

### The

### Civil

### Engineers

A novel

by

Mich Moore

Copyright © 2018 Mich Moore

All rights reserved.

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To all engineers with benevolent hearts - past, present, and future.

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

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

### Part One

#

San Francisco, California

The woman sat down hard next to the silent man, her mind full of persistent thoughts. It was twenty minutes past five, and the sun was sinking fast in the western sky. The heavy, ornate doors that led to the Saint Francis mission, a hot meal, and some benevolent attention had not opened for over an hour. She and the others taking up posts outside had grown hoarse calling for the invisible friars who ran the shelter and public kitchen. Why the doors could not be left open had always been a mystery to her. Oh, to be sure, they would eventually let them in ... after the others already inside had had their fill. But by then it would be too late. The sun would have already set, and the cold wind blowing in off the bay would have bled her of all interest in the friars and in their good intentions.

Dancing by her feet, a conga line of garbage swirled about, windblown and indiscriminately obnoxious. She sighed, remembering a time when the city's brick sidewalks were clean enough for a child to play jacks on and never get dirty hands. Now the mortar was cracked and often filled with enough urban flotsam to wilt the heartiest of souls.

Uncharacteristically heavy today, her purse was at her side. She had known that today she would not have to worry about it being stolen. The stars had finally aligned in her favor. She knew as much the moment she opened her eyes that morning.

She needed to talk about what she had planned to do; about why she had decided to do it ... that much was true. But confess? That word, confession, had been in her brain all night. The thought amused her. I've been agnostic since I began playing with Barbie dolls. To whom would I confess? And why? If there had been a god, he had never shown one iota of interest in her life. It was as if she had been created by scientists in a laboratory with skilled and curious hands, and then abruptly set aside for another project that had been deemed more fun and filled with greater promise. A single sentence formed in her heart: Make your confession for posterity. The weight of the words grew heavy within her, and her innards began to quicken.

The man beside her stirred for the first time in thirty minutes, more from the stiff breeze than from any conscious act of self-propulsion. She knew him. He was a fixture at the shelter. At other times he was at the wharf, playing Spanish guitar for tourist quarters. When he was lucid, he would talk about his glory days as a tenured philosophy professor at San Francisco State. He was a cultured sort who had once eaten dinner at Hayakawa's home. He bragged that he could hold a packed class of dim minds hostage for hours as he parsed Thomas Aquinas in between puffs of Pall Malls. When he was drunk, which was often, he would just twitch and piss on himself until he passed out. She had often suspected that he had been a virtuous person at one time in his life. She had often believed the same of herself.

"Maurice," she whispered, "I have to tell you something." She had decided to confess. "I am about to commit a sin."

His head flopped to the side in some sort of acknowledgment, and he began to drool. She pulled her purse in closer to her body and slowly closed her eyes.

"Listen to me—I used to believe. I used to believe in happy endings. But yesterday, right after the six o'clock news, I stopped." A hollow-eyed hooker trudged by the river of penniless men outside the shelter. This was her fifth march around the block. Two more and the walls of Saint Francis would come a tumblin' down ... . Truth be known, her nearest customer was probably seven kilometers away. She appeared almost ready to give it away. "Another family jumped off the bridge." She shed a tear. "They can't find the baby." The woman wiped her eyes with her sweater. "But I used to believe."

Maurice gave a start and then wet himself.

"When I was in the eighth grade, I went to school with a lot of scary kids. If you made them angry, or if they just wanted to have some fun ... they'd hurt you. You know, like when little kids pull the wings off flies.

"I tried to stay hidden. I tried to make myself as invisible as everyone else, but it didn't work... . There was this one girl, Shana Moonat. She was the prettiest of them. And the meanest. One day she caught me on the stairs while I was coming from homeroom and she told her friends, 'Watch.' Everybody gathered around us, and she kicked me in the stomach. It hurt so much that I fainted. They took me to the hospital. I had to wear a stomach brace for a year. Shana was expelled, but I had to switch schools. I wrote her family a letter telling them that I'd forgiven her, but no one ever wrote back." She slowly exhaled. "Yes, I used to believe."

The woman looked around. There was a commotion down the line. Jennifer was here! The earth angel from social services, Jennifer Brown, braved the cold to see the unwashed, the unloved. The homeless woman's spirit lifted a couple of inches off the dirty sidewalk and poked its head out into the gloomy world, prompting the woman to pump her fist in the air with the enthusiasm of an NFL cheerleader. The angel noticed and flashed an effervescent, "Hi, there!" smile and mouthed, "I'll be there in a sec." Satisfied that the gesture had been seen and appreciated, the homeless woman's spirit withdrew and settled back down again exhausted and spent on its bed of cigarette butts and dried gum.

Nevertheless, she had stopped believing. The Rubicon had been crossed.

"I healed a lot. I started to see the good in people again. My parents loved me and they wanted me to be happy, so they paid for me to go to college, where I would be safe and free to learn. And I did. I studied biology and I loved it! I decided to become a doctor in my junior year, and I began my residency two days before my twenty-seventh birthday. Dad and Mom were so proud of me. Those were the happy days. The best of times ... ." A colorful montage of still-vivid memories crowded her mind, and her voice trailed as she stopped to watch them all before they faded from view.

The earth angel steadily made her way down the tattered line, speaking to this one, giving a loving pat on the cheek or hand to that one. The woman took notice of her progress and was even eager to speak with her. But she had to finish her story—yes, her confession—to Maurice.

"I met the only man that I've ever truly loved on a blind date. I had dated others, but with him things were different. It was as if we had been divided from the same flesh. My body started to die if I couldn't reach out and touch him. I needed him like I needed air. When he was promoted and reassigned to Milwaukee, I followed, even though he had asked me not to. I loved him. And somehow it worked out. And he married me! I was worthy to be his wife! Then I became pregnant. We were just thrilled. But I lost the baby in my second term. Shana had also damaged my uterus. He cried, cried tears no man should cry. The good times stopped... . He began to hate me. I would tell him over and over that it wasn't my fault, but ... it never seemed to get through.

"We both started drinking, just to get through the days. The nights were worse. Sometimes he would hit me. And I hit him back. Then he would leave and stay out all night. My love carried me through those times, too, and I forgave him. We drove to the Poconos to celebrate our third wedding anniversary, and the day that we got back I knew that he didn't want the marriage anymore. And I was right. He told me that he wasn't happy and that he wanted to move on. I cut my wrists and showed him. He called 9-1-1 and stayed with me that first night. When I left the hospital he was gone, gone for good.

"My brother bought me a first class ticket back to Memphis. You know, that was the first time I'd ever flown first class. It's so much better than coach. Lots of leg room, and they give you a real knife and fork!"

Jennifer the Angel reached the woman. She held out a cup of warm coffee and a lovely smile.

"Mary Goodwin! Oh, my gosh! It's so good to see you!"

The women embraced like old friends.

The angel pulled out a few bills from her pocket. "I want you to have this."

But the homeless woman gently pushed the money away. "No, please. Give it to someone who needs it—"

Jennifer gave her a sad face. "Mary, darling, you need it, too."

"Not anymore. I've leaving town."

Angel Jennifer's mouth formed a small O. "Did your brother finally send for you?"

With almost superhuman strength, the woman fought back the wild tears that were suddenly crowding her eyes. "No, Todd lost his job. He and his wife are going to move to Alaska and stay with her parents. It's just a two-bedroom apartment. Not enough room for me."

Jennifer's face drooped some. "Oh, Mary. I'm so sorry. Well, do you have enough for your meds? You'll need your meds, sweetie."

Mary clasped the angel's smooth hands. "Oh, your concern for this broken spirit warms me so. I have enough. And, you know, the voices don't bother me so much now. That's a good thing, wouldn't you say? I don't need to take those nasty pills anymore. It's a blessing. Yes, I think so."

The angel's face fell completely. She handed the woman a bagel from her satchel. The woman received it out of politeness. "So where are you going?"

"I'm going home!"

"Where's that?"

"It's ... it's ... up north. A farm ... with horses and apple trees. And real seasons! Snow in the winter and ferocious mosquitoes in the summer!"

The women laughed.

"Well, how are you getting there, honey? Are you taking the bus?"

The woman bit her lip before answering. "To be honest, I don't know. But I'll make it. Don't you worry. I'll make it."

The angel looked worried. "I know that it's really tough out here on the streets. But you've got people who care about you here. And winter is coming. Should you be traveling now?"

The woman smiled at the angel, basking in the real compassion that a passing mercy was blessing her with. "Yes. It's time for me to go. I just have one stop to make—" She turned to look down at the top of Maurice's greasy head— "... to set things right, Maurice." She turned back to face the angel. "And then I'll be on my way home." The homeless woman suddenly grasped Jennifer's free hand. "Ma'am, you are a real angel for people like me, who have lost everything. If there is a god, may he bless you and your family with every good thing."

The women embraced again and then Jennifer moved on down the line, skipping the unconscious Maurice. In time, the icy night swallowed them all.

The next day, the woman took a westbound city bus and got off at the Shraeder Street stop half an hour later. She turned south and headed up the block towards Waller Avenue. Along the way, she read the numbers on the apartment buildings: 842, 840, 838, 836 ... until she reached 832. Then she stopped and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed 9-1-1 and told the dispatcher that there was a shooting in progress and to please send the police right away.

She threw away the cell phone and carefully pulled the .38 snubbed nose special out of her purse. She sprinted up the steep stairs to the front door of the flat numbered 832 and buzzed the door. An unpleasant female voice crackled out at her at high volume over the intercom. "Who is it?"

She affected a rough voice. "Is Shana home?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Brenda. Tell her that I've got her money."

"Brenda? Brenda? Okay, wait a minute."

A minute passed. She could hear police sirens approaching from the distance.

She started to mutter to herself: "Please, let me have this. Please. Please."

Someone had heard her. The front door opened, and Shana Moonat herself stood before her. She had aged and packed on some weight, but it was definitely the same girl from middle school. She was wearing a black sequined dress and teased hair. A night out on the town perhaps. Ms. Moonat took one look at the filthy woman standing on her stoop and looked disgusted. "Lady, get off my porch."

The woman stood her ground. Mean words no longer hurt her. "My name was Mary Goodwin. I went to Sauterfield Middle School with you. You assaulted me, and I wanted you to—"

Shana Moonat became livid. She had spent all day at the hair salon trying to look presentable for her asshole boyfriend who was taking her out to dinner that night to explain why he was still seeing his ex-wife, and here she was talking to some crazy, old bag of bones holding a gun—???

"—hear my confession! For I have become a serpent. And now I shed this old skin and put on the new garment ... of Retribution!" She had practiced this part a hundred times, and it had still come out flat and conversational.

Shana Moonat snarled at her before slamming the door shut. The woman who had been merely good Mary Goodwin leaped forward, jerked her right leg up high, and kicked the door in. She stumbled inside, caught Moonat by the legs, and brought her down. The woman hit her head hard on the side of a sofa and was momentarily dazed. Then she began to screech like a banshee. The place came alive with the sounds of screaming children and a multitude of running footsteps. Someone large and musty was coming up on the two women fast. But he wasn't going to make it.

She raised the gun and aimed it point blank at Shana Moonat's head. "An eye for an eye. A soul for a soul. You destroyed my life thirty years ago, and now I get to return the favor."

Shana Moonat threw up her hands around her face. "No, no, no ... please, no!"

But the woman poked the gun's barrel through the mass of stiff hair until it came into contact with the unprotected side of Moonat's head. "It's a lesson from the universe: Don't give what you aren't prepared to receive." Mary Goodwin squeezed off three shots. Pop! Pop! Pop!

Shana Moonat's body violently flopped and shuddered on the cheap shag carpet. A police officer screamed at Mary Goodwin from the doorway. "PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON OR I WILL SHOOT!"

The woman carefully set the gun on the floor. As the policemen approached her she cried out loud, "When I was a little girl, I believed in fairy tales! I believed that if you were smart, and had a good heart, that all of your dreams could come true! I never stopped believing that! Not until yesterday! Yesterday, my heart gave up! Yesterday, it said, 'Mary, close your eyes, 'cause the world is full of shit!'"

The officer jammed her up against a wall and ran his hands up and down her rail thin body, searching for more weapons.

The cop spun her around as three others attended to the now still body of Shana Moonat. The woman was handcuffed and read her Miranda Rights. And then she was hustled toward one of the many police cars hiked up on the sidewalks. A large crowd of neighborhood folk was gathering at the scene. Some were in jogging suits or jeans, but most were wearing work clothes: good wool suits, oily caps and overalls, starched hospital uniforms ... her erstwhile fellow drones from her first incarnation as an utter fool.

The officer gripping her arm was moving too quickly, and she tripped and fell on one knee. Some in the crowd gasped. Suddenly it seemed as though there were thousands of people huddled around the garish scene. Television camera crews appeared and blinding lights snapped on. Teenagers clowned in back of the on-air reporters. Some were filming the action on their cell phones. All of it, along with the gaily twirling lights atop the police cruisers playing off her bloodied face and hands in an almost whimsical way, gave the mise-en-scène a macabre, circus-like atmosphere.

Here was her chance. "Once upon a time I had an American dream! It was stolen from me! And now I want it BACK!" She imagined herself to be roaring with righteous fury, but even she could hear that her voice had merely gone up an octave and was trembling.

The policeman at her side hissed, "You've gotta do it without the bullets, sweetheart."

He flung a car door open and pushed her in, but she somehow managed to squirm out of his hold. She twisted her neck around until she was once again facing the crowd.

"Don't let anybody steal your dream! Fight them! Destroy them if you have to! Because you have the right to pursue your happiness! Don't let anybody stand in your way! God bless you! God bless you all! And may God bless these United States of America!" This time her voice soared. To everyone standing within a ten-meter radius of the cruiser.

Then the cop put her in a half nelson and literally threw her into the back seat. Two young men in business attire watched as the police cruiser started up and began to thread its way through traffic.

"Now, that was interesting."

His friend turned to him, his heart racing. "It was, wasn't it?"

#

Lincoln Hills State Prison, Nevada

The prisoner awoke to faint birdsong wafting in from ... where? He shifted on the narrow mattress. He had been dreaming of making love to a younger and naked Diane, and had been rewarded with another pointless erection. He switched his mind to the piles of paperwork waiting for him at his desk at the Lab, and soon managed to doze off again. Immediately he began to dream of Diane again, but this time she was short-haired and vaguely Chinese. She wore an oversized housecoat as she fried a skillet full of tiny blue potatoes. A purple ferret was perched on her left shoulder and it sang out, "Lips unused to thee, bashful, sip thy jasmines, as the fainting bee."

A part of his sleeping brain recognized the words. They were from an Emily Dickinson poem titled "Come Slowly, Eden." Skillet grease popped and a sandstorm rose to engulf them.

Birdsong again—a sweet-natured scat of melodic whistles and aria-esqe trills. This time he was fully awake. And then he remembered—Officer Stewart, the morning shift guard, had been learning bird calls with his son. Lately he had taken to practicing a couple of the more intricate ones to pass the time as he patrolled the floor. At first there had been a couple of complaints, but they had quickly died down. Many of the inhabitants in cell block B-7 had not heard a real songbird in years. Stewart's vocalizations had become welcome diversions in otherwise tense and dreary lives.

The prisoner lifted his head off of his pillow and reflexively held his breath. The air was mildly acrid, the result of an airborne brew of industrial disinfectant, unbridled sweat, and perpetual piss. It was the fragrance of all prisons deep in the belly of summer. But something was slightly different this morning. There was a shimmer in the stillness of the air of—what?

He put the question down. His head ached. No wonder. He had not released any natural energy in over three days. His hormones were probably ready to sabotage his entire nervous system by now.

The Playboy calendar beckoned from the west wall of his study corner. As was their custom of late, his eyes fastened themselves upon the luminescent beauty posed inside that five-square-centimeter window onto the starless pink heavens of the poontang universe. Miss August's breasts were cotton-candy luscious, enough to earn her a round of hearty applause from either cosmos. Yet she was enigmatic with this particular man of earth. He knew that while the sparkles in her eyes were on him, they were not for him. Her eagerness was for a distant prize that could only be obtained in the world that he had been expelled from five years ago. He imagined himself kissing her frosted lips, careful not to smear the gloss ... inhaling the imaginary, dainty puffs of berry-tinged breath from her mouth.

Beneath her picture was a brief profile:

Hi! My name is Sophia, which means wisdom. I'm currently working on completing my master's degree in business, and it is my goal to be at the helm of a Fortune 500 company someday.

He grunted. And if I weren't sealed in this tomb, I could be there at your side as you sinuously wound your way up the corporate dance pole. Yas-sir!

The man yanked his eyeballs away from Wisdom and glanced down at the day grid. Friday.

It was August 6th.

Millions of random bytes flooded his brain's RAM and coalesced into a single thought: Neal Aaron Broussard, today's your birthday! flashed onto his mind's screen. And as quickly as he remembered, he forgot.

He took a step back and felt relief. No, not relief. Tension. He held his hands out and flexed them. That helped a bit. Then he plucked the acoustic guitar from its wall holder and played the scales, barely tugging on the strings to keep the sound of the music just inside his cell. He practiced for ten minutes and then gently rehung it on the wall.

As he tidied up his bunk, a syncopated symphony of coughs, farts, and swear words crept into his ears as forty other cage dwellers arose to bear their fangs at yet another day. Someone screamed, a crazy ululating howl that made the hairs on the back of the neck rise. That was probably Martinez. He had been doing that a lot lately, especially at dawn when most of the block was still sound asleep. Few of the men appreciated the reveille. The doctors had prescribed him sedatives, but they only made him loopy and screamy. And it continued now. Broussard felt a familiar anger rise up wearily within him. Sleep was the only real opportunity for a prisoner to deny the harsh reality that he was indeed locked up in a nine-by-six cage like a shelter dog. Only they were worse off than their canine counterparts; no earthly savior was ever going to come by and declare a convict as cute as all get-out and scoop him off to some rainbow-and-pixy-dusted happily-ever-after. The only way most of them were leaving there was feet first.

Martinez let out one more screech.

"SHUT THAT SHIT UP, MUTHA FUCKER!" someone from the first-floor tier shouted.

Martinez: "They're gone! Let me go home, man! Let me get my babies back, pleeease."

"I SAID SHUT UP. I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS SHIT!"

Martinez: "I got nothing left! My heart is gone, man!"

"YOUR FRIGGIN' MIND IS GONE!"

Martinez, audibly crying: "The ways of the Lord .... The ways of the Lord. Mother dear, help me! HELP ME UNDERSTAND!"

Another chained voice chimed in with a gruff sing-song voice: "It's summertime. And the livin' is easy. Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high."

"YOU SHUT UP, TOO, MUTHA FUCKA!"

Martinez: "PLEASE! I want to go home! I need to get my babies! Lord Jesus, help me! Ahhhh!" His voice was strangled with refreshed misery.

A guard bellowed at him to quiet down, but the wailing continued.

Martinez was a thing possessed lately. He had received bad news from home a few weeks back, and something inside of him had snapped. Now the entire cell block was trapped with a truly crazy person. The prisoner tuned them both out. Whatever. Whatever. Now that was quite a powerful addition to the American pop lexicon; so all-encompassing in scope that it easily beat out the much-admired _What the hell?_ It could be the answer for every riddle, every paradox, every unbearable truth. Einstein had been sniffing up the wrong skirts. The Grand Unified Theory did not collapse into one elegant equation, but into one ineloquent word: Whatever! Part of him smiled. Grimly.

Broussard decided to initiate his daily exercise program: He hopped down to the concrete floor, took three deep, cleansing breaths and began: one hundred stomach crunches, then rest; fifty push-ups, then rest; twenty chin-ups on the bars, and then rest. He then paced his cell a few times to get the kinks out, and when that became monotonous, slowly returned to his bunk to peruse his confinement. A feeling of loneliness and doom began to gently oppress him. Broussard despised negative emotions. The situation required a moderate dose of positive input immediately! He took evasive action. A large stack of hardback books formed a stately column in the room's only free corner. A quick plunge into one of his favorites just might do the trick. He hopped back down again and began to browse. Most of the items were textbooks and study guides from his college years. He had been allowed to keep them as reference materials for his job at the Lab. Sandwiched in between _Schaum's Outline of Thermodynamics_ and a signed copy of Mel Graber's _Strandbeest Mechanics for Beta Males and Other Curios_ was the calculus book from his freshman year at DeVry University in Alpharetta. He opened it, savoring the familiar text and vivid, primary-colored graphics. Carefully taped onto the inside cover was a postcard from Disney World. On it he had written in neat block print: "From Here to the Stars!" The memory of the exact moment in time when those words had been written came flooding into his mind. He returned to his bed with the treasure.

Suddenly, there were loud, rapid boot steps slapping against the floor outside. Two guards whizzed by, batons out. Other cage dwellers began to yell, laugh, sing, or moan. Good times!

Broussard stretched out on his mattress and placed his pillow over his head until the noise died down some thirty minutes later. He picked up the book again. He was actually trying to determine whether the book touched on the subject of linear transformations. If not, he would have to make another trip to the library and hope to find something on linear algebra. On his way to the table of contents, his eyes espied those words again: "From Here to the Stars!" And his thoughts traveled back in time. He had been a seventeen-year-old nerd extraordinaire living with his Uncle Curtis in Atlanta. Both of his parents had been MIA for almost a year, and his mother's youngest brother and wife, Claudia, were the only human beings blocking the entrance to a life of being alone and on the streets. Claudia, a pediatric nurse, worshiped at the altar of higher education, and it was she who saw to it that he had everything that he needed to do well in school: paid tuition, new books, computers, music lessons, a collie named Ray, spending money, and even a used Honda stick shift. Most importantly, she made sure that Broussard received love, making no distinction between him and her own children. One week after he had won a state-sponsored math contest by posting the highest score recorded in Georgia within the last one-hundred-and-fifty years hundred years, Uncle Curtis and Aunt Claudia drove the entire family first to Disney World, and then later that day to Merritt Island, to witness a night launch of the space shuttle Atlantis. After that thrilling event, his uncle had taken him aside and written precious words in his heart: "Neal, you are this family's golden child. And I believe in my heart that you've got the brains to do anything. Son, that can be _you_ one day flying to the stars."

After they had returned to the hotel, he had taken out a postcard featuring Mickey Mouse that he had purchased with the intent of mailing to his mother. Instead he had written the words, "From Here to the Stars!" and stuck the card in his pocket. He had meant it then. Funnily enough, sixteen years later he still did.

The commotion outside died down, and life returned to the familiar levels of discomfort.

As he flipped through the pages, footsteps approached. Another body entered his energy field. He looked down at Officer Stewart.

"Morning," the guard said cheerily. Stewart was a large man with the musculature of a body builder. Or a Cyclops. The only thing that kept him from being totally dominating was his sparse moustache. Not only were the hairs few in number, but they also grew at odd angles. Broussard constantly fought the urge to blurt out, "Just cut it off and be done with it!"

The prisoner closed the book and replaced it in its corner. "Good morning." Neal jumped down to speak with him face to face. "Thank you for an excellent rendition of the wood thrush."

Stewart's boyish features erupted in surprise. "Hey, that's good! Most people wouldn't know a wood thrush call from a hole in the ground. And the guys in here are just plain dumb asses. Bunch of zeroes," he muttered.

Broussard's anger flared again, but this time with a little more zing. Stewart noticed the change in demeanor and quickly added, "I mean, most folks just don't know about birds."

The caged man let it go. Stewart was basically okay people and was just attempting to make life more tolerable for everybody, himself included. "I agree."

They both fell silent. Four-point-nine seconds lurched by. Sharp, yelping sounds broke the mutual silence.

Officer Stewart looked west, down-tier, and chuckled. "Man, Martinez is hitting maney on all eight cylinders. If he keeps this up, they're gonna have to move him to the psych ward."

"Promise?"

"No." A tiny smile flickered across his thin lips. "Catch you later."

"Later." The prisoner watched him go.

"Hey, Butch. You got some hot water?"

That was Juggy, his next-door neighbor, and 'Butch' was Broussard's prison tag.

"Yeah, hold on."

For some reason, during the summer months, the hot water came through the cell pipes at an astounding 185 degrees Fahrenheit. It literally jumped out of the tap smoking. The problem was, it only lasted about fifteen seconds, and then they had to contend with the more tepid temps, which were only good for washing blood or spit down the drain. Juggy had probably already used his ration of hot water with his morning's bathing. Neal got out a two-meter long piece of rubber tubing and attached one end to his tiny sink's faucet. The other end was threaded through the small rectangular opening in his cell bars—what the inmates affectionately referred to as a mail slot—and out and into Juggy's own mail slot less than half a meter away. Juggy tugged on his end of the tube.

"Okay. Go," he said.

Neal turned on the hot water tap and counted five seconds. Then he shut it off.

"A little more," Juggy said.

"Nope. That's it." Broussard yanked on the tube, coiled it up, and put it back into its place in his desk.

Down block, Martinez began to beat on his bars. One could not tell if he was using his head or his fists. Knowing Martinez, probably all three.

The rich smell of coffee filled the immediate air. Neal inhaled deeply, breathing in the exotic flavors. Diane always said that the best part of drinking coffee was smelling it as it brewed.

"I got enough for two, Butch," Juggy sang out.

"Thanks, but I'll have some later. Work first. Pleasure later."

"SHE'S BEATING ME! SOMEBODY, HELP ME!"

Juggy grunted. "They better do something with him."

Broussard did not reply. Short of knocking him unconscious, what could be done for him? He was probably too far gone. Broussard's mind drifted back towards linear transformations, which he thought might be useful for analyzing some recent 3D-motion problems that he had encountered in the Lab. He wouldn't have library access for another two days. Of course, he could get some of the info off the Internet at the Lab, but that wasn't going to be nearly as enjoyable as gorging himself on a meaty book. Without thinking about it too much, he went through his paper files. Each folder had a label. The first label read: "Sheet Music." He set that folder aside and continued sifting through the rest:

MIT Budget

Schematics

Vendor List

Employees

James Mit

Jessie Mit

Professional Prisoner Program Guidelines

Juggy continued. "My nana sent me some dried salami. I'm going to set a little aside for Vicky, and tonight I'm going to make some gumbo."

That caught Broussard's attention. He and Juggy had become neighbors four years ago, five months after Broussard's arrival at Lincoln Hills. The old con was a talker, and so Broussard had initially spent a lot of time avoiding engaging in conversation with him. Until one day when Juggy offered up a bowl of his "blue plate gumbo." That had caught Broussard by surprise. He had not realized that inmates were doing any cooking in their cells, and since most of the cells were model examples of squalor, he had refused his offer. But Juggy (and those intoxicating smells) eventually wore him down, and much to Broussard's surprise the stuff was actually pretty good. The oldtimer had managed to create a robust roux punched up with tinned oysters, jerk chicken, dried sausage, dried onion, and even some okra. Then he had poured this wonderful goulash over a bed of fluffy white rice lightly raked over with sweet basil. After picking out the indecipherable pieces, Broussard had wolfed down the rest. That day he had become a Juggy convert.

"You need anything?" Broussard asked.

"You got any white pepper?"

"Black and red."

"That'll do. It'll be ready by six."

