days past my last draw my mind had turned to mush. Rephrased, it said 'I have the solution you've been asking for. Escape within three days. I'm waiting. Do _not_ disappoint me this time.' The suggested exercises were a devious joke and a surprise; I hadn't expected Keaton to have a sense of humor. If I did exercises as she suggested, I would turn into a muscle-bound freak like her.

At lunch, I gave Doris a short note: 'Party tomorrow afternoon'. I gave some special instructions to Mike Artusy for that night, as well.

Dr. Henry Zielinski: November 14, 1966

"Zielinski." He picked up the phone as if it was about to bite him. After Keaton's orders, even incoming phone calls had become unnerving. He knew he shouldn't complain. All those years spent skating disaster thrown away, because he had chosen to dive into this disaster headfirst.

"Hi, this is Lori. We're on for tomorrow night. Everything ready?"

Dr. Zielinski winced. "Yes." With Tommy Bates' help, he had managed to recruit forty men with Monster hunting experience. In the process, Dr. Zielinski had called in every favor owed to him and now owed favors to quite a few people he would rather not owe anything.

"Good enough. See you tomorrow evening."

Hank hung up the phone and looked at his calendar. He and Glory were supposed go to a cocktail party at the Stephens' tomorrow night. He had an afternoon class to cancel, as well as a meeting with Dr. Conyers. He suspected he would miss most of what he had scheduled for the next day as well.

On his desk was the official probation notice. He had once dreamed of regaining his old position as department head. Now, in a few short weeks, he found himself on probation at Harvard Medical.

His Harvard Medical superiors wouldn't appreciate tomorrow night's jaunt, either.

He called Glory. At least phone calls to his wife didn't cause him mental conniptions, an observation he dutifully noted down in his special notebook of information to trade to Keaton. He doubted the Arm knew she could be so selective. "Dear, I'm afraid something's come up and I'm going to have to go out of town tomorrow. I don't know when I'm going to be coming home, either. I might be away for a couple of days."

"It's that Focus again, isn't it?" Glory asked. He hadn't been able to avoid explaining his new work with Focus Rizzari.

"It's not what you think," Dr. Zielinski said. "I'm on Transform business, and..."

"It's always Transform business, Hank," Glory said. "Your work is too dangerous for you. Too dangerous for your family, but you won't listen." Click. Dial tone.

He winced, rubbed his temples and told the department secretary to call Tommy Bates and tell him to be ready tomorrow. He couldn't call anyone about Transform business, even Bates.

He had already made his decision during his conversation with Keaton. Transforms first.

No matter he knew he couldn't handle everything life tossed at him, because of his decision.

No matter the cost.

Chapter 10

"Transform Sickness is a very rare disease. In 1965, there were fewer than 10,000 cases in the whole country. That means that your chance of contracting it is just over one in 20,000. You're much more likely to die in an auto accident. There's no need to panic over Transform Sickness. Many factors determine if someone catches it, including heredity, environment, perhaps even psychology. The Centers for Disease Control hopes to be able to identify the specifics within the next few years, and have a cure within the next five." [CDC pamphlet, 1966]

Carol Hancock: November 15, 1966

The test that afternoon involved FBI agents with bows and blunted arrows. I wore a blindfold translucent enough for me to keep track of the FBI agents, but not translucent enough to keep track of where they aimed. They chained me to the concrete I-beam in the courtyard, with a fifty-foot long chain. They didn't remove the engine blocks, concrete rubble and partly splintered picnic tables from the last two days' tests. They expected me to use them as cover, and this time, the shooters didn't stay put but circled me as a pack. I performed as they expected and carefully didn't exceed their expectations. Blunted arrows were better than the real things, but – tables aside – this was no picnic.

As the staff set up for the party in the dining area, McIntyre came up to me with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Pathetic, Hancock, real pathetic."

"Sir?" I asked, hungrily spooning up my beef stew, cranky with not-quite low juice. At least after one of those 'dodge the murderous instrument' tests, I had enough exercise to keep my muscles from aching.

Standard procedure after a test was for the guards to drag me over to Dr. Peterson's lab for a complete examination. After that, they let me eat. The FBI techs would leave and I would have the rest of the evening to myself. If the day's tests hadn't left me too injured or too low on juice, I'd spend more time in the exercise room.

"Stick her in her cell," McIntyre said to the guards. "Full security."

Four chains held by four guards. "Hey! What about the party?" I didn't have to feign anything here. The baking and other cooking had filled the Detention Center with unfamiliar homey smells, and I suspected McIntyre heard my tummy grumbling from where he stood.

McIntyre just snorted. He and his team dragged me by my chains to my cell. I kept a hurt expression on my face, and as best as possible covered up the natural anger McIntyre and his gang of thugs roused in me when they interfered with my life.

"You're pathetic if you think something this stupid would have worked," McIntyre said, after they released me into the cell. I turned away, sorrow warring with anger, and winning. "I expected better of you," he said, and slammed the door.

Oh, did I sob after that.

Not because McIntyre had wrecked my escape plan, though. Mostly, I sobbed because of nerves, the constant ache in my muscles, the need for more juice, and out of annoyance that I had been right and I wouldn't be allowed to attend the party. Despite the changes I had gone through as an Arm, I still had trouble with that kind of male dominance game.

Oh, and the food did smell delicious.

My plan, though, had layers. I had done my thinking, fortunately, back when I had been high on juice. Best case, the FBI wouldn't even notice the party. Second best case, they would think the party was strange, but wouldn't connect me to it. Third best case, the FBI would see the party as something I had arranged. Truthfully, I wasn't shocked that McIntyre had put two and two together and decided a bunch of dumb women had fallen into a really dumb plan of mine to escape during the confusion of the party.

In the worst case, the FBI would have stopped the party cold, one of my layers of distractions would have vanished, and I would have to ask my night shift friends to risk themselves in a more risky distraction. From the smells, the FBI hadn't stopped the party. They had simply locked me up in the escape-proof suicide cell, sneered at me and called me pathetic.

The bastards also hadn't let me finish my dinner. Real low, even for them.

Still, I started the evening off right by repainting my fingernails and toenails.

The knock at my cell door came at ten, as arranged.

"Carol, you indecent yet?"

Artusy.

"Not quite. Get me a damp washcloth and about ten minutes." He did so, I washed myself as best as possible given the situation, and got dolled up. I imagined the FBI memo for next time they had an Arm in their custody: 'Under no circumstances are you to allow an Arm access to face cream, blush, eye liner, lipstick...' I took a minute to scratch furiously at the wound on my leg after I pulled the tape off. I had a nasty gash from a broken piece of picnic table, from earlier today, and it itched like a bitch while it healed.

I put on the easy-to-strip clothing Artusy had provided, and put on the show. Well, put on the show after I ate some of the food Artusy had trucked up on a cart.

"You were right that the Feds would lock you up and keep you from the party," Artusy said. I nodded and stuffed face. Oh, I loved cream-filled chocolate éclairs. Fudge with walnuts, too. Don't even get me started about baklava...

I had to restrain my appetite, else I'd end up like the guards. It proved difficult to stop eating.

"Wheel the cart in and..."

"Sorry, I can't," Artusy said. "Food on paper plates only. For some stupid reason the Feds decided that this party was some sort of escape attempt. They didn't even leave until the party ended." This should have been about an hour ago, if Doris and I had this set up properly. "Sampled all the food, too." Heh. "Can't image what got into their heads, but they're going to be going over our security with a fine-toothed comb tomorrow. So the cart stays with me."

"No problem," I said, and grabbed food-laden paper plates. Lots of them.

I visualized all those FBI agents and techs getting logy from the party food, forced to stay late to make sure I didn't have anything strange planned. I imagined them annoyed at the overtime, and after nothing happened, stalking off to some cop bar to get plastered. At least I hoped so.

I grabbed the last double-fudge brownie, stuck the confection on my cell floor, and smiled. I posed. Artusy took pictures.

"I've got to run off and get these developed," Artusy said, after he finished. If I planned this right, every low-life on the night shift would be ogling my pictures in an hour or less. "You mind if Kelsey here does the dirty work with your late-night shower?"

"No problem," I said, a paper plate in my hand and a cream filled doughnut in my mouth. I had already given back the easy-to-strip clothes. "I think my deadly sin of the evening is going to involve food."

Once the suicide cell door closed, I leapt up and retrieved the hidden dagger. I pushed the food to the far corner of the room and tried not to think about how good it smelled.

Of all the temptations I feared would damn my soul in this horrific place, twenty thousand calories of desserts was not what I expected to be the worst.

But there they were, and there I was.

I used the knife to clean the underside of my fingernails as I stewed over my plan and listened to my tummy grumble.

At eleven-thirty, I knocked on my door. By now, Mike Artusy should have had the pictures developed and distributed. Kelsey opened the suicide cell door for me. Chocolate and alcohol flavored his breath.

As usual, I wore my bathrobe and carried my shower supplies in my arms. The knife rested in its holster below my knee, invisible beneath the long robe. I had the pictures of my children hidden in my clothing. Kelsey led me down the hall to the bathroom. After I went in Kelsey took up his post outside the door.

As soon as the door shut, I went into action. I took off my bathrobe, uncovering the short-sleeved blouse and loose skirt I wore underneath. I was barefoot. I hadn't been able to come up with any way around that. Nor anything to do about the shackles welded to my ankles.

I started the shower running and checked out the small bathroom window. Painted shut, but still without bars.

I climbed on the toilet and set to work with Dr. Zielinski's knife. As quickly as possible, I cut into the paint between the window and the sash. The standard procedure allowed me only fifteen minutes for a shower, so I had to hurry.

