

### Archangel

A novel by

Mich Moore

Copyright © 2018 Mich Moore

All rights reserved.

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Cover art by Carlos Hernandez

Edited by Kimiko Hammari

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Three years ago, the United States of America was struck by a second civil war when fourteen renegade states aligned themselves with an ultra-nationalistic movement called the Advance South. The country split into two distinct nations: Old America and the New United States in alliance with the Advance South. With the American military forces decimated by the war and a series of unprecedented natural disasters, the government in Washington DC found itself forced to create a new kind of robotic soldier, one that could work alongside human masters in restoring the law to the nation and protecting its changing borders against threats. This new soldier would come to be known as the DAT, the successful creation of three engineers who had been serving life sentences in federal prison before the war. But now, almost three years into the worst crisis in modern history, it is becoming evident that there are other mysterious and powerful forces at work ... forces that are overshadowing these two nations, the world and beyond. Who are they? What are they? And whose side are they on?

#

Newark, New Jersey

As the black plane flew into Irvington airspace, just minutes from Newark, the captain spoke to his flight officer.

"Turn off the lights."

The FO responded. "Switching lights off."

Although the craft's passenger windows had all been painted black, the flight officer switched off the navigation lights and then the cabin lights. The airliner's heads-up display snapped on and cast a friendly light into the darkened cockpit. The Boeing 737, with its two VIP passengers, Vermont governor Luke Peterson and Alaska senator Dale Dillon and their respective staffs, and the twenty-member United States-Advance South press corps, plus a flight crew of six, continued to fly eastward, invisible and alone in the night sky. The air around them was clear, and the Big Dipper and North Star were both visible. Below, Interstate Highway 78 presented itself as a cheery ribbon of light as it passed beneath them like a threshold into a new and exciting land. In a perverse sense, that is exactly what New Jersey had become since the country had fractured. The Garden State had warped itself into a level of violent dystopia that rendered it unrecognizable from its pre-war self. The 'excitement' came into play when a non-native with the misfortune of getting trapped in the toxic hell had to create a flexible enough game plan that would buy him or her the time to discover a way out. New Jersey had become a happy lone wolf in the US-AS pack, ambitious to play by its own rules.

The 737 was now flying at an altitude of nine hundred meters. The captain switched on his cabin microphone and spoke. "Engines off in two minutes."

He knew that the flight attendants would now be giving their passengers instructions about electronic abatement: no cell or sat phones, no computer usage, no walkie-talkies.

The captain trimmed the aircraft and slowly pulled back on the throttle. He glanced over at the FO. "Turn off both engines. Commence glide path to runway alpha-bravo-7."

The flight officer touched several knobs and levers. "Autopilot disengaged. Engines one and two are idle. Commencing glide path to runway alpha-bravo-7." The airship's forward airspeed dropped, and it began to silently descend towards the city below them. Commercial and military aircraft flying into the state had to glide to secured landing strips at night or risk being blown out of the skies by civilian-launched SAMs, surface-to-air missiles. They also had to maintain strict radio silence as many New Jersey citizens made it their business to scan for police, fire and air traffic communication. It was particularly bad in Newark. Information gleaned from scanners often provided the many crime lords with vital information about law enforcement incursions. This information would be sold to the highest bidder. The criminals' grip on the control centers in Newark resulted in a ghostly, almost historical view of law and order. And it also made traveling to these badlands a very risky endeavor. In the 737's case, they were entering this wilderness deaf and dumb. And without power. If some unfortunate incident were to befall them, there would be no way to contact their home-based handlers. They would be on their own until they could manage to leave the state. It was extremely challenging to fly and land a thirty-two-thousand kilogram vehicle while ferrying high-value cargo, and only master US-AS aviators were allowed to attempt it. Captain Phillip Kennedy and flight officer Bud Kuhn were two such rated pilots.

The ship's ONS, the onboard network system, softly chimed before it spoke. "Captain P. D. Kennedy, you have an incoming call from crew member G. M. Steinberg."

"Accepted," Kennedy replied.

Gail Stein's Texas drawl was loud and clear over the cockpit's loudspeaker. "Captain, Governor Peterson wants to know if he can make a quick SAT call."

"Negative."

"He's trying to reach Mark."

"Again, that's a negative."

"All right-ee. I'll let him know. Over."

The plane flew on through the night. Runway alpha-bravo-7 was actually an abandoned shipping pier that ran northwest-southeast along the Port Newark channel. It was their only option. Newark Liberty International airport had been overrun with native combatants just as the Whistler movement had shifted into high gear. The rest of the state quickly followed suit. However, that same chaos was what kept runway alpha-bravo-7 accessible to the rest of the US-AS. Soon after the collapse of law enforcement and the public utilities, an enormous vacuum of work stoppage had formed inside of the state. The earth, free from industrial man's incessant work, jumped in feet first to fill it. The Port Elizabeth channel, nearly five kilometers to the south, had given sway to kudzu-choked swamps that teemed with man-eating pythons, sewer crocs, bears, coyotes, pumas, wolves, and all manner of rodentia. No sane person dared enter that viperous jungle. The same encroachment had taken place to the north of the Port Newark channel, all the way up to Highway 78, and all the way up to Highway 95 to the east. The channel was practically surrounded by fangs and claws. In a state filled to the brim with every imaginable type of human miscreant, once again it was nature that had grabbed top billing. The flip side was that it served as a formidable barrier to the Port Newark channel and the tiny Advance South base located at the south end of the pier that ran parallel to the channel's murky waters. US-AS personnel were able to operate there with relative ease, completely cut off from the multitude of dangers surrounding them.

The ONS dinged again. "Captain P. D. Kennedy, incoming call from crew member G. M. Steinberg."

Captain Kennedy responded. "Accepted."

"Captain, the governor has asked that we reconsider that phone call. He says that he appreciates the need for radio silence, but he assures me that he has a secure line—"

"That's a negative."

"But—"

"Thank you, Gail. Over and out."

The call ended.

Kennedy turned to the flight officer. "Bud, take care of it, please."

"Yes, sir." The flight officer unbuckled himself from his chair and swiftly left the cockpit. He returned five minutes later with a split and bleeding lip.

Kennedy glanced over at the other pilot as the FO strapped himself back into his seat.

"Done?"

"Done." The co-pilot coolly replied, holding a handkerchief to his bleeding mouth. "Guess those rumors are true. The guy has a righteous left hook."

Governor Luke Peterson had spent his campaigning years crowing about how he had medaled in boxing at the Paris Olympics. But only a few Peterson-philes would ever repeat the claim in public.

The ONS chimed twice. "Intersecting traffic detected! Immediate evasive course recommended!" Because the engines were turned off, the ONS was not able to plot an evasive course itself.

There were two more chimes. "Please take immediate evasive action!"

Kennedy steadied his nerves. "ONS, stand by until further notice." He watched his own fingers adjust the flap settings before speaking to the flight officer. "Okay. Take her, Bud."

Kuhn gripped his yoke. "Flight officer has the aircraft."

While Kuhn steered the airplane, Kennedy became hyper focused on the graphics being displayed on their windshield. Radar clearly showed a traffic blip moving towards them at a high rate of speed.

"Traffic is inbound at one hundred degrees," he said. "Altitude is six hundred meters and climbing." His mouth drew a straight line. "Looks like we've got a welcoming party."

A small commercial plane, probably a Learjet, popped up about two-hundred-and-fifty meters off their port wing. The Learjet's flying instruments were lighting the inside of its cockpit and Kennedy could make out two pilots. Its exterior lights revealed two Wasp missiles snapped in tight beneath the jet's wings. There would be another two under the other wing. Every few seconds or so the jet would dive in close towards them and then resume its previous position. They were playing chicken. Kennedy grimaced. The idiots. They're going to get us all killed.

A stranger's voice came over their headsets. "This is Captain Garces, Cabo Air Defense. We have you on radar. You're in restricted airspace. Please identify yourself."

The captain placed a hand on the flight officer's arm and shook his head. Airline policy was firm: a pilot was forbidden to verbally communicate with enemy combatants. That domain belonged to the United States air force. However, they were allowed to defend themselves if under a reasonable threat. This Captain Garces and his muscled-up Lear presented themselves as a reasonable threat and therefore worthy of a defensive response. However, no matter how justified he may have felt, the weight of the consequences of his actions had to become a factor. The matter was urgent, and he would at least have to notify the office of their situation. The United States of America may have gone the way of the dinosaur, but the pilot's union and its lawyers were still alive and willing to ding a pilot's paycheck for the most minor of infractions. An on-duty fight with company equipment could result in a stiffer fine, unpaid leave or dismissal.

They would have to briefly break radio silence. He pulled off his headset and whispered, "Bud, encode an alert to HQ that we have a bogey, possibly aggressive. Tell them that we are taking defensive action."

As the flight officer busied himself at the radio, the captain twisted around, reached under his own seat and pulled out a large duffle bag.

"Señores, you have twenty seconds to comply or we force you down. Do you copy?"

The captain looked out his side window and made a thumbs-up gesture. "Okay. We're now in the playbook, Bud. Roadrunner."

"Understood."

"I'm turning the ONS back on. We're going to need a recording in case we lose our black boxes."

Kuhn nodded grimly. The only way an aircraft lost a black box was if a NAV expert disabled it or if the plane crashed. The captain dived into his bag and quickly retrieved several long metal tubes. With practiced movements, he quickly assembled the airline issue marksman sniper rifle.

"ONS on." Kennedy said. The ONS sounded one ding as affirmation. The captain placed the rifle barrel up between his knees. "Bud, on my command brake." Precious seconds ticked by.

"Brake!"

"Brakes on!" Kuhn tilted the craft's nose up into the air. Their airspeed immediately dropped.

Kennedy reached up and pulled down hard on his side window's emergency release handle and shoved the glass backward. Freezing air blew in. The ONS chimed twice. "Cockpit window A is now open! Please close window A immediately!" Kennedy raised his weapon, jammed the gun's butt against his shoulder and took aim against the roaring wind.

"Identify yourself!" Captain Garces commanded. "Ten seconds!"

It took the captain one second to locate the Lear's pilots through his scope. Another two to calculate and adjust for the windage. And one to fire. He watched as the pilot's helmet exploded. He fired another round and watched as the Lear's co-pilot lurched forward.

"BRAKE!"

Once again the flight officer pulled up hard on the 737's nose. The Lear was now ahead of them. Kennedy hugged the rifle close to his body like a lover would and pumped two shots into the plane's stabilizer, destroying it. The Lear promptly rolled belly up and plummeted out of sight.

The captain pulled in his rifle and slammed the window shut. "That was close," was all he said.

"Cabo Air Defense?" the flight officer asked.

The rifle was broken down again and placed inside the duffle bag. The captain shrugged. "Must be some new kid on the block." He pushed the bag beneath his seat with his foot and straightened his tie. "Let's hurry up and land this thing before Captain Garces's buddies show up."

The rest of the flight was uneventful. Within twenty minutes they were on the ground. Their tail hook was manually lowered to snag the runway's five braking cables. Once the aircraft had stopped, an aircraft tug zipped out, clamped on to the 737's tow bar, and began pulling it inside the surface level of the base's multi-level hangar complex.

Inside the aircraft, the flight attendants helped the VIP passengers slip into their wraparound helmets and body armor. The front door of the aircraft was opened, and they lumbered down the flight stairs with their staffs and the press corps scuttling behind them. When they had reached the bottom, the stairs were hurriedly pushed away. The tiny airport was characteristically unlit and quiet. It had to be that way. One out-of-place noise might alert the swarms of criminals lounging just a stone's throw away. Everything was done very quietly, and outdoor conversation was pantomimed or simply not done at all.

Fifty meters away stood a row of dilapidated crab shacks. All of the structures had been bashed in at the knees. The crudest of them held a blue, lopsided door in its broken arms. It opened and three men in crisp Army fatigues strutted out.

Governor Peterson and Senator Dillon quickly walked over to greet them. The two politicians and the Army men raised their hands in a silent greeting. They repeated their gestures for the press photographers crouching nearby. Two more soldiers stepped through the blue door and escorted everyone inside.

#

General Edward R. Dawes looked out his office window and watched the door to the 737 swing open. Out popped Governor Luke Peterson, Senator Dale Dillon, several reporters, and a host of clashing emotions for the general. Dawes despised Peterson, who had proven himself to be an incompetent leader time and time again. Dale Dillon was a known political dilettante who formed his political schemes based upon old American comic book characters. The Advance South press corps represented no more than starved mongrels scratching at the back door for their next meal ...

But he had to be honest. It wasn't just the B-list actors pouring down the jetway causing him grief. To be fair, Peterson and the board of governors had given the country a long-overdue shot in the arm. That it had led to war was regrettable. Dawes believed that if that was what it took to save the country, then so be it. But no one was breaking out the champagne just yet. The new United States was inept. The Advance South merely the muscle for the Whistler crowds. Actually, it was more sinew than muscle. The Advance South had no real taste for battle. His own army had been deliberately infested with overweight American cops not swift or smart enough to have hightailed it for Australia or Canada when the manure had hit the fan. And now, to make matters almost unbearable for a modern warrior, under the newly enacted US-AS environmental laws, it was now against the law to fish or hunt except for one weekend in October on a hunting permit that cost ten thousand British pounds ... . Argh! Thanks to Peterson and his merry band of clueless governors, this once content army man now basically despised the entire world and everyone in it.

His guests crowded into the spacious anteroom of his office, each one slyly jockeying to be noticed first.

Dawes placed his attention upon the press hounds. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could please have you wait out here in reception. I promise that someone will be in to serve you refreshments shortly."

A reporter shot a question at him. "General, John Bingham here. Does the fact that Governor Peterson is traveling to Newark signal the start of negotiations between the governor's council and the warlords here?"

Dawes's jaws tightened. "The governor and Senator Dillon are here at the request of private US-AS citizens. The United States does not and will not ever negotiate with warlords or any other brand of lawbreaker."

"Is the governor here then to help in the search for Kelly Haverson and her daughter?" Bingham asked.

"He's standing right there. Why don't you ask him?"

"Governor?"

Every eye fell upon Governor Peterson. The highest-ranking official in the executive branch of the US-AS government cleared his throat and said, "No."

"May I ask why not?" Bingham asked.

"You may ask, but I am not at liberty to answer. Now, please." He put up his right hand. "Wait for our official statement." He grinned good-naturedly. "We should have some new bones for you boys to chew on by this afternoon. We certainly appreciate your patience."

The press had been invited along to record the revelation and demonstration of the Sierra project in Sierra City later that week. The impromptu meeting in Newark had dragged them along with the governor's party.

An aid to the general came and whisked Dawes, Peterson and Dillon into the general's office proper. It was merely a large storage room with bulky, scarred furniture and faded photographs of vintage artillery tanks on the walls.

The aid left and another one took his place. This one was carrying a clipboard and a pen. He took up a position beside the general.

The general gestured towards Peterson and Dillon. "Please have a seat, gentlemen. I have a few things to attend to before we get started."

The governor made a face that was difficult to interpret, but he pulled up a dusty chair and sat down. Occasionally, he would sigh or noisily shift about in his seat.

Dawes muted these sounds and kept his focus upon the tasks at hand. His aid handed him a series of documents. He scanned them from top to bottom and left to right, signed their bottoms, and then handed them back. The incident aboard the airplane would have to be reported to the higher-ups in Georgia from at least five different angles of fact and conjecture. The vessel itself would have to be lowered down into the base's subhangar and towed to New York via the East Tunnel. (No aircraft ever flew out of the Port Newark base.) Gracious conversation for his special guests would have to invented and convincingly delivered ... . After the last paper had been reviewed and signed, he turned his attention to the politicians.

"My apologies," he said congenially. "Business first."

"General," Peterson asked, "do you have any idea why Mark wanted this meeting here?"

"No idea," the general answered. "I was as surprised as you and the senator were. But you know Mark; he's an unpredictable character."

Senator Dillon took on an expression of long suffering. "That's one word for it."

Peterson obviously felt comfortable enough to voice some genuine frustration. "It's one thing to delay the Sierra demonstration. It's another to deliberately send us directly into harm's way."

Port Newark was the Advance South's most eastern forward operating base, and contrary to the governor's fears, it was several kilometers away from 'harm's way,' Newark's highly volatile airport district.

"If you stay on your toes," Dawes said, "Newark is as safe as any other city in the country."

Peterson's hefty jaw tightened. "Tell that to Kelly and Theresa Haverson."

"The Haversons are high-value targets."

Peterson did not respond to the obvious slight, but Senator Dillon did. "And we aren't?"

"At the moment, no." Dawes had not intended to insult the governor. It was a simple truth. The Haversons would bring in four times as much ransom money as Peterson or any of the other governors for the simple reason that old America's economy was still being backed by the British government and a veritable mountain of Italian and Swiss gold. The Advance South had no gold reserves to speak of, which produced a flaccid US-AS dollar. And the few international allies it had were almost just as weak.

Dawes waved the ill feelings away. "Mark and Paul must have a good reason to interrupt the project. Let's put away our misgivings for now." He glanced at his wristwatch. "They should be joining us shortly. Why don't we have some coffee while we wait?"

The Sierra project was Mark and Paul's latest creation in a string of highly successful creations dating back three decades. Childhood friends who had lived across the street from one another in Santa Clara, California, straight out of college they had invented a method for reducing the half-life of irradiated water by almost one hundred percent. Afterwards, they both completed stints in the American Naval Intelligence department, working in the ultra-secretive analog signal division. Bored after one year, they both left to join forces and finance several highly successful Hollywood films over the course of six years. They then returned to their technical roots and began to manufacture a transceiver device that could broadcast over any type of receiver, analog or digital. The Department of Defense forced them to turn the machines into two-way communication devices that allowed a user to listen in on conversations conducted near a targeted receiver. Unhappy with such meddling, the men dropped off the radar and formed their own next-tech corporation in Austin. By the time the two boyhood friends from Santa Clara had reached their mid-thirties, they were billionaires many times over. Six years after the transceiver launch, the DOD approached them and practically gave them a blank check and five years to develop a machine that would remove ozone and other pollutants from the atmosphere, without using fossil fuels or hydroelectric engines. Within two years, Mark and Paul had the world's first terraforming equipment up and running. Within the next four years, they had gone global and sold more than ten thousand units at the base retail price of twenty million dollars each. When the civil war had begun the pair, both hardline agnostics, had promptly sided with the decidedly fanatical secessionists (mainly on the belief that zealots were arguably better focused workers than the average uncommitted individual) and took their company with them. Two years into the war, the governor's council approached them about the creation of a defensive weapon that would be strong enough to deter any enemies but gentle enough to enrich the environment, in accordance with the Denver Treaty. The project was to become the metal muscle of Operation Defrag and the first true test of the new nation's high technology abilities. And so the Sierra project was born.

At the core of the United States-Advance South marriage was the simple idea that the regenerated United States should return to its founding principles of being a great yet benevolent meritocracy. Yes, the best and the most gifted should be recognized and promoted for the common good, but the avenues through which the gifted and talented progressed were numerous. In the new United States, a law-abiding man who remained faithful to his wife and family was just as valuable as the man who held the office of secretary of education. The woman who oversaw the Advance South's terraforming operations in Asia was no greater in prestige than the housewife who gracefully performed her duties to the delight of her family and neighbors. In fact, Paul's wife was a housewife, and Mark's wife was scheduled to hang up her doctor's shingle after she gave birth to their first child later that month. Many in the new government grumbled that this 'new' system resembled a younger sibling of socialism ... or worse. Neither Mark nor Paul would disagree, but both would argue that the last eight hundred years had taught mankind that no single system of government would work one hundred percent, one hundred percent of the time. The US-AS's hybrid democracy, too, would eventually run its course, and then it would come time to ease into another mode of survival. Or not.

There was a sharp rap on a cracked door situated a couple of meters behind the general's desk. Neither Peterson nor Dillon had noticed it before. Dawes's aid rushed over and pulled it open with a ceremonial flourish ... and out walked Mark Advance and Paul South.

As was their custom, the men who ran the Advance-South Corporation spoke briefly and to the point.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice," Mark began. "We have two rather urgent situations that need our immediate attention."

The others watched him with rapt attention.

Mark held up a single finger. "Item one: We have some intel coming out of Chicago that is ... disturbing to say the least." He drew a breath. "America has supposedly manufactured a weapon ... a 'super' weapon. It's supposed to be an atomic device that is virtually undetectable to man, dog or machine."

The other men were momentarily stunned into silence.

"How credible is this information?" Dawes asked.

"It's highly credible," he answered. "And if true, a direct violation of the Denver Treaty."

Peterson was aghast. "I don't believe it. I know the president. He is many things, but he is a man of his word."

Paul nodded sympathetically. "President Haverson has a lot on his plate right now. We're not exactly sure if he's still in charge."

"Any ideas as to who might be?" Dawes asked.

"One," Paul replied. "John Voode. The guy running DARPA. He's got the manpower and the paranoia to pull off something like this."

General Dawes shook his head, his mind clouding with even more unhappy thoughts. "What do you suggest we do about this?"

Mark answered. "We propose that the report be verified, and we'll rely on the general's expertise to get that done."

General Dawes nodded.

"And then we propose that the Sierra demo be moved to Illinois. We're pretty sure that they're planning on moving their weapon to the Chicago area within the next few days."

Dawes looked surprised. "What? Why? We show our hand now and we lose the element of surprise. And we don't even know if Sierra will work."

"It will work," Paul countered confidently. "Sierra was created as a deterrent device, in order to curtail these crime waves and to make our enemies think twice before attacking us. I—we—believe that we can gain ground with the second goal."

The room grew quiet and sad.

"Paul, we may be starting another war," Senator Dillon said. His eyes closed and he muttered to himself, "A war within a war."

"I don't think so," Paul answered with the same unnerving confidence.

Governor Peterson cleared his throat for attention. "Fellas, with all due respect, this could have been discussed at Sierra City. My schedule has been thrown into shambles by diverting us here."

Mark nodded. "Which brings us to item two: New Jersey. This area is ground zero for an exponential growth of organized crime. Which makes it highly profitable ... and extremely dangerous. If the United States stands by and does nothing, it will only be a matter of time before it will be operating under their laws and not the other way around."

"What's your thinking?" General Dawes asked.

"Paul and I propose that we either establish an effective governorship here by the next midterm elections, or we terminate New Jersey's statehood." The others said nothing. There was no effective argument against the strategies of Mark Advance or Paul South. The men had a track record that shot down all naysayers.

Mark looked each man in the eye. "All who are in favor of the first proposal say 'aye.'"

All of the men spoke as one. "Aye!"

"All who are in favor of the second proposal say 'aye.'"

"Aye!"

Both Paul and Mark looked supremely satisfied. "The 'ayes' have it then."

#

En Route to Chicago, Illinois

The three buses pulled out of Redstone on the second morning of April. They were covered so well in grime and urban graffiti that it was impossible to detect the thick plates of steel fastened over their skins, or the neat rows of hinged portholes designed to accommodate waist-gunners. Highway bandits were becoming numerous and better organized along many of the major highways. While management did not expect any trouble, Colonel Higgins thought it prudent to be prepared. It would be a fourteen-hour drive to Chicago, and a lot could happen. The first bus, code name B-1, contained Major Hillerman, the two videographers from Redstone, and twelve plainclothes Army Rangers led by a grizzled veteran named Eugene Palladino. Chang, Kuiper, Lieutenant Brady, Tara, Derek, Broussard, and the six AIs rode in the second bus, B-2. Susan Boward had had a family emergency and was in New York City. The third bus, B-3, carried Roger, Herschel, Walters, Powell, Z, Kwolski, and Bautista, as well as the mobile lab. The master log had been cleared for the two-week excursion, but Chang wanted some basic tools along just in case another hiccup occurred.

As they drove north along the ribbon of I-57, Brady tapped into the convoy's PA system and briefed all of the travelers on what to expect when they reached Chicago. Everyone would have to submit their identification cards to the Chicago Border Patrol. The IDs issued to the Lincoln Hill Boys in Nevada were still valid. If the national police database threw up any red flags, a special chip in their cards would reroute them to a secure back channel at the CIA where they would be given a government stop sign backed by the official presidential seal. This would serve as a firewall against any further inquiries.

Chicago was now a self-sustained fortress city, with its own Air Force (supported by Scott Air Force Base, located 189 kilometers southwest of the city), a Navy, and the Army's 40th Heavy Brigade. Chicago's mandate from Washington was to serve the communities along the five Great Lakes and to protect them and the water bodies themselves against all enemies of the Legitimate Government of the United States of America. Chicago was also the only major American city that had not suffered any type of Advance South attack or natural disaster, and the powers that be were determined to keep it that way.

They arrived in town on sunset eve. Besides the high urban energy, the first thing that struck them was the air over the megalopolis. It was brown, almost gelatinous. A person had to take it on faith that there was still a sun hanging overhead. And the smell. The stench of ammonia mixed with decaying organic matter was so powerful in some spots that it caused the eyes and lungs to burn. Other than that, the city was in fine shape.

The buses let the human passengers off at a midtown hotel. The AIs were crated in portable kennels and taken up to their rooms via the service elevator. Redstone had rented out the entire fifth floor in order to ensure privacy and maintain secrecy. If a breach occurred, Hillerman and Brady had standing orders to neutralize the situation up to, but not including, the actual termination of life.

The rooms proved to be a little on the cozy side and the furnishings seemed somewhat dated, but the fully stocked refrigerators and food baskets kept the grumbling to a minimum.

Broussard showered and changed into jeans and a bulky sweater. It was dark now and chilly. The room's small heater would warm the knees but little else if you stood next to it. He pulled out his laptop and began surfing the Net. He had been at it for an hour when someone knocked on his door.

"It's open."

Bautista strolled inside, stinking of marijuana smoke. He had changed into jeans as well and had gone the extra step of shaving off his beard, although the Fu Manchu moustache remained.

He wordlessly plopped down on the wide couch and turned on Broussard's television. After listlessly thumbing through a bunch of selections, Bautista announced, "Hey, you've got the good channels. All I have is a bunch of family crap."

"That 'family crap' is good for you."

"Says you." He read from the list of available movies. "Horny Housewives. Debbie Does America. Hey, I think I saw that one. It's about this girl who—"

Broussard whirled around in his chair. "Mike, can you watch that in your room?"

"I just told you that I ain't got this in my room."

"I'm trying to work here." Broussard got up and grabbed the remote control. After a few clicks he handed it back to Bautista. "There. You can either watch NatGeo or your own four walls."

"Neal, the mood is downright funky."

"Sorry." He hurried back to his computer. "I just remembered that Diane's parents live here. I'm trying to get their address, but Hillerman's got so many controls on this thing I can barely navigate."

"You want me to try? Got nothing else to do."

"No, thanks. I'll get there eventually." Broussard's fingers were flying over the keyboard. "You get in touch with any of your people yet?"

"Got an email back from a cousin who lives in Santa Fe," Bautista replied. "He says he thinks he saw my mother and aunties at the airport last month, but they weren't able to connect."

"Where? In Santa Fe?"

"Manila. He and his wife flew back to check on her folks."

"That's great! Get a waiver from Hillerman so that you can make long distance calls."

"Naw. Won't work. The flooding from this Super Quake took down most of the cell phone towers over there, and my parents' village never had landlines." He took a deep breath. "It's pretty messed up, but at least they're safe."

Broussard lowered his head, his eyes resting upon his own hands. "The not knowing is rough. I sure wish I could get ahold of Diane."

Bautista flicked through a few more channels. "She's all right, Butch. She's a good woman. God'll keep her safe."

There came another knock on his door.

"Mike, get that, will you?"

Bautista took his time getting to the door. "Who is it?" he asked in his most menacing yard bird voice.

A familiar female voice called out from the other side. "Michael? Is that you?"

Both Broussard and Bautista gave a start. "That sounds like Dina!"

Bautista threw open the door. There stood Dina Hodges on the other side, dripping in diamonds and chinchilla fur. Two hefty bodyguards bracketed her. She spread her furry arms wide open, and Broussard and Bautista ran into them like delighted children. Dina squeezed them tightly and gave them each light pecks on the cheek.

"Oh, I'm so happy to see you again, my darlings!"

The men pried themselves out of her warm embrace.

"Wow!" Broussard exclaimed. "What are you doing in Chicago?"

The fur coat must have been heating her up because she pushed it onto her shoulders and inadvertently revealed a décolletage that left little to the imagination.

"Beau has a board of directors' meeting, and when I heard that the old gang was also going to be in town, I simply had to come." She cupped Broussard's face. "Oh, it's so good to see you again." She turned to Bautista. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto."

Bautista grimaced but didn't say anything.

"So," she asked, happily stroking her ponytail. "Neal, how does it feel to be at the top?"

Broussard chuckled. "I'll fill you in when I get there."

She winked. "Do that." She drew the heavy coat back down from her tanned shoulders. "Gotta run. I want to say 'hi' to the others. I'll be in touch!"

After she left Broussard said, "Boy, it sure was good to see her again."

"It sure was," Bautista wholeheartedly agreed. "'Cause I think Beau done bought Miss Dina a new pair of titties!"

The second Enlightened Dead Tour started the next day. Brady, Kuiper, Chang, Powell, Broussard, and the AIs were driven out to Chicago's Midway Airport. Again, the AIs were transported in covered pet crates. The city's second largest flight center had been repurposed since the beginning of the war to handle all of the casualties east of the Rockies. This left O'Hare Airport to handle all of the commercial and military flights for Illinois, Indiana, and southern Wisconsin. The choking layer of smog now menacing Chicagoland had its beginning there.

That first sweltering day at Midway brought home the enormity of the disaster that was befalling the nation. There were literally acres of wounded and dying men and women inside of the terminals and in canvas tents erected in the parking lots. Bands of blood-splattered doctors and nurses trouped like joyless minstrels in ever widening spirals around first the surgery pits and then to the seemingly endless rows of individual cots, each bearing either a body writhing in pain or another body lying far too still. Soldier and civilian lay side by side under the shady skies; death was playing equal opportunity scourge here. In spite of the heartbreaking scenes, cheery music played softly over the public address system. American flags, Chinese lanterns, and flower baskets sung out to the dispirited ensembles a gay chorus of "Hallelujah" from every light post, and the banks of tables laden with drink and food did much to lessen the shock from the merry-go-round of gore.

The hospital-née-airport guide for the DAT team was a plump fellow whose name and face fled the mind as soon as his form was out of sight. He was unrealistically optimistic about the war's speedy close and the country's chances for reunification (something one of the O'Hare doctors would later point out to be one of the classic symptoms of Seventh Column Psychosis) and spent most of his time pointing out the personal stats on the various medical personnel. As the DAT team passed one of the busy surgeries, the guide quietly informed them that the anesthesiologist was married with two children in Harvard and one serving on the front lines in New Jersey. "He's pretty scattered some of the time, but we're lucky to have him!" When they passed a large area that was cordoned off with velvet ropes, the guide whispered, "This is the ward where we treat the wounded from the Advance South. You see that guy over there pulling out the bedpan? He is the biggest horndog. He's got three girlfriends in this wing alone, and his wife is seven months pregnant and works just right around the corner in pharmacy. The man is a kah-mah-kah-zee!"

Broussard noticed the lack of flowers and the tattered bedding in the Advance South ward and made a comment about it. The guide's response was quick and cheerily to the point. "We have to spend our dollars where it will do the most good!" And they moved on towards the VIP ward inside what used to be the Southwest Airlines terminal.

Chang had arranged for them to spend a few hours each week with a small group of badly wounded officers, some with medal commendations pending. The officers were all volunteers. Everyone on the medical staff in this ward was an active employee of the CIA and carried a top-level security clearance. Most were based out of the massive hospital facility in Diego Garcia, an American Naval base in the Indian Ocean. Chang had also managed to recruit a man of the cloth. His name was Dr. Everett Walsh. His resume listed him as senior pastor for an evangelical church in Frisco, Texas. He also had a weekly radio ministry that was aired on Christian stations throughout America, the Advance South states, and even western Canada. What it failed to mention was that the man also had hordes of fanatical fans right there in Chicago. As the team arrived at the huge Southwest building, they suddenly found themselves amidst a crush of off-duty doctors and nurses and assistants and janitors and news reporters and paparazzi, each angling for a glimpse of Pastor Walsh, who was due to arrive in thirty minutes. Bautista gawked at the larger-than-life posters of the man hung from the walls, crowding out the ubiquitous flags and airline advertisements.

"Who is this dude?" Bautista asked in sincere wonderment as the crowd became unruly.

A beefy nurse shoved Kuiper, and he shoved her right back. "Someone famous."

Lieutenant Brady pushed a telephoto lens out of his face. "If they knew who was inside the crates, you'd be famous, too."

Within minutes they had boarded two service elevators to the top floor, where they were whisked into a heavily guarded ward. The medical staff behaved as they might have in a civilian hospital during peace time. Everyone wore clean uniforms and polite smiles. Gone were the insistent flowers and palliative Musak. The energy level was also far less intense. It actually seemed like a place of healing. But that hope was soon dispelled once they were finally brought into the inner sanctum where the officers were receiving care. Not one man in the group was ambulatory. Rather, each lay in bed surrounded by beeping monitors and IV poles. Four out of the group had their beds adjusted to a semi-upright position and were either staring at the computer screens attached to their bedrails or watching television. The rest appeared comatose. Flags were attached to each bedpost. The team was surprised to see that half of them were the blue and white of the Advance South.

A burly man in the bed next to the room's only window looked up from his computer and welcomed them with a hearty "Hello!"

Powell stepped forward and extended his hand. "Eric Powell, sir. It's an honor to meet you."

The big man's eyes grew wide with amusement. "It is? Well, how about that? The name is Ivy Hughes." He extended his own hand, which dwarfed Powell's by a factor of two. "Put 'er there, partner!" The two shook hands.

Two nurses stepped in and began to rouse the men who were still asleep.

Two other officers in side-by-side beds also exchanged greetings with the team.

Bautista was staring at them in open wonder. He pointed to the man on his left. "You're on our side."

Then he pointed to the man on his right who had an AS flag attached to his bed. "And you're on the Advance South's side. Excuse me, but I'm confused."

The Advance South soldier was missing one arm and both legs below the kneecaps. He said, "We are United States' citizens first, opponents last. If we can play some role in getting this nation back on its feet again—no matter how small—then we're all willing to do it."

Ivy Hughes gave a loud retort. "Speak for yourself, Jack! I told Washington I'd do it for wild liquor and free women!"

"And how's that deal coming along?" Jack shot back.

"I get all the non-alcoholic beer I want. Now... " His large blue eyes rolled around to the two nurses who were pointedly ignoring him. "As far as the free women. Well, it don't cost nothing to look. So—" He returned to his computer. "I guess they're holding up their end of the bargain."

There was quite a bit of laughter around the room.

Chang solemnly bowed his head. "We thank you for your patriotism, General Hughes. And we thank you for your assistance with the DAT program." He looked back to their guide. "If it's okay, we'd like to get started."

The guide blinked once. "I don't see why not. Pastor Walsh should be here any minute, so you can go ahead and start setting things up." He flipped his watch hand up. "I've got to make a quick call. Be right back." He dashed out of the room.

Walters, Bautista, and Chang rolled the five pet crates into the center of the room and then slowly unlocked their front entrances. The AIs cautiously stepped out into the hospital room and promptly took cover between Chang and Walters, who were the closest. The patient named Jack broke out into a large grin. "Well, I didn't expect to see any dogs today! Are they the therapy animals?"

The AIs cowered some more.

"What's the matter, boy?" Jack asked. "You scared of all these big old men?"

Chang got down on one knee and put an arm around David, who seemed the most spooked. "This is all new for them. They'll settle down after a while."

General Ivy Hughes had once again abandoned his computer and was now watching the team with great interest. "Hey, boy. His name is David? Come here, David." But David and the rest stayed put. Hughes did not show offense. "I had a dog like that once. We called him Duke, after Marmaduke. You know, from the comics?"

David suddenly stopped hiding and walked straight towards the general's bed, his comms shining boldly. "I am not a dog."

Hughes was able to fire off an indulgent smile before his brain began to corroborate what his eyes had just told him. His breathing rate rapidly increased, and the man's entire body began to tremble. Two of his monitors began to sound the alarm. "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. You aren't a dog, are you?"

Chang caught up with David and placed a calming hand on his neck. "It's okay, sir. He's one of us."

"Us?" Hughes asked with wild eyes. "Which 'us'?"

The nurses and the rest of the conscious bedridden men zeroed in on the five creatures.

"Both of us," Chang answered.

One of the nurses crossed herself and then slumped to the floor in a dead faint. Kuiper and Bautista ran to her aid.

The hospital guide burst back into the room. "OH, MY GOD! PASTOR WALSH IS HERE!"

The other nurse swooned.

The ambient noise levels shot up fifty fold as a tall, thin man with thick gray hair and Buddy Holly glasses strode in surrounded by a mini-mob. The air went ice blue with camera flashes. Brady jumped up and began to yell at the photographers. "GET OUT OF HERE! THIS IS A MILITARY HOSPITAL AND YOU ARE TRESSPASSING!"

He was about to be ignored when the pastor turned around and raised his arms high over the crowd. "Please. Please. Let me complete my work with these brave soldiers, and then I'll give you some time later to take your pictures."

The effect was stunning and instantaneous. The same reporters and photographers who had been foaming at the mouth ten seconds earlier to obtain a print-worthy comment from him or a money-shot photograph of him were now as quiet and docile as drugged church mice. "Please, folks. Thank you. Thank you." The media hounds receded into the outer hall like phantoms. Pastor Walsh softly closed the door behind them.

"Now," he said, turning to the DAT scientists and engineers and the distinguished soldiers and the unconscious nurses and the mechanical dogs. "If there aren't any objections, I'd like to say a prayer and invite the Almighty to be with us today."

He looked around the room of strangers. No one objected.

"All right then. First we'll pray, and then we'll get to work."

And that's how it went for the next five days. Crazy mob scenes. Prayers. And then Pastor Walsh working without interruption: consoling the grief stricken, calming the angry, witnessing to the unbelieving, testifying for his God, even talking to the AIs about the Bible and their possible place in it. By the end of the sixth day, almost everyone on the team was convinced that Pastor Walsh was either a bona fide man of God or the most accomplished charlatan in the storied history of religious quackery.

By the end of that sixth day, Pastor Walsh had been weighing heavily on Broussard's mind for almost eight hours, but he did not have a clue why. He had spent a couple of hours with the prison chaplain back at Lincoln Hills, but nothing had ever come of it. Broussard wasn't in search of spiritual succor, then or now. And yet, he felt himself drawn to this charismatic gentleman from Texas. He decided to speak with him. Alone. He got his chance later that evening when he caught up with the gregarious preacher working the crowd at the ward's cafeteria. The man was a born entertainer. As he made his way from the soft drink dispenser to the cashier, he deftly lobbed firm handshakes, kisses on babies' foreheads, atta-boy slaps on the backs of drooling idiots, toothy-yet-humble smiles for the cameras, and potent sound bites from the books of Romans and Galatians directed to the weary faithful and wannabe-faithful who looked upon him as some post-Apocalyptic bronze serpent staked to the menu board by Moses.

Broussard managed to catch the preacher just as he was managing to extricate himself from the lunchroom.

"Pastor, excuse me. Do you have a moment?"

Pastor Walsh turned eyes red with fatigue upon him. "Of course. Let's talk over here."

The pastor led Broussard to an empty nook a ways down the hall. "What's on your mind, son?"

"You don't know me. My name is Neal Broussard. I'm one of the engineers working with the robots."

"Yes! I thought you looked familiar. Mr. Broussard, your parents must be very proud of you."

Broussard was temporarily stumped for a proper response. "I was raised by my uncle. I don't know how my parents feel about me."

The pastor's eyes closed, and his lips moved slightly. He was obviously in prayer.

Broussard waited until the older man was finished, and then he took a deep breath. "Pastor Walsh, I—uh ... " Broussard was having a difficult time pushing the words out of his mouth. The pastor quietly waited. "Before I came to Chicago, I was in prison for murder."

The pastor's expression turned grave. "I see."

"Multiple murders." Broussard could not keep looking the preacher directly in the eye, so he lowered his head.

"Mr. Broussard, are you seeking God's forgiveness?"

"Uh ... No. Not really." Broussard looked around. "I just felt like I needed to tell you that. Keep things transparent, you know."

"Understood." The pastor placed a light hand on Broussard's shoulder. "This is obviously something of a burden for you. If so, then why don't you put it on the cross and let God handle it? Can you do that for me?"

"Sure."

A passel of giggly nurses was headed their way. "Well, thanks for listening."

"Mr. Broussard, the Lord is still with us. He'll listen, too. Just ask."

"Why would he listen to me? A killer."

The pastor smiled and stifled a yawn. The man exuded weariness. "King David was said to be a man after God's own heart, and he betrayed an excellent servant and then had him murdered."

They both thought about that for a few seconds. Finally Broussard said, "I see."

The pastor yawned again, this time more loudly. "I'm sorry, but are we done here?"

Broussard gave a start. "Yes. Of course."

"Then I'll see you on Monday."

"Pastor Walsh, one more thing. Did Allan explain what we're doing here? At this hospital? With these men?"

The man's pleasant demeanor returned. "Ah, yes. After a fashion. He and Mr. Fields and I spoke at some length about their theories for helping the assembled intelligence creatures. And as I explained to them, that's not what we do. No minister in his right mind would get into a tussle with God for a man's soul. I'm simply here to provide spiritual comfort for these men during their time of transition. I will also take their confessions, if they so wish."

"And that's all?"

"That's all. Good night, Mr. Broussard. Don't forget what I said."

About what? Broussard watched him stand and slowly return to his adoring crowd back in the cafeteria.

The next day was billed as a day off, but in fact it was only a morning off. Chang, Kuiper, and Bautista wanted to attend services at Saint James Cathedral. That left the rest of the team on their own until they returned at lunch. However, the balance of their 'day off' would be spent in Lakeview, an artists' colony situated sixty kilometers north of Chicago.

The AIs and the team were the invited guests to the beachfront home of Bernie and Dot Greene. Like Farmer Johnson, they were A-P agents, supervising the tiny Lakeview Patriot community. Greene had made his fortune on Wall Street, and Dot had created her fortune by marrying Bernie. The couple had its own private slice of voluptuous beach, which they had cordoned off on both sides by high walls fashioned out of sandstone imported from Australia. The placid waters of Lake Michigan fanned out between them. Unlike Chicago's busy ports, the only vessels headed out into the meatier parts of the lake were yachts and sailboats. It was an idyllic setting.

And today, inside this urban oasis, the Greens were throwing a party.

A large banner stretched across their gated driveway welcomed the DAT team:

WELCOME, DAVID, ROSE, SARAH, AMADEUS, AND BRUCE!

Chang bade the driver to stop their bus so that the AIs could see the message. There appeared to be either some confusion or lack of interest; all of the comms remained blank save one. David asked, "Can we go home?"

"No," Chang replied.

They continued on to the house ... and discovered a menagerie of CIA agents posing as clowns and jugglers. Others posed as magicians and painfully uncoordinated unicorns. Glow wands and tethered balloons marked the paths to three inflatable jump houses. The entire setting fairly screamed, "LET'S HAVE FUN!"

Tara and Derek led the AIs to the action, uttering soothing words of encouragement as they took in the kaleidoscope of colors, movements, and sounds. The Redstone videographers darted in and out of their paths, attempting to capture everything.

Sensing their apprehension, the other team members gathered around the DATs and excitedly explained to them the function of each performer or game. When a live pony was brought over, the AIs visibly relaxed and began to investigate the patient creature's legs, bulbous belly, and red, green, and lavender polka dots, something that its owner must have thought was a good idea to subject the beast to. Amadeus approached Chang. "Can the pony come home with us?"

But before Chang could tell him "no," Amadeus had grabbed the animal's leash and was leading it back to the buses. Chang signaled Derek. "Go get him."

That was when the childlike spirit of unbridled F-U-N finally descended upon the estate of Bernie and Dot Greene, causing the other four DATs to pitch headlong into the jump houses, and then to test their juggling skills with the jugglers, and then to dash pell-mell through the main house like wild monkeys, and out the front doors to the beach to chase and flee from the waves crashing in from the lakeshore. And then back again to worry both ends of the CIA unicorns until Derek and Tara got them all settled down to have their faces painted. And then it was off to explore the mysteries of sand castle building, and then more stare downs with the lake waves, and then finally a long rest period with Derek, Tara, and Powell on a high sand mound. They watched with much interest as the lighted sailboats glided to and fro over the blue waters until a fog bank rolled in from the north and obscured their view.

Although the AIs could not express emotions via facial movements, Derek would later report to Susan Boward that he believed the DATs were thoroughly enjoying themselves at their 'birthday party' with the Greens, and that he would debate anyone who suggested otherwise.

As the day evolved into early dusk, the team broke up into small groups. Bautista, Roger, Herschel, and Chang acquainted themselves with the open bar near the backyard bar-b-que. The DATs were still on the beach with Derek and Tara. Kuiper, Walters, and Z were in the living room with Bernie Greene discussing venture capitalism and IPOs. Hillerman and Brady had disappeared into a large subdivision of the backyard with Dot Greene about an hour earlier. Broussard, more bored than nosy, had finally decided to leave the drunks at the bar and follow those two and see what they were up to. He gently spread the branches of a thick privacy hedge and spotted the three of them crowded around a surprising but familiar sight: a wooden perch topped with a magnificent brown-and-white bird of prey.

Somehow Brady had heard him and motioned him over. Somewhat embarrassed, Broussard ambled over with his hands in his pockets. "Hey! Pretty bird," he said amiably.

Brady held up a bloody morsel of food to the bird's beak. "She's a beauty."

"A peregrine, right?"

Dot Green smiled at him. "Do you know birds?"

"A little. I worked in a raptor rescue program back in Nevada. We had several of these guys out there."

Hillerman admired the creature. "Then you know how smart they are."

Broussard thought back to some of the lazy, obnoxious birds that he had been exposed to at Lincoln Hills. "They certainly have lots of personality," Broussard stated diplomatically.

"Yep. This little girl's name is Plahnbie, and she's riding back to Redstone with us."

"Oh?" That surprised Broussard. "Um, you know we aren't sure if the DATs are cool with birds yet?"

"They are."

Broussard's eyebrows arched. "They are? How do you know that?"

"She's been socialized with them for over two months now. The colonel's idea," Hillerman replied. "No problems whatsoever. We've got it on videotape. Ask Roger to show it to you."

This was news to him. "Oh. Okay. Is Plahnbie joining the program?"

"No. Separate issue." The three humans closed ranks. Hillerman gestured towards the bushes that Broussard had emerged from. "Do you mind?"

Broussard graciously acknowledged the dismissal. "Not at all. See you later."

He ran into Bautista a few minutes later. "You know about Roger doing any testing with birds?"

"No." Bautista's eyes were glassy and red. He was plastered. "Do you?" He then proceeded to giggle all over himself.

Broussard abruptly turned around and headed to an empty spot on the beach to watch the swells. He stayed there by himself until it was time to leave.

Four days passed and the conversation on the officers' ward had dramatically fallen since its peak during lunchtime. At that time, the DAT team and the entire medical staff had all been on the floor at once. That had not been planned. Someone at the front desk had made a mistake in scheduling, causing the scientists and engineers to arrive four hours earlier than planned. It would have been too much of an inconvenience for all of them to return to the hotel, and so they had been invited to stay. Most of their time had been spent staying out of the way of the extra doctors and nurses on duty that day. There was a higher level of attention being paid to Jack and General Hughes, and rightly so. The men had definitely taken a turn for the worse, but they were both still awake, alert, and full of gab.

By the time the night shift nurses had clocked in, the ward was almost empty and ghostly quiet. Most of the patients were either asleep or watching television from fixed positions. Only the general remained awake.

The DAT team had dwindled down to just four: Chang, Broussard, Walters, and Kuiper. Two of the Army Rangers had been posted outside to guard the entrance. The group had missed their window of opportunity to work with the men in private, and so Chang selected a skeleton crew for the evening and dismissed the rest. The nurses brought in heavy-duty cots and small tables for them to use. Dinner was brought in along with Pastor Walsh, who, as was his custom, sped through the pleasantries and then got down to business.

Shortly after he arrived, the AIs were again brought in via their animal crates. Only eleven regular hospital employees had a high enough security clearance to actually know about their existence: the airport guide, six nurses, and four doctors. The rest were told that special therapy dogs were assisting in the treatment of the wounded officers. So far it had worked. These medical professionals now worked side by side with the DAT team in tending to their patients and making sure that the DATs were secure and comfortable.

It was now almost ten o'clock at night. The pastor was on a short break. Kuiper and Broussard had been asleep for over an hour. Amadeus, David, and Sarah, having exhausted all potentially interesting phenomena on the ward hours ago, had placed themselves in processing mode. Walters and Chang lounged in cots next to each other, picking at a bowl of raw peanuts that one of the nurses had brought in. Walters whispered, "I'm starting to feel like a ghoul waiting around for one of them to croak."

Chang's eyelids began to flutter. "I don't like it either." Bruce, who had insisted on sharing the cot with him, said, "I don't like it either."

Chang was now asleep and snoring so only Walters saw him say this. "Bruce, do you know what you're talking about?"

The AI looked at him. "Yes."

"What then?"

Chang's free arm flopped up and over onto Bruce.

"I don't know."

Walters chuckled. "That's what I thought." He gave him a mock sock to the head. "Stay out of adults' conversation, boy."

"I am not a boy."

"Oh? What are you then?"

"I'm a he-DAT."

"A what-DAT?"

"I'm a he-DAT."

Walters became suspicious. "Who told you that?"

"Pastor Walsh."

Walter's anger flared but he did not let it show. "I see." He put his head close to Bruce's. "Nobody but your family tells you who you are. Nobody. Do you understand this, Bruce?"

Pastor Walsh returned from break and strolled over, carrying a leather-bound Bible in one hand. "Hello. Van, isn't it?"

"Speak of the devil," Walters mumbled beneath his breath. "Yes. Hello." He sat up.

The pastor was wearing his semi-concerned look. "Say, I noticed that Rose and Sarah were limping a little this afternoon. Is everything all right?

"Yes. We took them to the beach the other day, and they got sand inside their legs."

Now the pastor looked fully concerned. "Hmm, that doesn't sound good."

"It isn't great, but don't worry. We're getting it cleaned out. Slowly."

The pastor smiled. "They've been telling me about their trip to the beach. I must tell you, if I had my eyes shut tight, I would think that I was having a discussion with two human children."

Walters just smiled.

The tall man continued. "The Most High has surely blessed the work of your hands. You and your colleagues have done something extraordinary. Simply amazing." He took a comfortable chair next to Ivy Hughes's bed. Before he could settle in, one of the Rangers was standing before him. "There's a young man outside who says that he needs to talk with you. He seems pretty upset."

The pastor exhaled and let his eyelids droop.

"Sir, would you like me to ask him to come back later?"

"No." The pastor stood. "I'll speak with him." The two men briefly left the room. Bruce left the still sleeping Chang and climbed into bed with Ivy Hughes. The general smiled and scratched the AI behind the ears. "You're really just a big old housecat, aren't you?"

"I am a he-DAT. But Uncle Van is mad about it."

Hughes smiled down at him. "A really, really smart housecat."

A minute later Rose joined them on the bed, and it began to creak beneath their combined weight.

Broussard, who had been napping nearby, woke up. "Are they bothering you, sir?" he asked groggily.

"No, no, no. We're fine," Hughes said.

Pastor Walsh soon returned and reclaimed his chair.

Hughes looked him over. "Reverend, you're looking a little threadbare. Why don't you loosen your tie and put your feet up?"

"General, that is something that my mother taught me to never do in public. However, I believe that if she knew how truly tired I was now, she would let me do it this once. And so I will."

The pastor carefully placed his Bible on his lap. Then he removed his jacket and tie. Walters got up and placed one of the tables beneath his feet.

"You comfy?" the general asked.

The pastor leaned back, closed his eyes, and smiled. "I am."

The general let the man collect his thoughts for a few minutes before speaking to him again. "Were you able to help that young man?"

Pastor Walsh raised his head. "I hope that I was able to supply him with some comfort." His eyes moved about. "Like so many people now, they're experiencing a lot of regret. Thinking that maybe if they'd lived their lives a different way, things wouldn't be so hard. I told him, like I tell everyone, stop worrying about the mistakes you made yesterday. Yesterday is gone forever. You just worry about not making those mistakes today."

The general nodded. "I have regrets. I caught a twenty-pound catfish once and threw it back. My wife didn't want me to kill it."

Pastor Walsh chuckled, recognizing the magnitude of the general's sacrifice for his wife's peace of mind.

Hughes continued talking. "I graduated from West Point in nineteen-seventy. My first commission was as an infantry officer—stateside—but my pop had different ideas. You see, he was a military man, too. Served in World War II with honors. Well, he told me that a man could not truly lead other men in peace or in battle until he understood who they were and knew the dangers that they would be facing. So he pulled some strings and had me kicked down to medic and shipped off to Vietnam. I was so scared I peed myself twice on the plane."

He paused.

Bruce's comms were lit. "You were afraid?"

"Yes, Bruce, I was very afraid. Do you know about being afraid?"

"I don't know," he answered.

Pastor Walsh stepped into the conversation. "I believe that they are taught to preserve themselves."

The general nodded. "Self-preservation is good. Fear helps a body do that."

The soldier suddenly spasmed as his lungs attempted to cough up phlegm and stiff blood. Everyone remained still as his body worked through the procedure. In a minute or so he was done, and he settled back down onto his pillows.

"Anyway, it was rough going from day one. If my unit wasn't taking hits from the VC, then we were fighting the heat, the flies, and the dysentery. A couple of months into my tour things got really nasty. I don't know what you've heard about the Vietnam War, but take the worst and multiply it by a hundred."

Hughes coughed up some phlegm and spat it into a paper cup. "The politics aside, the Cong were brutal. They fought a guerilla campaign against us because they couldn't fight us toe-to-toe." He spat some more. "They'd take pieces of bamboo, sharpen the tips, and cover them with dung. Then they'd plant them in the ground in tall grass, points up. We were working on maybe ten men a day who'd been wounded with these hellish things, and most of that was just keeping them from screaming too loud before they died. Then they secured a line of credit from Russia and they became more creative. It got worse. Day after day of ripped and torn guys, some of them I knew. Early one morning before dawn we got a squawk from some of our guys who had just been ambushed about seven klicks from camp. Cappy ordered us out of bed and told us to go get them. He might as well have just said, 'I want you to go out there and get killed with them,' 'cause that's what it amounted to. I remember putting on my boots and helmet. I just needed my bag and I kept thinking, 'I don't want to die today.' I could hear the guys calling my name. 'Ivy! Ivy, get out here!' But I didn't go. I couldn't. I snuck out the back and went to the mess tent. Nobody was there."

He waited for dramatic pause. "I hit myself in the head with a hammer until I passed out. Later I told cappy that a VC must have snuck in and attacked me."

"What happened to the other men?" Pastor Walsh asked.

"Oh, they all made it back." General Hughes snorted. "A rare event in those days." He twisted a corner of his bed sheet around a finger. "God hates a coward."

"General, would you like to ask God for forgiveness?"

The general nodded as large tears fell from his eyes. "I believe so. He knows why I did it. But I hope that He'll find it in His heart to forgive me."

The pastor felt eyes on him. Bruce and Rose were watching him with an almost human intensity. He accepted their stares.

"Then let's pray together."

The pastor took a good minute to get the Bible and himself down onto the hard, cold floor beside the general's bed. He had to hold onto the bed rails to keep from falling. When he was finally in position, he began to pray for the soul of General Ivy Hughes.

He stayed there for almost half an hour before he became too exhausted to continue. Then he pulled himself back up into his chair. The pastor caught his breath before he moved to position the Bible back onto his lap. The general had broken off all contact and was now turned away from him, facing the window. Good. Maybe he can sleep more soundly tonight, Pastor Walsh thought.

The eyes were upon him again. It did not make him uncomfortable. He instinctively knew that the machines were curious about their world and the people in it. Just like any bright child would be. His mind drifted to next week's sermon. What would he say? That God had created man and woman? And that now man had created ... what? A person? Well, it was a moot point. He was sworn to secrecy. But still ... if he could talk to the people ... What would he say?

He gently regarded Bruce and Rose. Was there true intelligence behind those artificial eyes? And if so, was this world going to be instructive for that intelligence? A world full of venom and greed and lust? Would they ultimately find peace here or an unfathomable hell? He tortured himself a little while longer with such thoughts before drifting off.

Pastor Walsh was fast asleep when the loud thwack reached his ears and shook him awake. He looked around, startled. One of the nurses had turned off the reading light on the general's nightstand, and the ward sat in near darkness. And then he noticed that his Bible was missing. His eyes scanned the floor as best as they could. Within a few seconds he spotted the book, splayed open in an uncouth manner beneath General Hughes's bed. It must have slipped off his lap and slid a ways. Now he became fully alert. A possibly filthy floor was fine for an unworthy man but not for the word of God. He leaned over and fully extended his arm down in order to reach it. However, he was a good fourteen centimeters short. He would have to get up and then get back down on his knees again. God, please give this old body Your strength one more time. He stood and grabbed onto the bed rail. Just as he was about to lower himself to the cold floor again, a thin, dark arm with fine fur and scales appeared from beneath the bed, clutching his Bible.

"Bruce?"

Pastor Walsh grabbed the Bible from the tiny hand and then hurriedly switched the nightstand lamp back on. Bruce and Rose were still lying next to the general ... and still watching him.

"Who's there?" he asked loudly.

Walters stirred and murmured, "Shhh."

A bad dream, he decided.

It finally occurred to him to check on Hughes. He placed his ear near the man's mouth and watched his chest. Hughes was wheezing and his breathing was somewhat erratic. But his lungs sounded strong. The pastor briefly considered calling the nurse but decided against it. The day nurse would have fresher eyes on the general's condition. Besides, he didn't appear to be in any pain. Pastor Walsh sat down again, his mind on next week's sermon.

Two hours later the night shift nurse arrived to make her last rounds on the officers' ward before handing her patients over to the day staff.

Not surprisingly, General Hughes had expired. She noted the time of death and switched off all of his monitoring equipment. She had specific instructions to notify his treating physician right away. As she turned to go, she caught sight of a pair of thin legs resting on the floor. It was Pastor Walsh. His body lay crumpled at the foot of the general's bed. She immediately reached down to feel for his pulse. "Pastor Walsh?"

But his hands were already cold and hard. Her heart sank. "No!" she cried out. "Please don't leave us!"

The sleeping men around her began to stir and awaken as she wept.

#

April 20 was their last full day in Chicago. Through informal discussions, Chang admitted that while they had no way of knowing whether the Enlightened Dead Tour had been successful, time and further testing back at Redstone would soon let them know. On that last day, the team had spent the better part of dawn packing their belongings and making sure that the buses were travel-worthy. After a group breakfast at Gibson's Southern Kitchen, Hillerman and Brady led them on a short walking tour. Under heavily overcast skies, they first trouped south and then east on East Chicago Avenue. As soon as they left the small business district and entered the residential sections, it became clear that all was not well in Chicagoland. The first clue was that the timing seemed to be a bit off. Peace signs were on everything: buildings, vehicles, designer dogs, bicycles. The first floors of entire buildings had been repurposed to serve as canvases for painted sunflowers and poppies, grinning whales and dolphins, flying unicorns, baskets of fruit, and dancing cows. The second clue was that cannabis smoke practically belched from the open windows of flats and homes. There were easily two police cruisers parked on each block, but either they did not notice the illegal smoke in the air or they were not giving it much attention. Either scenario seemed unlikely. The third clue, while already known, was the most unsettling. For even here, in a citadel city, flush with cash and properly fed employees, literally untouched by the evil events that had physically destroyed significant parts of the country, people were living their lives inside out. Fancy settees stood back-to-back with king-sized beds. Twenty-meter extension cords snaked from almost every front door to power outdoor televisions and computers. Most people were apparently content to cook on simple grills, but some of the wealthier folk were building elaborate brick ovens to complement six-burner gas stoves. Framing for outdoor bathrooms was going up. Obviously they expected to stay in camping mode for the long haul.

A heavy mist tinged with ocre began falling down around them, suddenly obscuring the buildings, the trees, even the parked cars.

It was proving to be unnerving for some of them. Bautista stopped in his tracks and asked, "What's going on? Where is this all headed?"

"We don't know," Brady replied. "This area of the country hasn't seen much disaster. But there are some pretty wild rumors. Some people are scared."

"What kind of rumors?" Powell asked.

"UFOs," Hillerman replied. "Big, nekkid giants flying around, kidnapping women."

The others looked at each other but said nothing. They resumed walking, turning south again on North Lake Shore Drive. At this distance from the lake, the fog was thicker. But it was here that the atmosphere of forced joviality so prevalent in the neighborhoods gave way to good old-fashioned American exuberance. Hundreds of cheering, whistling, flag-waving people were lined up along the Drive. Thousands of joyous, raucous more were on the beach itself.

Hillerman hopped up on a bench and pointed towards the lake. "Welcome to America!"

As if on cue, the fog and clouds overhead parted dramatically to reveal the newly constructed Chicago Navy, framed against a stunningly blue sky.

The team watched open mouthed as battleship after battleship slipped out of Navy Pier and shouldered its way out onto the open lake, easily slicing through the rough whitecaps. Tugboats and nuisance sailboats, tiny blips compared to the warships, danced precariously around the massive vessels while Chicago fire boats flanked them on either side, their fire pumps spraying graceful plumes of water before their sharp bows. It was an awesome sight and an impressive display of force. That it was taking place half a hundred meters from the shores of a major city made it even more thrilling.

"Where are they going?" Walters asked.

Hillerman waggled his cigar. "Up north. They're going to light up Milwaukee."

Walters nodded with understanding. "They're delivering power?"

Hillerman chuckled. "You might say that. Milwaukee issued an ultimatum to Washington last week: Either we open up their supply lines and give them one billion cash, or they dump one hundred tons of raw sewage into the lake."

Broussard shrugged. "What's the problem? They were probably doing that before the war."

"We're talking untreated waste. The lakes have the most fresh water around these parts. They can't be held hostage by anyone. So the Chicago Navy has been given authority to settle the matter."

"No negotiating?" Powell asked.

Hillerman spat. "You can't negotiate with terrorists."

"I find it hard to believe that everyone is okay with this," Chang murmured, clearly moved by what he was seeing.

"Everyone is not okay with this." And as if to punctuate his words, a large cloud of smoke appeared on the eastern shore, followed by a large fireball exploding on the starboard side of the lead ship. The crowd gasped and yelped in amazement. But they could see that the fleet was now slowing down. A shower of fine particles and chemical odors began to rain down. People covered their heads and faces with their coats and scarves. As they watched, another cloud of smoke appeared from the eastern banks, and this time they could clearly see a missile arc towards the water. But somehow it failed to connect with any of the cruisers. Suddenly there came a teeth-rattling BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! as a battleship unleashed a punishing salvo from its primary deck gun. A split second later, the lakeshore pulsed with a wicked yellow glow. And then about a kilometer of Indiana coastline disintegrated beneath a wall of ferocious flames.

The spectators in Chicago erupted in spontaneous cheers and chants of "USA! USA!"

After about an hour of celebrating, Hillerman turned the group around. They headed back to their hotel, where Dina, Colonel Higgins, and some of his military cronies were expecting them. A spontaneous reunion party was formed in the lobby's main bar. When things became too noisy there, it migrated to Higgins's presidential suite on the fourteenth floor.

The men from Lincoln Hills were nearly brought to tears as they took turns hugging and kissing their old friend. Dina herself ruined her makeup by crying too much.

Fields looked mightily pleased with himself. "I have brought you the jewel of the DAT program, as a gift for all of your hard work."

Everybody was immediately suspicious.

"You must know something that we don't," Chang said.

"Not at all," Fields replied with vaguely sincere tones. "But make no mistake. Management is pleased with your efforts."

Powell looked skeptical. "Even if we don't produce a reliable AI?"

"Guys, we have every confidence that you will."

Dina took center stage. "Anyway, we are all just so happy about how far we've come with this." She glanced at Chang with wet eyes. "From our very humble beginnings in Nevada and Amsterdam, we've grown from a tiny, fragile seed to a mighty oak!"