Broussard rejoiced. He'd be back from work, changed and relaxed by the time dinner was served.

"All right!" Broussard washed up, shaved, and slipped on a clean pair of prison blues.

Time was strictly regulated at Lincoln Hills. From eight to nine in the morning prisoners were allowed to wash and dress. From nine-oh-five to nine-fifteen the first of four shifts made the journey through the serpentine halls of the main wings of the building to the main mess hall in the center rotunda. Breakfast was served until ten-fifteen, and then it was back to the cages until noon. Lunch was from twelve-fifteen to twelve forty-five. Then it was out into the exercise yard for socializing, basketball, picking fights, whatever a body was in the mood for, and then back to the cages one hour later. The next three hours were free time. A man could either stay home, go to his job, or attend one of the many classes that was offered. Lock up was at five o'clock and lasted until evening chow at six. Everyone was tucked in for the night by eight.

Broussard stood in a ragged line with his food tray in his hands. Fernandez, the hot cereal server, gave him a nod, and he returned the gesture. Some guys wouldn't have. They would have reserved their public curtsies for the meat and vegetable servers at lunch. That made no sense to him. People were people, and Broussard made it a habit to be polite to anyone deserving. Fernandez offered him an extra dollop of oatmeal, but he refused it, patting his belly.

He scoped out his favorite table beneath the far-right window and sat down. He was fast and snagged a chair with only about twenty centimeters of space between it and the rear wall. That was not enough space for most of the other inmates to maneuver around in, so he was relatively safe from a rear attack. Several newspapers were laid out flat on the table. Broussard chose one.

The prisoner quickly unfolded yesterday's New York Times and glanced at the front page, never taking his eyes off the other diners for more than five seconds at a time. Three articles caught his attention. One involved the shooting death of a famous rapper in New Jersey. Another senseless death. He skipped that one. The second was one of those stories that read better in the New York Post:

"UFOs in Boston Harbor?"

Someone jostled his table, causing his coffee to spill. He and the offending felon exchanged the obligatory glares, and then the other man moved on.

Boston (AP)—People living in the Boston Bay Area are calling it the most spectacular UFO sighting in that area in years. Police say that several dozen people reported seeing bright lights over Boston Harbor over the weekend. One man described them as "a string of orange lights" that hovered over the Tobin Bridge before plunging into the bay waters. One hour later a tugboat captain reported seeing a "massive creature" in the water which kept pace with his boat. Others who witnessed the object described it as a whale. However, Geraldine McNally, 57, of New Brunswick, gave quite a different story. "My mahjong club was on Grape Island Saturday morning, and we all saw it. It weren't a whale or a submarine or like such. It was a man. As big as a house. And he was glowing, like he had electricity in his skin. He swam right past us." She added with a smile. "It was very attractive."

These descriptions are almost identical to the account given to authorities by the sole survivor of the British freighter True Blood, which broke apart and sank off the coast of Greenland last week.

He took a break and scanned the mess hall. Everything looked calm enough. Several of the inmates were engaged in real conversations, complete with sloppy grins and awkward gesticulations. Even the guards on the floor and along the catwalks looked relaxed. The knot in his gut uncoiled a bit.

The third story was strangely familiar. It seemed that the deputy mayor of Los Angeles had been gunned down outside a church by unknown assailants while visiting Camden, New Jersey, last week. And while there had been at least a dozen witnesses to the crime, including the pastor of the church, there had been no formal police investigation into the matter. When the mayor of Los Angeles had personally called his counterpart in Camden to get some straight answers, he had been told that the New Jersey politician was unavailable to speak with him. One police official, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said, "Those people should stay out of this. The mood here isn't good."

Broussard smiled. Really, now? Like so many unwary travelers, years ago he himself had somehow managed to wash up upon the rocky shores of New Jersey, broke and nearly broken. Newark, New Jersey to be exact. His girlfriend at the time, Barbara, was staying at her cousin's house near the outskirts of town, and they had agreed to let him stay there until he hustled up enough money to move out west. It had taken him three days to figure out that he had landed in the midst of possibly the meanest, most assbackwards people on the face of the continental United States. If they weren't trying to beat you out of your money, then they were plain just trying to beat you. Barbara had begged him to stay, but she knew that he was miserable. On the fifth day, her drunken aunt had tried to settle a discussion about some missing fried catfish by hitting him over the head with a 40-ounce bottle of beer. He had managed to knock the bottle out of her hand, and she and her erstwhile saintly mother had grabbed their pistols from their aprons and shot him out of their kitchen. He and Barbara slept in a neighbor's van that night, and the next morning at dawn had literally run to the Greyhound bus station. Then he had dropped Newark from his mind like a pair of dirty drawers. No. The mood had definitely not been good then either.

"Hey!" Something huge and dark hovered over him. Broussard postured.

A bear of a man stood in his space, his oversized hands clamped on the edge of the table. "You want that?" He was gesturing towards Broussard's bran muffin. Broussard shook his head.

"Can I have it?" He had a mouth full of cheap grillwork and angry acne on his jowls. Obviously, he was not one of the regular OGs or he would have just boosted the muffin and anything else that he wanted.

"Sure."

He snatched it off the tray and then invited himself to sit down. Broussard had seen him in the mess hall a couple of times before, always buzzing from table to table to pounce on stationary food, just like a fly. An enormous fly with gold-plated teeth. A superfly.

"What's up, Fly?" Broussard asked.

Fly squinted, his expression vacillating somewhere between rage and involuntary glee. Then he grinned. "The sun and the moon and the friggin' Milky Way at night! Only ain't gonna be no moon tonight!"

Broussard worked on his oatmeal. "Oh? Why's that?"

"It's invisible 'cause it's in conjunction with the sun! That's when the moon bends over and tells the earth to kiss her purdy, white ass!"

Broussard relaxed a bit. "A new moon."

Fly's head bobbled with excitement. "A new everything! The stars are changing, man. Just like with the times." He bit into Broussard's ex-muffin. "That's right." He edged closer. "You Butch, right?"

Broussard did not reply.

"Man, I need a favor. Lissen. I got a new lawyer who says that he can get my sentence reduced."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He says that the public defender fucked me up, man. Didn't handle the depositions right, filed my papers late ... whatever he could do wrong he figured out a way to do it." He shrugged, blameless. "I ain't supposed to be here."

Broussard sipped his water. "Sounds like you got a raw deal, bro."

"Bloody raw! Now, look. The dude says that he can fix all that, redo the depositions enough so that I can at least get some attention from the appeals court. All he needs is five hundred dollars to crank up the machine again."

Fly eyed the motionless sprig of grapes resting up against the remnants of the oatmeal, and his hand began to twitch.

"You want them grapes?" he asked.

"Yes," Broussard answered.

Fly smothered his disappointment. Instead he began to pop out a rhythm against the table with his fingers while he barked, "Three-six-nine. The goose drank wine. The monkey chewed tobacco on the streetcar line. The line broke. The monkey got choked. And they all went to heaven in a little rowboat. Clap! Clap!" He burst out laughing. "That was the first rap song, dude! Shirley Ellis put it out back in the sixties. That heifa knew what was coming!"

Broussard kept his eyes on the man's hands. "Whatever."

"So, look ... back to business." He leaned in, talking low. "Like I was saying, all I need is five bills, and I can get back to my family and get my network ramped up quick and start my appeals."

Broussard looked at him. "Do you have five hundred dollars?"

Fly slapped the chipped Formica with one puffy hand. "Hell, no! But my old lady's got two, and my stepbrother says that he'll front me fifty. So that leaves two hundred and seventy-five."

Broussard gently corrected him. "That's two hundred and fifty."

Fly took offense at the correction. "Fuck you." He looked around the room once, checking for anyone's raised antennae, and then angled his big head and whispered conspiratorially, "You give me the rest of the money and I promise—on my mama's grave—that I'll pay you back as soon as I walk out of here. AND, I'll pay you back with twenny-five percent interest. So you get what I'm saying? You give me two hundred and seventy-five and I give you back three hundred and sixty-three. That's solid R-O-I, man. Even the bank won't give you that."

His math was wrong again, but Broussard chose not to point it out this time. Instead he asked, "Are you serious?"

"Sho! It's a good deal!"

Broussard could not help but laugh. He held up empty hands. "Do I look like I have three hundred dollars on me? You think I'm slumming here until my trust fund kicks in?"

"Don't you work for Dina Hodges? In the Lab?"

"Yes. So? She isn't paying us."

"No, but you could get it from her. You could ask her for the money. Say you wanted it for one of your own people—"

"No." The subject was closed. He had been down this road before with others. Every guy had a sob story, the last one more creative than the one before. One guy with a particularly gut-wrenching tale of woe had even convinced him to actually approach Dina about a small loan, and the woman had become so incensed that she almost dropped him from the program. Later, Dina let him know that she was there to provide the Lab with support, not its employees. Got it? Yes! He had been handed his first lesson from the penal system: No handouts.

"Think about it, man. That's a good deal."

But Broussard was finished with this conversation. "No, thanks."

The Fly bared his teeth. "I know why you don't help me. All you vanillas think you better than a common man."

Broussard looked him straight in the eye. "No, just more thrifty."

Fly flew out of his chair and swiftly acknowledged the sounds of twenty high-powered rifles being cocked in his direction.

He settled for a threat. "You better watch your back," he snarled and flew off to the next table.

Broussard turned his attention back to his meal. Near the end of lunch a raucous argument broke out between two inmates sitting near the front doors. There was nothing physical, just a lot of cussing and shoving. The guards let them blow off some steam before stepping in with their batons to knock a few heads. Within five minutes the two would-be combatants would be all kissed and made up. Then the bell rang, signaling that lunch was over, and everyone stood up and hurriedly took their places in line. The convicts allowed their bodies to be led back out into the winding halls, down three steep flights of stairs and towards the two sets of enormous double doors, called the Fat Boys, that opened onto the main exercise yard. All of them were thrumming with an energy that wasn't coming from messed up minds or denied genitals. This energy was surging from arms and legs, muscles and tendons. The men were anticipating a sweet taste of freedom and getting a molecular buzz from it. Someone in back of Broussard laughed from his gut and it provoked a tiny tee-hee in his belly, too. Yahoo! It was time for recess!

#

Broussard stepped outside. The sun's rays seemed to bear a grudge against the inhabitants of the earth; they hit him hard from overhead. He took in the sights before him. Great expanses of white concrete stretched out and up towards the horizon and the sky. Giant loops of concertina wire were bolted to the eight-meter high walls. The yard itself was devoid of anything that could be fashioned into a weapon, which meant just about everything. A lonely rubber ball took up space in one corner. It was the sole sports tool for over one hundred men. Most of the yard birds just lined up against the walls and went through their exercise routines. In the playground's dead center, and out in the open so that the guards could have unobstructed views, a couple of homemade chess games (complete with Styrofoam pieces) were hastily begun, and more than a few inmates quickly surrounded the players to watch.

Lincoln Hills was populated with the usual gangs—the Brotherhood, the Clan, the Kings, every Mafia denomination, the Bloods, the Bleeds, and the Ninja Knights. At the moment, representatives from the Clan and from the Peruvian Mafia were caucusing in opposite corners of the yard, no doubt carefully selecting their next victim for the midday entertainment. They would not kill the inmate, of course. Maybe just punch him up a bit, make him defecate on himself. Anything for a few yuks. They were facetiously termed Grade-B inmates. These were the ones who could be trusted to be outside the confines of their cells without trying to murder a guard or another prisoner. Many of them could work on campus and some even off campus; they all wore invisible badges of good citizenship, the otherwise cursed inhabitants of Lincoln Hills State Penitentiary.

Broussard staked out an empty corner and pressed himself into the pocket of the converging walls. It felt safe to be there. He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes. The first time he had done that, two men had thrown him to the ground and stomped him senseless. He had spent five days in the infirmary. Second lesson: Always stay alert.

"Hey, Butch!"

He flicked up his eyelids to behold Abdul strutting towards him in all his menacing glory.

"Hey," Broussard responded without enthusiasm. He did not like Abdul, who was both mean and dull. It was his pattern to start off with the usual about-nothing nattering—toe cheese, petty arguments with the guards, undecipherable dreams, blah, blah, blah—and then to progress to sleep-inducing recitations of the ingredients of his latest culinary fantasies. "Man, let me tell you about the wild berry cobbler I came up with last night!" Normally Broussard would just grin and bear it, but today was different. He sniffed the air. It was warm, odorless, and preternaturally calm. The sky itself had a slightly greenish tinge to it, as if he were looking at it through a pair of Ray Bans. Yes, today was definitely different. A chill raced up and down his spine. Was a summer cold coming on? He felt the tension again. His head still hurt, and he was in no mood to deal with any kind of nonsense. Abdul was still standing there expectantly, so he explained his situation to him in a manner from which his fellow inmate would glean the most clarity.

"Fuck off."

The other man was visibly taken aback and seemed prepared to strike. Broussard straightened up to face him. Abdul outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, but Broussard had a longer and faster reach. They had established that fact during their last go around when they had tangled in the yard during Broussard's sophomore year at Lincoln. That time his attacker had paid a visit to the infirmary. But he had learned a third valuable lesson: When in doubt, make a preemptive strike.

Broussard's eyes withdrew from Abdul's eyes and swiveled down to a spot five millimeters above the Adam's apple. One blow and the other inmate would be put out of commission for months. Abdul knew it. Broussard knew it. And they both arrived at the same conclusion at the same time.

Abdul's glare softened, and he released some of his internal pressure. "Kiss my ass," he hissed and scuttled off like a wounded vampire. Antwone immediately took his place.

"You got a smoke, man?"

"No," Broussard replied. "I'm out." Smoking was banned at Lincoln Hills, but somehow everybody had a cache of cigarettes. Broussard did not smoke but kept them around because they were good trade.

"Shit," he mumbled. His hands jangled nervously at his sides. "Ain't nothing going right today. The AC was off in my cell. The toilet backed up." He stared into space. "Hell, I couldn't even jack off this morning. Something's wrong. The air is wrong. I can smell it."

Broussard looked up at the hard blue of the sky. "What do you think it is?"

Antwone slowly shook his grizzled head. "Earthquake, maybe? A storm? Who knows? But it's something big." His thick lips twitched in agitation. "Sure wish you had a smoke, man."

Broussard held up his empty hands. "Nada."

A huge shadow fell over them. "Smoking will kill you." It was Big Tim. Tim Holbrook was one of those big 'ole corn-fed southern boys who looked best in dirty overalls swinging a chainsaw. He had flaming red hair with freckles to match. On hot summer days like today he wore a cap and long sleeves to protect his fair skin. Otherwise he would just show up nearly half naked, much to the consternation of the prison staff. No one quite remembered what had landed him at Lincoln, which was highly unusual, but the scant scuttlebutt on the subject was that it was drug related.

Antwone laughed. "You mean before the Man kills me?"

Big Tim beamed, showing two rows of perfect teeth. "Antwone, you're going to die of old age like the rest of us."

"Shee-it! I'm gonna be laid up with two young fillies. I'll be screwing them both so hard that all the blood will leave my brain, and I'll get a brain coronary. And when the autopsy man cuts me open and sees the situation he's gonna write down in his report, 'This coon died from ACUTE BONER ECSTASY!'" Antwone laughed again. "I'm going to die a young man. A young, happy man!"

Big Tim offered a look of avuncular indulgence. "A man can't know true happiness unless he has God in his life." Big Tim was a Bible thumper of the most obnoxious kind.

Antwone rolled his eyes. "I stopped believing in God the day after I got here."

"A lot of men lose their faith when they first go to prison."

Antwone spat. "I meant out of my mama's belly."

"Oh." But Big Tim was undeterred. "But he believes in you. Read your Bible. He's here, living with you. He's with your children, taking care of them. Keeping them fed and in school."

Antwone slapped the air with his left hand. "There you go, talking out your ass again. Welfare's my babies' daddy now. And to the best of my recollection, God ain't never been out to my house, and I'm quite sure that he don't give a rat's ass about any of my kids. 'Cause if he did then he wouldn't have allowed their daddy to be thrown in prison on trumped up charges."

"Right. Right."

"I told you: I didn't rob no bank. And I sure as hell didn't carjack nobody. I ain't never hurt nobody in my life! But police see a black man on the street between eight and five and automatically assume he's up to no good."

"Right. Right." Tim looked pained. "God cares about all the children."

"My ancestors were slaves! What kind of supreme being would allow a man or a woman to be bought and sold like an animal?"

The question hung unanswered in the clear air. Broussard snuck a peek at Big Tim as he grappled for a plausible answer. Finally, he said, "Just read your Bible, man."

"I've read the Bible," Antwone replied. "Probably more times than you have. The Bible don't have all the answers. The only book a man's got to cling to now is the Jack Jaw."

And now it was time for Broussard to roll his eyes. He sighed. Men always seemed to need something greater than themselves to crow about when the world twirled their way, just as they needed something greater than themselves to blame when the world suddenly stopped spinning and threw them on their behinds. At Lincoln Hills, the Jack Jaw was that 'greater thing.' Basically, it was a collection of pseudo rules, regulations and social remedies written and handed down by old cons facing oblivion. The book rejected all Judeo-Christian based laws and mores as capitalistic propaganda, and proselytized a heterogeneous belief system composed of nihilism, tribalism, and a sprinkle of voodoo. At its core was the axiom that man could lead a more satisfying life if he lived by the world's natural laws, rather than those fabricated by religion or courts.

Big Tim grimaced. "That's the devil's book."

Antwone's dark eyes flashed. "Why? 'Cause you aren't the star of it?"

"No. Because Jesus isn't the star of it."

"Look! Jesus, if he did exist, was a man. He weren't no god. He weren't no angel. And he weren't no ET. He was a man ... with a hell of a PR campaign." Antwone laughed out loud at his own words. "Shit, the only thing Jesus can do for me now is get me a cigarette."

Big Tim's effervescence withered a tad. "You're just a little lost, Antwone. Hey, let me show you a letter my pastor sent to me last week. He-"

But Antwone cut him off at the pass. "Tim, the only reason your pastor pays you any attention is because your mama feeds his lazy butt every Sunday. Without her he'd probably starve. The dude's worse than a stray cat."

Tim's face turned bright red. "I'm not ashamed of the gospel," he said. "And I'm not ashamed of its messengers."

Antwone spat out a wad of green-flecked phlegm and muttered nastily. "Well, you should be."

Just then Mike Bautista strolled over, hands jammed into his pockets. He looked awful. His eyes were red and tight, and his nose and lips looked rubbery.

He greeted all with a wheezy "What's up?"

"Nothing much."

He swiped at his nose. "Man, these allergies are kicking my rear end." He moved uncomfortably in his army jacket. "Ain't this supposed to be summertime? It's freezing out here."

The men looked at each other. It must have been at least eighty degrees.

Antwone took an exaggerated step backwards. "Get away from me! You got the Bangkok flu!"

Bautista wiped his runny nose. "Naw, it's just allergies. I ain't sick."

Bautista was considered by most to be a respectable person. He was only one of a handful of Filipinos there. He had come to Lincoln Hills eight years ago as a teenager and was doing hard time on a multiple-murder conviction with special circumstances, crimes to which he freely admitted to committing. There were volumes of gossip about the case, which had involved his then fiancé and a couple of her brothers. Broussard had heard the quick and dirty versions during his first year and had quickly forgotten about them, only keeping the pertinent details indexed in his mental Rolodex: multiple second-degree murders, kidnapping, homemade explosives, gunfight with Modesto cops. That last bit, if true, made him more dangerous than most. Most people had a fear if not grudging respect for the power and range of the law. Those who did not were analogous to captive tigers without cages; when provoked, they had no behavioral boundaries. But strangely enough, it was Bautista with whom Broussard got along best. He never started a fight. Never gave anyone the evil eye. Didn't go behind another's back. Bautista just kept to himself. And when a body was tired of bullshitting around with him, he would simply take off and leave them alone. A model prisoner in anyone's book.

As the others continued to shuck and jive with each other, Broussard looked around. Over near the northwest corner of the yard several men stood shoulder to shoulder, pantomiming conversation. Behind them stood a man. He was a husky fellow and a good head taller than the rest. His head was shaved clean, and a thick moustache the color of straw framed his mouth. It was Billy Speitz. Another man with bright red hair was with him. Broussard looked away. Whenever a really scared newbie arrived, Speitz would proposition him. In exchange for certain favors, Speitz would see to it that the newbie would receive protection during recess, contraband cigarettes, and maybe some fresh vegetables or canned goods—whatever Speitz's wife might have shipped to him that month. It was generally a symbiotic arrangement, so the guards let it happen. Broussard had no voiced thoughts upon the situation. That might have been dangerous. And Billy Speitz was a dangerous dude. He had a well-known disdain for everything connected to the Business Center, considering it a sell-out move by an inmate. Therefore, Broussard and Bautista were always in his sights. This gave recess an extra strain.

In about five minutes the red-haired man left Speitz and pushed his way through the human fence. He walked quickly by their group, head down, and Broussard noticed that one of his eyes was swollen shut. Hmmm. Maybe these little interludes weren't so consensual after all.

Bautista hawked up a green loogie and fired it against the wall. "So, Neal, you going to the Lab today?" Bautista was the only prisoner from cell block B-7 who called him by his given name. And that was because they not only worked together at the Lab, but played together in the prison band.

Broussard nodded.

"I wonder if those parts came in yet."

"Yeah, they're here," he replied. "But we had to go to a different vendor, so we'll need to rework them."

Bautista looked surprised. "Omni didn't ship?"

"No."

"Yeah? What's going on with Omni?"

Good question. What was going on with Omni? Omni Metals was a precision metal works company in Georgia that specialized in producing custom stainless steel ball bearings, among other things. The Lab had been using them for the last two years to manufacture the titanium joints and legs for the MITs. They had a good track record of providing superior product and excellent customer service. Last month they had unexpectantly returned the Lab's check and cancelled the order. Allan Chang, the Lab manager, had been nonplussed at the time, but that had made it all the more maddening to Broussard and the rest of the staff. Moving forward, Chang had suggested that they get their non-standard parts from Lee's in Canada. And to hell with those dingbats at Omni.

"Don't worry about it. We've got the parts. We'll just have to machine them a bit. But it should turn out okay."

Bautista grunted; the explanation seemed to satisfy him. He pulled out an overripe peach from his jacket and bit a hole into it. Almost immediately he spat the piece of fruit out onto the ground, making a bad face. "Nasty!" And before anyone could say or do anything, Bautista lifted the peach high above his head and lobbed it towards a garbage can about ten meters away. It probably would have landed squarely in the middle of the can if it had not been for Abdul walking directly into its path. The peach clipped him neatly on the side of his head, then amazingly ricocheted off at a ninety-degree angle and continued another seven meters to skip across the top of another prisoner's head. It then sailed another two meters, right into the face of a guard. All of this took place in about three seconds. All three men looked around, temporarily stunned. Bautista and Antwone burst out laughing. It had been comical, but Broussard knew better. As soon as they discovered who had thrown the peach—fingers started pointing accusingly in their direction—there was going to be hell to pay. He groaned. Here we go again with the drama. Abdul came charging towards them like a flank-strapped bull. Broussard wanted to run. The crowd parted before Abdul like the Red Sea before Moses, and he let out a loud battle cry that would have made any Apache warrior envious. Jesus! A split second later the security siren went off, and everybody not carrying a gun or a Bruno instantly dropped to his knees with his arms raised high above his head. Although there was plenty of chatter, no one dared to move. The rule was: If you moved, the trigger on a tower guard's gun moved. It had happened half a dozen times before with bloody results. Those waters had been tested and been proven to be deep indeed.

The prisoners were kept squatting for about five minutes. Then the head guard, Lieutenant Vermillion, blew his whistle, signaling "at ease." Broussard rose slowly to his feet, his joints complaining all the way.

Two guards, rifles at the ready, pushed their way through to the group. One of them had tiny pieces of peach flesh dangling from his nose hairs.

"What's going on?" one of them asked brusquely.

"Nothing," Antwone offered. "Everything's copasetic. Mike here just lost control of his fruit."

The other guard turned on Bautista. "Did you throw that peach?"

Bautista held up his hands. "Look, I'm sorry. It was an accident. See, I was aiming for that garbage can over there, and Abdul here got in the way—"

Abdul hastily stepped forward. "He hit me in the head, man! That's battery! Arrest him!"

Then Broussard spoke up. "Sergeant, it was an accident. Mike wasn't out to hurt anybody."

Antwone and Broussard watched the guard's face. His jaw was tensing, and his eyes were unblinking. Those were the telltale signs of fatigue and near constant stress. Broussard silently chuckled. Well, we had something in common after all.

Broussard lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "It's okay."

The guard's green eyes shifted mechanically to Broussard, then to Bautista, and then finally to his partner. "All right."

He gave a hand signal to the tower guard, and the prisoners watched as the marksman lowered his weapon and held out his arm, giving the "all clear" hand signal.

The first guard relaxed. "You boys behave yourselves." He and his partner pulled away.

"Yes, sir," they all chimed together.

After they were out of earshot Abdul turned to Bautista and threw a mock punch. "You and me, man."

Bautista laughed again. "Piss off."

Abdul shrugged. "All right. You talkin' smack now 'cause you with your buddies, but you just wait. I'm gonna get you alone and shove your head so far up your butt they gonna need a telescope to find it." He started to walk away.

Broussard tapped Bautista on the shoulder. "Some advice. Take care of this. Abdul isn't going to magically disappear. And the Lab can't afford to lose you."

Bautista sneered. "Abdul don't scare me."

"I know. But—" Broussard realized that he was not going to get through to him with reasoning. Bautista was fearless and probably welcoming some sort of attack by Abdul that would allow him to blow off some steam. The two would duke it out, Bautista would end up being beaten silly and placed in the infirmary for the next month, and the Lab would lose its senior technician.

"Hey! Abdul!" Abdul stopped in his tracks and turned around. Broussard waved him over. At first the prisoner gave him a WTF? look.

"Come here. I want to talk to you." Broussard smiled to put him at ease.

Bautista's eyes snapped to his with some heat. "What you doing, man?"

"Handling your business. You can thank me later."

He started to say something smart but then thought better of it and backed down. "You crazy."

Abdul stomped over, still wearing his I'm-gonna-get-you-sucka! face. Think fast.

"What you want?"

Think faster!

"Say, remember last week when you were telling me about that sweet potato mousse that you were thinking about making?"

Abdul's malevolent gaze downshifted a gear. "That was a yam mousse," he growled.

"Right." Broussard took a buddy step towards him. "Well, it sounded so good, I told my girl about it and she said that if she can get you the ingredients... . Would you mind making it for me—er, us?"

Abdul's eyes grew as round as saucers. "Hell, no!" His large jaws cracked opened wide like those of a pit bull's, and he yelped happily, breaking free of murder-mode. "She gonna do that for me? Today must be my lucky day!" Then he guffawed loudly and glanced towards the heavens as if he half-expected to see God himself giving him the thumbs up. "That's sweet. All right." He was now purring like a contented lion. "But tell her she's looking at putting out some serious chink 'cause I ain't gonna make no half-ass mousse. First class, man! First class all the way!"

"No problem. Hey, tomorrow you just give me your shopping list and I'll pass it on to her next visiting day."