I finished digging out the paint in a few minutes, glad of my many physical enhancements. The hinges were on the top, and the window would open out at the bottom. It didn't move when I pushed. Or the next several times I pushed.

I hadn't expected that. I searched the bathroom for anything that might serve as a pry bar, and found nothing. I went and grabbed soap, thinking I would do something I'd heard of once upon a time and soap the hinges to make them give. I climbed up and discovered the hinges were on the outside. I grimaced in disgust. Here I was, the big bad Arm with all these physical changes, and I still had problems with things mechanical.

I tried Dr. Zielinski's knife and decided I was only making a mess. I didn't have time for that approach.

Now I began to get panicky. I took a deep breath and examined my options. After I carefully scanned my surroundings, I took another deep breath to steady myself, stuck Dr. Zielinski's knife in my holster, and got to work.

I wrapped my bathrobe around my hands for protection, put one foot on top of the toilet tank and the other a little ways up the wall, spread as far apart as the shackles would allow, and pounded on the window. No one noticed.

The window moved a hair. I pounded on it some more. Still no one noticed. After a long push, the window opened all the way, making a horrible creaking sound. Every guard within miles should have heard it. The cold from outside came rushing in.

I paused. Kelsey didn't knock at my door. The escape alarms didn't go off.

"Well, here goes nothing," I whispered to myself, annoyed at the tiny window. I didn't miss the birth canal symbology: Carol Hancock, housewife and leading neighborhood volunteer, was about to be reborn as Carol Hancock, Arm and outlaw.

Now, if I only could figure out what an Arm was supposed to be, I would be set.

Step one: look out the third floor bathroom window.

I saw as clearly as if it was noon, despite the overcast night. I'd counted on that. No guards walked the grounds. If I craned my neck I could see the gate by the inner wall. In the gatehouse, two of the guards were engrossed over something. My pictures. They hadn't noticed my racket.

Why? I hadn't been loud. It seemed loud to me because of my enhanced hearing.

Step two: climb up and through the window.

It was a tight fit. The window really was too small and I was no longer my former petite self. I forced myself through the window, but collected several nasty scrapes along my arms and legs. I tore holes in my clothes, too.

Step three: get stuck.

I hadn't planned on this one. I should have gone through the window feet first, but I had come through head first, my hands still wrapped in the bathrobe. I couldn't turn myself around, and when I tried to back out, I found myself stuck.

Dammit.

Even if I backed up, I didn't know how to get out the window feet first. The window was too high up, and I didn't know of anywhere for me to put the rest of my weight while I levered my feet through.

Step four: deal with the problem.

Dammit, I would go through this window headfirst whether it made sense or not. I slowly moved forward, and after I almost lost my balance, I braced myself on the brick on the outside of the building. In the end, I hung from the window by my feet, upside down, with my head over twenty feet above the ground. I couldn't afford to fall. The noise would be too loud and I might hurt myself.

I dropped the bathrobe and slowly inched my hands back up the wall, holding on to the sill with my now panic-sweat covered feet. It took forever. Finally, I crawled far enough up the wall to reach one hand back and grab the window. I let my feet come free and brought up the other hand up to grab the sill as I twisted.

Right side up, I dropped.

I fell between two bushes, not making much noise at all save for the muffled clank of my shackles. Quickly, I crouched down behind the bushes, my toes gripping the cold dirt. The guards at the Detention Center gate didn't turn toward me.

Above me, the gray sky loomed, threatening. Out of the Detention Center for the first time in weeks, I felt a chill that wasn't from the wind, but from freedom. I looked at my wristwatch. Eleven-forty. I still had time before I went over my shower time allowance.

I took a step and stopped; my shackled feet clanked as I walked. In the noisy Detention Center they had faded into the background, but out here they sounded as loud as a freight train. I stopped, unsure, and thought.

The bathrobe. I'd discarded it as useless, but perhaps I might make use of it. I reached down, wrapped my bathrobe around the chain between my legs, and took a step. No clank. Perfect. I headed toward the Detention Center wall as quickly as possible with a bathrobe around the shackles between my legs.

The wall was brick, topped by concrete, about ten feet tall. Certainly too tall for me to climb. After I holstered Dr. Zielinski's knife, I jumped anyway.

My fingers caught the lip of concrete that overhung the brick and I began to pull myself up. Pain!

I dropped to the ground again. Something sharp was on the top of the wall.

My fingers bled, cut along the length of them. I wouldn't be able to pull myself over doing this. I needed another solution, and I needed it now.

What to do?

I had the urge to sit down and cry. Give up. Not a thing in my escape had gone as I had planned. The window wasn't supposed to be so hard to open. I wasn't supposed to get stuck. The shackles weren't supposed to be so loud. There wasn't supposed to be something sharp on the top of the inner wall.

Quitter, quitter, quitter, the voices in my head whispered. I closed my eyes and tried to stop shaking. I had to move.

I took stock and looked over at the guardhouse. The guards were still engrossed with my pictures, but I couldn't stand here all night, exposed. I had to do something.

Hell. I still had my bathrobe wrapped around my shackles. I pulled it loose and wrapped one end of the robe around each hand, with about a foot of slack in the middle. I jumped again. Something dug into my hand through the heavy fabric of the robe, but I ignored the pain and pulled myself up.

The top of the wall was set with broken glass.

I didn't have time for this. I took my right hand, reached over to the far side of the wall and held on, the bathrobe between my hands protecting my arm. I pulled my other hand loose from the bathrobe. Holding on with my right hand, I scrabbled up with my feet until the toes of my left foot gripped the wall. Leaning to the side, right hand holding on to the far side of the wall, left foot holding on to the near side of the wall by my toes, I barely kept my balance. I pulled my right leg up between my left leg and the wall and swung it over in a big motion. This vaulted me over the wall and I fell to the dried grass on the other side. I wrapped the bathrobe around my shackles and took off.

I got two steps. "Well, lookie lookie what have we here," a voice said, a low whisper.

McIntyre.

Gilgamesh: November 15, 1966

Echo had been creeping toward the Detention Center for hours. He had started at dusk and still crept forward, a mile and a half to the north of the place.

He hadn't showed yesterday at all, day or night. He must have spent the day working up his courage.

Gilgamesh checked his battered watch. Nearly midnight, if the damned thing was accurate. He thought things through, and decided to keep himself between Echo and the Detention Center. He began to walk.

A couple of minutes later, Gilgamesh began to run. He now knew where Echo headed – toward the hotel where Tiamat's FBI torturers stayed, a mile and a quarter northwest of the Detention Center.

Echo started to run as well.

So much for Thomas the Dreamer's protections he imagined had kept him hidden from Echo's metasense.

Gilgamesh's stomach churned as he ran. This time, there would be a confrontation if he wanted to save Tiamat.

"So, you found some friends of your own who are willing to back you, eh?" Echo said.

"Thomas the Dreamer," Gilgamesh replied. Thomas had told him to mention his name. The mention didn't have the effect Gilgamesh had hoped for.

Echo didn't run.

He and Echo stood on opposite ends of a parking lot of a small office building one block from the hotel the FBI used. Discrete signs for dentists and pediatricians cluttered the tiny lawn. The overcast sky blanketed the city, the air warmer than the last two nights.

"Thomas says it would be unwise for you to betray the Arm," Gilgamesh said. "Unwise and in violation of prior Crow agreements."

With his metasense, he sensed Tiamat on the way to her evening shower.

"Fools. There are no Crow agreements on the subject of Monsters. Monsters have no rights."

"The Arms are Major Transforms, not Monsters," Gilgamesh said.

"Weak," Echo said and started to walk across the parking lot. "This argument is pointless. I'd advise you to clear out. I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't think you can," Gilgamesh said. This damned pile of dross on him had to be good for something.

Echo stopped and clapped his hands. Dross moved out from him, a thin shell, and when it reached Gilgamesh, the dross pummeled him with loud noises.

Loud echoing noises. Deep base drums, loud enough to shake Gilgamesh.

They were not, though, loud enough to damage him. He backed off two steps, no more. A moment, and he had control of himself again.

Echo ran toward the FBI hotel. Gilgamesh had expected it. He also turned and ran, keeping between Echo and the FBI hotel.

In the Detention Center, Tiamat had kicked out a window and attempted to squeeze her way through. The escape was on.

Zaltu, who had been on the top of the warehouse all day, motionless, still didn't move.

"What Thomas the Dreamer gave me protected me from your 'echo' attack," Gilgamesh said, as he ran. "Now what are you going to do? In a moment, Keaton's going to swoop down and grab Hancock, and..."

"So? You still can't do anything to me," Echo said. The other Crow glared at Gilgamesh and continued to run.

There probably was something he might do, but Gilgamesh wasn't sure what. All Thomas had said was 'this will equalize things, save that some Crows are more equal than others'. Cryptic. Non-informative.

Tiamat ran toward the inner Detention Center wall. Her first leap didn't carry her over the wall, but after a long pause, a second one did.

It was up to Gilgamesh and his wiles to stop Echo. "You go into the hotel and I will as well. I'll tell the FBI that you're a Major Transform. A Crow."

Echo stopped.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me," Gilgamesh said.

In the Detention Center, Tiamat ran into someone and stopped.

Rover (Interlude): November 15, 1966

Rover loped through the pine trees until he got to the wide cleared pathway where the towers carried the wires over the low mountain. He stopped at the edge of the trees, sniffed the air, and howled in frustration. The moon had gone another half way through her courses, and as he had feared, they were back. He was too far away to catch them with his ability to sense the good loving, but he smelled them. He remembered their scent.