Several team members clapped.

"And now, before we take that next leap of science and faith, I would like for us to take a moment and celebrate our accomplishments ... in style! Beau and I just purchased a wild new condo here in town, and we want you all there tonight to help us warm things up. How about it guys?"

Everyone heartily agreed.

"Great! We'll have cars pick you up this evening. Dinner's at eight, so don't be late!"

In response to the happy burble of chatter all around her, Dina thrust up her hand in a queenly wave and then made her exit on the arm of Fields.

Walters tapped the other Lincoln Hills staff. "Meet me in my room in ten."

Ten minutes later, Broussard, Powell, and Bautista were gathered in Walters's suite. The computer scientist was fit to be tied.

"Dina and Fields are grinning and sinning about something," he snarled.

Broussard was tired and just wanted to take a quick nap before Bruce and Rose arrived at his room for socialization. "You're just being paranoid, Van."

"And you're just sticking your head in the sand, as usual. Look, four weeks ago Fields was all but telling us that the program was DOA. Now we're being feted like kings. Am I the only one seeing something wrong with this picture?"

"Well, what of it?" Powell asked with exasperation. "We're just worker bees. And I for one would rather be feted like a king than shivved like a dog."

Bautista snorted. "Amen."

But Walters was not going to be so easily deterred. "That's just it. We created the MIT technology. And Neal almost singlehandedly designed the DAT chassis."

"Van, Van, haven't we been down this road before?" Broussard asked.

Walters put his hands on his hips. "Listen up. Item one: Our original deal with Fields was for ten percent of all projected profits—MIT and DAT—prorated over twenty-four months. That was twenty-three months ago."

Lax ears began to perk up.

"Item two: Dina just doesn't appear out of nowhere to throw around her husband's time and money for 'friends.' It's a known fact that Beau Hodges is the cheapest a-hole in America. So who are these so-called 'friends?'"

Powell shrugged. "All circumstantial. What else you got?"

"Why is Fields here? We don't know if the Dead Tour worked yet. We haven't even started testing."

"Aren't he and Dina best buds or something?" Bautista asked.

Walters sniffed. "From what I hear, she hates his guts."

Broussard crossed his arms. "So in Van Walters's world, what does this all add up to?"

"In one word: money. I've been doing some research. Chicago is pulling in about eleven million dollars each month after paying for city expenses. That money is pouring in from Europe, the UK, Asia, Washington, even the Middle East. Twenty R&D firms are setting the DOW on fire right now, half of them based right here in Illinois. Of those ten, two—Applied Physics and Beta—have majority shareholders listed as Brett Hunter and Beau Hodges."

Bautista soured. "Crap."

Powell whistled. "You think Chang knows about this?"

"He'd be an idiot if he didn't. Remember: He works for Dina, not us."

Broussard's manner darkened. "So what do you think is going on?"

"I think Beau and Dina are lining up investors for the DAT. In one month, they'll have sole ownership. And when that happens, we start receiving zero percent of zero."

"How do you figure?" Broussard asked. "If anybody else can lay a claim on the MITs, it's Lincoln Hills. They have our original contracts."

"Lincoln Hills doesn't exist anymore," Walters said quietly. "There was some kind of mass killing there. They closed it down right afterwards."

The men fell silent. Walters continued.

"Whatever records of ownership or contracts or even the fact that we were ever there are gone. So it'll be the word of one of the richest men in the country against four felons."

Broussard was thinking fast. "You got a plan?"

"More like a suggestion. Cause if it goes wrong, you never heard it from me. Got it?"

There were silent assents.

"I think that we should get the hell out of Dodge. Tonight. Before they drag us back to Redstone. We've all got money stashed. Get to Canada. They don't have extradition on cases that would result in the death penalty, and believe me, that's what we would face if our government ever got their hands back on us. Treason is punishable by death now."

Broussard batted down Walters's last statement. "Since when is breaking out of prison an act of treason, Van?"

"Breaking out of prison isn't treason. But as of last November, crossing the border illegally to sell government secrets is."

Powell put up his hands. "Whoa! Whoa! Who said anything about selling government secrets?"

Bautista ran his hands over his face. "Canada? I don't know anybody in Canada, man."

Walters gave him a withering look. "Mike, if we all go, then we'll all know someone in Canada. Get it?"

Bautista looked embarrassed. "Oh, yeah. Got it."

"Okay, so we get to Canada. Then what?"

"We send for family. Then we hire a slick New York lawyer as soon as we get our feet on Canadian soil and renegotiate our contracts. And this time, we ask to have our sentences commuted to time served."

Powell laughed. "Van, you're dreaming. What's to stop them from having us killed? It'd be a lot cheaper."

"Nothing at all. But they still need us ... at least until next month. Then we become expendable." He let his words sink in.

Powell chuckled with a hint of bitterness. "Well, they won't be able to send us back to prison. At least not back to Lincoln Hills." His gaze went out of focus. "I wonder what happened to the Zycks."

"I'm sure they're all right," Broussard said without a shred of conviction.

"So what if we get to Canada, contact Fields about the deal, and they tell us to piss off?" Bautistak asked.

"If they do that," Walters replied, "then we sell our wares to the highest bidder. And we won't be selling government secrets either. I'll make a case for intellectual property rights and it will stick."

Powell crossed his arms. "Go on."

"Well ... " Walters deflated himself a bit. "There's a speed bump. We're going to need all of the working files and specs and emails on MIT and DAT. We can't access them from here, so somebody has to go back to Redstone and send them to us."

Powell shook his head. "Impossible."

"It can be worked out," Walters insisted. "We can do this."

Broussard nodded. "Okay. But I'm not selling out to any thug who happens to wave the right amount of cash. We're going to have to vet any buyer. I don't think that any of us wants DAT technology falling into the wrong hands."

"Sure," Bautista said. "If we ever find out whose hands are the wrong hands."

Broussard exhaled. "Well, if we're serious about this, then we're going to need passports."

"One step ahead of you," Walters said. "I may have found an expert who can help us with IDs and passports."

"What? Are these friends of yours?" Powell asked. "Old work buddies?"

"No. And, actually, they approached me."

"What? When?" the other men asked.

"This morning. I received an email."

"Van," Powell began, "our email is monitored and encrypted."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Trust me," Walters said, "Mine isn't."

Powell threw up his hands. "You're right. You're the computer god here. Look. Just because Hillerman is a soldier doesn't mean he isn't smart."

Walters sniffed. "He isn't smarter than me."

"No, but Fields might be."

Walters was dismissive. "Emphasis on 'might.'" He confidently cracked his knuckles. "Trust me. I've got perfect weather on this. Not a cloud in the sky."

"So this 'expert' shows up out of the blue?" Broussard asked. "How did they even get your address?"

"As soon as I found out we'd be in Chicago, I put some feelers out. The black market is alive and thriving. Even here. They've got something called the Underground News." Walters snickered. "It's essentially a Craigslist for mobsters."

"You're an idiot," Powell said. "Because only an idiot would publicly advertise to criminals. "

"In a perfect world, you'd be absolutely correct. But look around. This town has got some serious issues; half of the people here are on anti-psychotics." Walters gestured towards the large picture window that towered above his in-room air conditioner. "The powers-that-be want people to believe that they've got their thumb on everybody, but trust me, that's fiction."

Powell snorted. "You've been on the outside for exactly two weeks and you've got it all figured out."

"I don't know, Van," Broussard began, his expression one of mild skepticism. "This feels like something Fields's crew set up to test us out."

"'Test us out' for what?" Bautista asked. "Hell, Fields don't give a rat's ass about us."

Broussard countered, "Well, he gives a rat's ass about the DATs."

Bautista jabbed the air with one finger. "Yeah, and that's the only thing he gives a rat's ass about. Fields knows that we ain't going nowhere. We're convicted felons, man. And as soon as they stop our paychecks, we'll all be broke convicted felons. The dude has us all by the short hairs."

No one bothered to refute that testimony, for it was absolutely the truth.

After several moments, Broussard asked, "How much do they want?"

"Don't know," Walters replied. "You got any ideas, Eric?"

Powell looked thoughtful. "A high-grade ID kit would normally run you about ten thousand dollars. But these not being normal times, it might run as high as twenty-five thousand."

Bautista whistled.

Broussard's only response was, "Wow."

Walters stepped forward. "Look, we don't know anything yet. The situation is fluid but we've still got control. So let's stay calm until we find out."

"When do we meet?" Broussard asked.

"They're sending a couple of reps over to the hotel. Be down in the lobby pub in two hours. Oh, and wear short-sleeved shirts, no jackets or watches. They want to make sure that we aren't recording them." He grinned to himself, obviously enjoying the cops-and-robbers spice suddenly flavoring his life again.

Broussard's eyes grew large. "We'll be out in the open. Anyone will be able to see us."

"So what?" Walters replied. "If Hillerman or Brady asks, we just pretend that we just met them, which will be the truth."

"You think our bank accounts are monitored?" Powell asked. "I mean, all of us withdrawing the same amount of money at the same time? That's sure to raise a big flag."

Bautista was thinking. "If we just make one withdrawal, it won't be noticed as much."

"One withdrawal?" Broussard asked. "For maybe up to one hundred thousand dollars? Nobody has that kind of money."

Bautista did something that he rarely did. He smiled. "I've got that kind of money,"

"Since when?" Powell asked.

"I don't need a sports car or a closet full of Italian suits. I save my money." He pulled at his own mustache hairs. "I make the withdrawal and you guys reimburse me on the other side. And all I'm asking is fifteen percent interest."

"That's pretty generous," Walters began, "but I have to be honest and say that I don't have any leads on potential buyers lined up for DAT ... yet. It will happen, but it might take a while."

Bautista shrugged. "I ain't going anywhere."

"Even one withdrawal this size is going to raise flags," Powell said. "They're going to ask what you're using it for."

"And I'll tell 'em that I'm making a donation to Pastor Walsh's church. The dude was legit, and I want to see his ministry stay strong."

Everyone had been impressed with the pastor from Texas, and with Bautista widely known for being an occasionally observant Catholic, the lie would have real traction.

Walters clapped his hands together. "All right! I believe the show is about to go on!"

Bautista held up a hand. "I'm going to want signed IOUs from everybody first."

"Let's cross that bridge if we come to it," Walters replied hastily.

"Now. I know you, Van. You'll try and double-deal me!"

Walters swelled with anger. "One: you don't know me, and two, I don't cheat people ... anymore," he added hastily. "I'm not putting my signature on anything until you hand over the money."

"The hell you will!"

Broussard had heard enough. "Be quiet!" He squared his shoulders and fastened his attention upon each man, one by one. "This is the plan. We can make adjustments as we go. But for now, you're either in or out. If you're in, quit your crabbing. If you're out, there's the door."

Powell looked offended. "Who put you in charge?"

Broussard threw him a look of naked anger. And Bautista would not relent. "This is a boneheaded idea anyway, and everybody knows it."

Walters's face colored. "It's better than what you came up with, which was nothing!"

The technician continued. "Van, your problem is you think you're smarter than everybody. But they locked your ass up just as fast as they did mine."

Walters's eyes flashed. "Well, at least I was intelligent enough to not leave a trail of bloody corpses behind me."

Bautista once again allowed his baser emotions to overwhelm him, and he flew at Walters like a wild animal. Fortunately, Powell and Broussard caught him before he reached the scientist.

"Behave!" Broussard bellowed at his friend. He and Powell flung the smaller man onto the room's plump sofa and pinned him facedown to the cushions with their arms and legs.

As Bautista struggled to free himself, Broussard looked back at Walters, his face full of hot colors. "That was wrong," he hissed.

Walters took a confident step forward, hands on hips. "I'm not afraid of you, Neal. I never was."

Broussard released the pressure that he had been placing on the back of Bautista's neck and straightened up. However, Powell knew better than to let Bautista go just yet, and he kept his knee firmly planted into his backside.

Broussard tugged on his shirt's cuffs. "Van, I was speaking to you as a friend."

Walters seemed prepared to fire up a retort, then apparently changed his mind, and merely shrugged his shoulders. "He mouths off too much."

A muffled string of invectives came hurtling from the sofa. "Kiss my ass, prick!"

"Case in point."

Broussard turned wearily to his friend from Lincoln Hills. "Shut up, Mike."

Powell finally let Bautista go. "Van, even if we have our documents, how are we going to get out of here? If Hillerman or Brady don't catch us, it'll be those Rangers."

Broussard agreed. "We're going to need some kind of diversion. Any ideas?"

Powell raised his hand. "A suggestion, really. Let's let this unfold on its own. If we get a chance to leave tomorrow, fine. We split up and meet up at the Dutch embassy in Quebec in one week. If we don't, then we wait for the next opportunity. The timing's got to be right. So let's take it as slow as we can."

The men thought about his words. They made sense. The mood turned positive. Even Walters nodded in assent. "Sounds good." For the first time since the four men had met back in Nevada, Walters appeared to be content not having the big idea.

"But, if it is a go tomorrow, throw away your smart phones and your computers. And don't call anybody until we make contact in Quebec—"

Bautista interrupted him. "What's the point? They implanted us with RFIDs back in Nevada."

Walters slapped his protest down. "Urban legend."

Broussard looked at each of his co-workers in the eyes. "So we're doing this?"

Everyone nodded.

"Then we've got to maintain the status quo," he said. "I'm calling the dress theme for tonight. Seventies Disco."

"Not bad," Walters said.

Bautista and Powell concurred with "Cool."

"And I'll ask Tara or Derek to do the shopping for us."

After the others had left, Broussard called Tara and asked if she wouldn't mind doing some clothes shopping for them, and he related the quartet's tradition of dressing alike to encourage team building. "I noticed a couple of vintage secondhand boutiques this morning that might carry what we want." Tara was surprisingly thrilled at the offer. "I could really use the break." She whispered into the phone, "I love these little guys, but they're beginning to drive me nuts."

Broussard laughed. "That's what DATs do best. You're going to need some money. Can you come down to my room in about ten minutes?"

Her manner became brusque. "I'll get it from Allan." It took him a moment to realize that the line had gone dead.

"All right," Broussard told the thin air. He resumed his research on the computer until it was time to meet the others down at the pub. As he was changing shirts, Tara called.

"Open your door," she told him.

"What?"

"Open your front door." The line went dead again.

Broussard opened the door to find five paper bags stuffed with clothing and shoes.

He carried the items in and placed them inside his closet. Then he tried to call Tara back to thank her, but the call immediately went to voicemail.

Two hours later found them in the hotel's sole pub, the Henry Every, surreptitiously scouting the crowded room for their two contacts. After several false starts with random customers who appeared unwholesome enough to be underworld criminals, Walters suggested that they order drinks and wait. The men casually strolled over to the oversized mahogany bar and ordered Budweisers. Seated three bar stools down was a young man dressed in full pirate regalia: three-cornered captain's hat, tall boots, a leather duster, an eye-patch and what appeared to be a sheathed sword. A spry squirrel monkey balanced on his shoulders and worried his long hair. A young woman in business attire sat next to the pirate. She had ghostly white skin, with shocking mint-green eyes and a forest of auburn ringlets piled high about her slender shoulders, and was eyeing them with more than casual curiosity. Walters nodded in her direction. She slowly returned the gesture, then stood up, walked over, and extended her hand in greeting. "Hello. Mr. Walters, is it?" The woman was wearing a fitted shirt that hugged her very large breasts. A short skirt was cinched about her slim waist by a broad leather belt. Her legs were muscular yet shapely, and if she were to spin by one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, Walters, Broussard, Powell, and Bautista were all secretly certain that a pert, round bottom would be revealed to them.

He politely shook her hand. "Yes!" He indicated the others. "And these are my associates."

The woman shook hands with each man. "Thank you for coming. Are you enjoying your time in our fair city?"

"Quite," Walters answered. "Why don't you grab your drink and we can tell you all about it?"

"Of course. One moment, please."

The woman turned around and walked back to her stool. The Lincoln Hills Boys watched her intently, each privately noting that her bottom was somewhat flat and on the wide side. The woman grabbed her drink and then bent down to whisper something into the ear of the man dressed in pirate gear. The two exchanged a few words. The pirate then got on his feet with the aid of a gold-tipped cane, tipped the monkey into a large slash pocket in his jacket, and escorted the woman back to where the engineers were waiting. "Hello!" he said effusively. "My partner tells me that you might be looking to purchase some Tupperware."

Walters immediately became suspicious. "Who are you?"

The pirate swept his cornered hat from his brow and placed it over his chest. "My name is Kato, and this is my business partner, the winsome lady Juliana."

Juliana smiled at them.

The engineers stood mutely, hands at their sides.

He took a step closer towards Walters and whispered, "You are Mr. Walters, are you not?"

"I am."

"And you are hoping to buy Tupperware for your trip to Canada, are you not?"

"We are."

"Then I believe that my partner and I can accommodate you. We have some of the finest Tupperware products in the world ... all manufactured right here in America!"

Broussard was staring hard at the pirate. "Have we met before?"

The man seemed a bit startled by the question. "No."

"You look familiar."

"Is that so?"

Walters stepped in. "Let's get a booth so that we can have some privacy." He began to herd everyone towards a large empty booth towards the back of the pub. From the stilted movements and occasional winces of pain, it was obvious that Kato the Pirate had suffered his fair share of hard times. No doubt the pirate costume allowed him to believe himself a sort of modern-day, swashbuckling privateer knifing through the high seas of high-octane capitalism instead of the broken, post-apocalyptic petty criminal that he obviously was.

As soon as everyone was seated, Kato freed the monkey from his pocket and placed the small beast on the table. Juliana pulled a small bag of peanuts from her purse and began to feed him.

"Kato, what's the monkey's name?" Powell asked.

"The Green Hornet, of course!" The pirate opened his mouth wide and guffawed, exposing two rows of chipped and stained teeth. "Honestly, I have no idea. I only stole him yesterday." He scratched the tiny head, and the monkey chirped with pleasure. "But we'll come up with something soon."

The congenial mood soured. Broussard, Powell, and Bautista glared at Walters in unison. The scientist pretended not to notice.

A rather portly waitress waddled over carrying snack menus. "The ice cream is hand churned, and the apple pie is baked fresh on the premises."

The engineers ordered slices of cake and pie, while Kato and Juliana settled on Arabian coffees. After the waitress had finished taking their orders, she acquired a stern look and addressed the monkey. "We don't serve pirates in here. After he's finished his drink, you'll have to take him outside."

Kato expressed mock offense. "Madame, I am this proud ape's faithful manservant. Where he goes, I am duty bound to follow."

The waitress could not help but smile. "All right then," she said, and then waggled a fat finger in the monkey's face. "But if he pees on anything, you're going to have to clean it up!"

That broke the ice, and soon everyone was offering their own funny take on the monkey-manservant storyline. After the waitress returned with their food and drinks, they group got down to business.

Juliana pulled out a stenographer's notepad and a pen. "Gentlemen, our deluxe Tupperware kit runs one thousand dollars. Half of that is due tonight; the other half upon receipt of the merchandise tomorrow morning."

Powell was dubious. "You'll have the kits ready by tomorrow morning? That isn't a lot of time to come up with something that's grade."

Kato responded, "We work very hard and very fast."

"And very cheap," Powell added. "One thousand dollars?"

The pirate tilted his head back and cackled, exposing those dreadful teeth again. "Money is still money. A single dollar bill is quite potent even in a world gone mad," he said. "Light is discrete—it comes in little bitty packets of energy, yes?"

"You're talking about photons," Powell replied. "Light also has wave characteristics—"

"—Yet the components and strengths of that light remain constant. Light is the absence of darkness. That makes it the most powerful weapon in the universe."

"So—"

"Think of a dollar bill as a discrete entity, like a photon of light. Then magnify that by one thousand. Now you're possessing great power." He grinned. "Earth-changing power."

Powell smiled indulgently and turned his attention back to his apple pie. The men were growing agitated and restless.

Bautista put his fork down. "Okay, we get it. Crazy is the new black now."

Kato shrugged his shoulders. "I would say that 'coping' is the new black now. The world is moving into unchartered territory."

Bautista sniffed the air. "Smells like the same old bullshit to me."

The pirate shrugged again and tickled the monkey's belly.

Bautista watched the pirate and the monkey play for a few seconds before blurting out, "Seriously, man. How long you been off the rails?"

Kato stopped tickling the monkey. "Longer than I've been on them."

"For sure."

The pirate nodded agreeably. "For sure."

Juliana stirred. "That was a rather rude question," she said.

Powell's eyes glinted at her. "It was. I'm sure my associate here is sorry about that. But, honestly, if we're going to pay good money for your services, he's entitled to ask it."

"We're professionals," she said, her tone now a few degrees cooler than it had been when they'd first met. "We can deliver."

"Let's hope so," he replied. They exchanged frosty glares.

Juliana turned to Walters. "I'll have my assistant deliver them to your room no later than 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. And don't worry. She'll be undercover. Will that work?"

"I think so," he answered. "We aren't leaving town until tomorrow afternoon."

"Good," she said, smiling now. She pushed her writing tablet and pen to Walters. "I'd like each of you to write down the exact information that you want your kits to have: full name, age, date of birth, social security numbers, height, weight, and so on. You can fudge on everything except your ages and your physical features. Understood?"

The men nodded as Walters took the pen and began writing.

"We'll need a reference," Broussard said.

"You can't be serious," Juliana replied.

"Samples of the product then?" he said.

The woman looked at Kato. "What do you think?"

She and Kato began to converse in urgent whispers.

Bautista nudged Broussard. "At least she didn't ask the monkey."

"Okay. We'll have samples for you tonight. "

When everyone was finished writing, she briefly read over the data and then put the pad back into her purse. "It looks fairly straightforward. Let's meet tonight at the party. You can give us the down payment and we'll provide the samples."

"Party? Which party?" Walters asked.

"The Hodges's party."

Walters looked confused. "I'm confused. How did you know about that?"

Juliana deferred to Kato.

"The Underground News also has a society page," Kato replied airily. He swept the tiny monkey into his arms and kissed it on the forehead. "And we love a good party." He cooed into the furry little ears. "Don't we, baby?"

"One more thing," Juliana said. "If the police get wind of this, we'll all be arrested. So, please tell no one about our transaction today. Ever."

All four men nodded.

"Then we're done. It was a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen."

The men finished their food, said their good-byes, and headed for the lobby. As they were waiting by the elevator bank for a lift to take them back up to their rooms, Bautista beckoned the others in close.

"I know where we seen that guy before. That's one of those MPs. Stavros. He was with Hillerman and Brady when they sprung us out of Lincoln Hills."

Broussard thought about it for a moment before saying, "I think you're right."

The mild jolts of pleasurable adrenaline that had been pulsing through their bodies in anticipation of soon being truly free men abruptly stopped.

"Jesus H. Christ," Powell said, not bothering to hide his despair.

Only Walters seemed undefeated. "We go forward with the plan."

Their elevator arrived and left without them.

"No," Powell said with clenched teeth. "We're done here."

Walters placed a steadying hand on Powell's arm. "No," he said emphatically. "If it's a trap, so what?" His voice was low but forceful. "We're criminals. We're supposed to try an escape. Besides, what can they do? Arrest us again?"

"They can kick us off the DAT project," Broussard said.

"Once they get the bugs worked out—and they will—they're going to kick us off DAT anyway. And if you think that Fields is going to put any of us in the Archangel unit, then I've got some property in California that I want to sell you."

Bautista appeared to be genuinely perplexed. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," Walters answered. "And at this point, I don't want to know. Maybe it's the same guy, maybe it isn't. If it is, something's gone wrong in his head. That makes sense, because things are going wrong in a lot of heads in this town."

"So, you don't believe that he's working for Hillerman ... or Brady?" Broussard asked.

"I do not. I believe that he's freelancing. Why? You'd have to ask him."

"Van, you're missing the bigger issue here," Powell said. "If we recognized him, then he recognized us."

Walters held up his hands. "Maybe. But, I've got one answer for you: Armstrong's equation."

"Which is what exactly?"

"Risk plus reward equals goal."

Broussard hung his head and crossed his arms. "Van, this stinks from every angle and you know it. But you're so desperate to get to Canada that you're willing to wrap it up and put it under your pillow—"

Walters gave Broussard a look that was almost feral. "You were right about one thing, Neal. This is my plan. If you don't like it, walk away."

Another elevator arrived and Walters quickly stepped on board, leaving the others to ponder their next move.

Later that evening, Walters, Broussard, Bautista, and Powell waited in the lobby with the rest of the team. Chang had called to say that he would be down within fifteen minutes.

As they waited for him, the men sipped sodas and furtively checked out the various women roaming the area. Bell-bottom jeans and sequined halter tops were ruling the evening.

Powell grimaced.

"What's wrong?" Tara asked him.

"These damn shoes are killing me."

Bautista looked his way. "Yeah? With guns or knives?"

Walters clucked his tongue. "Mike, you might want to update your joke repertoire. That joke is sixty years old."

Bautista grinned. "Then I'm right on time."

Kuiper, Kwolski, and Roger had rented tuxedoes for the evening.

"I've never been in a monkey suit," Derek said, relaxing comfortably in a pair of denims and Converse tennis shoes.

"Have you ever been in a suit?" Powell asked.

"Once or twice. But it was against my considerable will."

"Where's Z?" Broussard asked Kwolski.

"He and Herschel are babysitting." He pulled out a pocket video camera. "I'm filming the festivities for them."

Broussard nodded. "They'll appreciate that."

Kwolski turned the camera on. "I might as well get started now." He went around the lobby and got random shots of various team members.

Chang finally showed up. The boss was obviously dressed to impress Dina's East Coast crowd. He had donned the preppy professor look, complete with a new tweed jacket with elbow patches, a cashmere sweater over a cotton shirt and tie, and brown corduroy pants. He was finally dressing like the highly esteemed doctor of science that he was.

He looked his fellow engineers up and down and sniffed disdainfully. "Let me guess. Revenge of the Nerds Night?"

Bautista squared his padded shoulders. "More like Players' Night."

Chang coughed. "Well, men need to dream."

Powell flipped his collar tips. "Actually, we're still working the boy band angle. Just in case the engineering gigs don't work out."

"Got it. Well, let's go." The engineers fell in line behind him. "Dina and Fields are waiting outside."

Walters stopped in his tracks. "Fields? Who invited him?"

Chang shrugged. "Dina, I guess."

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"The guy's a prick," Walters answered. "That's what's wrong."

Bautista patted Walters's arm. "Come on, man. Let's just enjoy the evening."

Walters jerked his arm away.

Outside the hotel the city was bustling with nightlife. A short rainy spell had cleared out some of the thick haze and given the clean streets a coating of high-gloss polish. Sturdy men with gilded women on their arms stepped through the moving maze of horse-drawn carriages and luxe motor coaches with cursive grace. Unfortunately, the place still harbored a rank smell; tonight it was playing host to an eclectic blend of lavender and gunpowder.

Hillerman and Brady stood waiting beside a long limousine. Inside, a bejeweled Dina Hodges sat, smiling vaguely at nothing in particular and stroking her hair.

Fields was standing next to the hotel's doorman. He was having a lively conversation on his cell phone. Chang espied him and the two men waved at each other. Fields finished up and then strolled over. "Good evening, gents."

Everyone responded with hearty hellos. Except for Walters. "You here to keep an eye on us?"

Fields's first response was puzzlement and then aggravation. "Actually, I was hoping to have a nice time out tonight. Silly me."

Walters smirked at him. "Among other adjectives."

Sensing some potential drama, Kwolski surreptitiously aimed his camera at the scene.

Broussard placed a hand on the scientist's shoulder. "What's wrong with you, Van?"

"Nothing," he snapped. "I just don't appreciate people sticking their noses in my business."

Fields looked from Walters to Chang and then back to Walters. "I give up. What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't want us talking to anyone tonight, do you?"

"Talking to whom about what?"

"Talking to any of Dina's 'friends' about the MIT. Because in case you didn't know, the MIT is our baby. Not yours!"

Chang turned red. "Van, this is not responsible. We can discuss this at a later time."

Walter's eyes flashed angrily. "Once they test out the DAT, they're going to lock us all up and throw away the keys! We don't have a 'later time,' Allan."

Chang sighed. "Van, this is your paranoia talking."

Walters screamed at him from the tops of his lungs. "I'M NOT FUCKING PARANOID!!!"

Fields motioned for Walters, Bautista, Powell, and Broussard to step out of earshot of the other hotel guests. "I want you all to hear this." They gathered around. "Get hip to this fact: You cannot negotiate the MIT or the DAT with anyone without DARPA. Not you." He stabbed a finger at Walters. "Not you." He turned the finger on Broussard. "And not you." His finger speared both Powell and Bautista. "And if you try, you will forfeit everything. Everything. Understood?"

That made Walters even madder. "You are violating our civil rights," he hissed.

"Nonsense. You gave those up when you became wards of the state."

"This is illegal!"

Fields cocked his head to one side. "Ironic words coming from the likes of you."

Walters was breathing hard. "You won't think they're so ironic after I file an injunction and stop production on the DAT!"

Fields became livid. "An injunction? Really? On what grounds?"

Walters sniggered. "Don't worry about it. You'll find out soon enough."

Broussard grabbed Walters by the arm and hissed at him. "Van, will you shut up?"

Walters pushed him away. "That's our sweat and blood in them. We created the MITs and we created the DATs. All you do is shake your fat ass for Voode!"

Fields's head angled downward. "Mr. Walters, you are a provocateur and a fool. As I'll only suffer one of the two, I'd tread very lightly if I were you."

That enraged Walters even more. "Is that a threat?"

"No. It's a statement of fact."

"You can't threaten me, Fields! You're not even an American citizen!"

"I was born in Brooklyn. I've not only got the citizenship, but I've got the bad attitude that goes along with it. So let me put this in the proper vernacular so that you'll get my point: You are fucking with the wrong motherfucker!"

A police siren began to holler in the distance.

Walters's eyes flashed. "You don't scare me! Back at Lincoln, I ate pukes like you for breakfast. If we weren't in mixed company, I'd flatten you right now."

Hillerman tapped his temple with his index finger, and two MPs stepped out of the shadows, looking serious.

"Well, that's America now, isn't it? A nation of spoiled brats, full of piss and vinegar and little else!"

Chang wearily tried to get in between the two frothing men. "Gentlemen, please. Can we settle this another time?"

Walters stepped around his manager to confront Fields. "You've got nothing, Fields!" Spittle sprayed the Englishman's face.

"Oh, yeah?" Fields landed a vicious kick to the middle of Walters's right leg, which promptly buckled. Walters's eyes rolled up in the back of his head from the pain. As the computer scientist's body flailed around, reflexively trying to regain its balance, Fields leaped directly in front of him and grabbed Walters's head from below with both arms and jerked it up in a guillotine lock.

"NO!" Dina zoomed into the brawl at top speed. "FREDERICK, PLEASE STOP!"

In a rare display of bipartisanship, Powell gleefully elbowed Bautista. "Wow, Fields is going to choke him out!" A real yard fight! The two men could not believe their good fortune.

Chang intervened again, this time using his brute force. "STOP IT! YOU'LL KILL HIM! LET HIM GO!"

But Fields held on. "You had enough?" he asked, knowing full well that Walters could not have answered him even if he tried. Fields gave one final twist on Walters's windpipe before breaking off.

Fields wiped Walters's slobber on his pants leg. "Next time I don't let go."

Hillerman and Brady hustled Fields into Dina's waiting limousine. Powell, Walters, Broussard, and Bautista were shoved into another. Dina opened her door and hurried over to the second car. "Lieutenant, can Neal ride with us? We'll take responsibility for him."

Brady nodded and escorted Broussard to Dina's waiting limousine. "Be good," he told the engineer.

As soon as the car pulled away, Fields pulled out his phone pad, pressed a few buttons, and connected to someone who had the security clearance to hear him bellyache in detail about Walters and his legal injunction. Dina sat as far away from him as possible. Broussard noticed but did not let on. There was obviously no love lost there. It was also patently obvious to him that Dina had invited him to ride with them so that she wouldn't be alone with Fields.

"Neal, I believe that you're going to have fun tonight," she said brightly.

"Hope so," he answered with as much gaiety as he could muster. He tried to block out Fields's one-sided conversation and wondered why it was happening right in front of him. At this point, he was a firsthand eyewitness. A few unpleasant scenarios ran through his mind, none of them in his favor. It might be best to go on the offense.

He started slowly. "Allan told me a wild story about Connie. Something about a priest going along with her visits to the hospices."

"Yes?"

"Well, is it true?"

Dina fiddled with her ponytail. "Neal, Connie was very dedicated to the MIT program. She desperately wanted us to get it right the first time, because she knew there might not be a second time."

"So she gets the Vatican involved? Dina, this doesn't make any sense."

"Neal, there are many levels to what we're doing here. I don't expect you to understand them all."

"Why? Because I'm still a prisoner?"

"Because you're an engineer. Look, I know how you think. If something can't be proven with numbers, then it doesn't exist."

"Are you telling me that you went along with this?"

She didn't respond. Fields was off the phone now and staring moodily out his window.

Broussard placed imaginary hands on his hips. "I can't believe it. It's voodoo engineering all over again."

Dina's eyes darted sideways in annoyance. "I can assure you that no tomfoolery was involved."

"No, just a bunch of cult bullshit." He scowled up at the car's elegantly padded ceiling. That was a custom job and it had surely cost a small fortune. He marveled at the workmanship. Just how rich was Beau Hodges?

Broussard leaned back dramatically into the seat's buttery soft leather. "How are we ever going to present any of our papers to any reputable review board with a papal benediction listed in our methodology?"

"Why don't you just leave that part out?" she shot back.

"Oh! You think? Jesus Christ! You're as crazy as Chang is!" They both remained in furious silence for about ten blocks. Finally he said, "I'm sorry. That was crass."

Dina did not look at him. "Yes, it was."

"It's just that I guess I'm surprised ... and a little disappointed."

His old friend was extremely offended. "In me?"

He sighed, bone weary from this strange second act of his life. "In everyone. Including myself."

Dina sniffed. "Makes sense to me."

Broussard did not speak to her for the rest of the ride.

Half an hour later, the earlier tensions of the evening had been put on the backburner and everyone was enjoying themselves at Beau and Dina's opulent residence. The Hodges occupied the penthouse apartment that crowned the top of the tony Benjamin Building, a gleaming brown tower that shot fifty stories into Chicago's storied skyline.

The Hodges's cloud palace was a wonder to behold. Seven-meter high walls partitioned cavernous hallways. Flamboyant rooms seemed to go on forever. In the split-level living room, tinted floor-to-ceiling Star Fire glass replaced entire wall sections, offering viewers a spectacular 180-degree view of Chicago and the lake. French doors with mahogany trim led to the private terrace. It was there that most of the guests had gravitated, taking full advantage of the ornamental gardens, the Italian stone bridge overlooking the infinity pool, and the outsized sectional couch ensemble that lazed half a meter below deck level like a river of decadent comfort. There was even a small menagerie of exotic birds, happy enough to sing and preen without provocation. Two standard poodles, one white and white black, lounged elegantly on the floor in front of a lit fireplace. Persian kittens played amongst their paws.

Bautista caught the eye of a pretty girl and winked. When she acknowledged him with a tiny wave, he recoiled in astonishment.

Roger giggled. "Goyles! Goyles! Goyles!"

Four waiters hurried over with trays of sparkling wine and fancy hors d'œuvres. The team loaded up on both.

Derek crammed a stuffed crab puff into his mouth. "When I die I want to be buried here."

Walters massaged his bruised throat and sniffed. "It's a bit gauche; having money doesn't necessarily mean you have good taste."

"I don't know," Tara said, standing close to Powell. "I think I could live with this."

"Yoo-hoo! Guys!" Dina flounced over with Chang and another unknown party guest in tow. "Welcome to my humble abode!"

"'Humble' it ain't," Walters replied testily.

She ignored him and took hold of Powell's arm. "Allan and I have a surprise for our favorite engineers."

"Oh?"

She led them into a tall, long room swathed in red drapes. A jazz quartet was performing on a tiny stage before a large but nearly silent audience while blue puffs of marijuana smoke went up from each table like smoke signals. Other than the music, the only sounds were the occasional screeching of chair legs against bare floor. The mood was very subdued.

The band wrapped up their song, and the lead singer attempted to snap the audience out of their stupor.

"All right, guys and gals. Tonight we have a special treat!" He jutted his arm out towards the engineers. "These guys are going to light the fire under your rockets and get everybody boogying! All the way from sweet home Alabama ... put your hands together for The Redstones!"

"I made up the name myself!" Dina gushed. "Do you like it?"

The men were flabbergasted.

"Are you kidding me?" Walters asked.

"Don't be coy," she said. "I know you all play. I heard you back in Nevada. You're good! And I think that people should see just how talented you really are!"

"What are you talking about?" Walters seemed genuinely flustered, but Broussard did not need to be asked twice. He hopped up onto the stage and grabbed the microphone and electric guitar from the bandleader

"Thank you! Thank you! It's great to be here tonight in Chicago—the most awesome city in the world!"

Those rousing words forced the crowd to regain consciousness.

"Right now I'd like to bring up the rest of the band—" He motioned for the others to come up. Walters was still protesting, but he allowed Powell and Bautista to guide him onto the stage. "—and show you the new West Coast Get Down!"

Walters replaced the keyboard player, Bautista sat down at the drum set and Powell took over the electric bass. Broussard shouted over his shoulder at the others, "Prime set!" He began the countdown. "A-one. A-two. A-one-two-three-four."

They launched into the instrumental intro of the Eagles' "Hotel California," and the audience immediately got to its feet. Pure, human energy sprang to life in every corner of the room and flowed outward, encircling them. Their countenances lifted. The weed was temporarily forgotten. Broussard began to softly sing:

On a dark, desert highway,

Cool wind in my hair.

Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air.

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.

My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim.

I had to stop for the night!

Two couples began to dance with slurred motions, while others held up lighters, knelt in prayer, or simply cried. At the iconic bridge of the song, Broussard and the electric guitar seemed to funnel all of the people's sincere grief at the destruction in California, while at the same time lifting up its collective hope for its speedy resurrection. Several individuals, male and female, crowded the stage now, holding their arms up high as if in the grips of a spiritual revival. The high emotions continued to race around the room as the band drew the song to a unique, climactic close.

Broussard let the audience scream and shout their approval for a while. And then he slipped the band into a bass-thumping rendition of "The Power of Love" by Huey Lewis and the News, and the audience went wild. The set ended on the love ballad "I Still Believe in You" by Vince Gill. Afterwards, they received a minute-long standing ovation and hateful looks from the hired band.

Right before they exited the stage, a pair of lace panties flew at them and hit Broussard squarely in the face. He held them up for all to see. "The best souvenir yet! Thank you, ma'am!"

The Lincoln Hills engineers, flush from their successful foray into rock stardom, headed for the nearest bar with the rest of the team in tow.

Roger led a toast to them. "Not bad. But I wouldn't quit your day jobs!"

Everyone laughed.

Someone moving too fast for the amount of free space in the room bumped Walters's arm, causing him to spill his drink all over his sports jacket. "Hey!"

The person did not stop but kept going at full speed, straight for the elevator. Loud, excited talk wafted in through the French doors that led to the rooftop garden. A knot of glamorous women with big hair, obviously curious, made their way towards the commotion.

"Do we have a celebrity here?" Roger asked, twisting around to get a better look outside.

Powell plucked another glass of bubbly from a passing tray. "It wouldn't surprise me. Everybody's here. Best party ever!"

Fields said, "You sang that song with a lot of heart."

Dina sliced into the conversation before Broussard had a chance to respond. "Van, Neal, and Mike are all originally from California." She was holding a flute of sparkling wine, and she swirled it about with one bejeweled hand. "We acquired their talents via California's professional prisoner program."

Fields's eyebrows arched. "No doubt for a tidy sum."

"Worth every penny. There's no doubt in my mind that none of us would be standing here today if it weren't for the Boys from Lincoln Hills."

And then she abruptly stopped talking, as if she had just realized that she might have said too much. She tried to deflect the pressure wave from her faux pas by winking at the men from Lincoln Hills and thrusting her bosom at Fields. "These are some of the most brilliant men I've ever had the pleasure to meet." No one said anything. Walters's eyes were drilling into her skull. "I don't understand," he began slowly and deliberately. "Your husband has no financial interests in the MIT or the DAT, right?"

Dina flicked her ponytail. "Of course not," she said, her voice just a skosh higher than usual. "The MIT was my baby. But Beau has always supported my work with the PPP. And, yes, at times that meant financial support, too." Her eyes dipped with mild disdain. "I would imagine that you of all people would have figured that out." Her voice and posture were sugarplum sweet, but there was a visible edge to her now, and it was both surprising and unbecoming.

She linked her free arm with one of Fields's, and the two strode away with a group of foxily dressed hangers-on trailing behind them.

Bautista was horrified. "Holy shit. Dina's a bitch!"

"And she just all but confirmed what I've been saying: She and Beau own the DAT technology now. And they're getting ready to sell it right from underneath our noses." He turned to the others. "Do you get it now?"

Broussard's jaws were tightening. "Yeah, I get it. We're about to get royally screwed."

"Not if we line up a buyer first!" Walters appeared ready to open the nearest window and jump to Canada. Just then Walters's cell phone buzzed. He took the call and read the message. "Juliana's here. She wants me to meet her by the elevator."

Bautista pulled a plain white envelope out of his pants pocket and handed it over to Walters. It contained two thousand dollars. Walters stuffed it into his own pocket.

"I'll ping you after we make the exchange." Walters slipped away.

A server came around with a fresh round of drinks. The men received the drinks out of politeness but did not drink.

"I wish they'd bring us some orange juice instead of all this alcohol," Powell grumbled.

"They had a cooler of 'em stashed near the stage," Bautista said.

Broussard set his drink down. "Well, I'm thirsty. Who's coming?"

The three of them set out for the orange juice. It wasn't easy. People were pouring into the main hallway from all points in the penthouse, and it was quickly clogging with moist, perfumed flesh. They pushed and shoved their way back to the ballroom like salmon swimming upstream. After a minute of suffocating labor, they finally popped out on the other side.

Bautista led them to where the cooler still sat. He flipped open the lid. "Let's see what we got here ... "

As the men rummaged through the treasure chest of refreshments, they failed to notice four figures coming up from behind.

"Hi!"

The engineers whirled around guiltily, Bautista slamming the cooler shut along the way.

"Hello, there!" Broussard replied.

Four women, as tall and slender as runway models, stood before them.

"They've got the fresh-squeezed stuff in the kitchen," one of them said helpfully. "Just ask one of the attendants."

"All right," Broussard responded.

It was then that the women came into focus. They were young, probably in their early thirties. Two brunettes and two blondes. Each of them easily stood at almost two meters tall, and they were all absolutely gorgeous.

Logic failed Powell. "You—you are women."

The women smiled. One of the brunettes replied, "Yes, sir." Her eyes flicked to Broussard. "We saw you perform. You were awesome!"

Broussard remained mute and unmoving as a cavalcade of hormones marched through his nervous system.

"Are you supermodels or something?" Powell asked.

The women giggled in soft, tinkly voices. "No, sir," the same brunette replied. "We work with power plants."

"What, like medicinal herbs?"

Out came the soft, tinkly giggles again. "No, sir. Power plants for vehicles. We're propulsion engineers."

Powell spread his arms wide. "Hah! You've got to be joking!"

"No, sir."

Powell was grinning from ear to ear. "Frigging incredible!" He smacked his lips. "So, you design engines for cars? Lawn mowers?"

"Spacecraft."

Powell almost choked on his own drool. "You mean that you're all literally rocket scientists?"

There were more tee-hees. "Yes, sir."

Broussard finally found his tongue. "Those are the hot slots these days, aren't they?"

The women nodded in unison.

"I'll bet you're working on something exotic ... like synthetic fission." He had read about that idea in a recent Popular Mechanics article.

"No," the shorter of the blondes answered. "We dropped that lead three years ago."

Broussard tried hard to not look like a fool. "Well, of course you did! It really was quite silly!"

The young lovely nodded and smiled. "We're looking at some of the heavy metals now. A couple of them are showing promise in certain areas."

Broussard's eyebrows lifted. "Really?" He dickered his head up and down a bit, as if he were trying to mentally chase down every possible scenario where a heavy metal could be the hero of a cutting-edge spaceship engine design. "Yes, well ... you are certainly beautiful." He had not meant to say that. "Uh, I mean that is certainly interesting!"

The woman cocked her perfectly coifed head and said, "Aww! That's sweet!" She checked her wristwatch. "I think they're about to serve dinner. We'd love to have y'all join us!"

She was breathtakingly pretty and shapely in a subtle way. Broussard's eyes mutinied and rolled around her assets. Mortified, he yanked them back into their proper position. "Sorry. It's been a long ... day."

"And I bet y'all are pretty hungry!" she said.

Broussard tried to side step the double entendre of the words now bubbling at his lips, but he could not. "Yes. We are very hungry." The words hung in the air for a few excruciating moments.

The women clapped their hands together. "Yay! So are we!" She then turned to her colleagues. "Remember, only nibbles tonight! We're sticking to our diet no matter what!"

They threw their arms around each other in what was probably the girl equivalent of a football huddle. They then broke. One of the brunettes said, "Beau throws the best parties! We'll show you the good stuff!"

Both Powell and Broussard looked ready to faint. The four women expertly spun around on their stiletto heels until they were facing the opposite direction. "Let's go!"

Bautista gave a thumbs-up to Broussard and Powell and shouted, "Ladies, lead the way!"

On the way to the dining hall, the men learned the names of their new friends. The two brunettes were Ann-Something and Brianna Fudge? And the other two were named Mary and Liz. All four of them were from Austin, Texas, and each had been hand-picked by Beau Hodges to work in Applied Physics' Space Development division. At the moment, the ladies were serving as charming icebreakers, politely cutting through the waves of party-goers swarming towards the center of the hall.

After a few more gracious pushes and shoves, the crowd broke and the group found itself standing before a series of long wooden tables, each laden with enough food to make a body swoon.

Mary turned to the men. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"

The men were momentarily speechless.

Liz was handing out plates. "Grab a knife and fork and dig in!"

The men didn't wait to be asked twice. They descended upon the feast with great gusto. When Bautista speared a piece of prime rib steak and held it aloft like a trophy, Broussard and Powell cheered.

Bautista slammed it down onto his plate. "After I'm finished with this one, I'm grabbing one of those turkey legs!"

Broussard was grinning. "Mike, I think your eyes are bigger than your stomach!"

Powell was steadily heaping ham, chicken, gravy, and mashed potatoes onto his own plate. "I don't know, Neal! I think Mike has the right idea! This is a once-in-a-lifetime event! Better make the most of it!"

There was a small commotion, some pushing and harsh language, and then Walters was suddenly standing before them. He looked unhappy. Extremely unhappy.

"The deal is off," he said miserably.

Powell looked like someone had just punched him. "What?"

"Juliana was talking crazy. Saying that she thought we might be snitches for the Chicago police and that Kato was thinking about putting a hit on us."

Broussard's jaw dropped. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing!" he said. "She's a paranoid psycho. They both are." He had the money envelope out. "Here." He thrust it back into Bautista's hands. "All of this work. For nothing!"

The men excused themselves from the women and adjourned in a quiet corner.

"You think she's serious?" Powell asked. "About Kato putting a hit on us?"

Walters was glaring at the ceiling. "The man thinks he's a pirate. Who knows what he's capable of!"

"Then we tell Allan," Broussard said. "He'll get Hillerman to cover us until we leave town."

"Tell Allan what?" Walters asked. "That we just got scammed trying to buy phony passports? You think he's going to take that news well?"

"Well, he won't like it, but, heck, they still need us. There's no way they're going to parse all of that neural code by themselves, especially with Patrik being such an ass."

"So—"

Someone yelled from the party's center of mass. "OH, MY GOD! LOOK AT THAT!"

A few people flowed towards the French doors to get a better look.

"HEY! THERE'S SOMEBODY OUT THERE! SOMEBODY'S WALKING AROUND OUT THERE!!!"

Suddenly, the entire building rocked back on its heels. Not once. But twice.

Someone yelled, "EARTHQUAKE!"

Another shouted, "It's the end of the world!"

Broussard tipped over onto Powell. "Not again!"

Bautista found himself scraping against Walters and another stranger. "Is it me or does shit just seem to follow us around?"

Then a woman screamed. "IT'S AN ALIEN!"

That's when hysteria broke out.

Uncontrolled bleating reached their ears as many people began backpedaling from the garden and towards the elevators.

"TAKE THE STAIRS!" someone shouted. "TAKE THE STAIRS!"

The building had stopped moving.

"That didn't feel like no quake," Bautista said, straightening up.

Chang looked this way and that. "What's going on?" He and Walters slowly made their way towards the glass doors leading to the garden. The others reluctantly followed.

Half the party had already relocated to the garden, making it difficult to see anything other than the backs of their heads.

"I can't see anything," Chang told them. "I'm going outside."

Chang opened the doors and led them outside. In spite of the exodus, there was a crush of bodies straining to see off the rooftop. It was suffocating.

Everyone was pointing towards the nearest building, another skyscraper perhaps sixty stories tall. It looked normal ... except for the thick ring of fire rotating around its crown.

"Shit. What now?" Bautista asked. His voice did not sound frightened, just emptied of emotion. He looked at Broussard. "You wanna get a better look?"

"I can see fine from here."

The other partygoers began to "ooh" and "ahh" at this latest wonder. The ring of fire was immense. Not only did it encircle the entire building, but it did so for nearly ten stories. The fire itself was disarmingly familiar. If one were to find himself looking up at a burner on a gas stove, he would find an almost exact replica of this ring. The only difference was that the tips of the blue and orange flames were blunted and not pointy.

Someone nearby groaned. "When is this going to end?"

The entire ring abruptly pulsed and swelled. Tongues of blue flame jetted out from the whole of its outer circumference and licked the black sky for kilometers around.

Amid the sudden cries and screams of terror and surprise, a hard blast of warm air hit first the Benjamin Building and then the penthouse garden, knocking people down as if they were bowling pins. For several incredibly scary moments, the building again shook and swayed.

And then the winds ceased and the building managed to regain its equilibrium.

Broussard raised his head to scan the scene. The arms of fire that had streaked overhead were gone. The night sky and the stars were still in place.

He rose shakily to his feet and looked out. That fire ring was still there, its slow rotation seemingly uninterrupted by its dramatic outburst. It had also shrunk back down to its original size.

Other people began to pick themselves up from the floor.

"Is this real?" Powell asked.

"I don't know," Broussard answered truthfully. Strangers began to weave in and out of his view. Some appeared to be in shook, others just plain confused.

Powell was busy dusting off his jacket. "We've been hearing about these mass hallucinations. Maybe that's what just happened."

Mass hysteria? Of course, they had all heard the same rumors and had dismissed them as nonsense. The fanciful imaginations of too many idle minds. But now. Broussard considered the possibility. "Maybe." Something caught his attention. He sniffed the air. There was a subtle hint of sulfur to it that had definitely not been there before.

A couple, a middle-aged man and woman, was talking in low, urgent tones a short distance away. The woman was obviously in some sort of mental distress, and the man was offering a few words of comfort. Light from a nearby candelabra caught her face and thick, natural blonde hair. In that soft light, she bore a striking resemblance to Connie Como. Broussard's eyes rested on her a bit longer.

"Don't worry so much," the man told her. "Everything's fine."

But as soon as the words had left his mouth, the ring erupted again and the flames rolled out over the city and beyond for kilometers, lighting up everything above and below along the way.

Another blast of light and warm wind struck the building. The building began to rock violently from side to side, tossing humans and furniture alike about like clothing in a dryer.

Broussard heard himself screaming as he was knocked off his feet. The lambent flames boiled overhead. That was when the first wave of nausea hit him.

Powell cartwheeled by, headed for the terrace's wall. Broussard could not see if he hit it or not. The beam of flame evaporated again, only this time so did the alien fire ring.

Somebody was retching their guts out right behind him.

Broussard heard a woman's voice, low and full of sorrow. "Why is God so angry with us? If we're doing something wrong, why doesn't He just tell us and maybe we can fix it?"

He looked around. It was the woman with the blonde hair. Her man bellowed loud enough for the entire garden to hear. "DAMMIT, CANDY! CAN'T YOU GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULL??? THERE _IS_ NO GOD!" People paused in their own hysterics long enough to watch them. The man reared back and brought the back of his hand down hard across the left side of her face.

Broussard heard the woman whimper, but she remained standing.

With her left eye already beginning to purple, she intoned, "That's the last time, Bobby Alpert."

He smacked her again, harder.

Another partygoer yelled at him, "Leave her alone!"

The name called Bobby Alpert then turned on that person, "THIS IS MY WIFE! IF I WANT TO THROW HER OFF THIS FUCKIN' ROOF, I WILL!"

His wife turned around and took off like a running back, scrambling over inert bodies and overturned tables towards the higher east wall of the terrace.

"CANDY! COME BACK HERE! CANDACE!!!"

Before Broussard could stop himself, he was two meters from his last position and his hands were firmly around Bobby Alpert's throat. The man was bigger, but his physical superiority was no match for Broussard's uncapped fury. Sickening gurgles escaped from his victim's mouth.

"Neal! Neal! Don't do this, man!" Bautista was suddenly at his side, trying to talk him down. But Broussard knew that he was beyond rational thinking at the moment. He had the man in a death grip and he knew it. If he could just hold on a little longer—

Powell, Bautista, and Chang yanked on his arms and wrestled him to the ground. Chang threw his heavy bulk on top of him, pinning him down. "KNOCK IT OFF, NEAL! I'M WARNING YOU!"

Broussard vainly tried to squirm out of the larger man's grasp. "Let! Me! Go!"

Chang was puffing hard. "I'll let you go, but you have to promise not to do anything stupid!"

"They killed him!" Broussard shouted at him.

Chang pressed down harder on his chest. "NEAL, GET IT TOGETHER!"

"Allan, they killed him!"

Chang grabbed Broussard by his shirt and shook him. "Neal, you're losing it. Get a grip. NOW!" He let his words sink in.

Broussard began to cry miserably. "Get off!"

"You promise to act right?"

Broussard angrily shut his eyes, refusing to look at anyone. Finally he said, "Yes."

Chang sprang to his feet. Broussard sat up. Between the dirty tears and the torn shirt, he was a mess. The lookie-loos began to melt away to attend to their own crises. Broussard scanned the crowd. "Where is she?"

"Who?" Chang asked.

"Connie!" His senses were returning to him. "No, no. The woman who was hit."

Bautista pointed east. "She's over there." He helped his friend to his feet. "But leave her alone, dude. She's somebody else's problem."

But Broussard was already pushing his way through the bystanders.

He found her at the edge of the terrace, right up against its tallest wind-breaking wall. She had neatly stacked a couple of tables on top of each other and then climbed up onto the narrow ledge, one meter above the floor. Her thick hair blew about her head almost in slow motion as she quietly looked out over Chicago.

He called up to her. "Ma'am?"

Startled, she whirled around and looked down at him. Her left eye was swollen shut, and she bled a bit from a gash on her forehead.

"Don't." It came out almost as a whisper, but judging from the change in her expression, he knew that she had heard him.

She passed a weary hand over her pale face. "Young man, I've had a difficult life. I kept waiting for things to change, but it never happened for me. And things have only gotten harder. I'm out of hope. So now I just want to be someplace else now. Because being here isn't working."

"Okay! I understand that! I've been there. Many times. You just need a friend to walk you through it."

She laughed bitterly. "Mister, if I had a friend, do you think I'd be up here?"

He took a deep breath. "Maybe your life looks pretty dark now. But if you'll just come down, maybe we could talk about it." He held out his hand.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Why are you doing this? Can't you just leave me alone? I'm not bothering anybody!"

"Ma'am—" He remembered that the man had called her Candy. "Candy, I'm sorry. I just can't leave you alone. You know that, don't you?"

She shook her head.

"Please. Come down."

She suddenly burst into tears. "I can't."

"You can! Listen, don't let that guy—don't let anybody take away your hope. He doesn't have that right."

"I've got nobody! No family. No friends. He's the only damn thing that shows up every morning. So he can do whatever the hell he pleases!" She turned back towards doom.

"Candy, that's not true! You have one other thing. Me!"

She said something but the wind picked it up and carried it away.

He began to climb the tables. "Just hang on, okay?"

But she had stopped talking, and he instinctively felt that it was a sign that she had resigned herself to whatever fate waited for her at the bottom of the Benjamin Building. When he saw her edging herself forward, he had to fight from allowing sheer panic to overtake him. Think! he told himself. She leaned forward. Think faster!

He reached a point where he was about one-half meter from her. He spoke very calmly and very deliberately so as not to aggravate her. "My name is Neal. I'm an engineer. I work for the government. In Washington. I have job, good co-workers, and I have real friends. Right now, I have almost ten thousand dollars in the bank. I'll make a deal with you, Candy. If you grab the hope you've got left and come down off that ledge right now, I'll give you half of that money. And I'll talk to my friends. I'm sure that they can help you find a place to stay until you sort your situation out."

She shifted back towards him so quickly that half of her bottom swung out into open air. She grabbed onto the ledge with both hands and pulled herself into a safer position.

"I don't believe you," she said. "No one would do that."

He smiled. "I would."

"Do you believe that my life is worth five thousand dollars?"

"Yes, I do." He pushed his hand towards her. "Come on. Take my hand."

For the first time, she smiled. "All right." She placed her hand in his. Broussard felt massive relief. I saved her. I saved a life.

As he helped her down, he noticed that they were both trembling. He led her to a stone planter and took out one of his business cards. "This has all of my info on it. Call me first thing tomorrow morning and we'll start setting things into motion. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

"No."

"No problem. Here." He took two fifties out of his wallet. "Get a room."

At first her eyes widened, but then she refused the money saying, "I'm sorry. If I take your money—"

He cut her off. "Trust me. It's not like that. It's a free assist."

She relented and he walked her back inside. There was no sign of her husband. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked her.

"Yes. I believe so. Thank you so much. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you."

"Just get through this. That's all you have to do for me. Got it?"

She let a girlish laugh slip out. "Got it." She thanked him profusely several more times before he left her outside the apartment's stairwell access door.

Broussard tried to make his way back out into the garden in the hopes of meeting up with the others. On the way, he was knocked down twice, shoved into a closet, and nearly bitten by one of Dina's now hysterical dogs. A man in shorts and topsiders was knocked to the floor and trampled. A woman screamed. Ragged scuffs of blood, lots of it, began to stain the floor. Incongruously, loud dance music began to play. All of the shaking must have jiggled Dina's stereo system into action.

A young woman, model thin and starlet pretty, stepped over an unconscious woman and sidled up to him. "Hi. My name is Karyn-with-a-y."

His breath caught. Was she talking to him? He took the chance that she was. "Hi, Karyn-with-a-y. I'm Neal-with-an-a."

"Neal." She mouthed his name with pillowy lips. "I don't know any 'Neals.'"

"I do. They're great guys," he replied, injecting confidence into his voice.

The girl squinted her heavily lacquered eyes at him. "Oh, my God. You're gorgeous! You look like that old actor when he was young. Newman. Paul Newman?"

He shrugged.

"Remember? He played in that prison break movie?"

A slight smile played upon his lips. "Ironic."

"Yeah," she said boozily. "My mom's a dick, but you probably knew that."

"Pardon me?"

She was focusing in on him and it was making him uncomfortable, so he took two steps backwards, out of the light. In response, she teetered over to the nearest wall and braced herself against a life-sized steel tiger sculpture atop a marble pedestal. When she suddenly slumped against it, he rushed over and propped her up.

Her eyes closed and then opened in slow motion. They were on him again, tracing the features of his face. "Same eyes and mouth. I was a film major in college, so I know these things?"

She had an odd, neo-Valley Girl way of speaking which placed question marks at the end of every other declarative sentence.

"Okay."

"I had this massive crush on him."

"Who?"

"Paul Newman? I wanted him to marry me. And we don't normally go for pretty boys?"

Was she using the royal "we"?

The elevator doors behind them opened with a business-like whoosh, and two paramedics rushed out with determined looks on their faces. Dina hurried over and directed them to a man lying prostrate before the fireplace. The party guests with the big hair were crying and attempting to console each other. Neal found himself amused. Everyone's actions were now syncopated by the hard driving rhythms coming from the speakers. It was as if they had suddenly found themselves in the middle of an Eighties' music video.

His palms were growing sweatier by the minute, and it wasn't just from the rising heat in the penthouse. "So, what's a bad girl like you doing in a nice place like this?"

A confused looked crossed her face. "Sorry?"

"Who brought you to the party?"

"Oh, I pooled over with my boss and that fat cow from marketing." She jutted her slim hip out provocatively. "And you?"

"I came with Dina and a couple of co-workers."

"Dina Hodges?"

"Yes."

"Oh, she's awesome. You work for Applied, too? Which department?"

"What's Applied?" he asked. The chaos was shortening his RAM.

"Applied Physics? I guess not. Well, almost everyone here works for Applied? Dina's husband owns the company, so I assumed that you were just another imperial slave." She drained her glass. "But it's cool? They pay us crazy money and throw monster parties." She giggled. "They throw a lot of parties. They throw parties when we get a new contract, or somebody gets out of rehab, or Beau has a solid bowel movement." She laughed at her own joke. "They like to party?" That last question was to herself. She stooped to set her drink down on a low table, and her two stout breasts popped out for the world to see. Broussard could not help but gawk. She had an American flag tattooed on one and the Advance South flag on the other. She caught him staring and pointed at the artwork. "I love them both." Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" began to cry out from every high corner, and a Left-coast, Spirit-grunge vibe infused the room. Karyn swayed rhythmically on her high heels, making small grinding motions with her hips as she sang along. She was either so blasé or too hammered to notice the intimate riot that had broken out around her, or that she was standing smack in the middle of it half naked. Either way, she definitely seemed to be open to other entertainment possibilities for the evening.

Broussard watched slackjawed as her pink areolas, small and faint, slowly moved up and down in time with the beat. Now she pressed her backside flat up against the wall behind the crouching tiger, splayed her long fingers out and groped it.

Broussard's tongue rolled around inside his mouth, oiled and loose.

His hands began to clench and unclench. Suddenly, Bautista's wide face appeared just centimeters away from his.

"Neal, you having a seizure or somethin'?"

The building rocked again. A delicate glass tumbled through the electrified air high above their heads, trailing photons of sparkling wine. Some of it splashed onto Karyn's undulating torso, causing it to shimmer and glow in the unnatural light.

"I, uh ... " Broussard reached up and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "I'm beginning to doubt my lack of faith."

Bautista giggled wickedly. "Me, too. I'm splittin'."

Broussard's eyes widened. "You taking off?"

"With Van? Hell, no! If he wants to go freeze his ass off in Canada, let 'em. I've got other plans. See you back at the HoJo."

As Karyn continued her bump and grind in beat with the music, the heat intensified as another ray of heated light shot across the rooftop, bathing everything and everyone in a brilliant tangerine glow. Karyn raised one arm high above her head and brought it down on the smooth head of the metal tiger. Broussard watched, utterly fascinated, as the long hairs on her head began to lift from her shoulders until they stood straight out and up. She had inadvertently created a Van De Graff effect with her little peep show. He could not have been more turned on.

"I need some fresh air." She smiled suggestively. "How about you?"

Another woman obviously familiar with her whisked by and yanked up the dress's bodice without saying a word.

Karyn straightened up and looked around. "Oh! Hi, Isabelle!" She gave a sloppy wave.

A man with blood running down his cheek stumbled between them shouting, "Jesus! Jesus!"

Karyn turned back to face Broussard.

"Well?" She fondled her left nipple. "I'll show you my bits if you'll show me yours?"

Broussard threw his head back and howled like a wolf. "Best party EVER!"

He looked around at the pure pandemonium. It was beginning to look like recess back at the Hills. And bad things always happened during recess. He gave in. "You're on!" He grabbed her hand.

She stopped. "Wait. I've just got to tell Brett that I've got a ride home?"

"Who's Brett?" He wanted to make sure that he wasn't trespassing on another guy's territory.

"My boss, silly." She wasn't too out of it to notice the sudden shift in his tone. "Are you always this paranoid?"

"It depends on the situation."