Abdul was nodding, already plotting and planning. "Hey, I'm gonna need some ackohol."

"What kind?"

"I usually use what I got handy. But my preference would be Meyer's Rum."

Broussard thought about that. All visitors were searched for contraband, and 'ackohol' was a definite no-no. "I'll see what I can do."

"Now, I can do it without the booze, but I'd prefer not to. It's my own special touch that my granny taught me." And the scene with the man should have ended there, but—

"Hey, I got a funny story."

Broussard groaned inwardly. Hell! Well, for the sake of peace ...

"I was living in St. Louis back in '97, and I had a warrant out for my arrest ... "

The story went on and on until finally, "... So's I give it to her and she says, 'Wait.' So, I just sit there. And do you know that within ten minutes my record was as clean as the inside of a junkie's wallet and I was on my way home? You believe that shit?"

Broussard shook his head slowly. "Unreal."

"And do you know—"

Lieutenant Vermillion blew his whistle again, and the cons began to arrange themselves into two raggedy lines. Broussard sighed with physical relief. Recess was over and no bones had been broken.

Back inside his cell he composed a letter to Diane. He told her that he had been dreaming about her a lot lately, and complained about being away from her. Then he told her about the encounter with Abdul and about the yam mousse and his thoughts on how best to smuggle in a couple of ounces of the rum. He hated to ask her to do this; she always tried to play by the rules. But that would work in their favor. The inspection team would never suspect her of any wrongdoing and would perform only a cursory search of her care packages. He promised her that this would be the only time that he would ask her to do this, but they both knew better. An inmate's life could be saved if he and his outside support team could come up with the right ransom: heroin, cigarettes, foreign porn, you name it. He closed the letter with a sketch of his house in Marin showing two stick figures—one male and one female—holding hands in front of it.

He sealed the envelope and got out his favorite book of poems by Everett Thatcher and retrieved an old photograph of Diane tucked between pages seventy and seventy-one. She was looking directly into the camera lens, squinting from the day's brightness. There was no indication of when the picture had been taken, but it must have been a good day. She looked happy. He and Diane had only been dating six months when The Incident occurred. He had been lying low since his divorce and had really not been in any emotional shape to begin another long-term relationship. In fact, she had been but one of three girls that he had been interested in at the time. But they had had several things in common: a love for Latin jazz, poetry, playing guitar, and long hikes in the mountains. She had her own money and was motivated in bed. He was kilometers shy of being in love, but she had eased his loneliness and sometimes made him laugh. Her love made his incarceration bearable. That and his work.

He carefully replaced her picture inside the book and put all away. A large horsefly buzzed into his cell and landed on the wall opposite his bunk. He considered it as it made its way from one artificial horizon to the next. It went about its business with casual mindlessness, and yet when he merely flexed one of his thumbs it took off. A creature of two minds? Two consciousnesses? One dedicated to the mundane, the other hardwired for survival? That was an intriguing thought, and he wrote it down in his notebook titled Observations des Animaux.

At two o'clock a guard came to take him to his monthly appointment with the prison shrink. Ordinarily he would have looked forward to the interaction, but now it just seemed like one more tedious chore to drill through. He felt like telling the guard, "I'm sorry. My life is an unending nightmare. Would you mind coming back after I wake up?"

He and the guard trudged down the large halls again. At two-fifteen they entered Ward D which housed the infirmary and the doctors' offices. His appointment was on the second floor. The hallways here were cool and bright with soothing pastel colors. They stopped outside of D201, knocked, and waited.

Dr. Janice Navarro greeted him with her customary power handshake. She motioned for him to take a seat as she flipped through his chart. It had a blue-bordered label on the tab which read: "Neal Aaron Broussard."

Broussard avoided looking directly at her. Instead he focused on her shoes. Long ago Juggy had let him in on a secret about women: If they didn't know a guy and whether or not he was worth talking to, they would check out his shoes. If they were trendy and expensive, then she would give him a go. If not, he got the cold shoulder. (Juggy had had very little formal education, but the man knew reams about the opposite sex.) From that point on he incorporated that test into his own potential-date-selection process. After all, turnabout was fair play. Dr. Navarro was normally impeccably dressed. And today she had chosen to wear sturdy, unadorned slingbacks with sensible squared toes. He thought that Juggy would have approved. And if he weren't in prison, he probably would have asked her out. But just once. Because there was still Diane.

The desk phone rang. The doctor's eyes flicked to her patient. "Excuse me." She stood and crossed the large room in three long strides. Soon she was lost in conversation.

There was a dream catcher hanging in the large barred window that was nailed shut. It swayed evenly with the gentle currents of the room. Relaxing. Everything was coordinated to relax and subdue. As was his habit, he looked around, taking in the trappings of a real life. Almost every square centimeter of the work surfaces was covered with file folders, binders, books, magazines, boxes of tissue, or crayon drawings. (The doctor had two preschoolers.) The August issue of Reader's Digest caught his eye. He picked it up and chased down the funny parts. But after a minute or two he was bored and turned his attention to the hard stuff. Two muscular rubber plants stood sentry beside a massive cherry bookcase. On the top shelf Navarro kept her old textbooks and the latest volumes of professional journals on institutionalized crazies.

On the middle shelf was a framed poster that read:

"God is dead."

—Nietzsche, 1882

\-------------------

"Nietzsche is dead."

—God, 2018

He smiled to himself. That one was always good for a chuckle.

On the bottom shelf lay a jumble of papers and footsies and such crap. He placed the Reader's Digest on that pile, imposing his will upon her disorder. It was a pathetic move, but it made him feel better. And that was the ultimate goal of going to see a doctor, right?

She finished up her call and returned to her chair. "Sorry 'bout that."

He held up a hand. "No problem."

"How are you today, Neal?"

"Fine."

"How are you doing on the new meds?"

"Fine," he lied.

Her gaze dipped with mild disappointment. "You aren't taking them, are you?"

"No," he confessed somewhat meekly, figuring that this tone would take some of the sting out of her anger.

"Might I ask why not?"

"I'm still not sleeping that well."

"Maybe you didn't give them enough time."

"Maybe."

"Would you like to go to back to the Ativan?"

He shook his head. For the last six months, he had been fighting to fall asleep, and when he did his dreams were discordant, even terrifying. Oftentimes he would see the faces of friends from high school, tormented and screaming in pain. Dr. Navarro had decoded these nocturnal phantasms as manifestations of his latent feelings of guilt about The Incident. He did not agree. He rarely felt guilt. So it did not make sense that he would start this late in life.

"Maybe it's something that I need to work out without chemicals," he offered.

She looked skeptical. But, of course, he mused, her line of thinking was that one pill—the right pill—was going to ultimately be the panacea for all of his mental ills. She, like most psychiatrists, fervently believed that the myriad mental dysfunctions within a person's mind could be resolved not with a well-balanced life, but with the correction of chemical imbalances within the brain. Hey, you aren't depressed because your life has been in the crapper for the last twenty years, it's because your neurotransmitters are all jacked up! Now here's another dose of brain candy that's going to whip those bad boys into shape!

"Maybe..." Her eyes glazed over. At that moment they were two different species without a common tongue.

Peaceful silence enveloped the room as she jotted something down in his file.

"Um," he began slowly. "There's a guy on my floor who's going bonkers."

She looked up. "Oh? What's his name?"

"Martinez."

"Samuel Martinez. I know." And she resumed writing.

"Well, he's driving us crazy. And it's making it real tough to get any sleep these days."

Her eyebrows arched. "He's on the max dosage of tranquilizers."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well, can you do anything else because apparently they aren't working."

"Like what?"

"I don't know ... move him? Put him in the psych ward."

She smiled again and closed his file. "It's booked solid until next spring."

She took another call, and his mind went outside. Not to the prison yard, or even to Reno, the closest city. It went to the fat interstate highway that coursed through the mountains about a mile away, the Truckee River hugging all of its curves. In his mind he was driving a mint-condition 1964 pearl white Barracuda with leather bucket seats. Segovia was caressing his ears as he cleared the dead lands of Nevada and headed west towards California. Home. Copper haired cows and feeble barns soon dotted the plump hills, indifferent heralds of his return to the civilized world. He eased into the fast lane and pushed his foot against the accelerator and let the car loosen up its monster V8 engine a bit. Soon he was gliding over the road at ninety-five kilometers per hour. Free! He was free!

"Neal, you are aware that you have a psych review coming up in six weeks?"

He caught the last part of her question. "Yes."

"Would you like me to make any recommendations on your behalf?"

"Can you recommend that I be set free?" he replied, only half jokingly.

"I don't know. Can I?"

"I believe that you can," he answered truthfully.

"Based on what evidence?"

Anger like bitter bile rose from his belly. He wanted to scream at her, "BASED ON THE EVIDENCE THAT I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE!" Instead he calmly answered, "Based on the fact that I don't belong here."

She gave him a level look. "You murdered three people, Neal. You injured society. Just where do you think you belong?"

"I performed a service for society." He was being sardonic, but it could not be helped. Life imprisonment stretched out before him into infinity, and it was truly beginning to unhinge him.

"Is that what you are going to tell the parole board? To the families of your victims? To their children?"

Victims? He wanted to punch a wall. They were certainly not victims! Bad seeds. High-functioning psychopaths. But victims? Never! Reason fled from him and he found himself in the grips of a white hot fury. He did not dare answer for fear of saying something really stupid. Dr. Navarro was a pain in the ass but an ally. It had been she who had recommended that he be liberated from the pit of Ward A when it became apparent that he would probably die there sooner than expected. And it had been she who had personally vouched for his professional integrity before the warden when he had applied for the Senior Mechanical Engineer position at the Lab. No, it would not help him in the slightest to disrupt that relationship in any way. And so he stashed his emotions in a safe corner of his mind and sat in silence and watched the dream catcher to see if it had caught any of his thoughts. It was motionless.

"You once said that you thought that God had commanded you to go to work that morning."

He did not respond.

"Do you still believe that?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Maybe because that's what a crazy person says. Crazy people are always talking to God."

"And you weren't crazy—temporarily insane—that morning?"

"I was very angry that morning."

"Angry enough to kill three people?"

"Apparently."

"And are you still angry?"

He had to pause and think about that one. And, of course, that was all she needed to know. She stood and extended her hand. "Neal, it was nice seeing you again. Same time next month?"

He took her hand and firmly shook it. "Without a doubt."

After he was placed back inside his cell, he punched the walls until his knuckles bled. He groaned. Another dumb move. He had to be at work in fifteen minutes. He hastily wrapped the cuts with gauze and duct tape. When his armed escort arrived he kept his hands down close to his sides.

The Lab was a fifteen-minute shuttle ride away. Bautista sat in the next seat up from him. There were eight others riding with them. Lincoln was situated on over five thousand acres of parched desert between Sparks and Reno. The main building which housed the inmates was near the center of the parcel. The laboratory—the newest building in the prison's recently renovated Business Center—was situated near the main entrance to the prison. Building seven stood three stories tall and contained a staff of forty civilian employees and one hundred inmate employees. To the good, tax-paying citizens of Nevada, it was the latest boondoggle to be forced upon them by an indifferent Washington. To inmate number 460864-N, it was concrete-and-steel salvation.

A hardy stand of Joshua trees mingled easily with clumps of sagebrush and wild aloe around the building's perimeter. There was even a small reflection pool with wrought iron benches that the inmates would never sit on. The guard shack was at a discrete distance away and was itself hugged at the knees by imported flowers.

After the guard inspected the shuttle driver's paperwork and performed a head count on the passengers, he raised the reinforced gate and waved them through. The driver parked in a designated space and let them out into the waiting arms of armed handlers.

As they were led toward building seven, they passed by the generator shacks. Inside, two ancient diesel Kohlers were rhythmically chugging and belching away like chained dragons. Their emissions had been off the charts for years, and the EPA had issued fines to the prison twice in the past three years for both air and noise pollution. Both fines had been beaten down with promises from Warden Davidson to upgrade the system. To date, nothing had been done, and the Business Center continued to play host to its chorus of roars, whines, and clacks. "Those things are gonna blow one day," Bautista shouted.

"Tell Allan," Broussard shouted back.

"Why? He ain't gonna do nothing 'bout it!"

The prisoners were released to the Lab by the intake guard. From that point forward they were on their own. Theoretically, they could have stowed away in one of the large storage lockers and hid out until someone took them away. Or they could have run to the kitchen and swiped all of the cold cuts, breads, and cheeses that the local organic market supplied them with. The staff lounge always beckoned; the men could slip onto the overstuffed couches and slurp on the wine coolers that Chang thought he was hiding underneath the kitchen sink. Instead they marched single file to the scrub room and washed their faces, necks, arms and hands-all exposed surfaces. They had to repeat this process every time they entered the Lab from the outside. It was a monumental pain, especially the topical radiation scrubber, which in itself was slightly toxic. But it was absolutely necessary. Some of the transistors on the chips that they were working with were so small and delicate that even tiny alpha particles could corrupt data flow. Even common human-hosted microbes could be nasty. But while everyone agreed that all of the washing and scrubbing and rinsing were necessary, everyone also felt that the incessant cleaning took too large a bite out of the workday. There were many vocal complaints, but as the powers that be had branded it as an absolute necessity, the staff had resigned themselves to the routine. Unhappily so.

After cleanup, it was on to the locker room to change into a set of sterilized work clothes. This month it was Hawaiian shirts and Ben Davis pants. At Bautista's request, next month they would be wearing dashikis and Kung Fu pants. The month after that, Walters was styling them in athletic tee-shirts and chinos. Wardrobe rotation had been one of Dina's more popular ideas.

As they shed their prison blues and donned the clothing of free men, a heavy feeling of solemn contemplation descended upon them. They were no longer thieves or liars or worse, but obedient acolytes taking part in a high religious ceremony. They were (yes, temporarily) leaving the world of relentlessly cold reality behind and entering the equally sturdy domain of adult make-believe, where for the next three hours they would in fact be free men. Human beings of undeniably excellent intellectual pedigrees and pursuits. Within these walls, they could apply frictionless thinking to complex situations, create and resolve chaos, command change, even banish group-think inertia-all within the virtual ecosystem, and all without bearing the psychic burdens of being men in chains. In the Lab they were once again on the inside looking out upon a world becoming more absurd by the day and laughing their heads off about it. Freedom had become their god, and the Lab its holy temple.

Broussard, Bautista, and the others stepped into the main office together and were immediately assaulted by Tom Cochrane's "Life is A Highway" blaring from the stereo system. Chang had obviously come to work early ... for a change.

Broussard grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchenette and headed towards his cubicle. Eric Powell, the other mechanical engineer, jumped out from behind a ficus tree and intercepted him.

"Hey, Neal." Prison tags were not allowed in the Lab.

"Hey." Broussard responded.

"Did Allan talk to you about Lane Instruments?" This was vintage Powell. He would bring up really important matters without any sort of preamble. Just zero to sixty in one second. This behavior had bothered many on the staff at first, but gradually people became adjusted to his rhythm and ultimately began to see a silver lining in it. There was never any dead air or wasted energy with Powell. It was, "Hello. Here's the current situation/problem/crises, and here are my suggestions for resolution of same. Goodbye." It was a highly efficient form of interaction that disallowed the usual banalities.

"No, but I haven't checked my emails yet. Who are they?"

"They might be the guys who can supply us with a lighter rotor."

Broussard perked up then. "Really?" He made his way to his cube with Powell in tow and sat down. "What's the catch?"

Powell shrugged. "There's a tiny drop in tensile strength, but it'll be barely noticeable."

"Can they just supply the rotors or do they want to sell us the entire motor?"

"Well, at this point, they're looking to ship the entire motor, but way under what Dunn is charging."

"Well, that's fine and dandy but we've already bought and paid for ten Dunn motors—"

"—And we need twenty more."

"I don't know ..." Broussard flipped through a few notes on the Dunn motor and the Engineering department's current dissatisfaction with it. "Allan's the manager. It's his call."

"He said that it was up to you."

Broussard held up his hands in protest. "You know, you guys are always trying to force me into playing pro tem Allan when he's out of earshot, and I do NOT want the job!"

But Powell was not to be deterred. "I'm not asking you to manage me, Neal. I've already done the legwork; I just need you to approve it."

Broussard thought about it for a few seconds. "Eric, remember the last time we did this?"

Powell stroked a fat pimple on his chin. "Not really." Powell was a thief, and like most thieves a consummate liar as well.

"I signed off on those 'really cheap' solar panels you ordered sight unseen, and then they invoiced three thousand dollars over quote?"

"That was a billing error, okay?"

"Yes, and it was also my behind in a sling."

"But we got that sorted out."

"After Allan threatened to throw me off MIT. Sorry. I don't need that kind of stress right now."

Powell let out a loud sigh of exasperation. "Look, the part works. It's under budget, and they'll make our modifications and be ready to ship within two weeks. This is doable."

"Okay. Get a prototype in here by the end of next week and we'll take a look at it."

"We don't need one. I've already crunched the numbers. I told you. It'll work. The vendor's coming by tomorrow with a presentation."

Jesus. Broussard really felt like saying something very unkind at that moment but he held back. Powell was a pretty intelligent guy who simply didn't like getting bogged down with too many time-consuming details. And he totally understood that. They only had three hours a day to work on the MITs, so they were always running up against one deadline or another. But that did not mean that they had to resort to black box engineering. They had to demonstrate one hundred percent due diligence with all of the MIT components, even the less than glamorous ones. This way there was no worry about the various anti-Dina's swarming over them and the MIT program screaming malfeasance. "I don't want a slick video showing me how it's going to work. I want a working prototype in here showing me that it works. By next week! And I'd like to have a copy of all of the drawings and the cost sheets by tomorrow night. And tell your vendor buddy not to get too excited about selling us the entire package at this point. My primary interest is in the rotor."

"But—"

"Now you asked me to make an executive decision and I've just made two. So we're both happy now, right?"

Powell looked anything but happy right then. Broussard figured that the vendor must have promised him a helluva goody bag to go along with that presentation. And now Powell was going to have to go through a long, dry hump without any lubrication. Oh, well. Not his problem.

Powell looked ready to press his point further. Broussard held up a deflective hand. "Let it go."

Powell's jaws tightened. "I'm going to take this up with Allan."

"That's what you should have done in the first place. And ask him why we're putting another empty black box on the mother board."

"What?"

"The little doohickey that showed up last week. What's it for? It's crowding out one of my heat sinks."

"Oh. Dina wants that."

"Since when does Dina get a say in engineering?" Broussard sighed. "Forget I asked." Dina was the PPP's golden angel. "Ask Allan if it's absolutely necessary, okay?"

"Will do." Powell cut loose a wide, yappy grin. "Now he'll have two things to be pissed off about. I heard that Davidson's coming over tomorrow."

"Seriously? Wonder why?"

Warden Davidson avoided the Lab like the plague. Only something extraordinarily good or something exceptionally bad would force an appearance. In any case, drama was sure to ensue. Allan Chang and Warden Davidson got along as well as two male Japanese fighting fish, and the customary professional courtesies were not always sufficient to mitigate the animosity between them. So why the sudden visit?

"Maybe he's just coming to see Dina," Broussard suggested.

Powell shrugged. "Maybe. But why meet here? Davidson's office is just as good as Allan's. Better!"

Broussard sighed, ready to move on. "I don't know ... "

"Oh, well ... I'd better get back to work." Powell receded into the soft tans and browns of the office décor. Broussard fired up his computer and blew through his emails: Boring. Boring. Don't know. Are you serious? Respond later. Boring. Clueless. Whaaat? Don't know. Hmmm. Place in My Little Pony file. Place in Horse Manure file. Oh! There was the pre-meeting announcement from Chang for two-thirty about his meeting with Warden Davidson. So rumor was now fact. What was up? He accepted the meeting and scrolled through the rest of his new messages. Respond later. Boring. Arrgh! Don Klein, one of the volunteer robotics specialists assisting them with MIT from Colorado Springs, was griping about the polyurethane skin that the design team had encased the MIT bodies in, saying that they were of "inferior quality and overpriced." Broussard cringed. They were sure as heck not overpriced! Broussard shot off an email to him explaining the MIT's criteria and basically asking him, "Why the fuss? Those skins were for prototypes of a robotic toy, and therefore not needing high-end materials at this point." He should have also pointed out that it was Don's team who had been responsible for buying that particular skin against Lincoln's advice in the first place. Of course he did not, but he did add: "Don, skin design and selection normally rest with the engineering and design teams at Lincoln Hills. However, we certainly value any input from other departments on this and any other matter concerning MIT design. Cheers!" He punched the SEND button. Klein and Bill Thompson, another offsite volunteer, were both retired bodies from NASA. Because of their exceptional work records, the two men still enjoyed almost sinful privileges, like access to Air Force Space Command's Cray computer. This, coupled with their outsized egos, allowed them to think that they were the Dungeon Masters on MIT.

Broussard opened his "Personal" folder. There was a message from Diane! He clicked on it and eagerly read its contents:

Happy Bee-Day, Babe! How are you feeling on this fine day? I hope you aren't too depressed about it. We're ALL growing older. But we're getting better, too, right? <G> I have your present and I'll give it to you next visiting day. I spent half my paycheck on it so I hope you like it!! You'd better like it!!! <G> Well, gotta run! I'm on my lunch break. Stay sweet! I L-O-V-E You!

~Dee

Broussard reread the missive. He wrote back:

Hi, Sweet Love! It's so good to hear from you! You caused the sun to shine in my heart today. Don't worry! I'm having a good day. Not depressed at all. Work is going well. I just wish that this project would grow some bigger wings and fly a little higher, but all in good time, I guess. I can't wait to see you (and my expensive gift!). XOXO Neal.

He sent off his response and finished his coffee, now lukewarm. Then he glanced at his calendar. Wow, I have a hundred things to do today! Well, not quite a hundred, but far too many to accomplish in one week, let alone one afternoon. He prioritized the top five items and shifted the rest to the next day. After making a couple of phone calls, he got up and moseyed over to Bautista's cube. Bautista had been the lab's technician for five years and he was a darn good one. An electronics specialists, it was he who had configured the lab's first ethernet LAN, built the four still-functioning work bays, and loaded all of them with the latest audio/visual/HVAC equipment. He also served as the Engineering department's project associate and was therefore responsible for updating the master log. There was a large white board hanging on a nearby wall with the current week's schedule scribbled in. It was a five-day slice out of the electronic master log, which covered the entire breadth of the project from start to projected finish. Broussard read through the list of that day's activities and did a double take.

"Mike?"

"Yo."

"You've scheduled Jessie for FS-sub-40 simulations today."

"That's right. Fore and aft."

"But we ran those sims two weeks ago and she checked out fine."

"Allan wants them run again."

Broussard felt exasperated, and his bruised knuckles began to pain him. "Did you ask him why?"

"No."

"We're just wasting time duplicating work here. And, with James' bum leg, we're already behind schedule. It didn't occur to you to question why?" Two weeks earlier, James, the male MIT, had suffered damage to his pivot leg by non-lab personnel.

Bautista shrugged. "Sorry, dude. That's above my pay grade. Oh, and coincidentally, I also don't give a crap."

"You are priceless," Broussard replied through clenched jaws.

He turned to leave and bumped chest-first into Connie Como, who had positioned her tall frame directly in back of him. Connie was a Georgetown-educated psychologist and a marriage and family therapist. She had been hand-picked by Dina to work on the MIT project just over a year ago. While no one was quite convinced that these credentials entitled her to carte blanche involvement with a product like the MITs, she did have some interesting ideas. And with her squeaky-clean image and her chairpersonship of Nevada's best known homeless advocacy group, she brought a badly needed ethics component to the Lab. And what she lacked in technical know-how, she more than made up for in thoughtful zeal for the tiny robots and their success in the marketplace.

She was clutching a quart-sized cup of coffee. "Good afternoon, Neal." Her intro, as always, was pleasant and vaguely sexy.

He tipped an imaginary hat. "Lady Como."

That always brought a tiny smile to her lips. She was proud of her Italian heritage and (according to the water cooler dope) desperate to hook up with suitable stock and begin breeding miniature Comos. Broussard doubted that. The MITs were Connie's babies. And he always suspected that Connie's tastes ran more toward Eleanor Roosevelt types.

"Why didn't you guys tell me about the new simulation run on Jessie today?" she whined.

"I just found out about it myself today," he replied.

"Well, when were you going to tell me about it? I have to monitor those tests."

"Um, well I believe that I sent you an email about this."

"When?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

"I just got here fifteen minutes ago. What the hell are you guys trying to do to me here?"

"Connie, it was posted on the master log."

"I don't have access to the ML, remember?"

"What?" Then he remembered. The pass codes were reset every month. There had been a hiccup in the main server, and it wasn't recognizing her computer's attempts to get onto the network. Bautista was supposed to have fixed that two days ago.

"Right. Mike's working on that."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. I'd like a print out of the ML for this week and for next week in my inbox before I leave today."

"That's okay with me."

"Then you'll do it?"

"Hardly. Connie, I'm not your assistant. Ask Mike or Eric."

"Mike and Eric won't do it. Never mind. I'll do it myself."

"Sounds like a plan."

Her mouth scrunched with irritation. "Mr. Spellman died."

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that." Part of Connie's master plan to socialize the MITs was to take them on what Chang had dubbed "The Enlightened Dead Tour." Two military hospices in Port Arthur had agreed to let her and the bots visit confidentially with their doomed clients. It was Connie's thinking that individuals close to dying usually experienced hyper-clarity of thought, emotion and creativity, and that the robots would greatly benefit from exposure to humans whose minds were not gunked up with frantic, egocentric brain activity.

"We were having a nice conversation about his old job and all of the struggles that he went through to keep it, and I had to take a call so I left and when I came back he was gone." He saw her mentally swerve to avoid a puddle of tears. "He was a real fighter, you know? He never gave up."

He nodded with what he hoped looked like sympathy. Another geezer had bitten the dust. What of it? He was not a fan of The Enlightened Dead Tours. It exposed the MITs to people not trained to handle them properly—hence James's newly mangled leg—and to the very same infectious bugs that management was so paranoid about.

She sipped her drink. "You headed upstairs?" she asked.

"Yep. They're working on a fix for that bad leg. Wanna come with?"

"Sure. Just let me grab my bag."

"Okay. I'll meet you at the elevator."

Broussard and Connie engaged in light chitchat while the elevator slowly slid its way up to the third floor. Broussard liked Connie. As senior personnel, she would have had access to his records and all of the gory details. Yet, she never appeared to be nervous in his presence, or hesitant about taking him to task on issues that they disagreed upon. She had once told him that she had fifteen relatives locked up at Lincoln Hills. All Chicago Mafioso. That, of course, was her trump card in any potentially dangerous situation.

The elevator finally landed on the third floor. They took out their e-badges and waved them in front of the security scanner. A second later the thick door popped its lock and they entered.