He was an idiot. He had made another mistake soon after their last confrontation: he had chased some sort of running Monster that looked like a cross between a giant rat and a giant rabbit, and it had plowed into a _bus_ at a _stop sign._ He had taken the Monster there among all those people, raped a few women, beaten up a few men who got in his way, and killed the man with the tiny _gun_ who shot him. He wondered what the men who made _newspapers_ would think of the rat-rabbit thing, as it wasn't one of the Monster varieties who made the headlines.

Whenever he growled, nearly everyone either froze or ran. He liked that. He liked it so much he had ambled into a grocery store a day later, growled everyone out of the grocery store, and pigged out on the meat section until he could barely move. He didn't try anything like with the teeth that had gotten him into trouble before, and to his surprise, after good loving and all that food, a day later he had gotten some of his words and memories back. Unfortunately, he found a limit to how many of his words and memories he could recover: he hadn't regained anything from before he became Rover.

He swore he was smarter than he had been, though.

He didn't want yet another confrontation with those good loving-filled hunters. He loped back the other way, and only went a half mile before he stopped. People filled the pine hills. People with _guns_ and bright _flashlights,_ stretched out in a thin line, but close enough together to keep each other in sight.

Coming toward him.

He went off at a right angle to avoid them, straight up the hill, and pulled up short. Yet another line of people awaited him. These didn't move. Instead, they squatted in holes in the ground. One of them caught a glimpse of him and fired a shot over his head.

Rover snarled.

Another shot, over his head. They weren't trying to shoot him.

I'll bet if I charged them, they would, Rover thought. His stupid half was talking again. He turned around and went the last direction, along a ridgeline and down a steep slope to a small pass that cut the ridge in half.

A third of the way down, Rover stopped. About a thousand feet ahead, he sensed something _different_. Like the fake Monster lady, this one had nearly as much good loving in him as a Monster did. Only this one's good loving was much more visible than the good loving of a Monster or the fake Monster lady, a huge glowing bank of fog, much larger than the tiny man in its center. Complex and structured. The beauty of the fog bank called to Rover.

Rover whimpered.

The little man stood alone, except for a Monster at his feet, a wolf-Monster. Not chained, not half dead. A free Monster, peaceful and at rest, right next to this little man.

The little man had tamed the Monster. Impossible. Monsters were mindless fighting machines, not a thought in their heads. Yet the Monster sat at the little man's feet, tamed.

"Come on down here, Rover," the little man called up to him. The little man didn't have a _flashlight_ ; like Rover, he could see in the dark. "Let's talk."

Rover took two steps closer and stopped. "Rover scared of little man. Go away."

"You can't hurt me, Rover," the little man said. "But I can help you."

"Help me not kill people?"

"Yes sir, that's the idea, you lame-brained overgrown puppy dog," the little man said. "Now get down here. My name's Occum, and, well hell and damnation, I guess I'm going to be your master. Someone's got to save you, and I guess since you came to me, I've drawn the short straw." He paused, which let Rover try to figure out what the little man named Occum had actually said. He didn't understood all those words. "Try and be nice to Brunhilda, she's..."

Nice? Bah. This Occum didn't know squat about him and Monsters. He rushed up to the Monster, grabbed her by the neck and raped her. Took her good loving.

"Stop that! You're killing her," Occum said.

Rover didn't bother to answer or stop until he drained the Monster of all her good loving. Oh, that felt good. Too bad she died, though.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit," Occum said, between clenched teeth. "So I guess I'm next?"

"No, master," Rover said, and rolled over on his back and presented his belly to Occum. With all this good loving in him, he felt happily lethargic. "You're not named next, you're named Occum."

Occum rubbed Rover's belly, and Rover's tummy rumbled. "Now I eat Monster. Monster's good eating. Then rape master."

"What?" Occum said. "Forget it, Rover. No. Rover does not rape master. That's rule number one, got that?"

"Okay, boss master Occum." Boss Master Occum looked like he was about to start crying.

"Dammit, how'd Shadow talk me into this one, anyway?" Occum said. "I'll wring his goddamned starched shirted neck. 'Rape master'? How am I going to get myself out of this one?"

Rover ate the Monster, and the world was good. He had gotten himself out of his mess and 'getting them out of this one' was his master Occum's responsibility now.

He wasn't a stupid magic dog anymore.

Yes, the world was good again.

Carol Hancock: November 15, 1966

I stumbled, half from shock and half on purpose. When I recovered, I had Dr. Zielinski's knife in my blood-slick right hand and McIntyre had his honking big gun resting on my forehead.

McIntyre was alone. I couldn't understand why he came here alone, but his giddy excitement implied he had just won a bet. He understood Arms and Patrelle didn't, and Patrelle thought him foolish to think Carol Hancock, Housewife and Twit, might be able to pull off an escape.

"Oww, my ankle," I said, softly. Anticipating.

"Stand up anyway, bitch," McIntyre said, matching my quiet voice. He wanted the credit for my capture alone. I stood, slowly. He moved back, gun still pointed at my forehead. I froze in confusion. This couldn't be happening! I was far enough along in my escape that this _hurt_. I could _taste_ my freedom. "Don't you dare pull any of your goddamned crap..."

Something snapped inside me, some switch turning on that had never turned on before. The world around me vanished, all except for McIntyre. I sprang at him, fast fast fast. He flinched in surprise as I backhanded his gun hand with my left hand. His gun went flying.

He swung at me, wildly, and connected with the side of my head as I ducked to the side. Pain shot through my head, and for a moment, I staggered. I ignored the pain, no worse than many of Patrelle's tests. I righted myself and didn't fall.

I swung at McIntyre's jaw with my left hand and he blocked my punch. Instead, I hit the side of his arm. McIntyre grimaced and leapt at me, trying to wrestle me to the ground. I didn't fall; all those muscles I had achingly gained proved their worth.

My unfamiliarity with fighting filled me with panic. Eventually he would be able to wrestle me to the ground. _I couldn't allow that!_ I gave myself over to my instincts, and with my right hand I punched the knife into his belly. McIntyre's hands went toward his belly as he pulled back and I punched his jaw with my left hand.

McIntyre fell, instantly.

I couldn't believe it. Unfamiliar emotions coursed through my body; something inside me urged me to charge the distant guard and gut him as well. Go back inside and kill everyone. This unfamiliar emotion made me all wiggly on my feet, lighter than air, ready to bounce out of my skin. Strange. McIntyre had hurt me in the fight, but there was no pain. None at all, even from my normally achy muscles.

The only thing inside me was this lust – I didn't know a better word – this lust for more combat.

Crazy. I needed to get out of here before the FBI or the staff raised the alarm. The seven guards who worked nights in the Detention Center had a hotline to the local police station for emergencies like this. They could have the compound crawling with police officers and FBI agents in minutes.

I enjoyed fighting McIntyre. I enjoyed it so much I wanted to do it again, despite my bleeding hands and bruised head.

I looked down at him, bleeding on the ground, and realized I had no idea if he would live or die. I had the urge to make sure he was dead. Cut his throat.

The stench of his blood hit me like three martinis. I couldn't kill someone. Not like this.

I vomited chocolate éclairs on McIntyre's right shoe and slowly backed away in disgust. I couldn't slice his throat. Hell, I couldn't have done what I had already done. _What had I become?_

I shoved that thought away for later. Time for me to escape.

The only times I had seen the outside of the Detention Center had been on the way in and when McIntyre had me up on the roof for the drop test. The wall I scaled was only the first barrier, not the compound edge. I had yet another set of fences to deal with, the chain link fence topped with barbed wire I recalled from the trip in. There were power lines off to the left, warehouses off to the right, and past the warehouses, a couple of railroad cars. Far from the main gate, on the right, a road ran straight up to the outer fence and stopped, almost a private driveway. A thousand feet to the left of the blocked road, the one guard I thought I might evade walked his patrol.

The blocked road was my target. The guard on patrol still hadn't reacted to my fight with McIntyre. I ran for the outer wall as fast as my shackles would allow. Escape first, react later, was my new motto. McIntyre's gun I kicked into the weeds on the way by.

When I got to the blocked road I found a gate, locked, closed and barricaded. A sign said 'CLOSED. DO NOT ENTER.' I made use of my ragged bathrobe again, climbed over the fence, and left my bathrobe on the barbed wire. The distant guard didn't notice my ascent and I climbed up and over in seconds, to land in the bushes outside the gate, dripping blood. My wristwatch showed eleven forty-four.

I crouched down by a stunted holly, exposed under the threatening sky. I was out of the Detention Center, but still I worried. Would Keaton show up? How would she find me? Had Kelsey found I wasn't in the shower? How long should I wait for Keaton? How long before they found McIntyre?

What would I do if Keaton never showed up?

What had I gotten myself into?

Hell. I had made my choice, and now I would have to live with Keaton. If she showed up. I had turned her down and left her hanging, once. Turnabout would be fair play.

If Keaton didn't show, I decided I'd make a collect call to Focus Michelle Claunch. Perhaps I could sweet-talk her into getting me in contact with Bates or Dr. Zielinski.

What was an Arm? I still didn't have an answer. 'Athlete' didn't cut it, not after what had come over me when I faced McIntyre. I should have folded when he pointed his huge Monster gun at my head. Instead, I had passed into some red-tinged state where I felt as light as air and my body had moved faster than my thoughts. I enjoyed the fight, my strange and unexpected lust for combat. Talk about unladylike behavior.