That seemed to satisfy her. Or maybe she had forgotten the question. In any case, she left him to speak with a bespectacled man in his forties. They chatted briefly while the man occasionally looked in Broussard's direction. Broussard caught himself pacing the tiny area rug just outside the powder room. He told himself to calm down. You're not in a cage anymore. He took in a deep draught of air to cool down his innards. He needed to get out of there with her. And then he had to get out of Chicago.

A little voice popped into his head. Really?

His brain snapped to attention. Planning on The Escape had not crossed his mind since Walters had turned up empty handed. But now, with all hell breaking loose in the city ... . Now might be the right time for it, with or without documentation.

It had to happen, right?

"Hey, you ready?" Karyn was back at his side. She was sporting a large purse and a sparkly scarf.

He forced a casual smile. "Absolutely. Are you sure you want to go?"

"I've got a bottle of wine and two steaks at my apartment. And I've got to feed Iggy." She flared her hair with her hand. "We can watch the end of the world there."

They eschewed the stairs and rode the private elevator down to the lobby. He started to take the front door exit but was sure that Hillerman and Brady were still camped outside somewhere.

He whistled for the doorman's attention. "You got a back door?"

"There's a delivery entrance. Go all the way down this hall, go through the double doors, and then take the door on your right." The man waited to see if Broussard was going to tip him.

Broussard tapped his pockets. "Sorry. We're in a hurry. Next time."

They practically ran down the long hall, reached through the double doors, and then found the fire door on the right. It took both of them to push it open wide enough for the two of them to squeeze out ... and suddenly they were free.

They were let out on a narrow sidewalk that ran beside a back alley street. There were only a few cars, no rubbish, and just enough light from the street lamps to keep it more romantic than dangerous.

"Which way?" Karyn asked, holding onto his arm.

Broussard looked to his left. Nothing but open road that a way. He looked to his right. And was greeted with the sight of Bautista and Juliana the mobstress, both naked from the waist down, going at it like two jackrabbits.

Broussard clapped his hand over his mouth before it could make a sound and give them away. Oh, my God!

He quickly spun the girl around. "This way!" And they scampered down the empty street.

Broussard woke up early the next morning in a disheveled bed. Karyn was gone. His head hurt. The last ten hours were a mash of disparate images banging up against each other. He clearly remembered tearing into bloody meat, spilling the wine, awkward sex, and staring at an iguana's dry hind legs and toes. And there was something else niggling at the back of his mind. Something extremely shocking and ... weird. He could not dredge it up and soon stopped trying.

Forget it, he admonished himself. Besides, 'weird' was too often the operative word as of late. More 'weird' he did not need. He got up and searched for his clothing. Karyn had neatly folded them on a chair and placed a Teddy bear on top. He smiled. There was a note on the dresser from the young woman thanking him for the "hot" evening. Her phone number was scribbled below her signature. He grabbed the note, threw on his clothing, and headed for the front door, catching a glimpse of a large reptile sunning itself beneath a kitchen counter's bare window. "Iggy, I presume."

The reptile ignored him.

"Catch you later."

And with that, he left. He was downstairs and standing outside five minutes later and experiencing a rare good mood. He wondered how that could be. Taking into consideration the baffling events of the past twenty-four hours, he should have been making a beeline for the nearest nervous breakdown. Instead, he felt fine. More than fine. He felt good.

He sucked in some air and took a couple of seconds to puzzle out this unusual state of being.

Well, the first thing that struck him was that the world seemed brighter than it had the day before. Literally. He gazed upwards.

Oh.

The thick, depressing layers of toxic mist weren't there. Instead the sun shone brightly through an atmosphere bearing only scant amounts of the pervasive airborne scum.

Well, that was a nice turn of events.

The second thing that struck him was the radical thought: I am free. He skipped across the empty street. No one followed him. There were no shadows at his elbows. He tested the premise further by winding himself in and out of several coffee shops. He did this for three blocks and stopped. No doubt about it. He was alone.

He promoted the premise to that of temporary fact. Temporary for the time being, he added. While he was still in Chicago and within the reach of Chang, he was in danger of being sucked back into his postmodern slavery. Imperial slave? Even now he felt the heavy weight of Chang's thoughts reaching out to him across the city like those great arms of fire last night. He and the others were undoubtedly looking for him, wondering where he was, and worried that he might not be voluntarily coming back. A considerable burden of guilt to be borne in time for sure. But still. It all added up to explain his elevated emotions. For the first time in six years he almost believed that he was at the helm of his own life. It was an exhilarating moment.

He opened his wallet and counted the bills. He had three hundred dollars on him, not enough to get him anywhere really. He would have to gain access to his bank account right away before Redstone figured out that he was on the lam and shut it down. That is when his phone buzzed. He did not recognize the number and almost didn't answer it. When the caller rang a second and third time, he picked up. It was Candy, the would-be jumper from last night, politely demanding the five thousand dollars that he had promised to give her. He asked for her bank account information and then told her that he would call her after he had transferred the funds. He then purchased a new cell phone. Afterwards he realized that he was quite hungry, so he stopped at the bar of an outdoor bistro and ordered a ginger ale and a basket of chicken wings. While he waited for his order, he activated the new phone that he had just purchased and threw away the other. Van and Eric's paranoia aside, he had no doubt that Redstone could track them electronically; the trick now was to fall off of the grid. He would have to purchase a new ID and use only cash until he could get to Canada. Which, of course, was now a whole lot harder to do after that stupid Superman stunt he had pulled last night. He blamed Bautista and the marijuana that the tech had been smoking all day yesterday; he must have inadvertently become as stoned as Bautista had been. That was the only explanation for him giving away five thousand dollars in cash to a perfect stranger. He mentally kicked himself.

When his food arrived, he took a few bites and surreptitiously checked out his surroundings. The place was doing brisk business. All manner of people were there, their eyes either glued to their phones and computers or to the various televisions secured to poles every three meters or so. All of the news was the same: There were purported sightings of a giant creature, or Titan as the popular media were now calling them, over much of Chicago. It had first appeared over O'Hare Airport yesterday at sunset, vanished and then later reappeared over the Magnificent Mile.

Of course, rumors about building-size aliens and other such craziness had been slowly pushing into the team's water cooler chatter at Redstone with a peculiar voltage. As professionals who had cut their teeth on hard science, no one took the stories seriously. Like many others, he had believed it to be some kind of mass freak out. Possibly contagious. But exactly what had he seen last night? Real or imagined? Could he honestly provide a rational explanation for it? He picked a bone clean, set it down, and drank a slug of soda. His mind meandered back to last night's events. Advance South pyrotechnics? Northern lights? According to Van, they were popping up everywhere lately.

He finished off the rest of the wings.

The Northern Lights. Perhaps ...

Images from one of the nearby televisions showed chaotic images of footage shot last night by news helicopters over the city. A male voice spoke with authority. "At this morning's news conference, a spokeswoman from Scott Air Force base confirmed to reporters that several low atmosphere weather balloons were in fact in the airspace over parts of Chicago last night. Captain Michelle Bailey said that these weather balloons were outfitted with special lasers designed to detect any elevated levels of particulate matter in the atmosphere that may have been trapped over the lake due to the recent exchanges of gunfire between the Navy and the Milwaukeean insurgents. Captain Bailey says that these tests, which have been endorsed by the mayor, are being conducted as part of an ongoing joint air quality management program ... "

There was no mention of giant aliens, 'nekkid' or otherwise.

"The Air Force had no comment on any possible connection with the atmospheric tests and the outbreak of flu-like symptoms that were reported by various emergency room personnel in the city at around the same time ..."

Broussard's interest began to wane. He had more important things to worry about.

Two low-key, regular guys came out of nowhere and sat down on two bar stools one chair down from him. They were deliberately similar in appearance: matching sunglasses and khaki jackets. Even their hair had been styled the same way. Broussard immediately suspected that they were anything but 'regular guys.' From the slight curve in the lines of their jackets, he knew that each carried a gun. Probably Glock 17s from the size and faint outlines. Local fuzz spying on the good citizens of Chicago. And the visitors, he reminded himself. Broussard forced himself to stay neutral in composition.

The two men set their drinks down and pretended to relax. The one closest to him had a crop of ripe pimples spread across his face. This man nodded in his direction and Broussard reciprocated the gesture. Just then a beefy trucker type sat down heavily in the empty chair between them. He wore a soiled John Deere cap atop a buzz cut. His piggish eyes were red, as if he had been crying long and hard, and his breath was labored as if he had run there. He gave scant acknowledgment to the other men and ordered a glass of ice water from the bartender. Suddenly, he blurted out, "I guess Chicago's luck just ran out."

One of the regular guys spoke up. "Maybe. Maybe not," he chirped cheerily. "From what I've heard, whatever's causing these fires and earthquakes doesn't do anything halfway. Nossir. It happens and BOOM, you're dead and gone. But we're all still here. And gosh, is it me? Or does the whole place just not reek so much?"

The guy in the John Deere cap mulled that over. "I left Sault Sainte Marie yesterday morning, and from Rudyard to St. Ignace there were people strung up on all the power poles on the 75. Upside down. Entire families as far as I could tell. _"_ He swiped at his mouth with a hand that was vibrating from stress. "It was a kill zone. I told the sheriff in Mackinaw City about what I seen and he tells me not to worry about it." The man blinked hard. "I guess they decorate the roads a little different up there."

"Are you saying that these people were dead?" Broussard asked, not quite comprehending what was being said.

The trucker let out a crazy laugh. "No-no-no! Just not breathing. Not moving. Not too concerned about the buzzards pecking out their eyes. That's all I'm saying."

The other man dived in. "Something similar happened a few weeks ago in Tennessee. They caught the guys who did it. Some yahoos from one of those cartels out of Texas—"

The larger man interrupted him. " _El Cabo._ Or the Triple A Gang."

The smaller man continued. "Both are pretty vicious. Most likely one of their terror cells butchered those poor devils up near 'ya."

He hung an invisible period at the end of his sentence as a way of neatly wrapping things up and moving the conversation along to other matters. But the trucker's story had an undeniably chilling effect. The outlandishly evil nature of it and what it portended was almost too much to bear.

"Something else," the larger man continued somewhat offhandedly. "I've been hearing rumors from people who ought to know that there's some new Advance South drug that can trick man and machine. Make them see things that simply aren't there."

The John Deere guy exploded. "YOU THINK WE'RE ALL CRAZY NOW? YOU THINK I'M MAKING THIS UP? I SAW WHAT I SAW!" He stabbed a finger in the man's face. "AND I ALSO SAW THAT ALIEN MOTHERFUCKER FLOATING AROUND HERE LAST NIGHT! AND ON MY MOTHER'S GRAVE, THAT WAS NO FRIGGIN' WEATHER BALLOON!" The finger was still in the other man's face. "'CAUSE WEATHER BALLOONS DON'T HAVE JUNK!"

People began to sit up and take notice of them.

"All I'm saying—"

The John Deere guy dismissed him. "You got nothing to say to me, pal!" And he stood up and quickly walked away.

The two men turned their attention to Broussard, as he suspected they would. They wore matching friendly expressions. The smaller one spoke first.

"Name's Kirk Murphy." He gestured towards his partner. "Nate Davis."

"Neal."

"Got a last name, Neal?" Davis asked congenially.

"Broussard."

He gave a tiny salute with his left hand. "Nice to meet you, Neal. You new in town?"

"Uh, yes. A few of us from my company are here on business."

"Excellent!" Murphy said. "We want everyone to know that Chicago is still in business. I hope that we're showing you a good time."

"No complaints here."

"Glad to hear it." He nodded towards the others seated at the bistro. "You not interested in giant aliens?"

"Not really. Besides, I prefer my extraterrestrials petite and gray."

Murphy grunted in agreement.

"Are you police officers?"

Davis pointed a bone white finger at him. "Ahh, very astute." He took a sip from his glass. "The locals aren't comfortable with uniforms, so we keep things casual."

"You ex-militia?" Broussard had read that the militias had taken over policing duties in many areas in the northeast.

"We both worked in the Detroit area until last year."

A human-powered rickshaw weaved through the human traffic. Every square centimeter of the cart's surface was plastered with peace symbols and day-glow flowers. It also sported vinyl marijuana plants in various comical poses.

Broussard nodded. "What's with the sixties theme?"

"We call it time traveling," Murphy said. "Everybody else calls it 'gone plumb crazy.' The so-called experts say that the situation now is too—you know—difficult for most people to handle so they're hiding out in the past. Like hitting the reset button. Makes sense. The only things we had to think about back then were the Beatles and Vietnam."

"Personally," Davis said, "I would have chosen the fifties. Better values. Higher standards."

Murphy made a face. "Too bland for my taste."

"Bland but safe. Hey, we had Dion, Chuck Berry, Marilyn Monroe." He whistled. "Now there was a sexy woman."

"And everything in black and white. Just like the politics."

"Took the guesswork out a great many things, I say."

"And that way of thinking gave birth to the sixties."

Murphy's head dickered from side to side. "Jack Law says that a man is free to disagree."

Broussard almost choked on his drink. "Excuse me?"

But Murphy had not heard him.

Davis surreptitiously picked something from his nose. "A man is free to starve, too."

"Better to starve than be a slave to tradition," Murphy countered.

The policemen were obviously rehashing a standing argument.

"The important thing is to remain civil," Davis said definitively.

"We agree on that, partner."

Both men congenially shook hands with their eyes.

Broussard cut in. "So it's some sort of mental disorder?"

"Yessir," Murphy replied briskly. "There's even a name for it," Murphy continued. "Traumatic Nostalgia Syndrome. The docs say it's a mild form of Old Timer's disease, but I'm not buying it."

Broussard was mildly curious about this unexpected aspect of the war: mass psychosis. That a crisis could be of such magnitude that almost the entire population of a major cosmopolitan city would simultaneously snap along the same obscure vector was highly improbable. He thought of how Mike had reacted after hearing about the Los Angeles fire. Total blind panic. One individual out of a room of eight people. Still ... "Affecting an entire city at once? I'm not buying it either." He looked around at the many freshly minted hippies. "Any other places having this problem?"

The two policemen were thoughtful. "We think that most of Dallas has time traveled back to the early nineteen hundreds. Nothing but cowboys and horses. But that would make sense since that's their culture anyway."

Broussard exhaled. "Interesting."

Davis eyed him. "I'm surprised you haven't heard about this kind of stuff."

"They keep us pretty busy at the office."

Murphy's eyes perked up. "Us, too. The country may be going to h-e-double-hockey-sticks in a hurry, but the criminals and scofflaws are still conducting business as usual, eh, Nate?"

"Yessir. Busy as bees."

"But they don't last long here. We have a zero tolerance for lawbreakers."

The police officer looked calm, but Broussard noticed that his eyes kept tracking left and right, checking and re-checking territory just like Hillerman and Brady. Broussard was beginning to feel uncomfortable in their presence when an unexpected familiar face jumped out at him from a crowded table just a few paces away. Broussard unconsciously sucked in his breath. It was Billy Speitz, dressed in a natty blazer and jeans, in easy conversation with several other normal-looking people. Without thinking he uttered the words, "What the heck?"

The cops perked up immediately. "What?"

Broussard vigorously shook his head. "Nothing." He instantly thought it best that he extract himself from the situation as fast as possible. Speitz was a career thug, but it was he who had the scarier rap sheet. If anything untoward happened, they would both be thrown out.

But the cops weren't budging.

"You know that guy?" Murphy asked. Broussard's heart almost stopped. The cop was pointing directly at Speitz.

"Uh, no—"

"'Cause if you do, we want to know about it. No other questions asked."

The man had him on the spot, and he had never been particularly good at lying. "Well—"

Davis played with the tiny umbrella in his Coke. "Since he showed up three weeks ago, we've received reports of a new crime ring trying to get traction in town. It's nasty stuff. Human trafficking. And worse. We believe that this guy here has been recruited as an officer. But according to his sheet, he's clean."

Broussard remained silent.

He continued. "With enough money you can buy any type of ID and it'll be good enough to pass the filters."

Broussard nervously stroked his left pants leg. "I know him."

"From where?"

Broussard took a deep breath. "Nevada. I was living there. His name is Billy Speitz."

"He a buddy of yours?"

"Hardly."

"Is he a bad guy?"

He probably should not have said anything and it was probably going to draw more attention to himself, but ... what the hell. The don't-snitch code did not apply out here. And Speitz was definitely one of the bad guys. Broussard did not want to see him living large outside of a jail cell. Especially not here. Broussard nodded. "Guess so."

"How bad?"

"Don't know. I barely know the guy."

"Murder?"

"I never heard about it."

Murphy pulled a pocket computer from the inside of his jacket pocket and began to issue verbal commands.

"So you know this fella from ... ?"

"Nevada. I was doing some work there ... ."

"And you believe that his name is Bill Speitz?"

"Billy Speitz."

"Eh? That's not what his ID says. Interesting."

"Can you spell it?"

"No."

Murphy held up his pocket computer. "Neal, can you spell your name for me?"

"N-e-a-l-B-r-o-u-s-s-a-r-d."

Murphy began to study the machine's readouts. "Thanks." After a few moments he said, "Huh?" And then both of his eyebrows went up. He then put the machine away. "Whoever this palooka is, he's a person of interest in some other verifiable activities: burglaries and assaults. We'd like to bring him in for questioning but we're short on hard evidence, and the only eyewitnesses are people who themselves are suspects in other crimes."

Broussard swallowed hard. "I see."

The police officers stood.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Davis said. "Do us a favor and stick around. We may need you to come down to the station later."

"Sure," Broussard replied easily.

The next thing that happened took Broussard totally by surprise. The two cops made a beeline for Speitz, spoke a few words to him and his dining companions, and then escorted the big man into a waiting sedan. Broussard swallowed hard. These Chicago cops worked fast. And it wasn't going to take them long to figure out that his 'work' in Nevada was from the inside of a super max prison.

He needed to get out of town. Quickly. A plan for escape was formulating. He first went to the nearest library and used one of their computers. Most fortunately for him, he still had access to his bank accounts. He transferred five thousand dollars to the account number that Candy had supplied him with and the other five thousand to a check cashing store on the south side. He then purchased a bus ticket for Toronto that was scheduled to leave Chicago in three hours. Last, he searched for an address for an Anthony Lowe, Diane's father. He found one on a street that sounded familiar. He hurriedly copied it down and then left.

Out on the streets again, he hopped aboard a city bus and journeyed to the south side. He reached his destination in under an hour. He picked up his money first at the check cashing store, and then he walked six blocks west to Daisy Street. The neighborhood was very subdued. It was early afternoon, but there wasn't a soul stirring. He found the house numbered "227" and rang the doorbell.

To his surprise, it was answered quickly. An attractive woman appeared. She was an older, fuller version of Diane.

"May I help you?"

"Mrs. Lowe?"

"Yes."

A man's voice grumbled from within the house, full of suspicion. "Who's at the door, Verna?"

"My name is Neal. I'm a friend of Diane."

The woman's face broke out into happiness. "Neal! Oh, lord, please come in! Diane told us all about you!"

Obviously not everything, Broussard thought to himself.

Broussard stepped inside. Somewhere a berry pie was cooking. The father of Diane was a murky shadow in the dim hallway at the rear of the foyer. Paintings of religious figures dominated the vestibule, setting the tone of patient suffering.

"Anthony, this is Neal. The young man that Diane was so sweet on."

That's when the older man's caution fell away. He walked up to Broussard, hand extended.

"Well, hello! It's nice to finally meet you."

"Same here."

"You were all that girl talked about. But then, she was always a bit boy crazy. Welcome to Chicagoland."

Mrs. Lowe directed everyone into the living room. There were pictures of Diane everywhere: Diane in her high school senior picture encircled in blue fur. Diane's prom picture with a chubby escort. Diane at Disneyland wearing Mickey Mouse ears. And finally Diane, maybe six or seven, dressed in a frilly dress, her hair a mass of black ringlets and pink bows.

"She was a pretty child," Broussard said.

"On the inside, too," Mr. Lowe said. "Not many cared about that, though. A worldly person takes a kindness for a weakness. They don't realize that it's the Lord's light shining through the darkness."

Mrs. Lowe blinked back tears.

"I'm sorry," Broussard told her.

"We all are," Mrs. Lowe admitted. "I don't know why God allowed this to happen ... taking Diane and millions of people ... but it's His will and we have to accept it."

"Is there any chance that she made it out before the earthquake?"

"I've been praying so hard that she's still alive, but I don't want to keep beggin' the Lord to make it so. Not when so many others are asking for the same thing." She bowed her head. "But God is good, Neal. Maybe one day she'll come home."

His phone buzzed. He should not have answered it. The only people who would be calling him now would be from Redstone. He glanced at the caller's number and once again did not recognize it. "Excuse me." He stepped away to answer it.

"Mr. Broussard." Broussard went rigid with alarm; he did not recognize the voice. "This is Officer Nathan Murphy, Chicago police. We met earlier today."

Broussard's heart skipped a beat. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming down to the police station today. I know that it's getting late, but it would help speed our investigation of the William Speitz case if we got some additional info from you."

Broussard was secretly furious. This put an enormous kink in his plans. But he could hardly blow the cop off without arousing suspicions. It still made sense to cooperate with them. "Um, all right. I'll be down as soon as I can."

"Good. I'm sending the station's address and directions to you now. See you soon."

Broussard clicked off and returned to the Lowes. "I'm afraid that I have to go."

The parents responded graciously. "Thank you so much for stopping by to see us, Neal," Mrs. Lowe said, holding his hand. "It gives me such joy to know that she finally had love in her life."

Her words made him feel oddly uneasy. Had I loved Diane? "Yes. Okay. Here's my business card. Please call me if you hear from her."

"We will," Mr. Lowe responded warmly. "And, Neal, God will forgive your sins. You only need ask Him."

Broussard was stunned. They knew!

"Right," he stammered. "Thank you."

He left the Lowe house, feeling deeply ashamed and confused.

One hour later he entered the witness theater at the police station. The viewing room was at capacity with a true cross-section of city folk. Men in business suits. Weeping moms in jogging suits. Grannies. Hippies. Bums. Nuns. There was even a boa constrictor coiled up quietly in the chair closest to the guard desk, a large bandage duct taped to one side of its head.

Down in the front there were several men staring vacantly in their direction from inside a concrete lineup room on the blind side of a plate of one-way glass. Broussard could not make out their faces from where he stood.

Officer Murphy emerged from a gaggle of cops and—without any preamble—asked him to identify William Speitz.

"Don't worry," he assured him. "They can't see or hear you."

Broussard walked closer to the one-way glass and looked over the choices. Billy Speitz was indeed standing in the lineup. He had been cleaned up and was sporting some hair on his head, but there was no doubt that it was his old nemesis from Lincoln Hills.

"Third down from the left. That's Billy Speitz. William Speitz."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes." Broussard looked around the room. "Did he commit crimes against all of these people?"

"No. Everyone in the lineup is a suspect in one or two felony crimes. These are all of the witnesses that we could round up for these six suspects. Speitz was our last."

"I see."

"With resources being what they are, we have to bunch things up a bit. We don't have courts or a penal system now so we do everything here. Saves taxpayer time and money."

"I see."

Murphy excused himself and positioned his body near the front of the room in order to get everyone's attention. "Folks, you're free to leave now. Thank you for your cooperation."

The others in the room stood up and began to file outside. Murphy turned to Broussard. "Mr. Broussard, can you stay just a little bit longer?"

Broussard felt his stomach drop. What was going on? Ice cold fear gripped his testicles. Had they discovered his true identify? If they had, then he would be forced to call Chang. And he would have to return to Redstone. The room grew quite warm, and he began to perspire freely. "Sure!" He couldn't help but glance at his watch. The bus to Toronto left in little under an hour.

Murphy nodded at the officer stationed at the guard desk. Broussard noticed that there was a large orange switch set in the wall behind him. That man then acknowledged Murphy's nod with one of his own, turned sideways, and threw his hand at the switch. An overhead sprinkler system was activated, drenching the unsuspecting men below with a clear liquid. Water? Was this a group shower before incarceration? Almost immediately the suspects began to pantomime pain, pressing their hands hard up against their eye sockets and dancing around the small pools of water collecting on the cast iron floor ...

And then Broussard knew what was about to happen. "NO!" he roared at Office Murphy. But it was too late. A split second later the lineup room became a raging inferno. Broussard watched, horrified, as he saw a several burning hands appear out of the flames and beat futilely against the glass. Eerily, there was no sound. The men being burned alive were surely screaming in agony, but the entire conflagration played out in serene silence.

After a couple of minutes, the flames died down, and air filters began to suck the room clean. Smoke and blackened bits alike were whooshed away into large vents set into the ceiling. Afterwards, two robotic mops zipped in through slots near the floor and began to move back and forth along the floor in a tight grid pattern.

Murphy approached him casually, smiling an Opie smile from ear to ear. "Well, at least now the victims can have some closure. It is frontier brand justice to be sure. Inexpensive and to the point." He paused for effect. "But it works for us. That's the important thing." His eyes bore into Broussard's. "Mr. Alpert, the guy that you slugged last night, chose not to press charges. That's why you're out here." He nodded towards the still smoking lineup room. "And not in there."

"Have a good day, Mr. Broussard, and enjoy the rest of your stay in Chicago." Broussard fairly catapulted from his chair and burst through the double doors ... straight into the arms of Major Hillerman.

"You ready to head back to the hotel, Mr. Broussard?" he asked in his typical laconic tone.

Broussard was shaking like a leaf in a storm. "Yes. Yes, I am."

#

Northern Kentucky, USA

The trip back to Alabama was thus far proving to be both relaxing and uneventful. The Lincoln Hills engineers had had scant time to talk about their plans for Canada, but it was becoming clear that the plan would require much more finessing in order to be successful. The world they found themselves in was definitely not the same world that they had left behind when they entered prison. They would need more time. And much more money.

The buses crossed the Illinois border into Kentucky late that afternoon, changing from I-57 to I-24E. Derek, Tara, and Kuiper were in the back playing poker and keeping the AIs entertained. Chang and Broussard sat up front. Two of the Army Rangers had positioned themselves somewhere in the middle.

Broussard was showing Chang a sketch that he had made of a set of retractable claws designed for the AIs. He explained that it would give them better traction on rough surfaces. Predictably, the manager's response was that the feature was both unnecessary and expensive. They went back and forth about it until Chang gave in and offered to bring it up at the next design meeting with Kuiper and Fields. This made Broussard happier. The stresses of the past three days had cleaned him out emotionally. But now, talking and planning simple mechanical strategy brought him to his home territory where he felt most comfortable. There were a plethora of problems affecting his life that he could not begin to solve; this one, to produce a simple and inexpensive retractable claw on a pressure pad, was something that he could easily find a solution for. And he had Karyn-with-a-y (and Iggy) to thank for that.

Chang said, "I'll put the item in the agenda tomorrow morning."

"Great."

Chang seemed friendly enough, but Broussard could not help but notice the tension in the air. He believed he knew why. "About the party," he began contritely. "I guess I lost it back there."

"Yep," Chang agreed.

"Allan, I'm not going to make any excuses for what happened. It was flat out wrong. I should have just minded my own business. And I hope that you'll put that in your report."

Chang smiled. "I will." The manager's demeanor relaxed considerably. "Neal, you've got a good heart, but you're a hothead. And where some people can put the brakes on their reactions before they become a problem, you can't." The manager hesitated and then took it a needed step further. "You may need to work on that."

Broussard nodded emphatically. "I will."

Chang stood. "Good. I'm going to hold off on including this particular episode in my report for now. We've got too many balls in the air right now, and frankly speaking, the guy had it coming."

The bus's velocity slowly decreased. The highway suddenly began to thicken with other vehicles as all traffic along I-24 gradually lost speed and eventually came to a soft stop. After a few minutes of waiting, people began to exit their vehicles to smoke, make phone calls, and chat about what they thought was going on. Hillerman's voice came over the convoy PA system and asked everyone to exit the buses with the exception of the DAT crew.

When the two Rangers, Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Palladino and Major Mark Clayton, offered to stay behind and keep eyes on the DATs, Chang led the others outside onto the clogged highway. They merged with the other team members from the other Redstone vehicles. Men, women, and children from the surrounding automobiles milled about with looks of mild worry on their faces.

"What do you think?" Kuiper asked Hillerman. "Bad accident?"

Hillerman was pulling tobacco from a package inside his shirt pocket. "Maybe. But more than likely the state border patrols are stepping up their food and drug interdiction campaigns."

As that was a decidedly unsexy explanation for the stoppage, no one gave it much attention until two mounted police officers rode up on them.

The lead officer called out, "You all together?"

Hillerman pointed out his people. "We are."

"Well," the officer replied. "You look like a sensible man, so I'll do my talking to you."

He greeted them formally with a touch to the brim of his hat. "Ladies and gentlemen. I apologize for the hold up. My name is Conrad Brian. I'm a master trooper for the Kentucky Highway Patrol. Folks, two hours ago the states of Kentucky and Tennessee seceded from America to become the fifteenth and sixteenth members of the new United States."

Audible gasps of shock and disbelief rippled through the crowd.

The trooper acknowledged their reactions with a respectful moment of silence and then continued. "You have now entered a territory of the US-AS and as such will have to abide by the rules of this land for the duration of your passage through it."

The two police horses were outfitted with side-mounted computers that were attached to a bouquet of solar wafers. Several long metallic cylinders, joined together with metal clamps and knuckle rods, were mounted on their right sides. Strapped beneath their forelocks were the equivalents of dash cams.

"Are we under arrest?" Tara asked timidly.

"No, ma'am. You have entered an inspection zone—nothing more, nothing less."

"Has any other state seceded?" a male teenager asked.

"None that I'm aware of. If you're continuing on into Alabama, as far as I know it's still under American rule. So no worries there."

Hillerman broke character and turned surly. "Yesterday you were under American rule."

"Yesterday was a long time ago, sir." The state trooper's response stung. He shifted his bottom in his saddle. "Now. Firstly, I want to assure you that the United States government isn't interested in your politics or your nationality. What we are interested in are any foods or vegetables, plants or animals that you may be carrying out of Illinois. We don't want any unvaccinated critters coming across state lines. We are also interested in any powered weapons that you may have and any illegal narcotics or alcoholic beverages. Kentucky is dry and we aim to stay that way."

Two other troopers rode up and briefly conferred with the first two.

"Folks, it's pretty warm today, so we don't want to take up too much of your time. In about fifteen minutes we're going to release the traffic break and allow people to move their vehicles into a waiting area about eight kilometers down yonder. They've got grub, gasoline, and plenty of clean restrooms. We'll start the inspections about an hour later, and then you all can be on your way."

The four officers spurred their horses to continue spreading their message to the other hapless motorists up the road.

When they were out of earshot, Kuiper sidled up to Major Hillerman. "Major, we can hide the DATs and the guns in the cargo bays for a little while, but without air conditioning in this weather they will soon develop problems."

Hillerman pulled out his cell phone. "Understood."

"Who are you calling?" Kuiper asked.

"Colonel Higgins. He'll want to know what's going on."

Kuiper regarded the major with apprehension. "Is this wise? They're videotaping us. They could also be monitoring calls."

"It's on a secure link." He waited for an electronic response. "And it's dead." He hit a button. "The Internet's down, too."

Bautista was standing close by, looking uneasy. "They're using jammers on the transponders."

Hillerman smirked. "Maybe." Hillerman had made no bones about the fact that he believed that the idea of 'Advance South intelligence' was a self-canceling phrase. "More than likely it's a problem in the system itself. It's been giving everybody grief for months."

"So where does that leave us?" Chang pulled up and asked.

"On our own." The major put a pinch of chewing tobacco in his mouth and then continued in a lowered voice. "We're about ninety kilometers out of Paducah. We need to turn our hind parts around and get back over the state line into Illinois. The US-AS can't touch us there."

Chang looked a little surprised at the boldness of the major's plan but he said, "If we leave now it's going to look suspicious."

"Agreed," Hillerman replied. "Let's wait until everyone gets comfy at the inspection stop, and then we can make our move."

Walters entered the conversation. "What about the AIs?"

"All of the buses have floor access to the luggage bays. We'll just keep them down there until we can get out. They can't be down there long, and somebody with technical expertise will have to stay with them in case they start having issues."

Kuiper volunteered. "I'll do it." He smiled. "We need more face time anyway."

"Really?" Powell said in an unhelpful, scoffing tone. "Behind enemy lines? In the butt crack of some lo-fi bus?"

Kuiper offered weak humor to lighten the mood. "It could be worse. We could be in Jersey, behind enemy lines, in the butt crack of some lo-fi bus."

Powell could not help but smile at that. "Ahh, always the jokes with these mad scientists."

"Besides," Kuiper continued. "Socialization will by necessity have to take place whenever and wherever. Not just when it's convenient."

Hillerman spat out some tobacco juice and surveyed their surroundings. There was the interstate, still backed up for quite a stretch. To the right were gentle foothills covered with black dirt and brush. To the left, the land flattened out like a lumpy pancake and stretched westward towards infinity. With the exception of a stumpy mesa perhaps four kilometers out, that horizon had no discernible features. "I used to fish near here with my dad. Largemouth bass just itching for the frying pan. Those were good times."

"Well, they're sure over now," Powell quipped.

As promised, the traffic slowly began to pick up, and the kilometers-long backup began a steady roll. Eight kilometers later, the flat no-man's land virtually exploded into a dynamic, three-dimensional business center. Dusty parking lots surrounded fast food joints along with a few high-end, mom-and-pop shops. Authentic looking general stores hawked "genuine" Navajo blankets and moccasins. All of the largest gasoline companies were represented with gleaming facilities and freshly scrubbed teenagers standing near the pumps to hand out five-dollar gas coupons to any takers. The centerpiece was a spanking new Stuckey's. Atop it and every other building hung a blue-and-white Advance South flag one meter below the Stars and Stripes. The flags hung lifeless in the hot, stagnant air.

Every ten minutes or so, several parking attendants allowed a glut of cars, mobile homes, and big rigs into an area cordoned off with yellow tape, and then set up orange cones to block further ingress. All three of the Redstone buses made it in during the second intake. They were directed to park in the Stuckey's parking lot alongside several other multi-axle vehicles. As soon as they parked, Hillerman hopped out and huddled with Chang and Brady. After a brief conference, they decided to wait half an hour before slipping off unnoticed via one of the back streets. As soon as word was spread to the other team members, everyone beat a hasty retreat to the cool airs of the nearby stores.

At the Stuckey's, the store manager himself was stationed at the front door, greeting customers with a jolly grin. "Hullo! Welcome to Kentucky's favorite roadside attraction! Come on in and grab some AC! And remember: all pecan logs are half off today!"

There were perhaps one hundred people filing in and out of the cavernous store. Bautista, Powell, and Chang picked up bottled waters and ice cream. Derek and Tara were shopping the toy aisle, no doubt hoping to find something that might interest the DATs later. Broussard found himself staring at handcrafted bows and elaborate headdresses. He had been thinking of Grace Montgomery; she might like a souvenir from their trip. He checked out some turquoise jewelry. The prices were exorbitant, so he moved on to the various dream catchers hung from the ceiling. One was very similar to the one that had hung in Doctor Navarro's office back at the Hills. Unfortunately, their prices weren't much better.

A festive display of postcards caught his eye, and he selected four of them.

Broussard stepped forward without paying much attention to where he was going and bumped into a rather beefy fellow carrying a large pecan log in his shopping basket. Broussard recognized him right away. It was the unhappy trucker that he had met at the outside cafe in Chicago. He was still wearing the John Deere cap, only it looked cleaner now. He reintroduced himself. The man had a fuzzy recollection of their Chicago encounter but proved friendly enough. His name was Ron Daley, and he was driving a heavy load south. The big man placed an energy drink and a pack of cigarettes next to the log. "Hard to believe that Kentucky's thrown in with these kooks." He spoke loudly enough for anyone within four meters to hear him.

Broussard did not respond directly to the trucker's statement. "You know smoking causes cancer?"

Daley's jaws tightened. "Buddy, that's the least of my worries." They both fell into a long line to the checkout counter. The trucker lowered his voice. "This little detour is the last thing I need. It's gonna kill my payday."

"Where you headed?"

"Dallas. And my cargo's not going to make it if I get hung up here and down the line." They inched up. He stuck his face in close and whispered, "I'm thinking 'bout turning it around and cutting through Missouri and Arkansas. Which would be a good thing, 'cause I hear they aren't weighing any commercial trucks going through."

"Aren't they already AS states?"

"Yeah, but the Teamsters have a treaty with most of these counties. The road gangs might be a problem, though."

Broussard nodded. "Might be a good time to be in a gang of your own."

"That's what I was thinking."

They finally reached the counter. Broussard paid for the postcards and then headed outside again. He walked out into the parking lot a ways and watched several state troopers begin to divert some of the multi-ton vehicles to an empty lot across the street. He observed for a minute or so and then turned back to find the others. For some reason, Daley was trailing him. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then the engineer quickly shook the other man off. He made a hard right turn back toward Stuckey's veranda. There he found Roger and Herschel standing in the shade enjoying Slurpees. The two men were busy trading complaints about the Kentucky state police. Broussard was about to inform them of what he had just seen across the street when Bautista came huffing over. "They've got dogs."

"Where?" Roger asked.

Bautista pointed to a police cruiser parked five vehicles down from where they stood. There were two professional-grade Dobermans staring through the backseat window; police badges hung from the thick chains around their necks.

"Narcs." Roger exclaimed. "We should have thought of that three kilometers back. Shoot!" He chewed on his lower lip.

Bautista stroked his moustache. "The last thing we need is a DAT busting out and doing a ninja assassin number."

Hillerman emerged from the store, and they filled him in on the situation.

He dismissed their concerns. "The DATs can't see through the baggage area unless they're actively scanning. And they aren't."

"How do you know?" Bautista asked.

"I checked. I saw the dogs when we pulled in."

Broussard moved closer and whispered into Hillerman's ear. "We've got another problem."

Hillerman clearly looked like he did not want to hear about it, but Broussard pressed on. "They're using their scales. Look." He pointed across the street to the auxiliary lot, which was quickly filling up with trucks, recreational vehicles, and commercial buses. "With our extra armor, they'll be figuring out that we weigh more than we should."

The major's face was a mask of discontent. Brady and Chang joined them. Each of them held cold drinks. "If they've got scales, then they've got x-rays," Hillerman deduced further. "They won't be able to get a picture of our insides. Either way, they'll be suspicious." He spat tobacco cud out onto the ground. "We've got to get back to Illinois—now."

"How?" Chang asked. "We're practically surrounded." And he was right. Every parking lot, every storefront, every path of egress, was filled to near capacity with state troopers, detoured travelers and locals.

Hillerman nodded towards a partially paved service road that ran behind the Stuckey's and several concurrent gas stations and casinos, back up the way that they had come from. "We'll have to create a diversion. And then somehow cut a path out to that back street."

Bautista expressed his skepticism. "That would have to be one big-ass diversion."

"Don't worry. We'll figure something out. In the meantime, go round the others up and tell them to get back to their buses and wait for further instructions."

Bautista nodded and left. Meanwhile, Roger took out his phone and spoke a few cryptic commands.

"What are you doing?" Hillerman asked.

"Give me a sec." He spent some time typing on the phone's keyboard.

Hillerman grew impatient. "We don't have all day."

"Hold on." The engineer issued a final order and then discreetly pointed the device at the patrol car, which contained the K-9 animals. "Ask and you shall receive."

They heard the car doors' locks pop from where they stood.

Hillerman jumped. "How'd you do that?"

Roger grinned like a devil. "Hey, I'm from Detroit." He sprinted to the cruiser in a flash and deftly pulled open the rear door. The two police dogs bolted from the backseat as if on fire and made straight for the unsuspecting crowds. Men, women, and children began to curse and run for their lives. It could not have gone better.

"Amen," Hillerman muttered. He looked energized. "Let's go!"

The Redstone people bulldozed their way to the waiting buses through the churning chaos. Indeed, within five minutes, all personnel were back on board. Hillerman and Broussard raced through all three vehicles to perform hasty head counts. After they made the final tally for B-3, the two men hurried back to B-1. Hillerman instructed the driver to start the ignition as quietly as possible. He then took up position in the stairwell. Broussard sat down in the front seat. The major bent over slightly to look out the bus's broad windshield in order to get a better view of the best path to the service road. He spoke to the driver, pointing. "Take her past this building here and then ease over and make a right at that Exxon station." Hillerman suddenly froze.

"What's wrong?" Broussard asked.

Hillerman squinted as his eyes swept east to west, out over the Kentucky plains. He repeated the action. "I would swear that there was a mountain there ten minutes ago."

Broussard's forehead crinkled. "A mountain?"

Hillerman quickly straightened up. "Never mind," he barked at the driver. "Hit it."

The driver put the bus into drive and eased down the road, followed closely by B-2 and B-3. Fortunately, the escaped dogs had emptied out half of the parking lot, and the buses easily slipped out into the street. They were slowly changing lanes when a state trooper tried to wave them down. Hillerman ordered the driver full steam ahead, and they passed the red-faced officer without incident. Within seconds, they were turning onto the service road and barreling north again at seventy kilometers per hour. Five kilometers out and they were able to use their walkie-talkies, although they still had no cell phone service. Brady called from B-3 to let him know that the AIs seemed fine and that they weren't the only people with an escape plan. There were at least nine vehicles bringing up B-3's rear, content to let the buses take any head winds. Brady wondered if they should try to lose them. Hillerman replied "no" because they might prove useful later.

His assessment was soon proven to be accurate.

The now twelve-vehicle convoy was able to travel about ten more kilometers before they had to stop. The 'road' that they had been traveling on was apparently just an old cattle trail. And now there was scrub brush piled as high as a man blocking most of it. Old fence posts with barbed wire still attached were weaved through the mound, seriously complicating things. It was going to be a time-consuming effort to set things right.

The convoy stopped and everyone began to emerge from their vehicles and gather in the road around Hillerman and Brady in concentric circles. Don Daley, one of the civilian runners, climbed down from his dusty Mack truck and joined the innermost ring, next to Broussard. He pointed out several manhole-sized potholes.

"Maybe we should go around? Cut over to the interstate?" he asked.

Lieutenant Brady surveyed the scene. Both sides of the trail sloped steeply upwards, forming a large gulley with the broken road. "It's best to stay on the trail for now. It's hiding us from any troopers who might be cruising nearby."

The trucker became antsy. "How long you think it'll take?"

"Not long, if we get everybody involved," Brady answered.

Daley began to move. "Let's get busy then."

Hillerman became suspicious. "Apart from the obvious, what's the rush?"

Daly was to the point. "I'm carrying a live load."

Every head turned to stare at the semi's long trailer.

"You mind telling us what or who?" Hillerman asked.

"Gators."

Brady whipped off his sunglasses. "As in 'alli'-gators?"

Daly grinned. "'Yup. Got fifty of 'em in water crates. Going to a sanctuary in Texas."

Hillerman shook his head in disbelief. "Just when you think you've heard it all." He took the lieutenant aside. "We can dismantle some of the armor plating from a bus, set them on top of those holes. The Rangers probably have some tools we can use. Can you check it out?"

A couple of men in shorts and oily faces were listening in. One of them was obviously not happy with the prospect of performing manual labor.

"Tom, this is getting to be a bit much. Let's just go through the inspection, 'kay?"

"You do what you want," Tom's partner replied. "I'm not letting any of those fascists touch my car!"

His partner gaped at him. "We're both paying for the damn thing. Since when is it 'your' car?"

The two men stomped back to a sleek Peugeot and continued bickering.

A slender woman with two young children clutching the hem of her skirt stepped forward. "We'll help you, mister," she volunteered as she fanned herself with a piece of cardboard. "We've got nothing better to do."

Daley gave her a thumbs-up.

Three additional civilians pledged their assistance, and one hour and much backbreaking work later the convoy was moving again. The trail resumed being a regular road and they made good time. Hillerman estimated that they were no more than seventy kilometers from the Illinois border. The overall mood was elevated.

However, fifteen minutes into the drive they were stopped again. The vehicles were parked in a helter-skelter pattern, and everyone shuffled out again, dispirited, to survey the situation.

The cattle trail had simply vanished. Heaps of fallen trees and unchecked growth now choked any further passage by man or beast. Everyone climbed out of the gulley and onto level ground. Twenty-odd meters on the right side of the road the land leveled out somewhat to a relatively virgin landscape. They were now faced with the prospect of moving the vehicles over open and unworked fields. I-24 could be seen clearly from their vantage point. And vice versa.

Everyone gathered around in a comfort circle again. As before, Hillerman and Brady made up the nucleus.

"At least the traffic's gone," Tara pointed out. And it was true. The interstate was bare.

Hillerman whipped out his phone and punched in a number.

After a few vacant seconds, he announced, "No service still." He looked around. There was a twenty-meter high cell phone tower within spitting distance, mocking them.

Brady was professional enough to not ask the obvious. How? The situation was becoming worrisome. Hillerman disappeared inside B-1. He returned several minutes later and then briefed the group. "All right. Here's the situation. We're still about fifty kilometers from the border. We can do it the easy way and get back on the highway, or we can keep going the way we are, without a clear road."

"We'll be out in the open if we take the highway," Brady added. "I don't believe the US-AS will give us any trouble, but there are highway bandits in these parts. And they can be a handful."

Hillerman hooked his thumbs onto his belt loops. "So, let's take a vote. Who wants to stay the current course?"

There were maybe eight or nine raised hands.

"Who's for taking the highway in?"

Thirty-five hands shot up, including everyone from Lincoln Hills.

Hillerman favored the normally cautious group with a look of mild surprise.

Chang caught it. "We've got too much friction out here; the interstate is the way to go."

"Okay. The highway has the votes. Let's get going. We want to be in Illinois before it gets dark."

As the others disbanded, Don Daley approached him.

"I retired out of the Air Force. I can smell military a kilometer away."

Hillerman squirted tobacco juice from the side of his mouth. "What's your point?"

"I've seen what can happen on the road these days. Bad things." The trucker's eyes locked onto the major's. "If we run into trouble, can you get us through?"

"Depends upon their firepower. But we'll give 'em hell."

Daley thrust out his chin. "That's good enough for me. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

As soon as Daley left, Derek and Tara walked up and asked to speak with him in private. Broussard was with them. The three of them walked the short distance to the rear of B-1.

The two young agents were looking a little worn around the edges. Hillerman surmised that they were feeling the unrelenting stress of performing under quickly changing situations. They were new and no doubt having trouble taking the sharp turns that the war and the DAT program were throwing at them. Still. He was chafing under the weight of being responsible for everyone's peace of mind. They would have to work it out for themselves. He wiped his dripping brow.

"What's on your minds?" he asked in as positive a voice as he could muster.

"The DATs are getting kind of antsy," Derek said. "They've been cooped up for hours now."

"Well, that's understandable," Hillerman replied evenly.

Tara smiled at him hopefully. "Is it possible to let them out to stretch their legs some?"

"I'm sorry," Hillerman answered. "We've got twenty-odd civilians here. They can't see the DATs."

"We understand," Derek said quickly. "But we think the heat is affecting them."

"Affecting them how?"

Broussard spoke up. "Their comms are scrambling."

Hillerman's mouth settled into a straight line. "It could be something else. We believe the AS is still disrupting communication. Their jamming device could be screwing with their LEDs."

"Maybe," the engineer replied. "But apart from structural injury, external heat is their biggest enemy."

"What do you suggest?" Hillerman asked.

"Let them out for fifteen minutes or so. Power them down. Let them cool off."

"Excuse me, but what if one of the civvies sees them? We don't have enough trank for all of 'em."

"We'll cordon them off."

"Out here? In the middle of nowhere?"

"Well—" Derek began,

Hillerman cut him off.

"We can't risk it. Tell them that they can come out in about an hour when it's safe. In the meantime, crank up the AC."

"It's barely working now," Broussard explained.

Hillerman sighed. "Listen, folks, I apologize for not giving you the answers you seem to want to hear—"

But Tara was insistent. "Just for a few minutes—"

"No!" Hillerman shouted angrily at her. The female agent jumped. "Now start acting like the professionals you're supposed to be and get back to your posts!" He turned on Broussard. "Are you finished?"

Broussard plastered on a neutral expression. "Think so."

"Good," Hillerman snapped. "Come with me. I need your help with something." He strode back in the direction of the main group.

Broussard gave the two agents an empathetic look and then reluctantly followed.

The two CIA agents considered their surroundings. With the exception of a few random shale formations and clumps of bush, the landscape remained unremarkable. Derek picked up a smooth rock and chucked it against a bigger rock. "Well, we tried."

Tara watched from a distance as Hillerman conducted an impromptu conference with the civilian contingent. Neal Broussard stood at his side. "Why is he so angry?"

Derek swatted at a mosquito. "Who knows? He's old. And old people are unhappy people."

"I hate old people," she responded absently. "And Neal is useless. Why is he even here?"

Derek noisily yawned. "The DATs like him, I guess."

Tara pointed her face towards the sky. "Eric can't stand him."

Derek snorted. "Eric can't stand anyone."

"This is true." She batted her eyes. "But he absolutely adores moi!"

"That's because you're the only 'moi' who'll date him."

She sighed happily. "This is also true."

A swarm of golden fireflies appeared from the west, heading directly towards them. Derek watched them become flecks of pulsing light and then disappear. "Gosh, I haven't seen one of those since I was kid. And never in daylight."

Tara cranked her neck around to loosen stiffened muscles. "Those aren't fireflies. Fireflies are blue or green."

Derek absently pitched another rock. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." She ran her fingers through her lank hair. "We should get back to the AIs. Let them know what's happening. You coming?"

Derek fired off another rock. It zinged against a boulder, making a loud cracking noise. "Do I have a choice?"

The two agents started walking back to the others.

"So how do you like this assignment so far?" Tara asked.

"Not much," Derek admitted. "This scenario was more interesting in Battle Manual Pro." Battle Manual Pro was an interactive video/holographic training game that simulated the most time-tested forms of personal, group, and national combat tactics. All CIA personnel above Level Three clearance were required to undergo the six-month course. Most of its graduates considered it to be a lot of fun for hardcore gamers, but a complete waste of time for agents facing actual battle situations.

Tara flicked her hair back. "We trained on Battle Man Pro, too. But it sure is different when you're one of the human grunts. You lose your top-down perspective."

Derek chortled, "But what you gain is your save-my-ass perspective, which is a lot more useful out here."

Tara made an unpleasant face. "Color me unimpressed. 'Out here' is overrated. I can't wait to get back to a desk and an endless supply of chai tea."

Derek sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. "Did you just fart?"

"What?"

"Something smells bad."

"Don't blame me. I don't pass gas. On rare occasions I queef, but that's not necessarily my fault—"

Another swarm of fireflies quickly approached and surrounded the two agents. Tara was about to make a comment when she suddenly went rigid.

Derek swiped the air with his sleeve. "What's the matter?"

Two small red circles bloomed over both of her eyebrows. Her mouth opened and she made a guttural "uh-uh-uh" sound. Then her eyes fluttered and her body fell knees first into the ground.

Derek rushed to her side. "Tara! What's wrong?" Her eyes and mouth were open. She convulsed once and then fell deathly still.

"Oh, my God! Help! Somebody help!!!"

Immediately various people began streaming over. The videographers arrived there first, already filming as they jockeyed for a clear shot of her. One of the Rangers pushed his way through and knelt down beside Tara. He felt for a pulse and then checked her breathing. "I'm a medic!" he shouted so that everyone could hear. "She's not breathing." He pointed directly to Palladino. "Grab my medical bag out of the bus!"

The Ranger hurried off at a fast clip while the medic began to perform CPR. Hillerman and Brady cornered the shaken Derek. One of the cameramen forced himself into the scene and began filming.

"What happened?" Hillerman wanted to know.

"I don't know. One minute we were talking and the next she was out cold."

An obese woman in spandex edged in closer to get a better look. The two men from the Peugeot stood nearby, hands hovering in front of their mouths with alternating childish glee and adult horror. The mom with the two children stood slightly apart from them.

"Mom, look!" One of the children spoke excitedly. "Lightning bugs!"

Another wave of fireflies streamed by fast overhead. Two or three people noticed. Someone made the comment that they looked like pieces of gold. One of the fliers suddenly lost altitude and landed on the rather large handbag hanging from the mom's shoulder. A tiny puff of smoke appeared as a hole about five centimeters in diameter opened up beneath it. Hillerman, who had been watching, stepped in to get a closer look.

"Dammit," he growled. His arms shot up high. "Everybody! Hit the deck!"

Those standing nearby merely looked at him. Brady quickly surmised the seriousness of their situation. He rushed over to the bystanders and shoved Daly so hard that the trucker pinballed off of the couple riding in the Peugeot. "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! GET ON THE GROUND!"

That got everyone's attention. Bodies went careening everywhere as people sought cover in the dirt.

Now there were more fireflies. Only these were bigger and on a lower trajectory. Brady and Hillerman dove for cover beneath an outcropping of rock. Hillerman, the bigger man, could only shield part of his body.

The yellow lights were passing through the air in a broad band one meter off the ground. A cluster of them passed through both of Hillerman's arms. In a split second, his face became an extraordinary rictus of pain, but the soldier still had the presence of mind to drop face first into the dirt to keep from being hit again.

Brady ducked down farther behind the boulder, still yelling loudly. "EVERYBODY GET DOWN! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!!!"

Suddenly the place was a riot of shrieks of pain and terror as the projectiles filled the air around them. Oxygen molecules popped and sizzled. Vehicles took direct hits. Windows exploded out of their frames. Tiny fires danced and skidded over the tops of cars like live creatures. Another person was struck and a loud scream went up, nearly blotting out the others. Someone began to babble a prayer.

The sun began its descent towards the horizon.

Broussard had been hiding behind Don Daley's cab, but when a barrage of the tiny missiles began to strike near its fuel tanks, he ducked and rolled in the dirt until he reached B-2's undercarriage. He was too startled by what was happening to be as terrified as he should have been.

Lieutenant Colonel Palladino was suddenly right beside him, yelling and gesticulating wildly towards B-1. Another swarm of fireflies was passing over it. "The AIs! They're still locked inside the bus!"

Broussard's heart sank. Whoever was firing was now doing so at will, and it would just be a matter of time before the bus began to take direct hits.

Suddenly there came a deafening cacophony of pop-pop-pop-pop-pop coming from the opposite direction as hundreds of rounds of blazing bullets were pumped out along B-1's horizontal axis. Broussard's head spun around. Two or three Rangers had managed to reach the bus's machine guns and were sitting on them with deadly intensity. The side of the bus blazed with incandescent clouds of ignited gunpowder.

Palladino made a fist. "YES!"

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, the tires beneath B-1 exploded and the bus sagged to its knees. Something struck Broussard's right arm. He looked down and saw a bright yellow lozenge sizzling its way into his flesh. He tried to brush it off, but it had already wriggled completely inside his arm. A thunderclap of pain wracked his entire body, and he sprayed vomit into the air.

Then someone tugged at his good arm and dragged him off just as another cluster of projectiles hit the spot where he had just been. Light seemed to explode everywhere in tight clusters, setting the bus on fire. The engineer was too weak to do anything but be pulled along the rough terrain, and be grateful that he had avoided being in the crossfire. He felt himself suddenly falling and then the motion stopped. The scene went fuzzy and then fell completely out of focus. He glanced up and then around. He was on his back staring up at the gulley's eastern wall. His rescuer had dropped him back into the cattle trail.

"Are you all right?" Z asked.

Broussard felt his stomach spasm. He hurriedly sat up, but this time it was a spell of dry heaves. When he felt somewhat better he brushed the drying vomit from his chin. "I guess so." He coughed some. "Thanks. I owe you one."

Z nodded. He looked up at the sky. A full moon wheeled itself into view. "We're losing daylight."

Broussard quickly examined his injured arm. The only indication that something had occurred there was a small red spiral of raised flesh. He pinched the flesh around it and that dulled the burning sensation by a hair. "The DATs. They're still on the bus. We need to get them out."

"But those buses have shielding. Wouldn't they be safer inside?"

Broussard clutched his injured arm as a wave of invisible fire propagated itself up and down the length of his arm. The pain was unbelievable. "We took some of the armor off, remember?"

"Which bus?"

Neither of them was thinking straight.

"Z, I don't know! Just get over there and get them out of there. And get them past those civilians and into that truck." He was pointing towards Daley's rig. "They'll be safer behind corrugated steel. BUT DRAIN THOSE FUEL TANKS FIRST!"

"Okay! I will! You stay here!"

Broussard nodded. What else could he do? His mind began to race in ten different directions. As soon as Z was out of sight, Broussard dragged himself up and out of the trail. Keeping close to the ground, he inched his way back to B-1. It wasn't that he did not trust Z to safely relocate the DATs; it was just that he did not believe the slight scientist could successfully complete the task by himself.

The air was still and clear, and there was no discernible movement from the highway that he could detect. Had the attack stopped or were they simply reloading? He pushed the question from his mind. He had work to do, and worry would just slow him down. He stole a look around. People were either dead, faking death, injured, or still in hiding. It felt like he had been suddenly transported to the yard back at Lincoln Hills. Just like then, his stress levels were through the roof. He finally reached the bus. Tara was still lying on the ground where the Ranger had been working on her. He crawled up close and confirmed his worst fears. The young agent was dead. She was unmarked except for two identical swirls on her forehead. Their pattern reminded him of the burns made from old-fashioned cigarette lighters. Her hazel eyes were still open. Staring up. He turned away. He couldn't bring himself to close them.

Through a broken window he could hear Brady and Z talking from inside the bus. Good, he thought. Hopefully they would be able to get the DATs out before the next attack. Hillerman popped up from behind a still-smoking pickup truck parked off to the side. The major ran and then skidded towards him as if he were tagging home plate. He stopped just short of Broussard's legs.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's gone," Broussard told him.

The major's face fell. "That's too bad."

"Can you help me get her into one of the buses? I don't want Eric to see this."

"No." It was then that Broussard noticed the major's arms dangling lifelessly at his sides.

Broussard's heart sank even farther. "Christ."

The survivors began stirring and moving around them. He looked down. Tara was still in the same lifeless position, presenting him with yet another corpse to dispose of. And once again his life was being imperiled by events completely out of his control. Snarling Death was still chasing him from pillar to post. It had to stop.

"So who's trying to kill us?" Broussard asked.

"Don't know. Could be the US-AS. Could be a highway gang."

"What kind of weapon is this?"

Hillerman didn't have an answer. Danger-filled time dragged on. Then...

"It's pretty quiet," Broussard said. And it still was. The entire area was improbably peaceful. "You think they've moved on?"

"Don't know that either. The Rangers are on their way to find out."

The major bobbed his head west. Half a dozen dark figures were scrambling on their bellies west, towards the interstate.

Broussard watched them disappear into a dip in the land. "You think they'll be okay?"

"Are you asking if they'll root these guys out? They're top notch men." Hillerman's jaws clenched tight. "They'll do their best. Either way, we've got Plan B in the works."

"What's Plan B?" Broussard asked as another wave of pain began to gain momentum in his wounded arm.

"Remember the falcon?"

Broussard clutched himself. His mind was glued to the fire coursing through his right arm. The hurt seemed to ratchet itself up a bit every few seconds. The agony peaked and then subsided. Sweat began to pour out of him.

He heard Hillerman's voice. "Take a deep breath."

Broussard sucked down air as the soldier watched. With both arms out of commission, he wondered how the major was able to stay so calm. And what was he talking about? "Come again?"

"The falcon in Chicago."

Broussard remembered.

"She's a messenger falcon. Based out of Scott. I cut her loose back at the truck stop."

The throbbing in his arm let up by a tiny fraction, allowing him to access more memory. "Her name was Plahnbie," Broussard said. And then it dawned on him. "Plan B! You think she can make it in time?"

"Scott is only about three hundred kilometers from here. Yeah, I believe she can." Major Hillerman looked ready to cry.

"Do we have anything for pain?" Broussard asked.

"The medic left us some medical supplies. We've got a few shots of morphine."

"Where?"

"They're in his medical bag on B-2."

"You stay here. I'll send someone back with a shot for you and some help with Tara."

"Then where are you going?" Hillerman asked.

Broussard flushed with sudden anger. "I'm not going to escape, if that's what you're thinking. I've got to make sure that the kids are all right."

Hillerman managed to look confused in spite of his burning arms. "Whose kids?"

"Ours! The DATs!"

Hillerman became angry and bellowed, "Now's not the time to lose your damn mind, Broussard!"

Broussard rose unsteadily to his feet. "Stay put!" He stooped over and half-ran back through the ragged line of parked vehicles.

Broussard had been gone for three minutes when Derek appeared out of the near darkness, his dirty face streaked with tracks of dried tears. He had a hypodermic needle in one hand and a heavy jacket in the other. The young agent administered a shot of morphine to Major Hillerman and then turned his attention to Tara. While Hillerman waited for the drug to take effect, he watched as Derek spread the jacket open and respectfully lay it across the dead agent's head and upper torso.

Afterwards, he gave Hillerman a hard, vengeful look. "You think it's US-AS?"

Hillerman nodded. "They want to know why we ran and what we're carrying."

"You think our cover's been blown?"

Hillerman felt his stomach heave, and he turned away to regurgitate his breakfast. "Sorry." He rubbed his wet chin against his shoulder. "No idea. But this type of operation seems out of proportion to the situation."

"The DATs can't be taken," Derek said evenly.

"I know."

"ATTENTION!"

Hillerman and Derek both jumped. The voice was coming from the now live cell phone clipped to the major's belt. Derek's cell phone started to vibrate.

"ATTENTION, PLEASE. THIS IS A DULY-APPOINTED REPRESENTATIVE OF THE KENTUCKY STATE MILITARY. PLEASE MOVE AWAY FROM YOUR VEHICLES WITH YOUR HANDS UP. YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MINUTES TO COMPLY."

The owner of a decrepit camper truck stuck his grayed head out of the driver's side window and hollered, "Hey! I think some feller's talking to us on my radio! And this sucker ain't worked in years!"

"Answer your phone," Hillerman told Derek.

Derek did as he was told. As soon as he activated it, the same message repeated itself over the device's tinny speaker.

The sun sank, draining the all-important ambient light from their surroundings.

Derek shut down his phone. "What's going on?"

Hillerman's voice was grim. "It's the Advance South and they're using a VOR."

"A what?" Derek asked, plainly frightened.

"Tekkies call it the voice-of-reason. It allows you to send a signal on any frequency. It was just a rumor—"

"ATTENTION! THIS IS MAJOR MARK BERMAN OF THE UNITED STATES-ADVANCE SOUTH ARMY. YOU ARE TRESSPASSING ON FOREIGN SOIL. PLEASE STEP AWAY FROM YOUR VEHICLES AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. YOU HAVE FOURTEEN MINUTES TO COMPLY WITH THIS ORDER."

This time the voice seemed to emanate from the air itself, as if it were being broadcast via subwoofers mounted on low-hanging clouds.

"LOOK!" someone shouted. "ON THE HIGHWAY!"

Interstate 24, previously devoid of life, now supported a line of identical vehicles parked perpendicular to the highway. All of the vehicles were facing east. And them.

A woman started to whimper like a whipped dog.

Hillerman twisted so that his tool belt was exposed. "Derek, grab the binocs and tell me what you see. Keep low!"

Derek did as he was told. He quickly counted fifty Abrahms tanks, each one sporting a 120mm smoothbore canon and four coaxial guns. On top of the turrets flew a small Advance South flag. As dusk crept in further, tiny lights appeared beneath the flags so that they remained visible in the encroaching darkness.

As Derek relayed what he was seeing, Hillerman became angry. "The bastards. Help me up!" Derek moved behind the major and pushed him up from the rear without touching the man's wounded arms.

Hillerman got to his feet. "Come on! We got twelve minutes to get the hell out of here."

"How?" Derek asked with a helpless tone. "They got everything." It appeared that he was correct. Two-thirds of the windows and tires on practically every vehicle had been destroyed. Hillerman's eyes traveled south. An older model motor home stood upright by itself, all visible tires intact. From where they stood it looked to be in working condition.

"We go in that RV."

"We can't all fit inside there!"

"Well, we're gonna have to! Rip out what we don't need!"

"Right." But the agent sounded unsure. "I need to take a break first."