The third floor contained the guts of the MIT program. To the immediate right was the control room which was manned by Dwight Brees, the Lab's other technician. From there he could manipulate every camera, every movable surface, every computer, every robotic arm, every vent, and if necessary, override the MITs' autonomy program and gain access to the bots themselves. On the other side of another security door was the Lincoln School, a twelve-by-eighteen meter cavern. The learning bays were there as well as all of the educational and training equipment. Beyond that, another security door and another room with the same dimensions as the first. This area was known as Home. Essentially it was a minutely detailed mock-up of a real two-bedroom apartment. The kitchen and the bathrooms were fully functioning. The television worked and came with cable. There was a master bedroom and a smaller bedroom that the MITs shared, decorated with furniture and bedding dragged out of Dina's attic. Even the front door's doorbell was equipped with a soft chime.

The last area was reached through the back door of the apartment's kitchen. Riding the apartment's rear hem was a brief porch and then almost one hundred square meters of lush garden. It was called the Backyard and, aside from the two-meter high perimeter wall that surrounded it, that was its sole purpose.

Connie and Broussard waved "hi" to Brees and cleared the first security door. In an instant, the high energy in the room was working its magic on them.

Broussard grinned. "Time to get to work!"

The woman made a sweeping gesture. "After you!"

They cleared a curtain of thick cables dangling from the ceiling and then stopped, taking in the scene before them.

Two clusters of men and women were seated around two large training tables, set about two meters apart. Resting on top of each was a miniature treadmill. And on top of these James and Jessie MIT were walking the EZ course quite comfortably. The MITs (Mechanical Insect Tools for short) were being put through their warmup exercises. They resembled sleek tarantulas, which was intentional. The original design had been more ant-like, but Gus Hamilton, the head of the design team, had always felt that spiders were the best looking bunch in the insect world, and that this real life feature would help them commercialize the mechanical models better. However, there had been some concessions to human aesthetics. They had been given five legs instead of the typical (and unsettling) eight found on real spiders—two on either side and one in the back. And so as not to induce other arachnophobic reactions from the squeamish, Gus's boys had given them sharp ears, a rather feline face plate, and short, fuzzy tails inserted snugly above the rear pivot leg. They had also exaggerated their size a bit; with their legs fully extended they were almost thirty centimeters across. At a distance of about two meters it worked. The MITs resembled an exotic cat-spider hybrid. However, up close you saw the raw machinery involved, and the overall effect morphed into something quite alien but appealing, nonetheless.

Connie quietly made a remark to Broussard about James's pivot leg. It no longer hung impotently from his body as it had been doing since the injury. Now, it stuck straight out at a ninety-degree angle. Obviously, there was still a problem.

Broussard glanced upwards at the electronic comm board. While the bots had WYHIWTS (what-you-hear-is-what-they-say) voice-recognition software, they were not equipped with voice boxes. That was deemed a luxury item for a prototype. So while they could hear and decipher human speech, they could not directly speak to a person. Hence the comm board. The MITs had Wi-Fi capability and, amongst other things, were able to send and receive messages to senior staff via the control room's router. All conversations were automatically posted on the comm board for all to read. It was a rudimentary system, but it worked fine, just as long as the humans paid attention to the board.

A large circle of green light lit up next to the comm board. One of the MITs was talking. The board read:

J1mit: "No."

On the opposite side of the comm board a blue circle of light came on. That meant that one of the staff was speaking.

Mr. Crane: "James, you have only completed two minutes on the course. I want you to keep walking for another three minutes."

The bot turned his angular head to face Hal Crane, a volunteer electrical engineer from IBM's AI division.

J1mit: "No, Mr. Crane. My leg is broken. I can go home now."

Mr. Crane: "James, how do you know that your leg is broken?"

J1mit: "I can touch that it is broken."

Mr. Crane: "James, you can feel that your leg is broken."

J1mit: "And I can touch it is broken."

The MIT raised his front right leg and poked the treadmill's OFF button. As soon as the tread stopped moving, he hopped off of it and onto the table. With his rear pivot leg sticking straight out, he looked ridiculous. Someone sniggered. The green light came on again.

J1mit: "I am going home."

Mr. Crane: "No, James. We are not finished."

The bot sprang off the table and onto the other exercise table. Jessie, the other MIT, turned to look at him but kept up her pace on her treadmill. When James approached her, she, having the use of all five of her limbs, took a swipe at his face with her left foreleg. James scampered away and tried to leap off the table but landed in the arms of another technician instead.

Van Walters, a tall, thin man, was standing between the two tables. He carried a clipboard and a sour expression. He looked up, saw Connie and Broussard and excused himself from several other staffers gathered close by. He welcomed the newcomers and escorted them back to the control room area.

Walters spoke first. "Well, as you can see, we've got some bad news. But we've also got some good news."

"We see the bad news," Broussard said. "How about the good news?"

"Fine." He stole a peek at his watch. "There's nothing physically wrong with James's leg. So I guess that lets Engineering off the hook."

Broussard's eyes narrowed.

"I ran some diagnostics and," the man continued, "it looks like it may be a neural problem."

Connie sucked in her breath. "Van, is it serious?"

"No, I don't think so. The bots use roughly fifty-five percent of their computing power just manipulating their legs properly. So we compensated for that brain drain by shifting more functions to the FRAP microprocessors that operate the legs. Unfortunately, these guys aren't strong enough to do their jobs on their own. If they become overloaded, they can leech some juice from the master chip. In theory that should work, but they're just sucking too much energy from it and it's causing overheating. We'll have to either re-jigger the FRAPs or create a sub mother board. One that's just dedicated to handling leg functions."

"Which is cheaper?" Broussard asked.

Walters stroked the sides of his moustache. "If we create a sub-master, then it's going to have to also be configured to be a governor between the microprocessors in the legs and the master chip. That'll be one helluva job. I'm thinking that it'll be cheaper to bump up the power of the microprocessors."

"Maybe we can bring it up in today's meeting," Broussard said, already deep in thought.

Walters smiled briskly. "Okay, then. I'll see you both later at the apartment?"

Broussard and Connie nodded.

Broussard took his leave of Connie and went looking for Chang. He found him lounging by the photocopier, sipping tea and staring at a piece of paper covered with equations and red ink.

"Good morning," he said with as much cheer as he could muster.

Chang looked up from his reading. Allan Chang wore a solemn, I-understand-all-and-I-am-at-peace-with-it expression on his face ninety-nine percent of the time. However, this morning he just looked downright miserable. "Neal."

Broussard gestured towards the paper in his hand. "I hope that isn't making its way to the staff meeting."

"Hardly. It's Allan Junior's midterm paper."

"Oh. How'd he do?"

"F ... minus. He didn't get one answer right. The teacher told me that he would have given him a G if he could have." He stared stony-faced at the accusing paper. "It would be easier to take if he was just goofing off, but he puts real sweat and tears into this ... so it's a little heartbreaking." Both Chang and his wife, Hillary, had both been scholar athletes during college. Their three children were anything but, so yeah, the situation was probably a little more than a tad depressing. Broussard felt bad for him. Although the man was fairly anal, he occasionally colored outside the lines, and that made him more interesting than most managers.

"Maybe it's just the test that's spooking him," Broussard offered. "Some kids just aren't good under pressure."

"He's no whiz at his homework either."

Broussard felt that he should say something comforting. "Sometimes children disappoint." He nervously cleared his throat.

Chang did not respond.

Broussard quickly switched gears. "Um, a couple of things. Mike's scheduled to run the flat surface sims that we ran on Jessie two weeks ago."

"Yes. No problems there. I'd like another run with a new module."

"Oh? I didn't see anything posted on the master log."

"I'm going to post it after the pre-meeting."

"Okay. Do we have time for this? The run, I mean. Van's still working on James." Broussard knew that he appeared to be questioning his judgment, but it could not be helped.

"We're fine." He took a sip of his tea. "We've got a small break in the schedule coming up soon. I'll discuss it more at the pre-meeting."

"Also," Broussard added quickly, "Eric's bugging me about using a new vendor for the rotor. I'm okay with taking a look at the part, but these guys want to supply the entire motor."

"I know. I'll talk to Eric about that later." He gathered his things. "I'll see you in the conference room."

Broussard snuck back to his desk and tidied up some paperwork.

"Neal!" That was Bautista. "Let's go!"

He glanced at the wall clock. It was already two-thirty! The meeting was happening now. He grabbed his laptop, refilled his coffee cup, and fell in behind Bautista and Powell. Walters and Connie met them at the door, and the four of them entered the conference room together and sat down.

Chang whisked into the conference room and began to speak immediately.

"Good afternoon. Thank you all for coming." He passed out copies of the pre-meeting agenda. "There are several items listed here. I don't want to keep you here too long, so I'll just run through this quick. Well, as most of you have probably heard, Dina and I are meeting with Warden Davidson tomorrow morning. It seems that one of our esteemed senators isn't thrilled with the idea of giving tax payers' dollars to fund prison rehab programs—like the MIT—at a time when the state's budget is swimming in red ink. The Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation is requiring all state prisons to now provide quarterly progress reports on their professional workshop programs."

"Are they looking to shut down the program?" Powell asked.

"No, nothing like that as far as I can tell. They want to incorporate this data into a formalized budget. They also want some kind of idea as to when MIT will be up and running. And the sooner the better."

"Why?" Broussard asked. "This is just another rehab program. Why do they care?"

Chang rocked back on his heels as he appeared to choose his next words carefully. "Yes, that's correct. But this particular program comes with a rather hefty price tag, and consequently the expectation of a rather healthy return on investment."

They all looked around at each other with the same quizzical expressions on their faces.

"We've been getting a few nibbles of interest from a couple of investors back east."

"Really?" That was Van Walters.

"Yeah," Chang responded. "Pretty neat, huh?"

"Are they interested in MIT or us?"

Chang's eyes skidded sharply to the right. "Um, they want to take a look at the MITs."

Walters shrugged. "Well, let's set up a meeting."

"Well, of course. But initially Davidson and I will be piloting the ship. There's a lot of sparring involved that I'm sure none of you is interested in. Besides, at this point it's just an inquiry on their part. When things look more definite, we'll be bringing some of the staff into the mix."

Walters made a note on his pad. "Can you get us some names?"

"Um, sure, I guess. But Davidson is the contact person here, and so I'd like to ask you all to let him handle this as this situation develops. If it develops." He granted the group a quick and reassuring smile which made everyone instantly suspicious.

"What's Dina's take on all this?" Connie asked.

"Dina's willing to go along with anything that will further PPP. She's excited."

Walters held up his pencil. "One more question: Are these guys legit or are they just flirting with us?"

Chang shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Van. We'll just have to wait and see."

Van Walters was the Laboratory's very own Silicon Valley computer scientist. He, Broussard and Bautista had all been transferred from California due to overcrowding in that state's prison system. Walters had started out his legitimate career as a mechanical engineer like Broussard, but they were hardly in the same league. Walters was a true Renaissance Man. Graduating from MIT at the age of twenty as a dual major in mechanical and electrical engineering, he received his master's and then his doctorate in computer science. After a brief stint in a bluegrass band, he had then moved his parents to Silicon Valley after accepting an offer to work first as a test engineer for Bell Technologies in Cupertino, and then as a research scientist at the Advanced Research and Technologies division of IBM in San Jose, where it was rumored that he was pulling down nine hundred thousand dollars per year plus bonuses. By the age of thirty he was living the kind of life that most engineers could only hallucinate about. There were fast cars, even faster women, and insane amounts of money. The Van Walters Show stayed sizzling hot until he was arrested by the Feds for fraud and tax evasion. The latest and greatest techno Wunderkind was now calling the state penitentiary home and hoping, praying like every other common felon, to be able to pull off one last dazzling move: Escape!

Walters leaned forward. "I hate to state the obvious here, but we are not 'employees' of Lincoln Hills. And in any case, any idea or invention that we create at the Lab is our intellectual property, and only we have the legal right to negotiate with outside parties about product sale and-or distribution."

Irritation crept across Chang's face. "I don't believe that is correct, Van. Please refer to your Lab Agreement. Lincoln Hills is a privately held correctional facility, and its bylaws concerning the ownership of intellectual property, whether it originates from an employee or an inmate, are quite clear."

Walters's tone became more crisp. "They cannot supersede the state's laws concerning intellectual property, and last year Nevada passed a law stating that any inmate in a state-sanctioned prison rehabilitation program has the same intellectual property rights as a college student who creates what's called a 'scholarly work.'"

Walters had obviously been keeping up to date on current events, but if Allan was impressed he did not show it. "Yes, but based on your signed agreement with Lincoln, you forfeited those rights when you entered the PPP."

Walters was on a roll now. He loved a good argument. "No way! Any facility operating in the Nevada penal system can only have a maximum of twenty-five percent ownership in an inmate's work. The rest is his. That's state law. Now any profits from that work are subject to garnishment if a crime victim or a close relative of a crime victim has a filed claim against his estate."

Chang was starting to look peeved. "Look, I'm giving you Davidson's spin on this, not mine—" He gestured to the rest of them now. "—but feel free to consult with your attorneys about this. If indeed the law has changed in your favor, then you've got a legal leg to stand on and no worries."

Walters flashed him a polite smirk and settled into his chair.

"Anyway," Chang continued, "Neal and I will sit down in a couple of weeks and put together projected costs and timelines. Joe Hanson and I are actually going to be flying out to meet with these guys next week, so the shop will be closed until I get back on the twenty-third."

Joe Hanson was Lincoln's new president of its Education Oversight Committee and a big name out of UC Berkeley. If he was going, then whatever Lincoln and these 'investors' were up to must be something a tad more serious than mere flirting.

Connie raised her hand. "They do know that the MIT is a toy, right?"

"I believe that they are aware of that," Chang replied. "Okay. Item two: I'm sure that most of you are familiar with FOVOC, Families of Victims of Crimes."

Most of them nodded.

"Well, they are also apparently not a little unhappy that not only are we quote-unquote providing jobs for criminals in a slack economy, but that they aren't seeing any payoff in it for them."

"Whoa! Excuse me." That was Bautista. "I'm confused. PPP is just something to keep us busy so that we don't cut each other's throats, right?"

Chang took a step backwards. "At the end of the day, that's the goal. But during the day we have to attend to business. Uh, Item Two is directly connected to Item One. Dina and I and Warden Davidson are pushing towards making MIT profitable. Not just for you, but for the prison ... for society."

Broussard presented a tight smile. "And for FOVOC."

Chang's eyes met his. "All things considered, that's more than a reasonable expectation. Under state law, any monies earned by a convicted felon can be disbursed to their victims or to their victim's surviving family members. To date, MIT has cost Northern Nevada taxpayers four hundred thousand dollars and produced zero profit. And that's with Dina's foundation doing the heavy lifting. We're hoping to change that."

Walters started to speak but Chang cut him off. "I know. You are _not_ employees of Lincoln Hills. But all of you _are_ here by choice, and right now the taxpayers and FOVOC are footing all the bills. We would like to ease some of their burdens. I understand that there are some fuzzy edges here legally. Again, my advice is to get legal counsel."

He let that bit of news hang in the air for a moment or two before continuing.

"Anyhoo, while we investigate the validity of what we're hearing from ... these particular interested parties, Warden Davidson would like to extend an invitation to the local media to visit us here at the Lab and see what we're up to. Let them see how the money is being spent and how our work might benefit the community down the road. It will be our own little glasnost."

Powell spoke up. "Are we letting them see the MITs?"

"No, no," Chang replied. "We'll just give them some face time, maybe do a couple of human interest-type interviews with any of you who want to participate, and let them have some pics of the Lab. All very general stuff. Dina's got a PR guy coming out next month to brief us on what to say."

Broussard glanced at the clock. It was now three o'clock.

Chang looked around the room. "So. Any volunteers?"

Silence.

He swung his gaze in Broussard's direction. "Neal? You game?"

Broussard put on his best eager-beaver face. "Sure. Why not?"

"Anybody else?"

Bautista coughed into his hand. "I'm in."

Chang turned to Walters. "Van?"

"Screw 'em."

"Okay. Eric?"

"Ditto."

Connie raised her hand. "I'd be happy to do an interview. Just schedule me in the afternoon."

"Great. Thanks, Connie. Okay, the third and last item. Let's see if we can get James and Jessie out for their first field test in ...." he fiddled with his watch's calendar. "Eight weeks. That would put us at October 10th."

Bautista snorted. "You dreaming, man."

Chang stood and gathered his papers. "My father always taught me to dream big."

"Yeah, dream big, not crazy. The Outdoor runs are only seventy percent completed, we've got James laid up with that busted leg—"

Chang gave a curt bow. "Thank you," he said, and exited the conference room.

Bautista twisted in his chair to glare at his receding backside. "Hey, that was friggin' rude! He didn't even let me finish my—"

Walters parachuted down right in front of him. "Neal, you got a minute?"

Broussard thought about it. "Not really. I need to get a few balls rolling before I leave today."

"I just need a minute."

He scooped up his computer. "Okay. Let's talk on the way back to my cube."

Walters spent ten precious minutes bending Broussard's ear about the idea of the two of them forming a corporation and producing MIT knock-offs in Taiwan. He had contacts. He knew a guy in Jersey who would be willing to put up half the seed money. Broussard would only have to come up with maybe thirty large to get the wheels turning. And maybe Broussard could run this by Dina ...

Broussard managed to get away from him. He joined the gathering Home crew at the scrub room. The bots had Socialization scheduled on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from three-thirty to five pm. Socialization consisted of theater with the MITs. James and Jessie would be exposed to an ersatz suburban home, complete with human 'parents,' familial affections, chores, video games, family pets, play time, and indistinct instruction. With the bots immersed in a series of unstructured events, emotion-based and randomized, Connie reasoned that the Lab would be creating the best possible platform for future adaptive behaviors, with an eye towards making the next gen of MITs companion-and-service robots. In any case, early acclimation to the joys and vagaries of real home life would no doubt serve to increase the MITs' tenure as alpha toy in the household to which they were sold. With the exception of Allan Chang, all senior staff were required to play a role. Bautista was a next-door neighbor. Walters, Powell, and Broussard were fraternal uncles. Connie was an older sister, and husband-and-wife prison guards, Dana and Sharon Zyck, had been recruited to play the central characters of the parents. Although no one would go on record as saying it, Socialization had proven to be the most enjoyable part of the MIT program for the prisoners. For ninety minutes, the convicts could indulge in a make-believe world that mimicked aspects of real life that for them were quickly becoming misted memories.

Once everyone had arrived at the scrub station, the staff began their second cleanse. They washed up in shifts of two. As before, that almost ethereal calm descended upon them, rendering all life mute and emotionally neutral. Lately Broussard had begun to wonder about that feeling—it was almost like a presence. No. A Presence. Earthy and mystical, like a third-world deity, musty with age. Enormous diaphanous wings flapped rhythmically in the mind's eye. Chulyen carrying his bag of magic.

Connie was drying her hands. "Dana called. They're running ten minutes behind schedule."

Bautista groaned. "Great."

The Zycks, being the parents, would have to be settled into the apartment before the bots could be brought back home from school. It meant that the others would have to wait.

Exactly ten minutes later the security door flew open and in popped the Zycks, flushed and breathless and still wearing their uniforms.

"Sorry, guys!" Dana Zyck was puffing hard. His wife, Sharon, was sporting a bruised eye that was just beginning to swell. " We had to defuse a JK dust-up in Ward A."

"Oh, my gosh!" Connie exclaimed. "Are you sure you guys want to do this today? We can reschedule."

But the Zycks were already pulling off their uniforms. "No, no," Dana Zyck replied. "Just give us a minute to change and wash. But maybe you could get some ice for Sharon's eye?"

"No problem," Broussard replied. "I'll call Mike and tell him to bring some in."

Connie steered Mrs. Zyck towards the back of the room and began to chat her up. The men paid them no mind; to them it was the usual 'chick gab': "Hey, I was checking out your mascara when you came in. Oh-my-gosh, it really does sparkle!" "Where did you buy it?" "Oh, you like it? You know, we were in Chicago visiting my brother last month for his twentieth wedding anniversary, and we went down to Navy Pier and ..." "It makes your eyes look ten years younger!"

Mr. Zyck feigned interest in their conversation for about fifteen seconds and then busied himself with his Papa MIT costume. Broussard was standing nearby.

"Hey," he told Mr. Zyck, "thanks for coming out today. We really appreciate it."

Zyck hoisted the denim pants up around his belly. "Anytime. We both enjoy working with the kids." The Zycks were childless, and were bringing some of their pent up parenting urges to the job, which suited the program just fine.

Zyck suddenly let out a loud A-CHOO!

Without thinking, Broussard grabbed a box of tissues and tossed it at the officer. A split second later, Zyck had both hands free and his baton out.

Broussard instantly threw up his hands. "No trouble here, officer."

Zyck patted him down with his eyes and then put the club away. "Okay."

Broussard lowered his hands. "My mistake." He took a step backwards. "I want you to know that I would never do anything to jeopardize my work here." He had to force the next words to come out. "I would never hurt anyone."

Zyck shrugged noncommittally. "Okay. Good to know."

Broussard felt awkward and cleared his throat to give his words more traction. "I suppose you've heard that before."

Zyck's brown eyes twinkled. "Nope. That's why we carry the Brunos." He lovingly patted his club. And then he gave Broussard a meaningful look. "Don't sweat it, chief," he said, and gave the engineer's left shoulder a friendly clutch.

Mrs. Zyck and Connie rejoined them. Connie wore a kooky expression on her face. "What crazy law of shopping physics says that all the really cute stuff has already been purchased by somebody else two years ago and five hundred kilometers away?"

Within fifteen minutes the Zycks were comfortably settled into the apartment while the others waited offstage in a large closet outside the front door for their stage cues. Mr. Zyck fell into his leather recliner like he meant it, switched on the television, and ordered Sharon to get him a beer from the fridge. A minute later the front doorbell rang and Dwight Brees, an MIT cradled in each arm, was welcomed in.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Mitt," Brees cheerily greeted the couple, handing over James to Sharon and Jessie to Dana. Brees's official role in the play was of School Employee; his job was simply to bring the robots home from school. Sharon asked him if he'd like some lemonade, Brees politely refused and told him that he had to return to the school. Kisses and coos followed as the bots settled into their parents' cushy laps. James and Jessie simultaneously rotated their heads up about thirty degrees and fastened their eyes on the huge faces floating above them. Normally James would tolerate about a minute of this before he started to squirm. When that happened, Sharon would set him down on the floor and the bot would take off to explore the apartment's nooks and crannies. Today was no different. He made a beeline for the kitchen and disappeared. Well, not quite. There were twenty cameras in the apartment, and there weren't many places that a bot could totally hide. The feed from each camera could be viewed by the main control room and the satellite control booth in the large closet where the team was now waiting. Camera nineteen caught James scuttling past. Camera twenty showed him stopped in front of the wall furnace, motionless.

Dana stroked Jessie, who was now in the resting position, her pivot leg retracted.

"You been a good girl?" he asked. "Huh? You been a good girl today, Jessie?"

Sharon leaned over and smooched the top of Jessie's head. "Of course she has. She's always a good girl. Isn't that right?"

Jessie turned her head to look at Sharon with unblinking eyes.

"I think that maybe she's tired, Dana. Jessie, do you want to go to your room?"

The apartment was not equipped with a comm board, but the MITs did have two small comm lights embedded in their foreheads. Green meant "Yes" and red meant "No."

Jessie answered "no."

The front doorbell rang.

Sharon stood. "I'll get it. I wonder who it could be."

She stood in front of the door and peered out through the peephole. "It's Connie!" she cried, overacting just a bit.

Sharon swung open the door, and Connie, dressed in blue jeans and carrying a loaded book bag, was standing there grinning.

"Hi, Mom!

"Connie!" The two women embraced. "What a surprise! I didn't think that you would be coming home until next week!"

Connie strolled in and set down her bag. "Well, I finished up all of my homework, and so I thought that I would come home early to see my family. Hi, Dad!"

She walked over to Dana Zyck and gave him a big hug.

"Hey! How's my big girl?"

"Just fine, Dad." Connie turned her attention to Jessie. "And how's my favorite little sister?"

Jessie stood up and extended her pivot leg. That was a programmed greeting.

Connie gave the little robot a peck on the side of her face plate. "Did you miss me, Jessie?"

Jessie answered "yes." Then the pivot tail was retracted and the resting position assumed again. This was not desired behavior. Ninety percent of the MITs' neural programming was identical to each other. The remaining ten percent contained what Walters had termed fractal subroutines. The fractals were in essence variable programming of likes, dislikes, desires, motivations, and preferences, but written by female programmers for the Jessie robot and male programmers for the James robot. It was expected that James would be more active than Jessie, but Jessie's consistent lack of physical motivation was well below the curve and was beginning to cause some consternation amongst the staff.

The doorbell rang again. This time it was Uncle Neal (Broussard) and Uncle Eric (Powell) stopping by for a visit after Work. Mr. Zyck called out to James. "James, get in here, boy! Your Uncle Neal and your Uncle Eric are here!"

Camera twenty showed the MIT still positioned in front of the wall furnace. He had not budged an inch.

Zyck sighed. "Well, I guess he's busy."

Jessie's comm light came on. "No." The MITs could also communicate with and track each other via their own GPS systems. They could even access each other's eye cameras. In effect, see what each other was seeing. And Jessie could see that James was definitely not busy.

The female MIT was not capable of humor, but her response was amusing nonetheless.

Dad and Mom MIT, Connie, Uncle Eric, and Uncle Neal began to make small talk. Usually these conversations were mostly factual, as the robots would not really be able to discern the difference between real or imagined events. Also, it freed the team from having to use precious time and energy making up story lines and characters and just focus on crafting the bonds between the humans and the robots.

"We had some real nasty traffic on the way to work this morning," Mrs. Zyck said.

"Accident?" Connie asked.

"No," Dana responded. "They had a big Whistler rally last night in Reno, and I guess we ran into the stragglers."

"A Whistler rally?" Broussard asked. "That sounds vaguely familiar. What is it?"

"Haven't you heard?" Mrs. Zyck was openly astonished. "Ever since that riot in San Francisco a few months back, people have been flocking to these things. They're like town meetings. With a lot of cursing."

"Oh. What's their beef?"

"I guess they want the government to do something about all the crime and unemployment."

"Hillbillies?" Powell asked.

Connie crossed her legs. "One of my professors from graduate school attended a Whistler rally, and she hardly qualifies as a 'hillbilly.'"

Sharon Zyck was nodding. "A lot of folks from our church back home are going. Dana and I were thinking about it, but we heard some things about what goes on at these meetings ... you know, kinda off-key stuff ... and we decided not to go."

Mr. Zyck picked at a piece of lint on his creased pants. "The government should be paying attention to this. People have changed." He flicked something into the air. "The mood isn't good out there."

It was now four-thirty. The time for irrelevant chatter was over. The MITs now claimed everyone's attention.

Jessie, perhaps responding to an unsynchronized timer, suddenly stood up. Unexplainably, she perched herself on Dana's knees and prepared to leap off when her right leg was tripped by a rumple in his pants and she pitched forward onto the floor below. Everyone gasped in surprise. The robot somehow landed on her back and she began to frantically wave her legs in the vain attempt to flip right side up.

The entire scene struck Dana Zyck's funny bone hard and he guffawed with laughter

Sharon Zyck shushed her husband. "Honey, don't laugh! Help her up!"

Mr. Zyck leaned over and picked up the struggling bot, careful not to touch the delicate solar plating on her back. He placed Jessie on his lap again and once again she dived off onto the floor. Only this time her forward momentum carried her beyond her target on the carpet and she went careening into a leg of the coffee table.