Like Keaton, I had become a real Arm. Once we were human. Not anymore. McIntyre and Bates realized that Arms were no longer human, but the rest of the FBI and likely the rest of the government didn't. Neither did the doctors, save perhaps Dr. Zielinski. We were beset by a bunch of doctors playing God and a bunch of clods playing doctor, and the lot of them were so tied up in their preconceptions they didn't have eyes to see the truth. I wondered if the Focuses had discovered they weren't human anymore. If they were anything like Arms, they certainly...

The Detention Center sirens went off. Without thinking, I ran across the street and into a warehouse parking lot, clanking as I ran. Another siren went off, a police car siren from the other side of the Detention Center. The one visible guard took off toward the second siren, away from me.

Someone had decided to help me. No idea who.

I slowed to a quiet walk and continued to move away from the Detention Center.

Gilgamesh: November 15, 1966

Echo turned again and ran, not toward the hotel where the FBI lodged, but at an angle, in the direction of the Detention Center. Gilgamesh hadn't expected Echo to do anything of the sort, and so by the time Gilgamesh turned to follow Echo, Gilgamesh lagged several paces behind.

Gilgamesh couldn't figure out Echo. Obviously, Gilgamesh's threat had cowed Echo, but now he had some other idea. The last thing Gilgamesh expected was for Echo to run _toward_ the Detention Center.

In the Detention Center, Tiamat attacked the person who had confronted her.

Gilgamesh spotted Echo's target a little ways farther. Straight down the road, a police car sat unmoving in the parking lot of a plumbing supply outlet. A single officer sat inside the police car, eating a sandwich. Gilgamesh quailed when he thought through the implications.

Echo had the ability to metasense things that weren't Transforms.

Gilgamesh couldn't fight a Crow with such advanced abilities. He shouldn't even be bothering. Echo would tell the police officer what was going on and that would be that. Echo had a ten pace lead on Gilgamesh, now.

Gilgamesh wanted to flee. With each step, he edged closer to panic, closer to the terror that ruled his every day. He found it harder and harder to chase Echo.

Echo's lead increased to fifteen paces.

However, if Gilgamesh fled, the police would be after Tiamat before she got away. They would capture her or kill her.

He had to do something. Tiamat depended on him.

Playing through his options, Gilgamesh worked out what he had to do.

Echo reached the police car and tapped on the window. "Officer, officer, Carol Hancock, the Arm in the Detention Center is..."

The officer rolled down the window and turned to Echo as Gilgamesh closed in. Gilgamesh approached to within five feet and sicked up bad dross on the police officer. The officer slumped over in his police car.

"Dammit!" Echo said. He started to draw in the dross that Gilgamesh had sicked up. Gilgamesh stopped and backed off to ten feet away from Echo.

"You clean him up, I'll just do it again," Gilgamesh said.

Echo grimaced at Gilgamesh, anger on his face. He didn't do anything but stare. Ah, Gilgamesh realized. Echo was attempting to be _fierce_ , but it didn't work because of Thomas's defenses. To Gilgamesh's eyes, Echo appeared to be near panic, but Gilgamesh couldn't think of anything to do to push Echo over the edge. He had to try something.

"I caught Stacy Keaton putting makeup on a couple of days ago. I think she might be a master of disguise," Gilgamesh said. Echo shivered, but didn't run. "Not even close..." to being a Monster. He didn't get a chance to finish, because Echo reached into the police car and grabbed the police officer's gun. Pointed it at Gilgamesh.

"Go. Now," Echo said, his voice cracking. The gun wavered in Echo's hand. In the Detention Center, Tiamat had reached the outer wall. In an instant, she leapt over. Zaltu ran as well, faster than lightning. Toward her car.

Gilgamesh didn't run.

No, he was angry, as angry as he had ever been as a normal man. "You would shoot another Crow just so you could betray an Arm? I expect better behavior from a Crow. Leave those Arms alone. _You're finished here!_ "

To Gilgamesh's surprise, Echo's eyes opened wide and he backed away from Gilgamesh. The gun clattered at Echo's feet and Echo ran, a mad, terrified dash to the east, away from everything save the Mississippi river, which curled through the bottomlands a few miles that way.

Oh. Gilgamesh smiled as he remembered again Thomas's statement: 'this will equalize things, save that some Crows are more equal than others'. With help from Thomas's trick, he had out- _fierced_ Echo.

He caught his breath and cleaned his sick-up off the police officer. He didn't want the police officer to die. Doing so also took care of what remained of Thomas the Dreamer's dross tricks, as he sucked them in as well. As he worked, loud sirens went off inside the Detention Center. The guards had noticed Tiamat's disappearance. However, she was still close to the Detention Center and Zaltu was only now opening the roll-up door so she would be able to drive her car out of the warehouse. The Detention Center guards might still be able to capture Tiamat.

Gilgamesh started to run. He caught himself.

He could do something before he left. He smiled as he imagined the effect it would have.

Instead of running away, Gilgamesh reached into the police car and switched on its siren.

Gilgamesh backed off. From what he metasensed, he didn't see anything else to do. He had done his part, small as it was, and he grinned from ear to ear that he had managed to do some good. Tiamat was free.

Carol Hancock: November 15, 1966

"Here," a voice said. I turned and saw a beat-up blue Ford stopped on the other side of the parking lot, about a hundred yards away from where I crouched. Keaton sat inside and I ran over to her. She hadn't shouted. I heard her anyway.

I wiped blood on my skirt and climbed into the front seat. Keaton drove off before I had a chance to shut the car door.

I was free.

Dr. Henry Zielinski: November 16, 1966

Dr. Zielinski stretched his feet out in front of him and glumly considered the prospect of going back home. Glory wasn't going to be pleased with him, and so he chickened out and delayed the inevitable confrontation by staying here with Bates and his men at the FBI temporary base. He guessed the time as after two in the morning, too late for him to drive back to Boston.

The so-called base was actually three rooms at a small Catskills vacation lodge, complete with rough pine walls and bare floors. Many of the men had gone home already and most of the rest were asleep in the other two rooms, but a few sat in this small room, consuming beer and recovering from the adrenaline excitement of hunting a Monster. Bates stood by the telephone, jammed in between the bed and the wooden table, murmuring quietly to some unknown caller.

Bates was so intent on his conversation that his cigarette smoldered into ash in the ashtray beside him, ignored. Dr. Zielinski frowned when he noticed, and leaned forward, unabashedly eavesdropping.

"Yes. How long ago?" Bates said into the receiver.

"Yes," and, "yes," again. Around the room, the other men began to register the conversation as well, and the room grew slowly quiet.

Bates turned his pale head over towards Dr. Zielinski. "No, he couldn't have been involved. He's been with me since this afternoon."

Dr. Zielinski felt his heart leap with a sudden suspicion of what the phone call meant.

"Absolutely," Bates said into the phone. "I've got a dozen men right here who've been with him, too. The man's sitting right in front of me right now."

After a long pause, and a final, "Yes, I can make it by this afternoon," Bates very gently hung up the phone.

Bates turned to glance at the listening men. "Hancock escaped, just a couple of hours ago."

There was a low murmuring of obscenity, and one loud, "Son of a bitch. Now we have _two_ of them on the loose."

Dr. Zielinski's heart leapt again and he felt like he was floating on air. Yes! She did it. With any reasonable amount of luck, she was with Keaton right now. With a little more luck, she might even live.

He kept his delight off his face, but only barely. He didn't dare open his mouth to ask a question, because he knew a grin would escape.

Fortunately, other people asked for him. "What the hell happened? I thought McIntyre had that place locked up." The question came from the agent with the loud voice. Dr. Zielinski thought his name was Cozart.

"Out the window in the bathroom," Bates said. "She knifed McIntyre on the way out."

"Shit," somebody murmured. "He going to live?"

Bates shrugged and his eyes landed on Dr. Zielinski. "They're sure she had help, though. You don't know what a lucky son of a bitch you are that you're here tonight."

Dr. Zielinski nodded and let the men continue their chatter. Some agent in the far corner said, "We've only ever lost two damned Arms, and that jackass is responsible for both of them. You'd think they would finally cut that lunatic loose."

"He's got backing," someone else said. "They don't care if he's..."

She escaped. Dr. Zielinski still marveled at it. After all these years, and all those dead Arms, he finally had one who might live.

Dr. Zielinski turned away from the cluster of men around Bates, so they wouldn't notice the sudden moisture in his eyes. He had dedicated his life's work to saving the Arms. Sacrificed what appeared to be both his career and his marriage. He had wounds, nightmares, and a life infested with terrible people. Yet, right now, it all seemed worth it.

Carol Hancock, his problem child, his temperamental, superstitious, over-sexed housewife, might live.

He laughed to himself, when he thought about what he had been doing this evening. The Arm and her male counterpart, both finding a way to live and grow up, both surviving what appeared to be certain death sentences. This was progress, immense progress. Better, he had found a way to help the Major Transforms cooperate with each other, necessary if the Transform community was to grow and thrive. Now, if the Major Transforms could just learn to cooperate in a public fashion...

He wondered what they would grow up into.

Tonya Biggioni: November 16, 1966

"...and no, Tonya, you can't fucking pay me enough, either."

"What's this, the Little Red Hen story?" Tonya asked. So much for Keaton's recent spate of kindness. This was unacceptable. It didn't help that Focus Shirley Patterson, Tonya's political backer, had predicted Keaton's response. "According to our agreement, I get to help you with this new Arm. You owe me."

"Our goddamned agreement was for us to work together to _grab_ the next Arm. What fucking work did you do to help me? A couple of safe phone calls? Fuck you, Tonya! She's mine, now. _Mine_!"

Click.