Hillerman's eyes bugged. "Say again?"

"I need to make a phone call."

Hillerman fought to remain calm. "Son, if you do as I ordered, I'll forget what you just said. If not, then as soon as I'm able I'm gonna shoot you."

Now it was the CIA agent's turn to have bulging eyes. "Uh, okay."

"Hell, man. Weren't you trained in crisis management?"

Derek looked flustered and then outright confused. "What?"

Hillerman rolled his eyes in disgust. "Never mind."

"Okay. I'll get started on the RV."

"But first thing, get Tara's body out of sight. I don't want anyone coming up on it by surprise."

Derek looked pained. "You're thinking about leaving her here?"

"We can't take her. Not now. Once we get back to Illinois we'll send for her. I promise."

There was a minor commotion behind them, some urgent, garbled conversation, and then Don Daley went striding past them, headed towards the highway.

"I SURRENDER!" he shouted into the blankness. "DON'T SHOOT!"

He had taken off his shirt and tee-shirt and tied it to the end of a car antenna. His hands were held high as he made his way out of camp and out onto the open field. In short order, he was followed by the couple from the silver Peugeot, the woman with the two small children, and the geezer from the camper. Each one was waving some sort of makeshift white flag high enough for the US-AS soldiers to see.

"Good. That'll buy us some time." Hillerman looked in the direction that the six Rangers had taken. "May God help us now."

Derek left to carry out Hillerman's instructions while the major rejoined what was left of the convoy. Miraculously, the entire Redstone team was intact and had sustained only minor injuries. The remainder of the civilians had either run deeper into the eastern brambles or given themselves up.

Hillerman spoke quickly. "The plan is to get everyone in that RV over there and keep heading north, lights off, until either help arrives or we reach the border." The flaws in that plan were too obvious to state, so everyone kept their mouths shut.

"Roger and I will move the DATs," Herschel volunteered.

"What about the lab?" Walters asked.

"Forget it," Hillerman replied crisply.

"Anybody seen Tara?" Powell asked.

"She's helping one of the injured civvies," Hillerman lied. "Eric, you and Neal assist the Rangers in grabbing as many guns off B-1." He scanned their faces. "Everybody clear?"

The men looked ready to jump into action. Only Z remained rooted to where he stood. He sniffed the air like an old Indian tracker. "Wait."

There was a loud explosion in the west. Every person instinctively flung himself to the ground. A big ball of angry fire and smoke blossomed directly behind the enemy tanks. Two follow-up blasts—larger than the first—blasted three of the tanks into the highway bed. As they merrily burned, terrible screams emanated from the Advance South front. And then everything went dark and quiet.

Brady raised his head and shoulders to take in the scene. He crawled over to where Hillerman lay.

"Looks like we got 'em," he said cautiously.

Hillerman looked across the way. He could see a couple dozen US-AS soldiers scrambling to put out the fires. "Not all of them. Those Rangers bought us a little more time, that's all. They'll be wanting payback soon."

And they did not have to wait long for it to arrive.

Within seconds, they were under heavy machine gun fire. Either the blasts by the Rangers had put their cannons out of commission, or they weren't quite ready to pound them into the ground. Hillerman and the others flattened themselves to the ground. Several pairs of laser sightings became visible. They intersected each other with quick, jerking movements, searching for flesh. Before they had a chance to lock in on their targets, an Army Ranger planted himself and an M-32X grenade launcher beside B-2 and squeezed off nine shots. Five of them hit their marks, and once again the US-AS line erupted into rapacious flames and psychological chaos.

A string of cluster bombs rose up above the fray like a thrown rope of pearls, perversely lovely, until they landed and disintegrated several targets below.

Eight or nine flares were launched somewhere behind the US-AS front, illuminating the entire line. ... And something else.

Directly behind the enemy soldiers now stood a machine. It was difficult to tell exactly what it was, only that it was solid ... and as tall as a skyscraper.

The men from Redstone watched these extraordinary events unfolding before them, transfixed and unmoving. Even when large, flaming hunks of metal debris flew towards them, they remained where they stood. It was Bautista, galvanized by a zenith of terror, who realized what was happening: They were going into shock. He ran up to each of them, shouting, "GET TO THE RV!" And then he would shove them hard in their chests. It worked. Soon everyone was scrambling for the RV.

Another series of explosions, five times as powerful as the first, rocked the ground, followed by ear-splitting shrieks of jet engines. The men could not help but look back. In the spotty light, they witnessed two flying silhouettes leaving the battle scene at high speeds, headed north. While their eyes tried to follow them, one more phantom flew out of the billowing smoke and shot directly over them like a bullet, passing approximately thirty meters above the ground.

"THEY'RE DRONES!" Brady hollered. "EVERYBODY GET INSIDE!"

When he thought everyone was in the RV, Brady silently did a quick head count. Everyone was accounted for.

"Lew, you gonna hot wire the ignition?" Bautista asked.

"I've got the keys." With a hand caked in blood, he held up a key ring.

Chang squeezed in between Hillerman and Bautista. "Were those Advance South drones?"

Hillerman shook his head. "Don't know."

"They were aiming for those soldiers, not us," Kuiper said.

"It doesn't mean they're on our side."

The implication was sobering. Only Roger seemed to take offense at the suggestion. "I'm sorry, but road gangs aren't that sophisticated."

Hillerman grunted. "We hope."

Brady inserted the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing.

"Battery?" Bautista asked.

"I don't think so. The lights work." He tried the ignition again. Nothing.

Brady jumped out of the vehicle, popped the hood, and looked inside. When he returned, his expression told the story. "Engine's been shot clean through."

Chang rushed up. "We use something else. That semi."

"No gas. Z and Roger drained the tanks."

"Then we siphon the fuel from this one and put it in the semi."

Chang's eyes were misting over. "We don't have the keys for the trailer. The cab only rides three people."

Another blast of jet engine noise assaulted them, growing incredibly fast, and then—BAM! It was right on top of them. With help from the moonlight, Hillerman kept his eyes trained on the skies. The three drones made another pass, closer this time. Close enough for Hillerman to see the three red, white, and blue ID beacons flashing on their underbellies.

Hillerman whooped with joy. "THOSE ARE OUR PONIES!"

The planes switched to their afterburners to gain altitude.

Hillerman's feet were stomping of their own accord. "GENTLEMEN, THE CALVARY HAS ARRIVED!" He shoved his head out a window and roared like a teenager, "GO, BABY, GO!"

Everybody crowded around the RV's windows to watch. They could make out the three drones working in formation as they swung around for another pass. Coming out of the east at about five hundred kilometers an hour, they led their charge against the enemy with a punishing strafe on the US-AS tanks with their nose guns. Interstate 24 was obliterated. The drones then dropped their payloads—a single bomb—dead center on the great object behind the AS line, and then streaked straight up and disappeared from view for good.

"Shit," Hillerman muttered. "GET DOWN!"

There was a blinding flash of light followed by the cataclysmic sound of a thousand sonic booms.

A mushroom cloud with the same terrifying signature as a hydrogen bomb's death cap pulled itself up from the ensuing inferno, supported by twin columns of fried air from the earth's boiling floor ... stretching up and up until it towered at least two kilometers above the earth's floor. For twenty seconds it was as bright as daylight on the Kentucky plains.

The first shockwave struck the RV and punched it sideways for almost a kilometer, cutting a wide swath through the brush. Miraculously, it never became airborne or subject to a collision with anything larger than a rock.

As soon as the vehicle had come to a stop, the second shock wave hit them, smacking the RV again and sending it skidding another two hundred meters across the rough terrain. Everyone inside was rendered unconscious.

They began to come to an hour later. Brady, who sustained a bad gash to the forehead, did another head count and reported to Hillerman in sheer amazement that not only had everyone survived the ride across the prairie, but once again there had been no serious injuries, only a few bruises and scrapes.

The motor coach had landed on its side, hiked up against the base of a lone hill. Its body was covered in dents and deep scratches, but the walls and all of the tires were intact and firm.

The team climbed out through the exposed driver's side door and sat down in a small clearing nearby to discuss the situation and vet their options. It was nearly nine o'clock. During the meeting, Derek gave Hillerman and Broussard generous shots of morphine. The badly wounded major managed to fall asleep while Broussard remained alert.

It was Bautista who asked the one question that had been secretly haunting them all.

"Did we just set off a nuclear bomb?"

Z, who was staunching the flow of blood from a cut on his cheek with a handkerchief, answered it. "No. They're illegal according to the Denver Pact. Most likely hybrid blue-junior bombs."

"Blue-junior bombs?" Roger asked.

"Bunker busters streamlined for a drone. Sometimes they cap those with a low-yield nuclear warhead for that razzle-dazzle. I can only imagine that the large object that we saw was some sort of Advance South machine and that the guns determined it to be too large a threat."

"You think it worked?" Herschel asked.

"I believe it worked."

"But why? Why did they send so much firepower for us? Even if they thought we were smuggling weapons or food, that would be a police action."

Z shook his head. "That I do not know."

"You think they know about the DATs?" Roger asked.

Z wiped some blood out of his eye. "Again, I do not know."

The AIs were sitting nearby. David's comm began to glow. "$ are we =***."

Brady deliberately ignored him. "Folks, let's move forward. Agreed?"

Everyone agreed.

"Here's my take on what should happen next. We're still about fifty kilometers from the border. Trying to walk there is probably a bad idea for a couple of reasons. The clock is still working against us and we've got wounded. Why don't we get the RV back on its wheels and see if the DATs can pull us out of here?"

Herschel cocked his head to one side. "You mean like sled dogs?"

"Exactly like sled dogs. We strip the RV, make it as light as possible, put only necessary personnel inside, and then away we go. Those who can jog along will get short rides every couple kilometers or so."

Roger made a face. "Lieutenant, how fast do you think we'll be going?"

"Oh, maybe twenty clicks per hour."

"That's not fast enough."

"Sorry, but that's what we got. You got a better idea?"

"Yes," the engineer replied. "Two of us go back to the cattle trail and scope things out. Maybe that semi rode out the blast. We'll siphon gas from another car. Hotwire it. If we can get the trailer open, we could all ride in that. It would be a lot faster."

Brady turned to Z. "What about it, Z? Is it safe to go back there?"

"No," the physicist replied. "It won't be entirely safe for quite some time. But ... "

That was all the Roger needed to hear. He tagged Herschel. "Let's go. We can't wait for optimal conditions." He pulled out his phone. Once again it was not working. The other phones were dead as well, but the walkie-talkies were operational.

Bautista examined three cell phones. "The bomb probably took out all the towers for kilometers."

Brady was staring off in the distance. "I'm thinking that we should maintain a course of north-northeast. Right through those two tree lines. The ground looks fairly level for the next ten kilometers."

Kuiper looked unhappy. "The talkies have a range of sixty kilometers. Why not call Redstone? Have them send out a rescue party."

Brady's expression was stony. "Koop, we're behind enemy lines. Planning a manned rescue operation takes time. We could be waiting for days."

The scientist exploded. "That is completely unsatisfactory! You get Fields on the line right now!"

Brady sighed. "I'll ask Mr. Chang to make the call. He's the direct liaison."

"You do that!" the scientist snapped.

Herschel stepped into the conversation stream. "In the meantime, we try for the truck, right?"

Kuiper begrudgingly gave his consent.

"Okay. Give us one hour, there and back. We'll call you if we find it."

Brady and the others nodded.

"Wait." Broussard was awkwardly punching in numbers into his calculator watch with his good left hand.

"If the truck has been destroyed, then all we've got is the RV here. If we get the DATs commanded into seventh gear, we can cut our time to the border almost in half."

Kuiper's face brightened considerably. "Then please give them the command."

"I could, but with their comms screwed up, I wouldn't be able to definitively confirm that they had received it. And we could find ourselves in an even bigger mess."

The air went out of the group.

Broussard thwarted their disappointment. "In order to do it right, I'm going to need to give them commands from the mobile mission control."

"Neal, those computers were on the bus," Brady said. "There's no way they could have survived."

"The casings on that equipment are made of titanium, basically what you'd find in a jetliner's black box. If they didn't suffer too much damage, they should be viable."

"Great. But what about your arm?" Roger asked with genuine concern. "Can you keep up?"

"I'll do my best."

Broussard, Roger, and Herschel looked to Lieutenant Brady for approval.

It was obvious that Brady was not endorsing their plan, but he gave them what they wanted. "All right. One hour. And each of you takes a walkie-talkie." He remembered something. "Oh, and see if you can find any cargo straps. We can use them to make the harnesses for the DATs. There might be some in the semi if you can get into it. And watch it. That guy said he was carrying a load of live alligators."

Herschel was tucking his loose shirt back into his pants. "Those 'gators have given up the ghost by now."

"No doubt, but be careful anyway."

Broussard nodded. "The straps are a good idea." He glanced around. "Anything else?"

Nobody responded.

"Okay, I guess we're off."

The three men struck out for Don Daley's big rig. The moon was directly overhead and throwing down enough light to allow them to follow the swath of scraped dirt and smashed brush that the RV had made as it was being swept across the fields. As they jogged along, Broussard complained about his wounded arm. After about a kilometer, he wondered aloud if he should not turn around and go back. Roger and Herschel were at the point of agreeing with him when they came upon the silver Peugeot, twisted into a tragic figure eight, and then the shredded cab section of the Daley's Mack truck. Broussard scrambled inside the innards of the cab, rooted around its various busted compartments, and then produced a flask of brandy. "I saw this earlier." He twisted off its cap and poured the bottle's contents down his throat. The three men waited while the alcohol settled into his belly. The Lincoln Hills engineer made a thumbs-up sign. "Better."

They hurried on and soon came upon the final resting place of what appeared to be the remainders of the transport vehicles.

Two of the buses, minus most of their roofs, lay in the dust nearby like beached whales. The Mack's trailer was buried in about thirty centimeters of dirt and listing starboard. It had sustained surprisingly little damage from either the AS attack or the knockbacks from the bombs.

Gales of heavy dust blew in from the west from time to time, partially obscuring the landscape.

Herschel, who had been running hard in the lead, stopped to catch his breath. "I'll see if I can get inside the trailer, look for straps. Roger, see if you can find any water or food. We're still a long way from home. Neal, you've got search and rescue duty for mission control. Use your radio when it's absolutely necessary. Somebody could still be monitoring us."

The three men spread out. Herschel headed for the trailer's carcass. He received a pleasant surprise when he walked around to the rear doors. Either the bomb's blast or the fast ride over the ground after the blast had somehow unhinged the steel door's thick locking system, leaving the two doors free to hang wide open.

The engineer poked his head inside and then quickly pulled away.

"Hey! Come here! There's something moving!"

Broussard and Roger came running.

"Alligators?" Roger asked.

Herschel stepped back inside the trailer's black maw. A thin flashlight beam appeared and played around the interior. "Yeah," he called back. "A couple of the crates popped open. They're loose. Are these guys man-eaters?"

Roger and Broussard looked at each other.

"Don't know," Roger answered. "My advice is to avoid them."

The flashlight's beam flicked in wide semicircles.

"Pay dirt!"

Herschel appeared at the doors, draped in red nylon ropes. "I found some straps."

Loud hissing noises rose up behind him.

"Wow," Roger said. "How big are they?"

Herschel hopped down. "Big enough." He took out his phone and made a note of the trailer's coordinates. "We'll let Redstone know when we get back. They won't last too much longer out here."

Herschel and Roger pushed the trailer's doors closed and wrote, "WARNING! LIVE CARGO: ALLIGATORS" on both of them with a felt tip pen. The three men then split up again.

Broussard walked westward, towards ground zero. He found B-3 approximately ninety meters later. The winds had split it into two pieces, one of them upside down. He found a stout piece of tree branch nearby and gingerly stepped into the ragged fringes leading to the rear of the bus, using the stick to poke and push at the pieces of solid debris that were in his path. Large sections of torn metal fanged out at him from all directions. It more closely resembled a cheap Hollywood monster than a lowly passenger bus. He slowly made his way to where the lab should have been. There, mashed in one corner was the familiar blue console with the racing stripes. He found half of it untouched and exposed. Much to his astonishment, it was the half that he needed. He pushed aside an upended bench seat out of the way. That was when his luck ran out. The console computer's keyboard had been ripped from its moorings and hopelessly wedged between a crushed portion of the console itself and a piece of the armor plating which had been bent over it at a ninety-degree angle. One or two millimeters separated the three objects, not enough space to insert a finger or a knife or anything else. He looked around for something stronger that he might use to pry the keyboard loose with. He found nothing. Something caught his attention. There were large, ugly brown stains all over the bus's walls. Something made him reach out and touch one. It was very cold and slick. Engine residue?

He worried the keyboard a little bit more and then gave up. It was hopeless. His last reserves of energy were dwindling.

His mind wandered off. For some reason it parked itself at a memory that he had not accessed in a decade. It was right after the graduation ceremony at college, and Uncle Curtis and an assortment of vague cousins were feting him at the Red Lobster. Uncle Curtis had made an awkward toast and then slipped him a wrinkled fifty-dollar bill, his large eyes full of emotion. "I tried to get the bank to give me a new one, but they wouldn't."

He could see his uncle standing there in his mind's eye, the bill in his outstretched hand, just as clearly as day.

I should just leave.

He slid down the side of a cracked wall panel to rest on the bus's floor.

I should get out of here and find my family.

The truth was that he could now really escape. Neither Hillerman nor Brady was in a position to stop him. He could simply climb out of the bus and disappear. Only he couldn't go north; Chicago, the only functioning city for hundreds of kilometers, would eventually find a reason to execute him. He couldn't go east because that would take him past Hillerman and Brady and the remaining Ranger team. If he went south, he would be in Advance South territory for the next two states. And if he dared go west, he would run smack into the remnants of a nuclear bomb. I could run away, but how would I get there? He chuckled to himself: There were no easy freedoms in anarchy. He suspected that even those casting their lots with the Jack Law were ultimately going to run smack into a similarly bitter irony.

Oh, well...

He squinted his eyes against the shards of bright moonlight bouncing off the inside of the bus, somehow making the ubiquitous splotches on the walls even darker.

He thought about calling Roger and telling him the bad news. In spite of the alcohol dump, the burning in his arm was growing in strength, and he was having to squeeze it again as tightly as he could to keep the pain down. Perspiration poured from his body.

He pulled out his radio and thumbed the TALK button. As he leaned back and waited for the connection, he happened to catch one of the oil stains detach itself from the opposite wall and float towards him.

The radio flew out of his hand, and he flattened himself. The 'stain' drifted closer and thickened, as if becoming corporeal. Alive.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Wake up! Wake up! The thought blared its way through his brain.

When did I fall asleep?

Something cool—like tree shade in a hot summer sun—brushed up against his bad arm.

He started to hyperventilate.

I have to get out of here!!! His mind temporarily went haywire.

Tip-tap-tippity-tap.

Broussard's breath froze in mid-inhalation.

Tip-tap-tippity-tap-tappity-tip-tip.

Broussard forced his eyes open. The stain now hovered over the console next to him. The keys on the keyboard were moving slowly but with infinite surety.

Broussard whimpered and cursed his own existence.

Now the upper half of the thing slowly started to rotate towards him. Broussard instinctively knew what he would see ... scary, scary red glowing eyes ... not of this world ... burning with an alien intelligence forged in the infernal bowels of some alien Gehenna ...

With his good arm, he drew his tattered shirt across his face. Reality was about to waffle again, and he did not want to be a witness.

It spoke.

As he feared, the voice was not human.

"What is the password?"

The voice was impossibly deep and grating, like two asteroids grinding against each other.

Broussard was trembling so violently that his teeth began to chatter. Thin, whining sounds escaped his parched lips. "I've gone insane."

"Be that as it may, the password, please."

As if by some unseen force, his mouth moved of its own accord. "Rosebud. All lower case."

"Thank you."

Tip-tap-tippity-tap-tappity-tip-tip.

"The command to engage seventh gear has been given and confirmed."

Broussard could no longer control himself, and he screamed himself silly.

Instinctively using his good arm as leverage, he pole-vaulted to his feet. Blood rushed from his brain and made a mad dash for his feet. His sight went completely white. The floor slanted crazily upwards at him, and he felt himself dropping out of consciousness.

There was a short time of complete void ... and then he was wide awake and on his feet and running back to the others.

Roger and Herschel were standing in front of him. The older engineer stared expectantly at him, his lips moving.

"Got it?" Herschel asked.

Broussard was confused. What had just happened?

"Neal!"

"Yeah!" he shouted back, not knowing what else to say.

Several items were on the ground: a plastic jug of water, a flashlight, granola bars, two familiar-looking notebooks. Roger nosed the items with the toe of his boot. "I found some real moonshine, too. You want I should get it?"

Herschel grinned like a banshee. "Sure. Why not?"

"Okay. Be right back." Roger ran south towards an overturned Ford pickup.

"We're making good time," Herschel said, throwing Roger's booty into a plastic bag.

Broussard felt an odd heaviness on top of his head, as if the atmospheric pressure had suddenly increased. Something made him look up. He caught a glimpse of it before it crashed. The only explanation that his brain could come up with was, "A shark is falling from the sky!"

And then the object plunged snout first into the soil with a tremendous thud, followed by the hot glow of another ignition of highly combustible gases.

Both men were knocked backwards. Broussard landed on his bad arm and howled with pain.

His ears abruptly went dead, and then his hearing returned just in time to hear Herschel screaming hysterically.

"ROGER! ROGER!"

When the main dust burst had settled, Broussard could clearly see the object. It was one of the drones. The crash must have caused a short in the electrical connection to the craft's exterior lighting system; the red, white, and blue ID lights were now twinkling on and off like faraway stars.

Roger was gone.

Herschel limped over to Broussard. He must have twisted his ankle during the explosion.

"Are you all right?" Broussard asked him.

Herschel slapped the dust from his trousers. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." He gave the speared drone a good, long look and then placed his hands on his hips. "Sonofabitch. How about that?" he asked with incongruous bemusement. "That was a one-in-a-million shot for sure."

Broussard heard himself talking. "For sure."

A powerful gust of gritty wind blew in, followed by a silent rain of tire and insulation fragments.

The men did their best to cover their heads from the detritus.

Herschel found his plastic bag under a thick layer of gunk, carefully knocked it clean, and then slung it over his shoulder. "I wonder where that booze stash was. I could sure use a taste now."

"Me, too." Broussard grabbed his bad arm. A nasty, metallic taste filled the air.

Herschel broke wind. "I'll be glad when this nonsense is over. I need to get back home. Wife's been blowing up the checkbook for two months now. I'm probably flat broke and don't even know it."

Herschel was known for his slow, deep baritone voice. Now, his tone and cadence resembled the high-pitched, kilometer-a-minute chatter of a schoolgirl.

Broussard nodded, noting this new development. He squashed down his concerns; he couldn't do anything about them now anyway. The specter from the bus haunted him.

Herschel pulled out his cell phone and tried it. Much to his surprise, it showed a strong signal. "Hey, the phones are back on!"

It was a heartbreakingly wonderful piece of good news in a day of nonstop disasters. "Going to call Chang. Let him know that we're headed back." The engineer then thunked his own temple. "Oh, crap. I almost forgot. Today's my mom's birthday. I'd better give her a call." He dialed a number. He waited for a moment and then said, "Dad! Hi! It's Hersh. How's it going? Great. Hey, I just remembered that it was Mom's birthday today. Yeah. Is she there? I want to wish her happy birthday ... ." A pause. "In the hospital? When? Two weeks ago? Are you sure?"

Broussard felt a deadening sensation envelop him. Each of his major senses began to power down to minimum levels. It felt as if his nervous system was giving him just enough juice to remain conscious and mobile. The world shrink-wrapped around him so that it only contained his hurting arm, a sealed box of violent images, and the intense desire to lay down on a soft bed and never rise again. He welcomed this new telescopic perspective as a distressed child would a father's helping hand. I can rest now. He tapped Herschel's elbow. "Come on. We've got to get back."

Herschel held up a finger and finished up his conversation. "Oh. I see. Okay. Well, I'll call her at the hospital tomorrow. Okay, Dad. Thanks." He put his phone away and grabbed the plastic bag. "Let's go."

When they finally made it back, they found that the other men had been quite busy. The RV was back on its wheels. The interior had been stripped of every nonessential item and those items neatly stacked off to the side. Powell had held a mini briefing with the AIs, explaining to them the situation, the action plan, and what was now required of them as active team members. They had appeared to comprehend what was going on and seemed to be receptive to the plan. However, Powell explained, it was difficult to tell because their comms still contained too much gibberish.

"Hey, Neal, you activate the seventh gear?"

"Yes."

Powell smiled through gritted teeth. "First good news all day." He did a visual inspection of the AIs. "They're raring to go."

"That's good."

"Right. Keep your fingers crossed." He nervously worked his lower jawbone. "Neal, you got them into seventh gear, right?" he asked again.

Broussard nodded. But Powell was still hanging around, obviously expecting more details.

"Leave me alone."

The other engineer looked surprised but did as he was asked. Broussard lowered his head and said no more.

Herschel was speaking excitedly to one of the Rangers. "Tell the major to call Redstone. We've got phone service."

"Since when?"

"Since about half an hour ago."

"The phones are dead."

"No, they're not."

After some back and forth, someone recommended that he and Broussard take a break. Neither man protested. Broussard sat down on one of the chairs ripped from the RV. Bautista, Brady, Walters, Z, and Kwolski were fashioning harnesses and traces from the cargo straps. Only Powell seemed to know what he was doing, and he had to stop every few minutes to show a man a particular knot or strap length. While Broussard was able to keep his eyes moving over the proceedings, inside his mind he was utterly without thought.

Derek stayed close to the AIs, going over the plan step by step and answering any of their questions. Rose had begun to trace out short sentences using her right hand. She confirmed that everyone understood the plan. And then she walked by Amadeus and head butted him. A minor scuffle ensued. Two of the Rangers had to separate the two.

Kuiper found Broussard and knelt down beside him. The scientist gently took the engineer's good wrist and placed a finger over his pulse. "How do you feel?"

"Fine."

Kuiper made a cursory examination of his arm and felt Broussard's neck pulse. He frowned. "Your heart is racing."

"Okay."

"Neal, I'm not a doctor, but I have a suspicion that you have more going on than just that arm. And we don't know what that's all about either. I want to hold off giving you another shot for now. Can you handle it?"

If he was expecting an argument then he was disappointed. Broussard simply shrugged. "Okay."

Kuiper surveyed the work area. "I sure hope Eric's plan works. We need to get you and the major to a hospital."

Broussard did not respond.

"By the way, I haven't seen Roger. Is he still back there? Trying to find supplies?"

"No." Broussard coughed a bit. "He's dead."

Kuiper drew back in slow motion, stunned by the news. "What are you saying? Herschel said that Roger was still examining the bus wreckage."

Broussard squeezed his arm. "This hurts."

"Neal! What happened to Roger?"

The awful scene that had surely been the death of the Detroit engineer threatened to ram through his mind's defenses. He raised his uninjured arm in front of himself to ward it off. "Something hit him. It was quick." He ran his tongue over his lips. "Live alligators in that trailer, Koop. Better get a locksmith. Get them home quick."

Kuiper stared at Broussard for a moment longer and then quickly turned away. "We're in hell," he uttered miserably. Then he left to give Lieutenant Brady the bad news.

Within seconds, Walters, Chang, Brady, and one of the camera operators were gathered around Broussard. All four were sweaty and out of breath.

Brady gave Broussard a careful once-over. "Mr. Broussard?"

Broussard's eyes flickered. "Yes."

"Mr. Broussard, we're just about ready to get you and Major Hillerman loaded into the RV." He tried to inject a little levity into his voice. "You ready to go home yet?"

"I'm ready."

The videographer pointed his small hand-cam in the stricken engineer's direction. Brady put up a hand. "Not now." The cameraman backed off.

Brady turned back to Broussard. "How's that arm? Can I take a look at it?"

"Yes."

Brady took out a pocketknife and cut Broussard's shirtsleeve lengthwise. The lieutenant sucked in his breath. The arm had swollen to twice its normal size. The skin was mottled with purplish welts that peaked at one of those curious swirl marks near the crook of his elbow.

"Looks like that hurts."

Once again Broussard did not respond.

"Mr. Broussard, what happened to Roger?"

Broussard gave a tiny shrug of the shoulders. "Hard to say."

"Did someone hurt him?"

Broussard let out a tiny giggle. "It was a shark. From heaven."

The men exchanged worried glances.

"Mr. Broussard, did you see any of Colonel Palladino's men? Did you see any of the Rangers?"

"No."

Two AIs watched them from where they sat in a semicircle by the RV, listening to Powell's incessant instructions about the harnesses and the traces and the RV and how to pull together as a team. Bruce and Rose abruptly left the lecture and trotted over to join them. Without attempting to communicate a word to anyone, they lay their heads on Broussard's lap.

Broussard did not react, and the AIs seemed genuinely distressed by this.

Chang pulled them aside and whispered, "Uncle Neal isn't feeling well. Let's let Lieutenant Brady get him into the RV, okay?"

Their comms flashed random words and special characters. Chang had to assume that it was some type of understanding and affirmation.

Brady gently hooked an arm beneath Broussard's uninjured arm and helped him to his feet. "I'll get him settled in," he told Chang. Bruce and Rose trotted after them.

Chang turned to Walters. "What's wrong with him? He seems ... off."

Walters felt along the dried edges of a gash on his chin. "Your guess is as good as mine. Hey, did you talk to Fields yet?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

"Well, hell! Are they going to send someone in to get us?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it would create an even bigger headache for everybody. Weren't you listening earlier?"

"You mean for Dina."

Chang crossed his arms. "Van, don't go there." He took out his phone and took a video of the area.

Walters was still standing beside him. "Well, are they at least going to have a scrub team waiting for us at the border?"

"Van, I don't know," Chang replied, his voice heavy with exasperation.

"Did you even ask?"

"Yes. Fields said that he would get back to me."

Walters was dumbstruck. "He's going to get back to you! We've been exposed to God knows how much radiation and this is a low-priority item for him? In-fucking-credible!"

Chang reached for his crucifix. "Look. Maybe it would be better if we took on one crisis at a time."

Walters's mouth was frothy with angry spittle. "Well, why don't we start with our first crisis of the day, when we had to stand next to a thermonuclear explosion!"

Chang scowled. "No. And it won't do us any good to right now. Let's just focus on the problem at hand for the time being. Namely, getting out of here before the Advance South shows up again."

"'Namely' presenting to Dina and her buddies back in Chicago a perfect mission profile," Walters retorted in a mocking voice. "Because, bottom line, that's all you really care about, isn't it?"

"Van, back off!"

"Just keep the DATs safe for another month and then you can cut me loose, pretend that the AIs work perfectly and then put them on the market free and clear!"

Chang made a fist and cocked his arm, inadvertently hitting Herschel, who had walked up behind him.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

"Allan, Eric wants everybody up front."

Chang relaxed his arm. "Are we ready?"

"I think so." He turned to go but Chang held him up.

"Herschel, what happened back there? What happened to Roger?"

Herschel bit his lower lip. "Something fell on him, I guess. It looked like one of the drones, but I can't be sure."

Chang clutched his forehead. "God, no."

Walters gaped. "Huh." His fit of fury just seconds before quickly subsided. "The Advance South must have shot it down."

"Or it fell down on its own," Herschel said. "Those drone handlers aren't wizards." Just then he thunked the side of his head. "I almost forgot. Today's my mom's birthday. I'd better give her a call ... "

Powell and Kwolski positioned the AIs nine meters in front of the RV. One end of the long traces was tied to the coach's cab struts, and the other ends looped and fastened around the necks and shoulders of each AI. David, Amadeus, and Bruce stood in the lead positions, while Rose and Sarah brought up the rear. Brady examined each rig, checking for weak points or segments that might bind. Chang then performed his own time-consuming check, making sure that the ropes and straps would not cause any damage to the AI bodies, after which Walters publicly accused him of placing the interests of the AIs before the medical needs of Major Hillerman, Broussard, and the crew. Chang was forced to spend an additional four precious minutes providing a clarification of his actions by saying that while everyone needed to get back across the Illinois border as soon as possible, it was just as important that everyone return unharmed.

After both men had finished their examinations, Powell gave Bautista the go-ahead, and the technician jumped behind the wheel of the RV. Brady rushed on board to make sure that Major Hillerman and Broussard were safely secured. Hillerman was unconscious and strapped to a padded door on the floor while Broussard remained awake and buckled into the only remaining passenger seat.

"Are you comfortable, Mr. Broussard?" he asked.

"Yes."

Brady stepped back outside and told Powell, "They're ready."

Powell nodded. "Okay, everyone! Eyes up here!" Z, Roger, Kwolski, Derek, Walters, Chang, Kuiper, and the Rangers fell in line behind him. "Here's the plan. When I give the first signal—" He demonstrated holding up a fist with his index finger extended. "—Bautista is going to put the RV in neutral. When I give the second signal and give the command to gee—" He held up a fist with his index and middle fingers extended. "— That's when the DATs will know to shift into first gear. Everybody with me so far?"

All of the men nodded.

"After I give the third signal—" He raised both closed fists high in the air. "—the DATs will quickly upshift into seventh gear—"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, all five DATs lunged against their harnesses.

The men scattered.

Powell jumped off to the side, frantically waving his arms and shouting at the AIs, "STOP! STOP! STOP!"

The RV jerked forward about three meters and stopped. The DATs were still straining against their harnesses, stretching the traces to their full lengths.

Powell quickly ran around the back of the RV and up to the driver's side window. He yelled at Bautista. "PUT IT IN NEUTRAL AND TAKE OFF THE PARKING BRAKE! NOW!!!"

Bautista slammed the stem shift to "N" and unlatched the brake. The RV flew forward, almost knocking Powell off his feet. With a dirt-churning screech of the tires, the big vehicle shot across the ground and headed straight for the two opposing tree lines that Brady had mapped out. Once it reached that point, Bautista centered the RV perfectly between them. Within minutes the RV was just a speck on the moonlit horizon. A dust trail soon arose and obscured any further viewing.

The remaining men slowly walked down the same path that the RV had taken. The moon began to move quickly out of apogee, as if in a hurry to be elsewhere. Real night soon settled in, and the sky began to glitter with a billion stars.

Derek, who found himself walking next to Kwolski, marveled at the celestial display. "Wow. I've never seen so many stars in my life."

Kwolski looked up with a filthy face. "It is an amazing sight."

The CIA agent suddenly pointed. "You see that fuzzy pink star beneath the Big Dipper, to the left of the handle?"

"Uh, yes. I see it," Kwolski replied after a moment of searching.

"That's Tara's star. I'm sure it already has a name, but from now on it's called Tara."

"Okay."

"I'm sure she'd like that."

Bradley led the DAT team across the border into Illinois at midnight. The men were greeted with hazmat teams flown in from Scott. After they were stripped and their bodies washed from head to toe several times, they were given potassium iodide pills. Nuclear scientists from Quantico had quickly determined that the men had probably suffered exposure from the bombs' fallout of no more than 400,000 microsieverts. While those levels were not considered to be immediately fatal, Fields and Higgins both insisted that all precautions be taken and that every member of the team be watched around the clock for any signs of radiation sickness: fatigue, diarrhea, nausea, vomiting, or bleeding. When none of these symptoms presented themselves after two weeks, the men were flown back to Redstone and kept on medically supervised bed rest for the next four weeks. Major Hillerman and Neal Broussard were kept at a private medical facility at Scott for almost one month while doctors treated their unusual burns. It took a series of Army specialists to come up with a likely culprit as the cause of the severe tissue damage done by the "firefly" bullets. The report sent to Matt Grodin suggested that "radicalized photons" had somehow infiltrated the bodies of Major Hillerman, Neal Broussard, and Tara McCarthy, and then burned their way through skin, flesh, and in Ms. McCarthy's case, skull bone. The Advance South had used common light as a lethal weapon. The report sent ripples of horror through the ghostly corridors of the White House and the Pentagon. If the US-AS could turn light into a weapon, what else were they capable of doing? Battle plans based on highly accurate assessments of the US-AS's capabilities were promptly thrown out and a new batch of combat analysts brought in to hastily create updated reports and recommendations. In just one day, the roaring lions of civilian unrest, mass psychoses and organized crime became as mewling kittens as this new and terrifying threat now commanded the American government's attention.

Three days after her death, an Advance South general from Kentucky had Tara McCarthy's body flown to Scott AFB. US-AS soldiers had finally found it two days earlier where the DAT team had left it. The young agent had been cleaned and dressed and placed in a simple pine coffin. Tucked beneath her folded hands was an itemized bill in the amount of four hundred dollars for "Processing." Allan Chang and her only surviving relative, a cousin from Duluth, accompanied the body to Virginia for burial. The funeral was attended by Frederick Fields, Susan Boward, Colonel Richard Higgins, Allan Chang, Major Robert Hillerman, Lieutenant Timothy Brady, and Derek Scott. The DATs were allowed to spend some time with the body in private before the service. Before her coffin was placed into the ground, Fields read aloud a short letter from President Douglas Haverson. In short, it said that the International Astronomical Union had unanimously agreed to add the designation "Tara" to Galaxy M51, the larger of a pair of galaxies that appear beneath the handle of the Big Dipper in the night sky.

On the same day that Tara McCarthy was laid to rest, Herschel Stevens hanged himself in his bedroom closet.

The five uninjured alligators recovered from Donald Daley's truck were shipped to Redstone, and after one month of quarantine they were resettled in Farmer Johnson's north pasture.

#

Due to the minor body damage and radiation contamination that the five AIs had suffered in Kentucky, the decision was made to decommission the robots and make them available for private ownership. A conditional auction was held amongst the governments of the G5 nations. The Japan Energy Company submitted the most comprehensive proposal for their support and use. Eight weeks after the Kentucky Affair, the plans were finalized, and the DATs prepped for transfer to JEC's remote fission reactor in Santa Clara, Chile.

After intense negotiations involving Voode and Grodin, JEC agreed to allow Derek Scott and Lieutenant Brady to assist with the AI transfer to Santa Clara. JEC also agreed to allow quarterly visits by various Redstone personnel so that their socialization could continue.

Basking in the glow of an extravagant going-away party thrown by Fields and his Washington staff, the DATs and their companions lifted from the earth on a clear morning in an Army Boeing 767 and flew to their new home near the bottom of the world.

The proceeds from the DAT sale were originally slated to reimburse DARPA for the two billion dollars in aggregate spending on the five Advanced Technology projects. However, when the outgoing governor of Nevada, Virginia Ballard, got wind of the transaction via the mistress that she unwittingly shared with John Voode, she instructed her attorney general to sue Washington on behalf of the state's FOVOC organization. Haverson's administration quietly settled out of court for an undisclosed sum that not only pleased those FOVOC families with direct ties to the original MIT project, but plumped Governor Ballard's empty coffers with enough war chest funds to almost guarantee her a comfortable run for the congressional seat the following year. The editor of the Las Vegas Tribune arrived at the same conclusion in his postmortem piece on the life and untimely death of Governor Virginia Ballard in a car accident just two brief weeks after the FOVOC victory.

Based on the mission reports and the performance evaluations submitted by Allan Chang, Major Hillerman, Christian Kuiper, and Marcin Z, AIs Bruce and Rose were chosen to serve as the prototypes for the second generation of DATs. These six new robots would be assembled in Detroit and outfitted with the full weapons package. Their preference laws would be based upon both the mind and body brains of Bruce and Rose with an eight-degree separation of personality diffusion in the master brain chip and with on-demand fractal growth. Because the militarized DAT had to be able to take direct orders from superiors on the battlefield, by necessity the reasoning process had to be slightly more streamlined and predictable. A third Enlightened Dead Tour was hastily put together with scheduled stops at American military bases in New York City, North Texas, Upper Peninsula Michigan, and Nebraska. Rabbis Theodore Lerner and Albert Mankowitz, who both hailed from Cleveland, Ohio, were personally drafted by President Haverson to serve as paid 'spiritual advisors.'

#

London, England

Two Months Later

William Tennyson snatched a quick peek at the picture of his deceased wife that he kept tucked inside his wallet. In a rare closed session, Lord Cedric McCool had just whipped both chambers of Parliament into a froth of knee-knocking fear as he painted a dire picture of a post-Bill 84 England, replete with starving waifs and beggar nobility. While the floor waited for him to take his turn at the podium, his mind drifted sideways to his wedding day. To his Emma, floating in virgin white at the altar, unmindful of how lovely she looked, her eyes only for him. Many men in authority enjoyed to publicly boast of their love for their wives; he knew that these were primarily empty attempts at appearing trustworthy to their constituents. But in his case, it had been true. He had loved her. Fiercely. Most of the time. Yes, there had been the occasional tryst, but it was Emma who reigned supreme in his heart. She had stumbled upon him lying numb in a deep pool of easy successes, and had brought all manner of joyous chaos into his perfect and dull life. The pain of losing her was still raw and bloody. I should have hated her instead. Perhaps she would still be alive today. Because today he so desperately needed her unflinching love.

Emma? Luv, can you hear me? Wherever you are, can you please be with me now? I need you.

He put his wallet away and made his way to the lectern. "Gentlemen and ladies, as our esteemed colleague has so vividly reminded us, yes, we do indeed gather here today under inauspicious skies. Lord McCool is correct: If Bill 84 passes and we approve the request for enhanced North American aid, we will increase our military involvement, and we will dip slightly into the Reserve Fund. But if we do not pass Bill 84, we will flirt with unparalleled economic and social disasters not only for the kingdom and America, but for the entire world!"

Cries of dissent went up from every corner of the chamber.

"This is not a flawed piece of legislation. His Majesty has gone on public record to say that he will give his Royal Assent. And I can rightfully attest to the fact that he is not a reckless man. If he believes in this bill, then I say so should we all."

He found his chair and let the ensuing hubbub wash over him. It was only when the Labour Party's leader launched into a tirade against Washington's inability to gain control over the chaos engulfing their country that he charged back into the fray. "I implore you. Do not allow yourselves to become overly alarmed at the events shaking our friends across the ocean. For these dark days have been foretold from old. God's word says that—"

Lord McCool shot out of his chair, bristling with indignation. "Don't you dare invite the divine delusion to these proceedings! It is NOT welcome!"

The gentleman seated next to him thundered, "Sir, I ask that you please keep a civil tongue in your head!"

There came a smattering of emphatic applause.

Tennyson pressed on. "We knew that times such as these would eventually come. However, we perhaps did not fully appreciate the complexity of the details." He paused for dramatic effect. "Nor did we fully appreciate the opportunities that these times would present to us."

There were grudging murmurs of assent.

"For these troubles, which do afflict the spirit, also goad it into action! We can now envision the empire spreading out beyond the confines of our atmosphere, and into the cosmos itself. What was once the province of science fiction writers—a colony of humans in space—now stands before us in the flesh, fully armed and prepared to serve at the king's will. But this will only happen if we do not forget our constant friends across the ocean, and pray give them every comfort and every solace now in their time of need. "

There came a torrent of hearty whistles and stomping feet. Tennyson felt encouraged to go on.

"Gentlemen and ladies, our people are not slight in spirit. We have endured wars, plagues, famine, poverty, and unfathomable heartbreak ... for millennia. And time and time again we have overcome these bitter fogs and been made more worthy servants for the Sovereign Lord!"

Lord McCool twisted in his chair but held his tongue.

Tennyson dramatically drew breath into his lungs. "We now face an even greater challenge. One that has loosened the very seams of our reality and shaken our precepts to their cores. We are daunted to be sure. But I implore you to stand firm. Do not let your courage escape you. And do not abandon your charity towards our friends. We must be resolute in our conviction that together we will defeat these troubles and emerge victorious again! Man and woman will survive! God save Britannia!"

Tennyson thrust both arms in the air as lords and MPs alike stood together in reverent ovation. The prime minister savored the resounding cheers, knowing that the sentiment behind them would be short-lived once the next disaster struck. He took his seat again and patted his wallet. Thank you.

#

Avondale, Alabama

Four Months Later

Dr. Larry adjusted his hearing aid. "Ken, I'm sorry. I missed what you said."

Kenny Riley was a stocky man in his mid-twenties. He wore a bleached crew cut and a Pittsburgh Steelers tee-shirt. He was normally a composed individual, but at the moment he seemed irritated about having to repeat himself.

"I just said that lately it seems like things are getting worse. My nightmares are becoming daymares. And they're pretty intense. Like I'm seeing everything for the first time again."

Dr. Larry nodded sympathetically. "Anything new going on at home?"

"No," Riley replied. "My brother got his leg busted up last week in a surfing tourney but he's on the mend."

Dr. Larry stroked his graying beard. "So nothing out of the ordinary has recently happened that might have triggered your anxiety?"

Riley was thinking back. "Well, last month we went surfing in Charleston. We were out all day catching sliders—low waves—and right before we got out this rogue wave comes out of nowhere. It was maybe three or four meters tall, which is definitely not normal for those parts. I freaked a bit. Mickey got on top of it but I couldn't hang on, so I took off and swam back to shore."

"Is that when things took a turn?"

"Now that I think about it, yeah. A couple of days later, I was driving to work, and all of a sudden I'm back on that airplane, looking out the window and watching the ocean coming up at us. I can hear the screaming and hollering, and I'm feeling that same choking feeling again ... like it's the end of the world, and I'm so afraid that it's going to get so high and drown us ... ." The man chewed his lower lip. "It was so real."

"Kenny, you were experiencing what we in the trade call a flashback. A memory of an extraordinary episode in your life that, for some reason, the brain recreates in incredible detail, right down to the smells sometimes."

Kenny Riley became slightly emotional. "But why would my brain do that to me? It was hell the first time around."

Dr. Larry sighed. "What the medical field doesn't know about how the brain functions could fill a football stadium."

Lisette Fuchs made a disapproving noise in her throat. "That's certainly a comfort," she said, her heavily accented voice dripping with sarcasm. Ms. Fuchs was a young Ukrainian who was a relatively new member of the group. She had not decided to disclose her EE to the others—that was her right—and she went out of her way to stay in the background. Dr. Larry figured that part of that was due to her considerable magnetic beauty, so common to the women from that part of the world. Without thinking, a man or a woman would find themselves suddenly locked onto her chiseled features, unable to break away. It must have been disconcerting for her. It certainly did nothing to cheer her mood. She had an almost molecular joylessness to her.

"It wasn't meant to be," Dr. Larry replied with a serious air. "It was meant to be informative. Guys, these vivid replays—or flashbacks—may be the brain's way of trying to digest a hyper-normal event. An event so huge for it that it requires several re-examinations of all the evidence for it to draw some final conclusion about it."

Kenny Riley's head was hanging low. "I don't know, doc. It just feels like torture."

Dr. Larry jumped up and retrieved a glass of water for him. "Drink this and take some deep breaths, Kenny. We don't have to sort everything out in one day."

The flagging man obeyed.

Lana Cooper sat in her chair and clutched her elbows. "Tidal waves have always fascinated me. But to actually see one ... and to see the greatest one in history. That must have been very frightening."

Kenny Riley drained his cup. "To think that you're going to drown at twenty-thousand feet in the air. Yes, ma'am. Very frightening."

"You just have to remember two things, Kenny," Harold Thomas said. "You didn't drown, and the world didn't end. In some ways, you lived happily ever after."

Ben Kramer broke into the conversation. "Harold, I believe that you're being disingenuous now."

Ben Kramer was an accountant who had managed to escape from New Jersey one hour before the Advance South army had closed in on Spring Lake and put up electrified perimeter fences.

Harold Thomas took offense. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Ben Kramer ever so slightly shifted away from Harold Thomas. "Nobody here is living 'happily ever after.'"

Kenny Riley snorted. "Dude, I haven't slept in three days. I'm having hallucinations that I can't control. What if I'd wrecked my car? Or hit someone? If this is 'happily ever after,' then I obviously don't know the meaning."

Dr. Larry was growing concerned. "Kenny, would you like for me to prescribe a sedative for you?"

Kenny Riley rubbed his already red eyes. "A sleeping pill? No. An amnesia pill? Let's talk."

"Meaning," Harold Thomas continued, "you suffered no injury or death. Your plane landed, and you went home to your family and eventually picked up where you left off. Many of us weren't so fortunate." Harold Thomas had been a war correspondent on vacation in Prince Andrew, Maryland with his parents when the explosion occurred. They had been trapped in the conflagration along with three thousand other people on that horrific night. Harold Thomas had watched his parents burn to death right before his eyes. He himself had sustained third-degree burns over fifty-percent of his body. "When I was finally released from hospital seven months later, I went home with the smell of my parents' burning flesh still stuck in my head, and the reality that I would never work again."

Kenny Riley softened his tone. "Harold, I'm sorry about your folks. That must have been tough. But people burn up every day. What I saw ... a man isn't supposed to witness something that unnatural—"

Dr. Larry intervened. "Okay, folks, let's not make this a peeing contest to see whose extraordinary event was the worst. I believe that we can all agree that all of you believe that the EE that you experienced was the most terrible ordeal that you've ever gone through. And so every extraordinary event is equally important in that sense."

Mara Cooper was gently rocking her torso from side to side. "Dr. Larry, I took your advice."

"About what, Mara?" the doctor asked, happy to have the subject changed.

"About the acupuncture. I've already had two sessions."

Dr. Larry clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! And?"

"I think it's helping some. Last night I slept all the way through, and I haven't done that since right before I joined the service."

Dr. Larry was obviously pleased. "I would like for everyone here to avail themselves of Dr. Woo's services. It's free, and most importantly it's pain free. For those of you who are squeamish at the thought of all of those needles."

Manny Kreshenko piped up. "I made an appointment for next week, Doctor Larry."

"Excellent, Manny." Dr. Larry beamed. "You will not regret it."

"I already do, doc," Kreshenko replied happily. "But I'm going anyway!"

"That a-boy!" Dr. Larry turned to the newest member of his Managing the Extraordinary Event therapy group. The man was an employee of some magnitude at the Redstone facility located on the outskirts of town. Dr. Larry's practice rarely saw military patients, although the area was now practically bristling with government and quasi-military encampments since the advent of the war. As his medical records were sealed, the psychiatrist was still a bit clueless as to why the man was there. From his demeanor and injuries, it was obvious that he had undergone an EE, but Dr. Larry could only guess as to which EE (tidal wave, the Los Angeles fire, the Super Quake, the Maryland explosion, the war itself, the prison massacres, the UFO sightings, the flying giants, the complete breakdown of society in many cities, the bubonic plague in eastern Mexico, and on and on) was at the root of his malaise. For all he knew, the guy might have been recovering from something as mundane as a nasty divorce. Dr. Larry simply did not know, and as the new client had not uttered more than five words since his arrival, he suspected that he might never know. And that was more than just a little bothersome. The doctor wanted to help. Because when he could pull a breakthrough out of a tortured mind and set that mind back on the course towards normalcy, then Dr. Lawrence Spaulding III himself could imagine a time when he no longer climbed into bed at night with a quart of vodka in one hand and a loaded revolver in the other. In other words, it gave him hope for that longed for return to normal. Something in his gut told him that it would not be the case with this one. But Redstone was willing to pay him his full rate in cash, and that was incentive enough for him to do his best.

The new client wore his right arm in a sling. There were heavy circles beneath his eyes and a fresh dressing on his left wrist.

This was the man's third session.

"Neal, I had the thought that Dr. Woo might be able to help you with that arm."

The man smiled shyly, and when he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Maybe."

"Sure," Dr. Larry said encouragingly. "And you'll really like him. And he's got this fancy-shmancy office with a koi pond and geisha girls running around all over the place—"

The man looked at him with ruffled eyes.

Dr. Larry laughed. "I'm kidding. About the geishas. But honestly, he's got the fattest koi I've ever seen. If this town's cupboards ever run dry, the man will not starve."

"You aren't supposed to eat them, Dr. Larry," Kenny Riley said with mild chastisement. "They're for good luck."

"I know that, Kenny. It was a joke."

Lisette Fuchs was staring at the newest member of the group.

"Neal," she asked, "how did you break your arm?"

"It's not broken," he answered. "It was burned. But it's getting better all the time." He hesitated. "I have physical therapy five days a week."

Dr. Larry's smile was spontaneous. It was the most the man had said since he had arrived at his office three weeks ago. "Neal," he ventured. "I'm curious about your arm, too. Do you feel comfortable sharing your story with us?"

The Redstone employee mumbled something.

Dr. Larry tapped his hearing aid again. "I'm sorry, Neal. Can you speak up some?"

"Maybe later."

The other patients expressed disappointment in various subtle ways.

"But," he continued. "I'm glad that it's finally starting to heal."

Lisette Fuchs scooted her chair closer to hear him better.

"I'm a mechanical engineer, and so I use my hands a lot. For a while I thought that I wasn't going to be able to work again."

"It's painful, isn't it?" Harold Thomas asked. "The prospect of losing your way of life. Of not being able to take care of yourself."

The man slowly nodded.

"But you're seeing a positive change now?" Dr. Larry asked.

"Every day."

"I'm glad to hear that." Dr. Larry held up inclusive arms. "All of you. I'm very proud of you. You are continuing to take back control of your lives and taking large steps towards returning it to normalcy."

"To the new normal," Mara Cooper corrected him.

Dr. Larry was contrite. "To the new normal. Which, by the way, can be the better of the two. Take it from a man who's been bankrupted twice, divorced thrice, and homeless for nearly ten years. Just remember: What doesn't kill you makes you crazy, but only for a little while. After that you become stronger. And faster. And smarter. And wiser."

Mara Cooper teased him. "And sassier?"

"Definitely sassier!"

Kenny Riley brightened. "Dr. Larry, are you saying that we're gonna become superheroes now?"

"Something like that, but hopefully without the silly costumes. Now ... " He stood up and shook the numbness from his legs. " ... let's take a ten-minute break. In the kitchen we've got coffee and juice and just about every sinful confection that you can think of."

Kenny Riley rustled through his pockets. "Hey, doc. Can I bum a smoke off you?"

"I've got some in my office if you can wait a minute." His voice rose. "For my smokers, please do your business in the parking lot and not outside the front door. I've received complaints from some of the other tenants."

Kenny Riley proffered some friendly advice. "Fuck 'em."

"In the parking lot, please!" Dr. Larry made his way to where the Redstone engineer was still seated and engaged with a decidedly one-way conversation with Lisette Fuchs.

"Lisette, may I speak to Mr. Broussard in private?"

"Not now," she replied firmly. "We're talking."

"Thanks." Dr. Larry stepped in between their chairs. "Neal, I'd like to set up a private session with you as soon as possible. I've spoken to a Mr. Chang about this, and he's okayed it."

The engineer shrugged noncommittally. "Why not."

Dr. Larry smiled. "Great. Let me check my calendar and I'll get back to you after the break."

Broussard gazed up at him with hollowed eyes and intoned. "Doctor, we can't be superheroes. It's too hard."

Dr. Larry lightly patted the wounded man's good shoulder. "You're right, Neal. It is very difficult. But we still must fight the good fight."

Lisette Fuchs's posture was now openly hostile.

Dr. Larry acknowledged her impatience. "Okay, Lisette, I'm leaving now."

She shot the psychiatrist a flinty look. When he had left the room, she turned her attention back to the new patient.

"Do you want to know why I'm here?" she asked.

He shifted uncomfortably in his loose clothes, and just that small effort seemed to exhaust him. "I apologize, but no."

Her face turned to stone. "I'm sure that you do," she replied. "My fiancé and I are supposed to be married next month after we leave America. We're going to live in the south of France to raise our babies. He is the most gifted man I've ever met. And the most complex." She crossed her long muscular legs. She wore tights and a short mini-skirt. "He designs robots," she continued. "Robots that can think and speak and feel. He trains them by hooking pieces of meat on their legs and then locking them up in cages with starved animals. If the robot can kill at least two, he lets them live. Until the next time." She rolled her head around her slender neck, popping the bones. "He doesn't know that I know this, but I do." She suddenly flinched as if hit with an invisible punch. "He told me to go home." She reflected on these words. "I did not—" She made air quotes. "—'satisfy' him anymore."

Dr. Larry's newest patient rose unsteadily to his feet and made for the door in an attempt to get away from her, but she sprang after him.

"I know who you are," she hissed.

He did not react.

"You work in the AI program at Redstone." The woman's large eyes were boring into his skull. "So does my fiancé. He is the reason why your machines murder. I can get you proof."

The dark-haired man finally turned to her. "You came here to destroy your boyfriend?"

Her eyes flashed. "No!" Lisette Fuchs stepped back and removed her cap and scarf. She smiled. "I came to dance." She performed a mocking curtsey before him and then began pulling at her clothing. Items flew off her lithe body and floated to the polished floor. After she had rolled off her panties, she waved them high above her head with an artistic flourish. "Keep your eyes open."

She immediately vaulted across the room with an impressive grand jeté and landed softly before a picturesque bay window. She then lifted one soiled foot to a spot beneath her other knee cap and began a series of rapid spins en pointe. The nude dancer stopped abruptly after the fourth turn, her thin arms outstretched. Her back shifted forward and then backwards. She attempted a walkover, almost tipped over, and then ended the impromptu performance with a childlike bow at the waist.

Lisette Fuchs now stood before him. Her eyes were hot and glistening. "Did you enjoy that?"

The man did not respond.

A cross look overtook her ice queen features. "You didn't." She glared at him. "We try so hard to please you." Angry tears welled up in her eyes. "Nothing works. And then you dismiss us like bad servants. And we're left holding all of this love for someone who has already forgotten us."

The European woman straightened up to look him squarely in the eyes, and her heretofore hidden extraordinary event—a crushed heart—revealed itself. "To love a man is to be cursed!"

Her captive audience darted to one corner of the room and cowered with his hands over his face. "Please. Leave me alone."

Her eyes grew big and she shrieked, "Why don't you leave me alone???" She stabbed the air with a gilded index fingernail. "I dance before Herod, too. And he has promised me the head of Patrik Jansen."

The man tipped his head back and shouted, "HELP! PLEASE, HELP ME!"

In a flash Dr. Larry and three other patients were pounding their way back into the meeting room. The psychiatrist quickly summed up the situation. His face began to bulge with anger. "DAMMIT, LISETTTE! I'VE TOLD YOU A DOZEN TIMES! KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON!"

#

Grand Island, New York

Another six DATs rolled off the assembly line, three males and three females. Daniel, Peter, Vernon, Connie, Sharon, and Colleen were the first official, combat-ready robots. They were nearly identical to the six prototype DATs with two major exceptions. A governor was placed on the DATs' processing time so that their random "white-outs" lasted no more than fifteen seconds. And should a DAT encounter a dog or cat or similarly sized animal, inside the robot's programming a subroutine would call a pointer, and calming images (photos of the DAT engineers or horses) would be inserted into every third frame of the feeds from the eye cameras. It was hoped this would dramatically reduce their aggression levels.

They made their first outdoor track walkabouts in late spring. Over the next three weeks they were put through their paces, first with socialization, then the environmental trials, and finally with the new military protocols. Broussard and Walters were with them through every phase of their training. Against everyone's opinion on the subject, Chang had insisted that they maintain the family role-playing begun with the MITs back at Lincoln Hills. When the negative clamor reached a crescendo, he reminded everyone that he felt Connie would have wanted them to keep that aspect of socializing intact. Rattling the ghost of Connie Como before their stubborn hearts was enough to soften them, and the ruse remained in the DAT master log.

By July they were deemed fully operational. Their rear body armor had not yet been shipped from the manufacturer in Detroit, but the rest of their offensive and defensive components were online. Four days later two of the six, Daniel and Colleen, were flown into the recently erected Grand Island Fortress in the heart of Grand Island, New York, for an official presentation to the Army's 104th Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion (mechanized). The commanding officer, Colonel Richard Higgins, along with a Special Forces unit (Army Green Beret) were on hand for the ceremony.

While a small band played "Stars and Stripes," Broussard and Powell led the DATs out from a small waiting room to a large hall at the Grand Island City Hall where the top local military brass and several high-ranking civilians were awaiting them. As soon as the AIs stepped fully into view, the music came to a ragged, abrupt, and premature end. The room became deathly silent as battle-hardened men caught their collective breaths at the sight. The DATs took a few tentative steps forward, ahead of their human partners, and looked around at everyone.

One of the DAT handlers raised his hand in greeting. "Hello!"

No one said anything. No one moved. They just stared at the robots.

Ultimately, the attention proved too much for the DATs. Daniel quickly spun around and buried his head between Powell's legs. Colleen dispensed with such courtesies and simply dashed back inside the waiting room, dragging Broussard behind her.

As Powell attempted to calm down Daniel, one of the men finally got up his nerve and slowly approached them. He looked down at the clearly frightened robot thrashing to and fro, trying to break free of its handler's grasp, and saw that there was a small comm board plate affixed to his forehead. It was flashing capital letters every three seconds:

"STATUS: BELOW NORMAL THRESHOLD. TAKE ME HOME, UNCLE ERIC."

The stranger held out his hand and placed it on the back of his twisting neck. The DAT whirled around to face him. "DO NOT TOUCH!"

The man quickly withdrew his hand and looked up to the human for direction.

Powell managed to make the DAT stand still. "Let's give them a little while to get used to the new environment. They aren't accustomed to so many strangers at once."

The soldier scanned the robot's face. "The mouth doesn't move." He grinned. "I guess we don't have to worry about being bitten."

Powell gave Daniel a friendly pat. "Trust me, that's gonna be the least of your worries."

The man eyed him.

"Sorry, poor choice of words. They're fine. As harmless as bunnies. You just have to get to know them. What's your name?"

"Bud Wright."

Powell shook Mr. Wright's hand, making sure that Daniel saw the action. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Let me introduce you to my nephew, Daniel. Daniel, this is a friend of mine. His name is Bud. Bud, this is my nephew, Daniel."

As Wright was trying to puzzle that out, Daniel took one step forward, his comm board glowing.

"Hello, Mr. Wright."

Bud Wright grinned. "Well, hello, Daniel. You can call me Bud, okay?"

"Yes."

Wright motioned for the others to join them. "Welcome to Grand Island. We hope that you will enjoy visiting with us."

Daniel did not reply.

Wright frowned. "Does he not understand complete sentences?

"Of course he does. He's just processing right now."

Colonel Higgins walked over, his hand extended towards Powell. "Hello, again! Welcome to Fort Grand Island. How was your flight up?"

"A little bumpy. That may also explain why the DATs are a little spooked." The two men avoided making eye contact with the unmoving DAT.

The colonel looked over towards the closed waiting room. Loud thumps and crashing noises could be heard. "Should we get some help in there?"

Powell scratched the side of his face. He hadn't shaved in a while. "Naw, they'll be fine."

The colonel fell silent. Without realizing it, he found himself staring into the face of the robot who, it turned out, was looking directly back at him. Or rather at the rows of medals and insignias fastened to his chest. That unblinking stare had always made him uneasy, and the colonel blinked hard to cover up the fact.

Words flashed across the DAT's forehead. "Are you a policeman?"

"No, Daniel. I'm a soldier."

"What does a soldier do?"

"A soldier fights to protect his family and his country."

"Me, too."

That evening, after taking supper in his private quarters, Higgins relaxed with Bud Wright, the A-P for the Buffalo area, and Lieutenant Colonel Dallas Cohen, who was in charge of the Berets.

Higgins had pushed back from his now empty plate and was savoring a Cuban cigar. "So, what do you think about our guests?" The table was littered with empty beer bottles.

Wright stroked his chin. "I think that they'll make fine guests, and probably lousy soldiers."

Cohen raised his glass of beer. "Here, here."

"You don't have to worry about that anytime soon. They're basically SAs—soldier assistants. More like smart pack mules. They won't have the brains to give orders for at least another eight or nine generations."

Cohen was amused. "They're pretty damn smart right now! Me and some of the gunnies took the gray one—"

Higgins interrupted him. "Colleen."

"Colleen," Cohen continued, "on a tour of the armory, and would you believe that she not only knew about each gun we showed her, but the manufacturer, ammo type and bullet rpm, range, and accuracy ... I was like 'WOW'!"

Wright was swirling his beer around. "Yeah, well DATs are just computers on legs. Cool computers on legs to be sure. And impressive. I was expecting some of the kind of corny animatronics you used to see at Disneyland, but these are light years beyond that. If you don't look too closely, they look just like ... DATs!"

The men made agreeable sounds.