This time Dana Zyck laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes.

Jessie scrambled to her feet. James hurried in from the kitchen.

Camera one caught the next scene.

Both James and Jessie were standing next to each other, facing Dana Zyck. The MITs began to rhythmically rock their flat bodies from side to side.

Connie nudged Broussard. "Look." She was pointing at James.

The male MIT's hyper-extended pivot leg was now back in the normal, default position, the tiny foot pad pressed firmly against the floor.

Dana Zyck stopped laughing.

It was now five o'clock.

* * *

Back inside his cell, Broussard jotted down some notes in James's file.

The team had been witnessing the jumping behavior for almost a month now and up until today had just figured it was a mechanical glitch. Now they weren't so sure. They had programmed the bots with only rudimentary stimulus-response outputs in their look-up tables. If exposed to inputs that were defined as optimum values of a particular variable—variegated landscapes, stationary and moving objects of various sizes, learning goals, diurnal and nocturnal rest periods, etc., the bots would experience a tiny electrical pulse through their neural transmitter chips—what they hoped would be a close mimic of an endorphin release in humans. The algorithm then called for the sequence of events leading up to the exposure to the optimum variable (not to exceed ten seconds) to be recorded and burned into their hard drives with a flag. Subsequently, when a similar exposure occurred, a pointer would be called to direct the main processor to the flag and the original recording would be replayed in the auxiliary main processor (the AMP) at one quarter the time and with slightly increased resistance. The MITs would not receive the entire picture, just a ghosted image, but delivered with another neural jig to reinforce the connection between a particular event and an easy, pleasurable reward. This sounded pretty neat on paper; however, they had no way of knowing if the energy bumps were helpful or hurtful or totally ineffective. This type of programming was the basis for MIT movement.

Issue number one: The MITs' training courses had all been on flat surfaces and in single-plane trajectories. To attempt any fancy aerobatics at this juncture would have been cost prohibitive and potentially damaging to the robots. So the team had not created any stimulus-response outputs involving jumping or going airborne from one point higher or lower than the first. The MITs did not have any precepts of propelling their bodies into the air to achieve locomotion. (In other words, nothing in should have equaled nothing out.) So how and why were the MITs jumping and diving?

Issue number two: Ditto for the 'dancing.'

Issue number three: James's damaged pivot leg undergoing some mysterious and near instantaneous repair job. Did this event corroborate Van's hypothesis about the weak leg brains or did it bust it wide open?

Issue number four: No one was going to find any answers for another two weeks.

Ten minutes later Broussard was pacing the floor. The block was its usual rowdy self as the men prepared for evening chow. For some reason (no doubt fiscal) all inmates were served dinner in their cells every other Friday. The night shift guards came on duty at four-thirty and were charged with this dubious honor. It really was a crap shoot. Depending upon which head cook—Leon or Bang—showed up for work, their palates would be either placated or bruised. But tonight Broussard had no cares because tonight was Gumbo Night!

Juggy was busying himself next door with the finishing touches on his signature piece. The aroma of fried onions filled the air, and Broussard stopped mid-stride to savor it. Down the block he heard a screech and then a loud thwack! as a meal tray crashed into a wall. Obviously Bang had not made it tonight. Oh, well ...

Soon Juggy's raspy voice was calling him to dinner, sounding as sweet as a country granny ringing the dinner bell from her front porch.

His tattooed arm snaked around the cell divider wall, a paper plate piled high with steaming vittles in his hand. Very slowly Broussard took it from him, careful not to jiggle it.

"Okay, I've got it."

Broussard gave a rushed shout-out to the world and then dug in.

After shoveling several spoonfuls down his gullet, he let out a loud aaaahhh.

"Hey, Neal. That's some wicked shit, man!"

"Juggy, to use the Lincoln vernacular, you peed in it this time."

Broussard happily dug into the center of the plate, where the spices would be more compressed and bound to each other. Each bite set off an explosion of culinary ecstasy as the hot peppers and garlic and meat juices rimmed and charmed the insides of his mouth. He had always heard that good food was better than sex. While he still hadn't been convinced of that, it was definitely a contender!

"Take a look at this." Juggy's hand reappeared. This time it held a small photograph. Broussard reluctantly set his plate down, wiped his hands, and took the picture. A tiny red face stared up at him amidst a swirl of black hair.

"That's Bobo's new baby, Jackson Hillard the Third." Bobo was Juggy's eldest son and the only one of his nine children to have eluded prison thus far.

"Hey-hey! How about that!" Broussard returned the picture. "When did he make his debut?"

"Uh, lemme see ... July the tenth. Naw, that ain't right. That's Daddy's birthday. But it's close. Maybe July the nineteenth. Yeah."

Juggy was moving things around in his cell. He was probably stashing the snap in his safe box, where an inmate's most precious possessions were kept.

"That's my twelfth gran. And I think I'm gonna stop at him."

Broussard laughed at that. "Juggy, I don't think you have a lot of say in that."

Juggy was indignant. "The hell I don't! Bobo listens to his Pa. They were here last visiting day, and I told his wife then to stop squirting out these babies. She ain't working and Bobo's got his condition, you know, so the last thing they need is another crumb snatcher." He paused. "Now, I love 'em all, but, well, they ain't the brightest bulbs in the shed. And not too easy on the eyes either. Take after their momma's side of the family." He snorted and muttered. "More creature than human. And it ain't right to bring folks into the world to suffer like that." He spat out something onto the hall floor just as Officer Wilson, one of the night guards, was passing by with his food cart.

The guard stopped abruptly and turned smartly on his heel. "I want that cleaned up by the time I get back."

"Yes, ma'am."

The guard moved on. Juggy continued. "But I'm blessed, man. Bobo's working, the family's healthy. My other kids ain't doing so great but they're doing, you hear what I'm saying? I got no complaints. God's been good to me and mine."

Broussard grunted. He had not seen his parents in almost five years. He had no children. No brothers or sisters. His ex-wife had his ex-dog and all of his ex-money. And the only person who had ever honestly loved him, Uncle Curtis, was two thousand kilometers away and heartbroken that his golden boy was going to be spending the rest of his life locked away in prison. He did not respond to Juggy's comment.

Later that night Broussard picked up where he left off the week before in Carlos Casteneda's book, A Separate Reality. Don Juan was laying down some tracks about anger and violence existing in the heart of the warrior because he could not see the real reality of the world ... some mystical, nth-dimensional version of the present humdrum universe that one could peer around its slippery edges into with only a few hits of peyote, a resolute inferiority complex and the burning desire to deconstruct old fairy tales. Harry Potter on acid. Oh, and it wasn't necessarily a better, safer, saner universe, just the real one behind the astral smoke and mirrors jobber that humankind had been weaned on for the past ten thousand years.

Broussard put the book away. It was bedtime. The other men began their lights-out ritual, calling out to each other in abbreviated raps and songs to wish one and all a good night. He had never participated, but then again had never failed to listen. It was extreme urbanism, yet quite primitive ... probably a throwback to a time when the cavemen would gather around the evening fires after a day of hunting to console or encourage each other to prevail the next day. To Broussard, this was the only truly safe time in a prison; when the rages and the frustrations were released into the night and only the solemn hope for peaceful dreams remained in the heart.

There was a soft whimpering juxtaposed with the soulful cadence of this temporary good will. No doubt it was Martinez. One of the psych doctors had finally upped the dosage of his meds. The awful screams had stopped, but the sadness enveloping the man continued. It leaked out of Martinez's cell and permeated the entire floor. There were times when Broussard found himself mentally pushing the second-hand melancholia away, muttering to himself, "I'm trapped with this nonsense and I can't escape." Maybe if he had a few chews of peyote he could achieve astral travel into the next universe; the universe where he was a free man, and the only sounds to be heard were of his lips smacking with satisfaction over a renewed life. He wondered what peyote looked like. Was it really a mushroom? And, if so, could Diane maybe sneak some in with a food package? He plotted a bit about this and then it was lights out.

Broussard fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He dreamt that he was standing in a vast parking lot. He looked over his left shoulder and saw the Lincoln Memorial bathed in rotating spotlights. It must have been Washington D.C., but it looked more like Dallas in the areas that he could make out. There was a loud whooshing sound from the distance. His field of view rose and expanded, and he was shocked to see an unbelievably high wall of water roaring up from the Atlantic Ocean. The capitol building became visible for an instant before it was swallowed whole. He began to thrash about, clinging to the bare air as he clambered towards a moon, white and indifferent to the catastrophe unfolding below it. As the tidal wave plowed through the city, it made its way inexorably towards the stout pillars protecting the Lincoln Memorial statue. Broussard willed himself to fly above the monstrous leading edge below. The water came at him, and the angry foam lapped at his feet. He struggled to streak upwards to safety. That was when he dared to look down. And saw only a placid blue sea.

#

"Neal, what I hear you saying is that the world just has too many assholes clogging the drain."

Broussard nodded. "Basically, yes."

"And what qualifies a person as an 'asshole'?"

He considered the question. "Well, I guess someone who unnecessarily makes life difficult for others."

"So bullies are assholes?"

"Yep."

"And people who abuse animals?"

"I'd say so."

"And Hitler? People like that?"

"I think Hitler probably left the asshole category at puberty. I'd put him in a different class all together."

"The difference being..."

Broussard looked him dead in his eyes. "Obvious. Look, I don't discuss Hitlers and that type. Can we change the subject?"

The counselor shrugged as if he didn't care, which he probably didn't. Anger management classes were bullshit. You sat around "sharing" with a bunch of other pricks who were also strapped to the system and you went round and round with the same tired surface emotions until somebody coughed up a 'breakthrough' which inevitably ended up being some gross revelation about their parents or their uncle or their dog or their snot. Broussard was fed up with hearing it. But some had it worse. The counselors had to swirl in the muck twenty-four-seven. Broussard imagined that all of them had flamed out a long time ago and that he and the other cons were just conversatin' with the embers.

This one, Cal or Kirk-somebody, shifted his attention to the body in the chair next to him.

"Marcus, do you have anything to add to what Neal said?"

Marcus shuffled his feet. "Ah, I don't think so. But he's right 'bout one thing. They got a lot of nut jobs runnin' around out there. I remember when I was 'bout six I saw my stepdaddy beat the brains out of a ... "

Earth. Wind. Fire.

Broussard's mind wandered. Where were the true spirit warriors? The larger versions of Man. Trapped in an anger management class with Batman and Superman? Did Superman finally get laid, or had he misinterpreted that particular sequel? Bruce Wayne was a first class player with hot babes practically swinging down from the rafters. So maybe only Superman was holed up with the real heroes in smoke-filled caves, showing off battle scars and trading religious anecdotes to dull their pains.

He managed to get back to his cell with his wits in order. It was Friday. The Lab had been closed now for two weeks as Chang had promised. Work was still on schedule to recommence the following Monday, and it could not come quickly enough. He had excess energy.

He was pacing again. He had crossed the floor half a dozen times before he stopped, looked up, and found Miss August looking down at him with those smoldering eyes. His own eyes drank in her dark mane falling like a waterfall about her bare shoulders. He traced the outline of her smile, sexy to be sure, but so much like a young girl's. She would be just as happy feeding oats to her horse at the family farm as she would be barking orders to cringing subordinates. The family farm. Christ, she probably did have horses somewhere. In Montana, maybe. She definitely had a Montana look about her. And she was young, barely out of her teens. But she was in college now, studying to become a Wall Street tycoonette. Had her parents seen this picture? If he had had a daughter, would he be okay with his daughter posing in the nude to further her career? Would I? Hell, no! Right? Change the subject. He examined the cracks on the ceiling. If he had a few primary colors he could have fashioned a Picasso-ish graffiti mosh of .... Let's see ... Diane's hips there near the ceiling light. My mother's eyes over there near the perpetual march of ants. What color were Mom's eyes? His mind tried to seize on a vision of her, failed and then promptly doused him in sleep. He awoke to a guard banging on his bars with his baton. "Nappy time's over. Get up and go see your family."

Still half asleep he mumbled, "Uncle Curtis?" And then he remembered. It was Friday. Visiting day. And the only 'family' who would be coming by would be Diane. There was a sharp pang of sadness, but he managed to shake it off. Deal with what you have and forget about the rest. The guard ambled away.

Juggy's disembodied voice came to him across space and time. "You got some hot water, Butch?"

"Yeah. Just a minute."

Broussard took his pants off and changed his underwear. A rank smell assaulted his nose. Somebody's john must have backed up.

He turned on the hot water tap. Where is my hose? He looked under stacks of papers, clothes, books and finally found it nestled beneath his mattress. He hooked it up to the sink's spigot.

"Okay. You ready?"

He banged on the bars. "Juggy?" Was he suddenly deaf? "Juggy?" The guard must have heard him because he hustled over from stage right. He shot Broussard a brief look and then darted left towards Juggy's cell. The next thing he heard was the guard shouting excitedly into his walkie-talkie.

That smell. It was even stronger now. And then it hit him. He felt his knees buckle, and he walked numbly back to his desk and sat down.

Well, no visiting today.

And no more blue plate gumbo.

Jackson "Juggy" Hillard was gone.

* * *

The weekend passed ever so slowly. The block was in lockdown until Juggy's cause of death could be determined. And that would not happen until the county coroner did an autopsy. And that would not happen until the county coroner returned from his fishing trip to Texas.

Inmate Martinez's system was fighting hard against his tranks, and he was back to his old frantic self. On Saturday night he cried and screamed for two hours straight, and by the time the doctor-on-call showed up, practically everyone on B-7 was crying and screaming. They dragged him kicking and biting out of his cell and moved him to what was hoped would be his final resting place, but was probably the infirmary. Broussard waited for the sun to come up. In between those two events he learned that Juggy was only forty-two years old. Whoa! He had looked a heck of a lot older than that. More like sixty-two. He scorched some gray matter on that one. Is that what prison did to you? Made you an old man before your time? Broussard made some calculations. Even if he were somehow miraculously pardoned in ten years and allowed to re-enter society as a forty-three-year-old man, for all intents and purposes he would be sixty-three. Old and unemployable. Unimportant. He would have an Unlife. The life of an undead engineer. A clever vampire! Yes, a clever and barely ambulatory vampire. Aaack! It was during moments such as these that Broussard felt that he could literally gnaw his way out of Lincoln Hills with his bare teeth. Instead he pummeled the walls with his fists, but smartly padded them with two old towels first.

Don't panic, he told himself. Juggy would have advised him to count his blessings. He still had a few. His youth, his intellect, and his body were still serving him well. Even here in the butt crack of the west. He had applied to work at the Lab twice before they had accepted him. It took a face-to-face meeting with its civilian sponsor, Dina Hodges, for them to finally accept his application. He suspected that Dina had taken a fancy to him. He took solace in that major victory. But nothing (good) lasts forever. He had maybe five more productive years left before accelerated aging and gravity would begin to muddle his thinking and permanently distort his body. Prison and age would conspire to fashion a new cocoon for him, drab and paper thin. And he would be forced into it not by the tantalizing expectations of a beatific afterlife as a winged confection, but by inexorably true prophesies of disintegration by old man-dom. And he and his cocoon would soon pucker and dry and shrivel up and blow away and merge with a chance dust bunny emerging from some anonymous corner of some unremarkable room, and they would just roll around the floor for hours until they either blew into another corner or were swept up into some tidy person's dirty dustpan ....

And that was the fourth lesson that he learned while at Lincoln Hills: He had to get out of prison.

Sunday afternoon found him standing in the bird sanctuary with five other worker inmates under grey skies. Every other week he participated in Lincoln Hills' Raptor Rescue program. About once a month someone would dash to the local fish and wildlife office with a sick or injured hawk or eagle that they had found. These birds would be redirected to the Raptor Rescue program and, if possible, restored to full health, rehabilitated and released back into the wild. They had ten permanent residents and, on average, five temporary guests.

A couple of the inmates were really into it: they had devoured all the library's books and videos on falconry and had even convinced the program director, Kevin, to bribe a local bird handler to drive out and conduct mini classes about their charges. And that was all fine and dandy. But for Broussard, it was another opportunity to breathe in fresh air and get a glimpse of the outside world again.

Today they were working on strengthening mental acuity. That evoked more than a few chuckles amongst the men at first. Some of the birds had been living at the sanctuary for months, and the sharp decision-making skills that nature had honed within them had all but evaporated. Correction: Evaporated at times. Normally it took about an hour to convince a bird to open a cage door or fetch a rubber rat carcass from across a field. But around ten minutes before Kevin came outside with the grub bucket, avian IQs would suddenly triple and you might find a previously near-comatose red-tailed hawk suddenly almost capable of operating heavy machinery.

He was working with Rosy today. Rosy was a peregrine falcon who had been brought in by a visiting Boy Scout troop. Peregrines usually lived near water, so how she had ended up in the Nevada desert was a real mystery. She had been shot through her left wing by a small caliber gun and left for dead. She was also severely dehydrated and on the verge of starvation. But Rosy was one of the fortunate ones and had recovered quickly. Having defeated death, she confidently began to prove herself quite the coquette, and so convincingly charmed the inmates that they pleaded to have her stay at the center as their mascot. Within weeks she had crowned herself queen of the aviary and, by fiat, the employees her slavish subjects. She was moved from the quarantine area and into the largest hutch at the sanctuary. Two boys from the Scout troop that had found her came by with a Catholic priest to bless her and her "new friends" and to make sure that all of this wholesome goodness was captured by a reporter from the Port Arthur Times. Rosy the Falcon had ostensibly come into her own.

Under the guidance of Chris, one of the state licensed falconers working at the sanctuary, Broussard had successfully calmed her enough to remove her training hood. She took one look at the overcast skies and immediately fell into an agitated state.

"Give her a bit of meat," Chris suggested.

Broussard held out a morsel for her to take. She begrudgingly accepted the bribe and then proceeded to fidget and fuss her way through a very basic prey hit from a high-pitched stoop routine, feigning ignorance and fatigue at every opportunity. She even allowed her damaged wing to hang limp for special emphasis. There were more morsels, and more half-hearted bird work until finally both human and bird had had enough and she was brought out of the flight cage and placed back inside her own mew.

Chris was grinning. "Well, at least we tried."

Broussard looked around. After he tended to the blind owl next door, he would have to come back and replace Rosy's soiled hay. More good times!

Chris waved bye. "Catch you later."

Broussard sighed over his life. "Whatever."

The falcon gave him a parting hiss and he threw her the finger.

Kevin, the other falconer, strolled by at that moment. "How'd she do?"

"Terrible."

The falconer gave a cheery thumbs-up and quickly moved on.

Walter, another inmate, sidled up beside him. "That bitch would just as likely rip your eyes out than catch that rat over yonder."

Broussard spat on the ground. "Well, you're one of the geniuses who wanted her to stay."

He gave a "don't-blame-me!" shrug. "She was a sweet little thing back in the day. Remember?"

"Right." Broussard was not ready for an apologist rant. He had better things to pretend to do. At that moment a shadow flitted across Walter's face. He knew what caused it, and his mood brightened immediately.

"Hey!" he sang out. "Vicky's here!"

The others emerged from the various sheds and hutches that formed the sanctuary to make a wide semi-circle around the main rotating perch. Their eyes were fixed upon the sky directly above them as they watched two distant specks spiral down. Within seconds, two huge raptors thudded into their midst with a flurry of wild shrieks and flapping wings. The men all but let out a "Hurrah!" as they showered the pair of golden eagles with as much verbal affection as a gang of miscreants could create.

Vicky and her mate, Bob, would fly up from the Truckee area about once a week and visit. They were not banded and appeared to be a wild, mature nesting pair. How they got it into their heads to make friends with a group of stinky desert men was something that neither Kevin nor Chris could explain. Of course, the always full grub bucket might have been a powerful incentive for them.

Vicky, the female, was the larger and more vocal of the two. Bob would just quietly stay back and let her do all the squawking ... until the food was presented. Then he was all action. A person might call him the dimmer of the two, but Broussard knew better. Vicky was the star and Bob knew it. Why not let her shine long enough to get a hassle-free meal and clean water out of it? And apparently this arrangement worked very well for them. Kevin had once mentioned that he had heard stories about a pair of super-friendly eagles getting handouts from people as far away as South Lake Tahoe. Vicky and Bob were not only brilliantly resourceful but famously so!

As the men jockeyed about for better viewing angles, Vicky happily beat her huge wings with loud whuups, sending out large gusts of air into their midst. She was enormous, with a wingspan of at least two meters. Broussard's first thought when he first saw her was that if she were just a wee bit larger and he just a wee bit lighter then she could fly him out of there. But he soon discovered that the idea was sheer folly. For all that volume, an eagle her size would only weigh about nine kilograms (under twenty pounds). Hardly enough to lift a man who weighed close to two hundred pounds. Still, it was an intriguing idea.

Walter held up one of his dirty hands towards Bob, the less excitable of the two. It was the customary greeting for them. Kevin had warned the workers to never try and touch them or get too close. They might misinterpret the attempts at communication as threats. And he assured everyone that they really did not want to tangle with two golden eagles on the attack.

The raptor tilted his head slightly and looked directly at the man. And not with the unfettered deference that most animals felt compelled to display towards humans, but with careful regard. In essence, "You respect me and I'll respect you." A person, even a prisoner, could appreciate that.

One of the other inmates, Rick, clucked his tongue to get Bob's attention. The bird's huge head ducked in his direction. "You are fuckin' beautiful," Rick said with raw admiration.

Broussard thought of the peregrine falcon and the other no-goodniks taking up time and energy at the aviary. He agreed. "They sure beat anything around here."

Bob stared hard at Rick and then looked back at Broussard. Briefly.

Kevin appeared carrying a small chum bucket. They would not be feeding from that. Since they were still basically wild and unschooled, he would have to "chum" them over to the new feeding enclosure that had just been completed. There plump rabbits roamed freely, blissfully unaware of the terrors from the near skies lurking around the next bend of time.

The eagles followed Kevin over to the pen and perched on two nearby posts, watching. Kevin set the chum bucket down and gestured towards the eagles. The pair needed no urging. They simultaneously took to the air, swooped down in low, talons extended, and yanked two placid rabbits into the air. They then circled one of the portables a couple of times before momentarily disappearing behind a water tower. Broussard watched them go, feeling envious of their freedom. Oh, well. He trudged back to the bird hutches. Ollie, the blind owl, was patiently waiting for some attention. Broussard walked into his enclosure making what he thought were soothing sounds so as not to startle him. Ollie responded with a frantic dance of violent wing flapping and hissing.

Walter stepped in, carrying a large black hood.

Broussard shook his head. "I don't think that you're going to be able to get it on him, Walter."

He looked at the crazily thrashing bird. "He'll hurt himself."

Broussard sighed. "Okay. I'll go get the net and—What the hell?"

Something huge streaked by between them and thudded into the opposing wall.

Walter dropped the hood. "Whoa!"

Vicky shook off any effects of ramming her head into a wall at sixty-five kilometers per hour and flew to the highest perch in the hutch, which also happened to be where Ollie the owl stood. She promptly knocked him off. The owl fell like a stone to the floor below. With a fierce cry, Bob flew in after her, still clutching a now limp rabbit.

Broussard was momentarily speechless. Think fast.

"Walter, go get the net and grab Ollie."

Walter looked at him bug eyed. "What about the eagles?"

"Leave them!"

The golden eagles thrust out their chests and edged closer to each other, presenting a unified display of force. They obviously had no intention of leaving.

Walter ground his palm against his forehead. "Well, that's a first. Someone actually breaking into prison." He sighed and headed for the door. "But then life on the streets can be hard ...."

* * *

Sunday night crawled by and the world thudded into Monday. He had missed being at the Lab too much, but that was all about to change. Chang was back in town and he had received word that the Lab would be open promptly at two that afternoon. Broussard was beyond excited and was having a very difficult time keeping his energies in check. To help compensate he tripled his exercise program to burn off the excess energy. Other than that, he just basically tried to keep to himself. He had already planned to lay low during recess.

During the yard break, he and Bautista stationed themselves between the garbage dumpsters, trying to outdo the other with one-armed push-ups. Bautista was up to fifty, but Broussard was ahead by ten. But that was not going to last. His arms were about to give out. He pumped out sixty-two ... sixty-three ... sixty-four! And then he collapsed onto the concrete ground in a pool of sweat. Bautista urged himself on. "Come on, baby. Give me all you got!" Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six—

His arms startled to wobble. "Do it, baby! Do it!"

Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight ...

But he was out of gas, too. His arm gave out and he crashed to the ground, face first.

"Get up, Rocky!" Broussard chided him.

Bautista was breathing hard. "Tired, man."

"Tired! You're too young to be tired."

"Shoot." He finally pulled himself up onto his knees. "When I first got here I could do one hundred ups, two and one-armed, back to back." He caught his breath. "I'm losing my strength."

Broussard was surprised to hear him say that out loud. "Well, better keep that to yourself."

He stood up and wished for a long, hot shower. An inmate never got fully clean in prison, and Broussard was sure that he had grime on him dating back to his first night at Lincoln. A shard of intense sadness pierced his chest, and the desire to be home again became a live thing writhing inside of his rib cage.

As he wrestled with it, he could hear Bautista talking in the background. "Here comes trouble."

A smiling Big Tim and some other inmate were making their way towards them. A couple of cons milling about stopped and stared at their approach. Broussard squinted to see better. The other inmate looked vaguely familiar. That red hair ...

"Oh, shit," Bautista growled. "That's Speitz's new girlfriend."

Oh. That red hair.

Big Tim was his usual jolly self, and either he was not aware that he was palling around with Speitz's property or he just did not care. Either way, they were all now in danger of losing limb or life. Broussard groaned. Hey-hey! More good times!

Broussard grabbed Tim by the arm and pulled him around to the other side of one of the dumpsters. "Are you out of your mind?"

Big Tim jumped back, clearly rankled. "What's your problem?"

Broussard pointed at the red-haired man. "He's our problem. Now take him back home to his owner before all hell breaks loose."

The red-haired convict stepped up. He was even younger than Broussard had originally thought... no more than nineteen, and as pretty as a girl. Now his dander was up and he was fighting mad.

"Ain't you heard?" He sneered. "They freed the slaves. And a freed slave is a force to be reckoned with."

That was more Jack Jaw nonsense.

Suddenly Abdul was in his face. "Butch, you got the food package yet, man?"

Broussard looked over his shoulder and cringed. Speitz and a small army were casually making their way over to their group.

"I'm working on it."

"What? You been working on it for two weeks! You think that shit is going to up and bake itself?"

He did not have time for Abdul. "Abdul, what's the rush? You said you won't even have kitchen privileges until next month."

"Well, I—"

"Look. Turn around."

"What?"

"I said, turn around."

The inmate twisted back and saw Speitz and company advancing on them.

Abdul grimaced. "I'll catch you later," he said before leaving in a hurry.

Broussard addressed Big Tim. "Bad move, Tim. And trust me, angels are not going to swoop in and stop Speitz from knocking you both out."

The red-haired man slapped his chest Tarzan style. "I ain't nobody's bitch."

"Is that so?" But he really had no stomach for this charade. He was somebody's bitch. He was not free. No one was free in prison. Another pang of despair gripped his innards and squeezed hard.