Tonya put the phone down and grimaced. Keaton could get so touchy about things she considered hers. Tonya wondered if this was a Keaton personality trait or a characteristic of all Arms. If extreme possessiveness turned out to be an Arm personality trait, dealing with Arms would be a living nightmare. "Sorry about the interruption," Tonya said, after she turned back to the person she had been talking to before the phone call.

Lori shrugged. She sat on the other side of Tonya's desk and sipped on a cup of honeyed tea. Tonya glanced at Delia, who had drawn waitress duty today, and signaled her to leave the room. This conversation had to stay secret. Delia shut the door behind her.

Tonya had called Focus Lori Rizzari down to Philadelphia for a personal debriefing on the now finished Rover affair. Lori had complained but she had showed up anyway. Tonya could have done without Lori's screwy super-athlete bodyguards, but they were part of the package that made up Focus Lori Rizzari and her Cambridge Zoo. Tonya also could have done without Lori's shallowly hidden arrogance, her belief that her household was a decade ahead of Tonya's, and her assumption that anyone who didn't follow her path was a fool.

"No problem," Lori said. She had been in a foul mood to start with, but her mood brightened after she learned what Tonya wanted from her. "Quite educational, actually, as I've never had the chance to deal with any of the Arms." Lori paused, and she smiled for a moment. Her eyes went vacant as the Focus metasensed Tonya's household. The pit pat of cold raindrops on Tonya's office window, along with the gurgling of the old hot water radiator in the corner of the office and the smell of pies baking announced the sudden onset of winter.

"You sure you want to do this information trade?" Lori asked. "My information is disturbing."

"Positive," Tonya said. "We may not agree on much at all, but we do share one thing in common: we work with Major Transforms who aren't Focuses. Someday, I predict, you'll end up working with Arms and I'll end up working with these Crows and Chimeras." Tonya smiled. "As always, none of the information we talk about today leaves this room." Meaning Lori couldn't share the information with the other Focuses. Tonya wasn't even going to try to convince Lori not to talk about it to her household leaders. Lori would tell whomever she chose to in her household, and Tonya couldn't do a single thing about that.

"How about Dr. Zielinski?" Lori asked. "Hancock's escape will land him in trouble on many fronts, and I invited him to join my household as one of my non-Transform adjuncts if things get too hot for him."

Tonya shrugged. She had a bad feeling Secret Agent Zielinski knew everything they were going to be discussing anyway. "Tell him only what you need to." Tonya took one of the slices of the meat pie. Normally, Tonya wouldn't serve such heavy fare to another Focus, but even though Lori was improbably petite and stood an inch less than five feet tall, the Boston Focus was an athlete and enjoyed such food. "First, I'd like to learn about your household's work on the demographics of Transform Sickness." Lori raised an eyebrow, surprised about both Tonya's knowledge of the work and Tonya's interest.

Tonya filled Lori in about the reason, the induced transformation she had witnessed back in September.

"We call it the Transform Apocalypse," Lori said, after Tonya had finished her story. "If you want, I can forward a couple of technical papers on the subject to you. After considerable investigation, we concluded the number of induced transformations occurring outside of major transformation events is rising – and the curve is exponential, not linear. At some point, the number of Transforms will explode, and everyone who isn't immune to Transform Sickness will be transformed."

"My God," Tonya said. Years ago, Lori had predicted the number of induced transformations would overtake the number of regular transformations, but Tonya hadn't realized the increase rate of induced transformations was exponential. "How soon?"

"Unclear. Our data depends on the growth of infection-based transformations, which makes the numbers a little suspect, but sometime in the mid to late seventies, the number of induced transformations will pass the number of infection-based transformations. Three years after the induced transformations become dominant, the number of induced transformations will increase by an order of magnitude, and three years later, the curve goes straight up. Then, everyone who can transform will, or, my guess, the curve is wrong at that point. We call the point where the number of induced transformations passes the number of infectious transformations the apocalypse point, because the spread of the Transformation Sickness can no longer be stopped, even if the infectious agents are eradicated. We have no idea how long the transformation apocalypse might last. In nature, exponential growth curves eventually flatten out, but we don't possess enough data to give us a feel for when the pure exponential growth curve will begin to flatten."

"That's the end of the human race, then," Tonya said. Transform women were infertile, or close enough it didn't matter. She once worried the induced transformation problem would cause a holocaust endangering the lives of her grandchildren. Ten years was soon enough to catch Tonya and her children as well.

She hoped to hell Lori was wrong.

"Not necessarily," Lori said. "Enough immunes exist to repopulate."

"It's not just the die-off, it's the fall of civilization that will doom us," Tonya said.

"I know, even though that's not science, just hand-waving," Lori said. "We need to find a way around all these problems. I'm positive a solution exists. That's what keeps me going."

"Why?" Tonya asked.

"I can't give you any hard science on why I have hope," Lori said. "But my household and I, in conjunction with a researcher in Europe, have come up with a hypothesis you need to hear about. Brace yourself, Tonya. This is wacky, even for me."

"Any hope at all is better than no hope," Tonya said. Lori began, and spun out a tale of nonsense about myths and recurring episodes of Transform Sickness in the past, and why the established models of the Transformation Sickness didn't work. This was the worst bit of Lori-land nonsense Tonya had ever heard, but the fact that Lori didn't fully accept the story made the hypothesis much more palatable.

"Hopefully, someday, I can come up with some hard proof of the Myth Hypothesis," Lori said, and Tonya nodded. Tonya wouldn't be convinced until she saw the hard proof, as well. "So, if you're good with this, we need to plan on how to convince the Council..."

Tonya waved her hand. "No. Absolutely not."

"You're going to sit still?" Lori's face turned ashen. "We have to unite the Focuses in order to fight the apocalypse, Tonya, otherwise we're all dead!" Tonya shook her head. "My household even uses some tools to increase household size; the number of Transforms I can support is not due to that pack of lies the stodgy old Focuses force me to tell, and we've learned all sorts of tricks: Buddhist meditation, vigorous athletic training, reduction in the frequency of moving juice, vacating the house and letting the Crows at it, but we're just one household and Tonya, you've..."

Far, far into Lori-land. "The time isn't right to even contemplate going public. I wouldn't keep my political career if I exposed even the tiniest bit of this." Lori refused to acknowledge political reality. Neither of them would be any use to Transform civilization if they were dead!

"Then what's the use? Why bother to listen to me, if you don't believe me!" Lori said, an emotional wail. She stood and glared at Tonya, her anger palpable enough to fill the air.

Lori was too young and naïve, both as a Focus and as a person; Tonya was old enough to be Lori's mother. "We have a decade, and I expect you to _continue_ the work you're doing, even if we can't mention anything now to the outside world. I can't predict when we're going to get the chance to push any of this, but trust me, I'm certain the time will come. Not fast enough to please you, but too fast to please me." This is what the Canadian letter-writer had meant. The choice? To work with the other Major Transforms or not. To work to survive the ticking demographic bomb or ignore the predicted disaster. The choice fit, finally, and Tonya understood. "I'll handle the Arms, at least for the moment, and you work with the men. Now," Tonya said, meeting Lori's eyes and working her charismatic will on the other Focus, "Sit back down and compose yourself." For a moment, Lori didn't budge. Tonya realized she had slipped beyond Tonya's ability to control. "It's my turn to give the spiel, and you're not going to like what I'm going to tell you about the Arms. About Stacy Keaton. She has Carol Hancock now, or soon will, for good or for ill." Tonya hadn't been able to tell, from the conversation, whether Keaton had grabbed Hancock yet. "I fear, because of this, none of us can afford to ignore the Arms."

To Tonya's surprise, Lori sat of her own choice, when she could have stood and fought Tonya in another of their little contests that Lori never won and only occasionally tied. A conscious choice Tonya recognized.

Lori had gotten advice from the Canadian as well.

So Lori got to learn – wide eyed and half terrified – how Keaton was something else entirely, something new.

Epilog

Karen: "How dare you! A Transform woman! If you're going to be deluded, at least make me a Focus in your delusions." (fluff hair)

Luke:"I know your secrets. You can't hide them from me. Those trips out at night, your strange hours, the knives you carry. Level with me, Karen. Please, for the sake of our love and our friendship!"

Karen:(laughter, then spoken in a much deeper voice) "If that is what you want, then I shall oblige! You are right – I _am_ a Transform. But I'm no ordinary Transform. I'm an Arm!"

Luke: "No! It can't be. No. I won't..."

Karen: (grabs Luke and begins to suck at his neck – then looks up) "It is the last of your many mistakes."

(Cut to: darkness)

[from "Nights of our Passion" (daytime soap opera premiering January of 1967)]

Carol Hancock: November 15, 1966

"Clumsy idiot," Keaton said, and took a good look at me. Once she had driven us away from the rail yard and warehouses, she slowed down. "Makeup, freshly painted fingernails and toenails? What the fuck's going on in your head, Hancock? You're an Arm, dammit. You smell like chocolate éclairs."

"It was part of my escape," I said. I caught her sudden anger, "Ma'am."

I sat, tense as all get out, and waited for the other shoe to drop. Nothing. Keaton drove, the beat-up car rattled and shook, and I slowly calmed down. She didn't want to talk to me.

I studied her, anxious for any sign of what she expected me to do. Except for the hair and the fake moustache, she looked exactly like Larry Borton. She hadn't clouded my mind with her Larry masquerade and her supernatural Arm tricks. Nope. All those muscles were real.

Keaton had curly dark brown hair, shoulder length, almost certainly a wig. Her gaunt face was recognizably female. Her eyes were blue. Her skin had the same perfect smoothness mine now had. Above the neck, she might have even been attractive if she wasn't so gaunt.