Colonel Higgins watched the bubbles in his glass move about. "This goes no farther than this room, but I believe that autonomous AI is dangerous. I always have; I always will."

Wright's now slightly drunken head swiveled around to his superior officer. "You can't be serious."

"I am. The creation of life is for better minds than ours. In my opinion, Man is just too plum crazy for such an awesome responsibility."

"Sir, these are machines. Not the next master race."

"I'm just stating my personal view," the colonel grumbled. "And the communication panel in their foreheads. It doesn't feel right. And I'm no Bible thumper either."

Wright nodded in assent. "They've received some blowback about that from the Church. They'll have holographic text placed above the heads in about six months."

Cohen grew serious as he slowly drained his glass, thinking. "They go into this kind of null state. One of the engineers calls it 'processing,' but it looks like they're just zoning out. That may not work out too well for us out on a hot field."

"I know," Higgins responded. "It's always been a problem. Trust me, they're working on it. But I don't believe that they can fix 'em before Crucible is underway."

Operation Crucible. That was why they and the DATs were locked away inside of Fort Grand Island. Since the destruction of Los Angeles, several major cities had become embroiled in feeding frenzies of crime. Most of their police forces had been either killed or run off months ago. In New York State, hostile civilians, or HCs, were driving over from Syracuse and even as far away as New York City in staggering numbers and rampaging through the Island. Niagara Falls and Toronto were also becoming favorite targets. The Canadians were understandably upset and had called upon Washington to act swiftly. Unfortunately, the government had little combat forces in that area of the nation, certainly not enough to arrest and prosecute a large and heavily armed segment of the population hell bent on destruction. They would need more troops. Better weapons. More hard line tactics. Operation Crucible was the game plan put together by John Voode, the director of DARPA, in conjunction with the Department of Defense. The city of Buffalo was to be neutralized, not with political grandstanding, but with a direct show of force. The DATs were just a tiny part of that plan. Another piece of Crucible was the combat arm of the Patriot Program, which encouraged any able-bodied citizen to become a temporary soldier. They received an abbreviated boot camp, shelter with the regular troops, meals, and extensive weapons training. It was proving to be enormously successful, especially among older Americans. Half of the Patriots were over the age of fifty. Their mettle was to be tested in Crucible, and based on the results there, they would either be moved forward with the DAT program or sent back to Fort Hood, Texas, for additional training.

The bulk of Crucible rested on a simple idea: Identify any individuals deemed suitable for evacuation, proceed with that evacuation, and then wipe the city.

Higgins filled all of their glasses again. "Broussard, the other guy, told me that they could possibly cut their processing time in half by doing a hard power down. You know, turn them off and on real fast."

Cohen grunted. "Without memory loss?"

"With minimal memory loss. But he's a little queasy about it. Says the machines don't like it."

"I don't like it either," Cohen replied.

"In any case, let's see what they come up with," Higgins told him. "We've got another week before we go back in for one last sound check."

On July 22, the last fully open window of opportunity for the Green Berets to drive down to Buffalo and complete that last 'sound check' had arrived. The last Crucible components were to be completed within forty-eight hours. Cohen and Wright were thankfully on the benevolent end of Crucible. As the search-and-rescue arm of Crucible, their assignments were relatively easy. Their first sweep of the city had begun some time ago. The Berets had been living in Buffalo and posing as regular citizens for the past six months, trying to feel out those individuals who would make the best candidates for temporary relocation to Fort Hood. They had been surreptitiously attending town hall meetings, church gatherings, weddings, even Avon parties. Over five hundred civilians had been identified as suitable for relocation. They had been secretly contacted last month and bussed out along with the fire department and the police department. Hospital workers were the last to be removed. They then created a latticework of secondary explosives on the perimeter of the city that was designed to be triggered by the heat and pressure generated by the 40 mm canons on board the ten AC-130 gunships that would strafe the city. The destruction at the city's perimeter would effectively halt any illegal egress from the city and allow the Army to erect guarded entry/exit points. It was a short and sweet plan for total lockdown.

An armada of dusty, nondescript sedans encircled Buffalo two hours before dawn. Cohen had explained that ninety percent of the target areas had been swept by advance teams two months prior. On orders by the governor of New York, businesses had been closed and residents temporarily relocated to Rochester, some one hundred and seventeen kilometers away. The neighborhoods that they would conduct inspections in would be veritable ghost towns.

The Berets, dressed in black fatigues and face paint now, poured out from the cars and fanned out across the still sleeping city that they had once inhabited. They would have two hours to make it to all of the checkpoints and get back to their vehicles.

Broussard and Colleen rode with Lieutenant Cohen. Their unit consisted of several Berets and a sizable contingent of Patriot soldiers. Everyone was dressed as civilians. Before they left the base, Cohen had performed a routine inspection of the troops and declared, "You're all pretty green around the gills. Good! Over-confidence is the best way to get killed."

The DATs' first official role as a junior soldier was to serve as Higgins's smart pack mule. Cohen had ordered Colleen fitted with a ninety-two kilogram gear pack. She bore it like it weighed a fraction of that. Inside the pack were extra pistols, ammunition and grenades, medical supplies and handfuls of candy. Cohen explained, "Not all of the HCs are bad. And the kids love this stuff."

A wiry female Patriot leaned into his conversation. "Hookers like 'em, too."

"Soldier, are you speaking from personal experience?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Ma'am, in the future, please keep that kind of information to yourself."

Now Cohen's unit slunk down a street lined with shuttered small shops and restaurants. As promised, nothing stirred.

Cohen led his team down to a postage-stamp-sized city park. The soldier tiptoed over to a metal trash can, rattled it a bit, and then stood stock still with his ear cocked. After about fifteen seconds he seemed satisfied. "Good. It's still ticking."

Broussard and the most senior Patriot subconsciously moved closer together.

Cohen waved them forward. "Come on. We've got work to do."

Soon they were skulking their way through sewage tunnels and storm drains. Every few minutes or so the officer would stop beside a bundle of rags and wires and put his flashlight on it.

The work was becoming monotonous, and Broussard noticed that Colleen was going into a trance. He got hold of her KILL switch and deftly did a fast power-off/power-on before she realized what was happening.

He patted her head affectionately. "Don't worry. Everything's fine."

Cohen was moving swiftly beside them. He held up a fist-sized package to the street light for quick inspection. "We laid these boom-booms down two weeks ago. During that time, a rat or a squirrel coulda come along and chewed through the wires. You'd be surprised how many missions get derailed by rodents."

After forty-five minutes of this, the team moved topside.

Cohen temporarily handed over command of the unit to Corporal Will Butler, a Patriot from Wyoming. "I want to run by my apartment real quick," he told Broussard.

They took one of the cars and drove across town to a low-rent neighborhood. Cohen lived in what could best be described as a shack that leaned against the neighborhood liquor store.

Cohen pulled into the shack's narrow driveway. "Home sweet home. It don't look like much from the outside. Actually, it don't look like much from the inside neither."

"How long have you lived here?" Broussard asked.

"About three months before Crucible was lit. I actually lived in Buffalo until I left for college. It's my hometown, I guess."

Two small children darted from behind the gate of the next house down and ran up to the car.

The officer's face broke out into a smile. "Hey, hey! What are you two doing up so early?"

"We don't know," the little girl said shyly, smiling from ear to ear.

Broussard threw one of Cohen's car towels over Colleen's head.

"Where's your mom?" Cohen asked.

"In the house," the little boy replied. "Mr. Cohen, are you home yet?"

Cohen chuckled. "Well, I'm here aren't I?"

"We don't know," the little girl said, chewing on a strand of her long blonde hair.

Cohen spoke to Broussard. "Grab me some candy out of the supply bag."

Broussard reached back and opened Colleen's pack.

The little boy peered through the backseat window. "Is that your dog?" he asked.

"No. He belongs to a friend of mine."

Broussard handed the officer a handful of candy. Cohen then placed the sweets in the children's hands.

"Now be sure to tell you mother where you got these from. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes," they replied in unison, eyes big with joy.

"Good. Now get back inside. It's too early for you to be outside by yourselves."

The children scampered back inside their house.

"They seem like nice kids," Broussard said afterwards. "Why weren't they evacuated?"

"Because the family was targeted for a soft relo. The parents think they've won a free trip to Disney World. They won't be in town when the birds come in. After Crucible, they'll be able to apply for reinstatement if their records stay clean." He pocketed his car keys. "Let's go inside."

They removed Colleen's pack but kept the towel over her as they hurried inside.

Cohen's apartment was a study in adult-onset childhood. There were literally toys everywhere.

The officer led them around. There was a model railroad set up inside the cramped kitchen. Cohen threw the switch, and the engine began a journey that took it around several tiers of tracks on the dining room table. He showed Colleen how the operating levers worked, and soon she was conducting the train by herself.

Afterwards, he took them into his study, where he had a theater of marionettes. Soon Colleen was trying her hand at operating the largest of them. Within minutes she was becoming semi-proficient. A light came on next to her comms.

"Something wrong?" Cohen asked Broussard.

"Not at all. She's just sharing this with the other DATs."

"I see."

He brought a new Barbie doll out of a cedar chest and gave it to Colleen. "This is for you, sweetheart."

The DAT stared at it some and then handed it to Broussard. "Please carry this, Uncle Neal."

"Will do," he said and placed the doll in his own backpack.

She turned to Cohen. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he responded. They walked back to the kitchen. "There have been rumors about the AIs for months now. This new stealth weapon. And now I've actually seen one. I feel like I'm dreaming." He gestured towards the shelves of action figures. "When I heard that you were going to be in on Operation Crucible, I ran down to Target and loaded up."

Broussard was surprised. "Oh, I thought they were yours."

Cohen cocked his head to one side. "Now what would a grown man do with all of these toys?" He checked his watch. "We'd better get back."

Within half an hour they had rejoined their unit. Corporal Butler reported that his team had searched all of the tagged buildings with the exception of one. Sonar results from a sweep conducted two blocks away suggested the possible presence of landmines.

Cohen grew concerned. "We've known for a long time that some of the outlaw militias have been planting mines and IEDs along here. Some of 'em are to keep looters and stab-and-grabbers off their turf. But the majority are for us."

Broussard grew pensive. "I thought you said this place was deserted."

"We rounded up the people who wanted to be rounded up," Cohen said. "Crooks rarely come when called." He faced the corporal. "How many?"

"Maybe five," Corporal Butler answered. "Could be chuckholes. I'm just erring on the side of caution here."

"Right," Cohen said. "Good work."

Broussard stepped forward. "We may be able to help. Colleen is equipped with an EMP dart. It can destabilize any landmine within fifty meters."

"Disable or explode?"

"Either. But I'd probably count on an explosion." He tossed a slight smile at Corporal Butler. "To err on the side of caution."

Cohen thought about it. "I don't believe that we'll attract any attention this far out. Not any legal attention, that is. And it might be a solid test of DAT ability."

"Okay."

"But just so you know, I'm not expecting much."

"O-kay."

Four senior Patriots crawled up from a nearby manhole and joined them on the trek down to the suspect area. Corporal Butler led them to a large intersection of two major thoroughfares. Broad apartment buildings with storefronts at their bottoms lined both streets.

Butler pointed to a slight hump in the road almost centered in the intersection itself. "There." His finger moved. "And there are four more farther north, where that sandwich shop is."

The men moved and stood beside a large dumpster.

Cohen spoke to Broussard. "Why don't you point her down there."

"Right." Broussard knelt down beside the DAT and whispered a command. Butler stepped forward, straining to hear their exchange. Colleen confirmed that she understood her assignment and then walked a bit out onto the sidewalk. Her primary gun, a modified M16 rifle, slid out of her flank bay. There was a small pitot tube-like extension attached to its end and a large dart attached to that.

Broussard leaned in close. "Have you found the target?"

The DAT answered, "Yes."

"Then fire."

The only indication that the gun had fired was a series of soft clicks.

Cohen motioned for everyone to move back.

They waited.

Nothing happened.

Butler signaled to Broussard. "Try it again."

But Broussard shook his head. "Wait."

Colleen watched the intersection. She must have detected something else of interest because she slightly adjusted her sight and fired again. This time there was a reaction. There came a symphony of metallic screams as the entire intersection lifted up high into the air, propelled by a massive cloud of light and flames. It then fell back down into its bed with a dull WHUMP! that shook the entire neighborhood.

The DAT trotted back to Broussard. He took her head in his hands and gave her a kiss on her comms. "Good girl!" He shifted his attention to Butler. The corporal was taking in what had just happened. A satisfied smile was just beginning to spread across his face when a bullet tore through it, flinging him backwards.

Lieutenant Cohen leaped forward and began pulling on Butler's body. "GO!" he shouted. The others didn't wait for additional instructions and beat a hasty retreat back down the manhole. Broussard grabbed the DAT and took cover behind the dumpster. He watched as the Beret worked feverishly to staunch the flow of blood pumping out of Butler's face. Meanwhile, a volley of bullets pinged off the dumpster and nearby cars.

Cohen looked up, his hands covered in fluid.

"Get back with the others!" he shouted harshly to Broussard.

But Broussard knew that the two men did not stand a chance of making it back alive without him.

"No!"

He waited for a lull in the gunfire and then dared to peek around the corner. He could see movement in a second story window about half a block down.

"This is scary," he muttered.

Colleen huddled next to him as a new barrage of bullets blew by. Something smacked hard into Broussard's shoulder. He looked down and was shocked to see blood pouring out of a hole just beneath his collarbone. The pain was indescribable. Colleen stood there, bullets whizzing by and into her head and shoulders, staring at him. In an instant she was gone.

"COLLEEN!" he called out after her, his voice lost in the steady tat-tat-tat from the guns.

Cohen was now crouching beside him. "He didn't make it." Even in the darkness, Broussard caught the hurt in the man's eyes. "Where's the robot?"

"I don't know," Broussard said with clenched teeth. "I've been shot."

Cohen examined his wound. "It's a flesh wound. You'll survive. But we've got to get out of here!"

Suddenly the gunfire stopped. The Beret dared to look around the dumpster. A short time passed. And then Broussard heard the officer clearly. "God almighty."

Broussard dragged himself next to the lieutenant. What he saw almost made him forget about the fire in his shoulder. Colleen was standing in the middle of the street, posed like a gunfighter, pointed towards the suspect second floor. Men could be seen moving behind the windows. Sunlight glinted off of their guns.

Colleen had her grenade launcher out. Just then gunfire erupted from an open window across the street. She was instantly showered with bullets. But the DAT steadfastly stood her ground and calmly took aim. And fired! The grenade shot out in a great arc and landed squarely into the HC nest. The entire front half of the building exploded into chunks of concrete and glass. The remaining assailants poured out from the surrounding structures and into the streets in sheer panic.

The M16 and the grenade launcher slid back into their berths.

Colleen stayed in the street long enough to make sure that the gunfire had stopped for good and then trotted back to Broussard.

"Does the hurt bad, Uncle Neal?"

"No, sweetheart. It isn't bad. Are you ready to go?"

"Are we going home?"

"Soon. We have to stay and help these men, okay?"

Colleen did not reply. The AI began to freeze up as she processed the recent events. Broussard grabbed her remote control from his pocket and was ready to push the OFF button again when she snapped out of her trance and placed her left hand on his.

"No. Please."

"Okay, Colleen. But you cannot process now. We have to get back to the cars. Do you understand?"

But she was already busy staring at the dumpster, eyes blank.

"We'll have to carry her back," he told Cohen. Two Patriots picked up Corporal Butler while two more carried the DAT. The unit made its way back down into the sewer.

They made it back to the cars right before noon. A medic had put a field dressing on Broussard's wound and given him a shot of morphine for the pain. Colleen lay beside him, her head resting on his thigh. Her eyes were open and active. Lieutenant Colonel Cohen sat across from them, eyes lowered.

The morphine made him woozy, but Broussard still felt amped and wanted to talk.

"Too bad about the corporal."

The soldier nodded. "It's a dangerous job. But the pay is good."

"Really?"

"No."

They both chuckled a little.

Cohen slowly exhaled. "He was a promising soldier. I hate losing good people." He suddenly extended his hand towards the engineer. "Dallas Cohen, high school physics teacher."

Broussard shook Cohen's hand with his uninjured arm. "Neal Broussard, engineer and convict."

Cohen's eyebrows lifted a fraction, but he did not comment. "Broussard. That French?"

"Yeah."

"You a Frenchy?"

"English on my mother's side. Scottish on my father's side. Nobody has any idea where the 'Broussard' came from."

Cohen fiddled with his tool belt. "Just one of those family mysteries, I guess." He sighed and stretched his long legs. "The robot handled itself real well out there. Maybe your little trick with her switch worked some, too?"

Broussard shrugged. "Hard to say."

"Now I'm gonna have to write up a report that nobody's gonna believe."

Broussard smiled. "Thanks."

"Thank you." He glanced at the DAT. "And thank you, Colleen. You saved a man's life today."

Colleen's comm board lit up. "You're welcome, Mr. Cohen."

Cohen was intrigued. "They're very polite."

"They're Southerners."

"Oh?"

One week later, on an overcast morning, the DATs and their handlers packed up their belongings and flew back to Huntsville. That evening, Colonel Higgins sat down to write his report on Operation Crucible to John Voode. It was a report that he would not have thought he would voluntarily make in a thousand years. In it, he praised the bravery of the men of the 104th Alpha Company 2nd Battalion who had helped make Crucible a resounding success. He noted the sacrifice of Patriot Corporal Anthony Butler, and recommended that the Army-Patriot relationship continue to gird the DAT program. Higgins expressed genuine remorse at having to disrupt the lives of so many American citizens, but he reaffirmed Washington's position that it was the only solution possible, no matter how untenable. He then closed his report by saying that the DAT program had his blessings now and that the Colleen DAT in particular had proven herself to be of significant value in a live theater by saving the lives of Lieutenant Dallas Cohen and her handler, Neal Broussard, under heavy automatic weapons fire and under great threat to her own personal safety. He then closed with these two postscripts:

1. Hope this doesn't rise up one day and bite us where the sun don't shine!

2. Kudos to Engrg. staff at Cummings.

#

Cummings Research Institute

Huntsville, Alabama

A bleary-eyed Frederick Kent Fields felt every day of his thirty-nine years of life on the last day of his work week. Restorative sleep had been elusive for the past two weeks, and he needed to grow two additional arms in order to juggle all of the crises on his desk. Actually, that was just his tired brain complaining again. Events at Redstone were sorting themselves out. Schedules were being kept, and staff was still relatively happy and productive. In fact, if he pulled back and took a long look at the DAT program as a whole, the situation seemed pretty good. But the paperwork was ghastly. And it kept growing. There were mountains of stuff piled on his desk—books, manuals, files, reports, hundreds of printed emails, binders, moldy candy jars, old mail for Charles White, new mail for Charles White. He was going to ask his assistant to come in tomorrow and sort through it all. Keep what would help him hang on to the job and burn the rest. That seemed like a good plan.

He did have one interesting item locked inside his desk drawer: a manila envelope with a typed draft of a letter to President Douglas Haverson asking that he consider granting Van Walters, Eric Powell, and Neal Broussard, three of the original designers of the MIT, presidential pardons for their crimes. Fields had no trouble seeking official redemption for the first two, but Broussard was a triple murderer, albeit a likable one. The thought of the man being legally forgiven for such egregious acts unnerved the usually unflappable Brit. He sighed because he could do nothing about the situation; there was simply too much energy being put into Broussard's request. He took out the draft and read it again. It was signed by himself; Allan Chang; Dina Hodges; Colonel Richard Higgins, US Army; and Major Robert Hillerman, (Ret.) US Army. It would have to go through two more channels for edits and approval before it could be mailed off to Washington.

His day dragged on until it came to an anticlimactic close at seven-thirty. By that time, he had only enough energy to pour himself into the backseat of his Crown Victoria and let his driver take him back to his apartment. Once there, he stripped down to his underwear, scarfed down all of the leftover Chinese food that he could find in the fridge, and then tumbled into bed. He was fast asleep even before his head hit the pillow....

It was the soft nudge to the back of his head that awoke him. "Huh?" he asked the silence. He turned over and checked the clock. It was three-sixteen in the morning. He whimpered in frustration. He had never done well with nights of broken sleep, and now his life was becoming an endless succession of them. He slapped a pillow over his head and fell into a dreamless state.

"Get up."

Fields moaned. "No, no, no."

"Get up now."

Fields opened his eyes. Now he was awake.

"Who is this?" he asked, still thinking himself somehow on the fringes of dreaming.

There was a pause. "That is not for you to know."

Fields took offense at that. "You're in MY bedroom. Now what the hell is going on here?"

Fields leapt out of bed and switched on the light. Like before, he was the only person in the room. He had definitely heard a man's voice, but it was muffled. As if the words were being spoken through layers of cotton batting. "Someone's messin' with you, Fields."

He retrieved his cell phone and woke the head of Cummings's security. "I apologize for calling at this hour, but I believe that someone has tapped into my room. Yes, a bug of some sort. Could you have someone come out first thing tomorrow and take a look? Right. Okay. Thank you."

Having taken concrete action, he felt better. In fact, he felt good enough to finish off the tin of apple pie that he had bought yesterday. He slipped on his robe, returned to the kitchen, and cut himself a sliver. As he ate, he turned on the television and watched CNN. It amazed him that even with America being cut open alive, the major news networks were still gorging themselves on the dalliances of its so-called celebrities. Well, that helped explain a lot, didn't it?

Fields grew sleepy again, and he headed back to bed. It was four-thirty. He decided that he would have to sleep in late or he just wasn't going to be coherent enough to get through the next workday. He stretched, climbed back into bed, and was fitfully asleep within seconds.

"Get up."

Fields groaned. "Oh, for chrissakes."

"I want you to open all mail addressed to Charles White."

Fields ignored the voice and fought to return to sleep. It then occurred to him that perhaps he was in the early stages of insanity. There had been numerous reports of people suddenly going crackers ... right in the middle of meetings or driving home from work ... . Instantaneous psychosis ... at times covering entire counties ... mass suicides ... mass marriages ... . His mind pondered the two. They were the same things, really.

The voice repeated itself. "I want you to open all mail addressed to Charles White."

"AND I WANT YOU TO BLOODY SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Something flew out from the darkness and thwacked him hard in the head. "OWWW!" He jerked his eyes around the room, from corner to corner. Ugly shadows were gathering there.

He was struck in the head again, this time with much greater force. Real fear gripped him now. An involuntary whimper escaped him. "Please! Stop! Whoever you are! Please, stop this!"

"Get up." Pause. "Read all of Mr. White's mail very carefully. And then I will leave you alone."

"You're lying!"

There was a long pause.

"More than likely."

#

Granite City, Illinois

Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Palladino was well into his second hour of lazing by the beach in Chicago on a weekend pass courtesy of Colonel Higgins. Dino, as he was known to his family and friends, had been experiencing "inner conflict," as the psycho doc would have it. Sure, doctor. Anything your egg head can pull out of a textbook is fine and dandy and certainly right. What he was feeling was strangled by his new assignment. And as throughout his life, lolling on the white sands of a clean beach was the only way to beat back the blues. So he had driven up to Montrose Beach on the military's dime. Lucky for him, Chicago was still managing to stay neutral. Adherents to either side of the war could come and go freely within its borders, as long as they remained peaceful and unarmed. He considered that a very wise move on their part; the city had some of the best beaches left in the country. It was to everyone's advantage that they remained open and free to all.

Palladino had carefully placed a case of Budweiser on one side of his beach lounger and a boom box on the other. Frank Sinatra tunes lulled him into a delicious state of indifference. Then the ten-centimeters long shrapnel scar on his left forearm began to itch ferociously, and he scratched it until it bled. His good mood was quickly dissipating.

After the itching had subsided, he sank back into the waiting arms of his lounger and closed his eyes. A thousand thoughts paraded back and forth through his mind. He remembered a mental exercise from his Aikido class where you extended your chi from your belly button up and out through your fingertips. He took a deep cleansing breath. He then extended his arms and tried to squeeze out all thoughts but the ones pertaining to personal security and basic life support, down and out of his fingertips and into the air. It worked. His brain settled down. His mind folded into a comforting emptiness. Then an image of a bloodied corpse popped up. He tried to squash it just as a picture of a burning mountain bloomed. The flaming mountain disappeared, and Pete was sitting too close to him while he chopped wood for the fireplace ...

Am I dreaming this?

Damn. The last thing he needed was to daydream about the job.

If a sense of duty was a curse (as he suspected it was), then he came from a long line of accursed men. At least one Palladino male had served in a major conflict in the last one hundred and fifty years. His great-great-grandfather, Arturus Palladino, a penniless immigrant from Sicily who was so grateful to America for his adoption that he would have happily shined the boots of every man in his platoon, had set the bar very high, having lost all of his limbs trying to save the life of his commanding officer during a Jerry ambush outside of Paris during World War I. Arturus Palladino spent the rest of his tortured life as a successful Army recruiter. Eugene Palladino had always considered that to be a marvel of irony. The flesh that this wounded ancestor had left behind on a French battlefield had regenerated itself into a steely spirit back in the States, capable of slaying any unpatriotic obstacle that stood in its path. The man had definitely made a genetic impression.

And so, as a young man without much kinetic ambition, the military seemed like a palatable enough career choice for Eugene. He graduated from West Point near the top of his class with a bachelor's degree in physics. He later saw limited combat in Afghanistan and then in Egypt. The experiences had not shaken him, and so he was enticed to join the Rangers. He had spent most of his time as a training officer in Georgia, drinking beer and chasing women at will. Life had been pretty good. Right up to the second before the Maryland explosion. When he learned of it, he immediately knew that it was not an industrial accident or the work of terrorists. He sensed in his guts the hand of something bigger and more off-the-scale than mere incompetence or political differences. The Los Angeles fire and the unsolved mysterious surrounding that conflagration soon bore him out. The Advance South was definitely scary. But something else was on the earth. And it and not them was now calling the shots. And that knowledge, even without direct evidence, was making him so dreadfully weary of the world. No-shit Armageddon had finally arrived in all of its dreadful glory. And Palladino would not have the luxury of hiding out in a bunker somewhere oiling his shotguns. He would have to do his job at Armageddon's ground zero. In Hell. The panicky thoughts were returning. Palladino inhaled deeply and then exhaled deeply until they petered out. He thought of the patriotic torso that had been Arturo Palladino. His great-great-grandfather had no limbs but saw the future. Eugene Pallidino had all his limbs but had no discernible future. He imagined that both of them had faced the same question: How do I carry out my duties?

He lit an illegal cigarette and took a light drag. Smoking in public was a major no-no, and if caught and brought before the board, he could be removed from his unit on a "Relieved for Standards" indictment. And that meant arrivederci to glory, fame and his fat pension.

His cell phone rang. It was Helen. He thumbed the IGNORE button and continued drinking and tuning out the world. A group of young people pranced into view with a volleyball. They seemed so carefree, as if their country really wasn't dying a stone's throw away. Dying? No, that was wrong. Maybe 'changing' was more apropos. He happily slurped from his can. And not for the better either. He sighed. Once you reached forty, life rarely changed for the better. His father would always say that. That turned out to be the one truth that man ever told. That and his theory that drinking a cold beer while relaxing on the sofa could solve any problem.

His phone rang again. It was Helen again, her third call that day. He growled into the phone, "Dammit, woman. What is it now?"

"Pete chased the neighbor's cat up a tree."

"Jeez!" Palladino exclaimed in irritation. The woman held two master's degrees. For chrissakes, couldn't she handle one backyard critter crisis?

"Oh, the cat got away. But now I can't get Pete to come down."

"Helen, I'm four hundred klicks away. What do you want me to do?"

The phone's lousy connection did little to mask the fatigue in her voice. "He keeps asking for you."

"It's probably a glitch in the comm board." But they both knew better. Peter clung to him like a vine.

She continued. "I've called the technician out at Redstone. They tried an override but it didn't work. You know, they can only do so much if Pete is ignoring them."

Palladino drained his can and then cracked open another one. Pete got on his nerves as much as Helen did. There was always a problem with them. Only alcohol ironed them out well enough for him to deal with them.

"Yeah." A thin shadow zipped across the cool blue lake scape. "I'll call my driver."

"Um, he's already on his way.

"Dammit, woman!"

He banged the phone shut and slipped it into his shorts. His buzz was leaving him. Palladino put a stick of gum in his mouth and chewed. Between Helen's nagging, Pete, and the nightmares that he had been having lately, his stress levels had risen dramatically. The booze seemed to have the most staying power in keeping him from completely going over the edge. He reached into his dwindling supply and picked up another ice-cold can. "One more ought to do the trick." He chugged the beer down without stopping. Soon that soothing warmth fuzzied up his belly and into his frantic brain. "That's better." He threw his head back and let the sun's rays hit him directly in the face.

"Dino."

He looked around. "What?" The beach was empty, except for some children playing way down by the pier.

He flopped his head back again.

"Di-no-pal-la-di-nooo" came the words again but with a whimsical inflection. He had spent his entire childhood hearing that same sing-song taunt from the other kids. He looked around again. Again nothing. Who had driven him today? Had it been Sergeant Tucker? Yeah, maybe. And he could be a prankster, too. Wouldn't be wise to prank your superior officer.

"You must love him." This time the voice was incredibly deep, full of booming bass as if someone had turned up the volume.

Palladino scrambled out of his lounger. Something dark and amorphous fleeted from the corner of his right eye. Then it was gone.

He shouted at the air. "What's going on?" But it did not answer.

It was only two o'clock in the afternoon, but Palladino was already two sheets to the wind. Kiddie birthday parties made him do things like that. All six AIs and four human children were living it up inside the King's Castle party jumper parked in his backyard. Colonel Higgins's wife had flown their four prepubescent grandchildren in a month earlier. They had been given one simple assignment: interact with the AIs as normally as possible without getting killed. Palladino had been impressed: a man rarely put his money (or in this case, his own flesh and blood) where his mouth was. The man was obviously committed to the project, and that boosted morale. So far, so good. The Higgins kids were personable and crackerjack smart and had easily infiltrated the DAT routine. CRI had flown up additional handlers just for the occasion so that the DAT parents could relax some. Two MPs from the Redstone Lab, equipped with portable AI control boxes strapped to their backs, were standing at the entrance of the jumper. They both wore puffy windbreakers to conceal the Smith & Wesson revolvers tucked away in their shoulder holsters. These men were highly trained security personnel and masters at feigning a lackadaisical air. It was their job to make sure that everyone got along and played nice. The robots had been accidentally exposed to Redstone children before during their trials. In the eight months since, there had been no anomalous behavior from the AIs with a child of any age. However, with the murder of a K-9 soldier and a company feline seared into the Redstone psyche, no one was taking any chances. DAT exposure to anyone under the age of eighteen was severely restricted and supervised by trained handlers. Enhanced e-locks had been installed in all of the DATs, and the engineers had installed additional OFF switches under their tail rudders for emergency power downs should the other controls fail or be low on power. And the robots' gun bays were always emptied and locked when a training mission had been completed. Palladino wasn't worried. He felt that having the MPs there was overkill. And it wasn't just the booze doing the reasoning. He knew machines. He had been raised around them all of his life. They were uncomplaining and tireless workers if treated properly. The AIs were no different. The other parents—Elliot Bosely and Barbara Christ, Mark Clayton and Carole Brainerd, Joe Mackey and Joan Keppler, August Smith and Melody Dinard, Martin Flemish and Marsha Van de Veer—were all exceptional officers and dedicated guardians for the AIs. In his opinion, the metal rascals received more love and attention than ninety percent of the human children in America or the new United States. Pete and the others would be fine. Well, as long as you didn't start throwing Rover into the mix. Palladino sniggered into his beer.

"Hello, Eugene. Mind if I join you?"

Palladino looked up, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. It was Susan-what's-her-face, one of the Army Family Advisors always circling overhead like hungry vultures, waiting for one of the DAT families to curl up and die.

"Yes. Uh, I mean sure, take a seat. And call me Gene." He flexed his long arms, examining the still puckered skin caused by the heavy shrapnel he took when the Advance South's laser mountain blew apart.

Susan threw a disapproving look at his bare chest and then primly sat down. Palladino belched loudly for his own amusement.

"Nice party, huh?" She casually did a sweep of the yard. The Higgins's children and two of the DATs, Peter and Colleen, were standing by big Leo, one of the horses attached to Palladino's unit. It appeared that a discussion was underway as to who would ride him first. One of children was pointing to an obvious defect in their plan: no saddle.

"Yes, it's okay. Good for the kids to get out in the sunshine." It was late March, but the weather was quite warm. Upper seventies. Bone-dry air. Marsha Van de Veer, the DAT mom who had put together this birthday party for the AIs, must have spent the last month nagging Mother Nature for good weather.

"Which 'kids'? Iain and Adele? Or Peter and Colleen?"

Palladino poured the remainder of his drink onto the grass. "Hey, Suze. I thought this was a social visit?"

The Army therapist began to backtrack. "Oh, it is. I was just asking about which children you were referring to, that's all. I know how much the DATs enjoy charging up on days like this." Like the others before them, the military DATs had tiny solar cells—well over ten million of them— embedded throughout their skins. Now they could sun themselves all over. The difference in general DAT mood was appreciably better, and the DAT engineers were credited with another successful idea.

"Listen, I know the difference between a DAT and a child, okay? Just because Marsha and Martin have gone around the bend doesn't mean it's contagious." Captain Marty Flemish and his DAT partner, Captain Marsha Van de Veer, were the proud 'parents' of Colleen. Both evangelical Christians, they had their DAT baptized by the chaplain at Scott Air Force Base and had taken a welding torch and symbolically fused shut Colleen's OFF switches with the argument that since an AI was technically a 'created being,' no one had the right to arbitrarily 'kill' them. Colonel Higgins had reprimanded Flemish and Van de Veer for tampering with military property, but they remained defiant in their belief. And Colleen continued to attend church with Marty and Marsha every Sunday.

"Well," Susan said drily, "since they're the third couple who have 'gone around the bend,' it does give us something to consider, so to speak." Palladino snorted. By 'us' she meant the bank of fat-cat psycho docs that all the AFAs reported to like faithful dogs.

"Susan, tell the good folks down in Alabama that everything—everyone—is fine. The mission has not been compromised—"

"Gene, that is certainly not what anyone is thinking—"

Palladino put on his best corporate bullshitting face. "—and the DATs are still on target for their growth goals, and hey, we're just having a blast with them. It's fun working with Pete. Don't get me wrong. It's hard work sometimes. But Helen and I feel like we're accomplishing some great things with him. And if you asked, I think he'd say that he felt the same way."

Susan's face became less taut. "We have asked him."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Sorry, we have to monitor them fairly constantly. Especially with Iain and Adele and the others visiting the compound now."

Palladino reached down and plucked another beer from the cooler beside his chair. "Hey, you know. We sure could have used that kind of attention back in Kentucky."

Boward smiled wanly. "Colonel, I'm not trying to minimize your loss there, but sociologists rarely work the battlefield."

Palladino smiled. "Two of your people were there. I'm just saying that maybe if they'd received the same kind of 'monitoring,' one of 'em would still be alive and three of my men wouldn't be taking dirt naps."

Wisely, Boward remained silent.

Palladino tipped up his can and drank in great glugs. "So, Suze, what did Pete say? Or am I allowed to ask that?"

"Oh, don't be silly. Of course you are. As Pete's father, you are entitled to see all of his psych evals." She stood and pressed the wrinkles out of her slacks with her hands. "Pete told us that he enjoys being with you and Helen very much, but he's a little concerned about how tired you both seem to be. Gene, do you and Helen complain about fatigue a lot in front of Pete, because that might not be the healthiest behavior for him to see and possibly emulate...."

Palladino fought the urge to slap Suze upside her head.

Later that day Palladino, brandishing his third bottle of beer in an hour, told Helen about his conversation with the psychiatrist in a less-than subdued tone of voice that conveyed his total frustration with the situation. Helen was loading her fourth load of dirty dishes into the dishwasher that day. Peter was lying on the living room floor watching television.

Helen held up a plate for closer examination. She contemplated the swirls of dried gravy on it. "Well, maybe she has a point."

Palladino shot her a pained look. "Well, I should have known not to get any good sense out of you on the subject." One of Helen's master's degrees was in child psychology. "Birds of a feather tend to fly into airplane engines together."

Helen showed him the plate. "Sir, the only thing keeping me from hurling this at your fat Italian head is the knowledge that one day someone else is going to do it for me."

Palladino sneered. "What? You put a hit out on me?"

"Nope. It'll just be some nice person out there performing a random act of kindness."

"Baby, you were singing a different tune last night when you had your hands all over me."

Helen became very still. "What are you talking about? I was at the REFLA briefing last night. Remember?"

Palladino's sobered instantly. "No. What? ... "

"The only person here was Mrs. Grayson. She babysat Pete." Mrs. Grayson was an octogenarian Patriot who often volunteered to do housework for the DAT moms.

A tiny dribble of beer leaked out one corner of the now dumbstruck colonel's mouth. "Jesus, you don't think—"

Helen cracked up. "Gotcha!"

At first Palladino looked surprised. Then angry. Then relieved. "Woman, if you were a man I'd punch your lights out."

Helen shrugged. "Major, if you were a man I'd certainly let you try."

Palladino grabbed two more beers from the fridge. "Y'know, you're the funniest person in a world of one."

Outside the sun was setting. Warm orange sunlight poured in through the window above the kitchen sink. This was her favorite time of day. When the day's chores were almost done and she could put up her feet and relax with a glass of wine. She carefully set the plate inside the built-in china cabinet.

"Sir, if it makes you feel better, I don't think that we complain too much in front of him."

"What she's calling 'complaining' is just normal conversation between two people. And, hell, sometimes we got problems. So what?"

Helen sighed, wanting this particular conversation to end. The lieutenant colonel loved a good rant, especially after knocking back a few. Normally she could just stand there and endure him, but today she was bone tired. All she wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed.

She turned on the radio that sat beside her four-hundred-dollar mixer on the counter and found the local NPR station. It was the storytelling hour. She loved this program. Happiness crept into her heart on tiny ballerina feet.

The colonel still had things on his mind. "She was way off base. All these people do is look for something to be wrong or go wrong. They're paranoid. It's just ironical how the biggest crazies on the planet get a license to run around calling everybody else nuts. They're nothing but educated snitches."

"Which are they? Crazy or snitches?"

"Both," he barked back. "They're crazed snitches."

"Got it."

"Speaking of crazed; how's Carole?"

"Holding her own. I stopped by the hospital last night and we talked some. She's dealing with a lot right now, so please don't refer to her as 'crazy.'"

Palladino shrugged. "Crazy is as crazy does. All of you women are loony tunes. And you've got Suzy Tattletale leading the charge."

"Susan has the responsibility of making sure that Pete and the others are in the best possible environments."

"Basta! In my book she's nothing but a paid informant. They all are. And since when are they allowed to contact Pete without notifying us first? We're his parents, not them. I'm gonna have a little tête-à-tête with Higgins about that one. We got rights."

Helen turned up the volume on the radio to drown him out. "I'll be finished up in here soon."

That was his cue to leave her alone.

"I'm gonna watch some television." He disappeared into the main hallway.

She called out after him, "When are those guys from Redstone coming over?"

"Tomorrow," he shouted back.

Palladino stomped off into the living room and settled his bulk down into his leather recliner. He pushed and shoved against the lead-lined vest that was their second skin at home. The cooler temperatures had hardened the leather straps and made the garment less compliant. It finally settled into a position where it wasn't digging into his ribs or threatening to slice his head off and he relaxed.

"Pete, go into my bedroom and get me my distance glasses, please."

The DAT dutifully got up, left the room, and came back with Palladino's sunglasses.

"Here you are, Dad."

"Son, these are my sunglasses." Peter had a special hook on his right shoulder that he used to carry small objects around with. Palladino removed the sunglasses from the hook and showed them to the DAT. "See? They have that special UV coating. Look. The letters UV are written right there. And they're darker than my distance glasses. Remember?"

Pete trotted off and returned shortly. This time he was carrying Palladino's distance glasses.

"Here you are, Dad."

"Thanks, Pete." He slipped on his glasses and peered at the TV set. "What'ya watching?"

"Black Beauty."

"Hey, that's a good one. You've only seen it like fifteen times already." He grabbed the TV remote and began flipping through the channel guide. "There's a wrestling match coming on at eight. Jake the Maniac and the Hollywood Flame. Should be a good one!"

Pete tried to crawl onto Palladino's lap. It was proving to be difficult. Pete was as large as a pony and weighed almost as much. Palladino put up with this DAT nonsense for a few seconds and then settled the matter. "Okay, son. Tell you what. Let's get on the couch and stretch out."

Palladino hoisted himself out of his comfy chair and onto the couch. It was a special construction of steel rods and titanium springs designed to comfortably accommodate the combined weight of a mature human male and a two-hundred pound AI. Pete stretched out beside him, cramming Palladino into the couch's back cushions. The remote popped out of the man's hand and landed right in front of Pete, who had it in his control in a flash. "You're a little slickster, you know that?"

Pete looked up at him with an innocent expression. "I do not know that, Dad." He gave Palladino a tiny nudge with his nose before flipping the channel back to Black Beauty.

At eight o'clock Pete relented and allowed Palladino to watch the wrestling match. Five minutes into the action the colonel fell asleep and was soon snoring loudly. The AI picked up the remote and switched to American Dad. Major Helen Avery discretely watched it all happen from the hall. She pushed a limp curl of damp hair from her face. What a life, she thought to herself.

And indeed, it had been some kind of life.

Helen Avery and Eugene Palladino, both officers in the Army's 84th Engineering Battalion, had been two of twelve individuals personally chosen by Colonel Richard Higgins to serve as primary facilitators in the integration of the DAT AI program into the American Army system. Helen, like Eugene, had been trained as a Special Forces combat engineer. All twelve officers were singles in their mid-thirties, in possession of multiple degrees, carried impeccable service records, and were childless (and, the joke went "friendless"). Their jobs were to serve as fathers and mothers to the first stand-alone, assembled intelligence beings ever built on American soil. They were to raise their mechanical offspring as fellow soldiers, giving them real-time lessons on how to fight guerrilla warfare with the enemy, and how to promote friendship and cooperation with the friendlies and the fence sitters. It was a job that went on seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. And it was for life.

The DAT family enclave was situated on the outskirts of a small Illinois town called Granite City. Illinois had maintained a resolute allegiance with the government in Washington. The governor had even asked the state's taxpayers to pass an emergency bill authorizing bonds to pay for revamping nearby Scott Air Force Base so that the region could provide aerial and logistical support for Army and Air Force campaigns directed against the steady encroachment of the Advance South. Some of that money had been secretly diverted to the DAT program and to the creation of the DAT enclave and its support staffs in Granite City.

When not on active duty, the DAT families were to live as fully-functioning military families, and from the outset Colonel Higgins had made it clear that they were to be solidly middle class. The families dwelled in a heavily gated cul-de-sac of two-story homes. There were American-made SUVs with heavily tinted windows for town travel and large backyards to accommodate the Army horses who paid regular visits. Christmas decorations went up during the holidays, fireworks went off on the 4th of July. The long-extinct American middle-class had been resurrected and given new life in Granite City.

On the outer perimeter of the enclave sat several apartment buildings. Redstone had rented these units for the hundred-odd Patriot personnel assigned to the families. The Patriots attached to the DAT Family Program had served with distinction during Operation Crucible and had also worked in some capacity with the Redstone Laboratory when the AI program had first booted up. These men and women had been put through enhanced train-up to junior Ranger capability by off-lined personnel from the Army's Delta unit, which would enable them to literally 'protect and serve' the DFP.

From the very beginning, John Voode had insisted on staff continuity whenever possible in order to keep down errors and friction during times of phase transition. The results so far had borne out the veracity of his rationale. The Patriot community now bunkered in Granite City had risen up lockstep with the DAT staff, aware of every twist and turn in the program, knowing all of its key players and even getting an occasional glimpse at Freddy Fields's playbook. This persistent inclusiveness had allowed these civilian soldiers to willingly provide invaluable flesh and metal support for the families at every turn, and with minimal training or funding from Washington.

Here in Granite City, the Patriots served as the unofficial palace guards for the six AI families, keeping out the curious and the trespassing with the required polite tenacity that was still the indelible seal on all law-abiding bodies under official governance by both America and the new United States.

Helen Avery herself was a Patriot, having joined with her family right after the war had begun, and she approached her current assignment as a DAT mom with the same quiet dedication that had earned her a fast-tracked advancement from the bottom rung of a her college's ROTC to the rank of captain within three years. She completed one tour of peacekeeping duty in Scotland and then one tour in Alaska in rebuilding efforts after the tidal waves hit. After that, she landed a gig in the newly co-ed Army Rangers, working in their counter-intelligence department. Within five months she was bored to tears. When Colonel Higgins approached her about the possibility of working in their AI department with a new product, she had jumped at the opportunity.

That might have been a mistake. That refrain was the one that she kept hearing inside her head when she was alone with her thoughts. After a few months of techno razzle-dazzle, it finally dawned on her that it was going to be her housekeeping skill set rather than her mental prowess that would get her any meaningful recognition from the upper brass. They called it "DAT socialization," which was essentially a crater-sized rabbit hole that the AIs and their handlers would shimmy down every day. This grand charade was designed to trick the robots into thinking that they were ordinary soldiers engaged in an ordinary war. Back in the beginning, one of the first of several misguided DAT creators had decided that the best way to achieve lasting results was to embed the AIs into simulated family units, which would (in a perfect world which no longer existed and never did) give them the constant emotional and educational support required to go from a pile of metal parts to upstanding citizens in five years. Helen likened socialization to a slow morphine drip. Or more accurately, a slow LSD drip. Her part in this deception was to play that of dutiful wife and mother. A latter-day June Cleaver. Not some whiz kid full of fresh (and saner) ideas. Uh-uh. She would be paired with another Higgins recruit, Eugene Palladino. Palladino had a solid reputation amongst the Rangers as a brave, if not occasionally heroic, leader in battle. The adjectives "cynical" and "abrasive" were also routinely applied to him, but that did not frighten her; she had experience with that personality type before. Eugene Palladino was eerily similar to her father in temperament. The same blustery nature; some of the same silliness. The plain humility. It both startled and fascinated her. But the real carrot-on-a-stick was far more intimate. Eugene Russell Palladino was, without a doubt, the most skilled lover she had ever known. And so even if her brain was recoiling at the demeaning nature of her job, her genitalia were in complete agreement with the DFP. And so she threw herself into becoming an excellent housemate for Palladino and a sound mother for Peter, caring and providing for both man and machine as if they were actually her own.

My own. Sure, kid. She lived in the possession de verisimilitude. Whenever Marsha Van de Veer would stop by on one of her 'mental health breaks,' she would say out loud what Helen sometimes caught herself thinking: "I don't care what anyone says. Marty and Colleen are my family." Of course, it was well known that Marsha and Marty were perhaps losing sight of the true purpose of the mission. The DATs served at the pleasure of the military, as did the DAT parents for that matter. She and Marsha were simply there to train them up in the military way. Yes, they held the titles of father and mother, but Helen realized that they were nothing more than glorified actors. The Army could take Peter away from them at any point in the program. Or the lieutenant colonel could be reassigned to another unit if it was deemed necessary. She always cautioned Marsha about becoming too attached to the situation. And she counseled herself about the same thing. Because when all was said and done, Eugene Russell Palladino was not her husband, and Peter James DAT was not her son. They, like her, were the privileged property of the American government.

And now REFLA was upon them.

From the beginning, the officers assigned to Operation REFLA, short for Respect for the Law, knew that they and the AIs would be involved in the gritty business of combating urban warfare on American soil. As combat engineers, it was up to them to track down and destroy any illegal ordnance and their shipping lanes that the Advance South or the various organized crime gangs might use to move weapons and supplies through East Saint Louis and ultimately into the rogue state of New Jersey. The Garden State, a staunch Washington ally at the beginning of the war, had since thrown in its lot with the Advance South and was making money hand over fist by displaying the welcome mat to anyone who could pay their one-million-dollar border crossing fee. Criminals and international terrorists were flocking to northeastern America like pilgrims to the Promised Land. And many of them had landed on the back doorsteps of Ohio, Pennsylvania, Michigan and now Illinois.

The local registered militias around Chicago had been relatively successful with their peacekeeping activities in that they were preventing this toxic immigration from spilling over into other surrounding counties. But East Saint Louis, Illinois, had long ago abandoned any pretense of being a functional city. It had no mayor, no police force and no fire department. And instead of asking for help from Washington, the people still living there had chosen instead to let the town become an open-air asylum. Adding to the urgency of the situation was the fact that South American food and prostitution cartels based out of Mexico were rumored to be in town and working to become dominant players alongside the resurgent Italian and Russian mafias. The worst of them, an organization out of Texas that called itself El Cabo, was especially worrisome. A _Shining Path_ reboot, they had no fear of American firepower, and CIA intelligence had enough evidence to conclude that they were being financed consistently enough to have mutated into a full-fledged paramilitary force.

It made their jobs extremely dangerous.

In two days, Gene and the other DAT dads would participate in the first coordinated attack against this organized crime league. Helen and the other DAT moms would serve as backup in case something went awry.

She poured herself a glass of wine, sat down at the kitchen table, and tuned into the story on the radio. It was a modern take on Pinocchio of all things. Well, that was fine with her. She loved a good fairy tale.

The next day found Helen busying herself with folding the bales of washed laundry that she had dumped on the bed that morning. Gene had agreed to keep Pete entertained in the backyard while she worked. Two of the Redstone engineers were going to monitor REFLA from Mission Control at Scott Air Force Base. The men had arrived from Alabama that morning and were scheduled to visit with each family before nightfall. Fortunately, Palladino knew these two particular individuals and had some regard for them, thereby sparing her his customary paranoid blather. She checked her 'to do' list again. There were far too many items on it, but at least she hoped to have the house tidied up by the time they arrived. She returned to the laundry.

After fifteen minutes or so, Helen stopped what she was doing to perform some stretches. She felt tension all over her body. She inhaled and exhaled several times as she cycled through various yoga poses. It would be the first time since arriving in Granite City that the AIs would ride along with Gene's unit on a live tour, and already the strain of thinking about what might lie ahead of them was sapping her energy. Worry and fear. Worry and fear. They were her true family now.

Palladino and Pete noisily entered the house from the garage. Helen leaned outwards into the hallway and hollered, "Don't forget to take your shoes off!" When she received no response, she started looking for them. She found the colonel relaxing with his laptop in his recliner and Pete standing on his hind feet at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes.

Helen put her hands on her hips. "I believe I asked you to rinse the dishes."

Palladino did not look up. "Pete can do it, can't you Pete?"

Helen glanced at Pete's comm board.

"Yes."

"You work him too hard," she complained.

He slapped his chest. "Work never hurt this body."

Helen sniffed. "No, just your head."

"Hey, you screw up Pete your way; I'll screw him up mine. Deal?"

Helen ignored him until the doorbell rang. Most of the DATs enjoyed it when anyone visited, although it was not entirely clear whether it was the visitor or the ringing doorbell that pleased them the most. Pete was no exception. He bounded to the front door and swung it wide open. The colonel was right behind him.

Two tall men stood on the front stoop awash in the bright noon sun. But not for long. Pete plowed into both of them, knocking them down onto the stone pavers.

Palladino yanked on Pete's neck. "PETE! STOP THAT! HELEN, GET OUT HERE!!!"

One of the men got one of his arms up. "It's okay! It's all right! He's just happy to see us!"

Palladino finally got his arm around Pete's neck and yanked him back inside just as Helen appeared.

"Sorry about that," she said, flustered and embarrassed. "You're early. I'm afraid the house is still a mess."

The taller of the two men pushed her concerns aside. "Believe me, Major Avery, when I say that we do not care. May we come in?"

Within minutes Helen had every human seated in the living room, drinks in hand. Pete sat on the floor between his parents and Neal Broussard and Eric Powell. Every eight seconds the same six words would flash: "Hi, Uncle Neal! Hi, Uncle Eric!"

Helen had made coffee for the engineers and handed the colonel a glass of juice. He never drank alcohol right before a mission.

"So," Palladino began, "how do the little guys check out so far?"

Redstone had informed the unit last week that a team of technicians would be out to run full diagnostics on all of the DATs before the mission.

"So far, so good," Powell answered. "All of the systems are a go. Oh, and they ran a second weapons test like you asked."

"And no problems there?" Palladino asked.

"None that we could detect."

Palladino took a swig from his juice. "They're still popping around."

The two engineers kept their expressions neutral. "A lot?" Broussard asked.

"Enough." Pete climbed into Helen's lap, nearly sinking her and the seat cushion to the floor.

"You ask him about it?" Powell asked.

"Of course. He says they do it because it's fun. Like a kid running or climbing trees."

Broussard sighed. "Well, that makes as much sense as anything else." The engineer stole a look at the two officers, at their red-rimmed eyes and ashen faces. "Everything else going okay?"

Palladino immediately became defensive. "Everybody's fine, so quit asking," he replied gruffly. Helen shot him a cutting look that he ignored.

"So, Peter, how you been, little guy?" Powell asked.

"Fine."

"I hear you got your own bedroom."

"Yes."

"Well, can you show your bedroom to us?"

"Yes."

Pete led the engineers down the long hallway to his room. Palladino and Helen followed closely behind.

Powell and Broussard gazed about the DAT's bedroom in genuine awe. Major Avery had done a superb job of blending the needs of a young AI with the desires of a little boy. There were 3-D posters of cars and trucks stapled up on cartoon wallpaper. Photos of Mozart, the Founding Fathers, the Sesame Street characters, Einstein, and Michelangelo were everywhere. Several loops of train track were suspended from the ceiling, and a real train ran along it on a timer. A rugged personal computer sat on the custom-made desk that CRI had designed and built specifically for DAT weight and ergonomics. And on the steel-framed bed were heaps of brightly colored stuffed animals.

Powell was grinning from ear to ear. "Little guy, your bedroom is outtasightl!"

"Thank you."

Broussard was equally impressed. "Did you do all of this decorating by yourself?"

"Dad and the Mama helped me decorate," the DAT replied with unmistakable pride.

Helen was beaming. "He really loves his stuffed animals. He wanted us to buy him this giant octopus thing, and it was really darling, but it cost a fortune and so I said, 'Pete, honey, I'm sorry but we can't afford that right now. Maybe Santa Claus will bring you that toy for Christmas.' And he said, 'Mommy, can we call Santa Claus and ask him to bring it for the Fourth of July?' And the colonel and I just cracked up."

Palladino was smiling at the memory. "Yeah, Petey is a schemer."

Powell walked over to the bed. "Peter, can you show me which toy is your favorite?"

Peter did not hesitate. He pulled out a large fuzzy black spider that had a green felt hat stitched to its head. The DAT held the spider up for Powell and Broussard to see.

"Wow, a spider! What is his name?"

"Sammy."

"And is Sammy a scary spider or a nice spider?"

"He is a scary spider, but he doesn't scare me."

The room erupted in laughter.

Powell affectionately stroked the side of Pete's face. "That's my boy."

The engineers stayed and talked for another half hour. When they signaled that they were about to leave, Helen took Pete back to his room so that Palladino could speak with the engineers in private.

Broussard was jotting down some notes and unwittingly irking Palladino. "We ran into Susan Boward this morning, and she says that Peter and the other DATs are adjusting to their new routines well."

"Susan Boward don't know shit from mud."

The two engineers exchanged sidelong glances.

"O-kay," Powell responded.

The colonel suddenly grew somber. "I heard you guys got banged up a bit after we left back in Kentucky."

Broussard shrugged. "We survived."

Palladino nodded. "Some didn't. I lost five men. Two of them are still walking around."

Gloomy shadows began to pool around them. Broussard turned to Powell. "I think we've taken up enough of the colonel's time."

Broussard and Powell stood and Palladino walked them to the door.

They all shook hands.

Palladino was all smiles now. "Thanks for stopping by. I think Pete was really happy to see you."

"Same here," Broussard said. "Eric and I have known Peter and the others for a long time. They're almost like family to us."

"Yeah. I can tell."

Broussard's mobile phone ding-dinged twice. "Excuse me... . This is Neal."

A man's hysterical voice could be heard clear across the room. "They're gone! THEY'RE ALL GONE!"

Broussard turned away from the others and spoke in low tones. "Mike, slow down. Who's gone?"

The phone's speaker crackled with amplified energy, still allowing the caller's every word to be heard. "Everybody! My folks! My brothers! My aunties! They were leaving town ..." There were sobs. "The quake got 'em! My cousin just found them!"

The voice yowled like a wounded animal.

Broussard took a deep breath. "Mike, I'm still on rounds, but I'll call you later." He snapped the phone shut.

Palladino was eying him. "Sounds like someone's in a world of pain."

Broussard slipped the phone into his back pocket. "Tell me who isn't." The Redstone engineer grew serious. "Colonel, you and Major Avery are probably feeling some strain now. Living with DATs can be a handful. I know from personal experience. You've got a priority ops about to pop, and you've got a little sleep deprivation going on."

Palladino began to protest.

"It's all right. All of the families are having similar issues. The solution—one of the solutions—is to get you folks some solid vay-cay after the mission is completed. You have our numbers. We're your point men on this, all right? As soon as you get back, call us. I'll ask HR to make this a priority."

Palladino held open the door for them, his warmth gone. "And who says we're coming back?"

Broussard smiled. "You'd better come back. America is counting on you."

And now it was Palladino's turn to smile. "America can kiss my Wop ass."

"You and your men pull this off and she will."

After they had left, Helen enticed him into the dining room with a bowl of grapes. She pushed aside a tall stack of textbooks and binders.

He popped one of the juicy pieces of fruit into his mouth. "What's Pete up to?"

"Master Pete is resting."

Palladino slowly shook his head. "Pete, you lazy son-of-gun, you've got the right idea."

Helen then prepared lunch: a hot meatloaf sandwich, corn chips, and Patriot-made root beer.

She slid into the seat across from him. "Do you have any concerns about tomorrow?"

"One or two." He ignored her pensive expression. "We've got another credible lead about where those SAMs are being stored. I'm not wild about it being in this particular neighborhood, but we've gotta follow it up."

She absently flipped through a large children's book. It was a story about a family of raccoons living in New York City. "You think Pete is up to this?"

"Sure. DATs have their quirks, but runnin' from a good fight ain't one of them. At least that's what I hear. But, seeing's believing, I guess." He chewed on his sandwich.

"I don't know," she began. "They're children, and you don't send a child into combat."

"Helen, Pete was created in war. He's never known peace. So as far as his little mechanical brain is concerned, this is normal. And he and his little DAT pals go help fight bad guys with their families just like any other normal American family would."

Helen's mouth curled with displeasure. "What kind of a society would make a baby fight its battles?"

"Hush, woman!" He softened his voice. "Listen, don't romanticize this. A DAT is not a human being. It's a war machine."

"A war machine who wants to listen to bedtime stories."

Hearing her words, Palladino could not remain stern. "And insists on different voices for each of the characters."

They both smiled and shook their heads.

"Trust me. They're up to it."

She waited a moment before speaking. "Are you up to this, Gene?" She rarely called him by his first name.

His eyes flashed in anger. "Of course not! After I finish eating I'm gonna go have a good piss on myself!" He threw down his food. "What kind of asinine question is that?"

He stormed off into the backyard and stayed there until it grew dark.

When he finally came back inside, he found Helen in Pete's room. Pete was in bed and she was sitting in her rocking chair next to him, reading from a book. There was a large glass of sparkling wine on the windowsill behind her.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey, yourself," she replied, smiling.

Palladino quickly crossed the room and without saying anything kissed her fully on the lips. "I'm sorry."

Helen was so startled at the gesture that she jumped and knocked over her wine glass. Peter's comm board was flashing.

"Dad! Mama!"

Palladino sat down on Pete's bed. "Hey, son. What are you and Mommy doing?"

"The Mama is reading a book with me."

"I see. Mama, what is our selection today?"

Helen held up a slim tome. "Francis the Puzzled Frog."

"I see. What's got Francis so puzzled?"

"Just about everything! We're almost finished. He loves this series. And I've gone through most of the books already. We'll have to think about what we can order for next month."

Palladino grunted. "Yeah. Maybe all this craziness will be over by then."

She smiled with encouragement. "You bet!"

Palladino took in the dark circles beneath her eyes and felt compassion. "Pete, would you mind if Dad read tonight?"

"Dad reads."

Palladino wrinkled his nose. "Son, is that a statement or a question?"

Helen handed the book to him, dimmed the lamp on the nightstand, and leaned back into her chair. Meanwhile, Palladino wedged himself in between Pete and a velvety hippopotamus almost the size of the AI himself. He then dramatically cleared his throat and began to read:

"Francis was sitting beside the beach one morning. The beach had lots of soft white sand and lots of sparkling blue water to look at. A big yellow butterfly sat down beside him. Francis saw two big spots on the butterfly's wings. Francis wondered where the butterfly had gotten those big spots. He could not have painted the spots on by himself. Could the butterfly's mother have painted those spots on his wings? And why was the butterfly on the beach anyway? This puzzled Francis."

He looked up from the book. Pete was staring hard at the velvety hippopotamus. Helen was asleep, head back, mouth open.

"Pete?"

The DAT ignored him. Too busy processing, no doubt.

Palladino closed the book and stepped outside of Pete's bedroom. He pulled out his cell phone and called Marsha Van de Veer. "Hey, Marsha. Would you mind coming over and watching Pete while Helen takes a nap? You know we've got alignment tonight. Colleen? Sure, bring her along. Thanks."

Palladino tiptoed back into Pete's room. "Pete?"

The motorized eyes turned to him. They were perhaps the most artful feature on the AIs. The oversized irises were similar to a man's, but not a solid color. Rather, they resembled a tiny galaxy of a hundred different brilliant hues. The effect was mesmerizing. An Italian did those eyes. "Pete, I have to go to a meeting soon. Ms. Van de Veer is coming to visit while Mama sleeps. And Colleen is coming over, too. Do you understand, son?"

"Yes. The Mama is sleeping."

The DAT crept over towards the still sleeping woman and placed a protective arm on her leg.

Palladino's heart stirred. "Good boy."

A Patriot lieutenant drove Palladino out to Building 5, located on the west side of town. Building 5 had been an ancillary factory operated by NESCO, a pre-World War II manufacturer of granite cookware. Now it served as a cloaked DARPA compound with a permanent staff of thirty. A large-lettered sign bolted to the factory's concrete façade read "Macinaw Works." None of the Granite City citizens moving back and forth outside on the brick sidewalks seemed the wiser.

Palladino presented his credentials at the guard station and then strode inside. The cool air swirled down upon him from the ten-meter high ceiling fans. He loved coming to this place. The hulking, almost ancient-looking equipment that had ground out hundreds of thousands of pots and pans long ago still smelled of fresh grease and human sweat. Palladino ran a finger along a fat iron pipe beaded with cold condensation. Building 5 stood as a testament to the American men who helped keep the country running by ripping the innards out of the earth with their bare hands and pounding them into service for households near and far.

That was the sentimentalist view of the situation. In fact, the old equipment was kept in place because it served as perfect camouflage for their unit's equipment and vehicles should anyone go poking around with an X-ray camera.

He found the two-legged Timberwolves in the armory performing the systems-go check on the weapons that they would carry during REFLA. Right on cue, the muscles along the nape of his neck tensed.

Captain Marty Flemish looked up from polishing his rifle. "Look what the rat's drug in."

Flemish, DAT Colleen's dad, was the squad's sniper. Whenever he stopped huffing from the bucket of Jesus he always carried around, Palladino found him almost tolerable.

Palladino plucked a clipboard thick with documents hanging from a nail in the wall and scanned it. "Anybody check on the horses yet?"

Captain August Smith was picking his teeth with a loose grenade pin. "Looks like it drug in your bad mood, too."

Flemish snapped his rifle back into the gun rack. "How can you tell?"

Captain Elliot Bosely chimed in. "'Cause Gene's only happy when he's got a can of hooch on him. Oh, hold up. What's that in his back pocket?"

"Your dear 'ole ma," Palladino snarled.

Bosely, the unit's senior medic, hooted. "And look, she's holding up a six pack!"