Speitz arrived just at that moment. He motioned to the newbie. "Here," and he pointed to a spot a few inches from his own right foot.

There was a moment of extreme tension as the newbie defiantly stayed put.

Big Tim was smart enough to be frightened then, but he managed to cough up some token courage for the occasion. "We're just hanging out, man."

Speitz kept his eyes on the newbie. "Sure," he responded softly. He graced them with a smile that was as sincere as any that Broussard had ever seen at Lincoln. And then a jolt of the unexpected happened. "Do you mind if we hang out with you, too? Maybe some of those book smarts will rub off on us."

One of his buddies sniggered derisively.

Big Tim, Bautista, and Broussard exchanged sidewise glances.

"Uh, sure," Big Tim replied.

Speitz and his companions loosened up at once. Polite pleasantries were exchanged. Speitz kept the newbie in close orbit but deliberately let his attention wander about. "Hey, Tim, you still trying to convert the sinners?"

Big Tim perked up. "As the Lord allows."

Speitz smiled. "Well, don't waste your time with me. I think God gave up my cause a long time ago."

Big Tim shook his head. "God never gives up. That's why he's called the Pursuer."

Speitz stroked the stubble on his chin. "Well, I don't see it quite that way. 'Cause if God didn't give up sometimes, then there would be no need for the devil to step in and set things right."

"Speitz don't need no god," someone from his crew explained. "And he sure as hell don't need no more devils!" That last statement was no doubt aimed at Bautista and Broussard.

Big Tim tried to lighten the mood. "We have Bible study every Thursday morning. There's always room for one more at the table."

Speitz's lips parted, showing startlingly white teeth. "No thanks." He tapped the newbie on the shoulder. "I'm going to get a game of chess going. You coming?"

The newbie was still looking to make some kind of a point, and he looked down as if he were giving Speitz's proposal a serious consideration.

Speitz tensed a little at that and then looked Broussard squarely in the eyes. "Well, I sure hope that someone will play with me." He underlined his meaning by running his tongue across his lower lip.

Broussard's lunch curdled and a wall of thunder roared up out of the western horizon and grew exponentially louder to blot out all other sound. A split second later six fighter jets streaked by directly over the courtyard, their engines screaming with full afterburner thrust.

Big Tim screamed, "OH, MY GOD!"

Then came the earsplitting yowl of the prison's main security siren. This was the yard's cue to immediately drop to both knees with hands atop heads. As they knelt, another squadron of aircraft rumbled by overhead. The decibel levels were unbelievable. Broussard dared a peek up. Helicopters this time. About eight of them. No markings. Coal black with missiles snapped in tight above the skids. Something akin to the monster in that old Vincent Price movie, The Tingler, crept up his spine and wrapped itself around the base of his medulla oblongata. Somewhere something big was happening. A warning shot rang out.

"EYES ON THE GROUND!"

All of the convicts held the position for about ten minutes. Then restlessness began to set in. Whatever that was had long passed, and the situation was just becoming too uncomfortable. The men began to murmur their complaints. Broussard snuck another peek at the guards. In the central watchtower, a guard held two semaphore flags, one white and one green. A guard standing a short distance away then gave the "all clear" hand signal to the yard guards. A thick wisp of smoke from one of the jets floated just three meters above his head.

A minute later the "At ease" command was given. Recess was only halfway over, but Broussard knew that they would be herded back in early. And sure enough, the lines began forming in front of the Fat Boys. He took his place in the left line, idly listening to the chatter around him. And then he repeated his second major mistake at Lincoln Hills. He lost his focus on his surroundings and wondered after those aircraft. There was an Air Force base close to ninety kilometers north of Lincoln, but it had been decommissioned a few years back. Why were they suddenly shooting F/A-18s into the air at twelve o'clock in the afternoon? There was some commotion behind him. He then compounded his error by not giving that his full attention.

Broussard had just passed through the Fat Boys and stepped into the large foyer when someone hit him from behind. Caught by complete surprise, he flew forward head first onto the hard floor. He tried to get back on his feet as quickly as he could but it was too late. In seconds there must have been five inmates on him. He was being blitzed.

He went down hard again, and this time a heavy arm slammed into the back of his head. He momentarily lost consciousness. Hands and feet came at him from all directions as he furiously tried to deflect their blows. The melee eased up a bit, long enough to let Bill Speitz squeeze in through someone's legs and straddle his chest. With one huge hand he jerked Broussard's face upwards. Panic ripped through him as he felt Speitz's hot breath in his face. The bigger man pushed and held Broussard's head to one side. He whispered into his ear, his breath utterly foul. "I could put you out of your misery right now."

Broussard roared back at him and shoved the big man away. But it was a feckless maneuver, for the others fell back on top, pulling at his shoes and tearing at his clothing. Broussard let out a high, hysterical scream for help. The attack spilled back out into the yard. Broussard's pants were ripped away, and that sent him into a frenzy of punishing blows upon anything that was in reach. He even hit his own face a couple of times.

A yard whistle began to blow from far away. Then it got louder. Broussard kept fighting back. And then, like magic, it was over. He was alone and staring up at ragged contrails crisscrossing the sky.

A hand appeared. He took it and managed to get to his feet.

"You okay, chief?"

Broussard looked at his rescuer. It was Sergeant Zyck. Now how ironic was that, he wondered?

"Yeah. I'm fine." He turned away just in time to miss vomiting onto Zyck's boots.

Zyck passed him his shredded pants.

"Do you need to see the doctor?"

Before he could stop himself, he felt his bottom. His underwear was intact and he felt no pain. "No. I'm okay. Thanks."

Zyck nodded and two more guards showed up and the three of them busied themselves getting everyone into line again.

As Broussard was trying to get back into his pants, someone bumped him in passing. He turned sideways and cocked his right arm, ready to strike. It was the newbie, looking concerned.

Broussard relaxed and lowered his arm. That was his third and final mistake that day, for the newbie walked right up to him and spat in his face. "Speitz don't want you. You ain't nothin' but a friggin' turd in the toilet."

Zyck hooked him by the neck and hustled him inside.

Broussard quickly wiped off the offending spittle with his shirt.

Antwone appeared and whispered into his ear, his voice uncharacteristically tender. "Butch, you want me to cut his throat for you?"

Broussard found a way to smile. "No. I appreciate the offer, though."

As he shuffled back to his cell he kept thinking, over and over again: No more. Please. No more.

And mercifully, for the next twenty-four hours, there was no more. He was moved to protective custody in Ward F. It had been rumored to be the newest and most efficient of the wards, and he was vaguely happy to discover those rumors to be true. His cell had a barred window with a ledge for knickknacks, an oversized cot, plush by prison standards, a dainty wash bowl and john, and even a towel rack—with mounted fresh towels! All that was missing was a chocolate truffle on his pillow. His head felt fuzzy when it wasn't being overwhelmed with astounding aches. He gazed about in wonder at his charming cage. For some time. Then he remembered there being a folded New York Times on the bed. There was a sticky note attached. He could not make out the cursive words, but he thought that he saw the word Navarro at the bottom. So the niceties had not been random. The front page contained the headline:

Still No Clues to Times Square Massacre

He had no real curiosity about this and every reason to just curl up and die, but something inside of him forced him to read the article:

Manhattan. Police still have no clues to yesterday's brazen massacre of twenty inmates kidnapped from Riker's Island prison. The men, the majority of them convicted felons serving life sentences, disappeared from their locked cells sometime during the early hours of August 24th. They were discovered at 6 a.m. on 42nd Street and 6th Avenue by a NYC Department of Public Works employee. All of the bodies had been decapitated and police have no leads as to where the missing body parts might be, although an official from the District Attorney's office who spoke on the condition of anonymity suggested that underwater divers might start searching the Hudson River near Washington Heights by tomorrow evening ...

And then a wall of black hit him and he barely had time to roll onto the bed before he passed out.

Time was passing, of this he was sure. A heavy fog swirled within his mind. Intermittently, he saw pale faces and heard disconnected fragments of conversation. Did these things pertain to him? Was he being attacked again? If so, he could hardly do anything about it. He felt safe, but was he? Otherwise, it was darkness. A resolute void. Like the MITs' comm boards when they were offline. He did not dream. Nor did he sleep. He was like a sentient ball of atoms, floating in the vacuum of deep space, unable to observe time or make sense of order. Had he died?

His eyes opened. It must have been dark for real, for he could make out nothing. He tried to move the other parts of his body but couldn't. Had he become paralyzed? The thought caused him to struggle a little, and then utter apathy came to his rescue. Did it matter? Maybe. The ticking of the night soothed his fried nerves, and he fell back into the vacuum. He remembered being able to turn onto his left side at some point and being encouraged by that. So he had not become paralyzed. Then he began to sleep because the nightmares started almost immediately. He was at work again, his gun in his laptop bag. Making his way down the long hallway that ultimately led to the main conference room, he encountered Jackie first. Jackie Nguyen had been an engineering assistant in his old department. In life, she had been pretty. Now, in his nightmare, she looked old and worn. Her face was dirty and smeared with jam. She raised a cup of coffee to her shriveled lips and spat into it. He shoved her aside and continued on his way. Someone was singing an old, familiar song. He listened hard as he rounded the last corner. The conference room door loomed large in the distance. Jackie Nguyen called out. "Please!"

Sam Cooke sat atop a grand piano and crooned: "It's been a long time. But a change is gonna come." And from behind him, Jackie pleading. "Neal, please!"

He flipped into the next scene. It should have been the conference room, but there were redwood trees. So tall that when you looked all the way up your eyes only met more trunk. The nightmare took on a wavy, funhouse façade. Bernard was seated, the business end of Broussard's gun up against his temple. The old engineer did not look afraid, just very concerned. It was vintage Bernard. Broussard saw the others, Veronica and Wade, out of the corner of his eye. They were standing together in a corner playing patty-cake. Wade sneezed and a parabola of red globules landed on Veronica. Juggy somersaulted out of a closet and cried out, "I'm young again!" Veronica started to cry. Tears also welled up in Bernard's eyes. He set his open hands upon the table. They looked freshly scrubbed. "Please." His eyes were twin pools of liquid. "Let me explain," he whispered.

BLAM!

The gun's nozzle erupted in brilliant orange flame. The scene dissolved.

Broussard spent the remainder of the dream playing Frisbee with a gilded monkey.

Time rolled on.

He awoke sitting across from Dr. Navarro, having not one iota of memory as to how he had gotten there. Was he still dreaming? The dream catcher was there, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The large window was open, letting in appreciable gusts of wind. Another jarring anomaly. Navarro's office was a well-decorated vacuum chamber. Hallucinations, maybe?

"Are you all right?"

He heard the doctor's voice as if from far away. Perhaps she was addressing someone else in the room. Someone closer.

Panic flared in his belly, and he felt close to hyperventilating.

"Neal, are you all right?"

So she was talking to him. Should he respond? The room started to spin. He felt her hand on his shoulder as she shook him. "Mr. Broussard, can you hear me?"

The room stopped spinning. He woke up. Again.

"Yes," he croaked. His throat was extremely dry. "May I have some water, please?"

She zeroed in on his pupils for several seconds. "Okay. Just a moment." As she drew him a cup of water from her dispenser, he marshaled his thoughts into more coherent patterns.

"Here you are."

He took the cup and drank thirstily. Christ, do I feel parched. "Thanks."

She smiled. And then another anomaly occurred. Her smile had changed. Normally she showed just the upper teeth, and her eyelids would dip a bit as if she were secretly embarrassed about some private thing like body odor or passing wind. It was professional but demure. This time she stretched her quivering lips wide enough to expose both her upper and lower teeth, and her eyes were fixated on some point just beyond his left ear. It was as if she had shifted into another "Dr. Navarro" gear, one designed for tight turns at high speed.

He felt compelled to ask. "Um, are you okay?"

At that instant, the old, familiar doctor returned to her body.

"Yes, of course." She dipped her eyes. "But thanks for asking."

She had his file in her lap. "How are you feeling, Neal?"

"Like something ate me and then threw me back up."

She nodded as if she totally understood the concept. She started to say something but chose a different tack. "Are you having any physical discomfort?"

"No. Yeah. My head hurts. And my thinking is a little fuzzy."

She scribbled in his file and started on a fresh sheet of paper.

Now he was feeling antsy and just wanting to get back to ... where?

"Today is Monday?" he asked.

"No. It's Thursday."

"Hmm." His head was swimming in confusion. "I was supposed to be back at work at the Lab Monday. Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite. Neal, you've been for lack of a better word 'out' for the past three days."

"Out where?"

"Unconscious. You've been unconscious for the past three days."

"What?"

"Yes." She closed his file. "Sometimes when we experience a traumatic event our minds will close shop for a while and do repairs."

"You mean like a nervous breakdown?"

Her head dickered a bit. "Something like that. But maybe more of an emergency timeout. You've also suffered a concussion, which put more stress on your brain."

"Oh? Is it serious?"

"No. You'll have some fuzzy thinking and headaches for a few days, maybe an upset tummy, but it should pass. I'm recommending that you stay in protective custody until you've recovered a bit more. I've spoken to Allan Chang, and they're expecting you back at work week after next."

He reached up and felt a dime-sized bump near the top of his head. That was odd. He had not noticed it before. He worried it until it started to hurt. "Fine." He yawned. "I like the accommodations there a lot better."

"And maybe we'll see each other again in a few weeks ... ." Her voice trailed off.

He stood. Surprisingly, his balance was fine. As they shook hands, a memory came to him. "I dreamed. While I was 'out' I had a dream about that morning at work. It was very vivid this time."

She cocked her head to one side. "Oh?"

"Yeah." The dream catcher danced. "And I think that I have another ... perspective about what happened."

"Well, that's a good thing, right?" He could tell that she was not expecting a dramatic mea culpa from him at this point.

"Yes. I, um ... " The words that were running through his mind just would not approach his lips. "I think I may have made a mistake."

Her eyebrows zinged upwards.

"I took them by surprise. That's what a coward does. I ... didn't give them a chance to defend themselves." He felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. Later, he would comment to someone that he actually felt lighter. "And that was bad strategy."

She was nodding. "Neal, I ... hope that one day you can get to the truth of what happened that day. The absolute truth versus the existential truth."

Broussard was puzzled. "I don't follow you."

"Well, an absolute truth is irrefutable. Black is not white. A pearl is not a sapphire. You could tell me that you believe that a pearl can be thought of as a sapphire but, in absolute terms, you would be incorrect. An absolute truth exists outside a person's experience with it or whether or not he agrees with it. An existential truth is subjective and depends almost entirely upon that person's frame of reference." She cocked her head slightly to one side. "Does that make sense to you?"

He was becoming agitated. "I don't know. Maybe."

"I'm going to prescribe some Vicodin for the pain. A guard will bring it to you within the hour."

"Okay. Thanks, doc." He was amazed at how slurred his words suddenly sounded.

Navarro put her face in neutral as she stood and walked him over to the waiting guard. "'Bad strategy,'" she repeated. "Well, I feel that's certainly a start in a positive direction, don't you?"

He nodded.

She gave his arm a squeeze. "We'll meet again soon."

But he never saw Janice Navarro again.

#

The next day the hall guards passed out copies of a memo from Administration summoning all inmates to the old auditorium for a briefing from the warden later that day. Interesting. The last time the warden held one of his briefings some six months ago was to breathlessly inform every apathetic soul there that after serving "twenty-five satisfying years" as an officer of the Nevada correctional system, he would soon hang up his spurs and move to New Mexico with his double-wide wife, Cathy. The time before that Broussard, Bautista, and the rest of the prison band had played the auditorium for one of Dina Hodge's fundraisers. Broussard often thought back to that particular event, for it had actually been fun.

The inmates left for the auditorium in shifts. Broussard went with the second group, the medium security inmates, and even had his own personal escort. They traveled the hot, twisting corridors in total silence. Another aberration. Normally a guard would talk your ear off—sports teams, pop stars, how big a pain in the ass his children were. Not this guy. This man behaved as if his mouth had been sewn shut. And it was not just him.

When they reached the deliciously chilled air of the auditorium, they were seated among fifty rows of chairs. A guard stood ready for action at the head and tail of each row, all of them wearing identical tightlipped expressions. Broussard began to think. Hmm. Let's see, it was early September. Their union would be entering fresh labor contract talks with the governor's office sometime in early October, and that was always a contentious time. Maybe they were just getting their game faces on early. If that was the case, the union would have ordered them to stop chatting up the prisoners lest negotiation news began to leak out and their lines in the sand would start to take on water. He looked around at all of the closed faces beneath those brown visors. Yes, they all definitely had a different 'tude.

He sat down in his cushioned seat and relaxed. The old auditorium—a Beau Arts behemoth built over a hundred years ago, complete with brass flagpoles, marble floors, velvet draperies, and coffered ceilings—was rarely used anymore except to give inflated decorum to an official visit by the warden or high ranking politicos. The Northern Nevada Historical Society had declared it a state treasure and therefore too good for the common criminals now shuffling back and forth through the state's penal system. It had been retired in the eighties, and a new and unimproved version went online in '92 to house the modern, less-cultured lawbreakers. But the warden's official announcement and speech season was two months away. So why were they there? He strained to look around his immediate environment for any potential dangers, saw none, and casually put his arms up on the padded armrests.

"I wish they'd come on," someone growled impatiently to his left. "This is boring, man."

Another voice directly in back of him chimed in, "Maybe they gonna tell us why they cut off the TV and radio."

The first inmate snarled. "'Cause they ain't paid the bills, what you think? This state is broker than the warden's dick."

"And how would you know?"

"Abdul know everythang."

Broussard involuntarily shrank in his chair. Abdul? Yes, please let's get this over and done with now!

As if in answer to his silent plea, the ceiling lights dimmed and the guards tapped the sides of the nearest chairs to signal all quiet. All eyes then swiveled onto the large stage to watch as five men entered stage left single file and made for the podium. The first was Warden Davidson himself. The second was Associate Warden Greeley, and the rest were unfamiliar suits. The men assembled themselves around the governor as he withdrew a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket pocket and began to speak.

"Good afternoon. Before I present the announcement, I would like to call upon the comforting spirit of god to be upon this assembly and to guide and steady our hearts and our minds."

A collective groan went up.

He paused as if collecting his breath. It became very quiet.

The warden cleared his throat. "I have some unpleasant news to report to you. Two days ago ten incendiary devices exploded in Prince Andrew's County in Maryland. The blast caused major infrastructure damage within a twenty-five-square block area. As of today, there are an estimated six hundred confirmed dead and five thousand injured. It is not known, I repeat not known whether this was a terrorist attack. In any case, the Red Cross will be here today between the hours of twelve and four to speak with any of you who may have family or loved ones in the affected area. There's a sign-up sheet in the back if you would like to avail yourself of their help. That is all. You are dismissed."

The man sitting to his left chuckled to himself. "Looks like somebody finally fired a cap up Prince Andrew's uppity ass." As the other inmates applied themselves to the task of parsing the warden's speech—finding amazement here, reassurance there—the energy level in the room was kicked up a few notches. Then all stood and prepared to depart. More than a few men scrambled toward the Red Cross sign-up table. Broussard's escort materialized at his elbow. A snippet from a poem came to mind:

Haply for I am black,

And have not those soft parts of conversation

That chamberers have; or for I am declined

Into the vale of years—yet that's not much—

He knew of no one in Prince Andrew's County, and so they made their way back to his cell.

The rest of that day was surprisingly satisfying. After lunch in his new digs Broussard continued to review the notes from their last session with the robots. He also had a copy of Connie's notes for comparison, along with a copy of the MIT Design Book. The quirky behavior that they had displayed was really beginning to bother him.

The bots had several rather hefty AI subroutines that augmented their standard stimulus-response associations with reinforced learning algorithms. They were not considered core programs because the MIT mandate was to cobble together intelligent machines and not dimwitted humans. But these particular subroutines had been slaved to a master paradigm which closely mimicked the five basic instinctual needs found in humans: physiological needs, safety needs, needs of love and belonging, self-esteem needs, and self-actualization needs. The master paradigm was formally called "The Desired Normal State" and it consisted of many embedded goals called PLs, short for Preference Laws.

Thanks to Walters and Connie, the MITs were top heavy in this area of their neural programming (at least to Broussard's way of thinking), but what the Preference Laws boiled down to was this: "An AI body was to constantly strive to maintain equilibrium in the following areas related to their perfect existence: 1. Optimum mind and body operations; 2. Good and safe shelter; 3. Good and safe love and protection from those beings designated as having authority over them, and; 4. Laws 1, 2, and 3 could be temporarily modified by those beings designated as having authority over them."

It looked utterly enchanting on paper, but to Broussard it amounted to alchemy. And while one could argue that alchemy was the legitimate father of modern chemistry, it could hardly be said that it was the sire with the best possible pedigree. Besides, applied anthropomorphism was a non-starter. Especially when you were essentially talking about hardware: steel rotors, plastic gears, rubber pulleys, silicon chips, diodes, etc. Not one molecule of real flesh and blood. Sure a person might get the sneaking feeling that his dog was actually watching and enjoying reruns of America's Funniest Videos, but that same bloke would have to be a fool to think that a collection of nuts and bolts was capable of doing the same thing. So all of the warm-and-fuzzy builds were pointless. A robot was, by definition, a machine. Not a human being. Not even a clever dog with poor taste in television shows. And all of the wrong-headed tinkering wasn't going to change that. But from the beginning Dina had wanted a large ethical component attached to the program. No doubt she was looking to head off any blowback from the FOVOC down the road. And he understood that so ... whatever.

His mind was wandering. Thoughts of Speitz and feeling an incredible urge to get him one on one and wrap his hands around his neck and slowly squeeze ... . He quickly jumped off that train of thought. That was the logic that had landed him at Lincoln Hills in the first place.

And his head was hurting. He touched the knob of flesh on the top of his head again. A cyst maybe? A clot from where he hit his head during the fight? He made a note to ask the guard about seeing someone in the infirmary. Then he returned to his notes.

The PLs floated under the umbrella of the Desired Normal State. Subliminally, the MIT received programming with the awareness that the normal state was the desired state of being and ergo not always attainable. In order to bring those points home and bolster hardwired learning, there were various degrees of counterprogramming attached to each of the PLs. For example, the PL1 module, which contained the subcommand that the AI have a continuous energy source either from light or electricity, contained a Trojan Horse program that would occasionally direct the MIT to seek shady ground while outside, thereby cutting off direct access to sunshine for the solar panels on their backs. After a few 'surprise' no-power states, the bots learned to avoid shady places. But this negative-reinforcement teaching only worked so far. (Incidentally, physical pain was a far cheaper and more effective method of negative-reinforcement, but the team had no way of providing it to the MITs, even if they had wanted to. The robots did not have nervous systems or even nerve endings to process pain messages, only a rudimentary system_ready/system_not_ready self-diagnosis that their processors ran through every sixty seconds.) Based on the Lab's data before the miracle-on-the-floor event, James had only been aware of his injured pivot leg in the sense that his hind brain (a co-processor) had relayed an emergency alert to his forebrain (the main processor) that the bum leg was not operating properly. PL1 was being breached and the desired normal state was not being maintained. The MIT was then supplied with the command to promptly communicate this information to the nearest designated "being in authority." And this he had done. But then, somehow, the leg had been fixed. Could James have done it on his own to achieve PL1 equilibrium? Maybe. But if so, what had been the stimulus?

He put the notebooks down, flopped down onto his bunk, and rested his eyes. The air conditioning was on and he began to feel a chill. He pulled up his blanket around his arms. It folded into the nooks and crannies of his shoulders and neck, warm and womblike. His body untensed, although he had not been aware of that tension. For some reason his mother's image appeared before him, Technicolor bright. Her face was unmistakable. Thick hair framed her face. And then he saw her eyes, dark and velvety. They were grey! His mother's eyes were grey! How could he have forgotten that? He tried to redirect his internal camera, to pull back and capture the balance of her image, but it would not budge from her face. Was she smiling at him? The image flickered a bit and then winked out. Mom?

He rolled over towards the wall. Exceptional drowsiness crept into his bones and he welcomed it. He was almost asleep when he was jerked awake by a sudden shift in the orientation of the floor. His bed jittered about for a moment or so and then settled down. A small earthquake. Drowsiness overtook him again, and his mental screen went black.

The next several days were truly strange. He began receiving all of his meals inside his cell. Recess had stopped. Well, he shrugged, that didn't apply to him anymore anyway. Ever since the attack he had been granted private yard privileges. They let him out that Saturday but kept him in without explanation on Sunday. The library was suddenly off limits. And that got him agitated because that meant that he was cut off from his newspapers and from any emails from Diane. Something was up, and he needed some answers. But when he could finally snag a guard's attention long enough to ask some questions, all he received were terse, monosyllabic answers: Yes. No. I don't know. And so he busied himself with light reading and napping. His body still ached all over so any exercising was out. His head felt about seventy percent normal. Most of the time he was struggling with bouts of severe fatigue. But he was feeling better day by day, so he didn't stress on it too much. Besides, he would return to work on Monday, and some things would be getting back to normal then.

Monday finally rolled around, and much to his surprise it was Officer Stewart who came to take him to the Lab. Broussard was so glad to see the guard that he almost hugged him.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Stewart shrugged with feigned nonchalance. "Same-o, lame-o."

"Yeah?"

"Naw, I got a new job!"

"No kidding? That's great! You taking the warden's position?"

The guard made a face. "Yeah, right. I think that Greeley is going to be the new chief idiot around here."

Broussard nodded. "So where are you headed?"

"New Mexico."

His good humor vanished, although he could not say why. "Great state."

"Yup. I qualified for their SWAT unit. I report to the academy in Santa Fe in three weeks."

Broussard mulled that over. "SWAT guy, huh? Didn't think that there was that much hard crime going on down that way."

Stewart's eyes darted elsewhere. "No, but ..."

"Well, good luck. I'm going to miss you. And the birds."

The guard grinned. "I'll make a CD and send it to you."

"Thanks."

And then Stewart became all business. "Get your gear. I'm your work detail escort today."

Broussard pulled on a clean shirt. "Yeah, what's up with that? Where's the other guy, Moore? And why are we in lockdown?"

Stewart turned deliberately vague. "You know, the usual paranoia. Don't worry about it."

"Yes, but—"

Officer Stewart's hand shot up. "Drop it."

Even if a shaved grizzly bear had just crawled out of his toilet, Broussard could not have been more surprised. Dudley Do Right slapping a felon down with a "Drop it?" Had the man lost his mind?

The prisoner backed off and grabbed his satchel. Stewart unlocked the cage, and they rode the shuttle to the Lab in silence. As they approached building sixteen, he noticed a powder blue Mercedes Benz parked out front. Dina was there. Good. He had a couple of items to discuss with her.

The guard at the front door exchanged pleasantries with Stewart and crossed Broussard's name off the staff list on his clipboard. He pulled the door open, and just as he was about to walk inside, Stewart pulled him aside.

"Stay safe."

His manner was still curt, but his words felt sincere.

Broussard nodded. "Okay." And then he stepped inside.

To a deafening silence.

The main clock read two-fifteen. He was late. So why wasn't the place mad with activity? He looked in on a couple of empty cubicles. Where was everyone?