Below the neck? She wore a sleeveless dress with a matching jacket, and she had taken the jacket off and draped it over the back of the seat. Underneath her female exterior was Larry's perfect body-builder body. Shoulders like footballs, biceps bigger than my calves, forearms a mass of thick cables of muscle, wrists as thick as both of mine put together. Even her hands were heavy with muscles. The muscles continued from her shoulders under the narrow sleeve of her dress and on to her chest. They bulged out at the top of the dress and sloped up from her shoulders to her neck. Below her dress, I made out her massive thighs, calves, and hamstrings, all larger than most men had.

Keaton had no layer of fat over her muscles to smooth them out and hide them below her paper-thin layer of skin, giving her the appearance of an anatomy model someone had covered with flesh-colored spray paint. The fine details of her near shoulder, with its complex network of interconnecting musculature, amazed me. As Larry, she had taught me the names of those muscles, and on her, I recognized every one of them: the anterior deltoids, the posterior deltoids, the medial deltoids...and the deep gaps between them. And where each muscle attached to the bone. And where the biceps and triceps muscles started and terminated. Her pectoral muscles in her chest bulged, but the gap that ran down the center of her chest was as big as a canyon.

I found it insanely incongruous to see such a male caricature of a body wearing a dress.

She wore my future shape. If I survived.

As Keaton drove the car, I watched her muscles move. They flexed and extended, and slid over the bone in a pattern both complex and engrossing. Helpless and riveted, I studied in horrified fascination.

Keaton noticed my reaction. I could swear I amused her.

"Ma'am," I whispered, desirously polite. "Thank you for coming."

"You and your friends paid an expensive price to get me here," she said. Different voice, harsh, one I hadn't heard before. Angry. "You're mine, now. Why?"

"Ma'am, I want you to train me," I said.

She growled and tensed. I hadn't given her the answer she wanted. The front seat shrank around me as my stomach clenched in sudden terror. Keaton was a puma, a tiger, a lioness.

"I can help you," I said. "I'll do whatever you want me to. You'll have another Arm..."

She moved her head to the side and back, a tiny motion. She didn't want my help _as an Arm_. Dammit. I needed her to train me how to hunt, how to prosper as an Arm. Save my life. I would do whatever it took to get me that information.

She hadn't yet decided to help me. Hell, she hadn't yet decided to let me live.

"I'll do anything you want me to."

Keaton didn't respond. I didn't understand her silence any more than I understood her question.

"I won't get involved in anything you don't want me to, ma'am. I'll do whatever you want. Just tell me what you want from me."

Keaton twirled the steering wheel of the car with one finger and whipped us around a corner. She didn't respond, and more silence commenced, which left me with a very bad feeling I'd failed some sort of test.

Not a good start. I had this strange giddy desire to kiss Keaton's feet and humble myself to her. Only I was too terrified to move. Given her reaction to my earlier thanks, I couldn't risk any such demonstration of gratitude.

"Right now, cunt, I want to know how you escaped," she said, several blocks later.

I obeyed without a thought, despite a flinch at the insult. I told her the story of my escape from the start, where I started to befriend the staff, to the end, where I moved everyone around on my mental chessboard and found a clear path out without having to fight.

Then I told her about McIntyre's surprise and the fight I hadn't expected. Her anger grew.

"You're useless! You're no Arm," Keaton said, eyes straight ahead. "With the FBI gone for the evening, you just should have taken my knife, slaughtered them all and fucking walked out. Without your goddamned parlor tricks. You should have at least made sure McIntyre was fucking _dead_."

She turned to me and snarled the last. I backed away from her, up against the passenger side door, and froze in complete terror.

She shook her head in disgust and went back to driving.

I hadn't met any of Keaton's expectations. I had bought myself another chance to gain her help and here I went, messing up again. Despite the work I put into my escape, she would kill me for my stupidity.

Now I understood what her 'You're mine. Why?' question had been about. I hadn't met her expectations when she first offered to help as herself. "Ma'am, I apologize for not going with you when you had to leave the Detention Center," I said. "I was a fool. You were right. I've learned my lesson." Sweat poured out of me in earnest now.

Keaton didn't answer. My apology came too late.

My heart skipped a beat, and another. Her anger filled the car. I smelled my death on her.

"How can I make this up to you, ma'am?" I said. "I'll do anything you want me to."

Keaton didn't answer and I waited, sweaty and terrified. She didn't think like me or anyone else I'd ever met. I didn't understand her. After my success in the Detention Center making friends and identifying enemies, I expected I would be able to read her much better than this. She was an unknown and unknowable abyss, opaque and terrifying.

"Anything?" she asked, her anger no longer palpable. Keaton licked her lips and gave me a strange hungry sideways stare. She had made a decision, but for the life of me, I couldn't tell if she had accepted me.

"Yes, ma'am. Anything." My life as an Arm, my soul, sold to the Antichrist in exchange for survival. Keaton turned away, a contemptuous dismissal of my secret thoughts.

"Do you have anything you can _do_? I don't need someone to organize ladies' church socials and I certainly don't need someone to organize fattening cocktail parties for me."

"I can sew." My offer sounded ridiculous, even to me. "I can cook and clean house." That sounded worse. "Um..." I tried to think. She already knew everything I could do. I was a housewife, dammit. If my untrained potential as an Arm wasn't good enough, I had nothing.

"You can cook?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, confident. I could have cooked everything at that party. Mine would have been better, too.

Keaton turned to study me, again. She stared at me for a long time. I found it hard to believe she cared whether I could cook or not. It seemed so small. Keaton paused for long seconds before she spoke. "You'll obey me absolutely, do anything I ask of you. The only way you get away from me is if I say you're done, or you die." She smiled, and I finally realized she had accepted me. "I'm going to enjoy hurting you. You will not complain."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Will you teach me to survive, ma'am?" I would do it all in exchange for the training.

Keaton studied the traffic ahead and shrugged her shoulders, a small, barely visible, motion. "I think there's a decent possibility I can teach you to survive, even for an Arm as pathetic as you are. My god! Chocolate éclairs!"

She held my life in her hands. I wanted to live. I so badly wanted to live. I would drown her in chocolate éclairs.

"Ma'am, what is an Arm? What am I?" The longer I lived as an Arm, the less I understood. Keaton knew the answer. I read the answer in her confidence.

Keaton laughed. "That's what you think this is all about, dipshit? Academic questions even a fool should know to leave to the highbrow types like Zielinski? I don't fucking care what an Arm is as long as I can find us a way to survive."

Her answer to my question, her understanding of the purpose of the Arm: survival. I didn't believe her answer, but I didn't say anything.

Survival.

And she had said 'us'.

"Thank you, ma'am." I would take survival in a heartbeat.

A quick glare from her pinned me back against the car door again. After she turned away, my mind went back to work. Keaton accepted me as a student but she still threatened my life.

To learn to survive as an Arm, I would need to learn to survive Keaton.

Books by this Author

The Commander series:

Once We Were Human

Now We Are Monsters

All Beasts Together

A Method Truly Sublime

No Sorrow Like Separation

In This Night We Own

All That We Are

The supplementary Commander Series books:

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio One

All Conscience Fled (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Two)

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Three

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Four

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Five

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Six

No Chains Shall Bind Me (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Seven)

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Eight

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Nine

Focus

The Cause Series Novels

The Shadow of the Progenitors

Love and Darkness

The Forgefires of God

Beasts Ascendant (The First Chronicle of the Cause) (coming April/May 2016)

99 Gods Trilogy Novels

99 Gods: War

99 Gods: Betrayer

99 Gods: Odysseia

99 Gods Trilogy Supplementary Stories

Tales From The Anime Café (Part One)

Tales From The Anime Café (Part Two)

If you liked "Once We Were Human", here's a short excerpt from the beginning of "99 Gods: War" for your reading enjoyment.

99 Gods: War (Excerpt)

1. (Atlanta)

Atlanta climbed the outside of 40 Wall Street, leaving behind anger-fueled fingerprints in the fascia. All 72 stories of 40 Wall Street's exterior stank from years of pollution. Built around the start of the Great Depression, the building was depressing all the way up to its perfectly classical pyramidal roof. The bastards she soon would confront were on the 64th floor. They had taken over the entire floor several weeks ago and now talked of buying out the entire building. Atlanta didn't understand what they had done to mess up the Integrity, one of the major parts of the 99 Gods' joint Mission, but they had messed it up more than anyone else in North America.

The night swirled around Atlanta as she climbed through the off and on heavy rain, though she didn't get wet. She didn't want to get wet. Thus, she didn't. She could have flown directly to the 64th floor, or jumped from an airplane or helicopter or even taken an elevator. However, after investigating which uses of willpower her peers found most difficult to detect, she had found 'climbing skyscrapers' near the top of the list. She couldn't have done such a trick before Apotheosis, but eight years as an aviator in the Corps hadn't left her with the Imago of a wimp and that's what mattered now.

Her senses reveled in the climb. Apotheosis had brought her world to life in a marvelous and unexpected way, and she devoted nearly a dozen thought streams in her now multi-track mind to simply enjoying her new senses.

The never-ending mechanical song of New York traffic floated up from far below, muted by the spattering of rain and occasional rumble of thunder. Lightning streaked the sky to the southeast, and the rain's fresh scent dominated all the other odors. Below that, not only could she smell the pollution and even identify the stench of old leaded gasoline exhaust in the deeper crevices of the brick, but she also smelled the difference between the businesses when she passed from one corporate domain to another as she climbed. She didn't have X-Ray vision, but she tracked the internal temperature of each floor by how much heat came out each window. She sensed the air currents around her, as if currents in muddied water. Her most interesting discovery was the way the wind curled around the southeast corner of 40 Wall Street and caused a small cylindrical low pressure zone that had grown as she had climbed, up to about the 14th floor, leveled off, then started a rapid decline thirty floors later. Now, on the 48th floor, it had vanished completely. She even picked up the intensity and direction of radio, television and wireless internet. Not its content, though.