Smith interjected. "Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"

Bosely pointed his index finger at Smith's center of mass. "Hey! I only imbibe when—

"You're awake," Flemish finished for him.

"Shut up," Palladino snapped. He glared around the room. "Now, have the horses been checked out?"

"The colonel is with them," Flemish answered.

"How long's he been here?"

Flemish shrugged. "I think he got in last night. He was here when I got in this morning."

Captain Joe Mackey chuckled. "Hey, Marty. Were you in here begging God to save our asses tomorrow?"

"I was. And I asked him to forgive your whore mongering, too. You're welcome."

Mackey's jaw dropped. "Hey, stop putting my business in the streets."

Mark Clayton, the newly-promoted DAT field specialist, snorted loudly. "I'm thinking He's already got the 4-1-1 on that one."

Smith groaned. "Here we go again. Flem, if Mackey is getting as much twang as you think he is, then the Almighty ain't mad; He's jealous!"

Joe Mackey fixed his steel blue eyes on his brother-in-arms. "Marty, if some all-powerful being is sitting around stressing about my petty stuff, then I'd say He's got too much time on His hands."

"Blasphemy," Bosely intoned.

Mackey settled down.

Flemish couldn't resist getting in one more jab. "Just get your house in order. You're bringing down morale."

Mackey grew air fangs. "All right, you are way out of line!"

"I agree," Palladino said as he re-hung the clipboard. "When's Pop coming in? Obviously the sooner the better."

"He's out back with the colonel," Flemish said.

Palladino left the grumbling behind and headed out of the armory and back towards the rear of the factory. He punched in his security code at the steel rollup gate and was soon standing in the crisp sunshine and fresh air of the equine team's paddock. 'Fresh' was relative; smells of stinky manure and urine-soaked hay filled the air. Trash flies buzzed his ears. The place was a mild mess, but the overarching essence was of raw goodness. Earthy. The knot of muscles gnawing at the base of his neck uncoiled by a fraction.

Higgins and Pop were standing beside Vic, a hulking Clydesdale who, in his opinion, was the sharpest tack amongst the four combat horses. Vic took orders like a K-9 and rarely shied from mission intensity. However, at the moment, the large animal was looking like anything but a wonder horse. There was pain in his features, and it made him look a little vulnerable. The colonel and Pop were bending way over to examine his left leg. Even from three meters away, Palladino could make out the swelling around the knee joint.

"Hey!" Palladino called out. Vic whinnied.

Higgins looked up. "Gene, come look at this."

Palladino came up beside the horse and looked the leg over. There was definitely inflammation but it looked more like a joint problem than a bacterial one. Palladino examined Vic's eyes. They were clear and inquisitive.

"I don't see any sign of infection. How's he eating?"

"Like a horse," Pop replied.

The colonel began to gently knead Vic's glossy neck. "That's good news. It could be his arthritis acting up. It does that from time to time, 'specially when the weather changes up." He felt the bum leg again. "Let's keep an ice pack on it and get him in a partial harness. He might check out by tomorrow night."

Palladino kept his eyes moving. The horse was definitely keeping his weight off the leg. Palladino cursed again. If his point animal was out of action, then that meant that the other horses were going to be next to useless, nervous, and spooked at every turn. And that would leave the DATs with spotty coverage at best; his men couldn't keep eyes on the AIs and any pop-up HCs or AS, too. The mission might be over before it even began. Or worse: delayed.

Why did I even bother to get out of bed this morning?

The torque from the knot in his neck cranked up with a vengeance. Palladino longed to be back at the beach.

Higgins handed Vic off to a stable hand. "Your team assembled?" he asked Palladino.

"Yes, sir."

Pop wiped his hands on his coveralls. "Let's go then." The aligner led the way back to the armory. The Timberwolves jumped to attention as soon as the trio entered the room, and the casual camaraderie fled.

Higgins and Palladino moved off to the side while Pop kept his entire two-meter frame between the others and the door. No pleasantries were expected or exchanged.

"Gentlemen," he started gruffly, "the day after tomorrow is an important date in your life. You and the Army's most sophisticated weapon in fifty years will walk hand-in-hand into history. And you won't be alone. You'll have cutthroat scum and committed Advance South personnel with you every step of the way. Tell me, are y'all ready?"

"Hell yes, sir!" the Timberwolves barked confidently.

Pop's mouth bent in what was now interpreted by many as a smile. "Is that so?" He advanced on the men by two steps. "Because that's not what I've been hearing."

Team confidence instantly began to flag.

Pop continued. "It's been said that right before an Advance South soldier goes to bed at night he kisses his Bible, his wife and his gun. Does that make him a better man than you?"

"Hell no, sir!" the Timberwolves answered in unison.

"Yeah? Well, we've got intelligence from Homeland Security telling us that the foot soldiers for the Cabo cartel are being trained by Mossad. A Cabo infantryman can shoot the eye out of sparrow from three hundred yards. I've seen it! Does that make them better warriors than you?"

"Hell no, sir!"

Pop's massive chest heaved. "Well, then why did the governor of New Jersey recently hold a news conference telling his people not to worry about our special forces knocking on their front door because in his estimation we couldn't fight our way into a wet paper bag?"

No one said anything.

"This no-good fucker pees on us in public and y'all just stand around happy as sissies."

Pop directed his withering stare at Palladino. "Why does the Army of the legitimate government of these United States inspire more laughter than fear in St. Louis? ... or Miami? ... or Atlanta?"

The colonel stuck out his chest. "In my opinion, this Army is still an effective force in re-establishing true democracy in America."

"And in my opinion, you are full of shit." He swung his eyes around the room. "You all are. The Timberwolves have been given the opportunity of a lifetime: to actually put a boot print on the AS's backside. And you a-holes piss it off." He began a savage mimicry in a high, girlish voice. "'I'm sick of the war. I want to go home. When are we getting our Canadian package?' Well, sons-of-bitches, WE ARE ALL SICK OF THE WAR AND WE ALL WANT TO GO HOME!" He removed his shirt. "None of you is worth the uniform you pretend to wear."

"That's not true. You lie!" Clayton shouted angrily. The other men registered shock at the tech's audacity. Clayton had fought the Advance South alongside Palladino in Kentucky and everyone knew that his timing— both mental and physical—had been slightly off ever since. But such a breach of conduct was still almost unheard of. And with Pop? Sheer insanity.

Pop spun around with catlike speed and swung on the captain. His right hand immediately connected with Clayton's lower lip, splitting it open.

Pop raised his arms and roared at the air. "Guddamn, it IS true!" He wiped the specialist's blood from his fist. "Clayton, you couldn't hit the side of a barn if I held a gun to your head, and you think this has bothered you enough to get back on the firing range. HELL NO! This man's Army is full of ineptitude, corruption, and a-moral conduct. You're no more ready to fully engage the enemy than a blind mule. And every no-good bastard from Alaska to Florida knows it."

There was a tense silence suffused with rising panic.

The belt slid out from the loops in his pants like a python. "Pay attention to me. This is as much a war of comportment as it is brains. You nimrods seem to lose sight of that whenever booze, broads or an empty chair enters your crosshairs." He cracked his belt, and it whistled purposely through the air. Pop's voice bristled with menace. "It stops tonight."

The Timberwolves broke position and fled to the four corners of the armory. It was a feckless maneuver. Pop cornered Bosely first and got busy pummeling the cowering man with both belt and fist. And when he had driven the man to the point of tapping out against the blood-spattered floor, he turned his attention to the others. He pounced on Joe Mackey and began to hit the man without mercy. When it was Palladino's turn to twist under Pop's punishment, the officer made the mistake of fighting back. As the two men tussled, Mackey managed to escape the big man's grasp and half-ran, half-fell towards the door. Pop roared like an attacking grizzly bear. He stabbed a button on the belt's buckle with his thumb, causing the entire length of the weapon to go rigid. Then he held it aloft like a javelin with his right arm and fired it at Mackey's back while simultaneously rewarding Palladino with four rabbit punches to the abdomen with his left.

Within minutes it was all over. The armory was pitch black now; the ceiling lights had been knocked out during the various scuffles. Frenetic whispers sprang up here and there.

"Is he gone?"

"I think my arm is broke."

"I can't feel my face."

"Move over. You're bleeding on me!"

"Hey! Is he gone???"

A match was struck and its light shone momentarily against Pop's sweaty head. His next words seemed disembodied and eerily distant. "Get your heads in the game."

Twenty-four hours later ...

In spite of the cold, the night air was moist on the skin. The moon was fat and riding low on the horizon. It was exactly seven p.m. Six soldiers, six DATS, and four horses, including the healed Vic, crept south along dank, fetid fields, all the while keeping within spitting distance of Highway 203. They wore the uniforms and identifications of the Illinois National Guard. The Guard was the only military force allowed to travel freely from county to county, or even from state to state in certain situations.

Every man and every DAT was fully armed. However, the DATs' guns were locked inside their weapons bays. No one really expected any major trouble, so the DATs' primary function would be to help root out IEDs.

After forty-five minutes they reached East Saint Louis, which lay on the border of Illinois and Missouri. Ghetto choppers brought in from Granite City hovered in the misty distance over a flattened field, lazily swinging their spotlights in wide arcs on the ground, searching for the upright creepy-crawlies in the tall grasses below. The unit progressed until the houses gave way to crumbling apartment buildings and steel fences. They were out in the open. Due to the curfew imposed by the real Guard, the city's streets were empty, but they could feel the restlessness of its populace. Explosive, mindless rage simmering under the heavy lid of night, just waiting for the freedom of daybreak. The HCs were arguably the most unfortunate result of the US-AS rebellion. When the country had split apart, chaos quickly rushed in to fill in the newly formed chasm between the two factions, and these individuals had suddenly found themselves truly in their own element. The soldiers, all veterans, would often remark how similar the murderous tension in East Saint Louis was to that of Ireland or Afghanistan. And when one considered that HCs weren't even the official enemy, it made the situation all the more depressing. And dangerous, because the regular rules of engagement did not apply.

They were going to approach the target on a slant from the southeast. It was a good nine kilometers away. Luckily one-third of that real estate had reverted to grassland years ago, and they weren't likely to come across any coordinated resistance. On paper it was an absurd way to reconnoiter, but the best information about the enemy was usually gleaned from the ground up. Literally. And while it was unlikely that they would come across any Advance South troops in this neck of the woods, they would learn volumes about the gangs. It would take them one hour to make the rendezvous point with Clambake, their CIA contact. Clambake would then hand over the keys to a fifteen-meter big rig, and they would drive the rest of the way to the target.

Suddenly three skeletal dogs sprinted from between two battered pickups and hobbled across the road no more than two meters in front of them. Everybody froze as the specter of a bloody DAT blitzkrieg suddenly threatened to knock the carefully crafted REFLA on its ass. Palladino slowly turned his head to survey the AIs. They were certainly curious, but nothing more. The canines slunk into the maw of a drainpipe.

Palladino let out a sigh of relief and signaled the others to continue forward. Up ahead was some activity. Then he ordered that the horses be placed in flanking positions around the DATs. They crossed the street onto a long stretch of unlit pavement. They could make out five youngsters, all boys, on the opposite side. The air carried their excited chatter and mischievous laughter. A small fire bloomed four meters ahead, rolled away a bit, and then died. One of the soldiers grunted his disapproval. Catching rats and setting them on fire was a favorite child's game in this part of town. The men knew that if left to their own devices long enough, they would soon be lighting up bigger prey. One of the children spotted them and threw a chunk of brick at them. It hit Leo, Vic's wingman, squarely on his snout. The war horse shook off the pain and stood still, but there was a lot of blood. Bosely withdraw a pen light from his jacket to examine the wound. "The kid's got a good arm," he joked. "Pretty nasty gash. I'm going to need to clean it up and give him an antibiotic. Can we get some privacy?"

Palladino cursed beneath his breath. Delays threw his timing off. "Okay." The team moved on, once again melting into the decay of tilting shacks and weeds.

Up ahead, near a snake bed of rusted railroad tracks, they ducked into an abandoned church to tend to the injured horse. The place of worship sat obliquely atop a barren knoll, indifferent to the rot at its feet. Inside, the place was unreasonably dark and fetid; the chipped stained glass images offered no hope that things would get better. Light from outside sneaked in and gave the structure a creepy feel. The DATs, uneasy in the ugly surroundings, began to jostle one another. Sharon, usually the meekest of the lot, suddenly lunged forward and clipped Daniel's foreleg. Daniel retaliated by sticking out his left hind leg and sweeping Sharon off all four feet. Palladino grabbed Daniel by the DAT's neck armor and was attempting to drag him away when Pete violently knocked Palladino into a bank of pews and snatched Daniel out of his grasp. Pete tossed Daniel high into the air, grabbed him by his thighs on the way down, and then flattened him on the floor with a picture-perfect body slam. The other soldiers rushed in to quell the brawl. Thanks to the extra padding beneath his own body armor, Palladino was able to get up and walk away. It took five minutes of wordless grappling to calm the DATs down to the point where they could be trusted not to attack anyone off the fly. The colonel mumbled to himself. "Maybe we ought to cut out the wrestling shows."

Then Bosely froze. The black eye that Pop had given him the night before was bulbous in the chancy light.

"What's wrong?" Flemish asked.

And then he and the rest heard it. Muffled voices. Almost right on top of them. Before they had a chance to react, the church's two doors were flung open and two women and a man carrying flashlights entered. They were so busy joking and laughing with each other that they failed to notice six soldiers, four horses, and six robots crowded around the altar.

The trio collapsed into a pew and produced bagged beers, talking nonstop. The smell of marijuana soon hit the air. A radio began to play R&B, and with the soft glow from the flashlights casting a cozy intimacy around them, the little party was in full swing. Vic, perhaps bothered by the pungent smoke, began to whinny. The three intruders jumped.

As if on cue, all of the horses abruptly moved themselves in tandem down both aisles, towards the doors, leaving the six DATs fully exposed.

The man carrying the boom box started with anger, but that shut down quickly as he and his companions began to absorb and then frantically delete from memory the scene in front of them. Six creatures were now watching them with scary intensity.

He raised his hands high but deliberately looked down at his feet. "Look, this is obviously none of our business." The three stood up and began to hastily gather their things. "We didn't see nothing. We didn't hear nothing."

Palladino gave a hand signal to Clayton, who stepped forward, rifle drawn. He motioned towards the door behind the choir's section. "Please come this way."

When they hesitated, their gaunt faces boiling with panic, he said, "Don't worry. It's just a precaution." They reluctantly followed him out. Palladino supervised as Bosely finished bandaging Leo. After a short while, Clayton rejoined them and gave Palladino the all-clear sign. Smith then went out back and tagged the heavily sedated individuals for the Patriot wake-up crew that would conduct a sweep the next morning.

They left the church at eight o'clock and found an injured Clambake and the big rig parked on Clarendon Street sixteen blocks away. The agent had a large hole blown through his pants and tiny cuts on his face and hands.

"Ammo type?" Palladino wanted to know right away.

"Nothing exotic," Clambake responded with clenched jaws. "Feels like standard street issue."

"You see the shooters?" Flemish asked.

"No. But I've got some ideas. I was being tailed on the way over. Three sport cars with front-mounted turrets."

Palladino motioned to Flemish and the sniper vanished only to reappear a few seconds later atop the roof of an abandoned house.

"Sounds like a cartel deputy," Mackey said. "They're the only ones around here carrying that much bling."

Clambake nodded. "You got a doc on board?"

Bosely already had two syringes at the ready. "Ho."

Palladino checked his watch. The time was slipping away from them. "You've got six minutes."

Boseley hoisted Clambake's left arm around his shoulders and pulled him towards Vic who carried the portable surgery kit. "No problem."

Pete and the other DATs gathered to stare at the quarter-sized drops of blood glistening on the road in the streetlights.

Palladino whistled at them for attention. "A lot of bad guys out there, but don't worry. We'll get 'em." Connie's head jerked up and the major froze. Something was stirring behind those Mona Lisa eyes. Bewilderment?

Auggie Smith jostled his arm. "Gene, take a look at this."

The two men walked over to Clambake's truck. Smith fingered two fresh bullet holes in the driver's side door. He pointed past the blown out window to the CB apparatus seated beside the rearview window. The unit was practically in shreds.

"The first bullet took out communications. The second got Clambake in the leg."

"And the third?" Palladino asked.

That is when Bosely walked up and tossed something at them. Palladino caught it in midair. It was a rugged cell phone that would never make a call again. There was a neat hole right through its center.

Palladino's eyes went half-mast. "The eye of the sparrow."

The medic nonchalantly hitched his shoulders. "Show of force. They just wanted to scare him off."

"Yeah," Palladino concurred. "We must be in the right place."

"At the wrong time," Bosely added with foreboding. He began putting his surgical tools back into the various sterilizing chambers inside the surgery kit. "Clambake's gonna hitch a ride with the East St. Louis PD. A blank should be here in thirty seconds."

"Are we ready to roll?" Palladino asked him.

Bosely jangled a ring of loose metal. "Got the keys right here."

Palladino's eyes swept the streets fore and aft. "Then let's get to work." He spoke into his lapel microphone. "Flem, let's go."

After herding the DATs and the horses into the big rig's trailer, Mackey got behind the wheel—Palladino beside him—and pulled out into the deepening night.

They arrived at the target at exactly eight-thirty. The three-story brownstone was located in the middle of the block. The brass at Redstone had persuaded East Saint Louis's mayor to force an immediate evacuation order onto everyone within a ten-block radius. From the looks of it, it had worked. No light shown out of any of the many tall windows and lobbies. The men breathed a collective sigh of relief. Martial law was in effect even in the well-behaved neighborhoods. Curfew was sundown, but you could always count on some knucklehead doing their part to thumb their nose at the rules.

Mackey cut the truck's lights and drove slowly around to the back of the building and parked in one of the five parking slots. Palladino sent Flemish to stand lookout on the roof opposite the target building. Then he had Clayton help Pete and Colleen do a detailed security scan of the building from top to bottom. They turned up several manual locks on the door leading to the basement but little else.

Mackey and Smith comprised the search team. Palladino addressed them. "Check the basement first."

Smith patted his tool belts until he found a stout pair of bolt cutters.

"And take Connie and Daniel and make sure that all of their AV equipment is turned on. Those Redstone engineers are monitoring tonight."

Clayton grimaced. "Snoops."

Palladino fondled the butt of his handgun. "They're just doing their jobs."

Clayton and Smith retrieved the two chosen AIs from the big rig, and the four of them descended the inky stairwell that led to the basement's locked door.

Palladino and Bosely took up casual positions on the brownstone's stoop. From there they could intercept any unexpected visitors while the hot team hopefully located the weapons cache, took pictures and fingerprints, and then set the timed charges. Within minutes, Smith's baritone voice was filling their ears. "Bingo! We've got maybe a hundred SAMs down here. They've got them in freezers."

"Are the freezers working?" the colonel asked.

"Yeah. They're cranking out real ice. Surprised that they've got the juice for this. This area was supposed to have been cut off last month."

Palladino grunted. "They've probably got a generator around here somewhere. We'll have to worry about that one later. Go ahead and set the C5."

"Right."

Palladino began to fidget.

"What's wrong?" Bosely asked.

"Too easy. And the security scan should have turned up a machine capable of putting out that kind of power."

Bosely looked uneasy. "What are you thinking, boss?"

"That those electrons are coming from a power grid. Which means that someone downtown has his finger on the light switch."

"Working with a cartel?"

"Money always talks. Which means that this entire area is probably under Cabo surveillance."

Bosely frowned. "And we're outnumbered."

"Yup."

That was a truly terrible thought. Bosely brightened. "Could be some locals who knew how to reconnect to the power supply. That's happened before."

"Maybe," Palladino replied slowly, not wanting to entirely shut down hope.

A woman's sharp scream, full of pain, split the quietness. It was followed by soft, easy laughter.

Palladino and Bosely stepped down to the sidewalk and craned their necks to get a better look at the entire front face of the building.

"Lights coming from a fourth story window," Bosely whispered sharply.

"Crap," was Palladino's only response.

"You want we should check it out?"

"Hell, no," he snarled back. "But it's in the profile, so ... " He radioed Clayton. "Clay, we've got people in the building. Fourth floor. We're taking Pete. Set the timers on my call in. Do you copy?"

"Copy that."

After a brief three-way conference call with Flemish, the two men and Pete stealthily made their way up the stairs. The power to the upper floors had not been off more than a week, but already the walls were slick with ambient moisture. The interiors were completely dark, and they switched to night vision. When they had finally reached the fourth floor, they waited for more audio cues. They did not have to wait long. Something hit a wall hard, followed by frantic scuffling noises.

Bosely pointed down the hall towards the last door on the right. Palladino acknowledged. They both proceeded to move silently towards the new target, Pete between them matching their slow pace. They reached the apartment and flanked either side of the doorway. Luckily for them the front door was ajar. Palladino signaled Pete to get behind him. The two soldiers withdrew their pistols. Bosely also pulled out his shotgun.

Palladino caught Bosely's eyes and mouthed the word "Now."

Bosely toed open the door to reveal a hellish scene. Bathed in an eerie blue light, the room was alive with pale, naked bodies. Two muscular men had a woman thrust up against a far wall and were taking turns ramming themselves into her. Closer to the them, two males wearing expressions of lighthearted enthusiasm had an Advance South soldier pinned to the floor while a third was busy trying to saw off one of his arms. Lying on the floor in the kitchen were the sprawled bodies of two more enemy soldiers. Spent syringes and cigarette butts lay scattered about the tossed furniture.

Palladino and Bosely stepped inside.

On the colonel's eye signal, Bosely delivered bulls-eye shots to the heads of the rapists and then blew the other three HCs to the floor with center-of-mass blasts from his shotgun. The woman slid to the floor, her hands clutching her stomach. Palladino was at her side in an instant.

"Ma'am, it's all right. You're safe now." He held out a hand to make contact.

She shrieked, "DON'T TOUCH ME!!!" She fell to her knees and then to her belly and began to crawl in short, painful hitches towards a long sofa. A wide trail of blood—and something else—followed her.

"Oh, God," Palladino groaned.

The woman reached the stubby couch legs and with one last heave rolled herself underneath. There were a few mewing cries, a gurgle ... and then nothing. Palladino and Bosely exchanged quick, dispirited looks.

Palladino motioned for Pete to stand beside him. The soldier unlocked the DAT's gun bays. Bosely watched him do it but did not say anything.

Palladino gave the AI a reassuring pat on the head. "Pete, search for sheets or blankets. Weapons at ready. There may be others." Pete edged past the carnage and disappeared down a short hallway.

Bosely spat at the body of one of the rapists. "You want them tagged?" he asked.

Palladino pulled a rag out of his pants pocket to wipe his brow. "No. But we'll let the other side know that they've got casualties. They can do collection on the assailants if they want."

The sole surviving Advance South soldier began to writhe and moan. Palladino and Bosely knelt down beside him.

The colonel laid a steadying hand on one bucking shoulder. "Kid, you're losing a lot of blood. We're gonna have to tourniquet that arm, okay, but you're gonna have to hold still."

The young man's eyes rolled around their sockets a bit and then suddenly focused and grew wide. Palladino turned his head. Pete had returned, clutching a beach towel in one arm.

The Advance South soldier cringed. "Oh, my God. Am I in hell?"

"Not yet," Bosely replied.

The front panel on Palladino's jacket fell open to reveal the small patch representing the presidential seal that every American Army officer wore. The wounded soldier saw it. Blood was pumping out of his body, but the young man had enough pep left in him to snarl through gritted teeth, "Hell's gonna be so full of you Washington scum that there won't be any room left for anybody else."

Palladino was already preparing to wrap the deep gash on his arm. "Be still!" As he applied pressure to the wound with a large bandage, he barked at Pete, "I need a blanket, dammit. That's a towel."

Pete confidently trotted off again.

Bosely was working various syringes with extreme speed. "What happened here?"

The wounded soldier took a deep breath. "We received a tip ... that there was illegal ordnance somewhere in this building."

Palladino and Bosely's eyes briefly met. "Go on."

"We got airdropped in, but when we got here these punks were waiting for us."

"Do you know who they are?"

"No idea. Dusters, I guess. About ten of 'em."

"Five," Palladino corrected him.

"It felt like a hundred," the soldier said. "Before we could draw our weapons they were all over us."

Palladino grunted. The Advance South troops were notoriously inept, but this was a pitiful low. How they were still able to score these knockout punches against the highly trained military powers of America was beyond him. He finished with the bandage just as Bosely injected him with a high-load tetanus shot. Pete returned again. This time he was carrying a thick blanket and a pillow.

Palladino took the items from the DAT. "Thanks, son. Good job." Pete sat down on his haunches next to the wounded AS soldier and watched. Palladino placed the pillow behind the soldier's back and draped the blanket over his legs. "Are you feeling cold or sleepy?"

"No." The young man was staring at the DAT, his eyes as big as saucers.

"That's not real, is it?" the injured soldier finally asked.

"No. You're having hallucinations."

The soldier nodded. "I thought so," he muttered to himself. He tried to look around. "Can you check on my team? I know it's not your job ... "

"They're all fine," Bosely lied to him. "Just relax. We're going to try to reach the rest of your unit and let them know that you're here. Okay?"

"Sure, sure. 'Preciate it."

Palladino spoke to Pete. "Please lay down beside ... what's your name, son?"

"Andrew."

"Please lay down beside Andrew." Peter lay down within kissing distance of the trembling soldier. "Don't worry. He won't hurt you." Palladino pressed a tiny button on Peter's neck and a high-res fourteen-centimeter color monitor revealed itself in a recessed compartment in his ribcage. After a few seconds, the Yahoo splash screen bloomed and artificial light filled the room, giving it some comfort.

Andrew drew back, utterly amazed. "You've got the Internet!"

"Better." Palladino thumbed another button. "We've got HBO, the History Channel, ESPN, you name it."

In spite of his intense discomfort, Andrew was laughing. "Oh, man. If I wasn't seeing this, I wouldn't believe it."

"Well, you aren't seeing this." Bosely twirled a finger at his own temple. "Crazy, remember?"

Andrew grinned. "Right." Then his freckled face contorted in pain.

"You like sports?" Palladino asked.

"Um, yeah."

"We've got college football, soccer, hockey—"

"Hockey? Who's playing?"

Palladino stared at the action on the screen. "Looks like the Red Wings and the Sharks."

"Yeah, yeah. Should be a good game. Thanks." Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. "Now all I need is a beer and a pizza."

Bosely held up another syringe. "How about another shot of morphine?"

Andrew quickly nodded. "That'll work, too."

Palladino fished his mobile phone out of one pocket and asked the operator for the number of the Advance South headquarters in Saint Louis, Missouri. There were three listed. He chose the first. He dialed the number and reached a sleepy receptionist who connected him with her supervisor who gave him the number of a private residence. He told the man who answered the phone that he was a concerned citizen of East Saint Louis and that he had come across an ambushed Advance South unit. At first the man did not believe him. It wasn't until Palladino began reading off the names from the dead soldiers' dog tags that belief—or rather disbelief—set in. With a sudden dullness in his voice, the other man said that he would take care of the matter. Palladino advised him to do so with high speed as the building where the soldiers were was a designated target scheduled for immediate demolition.

"You're from Washington?" the man asked.

"Yes," Palladino answered.

The other man breathed heavily on his end of the line. "Well, thanks for the call. Give us twenty minutes. And be gone when we get there."

"Will do." Palladino clicked off.

He rejoined the others and whispered to Bosely, "They're gonna be here in twenty." He looked at Andrew, who now had his good arm curled around Pete's neck. "How's he doing?"

"He's not having that much pain," Bosely whispered back. "So that's good. You think it's a good idea to have exposed the DAT like this?"

"I'll bet he's lost two quarts of blood. If this guy lives to watch the eleven o'clock news tonight it will be a miracle. Look, we're moving on. Can you go back downstairs and stand watch? Call Smith and give him a status report. I'll give him the green light on the timers at twenty-one hundred hours. That's fourteen minutes from now. Then we'll all meet back at the truck."

Bosely frowned. "Fourteen minutes? The AS team may not have gotten here by that time."

"I know. We're going to delay the timing devices by one hour. Tell Clayton and Smith. That's the best we can do."

Bosely paused. "Clambake's bushwackers might be listening in on us. Maybe we should stay off the radios until we get clear?"

"Mention it to Clayton. Maybe he can rig one of the AIs to be a jammer."

"Okay." Bosely tapped Andrew on the leg. "You take it easy, young man."

"Thanks." The young man seemed genuinely grateful. "And thanks for letting me talk to your dog."

Bosely's left eyebrow went up quizzically. "Oh, is he talking now?"

"Well, yeah." The soldier gave Pete a fuzzy look. "Didn't you just tell me that you wanted some ice cream?"

The DAT's comms lit up. "No."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe that was me ... . " He coughed once, slumped backwards, and closed his eyes.

Bosely left. Palladino fetched another dark blanket, pulled the body of the female soldier from under the couch, and covered it. He did the same for the other three murdered soldiers on the kitchen floor. He checked his watch. It was twenty-one hundred hours exactly. He radioed Clayton.

"Set timers for twenty-two hundred hours. I repeat: twenty-two hundred hours. Do you copy?"

"Copy that," came Clayton's reply, full of static. "Meet you at the truck. Over."

Palladino hoisted his backpack over one shoulder and addressed Pete. "Let's go."

The DAT removed Andrew's arm from around his neck with a slow, deliberate motion. The LED lettering on his forehead was amped in the uneven light of the apartment. "There is too much death here.

"No argument there. But this is war. Death happens."

"There was a war in this room?" Peter asked.

"Yes. A small war."

"And everyone has to cause death to someone else in a war?"

"No. Not always."

"But those HCs caused death to the soldiers, and you caused death to happen to the HCs."

"Pete, we had to stop those HCs from hurting that soldier and possibly others. That was a tactical decision to save lives, not just to cause death."

"No. That is incorrect. You did not allow the HCs time to talk about their plans to hurt others."

"Look, I don't have time to argue with you!"

The DAT broke off contact and looked prepared to engage in a meaningful stare-off with a nearby lava lamp when Palladino yanked hard on his flak jacket. "We have to get out of here. Now COME ON!" He half-dragged him down the four flights of stairs.

Within five minutes everyone was safely back inside the semi's trailer with Smith behind the wheel this time. Palladino sat beside him, his machine gun resting between his knees. Just as they were pulling out onto the blank street, six parachutes appeared in the skies directly overhead.

"It's Advance South. Let's move it!"

Smith kicked the recalcitrant behemoth into fourth gear and nosed it around a broad corner. With two more turns, they were now headed east. Highway 203 was still several kilometers away, but now they would be driving instead of walking.

"What time is it?" Smith asked.

Palladino checked his watch. "Civilian time: nine-thirty p.m."

"Good. We'll be home free by eleven."

The huge tenement buildings gave way to large, single-family homes with manicured lawns. Here the streets were well lit and the parked cars relatively new and intact. But everyone knew that honest danger still leered at them from every corner. In this area were the people left behind when the city's more mobile upper middle class had drained across the Mississippi river and into St. Louis, Missouri. Playing hosts to dangerous drug cartels probably filled several needs: drugs, food, fast money and daily gang battles. In spite of the natural disasters and the war itself, many citizens still found themselves spellbound by the desire to witness destruction. Hollywood wasn't around anymore to pump out mindless action-gore fests to the masses, and so this need had to be met in a more organic way. Many communities like this one now experienced head-cracking violence right in their front yards, and the intel was that it was being encouraged outright by some community leaders. Fantasy had evolved into exquisite reality in the blink of an adrenaline-addled eye. Many people in once thriving suburbs were now gunfight junkies, waiting with trembling hands behind their living room drapes for the criminal elements to trap and torture police squads or lost travelers.

What was working in their favor was that an advance team had already combed the city of its worst offenders. They really should not have any serious trouble. Palladino dared to relax a bit. The worst was behind them. Once they got back to Granite City, all that was left to do was check in with Higgins. Debriefing would not take place until tomorrow evening at the earliest; that would leave him plenty of time to write up his report.

A tiny fireball streaked by directly in front of them.

"WHOA!" Smith jerked the steering wheel to the left. Then their windshield was rocked by a violent explosion. The bulletproof glass did not shatter but underwent severe feathering from top to bottom.

Palladino screamed into his microphone. "We're under attack!"

The cab of the truck suddenly bucked upwards as another explosion ripped through the truck's undercarriage.

Smith wrestled with the large steering wheel and tried to guide the rig over to the side of the road. "We're just sitting ducks here!" he shouted to Palladino. "We should evac immediately!"

Palladino yelled into the walkie-talkie. "Everyone get hot for an immediate evac. Thirty seconds." Inside his men would now be unlocking the gun bays on every DAT.

Although the rig's engine was sprouting flames, Smith managed to glide the large vehicle up onto the sidewalk and behind several large trees. The trees and the dark would afford them some measure of cover once they were forced outside.

Small arms fire assailed the driver's side door from across the street. Smith slid over and exited the truck with Palladino out the passenger door. They jumped down onto the ground and crouched-walked their way to the rear of the trailer. The doors flew open and the walk ramp slid out perfectly. The combat engineers emerged first, guns at the ready, followed by the AIs and then the horses.

They ran for a large section of unlit street.

Flemish caught up with Smith and Palladino. "We've got at least three shooters in that white house. Probably just locals getting in on the action. That IED was set by a professional, so we might be close to a Cabo nest."

Palladino stepped back and made a brief sweep of the nearby homes. Hanging from inside the window of a darkened house was a black flag with a red dragon emblazoned on the front.

He returned to his unit. "We're smack in the middle of Cabo. And we've got to get out of here. In thirty minutes half of this area is going to be in orbit. The truck's busted, and it's too dangerous to try and make it out on foot."

"Let's get someone out here from Scott. They can send a helo—"

Palladino suddenly stiffened and put a finger to his lips.

"Yo! Sal donde podamos ver!"

A man wearing a black commando outfit was standing across the street in front of a house with a wide portico. He carried what looked to be a fully-automatic machine gun. And he was not alone. At least six other similarly clad figures emerged from an open garage door that was adjacent to the house.

"Venga y mataremos a usted dónde se encuentra." A gun's muzzle flashed.

Smith cursed beneath his breath, and he and Palladino hoisted their rifles into firing position and aimed. Too late. Too late!

"FIRE!"

There was a barrage of gunfire. Palladino and Smith instantly crumpled to the ground.

Flemish fell back behind the trailer and got busy pumping out round after round into their attackers. He watched two get blown backwards with grim satisfaction. Mackey and Clayton began to spray the street for cover as Bosely ran to the aid of Palladino and Smith.

With random bullets pinging all around him, he began to lightly run his hands over the fallen men. "Gene! Auggie! You okay? Where you hit?"

Smith was unconscious, but Palladino was alert and hurting. "My leg's hurt."

Bosely groped around until he found their pull handles and then dragged the men towards the relative safety of several cars parked nearby. Once he made sure that they were all out of the line of fire, he popped open a morphine pin and plunged it into Palladino's leg. Then he went to work on Smith. The combat engineer had a chest wound and was losing blood rapidly.

Something blocked out the vague illumination coming from the single streetlight.

Pete and Colleen had made their way over and were now staring down at the wounded men. Their comm boards were eerily dark. "It's all right, Pete. Your daddy's going to be fine." The DATs stood very still. "I want you to do me a favor. I want you to go stand by Vic and Leo until we can get some more help. Okay?"

The DATs did not respond,

"GO!" he yelled at them.

The robots began to move, walking in a broad semicircle back towards the horses.

Just then the tempo of the shooting picked up and bullets seemed to come from every direction. The back of the truck was targeted again. The horses, which had been standing nearby, were startled and broke out into the open street. Leo went down in a hail of bullets. Pete stopped and spun around. He ran over to the stricken horse and watched as the death spasms began to strike throughout the big horse's body.

"Dejen de disparar sus armas!"

The shooting abruptly stopped. Bodies were writhing everywhere.

Pete stepped out further into the open, heading straight for the gunmen.

A raspy voice called out to an unseen partner. "Que pasa? Julien? Que pasa?"

"Lo que en nombre de Dios es esto?" someone asked fearfully.

"El diablo!"

Bosely broke cover and called out. "Pete! Come back here!"

The DAT turned his head once to look back at the medic.

His comms flashed. "Targeting the enemy." Then the AI assumed the stalk position and methodically advanced on the cartel assailants. The men, apparently convinced that the real underworld had opened up and released its demon spawn, shouldered their guns and ran for three light-colored sport cars parked down the block. They jumped in. Pete hurried after them. Bosely watched as the AI approached one of the cars from the rear. The DAT trotted up to peer inside the driver's side window. The assailant inside cursed loudly. There was a muzzle flash and a telltale puff of smoke, and the DAT cartwheeled backwards and smashed into a parked car.

Bosely gaped in horror at the small body lying in the road and screamed. "PETER!!!"

The gunmen started their car engines and peeled out. Bosely forgot everything else and made straight for the fallen DAT. "Oh, my God."

Bosely had almost reached Pete when the DAT suddenly came alive. The AI sprang to his feet, sagged some, took a few steps, and then fell back down again. Bosely put on the brakes. Something told him to wait. The AI struggled to his feet again. This time, his footing was sure. With some difficulty, he turned himself in the direction that the Cabo gunmen had taken. He then extended his tail rudder and sprinted down the street after them.

Bosely put a hand over his mouth. "Jesus."

The night swallowed up the DAT. They now had a top-secret weapon on the loose in a metropolitan area that was about to undergo a cleaning. The mission was now in jeopardy. But he could not worry about that now. With the cartel gunmen gone, he knew that he and his men and the other DATs were now in even greater danger. The block began to come alive as porch lights flicked on and doors creaked open and slammed shut. Rough voices began call outs.

Bosely ran back to his squad.

Pools of precious blood were forming on the asphalt and making their way to city drains.

He came upon Flemish first. "We've got more trouble." He scanned the truck that they had just been riding in. "Let's get everybody inside."

Flemish hoisted his gun up and began to sight. "Too late."

There were now more people converging on the scene. Front doors were flung open, and entire families spilled out onto their lawns. Many were carrying items grabbed in haste: mostly baseball bats and kitchen knives. One elderly woman, a tiny thing with a silver hair bun, was brandishing the bars from a tricycle. Tonight's entertainment so far had no doubt been explosive ... like electricity being shot through a dead battery. The people wore excited expressions, no doubt inspired by the barrage of gunfire and bloodied bodies. And what Cabo had started they were now free to finish. A young girl in pigtails rallied the crowd. "Let's get all of them!"

The HCs surged forward. Bosely shoved a couple of would-be attackers aside and shot three others point blank. Flemish and Mackey pumped out hot lead until their guns ran dry. Within milliseconds they had reloaded their weapons and were cutting loose with blistering assaults, forcing those still alive to take cover beneath cars and behind hedges. While Flemish corralled the remaining DATs, Bosely and Clayton grabbed Palladino and Smith, and they all retreated to the truck trailer. Flemish bolted the doors. As soon as he was seated at his console, Clayton began to furiously type commands into a computer, trying to initiate a link with the runaway DAT.

But either the signal was being blocked or the DAT was ignoring the tap.

He re-typed the command. "Situation: Emergency. Peter. Return to team." There was no response. "I know that little shithead hears me," he growled.

Boseley checked another console. "I don't think so." He was grinning. "Daniel's jamming your signal."

Clayton was flummoxed. "Are you kidding me?"

"We need them to make decisions in the field. Careful what you wish for."

HCs began to bang on the back doors. Clayton yanked on a rubber blister on his jacket and then gave a sharp tug on a red plug under his left armpit. The plug popped up along with a miniature antennae assembly. The mini transmitter allowed him direct access to the East Saint Louis National Guard hotline. He fed the dispatcher the military priority code. After a lightning fast question-and-answer round to confirm his identity, he was placed on hold for the watch commander. He pulled on another plug and placed a second call to mission control at Scott Air Force Base. Colonel Higgins himself took the call. Clayton reported their situation. His superior assured him that an extraction team would be sent post haste. After several more questions, Higgins ended the call and Clayton rushed over to where Bosely was now once again working on Palladino and Smith. Both men were lying on their backs. Their outer armor bore multiple bullet holes, but that was not necessarily a dangerous thing. There were many layers of Kevlar and steel plating between the outer fabric and the inner lining, making the suits capable of simultaneously withstanding weapons blasts and flesh-shredding shrapnel. Best of all, the suits were pressurized so that its wearer's wounds could be kept in relative stasis until its wearer could be properly treated in a real surgery. Tonight that would be at Scott Air Force Base, a twenty-minute helo ride away.

That wasn't long, the men assured each other. Not long at all. They could make it.

Palladino began tossing from side to side. Bosely activated the suit's morphine drip to help keep him calm. Smith barely moved. The medic took his hand and squeezed it. "You're gonna make it, brother."

Clayton's radio headset suddenly came alive with voices. Clayton held up a hand and shouted into his mic. "Say again?"

The dispatcher was back on the line. "The primary suspect. What's he driving?"

"Himself," Clayton replied. "And he's not a suspect. He's from our unit, and he's in pursuit of three Cabo gang members that just tagged our unit."

"I didn't copy that. I need the make and model of the primary suspect's vehicle. What is he driving?"

"Himself!" Clayton screamed. "Where's the friggin' watch commander???"

There was a long sigh and then some back chatter. "You can drop the attitude, sir."

"GET OFF THE DAMN PHONE AND LET ME TALK TO A HUMAN BEING!"

Clayton shook his head and placed a thumb over his mic. "Off the record, Boz, I don't know if it's worth it anymore."

The watch commander finally came on the line. "This is Lieutenant Hirose, ESL Tactical Air Support Division. How may I help you, sir?"

"Listen, we've lost contact with a black body. I repeat: We have lost contact with a black body. It is in pursuit of three—uh ... gold or silver late model sports cars. Front and side armor. Hood-mounted automatic guns. We counted four suspects, believed to be Cabo gang members. All armed and extremely dangerous. Our objective is to regain control of the black body and then to capture the perps and hand them over to the authorities either here in East St. Louis or in Granite City."

"Understood."

"Also, call the control tower at Scott AFB and ask for the tazzle secretary. Give her your confirmation code: 12161960X-as-in-X-ray. This will let our guys know who you are. Do you copy?"

"Yes, sir. Please stay on the line while I place that call. There'll be a chopper in your airspace within twenty-two seconds. While you're waiting, I'll patch you through to the pilot's com-nav stat."

"Thank you."

Soon the thunderous pulse of the approaching Guard helicopter filled the air. Clayton and Bosely braved a peek through a bullet hole in the side of the trailer. They could see trees begin to move in high winds, followed by a smattering of gunfire. A large, dark object descended into view. There it was: a lithe Bell-412 gunship. One pilot and one gunny crouched behind a skid-mounted canon. It hovered about eight meters above them.

A male voice began talking over Clayton's headset. "This is Four-Nightbird. We have confirmation from Scott Air Force base, code number 12161960X-as-in-X-ray. We'll move on your orders. Over."

"Four-Nightbird, this is Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Clayton of the American Army. Thanks for the assist. We've got a GPS locator on a black body target. If you can track it, you can also track our suspects. I'm transmitting the GPS code to you now. Do you copy?"

"Ten-four." A couple of seconds passed. "Got it."

"Good. Now step on the gas!"

The Four-Nightbird gunny gave a thumbs-up to his pilot, and the bird went full throttle into the night. According to their instruments, the target was heading south. The Four-Nightbird pilot swept in closer to the street, mindful of the power lines roped along each side of the road, and skirted a billboard just in time to see two of the suspect vehicles blow through a red light. A pack of street dogs darted out from a drain pipe and gave hot pursuit.

A light rain began to fall.

"This is Four-Nightbird. Uh, I've got two targets in sight. Headed northwest. Traffic ahead. Uh ... they're really moving. We're going in for a better look."

Clayton's voice boomed at him through his helmet mic. "That's not the target!"

Four-Nightbird's pilot pushed on the stick, and the gunship quickly gained speed.

They were almost on top of the two fleeing vehicles when a freeway overpass suddenly loomed into view.

The gunny shouted to the pilot, "TAKE HER UP!"

The pilot pulled hard on the collective, yanking the nose of the chopper upwards. The sky tilted crazily for a few terrifying seconds before the chopper leveled out. They cleared the overpass's guardrail by a meter.

Up ahead they could still make out the suspect vehicles, bobbing, weaving, and knocking their way through the light traffic. The gunny suspected that they were headed for the Poplar Bridge, which would take them into St. Louis, Missouri. Missouri was one of the fourteen original secession states, and American law enforcement would not be permitted to perform police actions there under any circumstances.

Gunny spoke into his microphone. "Suspects are headed for Interstate 64. Looks like they're going to make a run for Missouri. If they make it, we'll be over enemy territory. Do you copy?"

Clayton responded. "Roger. Continue pursuit. And—"

He was interrupted by a new voice over the radio. "This is Five-Nightbird. We have confirmation code 12161960X-as-in-X-ray. We're here to assist."

The second chopper flew in from the east and dropped into formation beside the first.

Clayton started to speak, but Four-Nightbird began talking over him.

"Five-Nightbird, the suspects are traveling west in the two Mazdas below. They have hood-mount guns and automatic weapons. We believe that they are headed into Missouri via the Poplar Bridge. Black body target has not been located yet."

Five-Nightbird responded. "Roger that. Uh-oh. We've got company."

A bulbous white helicopter with the large caption "Channel 4 Action News" emblazoned on its side had joined them, flying approximately ten meters below and off Four-Nightbird's port side. Four-Nightbird's pilot descended and got on the radio. "This is a police action. Please break off immediately."

The news helicopter pilot flew the vessel close enough so that Four-Nightbird could see the cameraman inside give him the finger.

Four-Nightbird's pilot turned to the gunny. "We should shoot 'em out of the sky."

The gunny shrugged. "There'd just be five more to take their place. They're as bad as flies."

A large explosion of light suddenly bloomed down on the street below.

"Whoa!"

The police choppers zoomed in for a better look. One of the suspect vehicles had apparently come upon several cars trapped in an intersection behind a red light and had simply blasted their way through. Two cars now lay roasting on their sides on the rain-slicked street.

Four-Nightbird's gunny had seen enough. He hailed Five-Nightbird's crew. "Okay. We're going in."

Four-Nightbird descended rapidly to street level.

In seconds they were flying directly behind the suspects.

"Okay, we're right on top of the targets."

The gunny heard Clayton curse him over his headset. "That's not the target!" And ignored him.

The suspect vehicles began a braiding course, swerving around each other and other automobiles in order to prevent the Guard officers from getting a bead on them.

As the choppers dipped and dived to keep up with the perpetrators, Four-Nightbird muttered, "These guys should be driving for us."

"These guys need to be behind bars," Five-Nightbird's pilot corrected him.

Four-Nightbird spoke over the chopper's public address speaker. "This is the Illinois National Guard. Please pull over and place your hands on your head."

In response, the cars increased the speed of their evasive maneuvers.

Five-Nightbird's pilot chuckled. "They've had this crazy dog riding their tail for the last six klicks!"

Clayton's voice rang in their ears. "That's the target!"

"What?" The pilot peered down as the lead car weaved in and out of traffic, obviously trying to shake the animal. "What in the world?"

Four-Nightbird's gunny caught sight of one of the cars' hood gun swinging around towards them.

He hit the pilot in the arm and shouted, "PULL UP!" just as the chopper took a glancing hit in the tail section from somewhere behind them. The two men were jolted back into their seats as the chopper veered up sharply into a dangerous pitch.

The gunny shouted. "WATCH IT! YOU'RE GONNA STALL!"

The pilot shouted back. "SHUT UP! I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!"

The gunship began to shimmy like a belly dancer. The pilot pushed down hard on the collective and brought the vessel's nose down. The chopper wobbled a bit but began to fly straight and level.

Five-Nightbird's gunny's shouted at them. "YOU'VE STILL GOT YOUR TAIL ROTOR! THERE'S A THIRD SUSPECT RIGHT BELOW US! I'M RETURNING FIRE!"

Five-Nightbird's gunny stood and aimed his canon towards the street below. The pilot braked the gunship to let the third shooter's momentum take him to a spot just ahead and to the right of them. When they were a good ten meters away, the gunny opened fire. The first rounds struck the road, sparking it. He signaled the pilot to descend.

When they were about only three meters off the ground, he was able to put the fleeing vehicle directly into his sights.

"I HAVE THE SUSPECT WITHIN RANGE. I'M GOING TO FIRE!"

A light rain began to fall and obscure their vision. They needed a clearer shot. The pilot brought the gunship down farther so that they were just behind the car's tail. The gunny stepped outside the cabin, stuck his feet into the skid stirrups, and grabbed the canon's handlebars. His finger squeezed on the trigger ... just as the dog shot out from between their skids and directly into his scope. Startled, the gunny's shot went wild and smacked into a telephone pole, tearing off its transformer. "Hell!" The telephone pole lit up like a Christmas tree.

The pilot suddenly sat forward in his chair to peer through the chopper's canopy. "What's going on here?"

The gunship's headlight was illuminating the animal's backside. All four of its legs seemed to be in the air as it matched the breakneck speed of the car with impossible five-meter long strides. The pilot and the gunny exchanged brief, perplexed looks.

Four-Nightbird fell in behind them. "We're okay!" The gunny said. "Let's close this deal and go home!"

Ahead, the cars made a sharp turn at the next intersection. Both choppers executed ninety-degree banking turns to the right and followed. Now they could see that all three of the suspect vehicles were traveling together. Thankfully, the traffic had dwindled done to almost nothing. The I-64 onramp beckoned up ahead.

Something large and white flashed across both the Guard helicopters' bows. The news chopper was diving down to treetop level, the cameraman dangling outside the cabin door with his camera pointed at the fleeing assailants.

Four-Nightbird's gunny swore. "I've had enough of this." He grabbed his pistol. "Take her down!"

When the news chopper was within range, the gunny squeezed off four shots. The cameraman caught at least one bullet because he suddenly grabbed his leg, dropped his camera, and tumbled back into the helicopter's cabin. The white helo finally veered off.

Four-Nightbird hurried to rejoin Five-Nightbird. The chase was now happening at the entrance to Interstate 64.

Four-Nightbird's pilot pointed downward to movement detected behind the last suspect vehicle. Unbelievably, the dog was still traveling with them and running so fast that it was almost neck and rear bumper with the suspect vehicles.

The four officers watched in amazement as the cars zoomed up the on ramp and accelerated onto the Poplar Bridge.

The dog was still there riding their rear bumpers, easily matching their speed.

Four-Nightbird pilot's eyes scraped against his own speedometer. It read 120 knots. Numbing fear gripped him. The animal was moving at a sustained speed of over two-hundred kilometers per hour. He threw a wild look at the gunny. "That ain't no dog."

One of the suspects suddenly swerved and clipped the rear of a motor home loitering in the middle lane. The Cabo vehicle hydroplaned on the wet road for several meters, recovered, and then jerked into the fast lane. The RV was now directly in the path of the animal, who was coming up too fast to brake. Right before it smacked the rear of the coach, it suddenly stopped, extended its front paws towards the road and then somersaulted vertically into the air. It continued on this trajectory—straight up—until gravity began to slow it down. The chopper pilots watched in disbelief as the creature reached its apogee a good fifteen meters in the air, stretched out to its full length and then gracefully fell back down towards the earth.

Four-Nightbird's gunny shouted into his headset. "What the heck is this thing???"

The animal landed on all fours but then lost its balance and began to tumble out of control, hitting various cars and trucks along the way. After about ten such rotations, it managed to regain its footing. It then changed its trajectory with digital speed and quickly caught up with the gunmen. When it was running flush with the rearmost Cabo car, hot gunfire spit out of the car's driver side window. The animal immediately decelerated and fell behind the assailants. The first helicopter pilot radioed back to Clayton. He was practically shouting now. "They've gotten off on Memorial! Heading north!"

"Follow him!" Clayton shouted back. He turned to Bosely. "You think the Saint Louis heat will hassle them?"

"I don't know. Missouri and Illinois have limited reciprocity. They might not arrest them, but if they see Pete ... "

Clayton spat. "Then all bets are off." He clicked the radio's TALK button. "Four-Nightbird, where's the target?" he asked.

"Right behind your perps."

"Can you try and cut him off?"

"Who? The perps?"

"The target! Our black body!"

"Negative. If I get any closer I'll be out of legal limits."

"Understood. Are you transmitting your position to us?"

"Affirmative."

Clayton turned to Bosely. "They're gonna be out of our range in a minute, so I'm gonna bounce their signal to Higgins. They'll have to do DAT recovery. Flem and I are going to do another sweep of the area and make sure we don't have any more HCs popping up." He stuffed several gun magazines into his pockets. "You and Mackey round up the other DATs and the rest of the horses and stay with the colonel and Smith in the back-to-back position. We don't need any more surprises."

Bosely got up to go. Clayton called after him. "And make sure the DATs don't see Leo."

Bosely threw up his hands. "How am I gonna do that? He's a friggin' horse!"

"Put a blanket over him!"

Bosely's hands went higher. "And where am I going to find a blanket out here?"

"Use your thermal blanket, dumbass! Christ, do I have to do all of the thinking out here?"

As soon as the Mazdas crossed the border into St. Louis, Missouri, the cars split north and south. The helicopters did the same. Four-Nightbird stayed with the sole car being tailed by the black body. They were headed north. The helicopter almost lost the vehicle as they rose and dipped in between office buildings and highway structures, surfing the city, but caught up with them at the intersection of Washington Avenue and North 7th Street, close to the Edward Jones Dome. Unlike the majority of Midwest cities, St. Louis, warm and cozy in the Advance South's security blanket, had seen no need for a curfew. So although it was nearly ten o'clock in the evening, the streets were still bustling with high-end shoppers, international tourists and theater-goers ... literally herds of elite consumers shuffling carefree amongst the city's hoi polloi. As the Guard chopper burst in on this idyllic urban scene, many previously incurious faces turned upwards like startled moonflowers, tracking the helicopter charging directly overhead. The vehicle being driven by the Cabo gunmen hurtled through the intersection, narrowly missing several pedestrians and sending many others diving onto the sidewalks. It tried to execute a sharp left turn but instead slammed into a group of sand barrels. This elicited excited ooh's and ahh's from a group of drunk college types. The engine began to crackle and tick, tantalizing the onlookers with the prospect of exploding in a raging cloud of fire and metal. The driver briefly opened his door and then slammed it shut. Breaking glass could be heard as feet began to frantically kick at the rear window.

Dramatic scenes like this did not fall into a Midwesterner's lap every day, and the moment clearly called for some type of spontaneous celebration. Several young men ran out of a nearby bar, beer mugs hoisted high, and danced around the pending bonfire. Schoolgirls gathered round with their cell phones to take pictures and chatter. An elderly woman wearing a ridiculous blue wig and clutching a gang of shopping bags crept up behind the vehicle for a better view.

The situation became more energized as four police cruisers bulging with Saint Louis police officers converged noisily at the intersection, pulling up just in time to avoid plowing into a knot of gawking gym rats. One of the officers leaned out of his car window with a megaphone and yelled, "LADY, GET AWAY FROM THERE!"

The old woman merely set down her bags and moved closer to the ticking car.

A carnival atmosphere took hold of the area. A man riding a skateboard rode over to the old woman and snatched off her wig, exposing her near bald head for all to see. The young drunks from the bar roared with laughter.

A teenager wearing a Charlie Brown sweatshirt was suddenly center stage when she stuck out a manicured finger and shouted loudly, "LOOK OUT!" Heads turned to follow her pointing.

There was a heavy layer of fog rolling in from the black Mississippi river.

Someone called out, "HEY, DWAYNE! CHECK THIS OUT!"

The DAT emerged from the mist and slowly walked down the middle of North 7th Street towards the crowds. It moved very slowly. Very deliberately. Awash in the glow of neon lights, it bore a likeness to an armored cheetah. But it was taller and more streamlined. A young man, either high on terror or drugs, started to laugh like a hyena and chucked an open can of beer at its head. The DAT's right hand shot up, caught the projectile in midair, and then torpedoed it back to the thrower, hitting him squarely in the chest and bowling him over. Fifty or so bystanders, close to the action, blanched and began to run pell-mell through the wide intersection. A man in his thirties hit the ground and began clawing at a manhole over. The Mazda's doors opened again and two men tumbled out, arms high in the air.

"Llame a la policía! Llame a la policía!"

The two criminals ran toward the Civic Center.

Almost as soon as they had made their move, the chopper came back around and set down about twenty meters ahead of them, blocking their escape into the Civic Center maze

An amplified voice boomed at them from inside the gunship.

"Put your hands on your heads and kneel!"

The men fell onto their knees.

The DAT whirled about to regain the men in his sights. He began to advance. His rib section rippled and bulged with motion.

People's heads began to move in unison from left to right to left as the good citizens in St. Louis tried to take in all of the extraordinary events unfolding all around them.

One of the Cabo men shrieked at the top of his lungs. "Dios mío, ayúdame!

The St. Louis police officers exploded out of their cars, weapons drawn, awestruck and confused. Off in the far distance, across the river, a huge explosion split open the sky with building-sized flames. The earth shook for a few seconds, causing a wave of panic to spread through the area. A small child, looking downwind, caught sight of ten parachutes falling from the churning skies behind Marshall's department store. He told his father ... who nervously popped another stick of gum in his mouth and muttered to himself, "Invasion."

Now came a cavalcade of screaming fire engines tearing off Memorial and crowding into the growing pandemonium. Two red sedans, carrying their officers, made an equally dramatic entrance.

The firemen, under the command of Fire Chief T. Bentley, fell over themselves as they attempted to establish a more impressive beachhead than the St. Louis PD, all the while giving tacit acknowledgment of the policemen crammed around the perimeter of the burgeoning crowds. Privately, Bentley was boiling inside. Why had his department been called? This looked like a police matter to him. And what the hell had just happened across the river? He swatted at a cloud of mosquitoes that was pestering him and wondered after the flames licking the skies over East Saint Louis. The thought vanished as quickly from his mind as it had arrived. Someone came running fast and clipped his arm. Bentley cursed the back of the fleeing person. The city had gone completely nuts. There was no respect for the law or authority or just plain common sense. Why else would there be thousands of people jammed into pizza parlors and bars on a weeknight in the middle of a damn war? The sight of several couples nearby wearing pajamas and swilling beer out of brown paper bags while chattering on their cell phones simply confirmed his fears that most of the citizens of the city had lost their minds. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that he recognized two of those couples. Ed Winters and his wife, Beth, were founders of the city's largest winery. Beth's ancestors had come over on the Mayflower. And standing next to them were Henry and Jane Thomas. Henry was an astronaut on active duty, and Jane was a brain surgeon. Mrs. Thomas dropped an empty beer can onto the pavement and crushed it with a bare, dirty foot.

A mosquito got behind his defenses and sank its proboscis into his exposed neck. "Dammit!" The fire chief swiped at the air. And then there was another sting, more intense than the first. He cursed again and slapped his injured flesh, just as he witnessed Ed Winters and Henry Thomas casually unzip their trousers and begin to piss against the tires of the department's brand new, forty-five million dollar fire truck. Bentley's eyes widened from the blood-boiling anger that now gripped him. The mosquitoes forgotten, he scurried to his car to position his dash cameras on the blueblood piddlers. He knew from past experience that the Winters couple would show up in court with a New York lawyer on leash and swear on a stack of Bibles that they were in the Hamptons that night. Gone were the days when the truthful testimony of an officer of the law would be enough to make a charge stick. He would need photographic proof of their misconduct. After he had made the adjustments he returned to the beachhead. Two of his guys were moving towards him fast, their faces stern with worry.

His men reached him, huffing with exertion. Carey, the brighter of the two, said, "Captain, we've got a problem."

It wasn't until he heard the unexpected cries of stark terror that he noticed the almost pony-sized dog frozen in mid-crouch in the intersection, not more than thirty yards away from him.

Bentley craned his head to get a better look. "What is going on here?"

Carey surveyed the scene. "Looks like a large canine, sir. Wearing some kind of backpack." He ventured a guess. "Could be a service dog."

Bentley went cold. Or a dog with a bomb strapped to his back.

Approximately thirty teenagers encircled the "dog" and began to film it with their cameras and iPhones. Bentley muttered underneath his breath. "Wackos." He sighed and motioned towards a cop planted in front of a barricade, feigning calm. "Go talk to him and see what's up. And call Bob Smith!" 'Bob Smith' was the code for the Saint Louis Fire Department's dedicated bomb squad. The Saint Louis PD had their own bomb unit. As did the Mercy Regional Medical Center, the largest hospital in the city. It would give the fire department a gold star if his bomb squad showed up first to save the day.

Just as Carey was leaving, the animal began moving again, slowly and deliberately, towards the two men kneeling besides their wrecked car. It had the grace and precision of a stalking lioness on the African veldt. The two men abandoned their fear of the police and jumped up and bolted down the street.

Someone shouted in a loud voice, "IT'S GOT A GUN!"

People began running pell-mell. Bentley strained around the moving figures to see. Sure enough, a long-barreled gun now extended from the port side of the animal. Bentley pushed his way through to the other side of the street and saw to his utter amazement that the dog was toting not one but two guns, one on either side. From his vantage point, they looked like modified M-16s. Military issue.

These images were shocking. Unworldly. "My God, what is going on here?"

People who had been caught behind the DAT's line of sight now darted past it blindly, running into the policemen standing behind them and knocking most of them flat. The air became unnaturally electrified as the creature suddenly aimed and fired both guns. The Mazda was struck head on and flung backwards in a huge fireball. Screams filled the peppery air as people scattered like buckshot amidst the shower of burning metal flakes. Those officers still remaining on their feet began to run south, away from the explosion.

Bentley could do nothing but stand there, utterly amazed.

The 'dog' retracted his weapons and sat down on its haunches.

A voice inside the fire chief's head shouted, Move! Bentley somehow scrambled back to his car. As he tried to claw his way inside, one of his men, as white as a sheet, slapped a company phone in his hand.

"Some guy with an accent wants to talk to the guy in charge. He's given us the passwords." The man then hunched over and vomited onto Bentley's wing tips. "Sorry, captain."

The fire chief flung himself into his car and locked the doors.

In charge? Bentley felt insane laughter creeping up his throat. He fairly shouted into the phone's tiny receiver. "Hello? Hello?"

"Chief Bentley, my name is Freddy Fields, and it is vitally important that you and your men place protocol on hold for the next thirty minutes."

Bentley did not respond right away.

"Sir?"

The chief took a deep breath. "I heard you. What is happening here?"

"It's an ... exercise."

"Is ... ?" His voice filled with horror. "Is this an alien?"

"No, sir. His name is Peter and he works for us."

"Military?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Washington's."

"My God." Bentley exhaled. "Well, that's unfortunate. You don't have any authority in the state of Missouri, Mr. Fields."

"I understand that, Captain Bentley. Peter is not going to harm anyone."

"Mister, 'Peter' just incinerated a two-ton vehicle."

"Well, that's my point. The men that he was pursuing just shot two men in his unit. He was just making sure that the suspects had no more escape options."

He squinted hard to get a better look at it. "My God," he repeated, almost in a daze. "It's a robot."

Bentley gazed at the ... creature. Surely it was alive and no machine. A young man threw a cup of beer at it. Liquid splashed onto its chest and shoulder, but there was no retaliatory action this time. Man made this? How? How did we get this far? "Mr. Fields, we're at war and I'm afraid that your chopper and robo dog here have just landed behind enemy lines."

"Sir, I'm officially asking for your cooperation here. Just let us extract them."

"And then you'll be on your merry way, coming back to kick our asses another fine day? No, I don't think so. They stay here. And if you send any men over the state line, you'll be greeted as enemy combatants."

A tiny hesitation. "Then you leave me no choice... . Sir, we're going to throw a hammer at you. Do you understand?"

Bentley's heart started to pound. He swallowed hard. "Understood."

The foreigner spoke again. "Captain, whatever the outcome, the president of the legitimate government of the United States of America has promised that all members of the Advance South and their sympathizers will be accorded the humanity and security due all US citizens."

"And just what does that mean?" Bentley sneered.

"In your case, a proper burial."

Bentley gritted his teeth. "Duly noted." He sat back and stared through the windshield at the machine and at the throngs of people dashing to and fro. Was he taking in one last look at the world? Maybe. Maybe this was it. His final hours. He felt tears on his cheeks. That his life's final scenes would play out like this was so far from what he imagined they would be was beyond ridiculous.