"Neal." Walters came bounding down the main hallway. "We're in the conference room."

He felt a bit of relief. "Right. I'll just grab a cup of coffee first."

"No time. Come on."

They hustled down to the conference room together. The new, unmarked cardboard boxes stacked up against the walls caught his eye, but he did not say anything about them. The door to the conference room was slightly ajar, and muffled voices could be heard from the crack.

Walters straight-armed the conference room door, and it flew open to reveal a truly remarkable tableau. Warden Davidson himself sat stone faced at the head of the table. If anything, he looked even more somber than he had the other day at the auditorium. At his right hand was seated a broad man dressed in an Army officer's uniform. His chest glittered with a few tasteful medals and ribbon racks; his hat stood at attention before him on the table. The officer and the warden were sharing a private conversation. Seated at the warden's left hand was another Army suit. This one was a little less flashy than the first and was more interested in his surroundings than anything else. As soon as he saw Broussard and Walters, his eyes refocused and they could almost feel the heat coming from his stare as he performed a "friendly or hostile" assessment. He nodded in their direction, but his stare only intensified. Two soldiers dressed in fatigues stood stock still behind him. All wore holstered pistols.

Chang sat like a statue, staring thoughtfully into space. Dina Hodges, her normally vivid blue eyes now dulled by red spider veins and puffy skin, alternated between stealing miserable looks at the warden and dabbing at her nose with a white handkerchief. Powell, Bautista, and now Walters and Broussard filled the other seats. Broussard did not see Connie. And suddenly, today out of all the other days, he really wanted to see her.

Warden Davidson broke off talking to the fancier Army man and turned his attention to the rest. He pushed a manila file folder aside, and it was then that some noticed that the warden's hands were shaking. "I want to first thank Major Hillerman for coming out on such short notice."

The major gave a shallow nod of the head.

"And," the warden continued, "I also want to thank Lieutenant Brady and his men for their support at this time."

Chang and Dina smiled graciously at Lieutenant Brady and the two stout men standing behind him, as if they routinely played hosts to unannounced military guests. The whole scene was becoming surreal. Broussard began to feel lightheaded.

The warden took a deep breath. "Effective immediately, all laboratory personnel will be reassigned to another facility where they will continue to work on the MIT project. Major Hillerman will assume charge of this move and will effectively take over as XO of the team. Lieutenant Brady will report directly to the major to see that all of his orders are carried out. The MIT robots were crated and shipped yesterday and should arrive at the new facility tomorrow."

There was a moment of heavy silence.

Walters spoke up first. "Are we being transferred to another prison?"

"No."

Major Hillerman cleared his throat for attention. "Your new facility is classified ... for the moment." The major had a soft, southern accent. "We'll release more information to you on an as-needed basis. But just know that you will all be issued new Washington state driver's licenses. I'm assuming that you all know how to drive?"

There was a unanimous "Yes."

"If anyone asks, you work for Eldon Electronics in their Seattle office. Everything else about you—name, age, date of birth—stays the same. Don't answer any questions about your work or education history for right now. We'll rendezvous with my team outside of Port Arthur. There you'll be briefed about the new MIT facility in Alabama, and we'll get you on board the payroll."

"Well, finally some good news," Powell grumbled.

Hillerman ignored him. "Any questions so far?"

Bautista raised his hand, looking as utterly bewildered as some of the others must have felt. "Excuse me, but just what the hell is going on?"

For the first time, Dina looked at them before she let fly a stream of awful information. "There's been another attack. They blew up Los Angeles on Friday, and three hours ago they invaded San Francisco—"

Walters could not believe his ears and clapped his hands onto his head. "Whoa, whoa. Back up! What do you mean, they 'blew up' Los Angeles?"

Major Hillerman spoke. "We believe that timed charges were set in the underground mains that supply gas to residential and commercial structures in the city. At exactly fifteen hundred hours five of those mains exploded, triggering a chain reaction that eventually spread to every other main within a twenty-five mile radius. The LA basin was a grill within two minutes."

Walters groaned. "Oh, god."

"Are there any survivors?" Broussard asked.

"Sure," Hillerman smirked. "Why not?"

Dina began to cry softly into her handkerchief.

The Army officer continued, his voice weighted, denuded of inflection. "One hour later they put up roadblocks at the major transportation arteries feeding into San Francisco: 101, 280, Highway 1 ... both of the bridges. Then three hours ago they took control of the TV stations and the radio stations and knocked them off air. I guess somebody inside managed to keep his nerves steady and got some videotape ... of soldiers forcing the mayor and some of her staff out onto the front steps of City Hall... and then executing them, one by one."

Bautista stood up and placed his hands on his hips, eyes wild. "No! No! I don't believe you! You're lying, man! No way is this happening! There's got to be another explanation for this!"

"Mike, take your seat!" That was Chang.

"NO! HELL, NO!"

Chang sighed. "Mike, this isn't helpful. Please. Sit down." Bautista glared at him and then picked up his chair and hurled it toward the ceiling. It struck the unsecured panels at high velocity, knocking several of them off their runners and down onto the group below. Everyone scattered, arms up high to deflect the falling debris from above.

That was about the time that Lieutenant Brady gave everyone an impromptu show-and-tell about his job at the Army.

He deftly drew his weapon and dropped to the firing position.

"Mr. Bautista, I am a member of the Army Rangers, special forces. I can out-talk you, I can out-think you, and I can out-gun you. You have exactly five seconds to get yourself under control before I put your brains on the wall."

But Bautista was beyond listening ... to anyone.

"Mike!" Broussard screamed at him. "SIT DOWN!"

Bautista cut loose a kee-yah! and then, inexplicably, charged across the room and rammed his head straight into a closet door. His body slid to the floor. There was a noticeable bright red smear where his head had struck the door.

Lieutenant Brady holstered his weapon and raced over to check his vitals. "He's still alive, but he's going to need medical attention soon."

Walters grabbed his pen and pad and began to write furiously.

Broussard raised his right hand. "You're going to militarize the MIT?"

"Yes," Major Hillerman replied.

"In a hurry?"

"Yes."

"Okay. We're going to need to start looking at drawings and animations of the prototype, budget and schedule proposals—everything—right away."

"We can get you what's been declassified. The rest is need-to-know. And you don't need to know everything at this point. Understood?"

Chang joined the conversation. "All of you will be given laptops once we get underway. But no Internet until we get to Huntsville."

Walters whipped off a sheet of paper and handed it to Hillerman.

The major promptly scanned it and then handed it back to Walters. "Items one through four are a go. Item five: Chevy El Grande ... used."

Walters looked stricken. "No!" He barked. "You're out of your mind if you think that I'm going to drive around in a domestic. Do you know who I am?" He turned to Chang with distressed eyes. "And what the hell is an El Grande?"

Hillerman was unruffled. "This is the Army, son, not Fantasy Island. Deal with it."

Powell spoke up. "I'd like to contact my family. Let them know what's happening."

"You've already done that," was Hillerman's reply. He then turned his attention to Bautista's inert form. "Warden, I don't believe that this man is going to play any useful role in our plans. He stays with you."

The warden stood wearing an oh-no-you-don't expression on his face. "Major, Mr. Bautista's work is integral to this project. I'm afraid that you'll have to take him. As is."

Lieutenant Brady intervened. "We can keep him sedated until we can get him to the medic at Port Arthur."

The major looked peeved but acquiesced.

Lieutenant Brady pulled out his walk-talkie and began issuing orders to someone.

It was then that the pain inside of Broussard's head increased itself threefold. Suddenly, he found it difficult to keep up with what was going on. The Army men were talking about Bautista, and their words were replaying in his mind with a Jimi Hendrix-like wha-wha-wha reverb. Something was bothering him, harrying his subconscious like a dog worrying a bone. Badness. What was it? Oh, yes. Here it is. He clearly saw the thought now—it was wearing a fedora, a grey, three-piece suit and carrying a leather attaché case as it coldly marched up the main corridor of his mind.

"Where is Connie?" He whispered.

Broussard heard Dina's reply as if it were coming from a distant well ten kilometers deep. "Los Angeles."

Walters covered his face with his hands.

Broussard heard someone moaning loudly. Dina walked over to him and covered his mouth. The moaning stopped.

"I think I need to pass out," he mumbled. And then he set his head on the table and did just that.

The major was speaking to the warden. "We've got about six hours at most to get these men and their equipment onto the trucks."

The lieutenant put his radio conversation on pause. "Excuse me, sir, but it looks like less than that. We've just received a verified report of a column of enemy soldiers headed towards Port Arthur."

Major Hillerman's mouth turned down. "How long?"

"They'll be there within forty-eight hours."

Hillerman's jaws tightened. "Well, that puts things in a different light."

Powell jumped to his feet and pounded his fists on the table. "I don't get this! What soldiers?" he cried. " From where? Russia? China? Who's killing us?"

The warden slowly lowered his head. "They're from America, son. Americans are killing us."

#

Atlanta, Georgia

The elected governors from the states of Alaska, Montana, Vermont, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Arizona, Missouri, New Jersey, Wyoming, Arkansas, Oregon, South Dakota and North Dakota gathered on the flowing steps of the Georgia State Capitol to officially announce those states' secession from the United States of America before the national and international press corps and a veritable ocean of supporters, protestors, and invited and conspicuously ignored politicos from around the world. Standing at attention directly behind the governors were fourteen rows of twenty-something men and women dressed in Marine combat uniforms. News crews equipped with telescopic lenses on their cameras could easily give their captivated audiences a peek at the astonishing sight of the heretofore unknown and now infamous patch of blue-and-white stitched above the Marine Eagles into their sleeves. Each of these rebel soldiers was partnered with a Bushmaster rifle, and each wore an expression of sturdy resolve.

Earlier in the press conference they had been introduced as the battle-ready minutemen of the Advance South, the official name of the secession movement.

To their immediate right was a sizable contingent of individuals clad in business suits, roped off from the main crowd. Two gentlemen manning studio-grade digital cameras stood archly in their midst, along with a sprinkling of seated stenographers. These were the professional historians, chosen by lottery from Stanford, Amherst, Cornell, Oxford, Yale, Harvard, and Michigan State, amongst others. It was their job to accurately and objectively record this day, the frontispiece for the next great American upheaval.

A premature arctic front was making its way across the nation's lower midsection, canvassing several states, including Georgia, with powerful gusts of frigid air. The skies were being scoured by the strong winds, leaving only clean, blue bone behind.

"Why?" The fourteen men perched upon the capitol steps were asked over and over again by the throngs of families happily waving American flags and Gen-Xers carrying signs promoting Tibetan autonomy and angry old people, and gun-packing cowboys from the NRA, and housewives from Rancho Cucamonga, along with businessmen, fishermen, union leaders, Secret Service agents, teachers, airline pilots, accountants, bus drivers, contractors, officers from the WHO and the DAR, and tabloid hacks and stray dogs and whoever had time on their hands that blustery morning at nine o'clock to witness jaw-dropping history.

Luke Peterson, Vermont's second-term governor, stepped forward to speak for the group. He was tall and slender and extraordinarily photogenic. Everyone hushed and leaned forward to hear his words.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began sonorously, "it is with hearts heavy with sadness that we assemble before you today. Violence and bloodshed are visiting this land, and those standing alongside me today are greatly grieved by it, as we know the rest of the country is. But with the immense sadness in our hearts is an even greater sense of duty. My fellow Americans, there is a malignant cancer eating away at the hard-won principles and traditions of this nation. This moral cancer has caused us to turn from fearing God and from loving our neighbors. Honor and courage and sacrifice have become loathsome things to us. We push aside wisdom to greedily hear refined nonsense. We have become lovers of selfish pleasures, but blind to the enormous damage that they inflict upon our souls and upon this great planet that we call home. We promote the lie and crucify the truth. We have become a divided house, and our enemies have come into it to destroy it."

Someone lobbed a ripe tomato at Peterson. It hit him squarely in the head but did not appear to cause any lasting harm. A man in a suede jacket and earmuffs owned up to the attack. "WHY DON'T YOU SONSABITCHES CRAWL BACK UNDER THE ROCKS YOU CAME UP FROM?" Thunderous cheers ensued.

Peterson paid him no mind. "To wit, our grievances are as follows:

"The federal and state governments have failed to keep their citizens safe from those who would poison their environments.

"The federal and state governments have failed to adequately provide its citizens with decent jobs and decent wages.

"And most egregiously, the federal and state governments are actively promoting godlessness in its policies, directives, and covert maneuvers.

"Through all of these failures on the part of the federal and state governments of the United States, decent and law-abiding citizens have lost their constitutional rights to liberty, equality, their hope for a fair and benevolent application of the laws of this great land, and the loss of their ability to pursue and secure happiness."

A Land's End Barbie with two teenagers on either side screamed at him from near the bow of the crowd. "LEAVE US ALONE! WE DON'T WANT YOU! AND WE DON'T WANT YOUR HATEFUL GOD EITHER!"

A few people standing close to her quickly scattered to other parts of the gathering.

A young man's voice, infinitely weary, sang out. "We don't need another war, man!" A chorus of "That's right!" went up into the chilly air.

"YOU FUCKING NAZIS! YOU BUTCHERED THOSE PEOPLE IN SAN FRANCISCO!" shouted another.

Peterson held up his arms. "You are mistaken, good people! No official from any of the free states was implicated in that heinous act of brutality. We did not do it nor do we condone it."

A man with a beet-red face screamed, "Four weeks ago I kissed my little girls good-bye in Los Angeles and flew to Kansas to bury my father, and now I've got to go back home and sift through the garbage to find my children and bury them!" He tried to claw his way onto the stage. It took four men to pin him down.

The chant rose quickly. "CHILD KILLERS! CHILD KILLERS!"

Luke Peterson looked ready to fold in on himself while his companions quietly bowed their heads. A stream of protesters was building steam and began a surge towards the capitol steps. Riot police quickly scrambled to form a solid line of shields and batons. The officers inched forward, pressing the crowd backwards and into the general milieu.

Governor Peterson's deep bass voice again rose above the raging din. "I am so sorry for your loss, but believe me when I say that we had nothing to do with that awful tragedy in Los Angeles. Another hand was at work."

"LIARS! LIARS! LIARS!"

Peterson spoke over the din. "Folks, we are just trying to save our home. America!"

"America ain't your home! You stole it from the Indians!"

Another chorus of "That's right! That's right!" went up but with far less conviction.

A smartly dressed, middle-aged man with wavy hair raised his hand. "Sir, my name is Arthur Henning. You may not know me—"

Peterson nodded vigorously. "Pardon my interruption, but I do know you, Senator Henning. You and I have worked on several very important matters in the past."

Mr. Henning seemed pleased with everything thus far, and he beamed for the fifty-odd cameras now being pointed in his direction. "Then you know that Americans have a long, proud tradition of resolving their differences in civil and legal terms. We learned long ago that if we grabbed our rifles every time we had a serious disagreement, then eventually we would all have buckshot in our hides." He took a deep, dramatic breath. "Sir, I cannot believe that a man of your temperament and education would—"

Governor Peterson was cupping his ear. "I'm sorry, senator. I didn't catch that last part."

Henning waved his hand dismissively. "Sir, I and many other Texans believe that while America is having more than its fair share of problems, it is better to face these difficulties with bipartisanship and understanding and a civil discourse. The slaughter of innocents is never—I repeat never—a wise course of action."

The rather rotund governor of oil-rich Alaska stepped forward.

"Senator Henning, trust me when I say that all of us standing before you are in total agreement with your words. The murders of the mayor and two members of her staff in San Francisco were unjust, uncalled for, and not ordered nor carried out by any person here today."

That got the crowd riled up again, and Henning had to shout to be heard. "Those soldiers identified themselves as Advance South military! The very people who are behind you today! And yet you stand there and tell us that you have no blood upon your hands? YOU ARE A BALD-FACED PREVARICATOR, SIR! SHAME ON YOU AND SHAME UPON THE GREAT STATE OF ALASKA!"

The Alaska governor broke free from the gubernatorial zone and attempted to beat off their wild jeers. "THEN THOSE SOLDIERS WERE IN GREAT ERROR, FOR THE GOOD CITIZENS OF THE STATE OF ALASKA WOULD NEVER CONSENT TO ATROCITY!"

A bespectacled gentleman yelled at him. "YOU DON'T SPEAK FOR US!"

A rowdy group clutching cans of beer began to chant. "FREE TIBET! FREE TIBET! YANKEES GO HOME! YANKEES GO HOME!"

Peterson was addressing the crowd again. "Again, we are all so deeply sorry to have placed you, your families, your communities in this awful position. You are very angry and very frightened and for some it feels like the end of the world. But trust me, it isn't!"

A famous newsman from one of the networks flagged the governor's attention. "Governor Peterson, do you realize that Washington has officially chosen not to recognize your Secession Proclamation?"

"Yes."

"And," the newsman continued, "do you realize that your coalition does not have the support of the other thirty-seven states? That the math is against you? Sir, with all due respect, how can you possibly expect to win this?"

One of the other governors, a full head shorter than the rest, raised his fist high. "We've got God Almighty on our side!"

That drew a deafening roar of derisive boos, hisses, shrieks and curses. Suddenly three sharp pops rang out. Gunfire! Twenty thousand people simultaneously hit the ground. Four Secret Service agents took off after two hooded men running down Washington Street as police sirens blared. Sensing closure, many in the crowd started to rise, slowly and cautiously at first. The news crews directed their cameras in the direction of the governors as these men sought to make sure that no one in their party had been injured. One more shot rang out in the far distance. Several individuals took off in that direction, followed by a news crew. The rest of the people in the vast crowd began to talk amongst themselves. Some even laughed and joked. The dangerous moment had passed, and the business at hand could now continue.

Governor Peterson stood straight and tall and made a wide, sweeping gesture with his long arms. "My fellow Americans—" Every face turned towards him again.

"My fellow Americans, today is the first step for the new America!"

As if on cue, the legs of one of the Advance South Marines suddenly buckled. Every pair of eyes shot in her direction as she dropped to her knees. Her rifle clattered down the steps before her. Two large red spots appeared on her shirt and ominously began to spread. A loud gasp went up from the crowd. Her fellow Marines looked on with intense interest, but not one stepped forward to help her.

The fallen Marine's eyes rolled up once in her head, and it looked like she was about to become unconscious. But then she appeared to catch and right herself. She yanked her shirt apart, exposing two neat holes in her taut midsection. The gunmen's bullets had found their mark. Reaching up, she tore her bra from its straps and then fashioned a pressure bandage with it and the long sleeves from her shirt over her wounds. Then she grabbed the tail of her shirt and wiped off the excess blood from her belly and hands. Finally, with a deep inhalation of breath, she struggled to get to her feet. It took her three tries, but she finally made it. The Marine closest to her picked up her rifle and handed it to her. She mouthed the words, "Thank you." Within sixty seconds she was back at attention.

This scene effectively shut down the hecklers.

Peterson resumed. "Ladies and gentlemen, I know that many of you will never support what we are being forced to do. In fact, you will do everything in your power to prevent us from going forward. But if our fight is the good fight, then ultimately the victory will be ours. For a house divided against itself cannot stand. We must build a new house with an incorruptible foundation. But it will take time and it will take sacrifice. Do not let us speak of darker days, but rather let us speak of sterner days. Today we do not come before you to declare war against America, but to declare war for America. We are going to fight for the hearts and minds of a new America! God bless you all, and may God continue to bless the United States!"

An ambulance appeared out of nowhere, and two paramedics hustled up the steps towards the wounded soldier. People began to edge away from the mini drama, giving the men room to work. Within minutes it had its passenger loaded and was tearing up the street, its siren on.

As the rogue governors disappeared behind a curtain of bodyguards, a young man with spiked hair and a bow tie took center stage.

"Hi, folks! We're just about to serve lunch, so those of you with the red, white, or blue tickets please have your identification out and ready to show to the attendants so that they can cue you for your designated dining hall. Thank you!"

The huge throng was herded into five less dense packs and then into three wide columns, ten abreast. As promised, attendants assigned each line to one of the three circus-sized tents that had been erected for the occasion. The letters A, B, and C were painted on their front flaps. As the people began snaking towards them, downdrafts from the news helicopters flying overhead worried their equipment and garments.

Jay Meyer, a string reporter based out of Miami, Florida, found himself standing in Line A. He recognized a colleague being shuffled along a few paces ahead of him. "John!"

John Bingham turned around and spotted the younger man. "Hey, hey!" Bingham pushed against the tide of humans and made his way back to Meyer. The two men briefly embraced, exchanged pleasantries and shouts of "Can you friggin' believe this?" Then they decided to make the rest of the journey into Tent A together, catching up on each other's lives along the way. As they were about to step inside, Meyer hesitated. "This is how the Jews might have felt right before they were led into the showers." John Bingham, a twenty-year TV news veteran who had been embedded in the Gulf War and the Iraqi conflict, gulped and stopped in his tracks. "You think ... " But the forward momentum of the men, women, and children around them spasmodically shoved them over the threshold and into the cavernous canvas shell. A sudden rush of hot air greeted them and the reporters instinctively cowered. The anticipation of a good meal vanished, and now they were suddenly dreading the worst.

A middle-aged woman wearing a black business suit and a wide smile greeted them. "Thank you for coming. Here's a site map of where all the goodies are and the little boys room. If you need any assistance, we have twenty servers on the floor. Just flag one down, and they'll be more than happy to help you get to where you want to go."

Meyer and Bingham relaxed their sphincter muscles and grinned sheepishly at her and then at each other. They took the maps and walked about.

No. There wasn't a jack-booted goon in sight, let alone a hastily rigged plumbing system. Professional-quality light boxes, each with its own faux-Tiffany shade, dangled from the metal rafters to illuminate long tables draped with clean, crisp linens and laden with enough fancy food to feed a small French army. The younger reporter looked around, his mouth ajar in open awe. "A feast fit for a bunch of half-starved newshounds." Fresh food had been in short supply since the attacks had begun. Fruits and vegetables normally grown and shipped in from the southern states to the rest of the world had been stopped in their tracks. The Imperial Valley, with its dependency upon the vast network of warehousing and trucking businesses in what was once Los Angeles county, was off the grid indefinitely. There had been deadly, underreported food riots in Iowa and Colorado, but it wouldn't become newsworthy until it began happening in Chicago or New York.

The two men elbowed their way to the rightmost table where all the action apparently began. Stacks upon stacks of warmed plates, gleaming cutlery, and cloth napkins waited for the anxious multitude. Off to the left stood another table holding approximately twenty commercial coffee makers. The reporters wasted little time in grabbing two large paper cups and filling them with the piping hot liquid. It ran dark and robust from the spigot in a most satisfying manner. A warm, scented breeze, something akin to allspice, swirled unobtrusively about, delighting the senses.

"Jeez, will you look at this?"

Meyer was pointing at two jugs of brandy lined up neatly beside the whole milk and cream. The men practically ran over to the condiment table and began spiking their brews just as an old Fleetwood Mac tune began filtering through the overhead speaker system to aurally massage frayed nerves. The men sipped their drinks and shrugged off their misgivings. A hot drink on a cold day was a good thing at almost any time. They would have been foolish indeed to have refused it. The two men scanned their surroundings. The place was buzzing with high-octane energy. Slick, middle-aged hippies were chatting up Wall Street tiger-types. Elegant women in diamonds were standing toe-to-toe with equally elegant men. And judging by their respective intensities, the conversations were going far beyond social pleasantries. Scribbled-on napkins were being passed back and forth. Calculators were out and being pushed into service. Hands were being enthusiastically pumped. It was clear that ideas were being launched, considered and decisions made.

Two A-list Hollywood celebrities with blasé entourages in tow made their way through the other attendees from opposite sides of the tent. Only a few people even bothered to pay them any attention, but the stars did not seem to mind at all. They grinned and nodded at thin air.

Now would have been the time for the reporters to start dictating notes and taking video, but they did not. Instead, they kept their places, sipping their pseudo Irish coffees, absorbing the aromas of spiced meats, following the swirls of taffeta cocktails dresses ... . They stood there mute and drank it all in.

A large hand spun the older reporter around. "John!" A man wearing a loud jacket was gaping at him. "John Bingham, is that you?"

The older reporter drew a momentary blank, and then he remembered. "Bill!" He stuck out his hand. "Hey, buddy!" The newcomer gave him a bear hug instead. "Jesus, what are you doing here?"

Bill clutched a petite woman at his side. "A little business! And maybe a lot of pleasure!"

Everybody laughed spontaneously. Bingham introduced Meyer to the couple.

Bill was winking at Bingham. "John, you remember Barbara, don't you?" The red-haired woman winked at Bingham. "Hi, John."

The older reporter slapped his forehead. "Barbara! For Pete's sake! I didn't recognize you! How long has it been?"

"Five years," she replied.

"Five long years," Bill added. "We divorced right after I left the station in Minneapolis. And we didn't see each other until five months ago when we bumped into each other at a rally in Branson." The couple grinned and stared moonily into each other's eyes. "And it was like old times. We've been together ever since."

Bingham seemed sincerely happy for them. He turned to Meyer. "I met these guys at my first job in Minneapolis. I was fresh out of college, new to town, and they made me feel like I was home. Good, good bourbon people. And they've both got hollow legs."

Bill laughed heartily while Barbara blushed to her dark roots. "We're more a couple of chai tea people now," Bill explained. "I started getting complaints from my liver about the bourbon."

Bingham laughed. "I haven't heard a peep from my liver in ten years. I guess it's still in there somewhere." He sipped his coffee, relishing the brandy's warm path down his gullet. "It's really nice seeing you, Bill. And congrats on round two." He raised his cup in a toast. "To new beginnings!"

Bill enthusiastically raised his cup. "Hear! Hear!"

They all took swigs from their drinks. Bingham and Meyer drained theirs.

"So did you two come down to hear the governors' speech?" Meyer asked.

"You betcha! These are our guys and we're here to show our support!"

"And," Barbara added, "there's a really neat lecture being held at the convention center this afternoon and we've got tickets for that, too."

"Oh, really? What's that about?"

"Well, it's complicated," Bill began. "But in a nutshell, the Advance South is all about bringing some manufacturing back to the States. But manufacturing done right. So we aren't poisoning our water or the soil. They've lined up a panel of low-nox experts from Europe who are going to basically teach us what they know, and hopefully provide a little seed cash for mom-and-pops like us to get something started."

Barbara's eyes were sparkling. "We want to make children's toys."

Both Bingham and Meyer nodded. "Great. That's great." Bingham gestured towards the glitterati. "What are they here for?"

Bill's voice dropped a few decibels. "You still working as a reporter?"

Bingham cackled mirthlessly into his cup. "'Working' is a relative term these days."

Bill stepped forward and whispered into Bingham's ear. "The hot rumor is off-earth production."

"What?"

Bill pulled him closer. "They've got some kind of machine that mines oxygen from moon dust—"

"What?" Bingham asked incredulously.

"—and they combine it with nitrogen—"

"You've got to be kidding?"

"—and people are saying that they could have air and water up there within two years. After that, they'll put in dirt and grass and trees. So these guys here," and he jabbed a finger at a clutch of men wearing Italian loafers and cashmere sweaters, "they're here for the real estate action. They're called Rimmers. What I hear is that they are going to put up houses and condos along the terminator, that's in the sweet spot right between the lit side and the dark side of the moon—"

"Are you sure about that?"