Five more minutes of climbing brought Atlanta to the 64th floor. The skyscraper didn't have ancient Depression-era style windows. Someone had replaced them some number of years ago with modern, non-opening, windows. She maneuvered herself around the skyscraper until she approached the source of the Integrity disturbance. She didn't sense anything about the situation to change her mind, so she crashed the window and barged in.

While she did, she put on her mental to-do list the need to find some better method for going through windows and walls than pranging them. A method using tricky willpower. Seven weeks of this God shit and she still hadn't unmasked a measurable fraction of the possible tricks.

She landed hard but on her feet, crunching thick stormproof glass under her big black boots as she took in the place and whistled.

Atlanta craved bling as much as the next sister, but the meeting room here floored her. There's nothing here that _isn't_ bling, she thought. Marble this. Gold that. Jesus! Considering the building's owner, she had expected opulence, but her targets, referred to by the press as the Seven Suits, had outdone the old man in putting in bling improvements.

"What's the meaning of this?" a man said, not yet in sight. One of the Suits, another God. He strode in to Atlanta's crashed room as if he owned the world.

Not fucking yet, although he and his Godly cohorts were well on their way, according to her hush-hush military contractor contacts. As per the nickname, Mr. Whitey God wore an immaculate and expensive bespoke suit.

On the other side of the meeting room, huddled in a chair against a wall, Atlanta saw a woman. Saw, but didn't sense. Very peculiar. Special. Not an ordinary mortal, and different in a way she hadn't encountered before. Not sure what to make of a woman she couldn't sense but still knew to be special, Atlanta ignored her for the moment.

The fact that someone had stripped the woman and chained her naked to the chair helped Atlanta make the decision. She hadn't been attracted to weakness as a mortal.

Apotheosis hadn't improved her attitude on that matter in the least.

"Which one are you?" Atlanta asked the white man. The Seven Suits had banded together even before Apotheosis's end, a grouping of seven male Gods, five whities and two East Asians. Seven Ideological Gods at that, and their numbers made them the leading plurality faction among the Ideologicals.

The Suit didn't answer Atlanta. Instead, he raised his hand and conjured up chains and shackles around Atlanta's lower arms and lower legs. They grabbed on tight. He slid over a leather office visitor's chair with inlaid gold filigree and sat her in it. Atlanta counted to ten, backwards, and allowed herself this indignity. Information first. Attitude adjustment later.

"Who sent you?" the Suit said. "Who!" Pressure beat on Atlanta's mind. She smiled. Her experimentation with willpower hadn't included anything in the area of mind-probing or mind reading. Mental track four took note number fourteen of the day: learn some mind-probing willpower.

Good intel already.

Even better, the Suit's question and tone implied Atlanta hadn't been the first someone 'sent'.

Then she got it. Her willpower-derived protections had successfully hidden her Divinity from the Suit. On the other hand, she had revealed herself by climbing the outside of their nascent palace and crashing in the window, so she suspected he would crack her identity any minute. None of the 99 lacked brainpower. Their creators, the Angelic Host, had made sure of that.

"I sent myself, mofo," Atlanta said. "I've got some questions for you. Like what the fuck you've done to mess up our Integrity?"

"Hold on for a second, Indulgence," a second Suit said on his way through the door, one she recognized, a Korean who went by the name of Competition. The remainder of the wardrobe of Suits strode in behind Competition, noticeably agitated. "She's one of us."

"You're kidding," Indulgence, her captor, said. "She feels like a mortal to me."

"It's a trick," one of the other Suits said. He turned to Atlanta. "I'm Capitalism. You are?" Capitalism had more than a passing resemblance to the fat dude from the Monopoly game. His skin looked bleached. If her contractor contacts had a bead on things, Capitalism led the Suits.

"Atlanta," she said. Several of the Suits blanched and took a step back. Apparently, she had acquired a _reputation_. Good.

"A Territorial!" Capitalism said, suddenly wary. "You could have texted us for an appointment."

"Not my style." She didn't have any social media presence, even a minimal Facebook page or Twitter account. Too tacky for her.

"Why are you here and not back in whatever digs you have down south?" Capitalism said. Condescension filled his words, something she hadn't heard since she wore the bird, ball and chain. Before Apotheosis.

"You Suits have harmed our Integrity. I'm here to figure out why and do something about it."

"Why do you care?" Capitalism said.

"Because it's obvious to me that us Gods were made to rule the Earth, and we can't do it if you destroy our Integrity." The Host hadn't said as much, but their hints were unmistakable. At least to Atlanta.

"You worry about your Integrity and we'll worry about ours," Capitalism said, his voice New Yawk nasal, a sneer on his face.

A fool, then, Atlanta thought. "We have individual, subgroup and group Integrity, though it appears you're too self-centered to acknowledge anything but your own," she said. "You've harmed the Integrity of the 99 Gods as a group." She sneered back at Capitalism. "What the fuck did you do? If I don't get some answers soon, I'm going to inscribe some respect on your pasty white divine bodies, begging your pardons Competition and Wealth."

"There are seven of us and one of you," Wealth said. "Numbers do not lie." Wealth looked as old and Japanese as he had before Apotheosis. "We had the same training you did. It is you who are in danger here." Training to suppress national wars, he meant. Atlanta had expected such suppression to take years, if not decades, but the leading nations had been more than happy to comply, especially after the 99 carried out their pre-agreed forcible disarming of North Korea, a nation even the Territorial who held responsibility for it refused to support. Their instant success left all of the 99 at loose ends, which Atlanta was beginning to suspect might not have been a good thing. Despite the Host's comment about what they should do once the 99 finished their initial anti-war mission, 'do good,' Atlanta remained suspicious.

"I don't think so," Atlanta said. Equal training or not, she trusted in the special extra her creators had given her as a Territorial God.

"There's no need to be so hasty," Capitalism said. "Let's sit down peacefully and talk this over. I'm sure we can find some mutually beneficial outcome. I've noticed that you Territorial Gods have limited monetary resources; your expertise lies in other areas. We can be of help."

Atlanta shook her head, pissed at the far too on-target offer. "The last thing I need is to be owned." Especially by Mr. White Capitalist himself. She stood and left shattered shackles around her. Indulgence sucked air, hurt by Atlanta's use of willpower for some unknown reason. "I wouldn't mind negotiations about our mutual problem, though. I'm not looking for money, I'm looking for information. That is, what did you do to harm the Integrity of the 99 Gods, and what can we come up with together to fix the problem. It's clear you want a piece of the action in this world-running business; I'm sure we can come up with a mutually acceptable solution."

Twelve eyes fixed on Capitalism. "What we're doing is none of your business, and _won't_ be part of any negotiations," he said. He took a deep breath and threw up his hands in utter disdain. "Get this pathetic figurehead Territorial out of here."

Definitely an attitude problem.

Atlanta interrupted her combat preparations when the woman in the corner _did something_ to the divine hold on her, a _did something_ Atlanta didn't recognize. "They kidnapped me," the chained woman said. "I work for Port..." A wave of Indulgence's hand undid whatever the woman had done and she fell quiet. Nevertheless, the mortal woman had Godlike willpower of some variety, even if overshadowed by the Suits.

Portland, eh? Atlanta and Portland had talked for several long minutes back during Apotheosis. As a fellow Territorial God, Atlanta could see quite a bit of good coming from doing Portland a favor. Portland had struck Atlanta as indecisive, a softie, despite the extreme willpower she exuded. However, as a fellow woman, Portland would likely appreciate learning that good old-fashioned sexism still infected the minds of the non-Territorial Gods.

Besides, if she helped Portland, Portland would owe her.

All to the better.

Atlanta changed her mind. Instead of continuing to give the Suits grief verbally, she focused her willpower on the naked woman and unbound her. Indulgence screamed.

"She ripped the bitch right out of me!" Indulgence said. Atlanta boggled at the stupidity of Indulgence's cheesedick tactic. Didn't he understand anything about how to properly use the willpower?

Freeing the woman also solved Atlanta's joint Integrity mystery. The Suits had kidnapped another God's protected underling, crossing a line that hadn't been crossed before.

Crap. She realized that if she fought these idiots, she would make the Integrity hit worse. Well, then...she would let them come to her. Self-defense at least wouldn't harm _her_ Integrity.

Capitalism crossed his arms and glared. Divine willpower of the Suits gathered around Atlanta, confining her. "Stay put," Capitalism said, guiding the willpower. Bodily immobilization.

Atlanta analyzed Capitalism's attack and raised her eyebrows in shock. Amazingly, her personal willpower dwarfed the Suit's group willpower, at least expressed as a change to physical reality. She knew her local cleansing activities had strengthened her willpower, but she had no idea her activities had strengthened her willpower to such an extent.

Truthfully, none of the 99 knew the details of what made them strong or weak. The Angelic Host had left that out of their war-suppression training and had refused to answer most questions on the subject, another part of their game. Much of what the Gods learned they kept secret from each other, seeking advantages to advance their personal Missions.

They were all too new at this.

Atlanta had calculated she could hold off the Suits and force negotiation, even though she suspected it would be close. That's why she had risked the invasion of Suit territory. Phoenix, her personal sounding board about the Integrity problem, thought any personal confrontations with the other Gods too risky to contemplate so early in the game. He too had thought she would be able to force the Suits to negotiate, and had suggested she use a mortal go-between. She had considered his suggestion far too diplomatic.