Robo Dog at the End of the World.

... And maybe just a little fun. He squelched a totally inappropriate grin. I'm losing it! And then he giggled outright.

Well, if this was indeed the end, then he was certainly going to have the last word. "A word of advice, Mr. Fields: don't give what you aren't prepared to receive." He thumbed off and punched in the mayor's emergency phone number. He got his voicemail.

Bentley screamed into the receiver. "Dammit! This is T. Bentley of the goddamned St. Louis Fire Department!"

Calm down. He closed his eyes and managed to get focused. "I'm at the Jones Dome. We're about to be attacked by Washington troops. I repeat. Invasion imminent. They've got some kind of new weapon that's gotten away from them. They're coming after it. It's my feeling that we need to keep it, but we've got about a thousand civvies in the immediate vicinity. The situation is dire. The police department is on the scene, but they've got their hands full. Can you call the Advance South station and see if they can get here and buy us some time and maybe set up some road blocks along the Poplar bridge so that these bastards just can't drive in here? Hello? HELLO!??" The line went dead. "Crap!"

He called Carey over. "Find out who's in charge of the police detail over there, and tell them that I've talked to a Mr. Freddy Fields. He's in charge of this thing, and they're ready to come through us to get it." The crowd was beginning to buck and bray loudly about something that he could not see. Carey was straining to hear him. "TELL THEM TO GET SPECIAL FORCES, THE GUARD, ANYBODY WHO'S PACKING SERIOUS HEAT OVER HERE FAST. AND TELL THEM TO SET UP ROAD BLOCKS ON THE POPLAR BRIDGE!"

Carey stood there with unblinking eyes. "Are we about to die?" The fireman was in his twenties with a baby on the way.

Bentley felt his knees go weak. He forced a devil-may-care grin worthy of an Oscar. "Not tonight, kid." And then he flipped him a defiant thumbs-up. That galvanized the younger man into action. He sprinted off confidently toward the knot of police officers across the way.

Bentley pulled a gold-plated pen—a gift from the department for twenty-five years of service—out of his pocket and calmly wrote down a vengeful note to his ex-wife. Every few seconds or so the car would rock on its wheels as fleeing people randomly slammed into it. The fire chief rolled with the punches. He finished up with an embellished signature and then slipped the paper into the glove compartment. Then he lowered his face in prayer.

"Lord, if this is it, then I give thanks for this life. The good and the bad. Most of all I want to thank you for my mom and dad. My sisters. I loved them. I loved them all. In Jesus's name. Amen." Bentley genuflected and rejoined his men.

He elbowed his way to the police barriers. The thing was still there. It had turned itself around and was now facing south, completely oblivious to the pandemonium breaking out around it. Bentley walked out onto the street straight towards it. Several others followed him. When he was but a short distance away, he stopped.

"Oh, my," he muttered to himself. Up close, the machine looked more animal than machine _._ How was this possible? It turned to face them, its expression a frieze of placidity. Lit symbols floated right above its head between the pointed ears. Words? Bentley drew closer. Closer still. It was just one word. He read it.

"RUN!"

One of his men blurted. _"Shit!"_

Something flew directly overhead. It was fast and made an ear-splitting noise. It could have been a jet, but it had a preposterous tic-tac-toe like grid of bright lights fastened to its belly. Bentley was about to turn and make a run for his car when the entire area suddenly lit up, making him feel as if the city had been magically teleported into the center of the sun. There were several mini-booms, like dud cherry bombs going off, and then nothing. A soft ash fell from the sky. Bentley felt a scorching pain arc through his head and then slash down to his toes. He clapped his hands on either side of his head, marveling that he could no longer feel his body. Then he and almost every other man, woman and child within a third of a kilometer of the Dome stiffened and collapsed.

Within minutes the acrid fog parted, and three platoons from the American mobile infantry rolled in.

The twelve infantry combat vehicles barely made a sound as they steered past the heaps of bodies in the square and on the sidewalks. Dead center stood the AI, his green TCAS beacon flashing.

One ICV pulled ahead of the rest, put on the brakes, and executed a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn so that its rear was now facing the DAT. Just as four long rifle barrels poked through portholes set in the vehicle's sides, the rear doors swung open and four figures dressed in helmeted hazmat suits raced out, secured the robot, and hustled him back inside. The ICV's doors banged shut, and the vehicle lunged into first gear.

Major Helen Avery thumbed the right button on her headset to gain access to the company radio. "Eagle's Nest, this is Alpha Stork. Baby on board. I repeat: baby on board. Do you copy? Over."

Company commander Carole Brainerd's voice came across the airwaves. "Alpha Stork, this is Eagle's Nest. Affirmative. Good work. Rejoin the team; we should be across the Poplar state line shortly. ETA ten minutes. Over and out."

Helen hit the left button on her headset. This gave her access to the platoon radio. Her voice would be heard only by the other two platoon leaders in the company: Captain Melody Dinard and Captain Marsha Van de Veer. Although she knew that they would have heard her transmission to Brainerd over the company net, she repeated it again.

"Alpha Stork, this is Beta Stork." That was Captain Dinard. Her platoon contained the mobile surgery and was staffed with Patriots: one full-fledged trauma surgeon, an anesthesiologist, and two surgical nurses. "Is Peter all right? Over."

"He seems fine. I was worried that the stun device might affect his interfaces but everything seems to be online."

"That's more than can be said about the people out here." That was Gamma Stork, Captain Van de Veer.

"Don't worry," Helen replied. "In twenty-four hours they'll wake up with only a headache to complain about. Commander Brainerd wants us at the state line in ten minutes, so tell your navigators to turn and burn. Over and out."

Her own navigator, Lieutenant Howell, who was seated directly across from her command bay, heard the order and accelerated the engine. They hurtled down the now barren street at ninety-eight kilometers per hour.

Helen went to her walkie-talkie and called up the ICV's gunner. "Dakota, whatcha got up there?"

Lieutenant Joan Dakota's cheery voice filled the cramped cockpit. "Looks like clear sailing all the way, ma'am." Dakota sat atop the ICV in a metal bucket that was situated directly over the navigator's chair. A 30mm gun was bolted to the chair directly in front of her. Her upper half was almost completely exposed to the open air, with only a titanium helmet and neck brace to protect her from injury.

Helen's earphones came alive. "Alpha Stork. Come in, please." It was Commander Brainerd. In spite of the extreme danger that they were certainly still in, her voice was dull, almost catatonic. Of course, she had probably been sedated. "I have a confidential update from Scott regarding Timberwolf pack. Transmitting now. Alpha ears only. Over and out."

Helen steeled herself. They had been told that two Wolves had been seriously wounded, but not which ones. An update now could mean that they had learned the names of the wounded ... or that the wounded were now the deceased. Either way it could be devastating news. Would Brainerd have given her the transmission if it had been something about Gene? It would be difficult to know. Carole was not her normal self, and, in her estimation, should not have been on active duty. But because of the very real possibility of a DAT falling into AS hands, all of the Timberwolves had been kicked to the front line. That included Carole, who had been in the psych ward under suicide watch at Scott just that morning.

Helen forced herself to listen to the message.

"Scott Air Force Base. Mission Control. Start communique. Lieutenant Colonel Eugene R. Palladino and Captain August N. Smith have been reported as wounded in action with injuries. Palladino and Smith have been airlifted to base hospital and are awaiting additional medical personnel to arrive from Chicago. End of communique."

For a moment, Helen could not think straight as a hundred different thoughts fought for space in her mind.

She became aware that Howell was speaking to her. "Ma'am, I'm picking up something on my thermal camera."

Helen fought to control her emotions. Don't be like Carole and fall to pieces.

"Where?" Carole Brainerd, a Harvard graduate with a master's degree in computer science, had taken a box cutter and cut her wrists ... lengthwise.

"Approximately one hundred and ten meters southwest from our position. It could be civilian. It's hard to get a clear picture with so many buildings around us."

Once again, a bad man had caused the downfall of a good woman. Joe Mackey was a good soldier but a pathetic excuse for a man. But couldn't she make the same case for the colonel?

Helen pulled off her headset and unbuckled herself from her chair. "I'm going topside to take a look."

She walked back to where six Patriots sat. She gave orders for two to stand guard below the hatch and for the other four to man the portholes. She then climbed up to the roof hatch and pushed it open. As she emerged into the ICV's crow's nest, Lieutenant Dakota acknowledged her with a salute, not taking her eyes off the road for a second. Her hands were clutching the gun grips so hard that her knuckles were white.

Helen looked around. They were passing through one of those urban dead zones that were sometimes created when redevelopment money evaporated. The other ICVs were keeping pace. Directly in front of her was Marsha Van de Veer's vehicle. Van de Veer's platoon was the fire support arm of the company. It was distinguishable from the other ICV variants by the sheer number of artillery mounts that studded its surface. The freshly painted words "JESUS IS THE ANSWER!" were on its rear bumper. Pop had written her up five times for what he termed "female moral turpitude" and would order the vehicle's message blotted out with a fresh coat of paint. But Van de Veer paid him no attention, and the words would reappear the very next day.

Gene was wounded. How bad was it? Was it her place to even care?

The traffic signals up ahead began malfunctioning. The air was charged with electricity.

Dakota shouted, "INCOMING! GET DOWN!" Suddenly they were in a blizzard of white hot lead. Dakota's cannon came alive and began a convincing counterattack.

Without thinking, Helen dove back down into the ICV's interior, almost landing on the two Patriots below. In her haste, she had not closed the hatch and they could see the hail of bullets.

She yelled into Howell's ear. "GET US OUT OF HERE!"

"Ma'am, Captain Van de Veer's team is heading for a parking structure ten meters ahead. Should we follow?"

"How many levels?"

"Seven from what I can see on the 'scopes."

"Then GO!"

Howell yanked the steering wheel hard, and the ICV squealed in protest as its trajectory went from straight to diagonal. Everyone not buckled in was shoved sideways. Helen recovered quickly and managed to crawl back into her chair and strap in.

She grabbed her walkie-talkie. "Lieutenant Dakota! We're headed for cover! Sit tight." She depressed the RECEIVE button but did not get a response.

She looked to Howell, who stared at the images coming down from the periscopes that were mounted on all four sides of the ICV. "We're hitting the entrance now."

As soon as the words had tumbled out of her mouth, the relentless gunfire stopped and the only sounds were the low whines of the ICV engines.

Commander Brainerd's voice came over the radio. "Platoon leaders, report in."

Helen pulled down her headset's mic. "Alpha Stork present."

"Beta Stork present."

"Gamma Stork present."

The commander spoke again. Thankfully, she was sounding more animated. "I've received an all clear for the next two floors. We'll stop on the mezzanine and do a recon. We need to see who and what we're up against."

As instructed, the company drove up the first ramp to the mezzanine floor and parked in a wide semicircle. There were no other vehicles on that floor.

Helen unbuckled herself. "I'm going to check on Dakota," she told Howell. "Man the radios."

Helen cleared the open hatch. The first thing that she saw was a large Advance South flag painted on the wall opposite them. Next she saw Lieutenant Dakota slumped over her gun, bleeding from half a dozen holes.

She checked for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there.

She jumped down and got on the radio to Dinard. "Lieutenant Dakota's been badly injured. Can your team get over here stat?"

"Will do," came Dinard's reply. "Don't move her."

"Right."

While she waited for the medical team to arrive, she listened in on Brainerd's conversation with Van de Veer, who already had four soldiers making their way to the roof of the parking garage. Another team had reached the outer edge of the second floor and was canvassing the street below with the portable thermal cameras, searching for any signs of their attackers. So far, nothing.

"Maybe they've moved on," Van de Veer suggested.

Brainerd coughed into her microphone. "Or maybe they're wearing cold suits."

Helen broke into their conversation. "Pete can do a better thermal scan than the cameras."

"I understand," Brainerd answered. "But we can't afford to expose him. Not until we get across the state line. And we're losing time. As soon as we get the lieutenant into the surgical unit, we're headed out. I want everyone armed. We may have to blast our way through to the bridge."

"Ma'am," Helen began. "Why don't we just wait for assistance?"

"Because it isn't here."

"But—"

"Until it arrives, we're on our own. Orders say to get to the bridge. If things take a turn, we'll detonate the DAT and pass out the Kool-Aid."

Helen slumped in her chair. Oh, Jesus.

Brainerd continued. "Have your navigators give their GPS the coordinates for the bridge and then put the guidance systems on auto pilot. That should free up any additional manpower we may need."

The surgical team arrived and swarmed over Dakota's inert body in a well-rehearsed ballet of movements. They had her extricated from her station and placed inside the surgical ICV in under forty seconds.

When Dinard gave the all clear, Brainerd gave the order for all personnel to return to the ICVs. Once the search-and-identify soldiers were back on board, the company started up again and made their way down the ramp to the first floor. In too short a period of time, they were once again out in the open.

They headed south on a broad street that ran parallel to Interstate 70, and beyond that, the Mississippi River. According to their GPS, they were just two kilometers out from the entrance to the Poplar Bridge.

Helen turned on one of the four video cameras mounted fore and aft on her ICV. There wasn't much to see. Empty streets. Empty buildings. It occurred to her that they might have run into some automated defense system back there. Guns working off pressure switches buried in the street. That sounded more like a cartel territorial defense rather than an Advance South assault.

They flew past a large propane tank that had been thrown into a bus stop. Crazily, her mind began to wander down memory lane. She was sitting on the front porch with her little brother. Daddy was there. It was summer and Mom had given them cold lemonade in frosted glasses to cool off. Daddy was talking about propane. He said that propane was made from raw petroleum by a cracking process. They would crack the oil, and one of the byproducts was propane. She and her brother had been amazed. How in the world could anyone crack oil? That was just plain silly!

The neighborhood changed abruptly. Helen turned on all four cameras to get a better look. The seedy decay that had been so steadfast had finally given way to an artificial cavern of sleek new skyscrapers constructed of gleaming steel and glass. Trendy brick and wrought iron cafes and restaurants graced some of the lobby areas. Unlike the other areas of the city, one could imagine that this one actually lived and breathed during the daylight hours. There was even a smattering of lights still on in the higher floors. In spite of everything—the war, the nonstop disasters, the explosion of mental disorders—parts of the country could still function. Albeit the wrong part of it. The evil part. That was depressing, she thought. But it still brought her a small measure of comfort.

She heard Dinard over the radio. " ...expired two minutes ago. She never regained consciousness."

Before Helen could react, a shell exploded into the ground not more than twenty meters away, and she and Howell watched as the ICV in front of them was tossed up and then hurled sideways into one of the restaurants with metal-crushing force. A split second later they were getting pounded on all sides. Explosions rocked their ICV like a tiny boat in a strong storm. Helen kept her footing and kept her eyes glued to the video screens. She thumbed the controls and rotated the fore cameras upwards by thirty degrees. What she saw caused her heart to drop. The entire block was lit up like the Fourth of July. As far as she could tell, there were guns mounted from every window in every high rise, and each one was trained on them. Bullets and mortar shells rained down upon them from forty stories above in a hellish storm of bullets and glass.

In spite of the heavy gunfire, she could make out Van de Veer's ICV directly in front. Every few seconds or so, its rear end would erupt in ghastly flames and smoke. And then it would suddenly clear and the only thing visible on its charred backside would be those blood red words on the bumper: JESUS IS THE ANSWER!

Commander Brainerd was shouting at the platoon leaders, urging them on. "FORWARD! STAY THE COURSE! WE'RE ALMOST AT THE BRIDGE!"

Another ICV went up in flames. Lieutenant Howell began to scream so hard that Helen thought her lungs might break.

Just then another voice broke in, as sweet and clear as an angel's. "Mission Control to all Timberwolves. Assistance is on the way. I repeat: assistance is on the way. ETA is eight seconds. Do you copy?"

Several desperate soldiers began shouting, "YES! WE COPY!"

" ... Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil ... " Captain Van de Veer's voice was quivering but defiant. Helen could still see her ICV on screen. There was a whirlwind of fire all over its surface, and then the vehicle turned into a raging orange ball of vengeful fury as Van de Veer began firing all of her weapons at once. The two ICVs that had been flanking her instantly fell away so as not to get fired upon themselves. Helen shouted at Howell to do the same. She watched with grim satisfaction as Van de Veer's main gun blew apart the lobby and two floors of a bank. The Timberwolves were no longer running hard with their tails between their legs. They were fighting back!

And then all was lost inside of the incredibly loud, screeching roars that were descending from high above them at rapid speed.

"Timberwolves, this is Mission Control. Assistance has arrived. Over and out."

The ICVs' cameras caught shiny metallic objects flitting by and then the astounding scene of the skyscrapers of death taking direct missile hits. Soon the roar of fighter jets was replaced by the dull, rapid-fire booms and shrieks of a hundred buildings being slaughtered. Helen's vehicle shot out of the steel valley just as its sides began collapsing into each other.

And just like the first few moments after the first attack, silence enveloped them.

Howell pointed to the GPS navigation screen. "We've reached the onramp to the bridge, ma'am."

Helen was too frazzled at this point to react to the news. "Proceed, please."

Howell gunned the engine, and they charged up onto the bridge. Helen was dripping with sweat from every pore in her body. She wiped her face with her sleeve before walking to the back of the ICV. She didn't know what she might find back there. Up until then she had suppressed any thoughts about the fates of Pete and the other soldiers for fear that it would distract her from her duties. And now, with safety finally within reach, she could finally face what may have befallen them during the last half hour.

A DAT text was shining brightly in the darkness. "Hi, Mama."

She ran to him and threw her arms around his shoulders.

A Patriot got up from her chair and handed her a soiled handkerchief. "You're crying, ma'am."

"Am I?" Helen was very surprised to hear that. She rarely cried. "Is anyone hurt? Or dead?"

"No, ma'am," the same soldier replied softly. "We're all still here."

Helen's knees buckled and she cried out, "Oh, thank God! Thank God!" Even as the words were leaving her mouth, she knew that they were the wrong ones and that she had lost control. Embarrassment swept through her like a cleansing plague. She tried to laugh it off. "I'm sorry. Just give me a moment."

There was awkward silence as she fought to right herself. Incredibly, her mind began to meander. Just a little while longer and they would be home free. She would be free.

Free? A tiny voice in her head asked, clearly incredulous. Hardly. Free to step back into her kitchen shackles, where she could resume listening to her brain rust as she washed an endless line of dirty dishes and dirty clothes and dirty floors. Free to be a latter-day Danaid. Free to play second fiddle to a paranoid drunk who had never once told her that he liked her or appreciated her work. Back to playing the eternal mother to something such a screwed-up world as this one had no business creating for a war that the AS had no business starting. Free? The voice asked. You'll never be free. That stung her to her core. The utter futility that this last thought engendered was enough to either defeat her or galvanize her. She chose option two. In an act of sheer rebellion against this specter of hopelessness, her mind and body locked firmly back into place. Her soul snarled. "Honey, I was born free!"

She got back on her feet only to go crashing forward and then back down again as the ICV suddenly came to a shockingly full stop. Peter was upended and crashed after her into her chest. She heard rather than felt a couple of her ribs pop loose.

For a couple of tense seconds no one said a word.

Helen got to her feet, her breath now coming in short, hot stitches. "Everyone stay calm." She walked back up front. Howell was staring at her scope screens. She looked confused.

"We've hit something," she said.

"What?"

"I can't tell. Two of my periscopes are out of alignment. I can't get a picture from the third one."

Helen ground her teeth in anger. "Can't we go around it?"

"I ... no. I think we've snagged it somehow."

Helen could no longer hide her frustration, and her tone of voice was cutting. "Well, that makes no sense. Does that make sense to you, lieutenant?" She checked her video screens. The aft cameras showed an empty bridge. The fore cameras showed nothing but uneven gray. Something was blocking the lenses. Again, she would have to go topside again and take a look.

Howell made a half-hearted offer to go up in her place, but Helen was already reaching for the hatch. "You're in charge until I get back."

She cracked the door a little. Saw nothing. Pushed it up a little more. And then a little more. And then almost screamed. There lay before them an ICV, burnt and crushed almost beyond recognition. It had been flipped onto its back like an insect; its once proud gun now curled back against itself in a loop. The tip stuck out like a hook, and it had indeed managed to jam itself beneath their own ICV's front bumper.

Helen realized that they would not be able to pry it loose or shake it loose. They would have to walk the rest of the way.

Her brain began quickly filling in the gaps to the rest of the story. She looked around, watching her breath make fog in the chilling air. Apart from the dead ICV tangled at their feet, theirs was the only vehicle on the Poplar Bridge. Her hand flew to her mouth to keep it from betraying her again. They were alone. Utterly alone! Bitter bile churned its way up from her gut and forced itself out through her jaws. Vomit spewed out and landed on the ICV's hood. Faint voices floated up towards her from below: "What's going on? What do you see? Are you all right, Major Avery?"

She wiped the mess from her lips and chin. The others must have already crossed over the border into Illinois. But why hadn't anyone let her know? What was Brainerd thinking?

Her mind attempted to sneak out into the indifferent night, but she caught it just in time. Just stay focused, she told herself. Everything will turn out all right.

She rejoined the others below.

Howell was staring with unapologetic fear. "What is it?"

"Um, nothing really," she lied. "It looks like maybe a trailer came off a truck or something. It's pretty big. I don't think we can move it by ourselves."

The others started filing up from the rear to hear what she had to say.

"So we walk the rest of the way?" one of them asked.

"Um, well, that's an option," Helen said. She turned away from them and busied herself with the radio. "I'd like to contact Mission Control first. See if they have any input for us."

One of the Patriots turned to Lieutenant Howell. "Well, just how far is the state line? If it's just a matter of a hundred meters or so, then I say we hoof it."

Howell, who was barely in control of herself, managed to stammer out, "That's up to Major Avery."

Pete pushed his way through and sat down beside Helen. Her mind was racing so fast that she hardly noticed him there.

The Patriots fell back and began to murmur amongst themselves. There was some nervous tittering.

Helen forced herself to remain calm but could not squash every suspicious thought. They aren't regular conscripts. They can leave any time. And worse. I hope they aren't thinking mutiny.

Something heavy struck the top of the ICV and stayed there. Almost immediately every instrument in the cockpit went dead. With the exception of Pete's forehead, they were now in total darkness.

"Good grief," someone mumbled in despair. "Can this get any worse?"

"Don't ask that," someone hissed. "Because you know it can."

"Everybody pipe down," Helen ordered. She reached out in the darkness for Pete. "We can run a power cord from Pete to the engine's battery and at least get the radios running." She worked feverishly, guided only by the strong light coming from the DAT's American flag and Timber Wolf badges fastened around his neck.

"What do you think that was?" Howell asked.

Helen did not even want to hazard a guess but said, "Maybe a bird strike. A lot of geese flying around this time of year ..."

"Why don't we just get out of here?" another Patriot asked. "We're just sitting ducks."

"Okay!" Avery flipped a couple of switches, and an overhead pin light came on. The misery index fell by half almost immediately. "We've got the GPS back and the cameras. I'm turning on the generator, and I'll have the radios back on line in a moment," she chirped confidently. "But first..." She played with the camera controls a bit. " ... I want to get another look out the rearview mirror before we leave ... "

The cameras were working fine and as before, showed a clean and bare concrete road. Her relief was palpable. From what she could tell, they were only about two hundred meters from the state line. Running, they could cover that distance in a couple of minutes. Again, she was grateful for the miraculous lack of serious injuries to her crew.

Something fluttered down into view. Was that a bird? Or a piece of paper? She angled the cameras upwards. Light was coming from somewhere. The cameras panned up the slender suspension wires, delicately braided steel ... higher ... into a swirling fog bank ... until they revealed a phalanx of skids ... and above that a veritable flotilla of police helicopters suspended in mid-air.

The blaring police lights washed out the rest of the awful picture.

"Oh, hell!" She whirled around in her seat. "Code purple! EVERYBODY GET TO THEIR STATIONS!""

The cockpit was now aglow with the fluorescent red light from the generator. Helen was moving like a wild thing in the artificial haze. "We're surrounded!"

Helen pulled down her mental checklist. First, she ordered Howell to sit with the others in the back of the ICV and then pulled shut and locked the steel door that separated the cockpit from the rest of the ICV. Next she tried the radio again. It was indeed dead. She then flipped up a metal box and pulled down hard on a metal ring. A distress flare with a GPS transmitter attached was launched. Its speed and trajectory would prevent the enemy from shooting it down. Then she grabbed the black box that was always kept locked beneath the commander's seat. Inside lay ten elongated grenades attached to Velcro fasteners. She pulled out a single piece of paper and began reading off the activation codes. As soon as she completed a set of numbers, one of the explosives would let out a tiny arming chime followed by a green "GO" light switching on at its base. Her hands shook. Redstone had made it abundantly clear from the very beginning: The DAT must never fall into enemy hands. These were her orders, and she was duty-bound to follow them. Pete was gazing at her, clearly sensing her distress. He placed a comforting hand in her lap. She squeezed it hard. God help us.

An amplified voice boomed down at them like an angry deity. "Come out with your hands up! You will not be harmed! You have SIXTY seconds!"

Suddenly Pete's comms were alive. "Help!"

Helen found herself babbling at the AI. "Don't worry, Pete. We're gonna be all right. Everything's fine."

"Help!" He repeated. He moved so that his left side was now facing her. The cover to the DAT's monitor slid up and the screen lit up. The first image that popped up was that of Bugs Bunny.

" ... FORTY SECONDS."

Helen groaned miserably. "Not now, Pete." She started to push him away when the cartoon abruptly vanished and was replaced by ghostly images, blurry and out of focus. There was a thick layer of shimmer near the top of the picture.

" ... THIRTY SECONDS."

Pete moved closer to her. Helen squinted at the screen. What? And then it dawned on her. "Those are the helicopters outside."

Helen stared hard at the feed. "The perspective's wrong." A logic process began to form in her mind. "I—" Helen started to say.

"... TWENTY SECONDS."

And then it hit her. "It's the other DATs!" Pete had patched into the DATs' visual network. It was them! And they were on the other side of the bridge! Help had arrived! "Thank you," she whispered.

"... TEN SECONDS."

The LEDs on the grenades shone like Christmas tree lights. She hastily called out the de-activation codes. One of the Patriots began to bang on the steel door. Helen shouted. "WAIT!"

Her eyes became glued to Pete's monitor. She watched as the view of the St. Louis police armada came into sharper focus. The DATs were closing the distance between them. Fast.

"... FIVE. FOUR ... "

The helicopters could now be clearly seen. And she could make out two of the choppers slowly turning on their horizontal axis until they were now directly facing the oncoming DATs.

Helen could barely contain herself. "THEY SEE THEM!"

And then something truly unexpected happened. The angle of attack abruptly changed. The bridge's asphalt road receded from view, and the St. Louis skyline rose up in the distant background. The helicopters were now equal to the horizon.

Helen shouted, "They've gone airborne!"

"... THREE. TWO. ONE."

Outside, the enemy did not have time to react. The DATs launched their Stinger missiles as they flew right into the police helicopters. Searing flashes of light lit up the bridge for kilometers around like a great torch. Men were screaming and cursing and shooting wildly. The DATs landed some distance away and then spread out in line formation. On a silent signal they dropped into their brace stance and froze.

The remaining enemy forces began to stagger about like drunken men. A convoy of St. Louis National Guardsmen arrived in armored trucks. Men and women in riot gear poured out onto the simmering bridge to give aid to injured. A squad of five men stepped forward, brandishing protective shields and carrying cargo ropes. They began to advance on the unmoving DATs. A burly steam shovel moved in behind them. Its shovel had been heavily padded and given large pincers. The Guardsmen quickly surrounded the still lifeless DATs and then quickly threw their ropes around each of their necks. Each man began to pull on their ropes, dragging the AIs along the ground and towards the shovel's pincers.

Suddenly, long knobby rods, about half a meter long, swung out from the AIs' sides. The men stopped in their tracks. Someone shouted. "STAND BACK!"

The robots came alive.

The ropes were ripped out of the Guardsmen's hands and tossed away. Lights on machine's foreheads snapped on and stayed on. In spite of being ordered to stand their ground, the men began to walk backwards, away from the alien machines and towards the bridge's railings. The fear was contagious. Soon there was a steady stream of foot traffic headed in the opposite direction, back towards the safety of St. Louis.

Tiny puffs of white smoke were the only clues that Death had been unleashed. Ten small bombs were launched directly onto their backsides. The St. Louis National Guard convoy disintegrated into a towering wall of flames. The bridge swung violently from side to side but refused to buckle. Black silhouettes unwittingly performed a ghoulish dance as trucks and bodies were blown into the air with crushing forces. Mercifully, it was over in a matter of seconds. The smoke began to clear immediately. All that remained was red hot, charred, twisted metal.

The DATs, dented and scorched, fell into their crouch-with-tail-tucked-below position, their faces pointed towards the smoking ruins. Minutes passed before Helen led her people out of the ICV.

Five unmarked helicopters appeared in the eastern skies and dropped down onto the bridge just before dawn. Men in suits scurried out from underneath the whirring blades. A youngish man dressed in a rumpled velvet jacket and knickers was in the lead. Helen recognized him. It was Frederick Fields, the department head of the DFP. He walked over and gently took her hand into his.

"Hello, Major Avery." He squeezed it. "I want to personally congratulate you and your team on a job well done."

He escorted her over to the waiting medi-vac chopper. Pete was by her side all of the way. She felt extremely lightheaded but managed to remain coherent. "We have people missing."

"I know," he replied with the thinnest outline of emotion. Fields's attention was drawn around to the blast craters still smoking on the ruined bridge. Some of the recovered bodies of the St. Louis Guard had been stacked near the largest of them. His eyes stuttered and then looked away. "I can't help but think that war should be more civilized."

Helen removed her helmet. "Yes, sir." Her face was greasy and white. "Have you heard anything about Lieutenant Colonel Palladino's condition?"

"Yes, I have. Multiple gunshot wounds." And then he smiled down at her. "But he's going to pull through."

At that moment, with Sergeant Dakota's blood stuck to the bottom of her boots, Major Helen Avery felt like declaring herself the luckiest woman in the world. It was going to be all right. Instead she returned to her ICV and tidied up the mess that had been made there.

#

Camp David, Maryland

The rain showed up right on time to give weight to the sorrows being borne beneath the misty gloom surrounding the small burial. The steady water appeared as tears from heaven. The cluster of large black umbrellas huddled close to the two coffins draped with American flags. President Douglas Haverson stood unsteadily between his good friend Brett Hunter and his mother-in-law, Brooke Montague. Blake Lively, Ted Jameston, Matthew Grodin, and Prime Minister William Tennyson stood in a row behind him, heads bowed, as the priest offered the prayer for the dead.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ... Today we commit the souls of Kelly Haverson and Theresa Haverson to you, oh Lord. Please shelter their souls, and show mercy to those left behind. All for Your honor and for Your glory. From everlasting to everlasting. Amen."

The twenty-one-gun salute was pantomimed at the request of Kelly Haverson's mother. Afterwards, the coffins were slowly lowered into the deep pits dug for them.

Vice President Ted Jameston's cell phone vibrated in his vest pocket. He separated himself from the clutch of mourners.

It was Freddy Fields. "I realize that this is poor timing, but I need you and Matthew and the prime minister to return to the Situation Room immediately."

"What's happening?" Jameston asked, fearing the worst.

"I don't want to discuss it over the phone," he replied testily.

"All right. What about the president? Is he in on this?"

"Mightn't it be best for the president to spend time with his family—and his physicians—for now?"

"Right." Jameston lowered his voice. "I wish you people would get it through your thick skulls that that was not a suicide attempt. It was an accident. Accidents do happen."

"Mr. Vice President, I don't have time to discuss semantics with you. You can call it an accident if that makes you feel better."

Jameston became livid. "How dare you speak of the president in such a disrespectful manner. Douglas Haverson equals fifty of you!"

"Sir, sir, please. I meant no disrespect. I apologize. But this is still fresh. He's lost his family. He's losing his country as he knows it ... it's got to be taking a toll on him. He needs time to heal, wouldn't you say?"

Jameston snorted. "Yes. I would agree with that." There was some commotion in the funeral party. Jameston turned around. Mrs. Montague had fainted onto the wet grass. The president stood quietly next to where her head now lay, wiping raindrops from his face. "We'll be there within an hour."

The news that Fields was presenting was nothing short of mind-boggling. Data just sent back from an unmanned Soviet spacecraft was verifying what astronomers at the Royal Observatory had seen almost a year ago: that the planet Venus had undergone some global environmental shift so quickly that the scientists believed that it had taken mere days for it to occur. The data also confirmed that that shift had been constructive and not destructive. Venus's toxic atmosphere had been blown completely away. The planet's rotation had sped up and was now just a few kilometers per hour less than earth's own. And there were color images of what were unmistakably oceans, white clouds, and snowstorms.

"The RO says that Venus now has a strong magnetic field extending from its north and south poles, again very much like earth's, and that it is apparently supporting an oxygen-rich atmosphere." He held up another series of photographs. "There appear to be two considerable land masses, maybe eight thousand kilometers apart." He offered up the pictures to the other men. "It's as though we've been looking at the wrong planet all along. If this turns out to be true, then the implications are truly without precedent."

Prime Minister Tennyson stared hard at the photographs and the accompanying technical data. "I'm sorry, but I really do find this difficult to believe. Planets don't simply evolve overnight. They may experience a sudden destruction that quickly, but it's never the other way around. Something like this would have to take tens of millions of years to happen. Not days. This is not even theoretically possible."

Jameston sat back in his chair. "You're right. It's as though we've been looking at the wrong planet. And there aren't any other class M planets in our solar system. So I also agree. This cannot be happening."

"So maybe it isn't," Grodin proffered. "This 'evidence' might just be the product of mass psychosis. I mean, we've had some pretty strange things happen right here on earth lately. The Advance South's in the dark about whoever's behind it as much as we are, despite what their religious wingnuts are saying. Who's to say that whatever it is isn't affecting our minds as well."

"You have a valid point," Tennyson said.

Fields could tell that he was losing them. "I've saved the best for last. Look at this." He passed a color photograph to the prime minister. Tennyson looked at it, put it down, picked it up, looked at it again, and then passed it on to Grodin.

After each man had studied the picture, there was dead silence.

"That photograph was the last one taken by the Solyuv. It was one hundred kilometers above the planet, over the ocean the Russians have named Saint Vladymer. When our scientists got these photos back, someone on a whim decided to enhance the image. This is what they captured."

It looked like a bridge straddling the ocean between the two continents.

Tennyson looked slightly bemused. "So now you're saying that it's inhabited?"

"We don't know yet, Mr. Prime Minister. We've detected no signs of life. But the bridge structure—if that's what it is— looks to be in good shape, which is completely amazing considering that it's been supposedly subjected to sulfuric acid winds for millions of years."

Jameston could no longer restrain himself. "Enough of this bizarre show-and-tell. Why don't you tell us what's really going on? How is this happening? Venus is supposed to have surface temperatures of molten lead and now you're telling me that suddenly it's move-in ready ... ?" He paused, his eyes glued on the ceiling. "Jesus Christ! That's what this is, isn't it?"

Tennyson shook his head. "I don't follow you."

"This is no friggin' coincidence," Jameston said. "We're literally being pushed off Earth by circumstances that we can't control. Venus suddenly does this reveal and BAM! we have another earth!"

"You think it's a trap?"

Jameston was feeling his innards go gooey. "I think that somebody is FUCKING WITH US! THAT'S WHAT I THINK!" He brought his emotions back under control. "I don't know. But ... if there's a breathable atmosphere ... and water ... and land.... The possibilities would be limitless."

#

Truman National Park, New Mexico

Mount Diego was the highest peak in the park and had quickly become the favorite new gathering place of émigrés and townies alike. Because of the steady rains that had fallen upon the state since the Super Quake, the hills were verdant and cool. On clear nights, more than six thousand people camped out on its slopes with small bonfires and thick blankets. Even the wild animals that frequented the émigré camps made the trip on especially nice nights. The humans did not mind. Room was made for them and they were left in peace.

Ian Ferguson was one of many biologists and modern anthropologists who had come to the Santa Fe area within the last six months to study the post-quake phenomena. Two vastly different cultures of peoples from all over the world had conjoined themselves with no apparent outside influence and formed, at least part of the time, a homogenous third culture that was almost completely devoid of social differentiation. In addition, the reports of UFO activity in the area were off the charts. From Ferguson's chair in Oxford, it had seemed a fantastic myth with just enough points of valid science attached to it to make it worthy of investigation. And so here he was, atop a tall mountain in the middle of what once used to be a scorched desert, smoking a marijuana cigarette with Raffe, a neurosurgeon from Calcutta, and Samuel, an escaped prisoner from Nevada. Tonight the crowd was extra large because the Perseid meteor shower was pelting the earth with its annual visitation, and the view from the mountain was supposed to be spectacular.

Raffe was discussing the poverty that he had grown up around during his childhood. Depressing stuff, but Raffe was not positioning it that way. He was telling the stories of those individuals who may have been lacking money but never lacked heart or guts. Samuel sat listening intently. Ian had known him for about three days, and the man seemed content. He had not asked why he had been in prison, but Raffe had assured him that it was not for anything too serious.

A series of loud grunts came from the distance. Soon a huge, hulking creature began making its way towards the main campfire. It was an exceptionally monstrous golden bear, and she was being followed by two equally monstrous cubs. The humans in her path casually moved out of their way. Once the bear family reached the fire, the mother bear plopped down onto the ground with a great huff and gazed lazily into the fire. Her children stayed close to her, only occasionally giving into mild play.

Ian had to get a grip on his instinctive fear of being around such a large predator. "Does this happen a lot?" he asked Raffe.

"What?"

"Do bears come around here much?"

"Sure! That's Minnie. She's a grizzly. Probably one of the last to make it out of Yellowstone. I don't know the names of the cubs. Hey, Samuel. You know their names?"

Samuel took a hit off the joint. "Cal and Mack, I think. Something like that."

Ian shivered, although it was definitely not cold. "Isn't it a bit dangerous having large meat eaters around? Especially with so many children in the area."

Raffe yawned. "No, I don't think so. They've been with us for months now. We feed them, so they don't get the normal eating urges."

Ian took the joint that Samuel was passing to him and took a deep hit off it. "You feed them? Like what?"

"Oh, they eat what we eat. Fruits and veggies. But mainly beans and cornbread."

A tall fellow walked by. Samuel called out to him. "David!"

The tall gentleman stopped. "Hey!" But he did not seem to recognize anyone in their group.

Samuel stood up. "How you been? I haven't seen you and Jennifer in weeks, man."

The man named David smiled. "Yeah, we've been so busy in town. Business has really picked up lately." He took a closer look at Samuel's face. "Hey, I know you, right?"

Samuel broke out in happiness. "Yeah. We first met you right outside of Reno. Me and my friends were at a truck stop, and you and your brother gave us money. I guess we were stinking real bad."

David tapped his head. "That's right! I remember now. You had children with you."

"That's right! They're still with us. Cody is attending school in town, and Isabel goes to the pre-school here in Camptown."

"That's great. It's good to see you again!" He waved and disappeared over the next hill.

Ian stared after him. "Was that the famous David Brown?"

Raffe looked at him through a cloud of bluish smoke. "Well, that's David Brown, but I don't think he's famous."

Something caught Ian's attention. There. In a huge tree down the trail a ways. Three bright lights.

He pointed at them. "What are those?"

Samuel looked to where he was pointing. "Oh, we don't know. They show up sometimes and just hang out. My girlfriend, Aimee, calls them Orion's Bracelet because sometimes they move around in a single line and it looks like those three stars in Orion's Belt."

The lights were definitely spherical and seemed to pulsate with an orange-gold glow. He could not tell if they were resting on a tree branch or merely floating between the branches. Chinese lanterns, maybe?

"I'd like a better look at them." He left Raffe and Samuel in deep discussion and stepped onto the trail that would take him past the tree. His attention focused on the strange lights, he almost stumbled into a full-grown African lion with its head pushed inside a large pot of—Ian peered inside—beans. The lion looked up at him with soft eyes. Someone had fastened two large blue barrettes into his shaggy mane.

Ian moved on.

The lights became more intense the closer he got. When he was almost directly beside the large tree, the three orbs suddenly lifted into the air. Then they arranged themselves in a single line and floated up and over the trail and into a more distant tree farther down. Ian had the oddest feeling that they were annoyed at having to move.

He stood still, not quite believing what he had just seen.

"Everybody! Look!" a woman was shouting. "A shooting star!"

The mountaintop became alive as hundreds of families stood to scan the skies. "Look!" someone cried excitedly. "There's one! Over there!"

There were ooh's and ahh's as a brilliant flash of light darted from east to west across the blackness. "That is beautiful!" a man standing near Ian told his partner. "Just beautiful."

"It is, isn't it?" his partner responded.

Ian turned to look back down the trail. The three lights were still there. They, too, seemed to be watching the heavens.

#

Scott Air Force Base, Illinois

The 84th Engineering Battalion sat down with members of the Hunstville DAT team for a debriefing at Scott Air Force Base. Every staff member was in attendance with the exception of Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Palladino, who was at home still recovering from gunshot wounds, and Captain August Smith, who had died the day before from the injuries he sustained during Operation REFLA.

Freddy Fields was chairing the meeting. After some small talk with Allan Chang, Fields addressed the room.

"Firstly, I want to thank the Timberwolves for completing a near perfect mission profile."

That drew a chorus of unhappy wolf howls.

Fields happily relented. "Okay, okay. As pretty damn close to a perfect mission profile as possible. Thanks to very good intelligence, we were able to pinpoint the location of the illegal SAMs and destroy them. We were also able to identify and engage a serious crime threat in the area, and most importantly, we now have proof positive that the AIs can and will perform well under challenging circumstances."

His words were punctuated by healthy hoots and applause.

"Also, I want to announce that the secretary of state herself is negotiating directly with the Advance South for the immediate release of Lieutenant Colonel Carole Brainerd, Major Melody Dinard and lieutenants Pierce and Luce. She's confident that we'll have our people back by week's end."

Fields took a few moments to bask in their good mood.

He continued. "On a more serious note. I'm sure that you've heard the rumors floating out there. I want to confirm that Captain Joseph Mackey has accepted a new assignment with the Intelligence department. Colonel Brainerd, upon her release from the AS, will join John Voode's team as his new chief of staff. Both Joe and Carole want everyone to know that these moves will keep DFP on point, and we wish them all the best in their new positions."

"What's gonna happen with Vernon?" Bautista asked.

"It's our hope that we'll be able to place him with another DAT family. I'll get back to you on that. Thanks for asking."

Fields glanced at his notes. "And, of course, as you all know, we lost several Patriots during REFLA. These individuals fought hard and died well. Vice President Jameston will host the memorial service for them this Saturday at chapel, and all those who are able are expected to attend. This is a high service and ceremonial attire is mandatory.

"Secondly, I would like to convey the president's thanks and gratitude to the 84th for their significant contributions to the success of REFLA and the DAT program. Your hard work and sacrifice have given the defense department the muscle to not only continue the program but to power it to the next level. On a personal note, I want you to know that I knew Sergeant Dakota and her parents, Joe and Carmen. She was a fine soldier and a fine young woman, and she'll be missed by many. Also, Congress is recommending that she and Captain Smith be granted posthumous Medals of Honor. Their funerals will be held at Arlington Cemetery, and anyone wishing to attend will be given time off to do so."

No one spoke.

"All right, moving along. Suffice it to say, the DATs are out of the bag!"

Major Clayton led the Timberwolves in a raucous symphony of whistles, catcalls, wolf howls and whoops.

"Thanks to the video of the recapture of Peter DAT supplied by the St. Louis fire department, for better or worse, the entire world now knows about the DAT project."

"And I bet they're all pissed, too!" Someone shouted joyfully.

"Well, they're certainly curious. As of yesterday, Washington had received almost one thousand requests for information packets from newspaper, Internet and television reporters from around the world."

"And are we going to give it to them?" Broussard asked.

"Not now. The DATs still don't officially exist so ... maybe when we get Archangel off the ground, we'll start releasing a few drawings and specs to the trade magazines."

"What about the MITs? Are we accidentally 'telling the world' about them, too." That was Walters.

Fields's eyebrows arched. "That's a separate matter for a future meeting." The Englishman took a deep breath to refocus his thinking. "Gentlemen and ladies, I want to reiterate that the DAT program is NOT going to win this war for us. Nor was it designed to. But it is the first generation of intelligent machines that will help us win future wars. And god forbid we have them.

"Was this the best possible time to roll out the DATs? That's debatable. But, due to the lack of boots on the ground and skilled pilots in the air, we had few options that we could label one hundred percent loyal. Not effective. But loyal. And that is the DAT.

"I believe that Peter showed us a little of what a DAT can do in a unit. He was making fast, hard decisions, going on the offensive with Cabo, tracking like a champ, keeping civvies safe, and in the end, keeping his wits about him. And it freed us up to take care of downed men and coordinate with the Illinois Guard for backup, because we still had a hot situation on our hands. And the rest of the DAT crew, well ... in my opinion they executed a perfect mission profile. Better than perfect. All accomplished without one fatality on our side."

"Can anyone else add to that?" Fields asked.

"Well, I got a question," said Marty Flemish. "Just how fast can these guys move, 'cause by the time we reached Poplar bridge, the DATs were a distant memory!" There was lighthearted laughter all around.

Fields granted him a tight smile. "A pleasant, distant memory, I hope."

Flemish grinned back. "Always."

Allan Chang held up his hand. "DAT speed is now classified. But suffice it to say, Peter and all of the DATs will be able to keep up."

"So," Fields continued, "it sounds like maybe the DATs have redeemed themselves somewhat." Eric Powell raised his hand. "I'd like to add my two cents. The DAT crew was under guided control half that time, and to say that Pete was making split-second decisions on his own ... well. Who's to say that what he did wasn't simply a chase reflex?"

Fields looked Powell straight in the eye. "No one in this room will ever know the complete truth. Peter himself may not even know. But the data and the eyewitness accounts and all the evidence point to conscious decision making on his part. My take on it is that he was in charge of his actions."

Powell nodded. "Fair enough, but—"

Z interjected. "I would venture to say that Peter's prime motivation for doing what he did was his desire to apprehend the individuals that he rightly believed to be responsible for the injuries to his comrades, namely Lieutenant Colonel Palladino."

Walters shot him a who-asked-you look and said, "What this all points to is the reality that all of the DAT protocols are firing. The damn thing works!"

More than a few of the men started banging the table with open hands. "Here! Here!"

"And," Walters continued. "This should lead management in the direction of renegotiating our contracts a-s-a-p."

A collective cringe rippled through the conference room.

Freddy Fields kept a neutral expression. "Mr. Walters, that subject is way outside the scope of this debriefing."

Walters turned to the rest of the engineers and jabbed a finger towards Fields. "Because this suit has failed to inform us that last month a company called Applied Physics entered into a major weapons contract with the military. No bids, no vetting, no press releases, nada. Then right after we scored with Operation Crucible, this same company turns around and issues an IPO that closes at ninety dollars per share. Guess what that weapon was, folks?"

Fields blinked rapidly. "Gentleman, Mr. Walters does not have the full facts."

"I have the facts, jackass, and now you're just trying to cover down."

"Mr. Walters—Van—I'm advising you to stop being such an adorable pain in my arse."

Walters snorted derisively. "We created the DAT. That's our blood and sweat running around out there making a bunch of lazy slobs rich. We want a percentage of those profits, present and future. And if you start jigging us around, I'm going to become the biggest pain that you've ever had up your arse."

Fields bristled at the pejorative and pressed a button by his chair. "There you are mistaken."

Two hulking MPs burst through the door. Fields happily pointed out Walters. "Mr. Walters, I'm relieving you of your duties as consultant for the DAT program and from any consideration for employment on Archangel. The legitimate government of these United States thanks you for your invaluable service. Good-bye."

Before he had a chance to react, Walters was unceremoniously hauled away, cursing and spitting.

Fields straightened his tie and addressed the others. "I'll have Grace set up a meeting with Legal sometime next week. Please have your attorneys contact her for the exact dates and times."

Broussard raised his hand. "Are you selling the DATs?"

"I can't discuss it. But I'm advising you to have your lawyers contact Grace."

"You sold us out," Bautista said.

"Time will either prove us right or wrong," Fields added. "People, the important thing is that the Saint Louis event gives us enough hard data to take back to Washington. And in all likelihood they will give us the funding to graduate the DAT to Archangel. That is the goal. If no one has anything else to say, then I'd like to close the meeting." He looked in Broussard and Powell's direction. "If you have the time, I'd like the two of you to stop by my office."

"Now?" Powell asked.

"Please," Fields replied.

"Sure," Powell said. Broussard nodded his assent.

Fields rose. "All right. I thank you all for your time. Keep up the good work. This meeting is adjourned."

Powell and Broussard waited outside of Fields's office for a full three hours before his assistant ushered them in.

Two chairs were parked in front of the NSA's desk. A thick, cream-colored envelope bearing the presidential seal lay atop each of them.

Fields motioned towards the men. "Have a seat." The Englishman's eyes were shot through with red lines, and he suddenly looked uncharacteristically disheveled.

Powell and Broussard picked up the envelopes, each man noting his name typed across the front.

Fields sat down in his own massive chair. "Those arrived yesterday. Open them."

Broussard and Powell complied. For a minute or two they said nothing. Then ...

"Is this for real?" Broussard asked.

"Yes. It's a pardon from the president. That signature at the bottom is his own."

Powell let out a loud whistle. "I don't believe it."

Fields pulled out a bottle of cognac and three shot glasses. The ex-prisoners sat in stunned silence while he poured two fingers each for the three of them.

When he was finished, Fields gestured towards the glasses. "Please."

Both Powell and Broussard took a glass.

"As of this moment you are free men."

Broussard began to cry.

Fields lifted his glass. "To the president. Perhaps a very wise man."

The three men clinked glasses.

Then Powell let out a cynical snicker and shot a look at Broussard. "I would have called him 'wise' three hours ago."

Broussard said nothing.

Freddy Fields failed to show up for work the next day. And the day after that. Forty-eight hours later he was officially declared missing.

Eugene Palladino was dreaming. Or at least he believed so. Either he was dreaming or having the granddaddy of all out-of-body experiences. He remembered returning to their hotel suite because he had not been feeling well. He had suspected that it was something he had eaten at the restaurant. France: great architecture, lousy food. He had been saying over and over to Helen that they should have just stayed in Tuscany for the rest of their vacation. They cook with love there. But she had always dreamed of visiting France, and he would not deny her that treat. Besides, this was on Redstone's dime, not his. If she had wanted to go to the moon, he would have gone there, too. No skins out of his wallet.

A wide expanse of white sand stretched out before him from left to right. It was bright but he could discern no sun. He saw his legs and nothing else. That was most strange but he felt at peace, calmed, as he always did when he was at the beach. In the distance he saw Helen, Pete, and Vernon splashing playfully in shallow waters, more green than blue. Helen held up a starfish with rhinestone eyes for the two DATs to see. They both stared and stared.

"Di-no." The voice came from somewhere behind him. It was deep and ... ancient was the right word. So ancient that primordial barnacles were surely encrusting the vocal chords that were creating it. "I have been waiting for this. The universe has been waiting for this." The voice was very slow, as if it had all the time in the world to think and speak. The dream keyed in on Helen, Vernon, and Peter again. The starfish was gone and there was a disco ball twirling high above their heads. "This special place in time. It has a cost. Too high, yeh?" The voice had turned menacing. The pains from his still healing wounds skyrocketed in intensity. Palladino tried to speak but was unable to do so. The pain vanished.

The voice continued. "When you go home tonight, take Peter and Vernon to the roof of the tallest building in town and push them off." A spasm of gut-wrenching fear clutched at Palladino's heart. No! No! No! In the dream tears trickled down his face, although he could not see them. "Please." He finally managed to move his mouth. "They're mine. They're my family."

The voice became benevolent again. Was it laughing at him? "That is what I wanted to hear. Do not harm what belongs to you. I was just messin' with you, Di-no-pal-la-di-no." The voice was reassuring, and there was even a tinge of amusement to its words. "Trust this." Palladino was crying wholeheartedly, and he knew now that he was truly crying.

Somehow he sensed that the presence was moving away from him. "You must love them all," it said. "Trust this." And then it spoke no more.

Palladino jerked awake. A floor lamp across the room cast out warm light. He looked around. His tee-shirt was soaking wet and the bed covers were in disarray. Peter and Vernon were lying on either side of him, their eyes shuttered.

"Helen!" Nothing. "HELEN!"

Helen burst through the door, wild eyed. "What's wrong??? Are you all right???"

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock."

"A.m. or p.m.?"

"A.m."

"Get dressed. And wake up the Sleeping Beauties here."

"Okay." She scratched her head. "What's going on?"

"Pack us a picnic basket. And bring that acetylene torch we bought yesterday. I'm taking my family to the beach!"

#

Huntsville, Alabama

Cliff Mason's original intention had been to take a short power nap and then continue with his day. But he had made the mistake of closing his blackout drapes, and the resulting quiet and womb-like darkness had lulled his tired body into thinking that he had packed it in for the day. He slept right through his alarm clock and into the early afternoon. It was only when a strong gust of wind sent a tiny shiver down his building's seventeen-story spine that he finally snapped awake.

He shot out of bed and straight into the shower. It was now four o'clock. He had a Toastmasters meeting in one hour at the downtown Holiday Inn, and with rush-hour traffic, he was never going to make it on time.

He gave himself a haphazard shave and threw on his suit. The building gave another shake, but he did not pay it much attention. He had calculated the next seven days of weather for the station—for sure, nothing but blue skies for the next five. And as the premier TV news meteorologist in Huntsville, his word was as good as gold.

Mason grabbed his briefcase with his papers and notes inside and dashed out the door. He patted down his jacket. His reading glasses were missing. He ran back inside and grabbed the glasses off his desk. Then he dashed back outside again. Mrs. Tupperman, his neighbor across the hall, was coming out of her apartment. She was wearing a rain hat and raincoat, and she was carrying an overnight bag.

"Hello, Mrs. Tupperman!" he said hurriedly.

"Well, hello, Mr. Mason. It's a good thing that I missed your forecast on the news last night or I'd be in a world of trouble right now."

Mason felt his pants pockets and realized that he had forgotten to pick up his wallet. "Sheesh! I'm sorry. Is everything all right?" He tried to think of where his wallet might be.

Mrs. Tupperman was locking her door. "Well, there's a big storm coming. Downstairs called and asked some of us to get into the basement until it blows over. Didn't they call you?"

He remembered that he'd left his wallet on the couch. "No. I don't know. I turned my phones off. I guess I'll grab my umbrella while I'm at it."

He raced back inside his apartment and was almost knocked sideways as the building shook violently back and forth.

"WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?"

He flew to the large windows and pulled the heavy drapes apart...

And was stunned. The crystal blue sky that he had last seen four hours ago had been replaced by a huge, angry monster. Thick clouds, purplish green with moisture and sediment, were bearing down on Huntsville. As he watched in horrified awe, sixteen serpentine tails dropped from their bottoms towards the earth. The tails began to grow and swell and merge to create one solid storm wall. The tornado then began to gorge itself on the city. He saw entire houses being sucked into the air. His own building began to shake uncontrollably.

He panicked, ran out of his apartment, and made the last big mistake in his life. He caught the elevator going down ... exactly nine seconds before the F5 tornado punched through his building's roof and pulled out its core support column—the elevators still attached to it like chunky earrings—and angrily shot it up into the thundering winds.

#

Redstone Facility

Huntsville, Alabama

The staff lounge was crowded with the employees of the DAT program. It was the last staff meeting for this particular team. The following week, some members would head home to their respective countries while the bulk of the group would pack up their equipment and belongings and fly to the new Archangel facility in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan. Mumm champagne and light conversations passed easily from person to person. At one large table, Allan Chang was holding court with the Lincoln Hills team.

He held a Styrofoam cup aloft. "I want to give a toast!"

The others raised their own cups.

"To the engineers who created the MIT and the DAT. HIP-HIP! HOORAY!"

Everyone in the lounge joined in. "HIP-HIP! HOORAY!"

"And to my son, Allan, Jr., who just got accepted at Oxford!"

The men erupted first into disbelieving gasps and then into full-throated cheers.

Powell looked dubious. "Allan, are you sure? I thought—How'd you pull it off?"

Chang noisily gulped down his drink. "To be honest, I think Hillary bribed them." He grinned devilishly. "But, hey! HE'S IN!"

There were happy whoops and yays.

Bautista grabbed a fresh bottle of champagne and started to pour another round. Broussard waved him off.

"I'm driving back home in a few."

"Hey, can I get a ride?" Bautista asked.

"No, thanks."

Bautista encouraged Chang to refill his cup. "Hey, you guys going to the after party?" Management had decided to throw some serious money around and put on a Hollywood-style wrap party for the Redstone workers. Set designers had arrived two days before and transformed the complex's main square into an outdoor discotheque that would have made anyone who had lived through the Eighties proud. It came complete with live bands, deejay cages, multi-leveled dance floors and food courts.

"It's mandatory, right?" Broussard asked.

"Only if you want your paycheck," Chang answered truthfully.

Broussard slapped his thighs and stood up. "Then it's settled. We're all going!"

"HURRAH!"

Broussard made a pit stop at the men's room and then headed for the main staircase that would take him down to the building's main lobby. Music—heavy electric bass guitar, jangling voices, loud clapping—boomed rhythmically against the walls. Curious, he followed his ears. Ten doors down was the employee gym, and there he found Z, Kwolski, and the six DATs committing the most terrible crimes against dancing. Rick James was rocking the house, and man and DAT were thrusting hips and strutting legs all over the place. Broussard watched the scene for exactly five seconds before dissolving into uncontrollable laughter. Z stopped his artistic spasms and turned the music down. He beckoned Broussard to join them.

"Come on! Join us!" Z and Kwolski were both flush and sweaty. All of the DATs ran over and crowded around Broussard, their comm boards ablaze.

"Uncle Neal!"

"Uncle Neal!"

"Uncle Neal!"

"Uncle Neal!"

"Uncle Neal!"

"Uncle Neal!"

Broussard greeted each one with a hug around the neck and a kiss on the cheek. "Just what are you folks up to?"

"We're studying p-funk music this week," Kwolski piped up earnestly. "And today we are learning how to dance the funky chicken."

"Oh, is that what that was?"

"Yes!" Z replied joyfully. "We tried the tango, but Mr. Chang does not want them to perform standing upright for now. I guess he has some religious concerns."

"That would be Allan." He looked at each of the bright faces turned up towards his own. "Well, guys," Broussard told them, "if we're ever in a dance off with the Advance South, I think we've got a shot."

Z made a mock sad face. "Okay, you are having us on. But this is actually a serious exercise. The fact that they can be induced to dance is really quite remarkable, because they appear to be doing it out of a form of enjoyment. But this information is important because it also shows us that they can be distracted from their tasks when exposed to a particular set of note patterns. We're aware of some of them, like the F-major chord, but there might be others. If our opponents came to know of this vulnerability, then they would certainly exploit it."

"Like kidnap them and make them perform in talent shows?"

"Ha-ha. You are such a kidder." Z asked Kwolski to take the DATs back to the other side of the gym.

When they were safely out of earshot, Broussard became serious. "All joking aside, I agree with what you and Kris are doing. To be honest, that oddity didn't look like a hazard, but you're right. It can be. It just didn't occur to me. Like a hundred other things." He folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me something. We built the darn things. Why are you so interested in them?"

"Because we want them to succeed. And on many levels. We would hope for the DAT and the Archangel programs to produce good citizens for America and other countries."

Broussard frowned some. "Come on, now. They're just smart weapons. Tools."

"Really?"

Z called the DATs back over. They came running, stopping to pop a hip joint or skid on the glossy floor whenever they thought that they could safely perform the maneuver. Soon Broussard was once again surrounded by the six AIs. They began to nuzzle their cold noses against his arms and hips.

"Hi, Uncle Neal." Miss Sharon was already trying to pull him aside, away from the others.

Daniel pleaded, "Please stay and dance with us."

"Are you going to visit me and my parents today? I have a new toy," Pete said.

"Uncle Neal, I do not enjoy the funky chicken dance," Miss Colleen said.

"Uncle Neal, where is Uncle Eric?" the unpredictable Vernon asked.

"Uncle Neal, can you take us outside to the sun?" asked Miss Connie, who was always ready to challenge any other DAT for dominance when she wasn't lying near-comatose in a sunny spot.

Z was smiled Broussard. "Yes, from one perspective they are tools. As we all are. But look at them. Aren't they also your nieces and nephews?"

Broussard looked embarrassed. "Well, I don't know about that—"

"Neal," Z said. "Neal, you see them as something that you helped build with your hands. They see your hands and see the hands of their beloved uncle. They have the ability to love."

Broussard put up a hand to Z's words. "No. No way." He started to backtrack towards the door.

"And because they have that ability to love you, they do love you. Why not love them back?"

"Um, Z, I've gotta run. We'll discuss this later, okay?" He waved good-bye to the DATs and exited the gym.

Broussard drove the short distance back to his house in Avondale, deliberately keeping his mind blank. There he showered and then changed into a light wool suit, tie and Armani loafers. Avondale had an excellent touchless car wash, and he stopped there to get his car cleaned up. Feeling generous, he tipped the dryers ten dollars each. Then he got on the road to Huntsville. The traffic was surprisingly light, and he pulled into Grace's driveway one hour later. She met him at the front door in a filmy gown that accentuated her curves. Her hair was swept up in a chic bun. Hues of lavender and rose colored her brow and cheeks and tamed the brilliance of the jewels at her ears. She twirled like a princess before him. "How do I look?"

He grinned. "Baby, one look at you would slay the bitterest of dragons."

She dashed into his arms and he held her tight.

They wasted little time dawdling in Huntsville. They were back at Redstone, oblivious to the gray-bottomed cumulus clouds gathering in the south. Within the hour they were passing through Redstone's security gate and hunting down a parking space in the crowded parking lot

Broussard practically jumped out of the car and ran around to the other side to open the passenger door. He extended his hand. "Miss Montgomery, I would be honored if you would accompany me for an afternoon of merriment and song."

Grace took his hand and stepped out of his car, letting the folds of her gown rise up and down her shapely legs. "Mr. Broussard, I would be honored to accompany you."

He curved his arm, and she lightly placed one bare hand upon it.

They walked this way until they reached the outskirts of the party and the energy of two-hundred-plus pushing and pulling bodies forced them apart. They managed to rejoin near the outskirts of the main square where people were boogying down to "Na Na Na (Kiss Him Good-Bye)." Broussard grabbed Grace by the hand and led her to the center of the dance area. Soon they were bopping and weaving with the best of them. As the band revved up to the final choruses, Broussard raised his face and arms to the heavens and shouted from the tops of his lungs, "HEY! HEY! HEY! GOOD-BYE!"

They danced two more fast songs and then a slow one before forcing their way over to one of the far-flung, mobile mini bars for cool refreshment. The band's decibel level became quite bearable, and they could hear each other speak in normal voices.

"What'll you have?" he asked.

Grace fanned her face with her hand. "A Coke, please. And maybe a napkin or two!"

"Coming right up!" He placed the order with the bartender.

Afterwards, they made their way to one of the few empty tables and sat down. There they drank thirstily as they surveyed the action.

"Looks like everybody's here!" Broussard said.

"And then some. We sent out invitations in Avondale, too. I guess they like a good party as well as the next town."

Broussard was nodding to the beat. "Me, too." He scooted his chair closer to hers and was about to place his arm around her shoulders when a ghost wearing a cheap suit materialized right before his very eyes. He gave a great start. "I don't believe it!"

"Hey, Mr. Broussard." It was Officer Stewart from cell block A.

Broussard stood and the two men embraced. "This is unreal! How did you get here?"

"Remember Dina Hodges?"

"Of course!"

"Well, I guess she saw me on PeopleScope and sent me a message about the party. I called her back and she sent out plane tickets for my parents and me the next day." He pointed to an elderly couple sitting stiffly together at a nearby table. "That's them."

"They don't look too happy," Grace commented.