Neither of them had considered the idea that the Suits would _refuse_ to negotiate the group Integrity issue. She suspected some innate difference between the Ideological and Territorial Gods at work.

"You belong to us now," Capitalism said, bending the Suit's group willpower, another attack at her mind.

Self-defense time. Atlanta broke Capitalism's group hold, ran five steps forward and punched Capitalism in the jaw. The Suit's head spun around, over 180 degrees, but without the crack of a neck. She turned and focused her willpower on Wealth, who as far as she could scrutinize had the second strongest willpower of the Suits. She visualized a rack. Wealth's arms and legs flew off in the expected spray of silver divine gore. Wealth screamed.

Three normal well-armed humans clattered into the room, drawn by the sound of fighting. Part of Atlanta's mind boggled at one of them, a psychopath with dozens of murders figuratively notched into his belt. All three fired their 9 mils at her. All their bullets bounced. She ignored the three thugs for now.

Atlanta grabbed Indulgence as he attacked her with his puny willpower and tossed him across the meeting room, to land on a gold-leaf covered copier. Competition and one of the unidentified Suits struck at her mind, but she shrugged it off. Instead, she picked up the marble meeting room table and swung it, baseball bat style, through the remaining four Suits. For a second, horror filled their eyes. Then the table. The perfectly swung table cut Competition and two others in half and shattered into fast moving shrapnel, pureeing the last of the Suits and the psychopath, whose blood and gore made mockery of the room's opulence as it splattered a wall.

The two non-psychopath normals didn't even pick up a scratch.

Excellent.

"Shit!" the naked woman said. Atlanta glanced at her and saw a finger-sized fragment of shattered marble table imbedded in a flowing glowing _something else_ that now surrounded the naked woman. Atlanta turned back as the last of the functional Suits charged her. He slapped her with one of his now purple hands, which she actually felt. The purple trick tried to destabilize her willpower, but wasn't powerful enough to bother her. She stepped back.

She and this Suit circled, crunching over shattered marble mixed with writhing silver God remains and bloody red human remains, just out of hand-to-hand range. "You can fight," Atlanta said. "You should lead, not Capitalism. He's pathetic."

"The name's Passion."

"Fits," Atlanta said. She stepped forward and tried to throw Passion. Passion threw her. She picked herself up and Passion's purple fists thudded into her face and abdomen, followed by an elbow to the chin. Pain lanced through her. She tried to recover and take down Passion with a leg sweep, but he skipped out of the way, grabbed her arm above the elbow, and tossed her twenty feet into a gold-gilt marble wall, about five feet away from the naked woman. Atlanta felt her body thin and she almost blacked out.

"Your martial arts skills appear to be years out of practice," Passion said. "Too bad for you, as I am the ideological master of creative destruction." He smiled and ran at her.

Atlanta had mental track four make another mental note, this one to get her hand-to-hand retrained. She had learned the Semper Fu back in Basic and had kept it up until she won her place as a Marine aviator. She needed to bring it back up to speed.

There went more damned time from the advanced college courses she currently audited. Her pre-Apotheosis life hadn't prepared her for the responsibilities of being a Territorial God, and she was dancing as fast as her feet moved to do the job right.

She really needed two hundred hour days to keep her from drowning in all of this shit.

From where she crouched in pain on the floor, Atlanta leapt straight up into the air, hovered, and as Passion, master of the markets' animal spirits, ran at her, she focused her entire will into her one big discovery, the golden fire. She loosed it from her fingers just before he reached her and blasted it into him and the area around him, which included the naked woman. Passion pancaked underneath the force of the willpower blast, flattened as thin as a rug. Atlanta hung in the air, drained, and as she took great deep breaths she sank slowly to lie flat on the floor. She met the eyes of the two remaining normal humans and growled. They dropped their weapons and fled.

"Wow," the naked woman said. "What did you do? It passed right through me. I thought I was a goner there." She evacuated her chair, another one of those leather and gold filigree things, as if it threatened her personally, and attempted to avoid stepping her bare feet into shattered marble and gore.

"Golden fire harms Gods but doesn't damage the furniture," Atlanta said. "Or even the mortals." If she had a real body, she knew she would be a mass of bruises. Aching, she picked herself up off the marble tile floor. She needed a good long rest.

"You've gone after Gods before?" the woman asked. Cheeky, forward and fearless, and not at all bothered by any aspect of divine awe. No feeling of hostility or murderous death on her, either. Special, though. Very special.

"Nope," Atlanta said. "Experimented on myself." She looked around and save for the whimpering Indulgence, still spread across the copier, all the rest of the Suits were out cold, or whatever analog passed for 'out cold' with their screwy Godly no-flesh bodies. Utterly pathetic. "I'm Atlanta, as you overheard. You need some clothes?"

"Dana Ravencraft. Yes, I'd like some clothes. These bastards disintegrated mine, and I don't know any tricks to allow me to get them back."

Atlanta walked over to Dana and inspected the tall, willowy, black haired Middle Easterner. Iranian, perhaps? She backed away, to fall backwards into her chair again. "Interesting. You're not half-bad looking at all, despite the smallish tits," Atlanta said, wrinkling her nose. Dana's skin was about as pasty white as Atlanta had ever seen. Dana shivered at Atlanta's statement. "I can un-disintegrate your clothes for you." Dana nodded, so Atlanta did. Dana's clothes reappeared on her, a proper woman's business suit.

"Thank you," Dana said, her voice now a bit unsteady, which pleased Atlanta. Normal humans should feel some respect for Gods. "May I ask a question?"

"You may," Atlanta said. She turned her back on Dana for a moment as she went over to Capitalism's remains. She put her hand on Capitalism's head and focused her willpower on Capitalism's mind. If these idiot Gods could play with minds, there shouldn't be any reason why she couldn't.

Nothing. Either Capitalism still maintained his mind shields or she didn't have what it took. She suspected the latter.

"Isn't what you did here going to affect the Integrity of the 99 Gods as well?" Dana said. "You killed all but one of them."

"They attacked me first and the Suits aren't dead, not even close," Atlanta said. Offing another psychopath would be a plus, she already knew. "They'll recover. No harm to the Integrity." She hit Capitalism's head with golden fire, pancaking it. "Some might recover faster than others, if I'm not careful."

"I don't understand," Dana said. "When Portland and I spar, what I do to her doesn't heal so easily, or show this strange silver substance these Ideological Gods appear to be made from."

"Interesting," Atlanta said. She found herself impressed that a softie like Portland had the sense to spar with the more dangerous varieties of willpower. "Our creators said mortals can hurt us if we're not careful. It's to keep us in our place, to remind us that although we're Gods, we're not God Almighty. I hadn't realized this was a physical warning."

"Creators? You mean the Angelic Host, don't you?" Dana said. She attempted again to escape from her captor chair and stood up. Atlanta nodded. "Uh, could we get out of here, Atlanta? This place creeps me out, and these Gods' opinion about what to do with people like me, mortals with unnatural tricks, involves rape, torture and death."

"Don't you want to finish your spying mission?" Atlanta said.

Dana frowned. "It wasn't that sort of spying mission. I followed Portland's orders not to set foot into their lair or to approach the Suits." Pause. "How'd you know about the spy mission?"

"You just told me," Atlanta said. Dana's eyebrows lowered as several of the young woman's precious assumptions evaporated. Portland's servant hadn't thought her cunning. Or smart. "Take my hand."

Dana did as Atlanta ordered. Atlanta bent her will and flew, carrying Dana along beside her. Out the window they went. Then up, Atlanta maintaining breathable air around them. Not that Atlanta believed she needed to breathe, but her Imago breathed, and the Host had warned all the Territorials not to quickly change their Imagos.

Fiction By This Author

Transforms Universe:

The Commander Series Novels

Once We Were Human

Now We Are Monsters

All Beasts Together

A Method Truly Sublime

No Sorrow Like Separation

In This Night We Own

All That We Are

The supplementary Commander Series Stories:

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio One

All Conscience Fled (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Two)

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Three

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Four

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Five

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Six

No Chains Shall Bind Me (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Seven)

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Eight

The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Nine

Focus

The Cause Series Novels

The Shadow of the Progenitors

Love and Darkness

The Forgefires of God

Beasts Ascendant (The First Chronicle of the Cause)

No Small Dreams

An Age Without A Name (coming in Spring 2017)

Go Gaily In The Dark (The Second Chronicle of the Cause) (coming in Fall 2017)

Indigo Universe:

Storybook Crazy

99 Gods Trilogy Novels

War

Betrayer

Odysseia

99 Gods Trilogy Supplementary Stories

Tales From The Anime Café (Part One)

Tales From The Anime Café (Part Two)

Author's Afterword

Thanks to Randy and Margaret Scheers, Michelle and Karl Stembol, Gary and Judy Williams, Melissa May, Maurice Gehin, and as always my wife, Marjorie Farmer. Without their help this novel would have never been made.

After I collected many helpful but non-monetary responses from various other publishing venues regarding this novel, I decided the best way to introduce the Commander series to a wider audience was via the ebook market. I have two traditionally published short stories, one in Analog and the other in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine.

I hope you enjoyed reading this novel.

If you enjoyed this novel, you can find out further information about the Commander series, the background mythos of the Commander series, and about other fiction, on http://majortransform.com. You can also follow me on my Facebook author page at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Randall-Allen-Farmer/106603522801212. Interesting and helpful comments are encouraged. Tell your friends. Post reviews.

The Commander series continues with Book Two: "Now We Are Monsters".

Randall Allen Farmer