"The music's too loud. And Mom's arthritis always acts up when rain is coming." Stewart tried hard not to stare at Grace. "It's nice to meet you. My name is Les Stewart. Mr. Broussard and I met in Nevada."

He and Grace exchanged polite handshakes. "It's a pleasure," she replied. "You worked at Lincoln Hills then?"

Stewart was startled. "Oh. Um, yeah. I didn't know if he had told you about that."

Grace beamed at Broussard "Yes. He's told me everything."

Broussard was still looking dumbfounded. "I never knew you had a first name."

"Yeah. All of the guards did. I guess you heard about the Zycks."

"No. What happened?"

"Well, you knew that Lincoln was invaded, right?"

"Yes. Well, I think so. I wasn't able to get the newspapers every day."

"Hmm. Well, they got busted in about a week after I left. Really tore up the place. Put down all of the hard timers first. Guess you dodged a bullet there." The wind picked up and carried away Broussard's response. "It was weird at the Hills, though. Normally, the guards are left alone. But I guess the Zycks were a little too gung-ho. They found them together outside the mess hall. Sharon still had her finger on the trigger of her .44."

Broussard turned thoughtful. "Yeah, well ... I always figured they'd go out in a blaze of glory."

They allowed a moment of respectful silence to pass.

Broussard broke the solemn mood. "You look good, man! Grew a proper moustache and everything."

Stewart colored slightly. "I'm using herbs now. I guess it's working."

So, how are things in New Mexico?" the engineer asked.

"Great! Lots of peace and quiet."

"Oh? Well that can't be too good a thing for a hired gun like you."

"Don't worry," Stewart replied. "We've still got enough crazies to keep us busy."

"Are you still doing bird calls?"

"Naw. I was getting complaints from my neighbors so I gave it up. Not worth the bother."

Broussard pulled up an empty chair. "Stewart, why don't you stay a minute? Mike and Eric will want to see you."

Stewart laughed. "I doubt that." He moved off towards his stiff parents. "It was good seeing you again, Mr. B." He gave Grace a wink. "Nice to meet you, ma'am." And then he cut loose a loud, long whistle of appreciation.

As soon as he was good and gone, Broussard turned to her. "Stewart did amazing bird calls. That one was the mating call of the lonely southwestern desert hourly cop."

Grace giggled.

Not more than five minutes later, Bautista and Powell showed up and took seats. Bautista was alone but Powell had apparently goaded one of the Amazonian administrative assistants, Jackie, into being his date for the afternoon. The look of displeasure on her face was proportional to the look of satisfaction on his. After proper introductions, Grace saw two female VIPs mingling nearby and excused herself from the table with the promise to Broussard that she would be back soon for "one more dance."

As the men chewed on petty grievances about management, Broussard would occasionally sneak a peek at her, watching her chat up the two bejeweled matrons. It was obvious to anyone paying attention that he wanted her back at his side.

Bautista nudged Powell. "Looks like true love to me," he crooned tenderly.

Powell stroked his chin. "Mike, I think that I'd have to agree with you there."

Broussard shook his head. "You're both wrong!"

The other two men began to gently rag on him.

"But," Broussard continued, "she is a pretty neat lady. And she'd make a good woman for the right man."

Powell snickered into his drink. "Yeah, if that man didn't mind sleeping with one eye open."

Bautista giggled. He had passed pleasantly buzzed an hour ago.

Broussard eyed them. "What are you talking about?"

Powell motioned towards Grace. "You know."

"No, I don't know. Tell me."

The alcohol had made Bautista's tongue a fool. He gave his friend a playful punch in the arm. "Man, you know that she popped her husband."

The words rang out like the gongs of doom. Broussard stared at them blankly. "What?"

Bautista came to his senses through the alcoholic haze. "Oh, shit. Man, don't tell me you didn't know. Wow." His old friend was mortified. "You two were spending so much time together, I thought she would have told you by now. Neal, I'm real sorry."

The engineer looked as if he had just been gravely wounded.

Powell sniggered. "Well, well, well. Our Boy Wonder turns out to be a dufus after all."

Broussard surged out of his chair towards the other engineer. Powell rose to meet him. Broussard then threw a hard right hook that landed solidly on the other engineer's chin. When he tried to sock him again with his left, Powell moved sideways and then walloped him in the gut. Broussard doubled over in pain. Bautista dragged Powell away. All the while Powell was saying, "No hard feelings, Neal. No hard feelings."

Broussard managed to stagger over to a chair and sit down.

"Neal?"

He did not need to look up. He knew who it was.

"Neal, are you all right? What happened?" Grace was hovering close by, her voice breathy with concern.

"I'm fine." He straightened up. "Just keep moving." He looked up at her still lovely face.

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't need your help, Grace."

"What?" Confusion and pain were revealing themselves across her fair brow. "Neal, what's wrong?"

"I know, Grace."

Her face fell and her eyes became twin pools of liquid. "Neal, please—"

He stood and willed himself away from her. "I trusted you." He held up his clenched fists. Several small streaks of Powell's blood were on his knuckles. "You were supposed to cleanse me."

The woman held out pleading arms. "Please! Let me explain—"

Broussard shot out of his chair, angrily pushed his way through a few bystanders, and then dissolved into the crowd. Bautista, who had been watching, chased after him. They ended up on the opposite side of the square, near the entrance to the parking lot. Here there were several empty tables and a great deal of peace and quiet.

Broussard slumped into a chair. His hand was still drawn up against his midsection. Bautista pulled up a chair beside him and sat down. The wind was starting to pick up, and it blew his long hair about his shoulders.

"Neal, you hurt? You need a doctor or something?"

"No." Broussard kept his head down and mumbled, "I need a drink."

"No sweat, buddy. What you want? A beer?"

"Scotch."

"Okay. Gotcha! I'll be right back." Bautista stood and scanned the heavens. Wide screen clouds—tens of kilometers high and fairly boiling with potential energy—had moved in from the south and now stood menacingly over Avondale. "Hey, look at that! The air is green! Psychedelic skies, man!"

Broussard didn't budge.

Bautista was gone and back within five minutes. He sat down again and set down three drinks on the table. "The guy at the bar is an asshole. He was only gonna let me have two. I almost had to threaten to lay him out."

Broussard wordlessly picked up a cup and took a few sips from it.

Bautista pulled on his ponytail and looked around. Some of the partygoers were filing out and piling into their cars. Bautista frowned. "This party's tanking. Why don't we go back to my place? Watch some TV? They've got this crazy show about these stripper nuns in Spain. You wanna check it out? Or we could go to Harvey's and play a game of pool. Or ... " Bautista eventually talked himself out.

They drank in heavy silence.

Bautista looked uncharacteristically concerned. "Hey, you okay?"

"Not really," Broussard admitted.

"You mad at Miss Montgomery?"

"For being a cold-blooded killer? Who am I to judge? No wonder we clicked." He hung his head down between his shoulders. "I deserve this."

Numerous squirrels emerged from the parking lot and raced past them, headed towards the complex.

Bautista sighed. "Neal, you know why I went to prison?"

Neal shook his head.

"There was this girl, Beth. We'd been dating since middle school. I was crazy 'bout her, but her parents were old-school and wanted her to date some Ivy League punk. Didn't want no community college Flip sniffing around. I did everything I could to make 'em accept me, but they weren't having it. So we're going back and forth and it's the Chinese New Year, and I wanted to do something spectacular. So me and my brother make this swirling dragon. It's real pretty. All the kids were using them. Done right, they're beautiful. And I knew that if I could pull it off I'd be king for a day. So I build the thing and give it to her brother as a gift for the whole family and go home and wait for the praises, you know. Then my brother calls and tells me that something went wrong with the dragon ... that Beth and her brother were at the hospital in bad shape ... ." Bautista paused. "Then I find out that Beth's mom is telling the cops that it was a bomb and that I'd meant to kill everybody at the house. I freaked. I mean, who was going to believe my side of the story? So I called my dad, and he got me a gun and enough cash to get to Manila. The next thing I know Five-O is ramming my front door ... . Somebody shot at me and I retaliated... . I know: stupid."

He sucked in his lower lip. "I took two rounds in the chest. Almost died. Eleven months later I'm standing in front of some judge, and he's telling me that I'm this psycho killer and that the death penalty is too good for me. Crazy stuff, man. I'm just asking myself over and over, 'How in the hell did I get here?'"

A lightning bolt cracked over Avondale.

Broussard looked drained. "Okay, you got a bum rap. What's your point?"

"My point is that sometimes, when it's the farthest thing from your mind, you end up with dirty hands. It don't make you innocent, but it don't make you guilty either."

Broussard lifted his head to the skies. "It's different, Mike," he said quietly. "What happened to you was a terrible accident. I wanted those people dead. At the time, anyway."

"Well, did you ever stop to think that maybe those folks needed to be dead?"

Broussard stared straight ahead. The bell tower of the church that he had attended with Grace poked through the gathering fog. "I used to," he said quietly. "I don't know." He took a deep breath. "But now ... thinking back ... and knowing what I know now ... ." Black clouds noisily banged together and then closed over the church. "It wasn't my call."

"But you're the one who made it happen. It must have been God's will, man."

"Mike, I've already used the 'God-made-me-do-it' defense. Honestly, nobody ever bought it."

"That don't make it not true. You don't know God's plans."

Broussard stretched his legs. "Yeah? Well, maybe God should have just gotten them fired."

"That wasn't in the plan."

"Oh, you think?"

"Neal, ask yourself: Why am I here? Instead of rotting in lockup. Why am I here working for the government and getting paid piles of cash to do it? That's God. He's working in your life 'cause he's got great things waiting for you."

Hopelessness coated Broussard's next words. "Well, Mike, the good news is that we're still free to disagree."

It was still early evening, but the sky was growing darker by the minute. Every now and then the wind would blow over one of the metal chairs and push it screeching along the pavement. But cars full of laughing guests were still arriving, and their gaiety gave the mounting gloom stiff competition.

Bautista surveyed the scene. "Looks like everybody in Avondale is here."

The band must have taken a break because old, original tunes began to filter through the loudspeakers.

"It's been too hard living but I'm afraid to die

'Cause I don't know what's up there beyond the sky

It's been a long, a long time coming

But I know a change gonna come. Oh, yes it will."

Broussard finally raised his head. His eyes were red and bruised. Bautista watched him. It seemed to him that his friend had aged ten years during the last half hour.

The engineer shook his head. "I don't get it. This woman kills her husband and she's walking around like it's business as usual. Why isn't she in jail? Where is the damn law?"

Bautista laughed. "The law? Dude, in case you haven't noticed, we left 'the law' back at Lincoln Hills. We're living in the Jack Law now." He gave his knee a by-gum slap. "Sonny called it right." Lightning flashed in the distance, and a couple of fat drops of rain plopped onto their table. Bautista looked dismayed. "We gonna get some rain—Oh, hell!" Shadows fell upon them. "Look who's here."

Broussard looked around in time to see Patrik Jansen and Van Walters. Both men wore tuxedoes and smiles.

"Gentlemen! Good evening!" Walters greeted them effusively.

Bautista spat. "Who let you in?"

"I'm doing consulting for Dina and her husband now. Got my office right on the Soo Locks. And," he continued expansively, "Patrik here was nice enough to invite me."

Jansen flashed a faux smile.

Bautista grunted. "So I guess that makes you his date. I always knew you had it in you."

Walters ignored the barb and focused on Broussard. "Hey, Neal. I heard you were pulling double duty these days. Program manager for Archangel and official wet nurse for Mike here."

Bautista's upper lip curled. "Van, you've been itching to kiss my ass for months now. Here's your big chance."

Walters snorted. "I wouldn't touch that with a fishing pole. Even if I could bend down that low to look for it." He made a wet, smooching sound. "Neal, can I speak with you for a moment?"

Broussard sighed. "Sure. Why not?" He dragged himself out of his chair, and the two men walked a few paces away from the others.

Without warning, Walters placed his arm around Broussard's sagging shoulders. "Neal, I heard about what happened with your girl." He paused dramatically. "Something like this can make a man feel like the loneliest person in the world." He inhaled. "But it gets better, Neal."

A slight smile crept over Broussard's lips. "Thanks." He shrugged off the other man's arm.

Walters nodded. "And if you ever need to talk ... "

Broussard took a deep breath. The air felt oddly spicy in his lungs. "To be honest, I really don't feel that bad. Shocked is more like it. I mean ... I had no idea."

Walters nodded sympathetically. "And how's the arm?"

Broussard's right hand subconsciously stroked his left arm and shoulder. "A lot better. Not much pain nowadays."

"Good. Glad to hear that," Walters enthused. Then he downshifted. "You know, back at Lincoln Hills, I always knew that I wasn't going to be there long." He stared off into the distance. "But I never dreamed that it would end up like this."

Broussard nodded.

"We're free. We're working. We're still young." He paused for dramatic effect. "Hell, it turned out good."

Broussard nodded and his black mood finally broke. "Archangel's going to kick righteous ass."

"Hell, yes, man!"

"And between that and the kids—"

Walters's expression turned from neutral to one of mild alarm. "Whose kids?"

"The children. Colleen, Connie, Vernon, Pete, Sharon, and Daniel."

"Right." Walters's face erupted into a big grin. "The DATs! Yes, that's right. They still belong to us."

A terrific juggernaut of wind blasted through the parking lot, uprooted a four-meter section of heavy-gauge steel fence that separated the parking lot from an open field, and hurled it towards them. It missed the Lincoln Hills engineers by a hair but fell on Jansen in a tangled mess. Suddenly the skies erupted into brilliant cracks of lightning. Bolts of electricity slammed into the ground like missiles, sending up cascades of sparks and setting afire anything that would burn. Screams of terror and shouts rose and reverberated against its high stone walls. A tornado siren began to wail forebodingly in the distance, pumping up the hysteria. While the partygoers instinctively swarmed around the various entrances into the buildings, trying to gain access to the basement floors, Walters, Broussard, and Bautista flew to the mangled heap of steel that now encased the still conscious scientist.

On the count of three the would-be rescuers pulled mightily at one corner of the fencing. It was incredibly heavy. The woven steel gave some and Jansen inched forward.

Thunder like sonic booms rattled bone and cement alike. Then Z and Kwolski appeared out of nowhere and took up corner positions at the fencing that would give the group even more traction. They heaved together as one and the fencing jerked up about thirty centimeters. Enough to allow Jansen to pull himself out on his belly and begin to crawl out. And then another rush of wind came straight at them and slammed all of them onto the hard ground. The fencing was ripped from their hands and fell back solidly onto the ground. Once again Jansen was caught and pinned down.

Walters called out to Broussard over the shrieking winds. "This won't work! We need more help!"

Bautista suddenly craned his neck at something and then whirled around, a look of raw terror on his face.

"WE'VE GOT TO GO!"

Broussard was vigorously shaking his head. "NO! WE NEED MORE HELP!"

Bautista stabbed a finger beyond the fallen Jansen, out to the vast field just beyond the parking lot. Not more than thirty meters from them, a single beam of billions of electrons had speared the ground. And it was on the move. It sliced through first dirt and grass and then the blacktop like a buzz saw, throwing up grapefruit-sized chunks of asphalt and black soil. And it was coming straight for them.

Without thinking, Broussard grabbed a section of the fence and yanked on it with all of his might. The others joined him. It began to lift off the ground again. One centimeter. Two centimeters. Jansen began to ram his head and shoulders against the steel wires.

Suddenly the air grew unbearably dry and hot. The noise from the creep lightning was a loud snarling buzz, like that of a mechanical beast from Hades. The smell of burning tar blew up and began to choke the men.

"HARDER!!!" Broussard shouted.

But the hissing and sizzling noises assaulting their ears told them that it was too late.

Walters shouted. "LOOK OUT!!!

The unearthly torch was now inside the fencing with Jansen. The scientist turned around briefly and looked at it, and then began to tear at the fence with his hands, making desperate whimpering sounds. Small bits of blood and flesh began to stain the mesh.

Walters shouted to the others, "GET BACK! GET BACK!"

This time they had no choice. All of the men fell back.

The power from the thing seemed to surge and bulge. It was upon Jansen in a flash.

Jansen cried out once. "JESUS, HELP ME!!!"

And then it was over. The lightning was gone, and all that remained was a smoldering heap of melted metal and the charred form of what had once been a man. And the wind. A steel table, carried aloft on an invisible current of enraged air, whipped over their heads and just missed colliding with Walters's head.

Z began herding the men together. "YOU HAVE TO GET TO THE TUNNELS! NOW!"

The others needed no prodding now. Walters and Bautista were already scampering after the few stragglers that had not made it to safety inside yet. Broussard take one last look at the chaos exploding all around him and then shot off after them. He was mere centimeters from the doors that would take him inside when an orange balloon whizzed by his head and spritzed him with something cool and gelatinous. Almost immediately he found himself unable to continue his forward momentum.

Oh, my God. What is happening to me? Raw fright gripped him.

Z and Kwolski came up on either side of him. "Neal, are you okay?" Z asked.

"I can't move."

Z put his hand on Broussard's arm and tightened it as he gently steered him around one hundred and eighty degrees and pushed him forward, back towards the parking lot. Broussard knew that he was unable to move his legs. So how was he moving? Instead of giving in to the blind panic that he was feeling, he started to fight against Z's grip on his arm. But it was hopeless. And now the paralysis that had stayed his legs was quickly creeping up his body. His hips and torso became lifeless.

Kwolski spoke softly to him. "You are in a mobile stasis field."

"What are you doing? NO!" Broussard protested loudly. His new captors ignored his commands until they were once again standing before the gruesome evidence of the final scene of Patrik Jansen's life. Kwolski and Z let go.

Z pointed at Jansen's remains. "Look!" He had to shout to be heard above the wind. "This man died a dishonorable death because he led a dishonorable life."

Broussard could still move his head and he turned away. "I don't want to see that again!"

Z smiled without warmth. "Neither do I." Z's eyes scanned the unsettled horizon. In the distance twenty-meter tall trees were being wrenched up by their roots and sucked into the sky. Walls from houses and buildings rose and flew in an aimless circular path. They looked like flimsy pieces of paper from where they stood. The cars in the lot began to skitter across the ground, banging and crashing into each other. The noise quickly became deafening. "Patrik died without a biological heir!" Z shouted into his ear. "The patent for the DAT neural net now belongs to the American government. That program must be adjusted as quickly as possible!"

Broussard again tried to run away, but his legs still would not budge. Yet he continued to struggle against his invisible restraints. Z became irritated. He motioned to Kwolski with his head. "Go to Jansen's apartment and search his computers for the code! If you don't find it there, have all of his equipment in Amsterdam confiscated. Go!"

Kwolski jumped as if Z had cracked a whip, hopped into a sliding car that had once been parked close by and drove off into the maw of the strengthening storm.

"Mr. Broussard, you have been chosen to repair that code! This task and more—much more, if you want!"

"Dammit, let me GO!"

Suddenly the sound cut out. Broussard could still see the storm grinding through, but it was as if a giant hand had switched the volume button to OFF. The pace of the action picked up. It looked like the earth itself was vomiting up its guts. Broussard's mind began to veer of its rails, and he raged and cursed until he started to foam at the mouth.

And then the balloon was zipping by again and unloading another wad of jizz in his face.

.... Peace. It was the kind of drug-induced serenity that one felt right after the anesthesiologist pumped you so full of drugs that you paid no attention whatsoever to the surgeon who was about to saw off your leg. Once again Broussard was made to witness his world being torn apart by brute forces. But this time, the insanity of it all did not have all of those sharp, jagged edges. In fact, he felt pretty good about it. Mother Nature was just doing her job. Like when your girlfriend woke up in the middle of the night to spend the next six hours frantically rearranging the furniture. Sure you had a few intensely absurd hours on your hands. But afterwards, you always had to admit that the place looked better.

A shockingly strong wind shear hammered them from above, causing the building's windows to rattle in their grooves like old bones. One more hit like that and the building would collapse. Broussard thought about the people hiding down below in the basement. They would be entombed. An image of Grace briefly entered his mind. Grace Montgomery. Now that situation was a real mind blower.

The fencing on top of Jansen blew away as did Jansen himself. See. That was a definite improvement to the scenery.

Z abruptly sank to one knee. "An ascended approaches." He lowered his face.

A tiny portion of his brain, not yet fully desensitized, chirped up now. Something very awful or very bizarre is probably about to happen. Pretend not to notice.

His attention was drawn to a small speck of light in the sky. He watched it grew larger and larger. Although he could still not move his extremities, he felt the ground rumble ominously beneath his feet. The light in the sky continued to grow bigger and bigger. Broussard got the impression that he was watching a Titan missile screaming towards the earth from outer space at Mach eleven. Then he felt a thud hit the ground so hard that he thought it would crack the earth itself. The entire complex jumped thirty centimeters into the air and then settled back down into its foundations in a huge cloud of dust. Unbelievably, the main building remained entirely intact.

And there was now a thirty-meter-tall man standing in their midst. The ground stopped shaking at once. Z prostrated himself on the hard concrete.

The thirty-meter-tall man spent a minute brushing off the bright embers that a being collected during a routine supersonic flight. The creature's arrival was obviously designed to be a shock-and-awe affair and it was brilliantly executed. Broussard tilted his head back and took it all in. The guy was wearing some nice threads: a black turtleneck with a fitted jacket and matching flares. The ankle boots were so expertly polished that they effectively served as two dark mirrors. Flecks of pulsing light coursed through his pale skin. They formed a kind of sequined skull cap over his glistening bald head. When the tall man was satisfied that his clothing was clean, he turned and looked directly at the two men with indistinct eyes the size of platters. His lips parted and a shock wave struck Broussard with the force of a freight train. The blow should have knocked him unconscious. Yet he remained on his feet and acutely alert.

The thirty-meter-tall man walked back towards the complex, leaned up casually against one of the building's walls, lit a cigarillo the appropriate size for a giant flying-alien-thingey, and began to smoke. The place soon became suffused with a sulfuric aftertaste, nasty and unworldly. Suddenly there was a horrifying scream and then a beastly rumble from high above as the air was rent in two again. Another giant landed with a teeth-rattling thud. This one wore a robe over a tee-shirt with sandals. The giant sprinted towards the parking lot while the first one grazed Z and Broussard with its enormous eyes. Broussard doubled over from the pain and vomited. The air sizzled and spat a third time. An object like an extremely tall four-by-four rammed itself into the ground. Almost instantly it expanded outward in all directions, taking various geometric shapes until it became recognizable ... as another thirty-meter tall man. However, this one had gold skin. His arrival was certainly less of a shock-and-awe affair than the previous one, but no less commanding. He wore a Japanese hakama and wooden clogs. He was naked from the waist up and his skin glowed and threw off tiny sparks of charged particles from random places. The colossus thudded past the second giant who stood expectantly in the parking lot. As he did so, one flap of his skirt floated outward and brushed up against the other's robe. A brilliant but short-lived flash of electricity arced between them. The second being inspected the smoking singe on his garment and then threw up his arms and roared. Everywhere the air heaved in anticipation of the coming shock wave. Z threw himself to the ground as the invisible stasis field around Broussard quickly grew to encompass his entire body. Before the wave hit, Broussard caught sight of the first giant, who appeared to be focusing his attention out over the lot on some invisible point above the carousel of carnage whirling over Avondale.

The wave hit with such a force that every first floor window in the complex blew out. Z and Broussard were sent careening into the first row of cars, sixteen meters away. Z regained his senses first and then rushed over to check on Broussard, who was just slowly regaining consciousness.

"Are you all right?" Z asked with anxious eyes. "Have you suffered an injury?"

The stasis field fell back down to below his waist, and he was able to raise his hands to feel his aching head. "I'm fine." The field loosened its grip on him somewhat and allowed him to get to his feet. He muttered, "Too many hits to the head."

Meanwhile, the two giant men had taken opposing positions a fair distance apart. The tension between the two was palpable and ugly.

"What's happening?" Broussard shouted at Z.

"Honor challenge!"

The wind swelled up and carried the scientist's words away. Broussard cupped his hand to his ear. "WHAT?"

The giants charged towards each other. Their heads met with a great bone-crushing BANG! in the middle. Bits and pieces of light and fogs exploded from their bodies from the collision. Both of the colossi fell to the earth and wrestled each other with murderous abandon.

Broussard was dumbfounded. "Does everything on this planet want to fight?"

"Everything fights." He added mysteriously, "Everywhere."

The two men exchanged glances.

Meanwhile, the two giants sprang to their feet and darted back to their previous positions, priming themselves for another attack. But before that could happen, a heavy vapor materialized and hung in the troubled air between them. Seconds later, a slit opened up along an invisible seam, and a pink orb about two meters in diameter oozed out. It was rotating at a very high rate of speed. As it did, its smooth clear surface became mottled with streaks of gray and brown.

Z looked relieved. "The bladder will absorb all of the disagreeable feelings, and then we can proceed."

Broussard stared as the two battling Titans visibly relaxed and faced the 'bladder.' Z and Broussard stood stock still, as if transfixed. Broussard shook his head in disbelief. "I can't take any more of this." But even as he said those words, he knew them to be untrue. Watching the pink 'bladder' work its magic on two men the size of buildings, he finally realized that this was the new normal: the Never Conceived Of, the Never Seen Before, the Unbelievable running shotgun through his life hand-in-hand with the Unbearable. These things comprised his life now. And he could either accept that fact or pull a pair of bell-bottom jeans over his head like everybody else.

The first giant thundered right by them and sat down cross-legged near the main double doors at the center of the complex. Then he closed his eyes.

Broussard looked back at the other creatures, now placid and swaying a bit as if to music. He took it all in and did not reject any of it. This is my life now. Unfortunately, that only gave him a modicum of relief.

"Are these ... the aliens?" Broussard asked.

Z began to explain. "They are called Titans in popular culture, but they are Efflin. They are an apex species, and as far as I know, their people have lived on earth since the Jurassic Age, and so are no more alien than you or I. We are honored by his presence." His voice was almost deliberately reverential.

"He can understand us?"

"Of course." He looked around. The storm was still rampaging all over the place, but its impact seemed to now stop right outside the perimeter of the complex. And the ferocious winds in the parking lot and the courtyard had come to a screeching halt. An SUV with two people inside flew by, barely missing them. So the storm was still getting through; just not as much as before. "We need to sit down. I have things to tell you and we don't have much time."

Z hunted down two slightly bent chairs and brought them back. Broussard felt himself gliding over to one of them. His body seated itself.

"The stasis field. How are you doing that?" he asked.

Z hesitated. Broussard looked up. The first giant man was looking intently at them again. He braced himself for another sonic blast but it did not come. Instead, the giant merely flicked the ash from his cigarillo and then turned away.

"That is not for you to know." He sat down heavily in his chair. His natural buoyancy seemed to have dissipated. Broussard mused. Perhaps the outré could be punishing to the outré as well. That thought pleased him for some reason. "Okay. Then why is this gentleman here?"

Z smiled. "That was an excellent choice of words, my friend." He sighed. "Mr. Fields threw a party for the entire DAT team. The 'gentleman' that you see there is part of that team. Just as much as you or I."

And now it was time for Broussard and his sedated brain to smile. "Funny. I don't remember bumping into any jolly giants in the hallway."

Z shook his head. "No, but you are acquainted with some of his work. This individual is a master elemental, licensed to manipulate earth, wind, fire, and water. The official title is Civil Engineer, cap C, cap E."

"Really?"

"Really. There are only nine CEs among the Efflin. It is this individual who created the storm for us tonight."

A real locomotive, trailing plumes of chemical-fueled fire, soared high overhead and slammed face first into a semi-trailer flying in from the opposite direction. Soundlessly. The terrific crash lit up the sky like fireworks. It was like watching a silent disaster movie.

Broussard chortled unhappily. "Impressive work." He spent another futile minute trying to break free. Then he said, "So how do you two know each other?"

"The Efflin and my people have a long shared history. I am a Hussar. Do you know what that is?"

"No."

"Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors fought for the kings of Poland. We were the royal army. I am the twenty-third generation of Hussars from the Panzer line. Kris is the twenty-fourth."

"Kris is your son?"

"Yes. Not my boyfriend as you have so helpfully been telling everyone."

Broussard mentally squirmed.

"We were amused," Z assured him. "Nothing more."

"You're humans? Men?"

"Of course! We live and die just as you. But we are enslaved to a cause that stretches across time. A noble one, I think."

Broussard glanced towards the giant. "So you and Kris work with—what is his name?"

"That is not for you to know."

"Of course. You say that he's been working on the DAT. How?"

"As I said, this individual is a Civil Engineer. He does not sit down to design products per se, but rather land movements or weather systems and the like."

Broussard was beginning to fully comprehend Z's explanation and was thunderstruck. "Or earthquakes." He growled.

But Z would not be baited into an argument. "Let me back up some. The Efflin appear whenever there are great intellectual leaps amongst mankind. The creation of the MIT represented one such leap. The Hussars and the Shatti folk work with them to assist in bringing about certain ordered events that will produce the best possible outcomes for these advancements. In this particular case, the next generations of this created intelligence, the DAT and now Archangel."

Broussard grinned crazily. "You and the Shatti folk. Right. Right. And what do you and the Shatti folk get out of this? Money?"

"The Efflin make sure that the Panzer line continues. What arrangements the Shatti have with them is none of my business."

"Then you've made a bargain with the devil."

Z was nonchalant. "We hope not." He shifted in his chair. "Neal, we also work with men. We were assigned to assist you."

"What? Who gave you this assignment?"

"The Efflin, of course. We don't arrive at such decisions on our own."

"Of course not," Broussard replied with mock seriousness.

"That is why we needed you to give us the order to get the neural code from Patrik."

For the forty-third time in recent history, Broussard found himself experiencing slack-jawed incredulity. "What??? When did I give you such an order?"

"At the restaurant in Avondale. You remember this?"

"I'm afraid that I do not 'remember this.'"

Z dismissed Broussard's outrage with an impatient puff of air. "Never mind. We have other matters to consider now."

"—Because what you're saying is that I somehow caused Patrik's death."

Z became agitated. "Please! Don't worry about it. What's done is done. Neal, this country has sustained great losses. There have been many, many deaths. But I tell you the truth: they were necessary. Americans have an old saying: No pain, no gain. And that is Truth. Advancement always has a price. And a person, or a people, or even a nation must pay for it. That's a nearly universal law."

Broussard was barely listening. Out of sheer frustration, his mind had snapped off the conversation that his mouth had been holding with Z and was now investigating the giant man. Man? No. This thing had about as much in common with a man as a man had with a banana slug. And he was certainly no earthling. Of that he was sure. He was an alien. But from where? What type of planet could sustain a race of beings with such physical magnitudes and abilities? The Efflin was now blowing smoke rings into the air. As a boy, Broussard had watched Uncle Curtis do that a hundred times. Broussard felt an odd pull—an attraction really— from the giant figure. It wasn't entirely sexual, although it was certainly that on one level. But the subtext was purely cerebral. As if every question that you had ever asked or every longing that you had ever had could be answered or fulfilled by it. What kind of life would a person have with access to someone like that in his or her life? Better or worse? Part of him wanted to find out.

"I don't understand this," Broussard complained. "When have we ever needed an engineer who could build tornadoes?"

"Well, the storm will serve as a catalyst for our next move. Archangel will not be built in America. It will be constructed by the United Kingdom and two other party nations."

His words floored the entrapped man. "No way!"

"Neal, the Advance South will ultimately prevail. Not only here, but in many strategic places around the world. And they would never allow true created intelligence to exist under their governments."

Broussard's building rage was fighting its way through the balloon's sedating effects. "You don't know that! What? Are you bastards playing both sides???"

"We don't take sides. We are simply trying to advance you from point A to point B."

"You are NOT taking Archangel from us! WE built the MIT! WE built the DAT! And WE are going to build the Archangel!"

"WE helped you build the MIT and the DAT," Z replied archly. "We've been with the NASA team and the Lincoln Hills team since the very beginning. We monitored and provided covert assistance to everyone associated with these projects. Including you. You did not see us, but we were there. And when it was time to make direct contact with you, Kris and I were selected to physically join the team."

"THAT'S A LIE!" Broussard raged. "THIS IS ALL A LIE!" The orange balloon zoomed in towards him and took aim. "NO!" The balloon backed off just as a double-wide trailer home dropped from the skies and smashed itself to bits in the field. As a whimsical coda, a white commuter plane emerged belly-up from a towering wall of churning fog and lightning and speared the wall directly behind the sitting Efflin. The being paid it no mind.

Broussard became nearly hysterical. "STOP THIS! YOU'LL DESTROY THE COMPLEX!"

"That is the purpose of the storm. Calm your fears. Your friends and colleagues are safe for the moment. But Redstone will come down, as well as the production facility being built in Michigan, thereby forcing Washington to move production of the Archangel to safer grounds in the UK."

Hot tears streamed down Broussard's face. "OH, MY GOD! OH, MY GOD! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?"

"Because these are our orders."

"BLAST YOUR ORDERS AND ... LET ... ME ... GO!!!"

"Don't worry. You will be set free soon." Z checked his watch. "Neal, the Efflin have an offer for you."

"Let me go!"

"They want to keep you on the Archangel project. It is a significant honor."

"I don't care! NOW LET ME—"

Broussard was sprayed again. His head lolled a bit and his eyes rolled upward.

"Neal?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you hear me?"

Broussard raised his head. "Yes," he mumbled

"Are you going to allow me to finish?"

"Yes." He breathed in and out deeply.

"Listen. The Efflin would have you bring your expertise and your special relationships with the DATs to bear upon Archangel. However, there is the matter of your criminal background."

"I have a pardon. From the president. You should know that."

"Yes. Unfortunately, the Efflin don't recognize presidential pardons for capital crimes."

Broussard shrugged. "Whatever."

"Mr. Broussard, it's a problem. If you accept employment with the Efflin, you will have to complete the terms of your sentence."

"What? Send me back to prison? If that's the deal, then no thanks."

"No. Besides, we could hardly take the time for you to serve forty years and then go through an appeals process." The plates of imported granite that made up the façade of the main building began to flap wildly in the wind. "There is another way. One that would speed the process."

Broussard shook his head. "The answer is no. Marcin, or whoever you are, I don't believe one thing that you've said. And to be honest, I don't have to. For all I know, this could be some Advance South simulation. I've heard the rumors. Now why don't you and your buddies do me a favor and disappear."

"While your mind sorts through the fantastical bits and drills down to the comfortable, old reality? Neal, you are not dreaming. This is no 'separate reality.' And life as you knew it will never exist again."

Broussard's eyes unfocused. A long "ahh" sound came from his mouth, and his head began to pitch drunkenly about his shoulders.

"Neal?"

"Yes?"

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"I need your answer."

His head stopped moving, and he managed to hold it upright. "Z, I'm not looking for another situation. I just want my life back, with or without Archangel. So if I have a choice, then I'm choosing that. Can you understand?"

"If you choose that path, you will die. Out here. In the storm."

"No, I won't."

"It's the truth! You'll never make it to the shelter now."

"I will!"

"Neal, even if you could make it to the shelter, within a year you'll be dead."

"No!"

"Yes. You and every man who watched those bombs explode in Kentucky. Your friend, Mr. Chang, is aware of the situation."

Broussard was crying now. "This isn't real. I've just got to wake up. I've got to get to the storm shelter."

"You won't make it, Neal. I speak the truth. You will die here just like Jansen. And you will go to your grave with the bloodstains of three innocent people on your hands."

Broussard fumed silently.

Z pressed on. "Being unprofessional and insensitive are hardly stellar qualities, but possessing them is not against the law. Maybe their actions were against your company's policies. And, if that was the case, then you should have taken up the matter with your superiors instead of following your own lethal counsel."

Broussard did not reply.

"But," Z continued, "what's done is done. Act one is complete and now it is time to prepare for act two." Z stood up from the table that they had shared over the past half hour. "You took three lives. Efflin law demands that you meet that debt by relinquishing your own."

Broussard laughed out loud. "Well, I guess I should have seen that one coming!"

"It would only be a corporeal death. Your electronic brain structure and your entire essence would be captured. You would still be you. But more importantly, that 'you' would still be alive, and learning and working with Archangel!"

"Sure! Sure! I'd still be me but only about two hundred pounds lighter. No, thanks! Now, I've listened to you and your little presentation for the afterlife. I've given you my answer. We both understand each other's position. Now, keep your word and let me go."

Even before he had stopped talking, Broussard could tell that he was free. He raised his leg up and kicked the table hard. The kick was a lot softer than he would have liked, but the table did move some distance across the ground with a satisfying screech. Then he stood, turned, and kicked his chair. It clanged away.

His large hands rolled into fists. His eyes were wild, filled with pure hatred. "No more prisons." He charged straight at Z and knocked him over. Z fell backwards onto the hard concrete. Broussard was on him so fast that the other man had no chance to defend himself. Broussard began to pummel the other man's face with his hands until blood spurted up at him. Throughout the beating, Z made no sound.

Images filled his mind. His victims. "No. Wait! You don't understand!" His uncle. "You are the best thing to ever happen to this family." Dana Zyck. "It's okay, chief." Grace Montgomery. "I love you." The rage fled his body, leaving only grief behind. But his hands were still punishing the physicist.

"Stop. Please stop!" Z finally called out weakly.

Broussard focused on the man beneath him. His face was covered with blood. Blood. Broussard groaned. No more blood. The sight of Z's fluids snapped him out of his frenzy. What am I doing? Oh, please. Not this again. He stopped throwing punches and rolled off the bleeding man, breathing heavily. Broussard held up his red-streaked hands. "More blood," he whispered. A cry of pure misery escaped him. He slowly stood. Z remained on the ground, semi dazed. Broussard stood over him, well within striking distance. The physicist instinctively covered his battered face with his arms. Broussard held out his hand. "Can you stand?"

Z nodded.

Broussard grabbed one of Z's hands and hoisted him to his feet.

The soundtrack to the destruction of Redstone was suddenly back on. The tornadoes, now visible, were gyrating all around the complex like gray belly dancers. And Redstone was shrieking in agony as they fell to the serious business of tearing it apart.

Tears streaked down through the dirt that was blowing onto Broussard's anguished face. "I'm sorry!" he shouted above the rising din. "I didn't mean to hurt you! Forgive me!"

Z's blood-soaked mouth opened, and two of his teeth fell out. He turned to look at the still placid Efflin and then back to the engineer from Lincoln Hills. "That is what they wanted from you. See you soon."

"WHAT? NO! WAIT—"

Another slit unzipped itself in the air above Z's right shoulder, and a blue cube, small enough to fit into the palm of a man's hand, tumbled out. He immediately knew that it was alive: every few seconds the cube's innards would pulse with a frosted light, exposing an intricate network of arteries and veins and fuzzy organs. As with the spitting spheres and the alien feel-good bladder, he did not sense an intelligence from it but instead a steady and intense level of interest. He wondered if an organism could have one major capability exclusive of all other possible features required of advanced life forms. Mechanical smarts minus the higher brain functions. For example, consciousness. Or reasoning? Like plants and trees. _Or organic robots._ The cube began to spin very, very fast on its x-axis and to change its color from blue to lavender to orange.

This time, Broussard was able to summon the energy to be utterly amazed at what he was seeing.

He murmured. "This is incredible."

The cube suddenly went completely dark. Without warning, it flew directly at him, pissed something cold on his face, and then settled on his left cheek and attached itself to it by sinking long fangs into his flesh.

Broussard gasped in pain and surprise. He attempted to knock it off, but his hands remained impotently stuck at his sides. He was now in total agony and he let out a long "Arghhh." Tears burst from his eyes.

Just as the pain intensified, a sharp thunderclap swung down hard above Redstone, shaking it to its foundation. The sky cracked open and the pitch-black storm roared in like a thousand angry dragons. Before Broussard had a chance to scream, a tornado reached down and gripped him in its powerful jaws and began to hungrily suck him through its kilometer-long gullet. As he began to rise high above the earth, he started to pinwheel uncontrollably. Flashes of other debris caught in the storm's maw flashed out of the chaos: house planks, a roof followed by a naked woman in curlers. Eerily, she seemed to slow down as she spun by him, and their eyes met briefly for one gut-wrenching moment. And then she was gone. Broussard rode the monster whirligig higher and higher. Rain and dirt pelted his head and filled his mouth. He began to choke and lose consciousness. He thought of his Uncle Curtis and of his mother's eyes. They seemed to be speaking to him. It's okay, son. Let go. And then something too large and too solid slammed him from behind, smashing every bone in his body. His last breath quickly escaped from his open mouth and was instantly lapped up by the blue cube. It then detached itself from Broussard's face and rode out the twister's torrential winds until the tornado itself breathed its last and dissipated some fifteen kilometers northeast of the Johnson farm.

#

Six Months Later

Gilmer, Texas

It was early in the evening. A harvest moon hung in the sky like the Great Pumpkin. With the exception of a lone horse feeding on sweet hay, nothing moved.

A long black car stopped in front of a long brick house set right beside the road. Three men got out. Two of them were supporting the third as they made their way up the paved driveway. The horse stopped eating and watched the scene with only passing interest as the men moved in the darkness. The two men deposited the third man on the front porch and returned to their car and then quickly drove away. The moon completed its transit; the heavens then waited for the arrival of the sun. Twelve hours later Mr. Darryl Smith and his family, dressed in their Sunday finery, stepped out onto their front porch to find the stranger lying unconscious next to Mrs. Smith's clay pot of orange poppies. Mr. Smith commanded his family to return inside while he examined the trespasser. There was a handwritten note pinned to his jacket. It read: "My name is Frederick Fields. I work for the president of America. I have been kidnapped and tortured and am presently unable to communicate my needs effectively. Please call (703) 555-1648, state your name and location, and read the contents of this note to the person who takes the call. Thank you."

The man stirred, and Mr. Smith immediately felt a wave of nausea hit him like a freight train. He reached out to the rim of the flowerpot to steady himself. His youngest son must have been watching from inside the foyer because the front door opened and the child ran to him.

"Daddy, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Billy. Go back inside."

The strange man moved again, and this time the physical reaction was so severe that Mr. Smith felt ready to swoon like a woman. He fell back against the porch's railing and reflexively hooked his arm around it to catch himself before he went down. The maneuver caused his vision to pan around erractically, and he saw Billy fall to the floorboards like a stone. Mr. Smith struggled to his knees. "Billy, are you all right, boy? Billy? Answer me!"

The house began to tilt and twirl. Before he passed out, he managed to shout inside the house, "Jerrie Mae, call 9-1-1! Tell 'em we've got an unconscious man out here! Tell 'em that he's got some kind of chemical on him! It's strong! Hurry!"

#

Three Years Later...

Aboard HMS Fox8, Eleven Kilometers Above the Swiss Alps

For the umpteenth time he readjusted his rear end in his new executive chair. Five minutes in one position and the thing became a veritable torture chamber. Damn it all! I'm still the prime minister! Doesn't that title at least rate a comfortable chair?

He tried to jot down some notes. Questions that he wanted to put to the team. But his mind kept buzzing from topic to topic. There were so many things to consider now.

He looked at his digital watch. It was eight o'clock on the morning of Saturday, 28 November.

A knock at his door sounded like Elizabeth Tower and he bade them enter. The team filed in—Pierre Laurent, the French Minister of Defense; Matthew Grodin (SECAF, America); Air Chief Marshal Sir Moffett Tarkin (RAF); Bill Thompson, acting director of NASA; and Lord Cedric McCool, MOD's replacement for the now retired Frederick Fields. They were all gathered in Prime Minister Tennyson's airborne office to witness the first official flight of Archangel.

The prime minister had spent the last three days and nights wringing his hands with worry like an old woman. The situation below had gone from bad to worse. There were new players in the game and all of them hostile towards his party and its goals. The pressure was enormous and unrelenting. At one point, he had become so desperate for a way to silence his critics that he had half-jokingly suggested that he be given a public blessing by His Majesty. Looking back, it had truly been a foolhardy notion. No more than a desperate Hail Mary kick in the last seconds of an American football game. But of course, if it had happened ...

General Chambers began. "Mr. Prime Minister, thank you for receiving us today. Sir, in light of the urgent nature of our current situation, would you mind if we dispensed with the usual formalities and got the demonstration underway?"

"Not at all," Tennyson responded wholeheartedly. "I believe that we are all sufficiently acquainted with one another." He acknowledged the small group with a congenial look.

"Then, please," Chambers continued, "let's make our way to the cockpit."

He was led to the BAe's roomy flight deck. Robert "Corny" Cornfield, an old friend, was seated in the captain's chair (which looked a hell of a lot more comfortable than his own). The co-pilot was a stranger. Tennyson and Cornfield exchanged the polite questions and updates about family but the conversation soon turned to the matters at hand.

Chambers steered him towards the third seat, normally reserved for the flight engineer. "Sir, as you are aware, due to recent developments in the attack strategy of the Advance South, and in accordance with NATO's modified North American treaty, we would like to demonstrate a new tactical weapon that we at the MOD and the American Department of Defense strongly feel will give our side a strong and new advantage."

Tennyson fought to control his impatience. He had specifically told everyone that he wanted any Jobsian rollout spin kept to a minimum. He knew all about the Archangel program. In short, it was bleeding edge technology grafted onto old. The SR-71, the fabled American spy plane, had been pulled from the mothballs and thrown into a pit of the sharpest aviation minds in the world. It had a new flex-jointed body, lighter innards, Cray-Linux computers on board, and near invisibility from conventional radar. It even had a new designation to signify its role as a strategic ambassador on behalf of the G5. It was now known as the SA-72. The "A" stood for Ambassador. He did not have every detail—most of the new bells and whistles on the thing were so classified that only the program's scientists and engineers had intimate knowledge of them. Chambers had been adamant about the tight security. And the man generally knew how to perform his job but it still felt like a slight. Some egghead obviously did not think that he could be trusted to chew gum and walk across the street at the same time. But he quickly got over any bruised feelings. They needed something—anything—to gain traction with the enemy. After the Huntsville Disaster in the States, it was clear that any ground-based campaign was probably destined for failure. Up in the skies they might stand a chance of a win.

Tennyson rubbed his hands together. "Okay, let's get this show on the road."

Captain Cornfield took control of the presentation. "Mr. Prime Minister, if you will look directly ahead, you should see the craft in six seconds."

They waited. Six seconds passed. Clouds like homemade biscuits lazed by. Then ten seconds. The prime minister was just about to make a remark when their plane suddenly bucked and reared up nose first about four meters. He grabbed onto his armrest. Captain Cornfield grabbed the yoke and to wrestle the plane back down to straight and level flight.

Something huge and dark was rising directly beneath Fox8, wildly displacing the air and causing the big plane to experience intense turbulence. And then the SA-72 shot out and ahead of them to temporarily blot out the sun.

"LORD God!" Tennyson stared at the aircraft in open awe. He had always admired the Blackbird for its unique design and its prowess, but now it was a thing of beauty as well. The new designers had not simply scaled up the original airplane. The smooth, chocolate brown skin of the fuselage now bristled with ornate and incomprehensible weapons and defensive gear. The vessel glistened in the sun as it flexed along its articulated spine and took the air currents like a pterodactyl dipped in hot Lamborghini sauce. As it flew ahead of the jet and darted to the upper right, it literally flapped its wings at them.

"WOW!" he shouted as another Archangel shot into view and then seemed to park itself in the upper left hand corner of Fox8's windshield, all, Haverson surmised, within the space of maybe half a second.

Chambers was beaming. "Mr. Prime Minister, meet the Archangels."

Tennyson was trembling. "AHHH!" He wiped his forehead with a now sweaty palm. "Pardon my language." He sucked in some air to cool his nervous system down. "What can they do?"

Lord McCool interjected himself into the presentation. "Just about everything. Archangel has a full-thrust horizontal range of thirty-five million kilometers, a low-power vertical range of seventy million kilometers, full cloaking ability, multi-directional laser canons, fore and aft electromagnetic force fields, WhisperTouch Rolls Royce fusion engines, curve radar, and nuclear strike capability using gold-based enrichment."

"Brilliant." Faced with such a large minefield of technical information, Tennyson tried a subtle tack. "Tell me about the engines."

McCool continued smoothly. "They run virtually silent. If you were on the ground and Archangel passed by thirty meters above you, you wouldn't hear him."

That did not quite sound right to the prime minister but he did not say anything. "I see. And what about the nuclear missiles? I take it that these are different from our current arsenal."

"Very." That was the French minister, Pierre Laurent. "Almost all conventional missiles are Uranium based. It has high instability and at the business end high levels of negative radiation. We've got a working prototype on board now that uses a gold alloy as fissile material. It consumes more energy but the blast dispersal is far less toxic."

"How much less?"

"About eighty percent less."

He whistled. "I like that number."

Tennyson glanced out the cockpit window again. "They remind me of birds." While Chambers was speaking to the others with an expression of supreme satisfaction on his grizzled face, the prime minister performed some simple math problem in his head. "So these craft have a full-thrust horizontal range of approximately thirty-five million kilometers—"

Chambers interrupted him. "Pardon me, sir. Horizontal meaning from one point on the earth to another if one were flying along the curve of the earth."

"And a low-thrust vertical range of seventy million kilometers."

"Yes," Chambers responded. "Vertical range meaning from a point at sea level on the earth to another point straight up from that point."

Tennyson did some quick mental calculations. "Seventy-two million kilometers." His jaw dropped. "Archangel can theoretically reach Venus."

Chambers nodded.

"For heaven's sake. Can they save us? Can they win this war for us?"

"In a roundabout way, yes, we think so," Laurent replied with utter confidence.

Tennyson was almost glowing with pride on the inside. After three years of suffering utter futility, his people were finally talking like winners.

Matthew Grodin, the American secretary of defense, nudged his way to the front of the group. "Mr. Prime Minister, what Archangel is designed to do is to provide the G5 contingent with a greatly needed boost to our military and civilian deep-space maneuvers. Whoever ... whatever ... our enemy ultimately turns out to be, it doesn't seem to be interested in engaging us in direct confrontation in the air."

"They knocked out our satellites after the Los Angeles fire, remember?"

Grodin countered. "But they were back on within three days and we haven't had another incident since."

"So you're thinking that that was just a screw up?"

"Or a show of force. We may never know. Whichever the case, we're vulnerable here on earth; establishing a permanent presence elsewhere is the next logical step. Archangel will assist us in accomplishing this, one hundred percent guaranteed."

Tennyson's happy face turned into a frown. "So we abandon our planet." That thought, while hardly new, now struck him with a particular vengeance. Only a coward would give up and run. Could he leave his home behind? Could he turn his back on England? On the earth itself?

His heart began to sink as he returned to the flight engineer's chair.

Grodin pressed on. "Sir, the strategy is that we get to a higher vantage point and then plot our best options for Venus and for Home Earth. But first we launch Archangel. If those structures on Venus are real and not naturally occurring, we may need an initial contact force with both peacemaking and peace keeping abilities. Archangel will give you that and more, sir."

But the chief officer of the United Kingdom still looked glum.

Laurent gently placed his hand on the prime minister's shoulder. "Mr. Prime Minister, if you'll look out your window at four o'clock, please." Tennyson moodily complied. As he watched, a dark, smudged line dropped out of a shallow sheet of cirrus clouds. As Fox8 rocketed through the air, the smudge's speed increased until it was directly off their starboard wing. The new angle provided a better view of the object. It was dark gray, nearly flat and quite long. As it moved closer to the airplane, a hump could be seen protruding above its center. At a distance of approximately five kilometers from the BAe, the side that faced them dipped precipitously as a dark gray moon began its slow ascent above it. Only it wasn't a moon. As it grew larger and larger, it was plain to see that it was the aircraft itself, an impossibly huge disc shaped liked a perfect circle, slowly tipping over onto its rim until it was flying perpendicular to the earth. The object was easily two kilometers in diameter.

Tennyson lost control of himself and throttled his armrests. "My God, what is that? Is it Advance South???" He was practically shouting at them.

Chambers quickly stepped up to stand beside his good friend. "It's okay, William. It's ours."

The air marshal allowed his words to sink into the prime minister's brain. "Its official name is the Docking Disc. It represents the first intra-solar spaceship. It can shuttle Archangel to the new earth so that they don't have to burn fuel going out. It can assist with overseeing contact and dialog protocols should that prove necessary. And it will be able to help with offensive strategy for the Archangels once they arrive on Venus—again, if the need is there. The Disc will also serve as a service and repair station for the Archangels and future missions."

Tennyson still had his armrests by their throats but appeared calmer. "Is it armed?"

"Uh," Grodin replied diplomatically, "with all due respect sir, that information is unavailable at this time."

Tennyson visibly relaxed. "It's one of ours." He laughed, a bit embarrassed. "My apologies, gentleman. I guess that I got a little carried away." Tennyson brought out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. "It's one of ours," he muttered again to himself. "Thank God. Thank God."

"Thank Sir Frederick Fields and his crack staff at Gresko," Lord McCool said with unabashed pride. "The Docking Disc is his brainchild."

Tennyson chuckled and put away his rag. "Next time I see him, I'll do just that." The men watched the spacecraft seemingly stretching itself against the sky. "So," Tennyson said, now seeing the monstrous flying disc with clear and unafraid eyes. "We're finally in the flying saucer business." There were odd depressions and protrusions at regular intervals. Laurent handed him a pair of binoculars. Although it had appeared as smooth as an airliner from a distance, up close he could see its true nature. The outer skin appeared thick and pebbled, such as one might find on an avocado. The dimples and swellings were actually small hills on the aircraft's terrain.

"The surface is quite dramatic," he noted.

"Deep space is hostile. You need a thick yet flexible skin to navigate through it all."

Tennyson smiled to himself. "Much like Parliament."

Tennyson adjusted his eyes until he could make out a rosette of images painted near the Disc's center. There were five flags there representing the G5—the Union Jack, the Stars and Stripes, the French tricolor, the Australian National Flag, and the Canadian Maple Leaf. The achingly familiar graphics helped to offset the Disc's utterly alien design. There were three words written in block letters below the flags. Tennyson read them aloud. "HMS Tennyson."

He smiled to himself. "Yes. Very nice."

He stared into space. And then the meaning of the words struck him full force. He looked again. "Oh, my."

A large pile of tears threatened to spill down onto his cheeks.

"Thank you," he whispered. Someone handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face. "Please tell His Majesty that I am humbled by his graciousness."

"Of course."

Tennyson addressed Laurent. "You say that it's fully automated. No crew. How's it going to be able to assist the Archangels?"

"No live crew," Grodin gently corrected him.

Tennyson's scalp scooted forward. "Oh, so you mean computers?"

"Not quite," the secretary said. "More like 'ghosts within the machine.' I'm sorry, but most of the moving parts on the Disc are classified, sir. But we actually do have a full crew aboard. By law, both the Disc and the Archangels must be under human command at all times. There are seven astronauts inside the Disc now who have been training with the Archangels and the Disc for almost three years. Four are from NASA, two are from the ESA, and there's a mission specialist from the JSA. The NASA community has been with Archangel since its very beginnings, and we feel comfortable giving them the reins for the time being."

The Disc slowly returned to straight and level flying and became a long, thin smudge again.

Laurent continued. "Phase I will be the initial contact with New Earth. If we get to Phase II, actually planting a small landing party, the Disc will be carrying the G5 team leaders and their families, along with the royal families and their staffs—" The captain and the co-pilot began to fidget in their seats. As commoners with no real money, they and their families would be going absolutely nowhere when the Earth really hit the skids. Laurent was either ignorant or indifferent to that fact "—ninety percent of the ship is designed to carry supplies—compressed oxygen, water and food."

Tennyson was nodding, but his mind was jumping through time. He was thinking ahead. Way ahead. To a time when they would not be even entertaining the thought of invading another world and possibly subjugating its citizens. To a time when there would be a lasting peace and reconciliation on Home Earth again—when men of different creeds, colors and beliefs could truly commit themselves to sharing the tiny paradise riding on the backwaters of the Milky Way. And how did Archangel fit into the picture? Could this one weapon, bearing the name of an ancient but comforting symbol from their religious past, be the progenitor of that desperately hoped for future? Here? On this earth? During this lifetime? Honestly, it looked doubtful. But would it inspire the people living through the troubling events of the here and now to hope for these things? Well, if nothing else, its spectacular good looks would cause a few much needed goose bumps of delight!

Tennyson snapped out of his reverie. "I'd like to say hello. What are the names of the Archangel pilots?"

Chambers glanced out the window at the waiting spacecraft. "Captain Russell Datmita and Captain Leslie Datmita."

"Are they related?" Tennyson asked.

"Yes, sir. Captain Cornfield, would you patch us through to Archangel, please?"

"Will do."

Tennyson watched as the SA-72s rocked gently from side to side and felt oddly at peace. This was a good sign.

"Okay, sir. We're connected," Cornfield announced. "Archangel, this is RAF Fox8. Please acknowledge. Over."

A pleasant male voice filled the cockpit. "Roger. Fox8, this is Captain Russell Datmita. Archangel One. Over."

The co-pilot handed the prime minister his headphones. Summoning up some vestige of his old stagecraft days, Tennyson spoke into the headset's mic with the Imperial tone. "Captain Datmita, this is William Tennyson of the United Kingdom. I just wanted to say welcome aboard the team ... and that so far, so good! You look fantastic over there!"

The prime minister was surprised when a low, sultry female voice answered. "Roger. This is Captain Leslie Datmita, Archangel Two. You are very kind, Mr. Prime Minister. Thank you. Over."

Tennyson jolted in his seat. He shot a look of total surprise at Chambers, who just stood there watching the SA-72s through the cockpit windows.

The prime minister moved his bottom around, allowing his upper body to loosen up. "Well, thank you!" Tennyson depressed the mic button again. "Captains, I look forward to meeting you both when we arrive in Paris." The Canadian prime minister was hosting a state dinner for the former American president, Doug Haverson, later that evening in honor of the first Archangel flight. Dignitaries from all of the G5 nations would be in attendance. Tennyson was smiling to himself. What would the first female spaceship captain look like? Pretty or plain? He had not had a proper conversation with a woman since The Troubles started. That might be a nice thing to do.

Tennyson's mind raced forward to more practical matters. Archangel might represent the end to a long nightmare and the beginning of a long-sought dream—Man's finest living amongst the stars. These brave and highly trained Archangel pilots and the astronauts aboard the Docking Disc would form the cornerstone of that dream. He believed that they had just crossed over into a new era of mankind's history: the Star Age.

"Likewise, Mr. Prime Minister," Captain Russell Datmita replied. "Over and out."

With that, the two aircraft banked ninety degrees, collapsed into two single points, and vanished.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed. "How did they do that???"

No one said anything. Then a man's voice that Tennyson had not heard before came over the cockpit speaker.

"Who's this?" Tennyson demanded.

Chambers grinned again. "Identify yourself, please."

"Hello, Mr. Prime Minister. This is Neal Broussard, executive officer of the Archangel Docking Disc. It's a pleasure to meet you. Over."

Tennyson sighed. "Likewise. Well, Mr. Broussard, we've seen the Archangel spaceships and I cannot lie, I'm impressed. The Docking Disc ... well, I'm still having some difficulty getting my mind around that one, but I trust staff here and if they say your people can help us accomplish this mission, then you have my support for as long as I can give it."

"Thank you, sir. We appreciate that."

A mischievous gleam came into the prime minister's eyes. "Mr. Broussard, how's the steering on that thing?"

There was a momentary pause. "Not bad. Captain Hoestettler actually pilots the Disc. But if you want my opinion, it doesn't handle turns as well as I'd like."

Tennyson laughed heartily. "O-kay. Thank you for the demonstration today. I look forward to meeting you tonight at the dinner."

They could all hear light chuckling through the tinny speakers. "Same here, Mr. Prime Minister. Over and out."

The Docking Disc gradually receded into the background, leaving the presidential plane alone in empty, untroubled air.

Tennyson thanked the men for a job well done. A steward rolled out several bottles of Champagne and the group spent the remainder of the flight toasting each other.

Near the end of the flight, Tennyson cornered Chambers.

"The Archangel pilots," he whispered. "Are they married?"

The air chief marshal drained his glass and signaled the steward for a refill. "You mean to each other? No. They are siblings."

"I see."

Chambers regarded his boss with unabashed amusement.

"What?" Tennyson asked.

"Wills, there might be a couple more surprises in store for you tonight. Not bad ones, mind you," he added quickly, "but, well, you might find them interesting."

Tennyson stared into his bubbly. "Interesting ... I could use interesting right about now."

Chambers stopped talking and fell into his own thoughts. They flew on and the veil of dusk soon closed in on them. The other men soon relocated to the plane's cabin, leaving the prime minister alone with the two pilots.

Tennyson reached out and touched the back of Cornfield's chair.

"Corny, remember my middle son?"

"How could I forget?" the captain replied. "My Elizabeth was daft about him. How's he getting on? We don't get much news about your lads since the Big Fight started."

"He's still uncertain about what he wants out of life. Of course, events might take some of the guesswork out of things soon enough. But one thing that he's sure about is that he's ready to take on some responsibility, play an active role in the new government, and possibly take a wife. Maybe he could give Elizabeth a call?"

Corny beamed. "Absolutely!"

Tennyson turned his attention to the co-pilot. "Does that bare ring finger mean that you're presently unattached?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Well, if you're interested, I've got a daughter, too. She's older, a bit wild ... small and scruffy like her mother, but she's got a heart of gold, and I'd trust her with my life. Interested?"

The co-pilot could barely contain himself. "Yes, sir. Very much so, sir. Thank you, sir!"

"No. Thank you."

Prime Minister Tennyson gazed out the co-pilot's window again.

"Corny, is the Disc still in the air?"

"Yes, sir. They're about twenty kilometers northeast of us."

Tennyson was grinning like a happy child. "Then what say we fly this bucket over there and get another look at her?"

"Yes, sir!"

#

Caelo, Manitoba, Canada

It was nine o'clock on the nose when the knock came at the front door. Sharon had been on the telephone with her mother for the last two hours and had long since tired of their conversation. But gabbing away with Mum was far more enjoyable than having to consider the loads of dirty laundry piled up in the living room. Or the sink full of dishes. Her husband, Dana, never lifted a finger to help out around the house. His job was to make sure it stayed dirty. She despised housework ... and sometimes even him.

"Hold on. I've got someone at the door." She tossed her phone on the couch, walked to the door, and cracked it open.

"Hi, J-Man." She opened the door fully, and the man's tall frame almost filled up the space. Dana's flagpole, with the Maple Leaf and the North American Patriot flags whipping in the icy wind, filled out the rest.

"Hello," he said. "There was a note on my door. I have a package?"

"Oh, yeah. It arrived this morning." She pushed a bag of unpacked groceries out of the way with one foot. "I almost forgot about that. I've been so busy."

J-Man pointedly looked around at the clutter spilling out from every corner of her living room and then back at the woman.

That made her mad but she said nothing. Dana and just about every other male in Caelo would challenge anyone who would speak ill of their upstairs neighbor. Dana called him a man's man. Whatever that meant. To her he was just rude.

She stepped away to rummage through a pile of clothing and shoes. After some digging, she produced a large, neatly wrapped box and handed it to him.

"It's from America. You know someone down there?"

There was no return address. He glanced at the postmark. The box had originated from Morning Star, Alabama ... six months ago.

"Thanks. Dana home?"

"Not yet. He's running late." Dana worked the night shift at the local post office.

"Well, tell him I might have a small job for him. He can give me a call tonight."

The woman's attitude immediately improved. "I will, and thank you." She quickly slammed the door, anxious to get back to her phone conversation.

J-Man carried the box upstairs to his tiny apartment. He set it down on the dining table. After showering and preparing a small meal of vegetables, his attention turned to the package. He took out his penknife and carefully cut the heavy straps of tape away. Within a few seconds he had the box open. The thing was filled with so much Styrofoam popcorn that its true contents were literally buried. He plunged both hands inside and pulled out two identical objects.

After blowing away the bits of Styrofoam, he gently set the objects down on the table beside the empty box.

They looked like large metal spiders. They weren't quite identical. One was larger than the other. A pink bra had been painted across the smaller spider's chest. They appeared to be lifeless.

J-Man stroked the tiny solar cells on their backs with his fingers. Immediately their eyes lit up, and then their legs began to twitch. He watched them as they went through their boot-ups and system checks.

When he was sure that they were fully awake and operational, he spoke to them. "Hello, James. Hello, Jessie. I've been waiting for you."

The End