"—so that some rich bastard can pay five million dollars to have daylight in his front yard and nighttime in his backyard."

John Bingham looked downright poleaxed. "Are you serious? Come on," he said loudly, pulling away from his old friend. "Is that why you're here? You know, I'm no rocket scientist either, but we are nowhere near that kind of technology. Hell, we can't even produce clean air on earth! They're selling you snake oil, my friend."

"Shhh! And really? You asked me why the big boys were here and I just told you."

"Okay, okay! Hey, far be it from me to pee on your parade." He grinned at Bill and Barbara. "Damn, it's good to see you both again!" He was becoming slightly tipsy.

The three of them hugged. Bill dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business-card-sized piece of plastic. "Here's my Wa-Ping."

"What?"

Bill handed him the item. "It's called a Wa-Ping. It's an Advance South product. You just wave side one in front of any computer screen or scanner, and it will take you directly to our website. Wave side two and you can connect with me directly via phone. See, it's got a small speaker right there at the bottom. It's pretty neat."

Bingham pocketed the device. "Thanks."

Bill and his wife set their cups down on a nearby table. "We've got to run!" They both looked eager to get going. "Stay in touch. Give me a call sometime!"

Bingham hoisted his empty cup. "Will do!" He tossed his cup and the Wa-Ping into a nearby trash can. "That technology's ten years old. You hungry?" he asked Meyer.

"Yup!"

The two sauntered over to the nearest buffet table and began loading up. Meyer was practically drooling. "I haven't seen this much food since my wedding day."

Bingham speared a roasted chicken breast and arranged it on his plate next to a pile of green beans. "I didn't know that you were married."

"Divorced. About three years now."

Bingham made a clucking sound with his mouth. "Marriage is a tough row to hoe. I've got three ex-wives."

Meyer whistled. "Wow. Well, I guess you've learned your lesson." He angled around Bingham to snatch a lone piece of filet mignon.

"Yeah, I suppose so. I don't know. Sometimes ... it's lonely out at my place. I've got a house on the lake. Summer crowd mostly. The rest of the year it's just me and the dogs. It would be nice to have someone to talk to."

"Uh-oh. You're not sounding like a purged man."

Bingham laughed. "No?"

As they made their way back to the coffee makers, a very tall, genuinely pretty woman approached them with a tray of steamed towels.

She granted both of them an individual smile. "Would you gentlemen like to freshen up before you eat?"

Bingham and Meyer nodded wordlessly.

"Why don't you put your plates down over there." She gestured toward the condiment stand. They immediately complied. Then she pinched a hot towel with small tongs and passed one to Meyer first and then a second one to Bingham. Both men diligently scrubbed at their mouths and hands, careful not to stare too hard at her.

"My name is Heather. Are you here for the technology convention?" Her voice was surprisingly clear and sweet, with no trace of a regional accent. Bingham began to fantasize. Surely she was an angel, he thought to himself. Earth women did not look that ... perfect. A fallen angel. Suddenly he had a hundred questions: Who was she? Where did she come from? How had she ended up working for evil? Was her skin as velvety soft as it looked in this crushingly romantic light?

"No," Meyer enthused. "But we might check it out anyway."

Her delicate features registered mild concern. "Oh, well you'd better buy your tickets soon. I hear that it's almost sold out."

Meyer reflexively unbuttoned his jacket and sucked in his gut. "Thanks! I'll do that!"

The woman was closer to Meyer's age, but that didn't stop Bingham from tossing in his own chips into the game. "Heather, can you bring me a chair and today's New York Times?"

"Certainly!"

"Me, too!" Meyer chimed in.

"Of course. I'll even see if I can rustle up a couple of TV trays for you to set your plates on. I think we have some in the back."

Bingham nodded. "That would be great. Thank you!"

Then Meyer lost his composure and blurted out, "You're very beautiful."

The girl blushed deeply. "Thank you." She gave them a little princess wave. "I'll be right back."

As the men watched her dematerialize against a wall of hungry, defrosting humanity, Bingham again felt an odd joy. "I do believe that this war has begun in earnest."

The following day the Advance South campaign officially known as Operation Defrag was set into motion. Its ground engine was the Eighth United States Army, headquartered in Charleston, South Carolina. Originally commissioned to protect American interests in Central America, South America, and the Caribbean, the large contingent of officers, soldiers, and equipment was considered to be the most effective fighting force east of the Rockies. Pro tem General Hugh Dawes was placed in charge. A long-time critic of America's political and military policies, he was considered to be the perfect candidate for the forced restructuring of the country. He regularly held private meetings with officers and enlisted men alike, reassuring them of the patriotism of their actions, lifting their spirits with no-nonsense homilies about the vast metaphorical pot of spiritual gold waiting for them all on the other side of the fight. The Fight. The one battle in decades that would have personal and profound meaning for all of them. And for all future generations of Americans. Operation Defrag was going to be the sanctified mother of all civil wars.

#

Aquinnah, Massachusetts

The wedding party had just cleared the tall sand dune when the first brilliant slice of the sun peeked up over the eastern seaboard. The groom and his party led the way, the bride's contingent trailing just a few paces behind. A frocked minister awaited them just beneath the Aquinnah lighthouse. It was early fall and the region was enjoying a welcome Indian summer. The great Atlantic Ocean stretched out before them like an endless carpet of jewels. A mist rode its waves like a mink stole. It was tacitly understood amongst the wedding party that aside from the governor of Massachusetts, this backdrop was the most important guest that morning.

The party halted just a couple of meters or so in front of the minister. Belle Flanagan, the wedding manager, began to gently guide people to their proper places. After planting the bride and groom near the altar, she expertly ushered the parents and grandparents of the bride and groom to their respective sides. Her assistants worked silently as they pared the best man, the bridesmaids, and the various family members off from the main body of the assembly. The most mature of these assistants, an alabaster matron with silver hair, gathered together the children and the "special needs" guests to a tented spot about eleven meters away. She carefully did a head count and stayed with them until the family's four au pairs arrived to relieve her.

A young woman with cyan eyes was pulling out a cigarette from her purse.

Minnie, one of the au pairs, rushed over. "Miss Juliana, there's no smoking during the ceremony."

The young woman's head rocked backwards an inch or so and then flopped forward. "Oh, I'm sorry." Her words were slow and slurry. "I didn't know." The chestnut ringlets framing her pretty face were lifted by some errant breeze. She replaced the offending item back inside of her purse. Then she glanced around, trying to focus. As usual her brain felt too light and fuzzy. She was certain that five years ago They had removed her real brain and stuffed the emptied cavity with cotton. And cheap cotton at that. That had been terribly ... half a dozen words slowly clicked through her absent mind. She chose the last one: Unkind. She had needed that brain. And the cotton didn't work so well most of the time. Like today, when she couldn't focus. Didn't that deserve a consolation cigarette every now and then? She thought so. Juliana groped inside her purse again.

A boy, standing nearly three inches taller than she, started to pull off his jacket. Minnie stayed his hand. "Leave it on, Master Matthew."

"It's too hot," he complained.

"Please!" the au pair implored. "It won't be much longer, love."

Matthew's eyes moved aimlessly around their sockets. "Get your hands off me."

The woman with the cyanic eyes became restless as well. She had found the cigarette again. It was now slightly crumpled. She raised it to her lips. She brushed up against Matthew. "I can't find my lighter."

Another small boy dressed in his Sunday-best suit accosted her. "Juliana, don't smoke!"

Two or three other children encircled her. One yanked Juliana's purse out of her hands and ran away with it, while the other two helped Matthew out of his jacket with the intent of burying it in the sand.

The other au pairs scurried over to quell the rising pandemonium while Juliana kicked off her heels and ran after the child who had stolen her purse.

"Jason! Come back here!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. The child looked back at her once and then disappeared over another dune. An au pair scrambled to retrieve him.

"JASON!" Juliana screamed. That last effort wore her out. She stopped abruptly to catch her breath. It was then that she realized that she was alone. A wavelet of foamy water reached her bare toes and swirled around and underneath them. She looked out, not realizing that she had come so close to the water. Being this close to it made her nervous. As a child she had almost drowned once. The experience had taught her to respect the water, for it was always just as eager to murder as it was to delight. A tall mound of water was forming in the surf about twenty yards away. She glanced up the beach. It was empty save for a few seagulls. She sat down in the sand and wiped away a couple of tears. She wasn't sad. They were tears of boredom. She had needed that cigarette. "Jason!"

Loud, gurgling sounds reached her ears, and then a dead silence, as if all of the sound had been sucked down into a bottomless hole. Her ears stopped up. Movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn towards the blue-green ocean again. Something was rising up out of the water wearing a bridal veil of sea foam. It was gigantic! Too tall to be a man, and yet that's exactly what it appeared to be! Sea water poured off the hairless skull and muscular arms. A white loincloth stuck to his sculpted thews. Tiny lights encircled his torso. She caught a flash of his face and only got the impression of serene calm. The giant strode, moving effortlessly in the water, almost gliding, until he reached the beach. The man, if that is what it was, gave no sign that he had seen her or anything else. And then he was walking past her and away from her. With strides easily five meters apart, he strode up the deep sands back towards the road that ran parallel to the beach, creating tiny seismic tremors that shook beneath her body.

The giant man abruptly changed his angle of attack, turning completely sideways. The dense body now seemed to elongate and flatten until it resembled a stout plank over fifteen meters tall. The air suddenly became thick and cloying. Then, without warning, the thing shot straight up into the air and was gone. At that moment, both of Juliana's ears experienced a sharp pop! and the sounds of the beach crashed in around her.

Jason, the little boy who had snatched her purse, came running towards her, huffing like mad, eyes wild, the au pair hot on his heels.

"DID YOU SEE THAT?" he shouted.

Juliana stared at the huge footprints leading from the ocean and across the wet sand. "Yes."

"IT WAS A MONSTER!" Jason squealed with delight. "A REAL SEA MONSTER!"

The boy threw down her purse, danced a little jig, and then found himself buried by his out-of-breath guardians.

"WE SAW A MONSTER. IT CAME RIGHT UP OUT OF THE OCEAN!"

One woman stood on either side of him and hauled his squirming body away. Minnie stayed behind to check on the young woman. "Miss Juliana, is everything all right?"

Juliana's eyes focused. "My head hurts."

"Do you think that you feel well enough to come back and watch your brother get married?"

Juliana pushed the hair from her eyes and rose steadily to her feet. "Yes." The sun was higher in the sky now and was looking directly at them.

Something like a mild gust of wind wrenched itself from her chest and escaped into the winds. Juliana put a pale hand up to her forehead. The cotton in her brain was gone. She audibly laughed. Something that she had not done in over seven years. Minnie's hand flew to her own mouth. "Oh, my god! Miss Juliana, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Juliana's eyes swept the beach. "You didn't see it?"

"See what, darling?" Minnie's eyes roved over the bare sand.

Juliana could hear her own heart beating. It was almost as loud as the gentle roar of the Atlantic, and just as beautiful. The smells around her became crisper. She held out her arm and saw the sun's rays picking out the individual freckles on her skin, and a fond childhood memory—of her examining her arms in bright sunlight— played out in her mind. She laughed again, this time with more surety. She turned to the woman who had watched over her for so long and through so much and whispered, "Thank you, Minnie. You could have cursed me a hundred times but you never did." She took Minnie's hand and kissed it. "Thank you."

Minnie was now beside herself with worry. She took Juliana's arm. "Come on, love. Let's get back! Your mum and dad will be wondering where you've gone off to."

"Yes," Juliana replied. Juliana found her shoes and put them back on.

Minnie was regarding her intently. "Miss Juliana, tell me what you saw."

Her young charge looked back towards the road. Her lips moved with a heretofore unseen feminine confidence. "I saw my true love rise to journey to the west." Her eyes grew dreamy. "And I am amazed."

#

Camp David, Maryland

11:00 a.m.

Two floors beneath the basement of Camp David's main lodge, the president of the United States, Douglas Haverson, sat at the head of the long commander-in-chief conference table. Matthew Grodin, his secretary of defense; John Voode, the director of DARPA; and Ted Jameston, the vice president, sat in opposing chairs to his left and to his right. At the other end of the table was a wall-sized, flat-screen monitor. Blake Lively, the White House chief of staff, sat a ways down from the other four and busied himself with note taking. William Tennyson, the British prime minister, would soon join them via satellite. Camp David's Situation Room could hold up to twenty individuals, but because of all of the special precautions needed to assure the safety of the president and the vice president, the chief of staff thought it prudent to have this first teleconference with just the five of them physically present.

It was eleven in the morning. The mood was subdued. On top of the mayhem being visited upon them by the Advance South, the president and his staff were being forcibly cloistered at Camp David and were beginning to feel the effects of cabin fever. Washington D.C. was quickly abandoned right after the governors' speech in Atlanta. Camp David was considered the logical place for the government to relocate. It was still in the public eye and not buried beneath ten floors of concrete bunkers in the now off-limits Wyoming mountains. However, the locals were presently up in arms because all of the gas and electric lines from the power companies had been shut off throughout the entire state of Maryland (with the exception of the still crippled Prince George's County) while the president and his staff were in residence. No one wanted a replay of the Los Angeles Fire, but no one wanted to face a winter without electricity or gas either. Those with large propane tanks and mobile generators, like the ones dotting the property at Camp David, were not inconvenienced and were going to be able to ride it out. But many, many others living in the cities were not, and they were making their growing unhappiness known with almost daily street protests. Finding a solution to the problem was high on the president's list of urgent priorities.

The flat screen buzzed to life and displayed the presidential seal.

Beverly Montgomery, the president's personal secretary, walked in. "Sir, the prime minister will be online in thirty seconds."

The president smiled. "Thanks, Beverly." His head wobbled a bit. It was an open secret that his private physician had been supplying him with mild sedatives over the past week. However, it was not known outside his inner circle that he had also been self-medicating in modest amounts. His judgment was not impaired, but his reflexes were noticeably less sharp.

The seal went away, replaced by the leonine head of William Tennyson, prime minister of the United Kingdom and chief consul to His Majesty the King.

The president started the conversation. "Good afternoon, William. The vice president, the secretary of defense, the DARPA director, and my chief of staff, Blake Lively, are with me."

The prime minister's head moved slightly from side to side as he individually acknowledged each man seated with the president.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. How is your weather there?"

The president smiled. "Hot and humid. We're having an extended Indian summer this year."

"Ahh, yes. I remember being on the East Coast several years ago, and I must say that I could not recall such daily misery."

The four Americans chortled. "You get used to it," Haverson replied. "And how is the weather there?"

"Pleasant, actually. Slightly overcast but the temperature is agreeable. I hope to get into my garden before the day is out."

The president nodded. "That sounds ... sensible."

The prime minister cleared his throat. "Douglas, His Majesty sends his greetings and wants to relay to you that he wishes your wife and daughter a speedy and safe return home." The helicopter carrying the president's wife and oldest daughter had vanished somewhere between Pennsylvania and New York. Their GPS systems were offline, and they could not be reached on their cell phones. The fear was that the chopper had gone down in New Jersey. Although New Jersey had declared its allegiance to the Advance South, Washington still maintained diplomatic ties with several influential mayors in the state. They had pledged their help in the search and assured him privately and publicly that no harm would come to his family via an Advance South conduit. However, they could not make the same promises with respect to the hordes of robbers, murderers and rapists now running wild through that region of the country.

Haverson's spine straightened. "Please tell His Majesty that my wife and I appreciate his thoughtfulness, and that no one is looking forward to their coming home more than I."

The prime minister nodded sagely. "I am sure." The prime minister had lost his wife in a tragic boating accident the previous year. He was acutely aware of the brevity of life.

"William, did you happen to catch the governors' speech last week?"

"I and all of Britain, I'm afraid. It was chilling, to say the least. I realize that your administration must put the best face possible on this development but, may I be impolite and ask what you and your people think of it privately?"

"Not impolite at all." He gazed about the conference room. "We believe that the Union should be preserved, and we are committed to pursuing every conceivable diplomatic avenue towards that end. However, we must be pragmatic. The Advance South, as they call themselves, seems determined to hijack this nation's future ... and we cannot allow that to happen."

It had already been established in previous meetings that the general consensus in the White House was that the Advance South had no central command and that their claims of ownership by proxy over states which claimed to support their goals amounted to a virtual Maginot Line.

"Mr. Prime Minister, this is Matt Grodin. Not everyone is in agreement that the Advance South is solely behind these attacks. They have more of the paw prints of Al Queda on them than anyone else."

The prime minister's mouth turned downward. "Are you suggesting that they are colluding with terrorists to bring down your government?"

"To be frank, we don't know what to make of any of this. According to the Advance South, they are as mystified about who caused the LA fires or who planted the Prince George's bombs as we are. And no other group has stepped forward to claim responsibility. Of course, we must not always depend upon terror organizations to operate under the Sunshine Law."

The prime minister lowered his watery brown eyes to half mast. He looked like he had not slept in a week. "Are the governors of these 'rogue' states as equally mystified about the men and women dressed in Advance South uniforms attacking San Francisco and murdering the mayor?"

"William," President Haverson answered, "I've spoken directly with Luke Peterson, the governor of Vermont, and he assures me that he believes that radical elements on the fringe of their party were responsible for that. However, the AS has taken full responsibility for that situation. They've written formal letters of apologies to all of the families who suffered life or property loss in the attack, and they have created and funded a rather sizable trust to guarantee the financial well being of these families for many years to come." Haverson paused. "I've known Peterson since college. He's hard headed and opinionated, but he is not a liar."

"No," the prime minister responded dryly, "just a common traitor."

Haverson shrugged. "He's a traitor to the process. But I would disagree that he's a traitor to the goal."

"That goal being?"

"To create a more perfect union."

Tennyson waved a pale hand through the air, dismissing his words. "Mr. Peterson and his cohorts have not only disrupted American society but have caused economic convulsions throughout the UK and Europe. Ten member nations in the Euro Zone are on the brink of financial collapse. So you'll pardon me if I don't share your romantic sentiments about their activities."

The president did not shrink from the tongue lashing. "William, if I have led you to believe that I sympathize with these individuals, then please forgive me. I was merely trying to partly reveal the motivations of these individuals. In any case, while we have not had any more disasters like Los Angeles, we do have a rather significant level of street violence on our hands."

The prime minister looked concerned. "Are your people making any progress on that front?"

Ted Jameston spoke up. "Mr. Prime Minister, we do have a countermeasure plan in place that will complement the National Guard on this front. It's going to take about a year to get it up and running, barring anymore unforeseen tumult." He gestured towards John Voode. "Mr. Voode is head of DARPA, and as you know, he and MOD have been in collaboration on several projects that can now be tailored specifically to urban warfare."

The prime minister's only response was, "Yes."

Haverson spoke now. "William, the success of these projects depends upon the willingness of our allies in the UK and Europe to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with this administration to meet this or, God forbid, these enemies head on. If I can go to the Senate and confidently tell them that we can count on your support, then I can assure you that we can beat back this challenge to our nation and reinvigorate Europe and Great Britain."

The prime minister began to look uncomfortable. "I see. Douglas, you know that the United Kingdom will do all that it can to assist you through this very challenging time—"

The president flicked his hand. "William, we can discuss the details later. But, don't worry. We will not ask of Great Britain that which he cannot give."

Tennyson relaxed somewhat. "We stand ready to serve."

"And we thank you and pray that your offer is still there when we need it." He shuffled through some of the notes that he had written the day before. "As you are aware, we lost thousands of trained police and military personnel in Maryland and Los Angeles. And, of course, we have close to two hundred thousand military men and women serving in highly sensitive areas throughout the globe. Areas that we cannot conveniently pull out of at the moment. And out of the remaining home-based National Guard, Special Forces, and enlisted men and women, roughly one-half has joined the Advance South. That leaves us with about six hundred thousand troops, National Guardsmen, state police officers and highway patrolmen. We still have over one hundred intact city police and combat fire departments, and a good amount of state militias. In all, we've got about seven hundred thousand boots that we can put on the ground next week, barring any more major attacks. Unfortunately, up until now, we have had to devote a lot of time and energy to taking the fuses out of the flash mobs and the riots."

The British PM interrupted him. "And what about the massacres taking place at these prisons? Has anyone spoken up for those?"

Grodin raised his hand to speak. "Not that we are aware of, sir. Again, it would be hard to pin this on the Advance South. These acts have been quite brutal, and I doubt that they would risk losing public favor by involving themselves. But again, we don't have the complete picture. And, I might add, these particular events do not seem terrorist related."

Tennyson was taking notes. "Yes, that is a cause for great concern. So with this countermeasure plan, you don't really see yourselves getting a handle on this for another year?"

"No, no, no. Probably within a few weeks. Right now we have the National Guard addressing the problem. But within the month they'll be supplemented by Army troops. They should be able to keep a lid on the biggest fires for a while. Then, when some of our other tools come online within a year, we can shift the Army out of these areas and back onto the front lines."

Tennyson smiled some. "Brilliant. Parliament has authorized me to supply you with up to five thousand troops over the next six months, so please bear that in mind."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's a trickle right now, but do not be daunted. If we stay the course and do not lose our nerve, I, too, believe that together we'll be able to achieve ultimate victory and staunch this feeling of ... of loss of control that's pooling around the ankles."

The president did not respond.

The prime minister leaned forward. "America, we will never leave you." Those words were fast becoming an international catch phrase, but hearing it come out of the mouth of the British PM never failed to bolster Yankee confidence. Not even in the bunkered Oval Office.

The connection cut off before it could record the tears that had sprung into President Haverson's eyes.

Later that afternoon, the president was comfortably seated in the backyard behind his private quarters with Brett Hunter, his quad captain back at Harvard and now chief confidante, and Booger, the First Dog. The two men sat on cherry wood rocking chairs and sipped mint juleps. For a while the only noise was the occasional sound of one or the other slapping mosquitoes against their exposed faces and arms.

Harverson pointed to a mammoth oak tree thrusting from the ground near the yard's rear fence.

"The first time Kelly and I came to Camp David we got drunk one night and ran out here buck naked and carved our initials into that tree. Then someone leaked the story to the local press, and the environmentalists crawled up our asses screaming bloody murder. But those were good times. People talk about 'good times' so much it's become a cliché, but we were really having a ball. The campaign had emptied us, we were near broke, Kelly had just chipped her two front teeth on a ski vacation in Utah, and I had just become the effing president of the United States! I remember us going over a stack of bills one night, and she was worried about how we were going to pay for the dentist. Then it dawned on me, 'Babe, we don't have to! 'Cause I'm the effing president of the United States. And you're the effing First Lady! This one's on the taxpayers!'"

He fell silent and the sun visibly dropped a little farther down towards the horizon. It appeared to be in a hurry.

"So how are you doing, Doug?" his old friend asked.

"Me? Oh, I'm fine." He scrunched his shoulders. "Well, things could be a little better, I guess."

They both laughed.

Haverson fiddled with a button on his shirt. "Hey, how about you? Business still good?"

Hunter shuffled his big feet. "Okay, I guess. But things could be a little better."

Haverson looked away. "Amen."

"Douglas, open your hands."

Haverson turned to his friend. "What?"

"Your hands." Hunter was pointing at Haverson's two tightly clenched fists. Red, half-moon cuts crisscrossed themselves on both palms. "You're stressing too much."

Haverson grunted. "Wouldn't you say that I had plenty to stress about? I would have never in my wildest imagination believed that this country would have to endure something like this again. I always saw us all going down together swinging at the end."

Hunter nodded. "You and the others ... you're doing your best. Just keep it together."

"Yeah. That's the trick, isn't it? Keeping it together. Well, pardon my French, but what the hell for? We're standing at the brink of the abyss, and our best and brightest are lining up outside the Canadian embassy trying to get their visas. Nobody believes in us anymore. Not the Senate. Not the people. Not the prime minister. Nobody!"

Hunter feigned solemnity. "Booger believes."

Haverson harrumphed. "Booger believes because I don't let him watch the news." He reached down and affectionately scratched the old dog's head. "But most have given up."

His companion demurred. "That's not true and you know it. It's just been so damn hard for people for too long ... and now their memes have lost their virtue."

Haverson groaned. "And we bark ten dollar words to an empty hall. My entire life built for this office." He chucked a piece of wood at the ground. "It is no longer a splendid misery. Just a misery."

"For sure, we've seen happier days. But we still have many and great allies."

"Maybe not so many anymore, but the ones that we have, yes, they are still great. I ... I just hope that we're all up to the task." The president sighed through his bones.

Brett Hunter had known Douglas Haverson for over twenty years and had never known the man to be anything other than a zealous optimist. But the Doug Haverson sitting next to him now was a changed man. The country headed for civil war on his watch would be difficult enough for any president to have to bear, but to also have his wife and daughter trapped behind enemy lines and literally fighting for their lives at the same time .... Well, it placed the entire situation on too nightmarish a level. And the Doug Haverson of today knew that, and was openly spending more and more time attempting to retreat from it.

Haverson flicked a dead insect from his wrist. "I heard you went out to tour southern California last month. What's it like now?"

Hunter scratched his head. "Well, it's ... real different."

Haverson shook his head, his mouth a straight line. "No doubt."

"The Los Angeles basin is under about fifteen meters of water. And it's still raining, so that may not change anytime soon. You don't see any signs of what used to be there. Doug, this is going to sound coldhearted, but it's almost peaceful out there. Maybe 'settled' is a better word."

Haverson was pensive. "That area was experiencing a lot of ... pain." He flung another piece of wood after the first. "I just hope that all the big brains at Stanford and Berkeley can figure out how this happened so that we can prevent something like it from ever happening again."

"Um, Doug, Kelly has been gone for almost a month now, right?"

"Uh-huh. That's right. Seems longer."

"Well, are you getting any relief? You know. When you aren't on duty?"

"Oh, sure. I still have my personal staff. They aren't the perky bunch that they used to be, but they're still getting their jobs done."

"Yes, but ... well, I meant, aren't there women on your staff who would be willing to provide you with private service?"

Haverson was thinking. "Well, come to mention it, Beverly, right out of the blue, asked me if she could bake a meatloaf for me. You know, a real home cooked meal. That touched my heart."

"Any other touching going on?"

"Come again?"

"Never mind."

"I'll be glad when Kelly gets home. It gets lonely. Especially at night."

Haverson picked up his half-empty glass and glared at it. "Wish this thing had some whiskey in it."

Hunter's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Why? You don't drink the hard stuff."

Booger stood, stretched, and then plopped back down again.

"I do now. Sometimes." He crossed his legs. "Call it a coincidence, but on the day after the Inauguration, I received a book in the mail from my great aunt. It was a biography of Abraham Lincoln."

"Oh? You read it?"

"No time. To be frank, it's not something that I want to have in my head right now. But I appreciated her thinking about me."

"So what did you do with it? Pitch it out the nearest window?"

"Nah. I'll hang onto it. You never know; it might come in handy one day." He regarded Booger. "Lincoln felt that America had to be held together no matter what. He was fighting for the marriage. I don't quite feel the same way. Sometimes things can't be worked out. Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and call in the divorce lawyers. What's happening is gawd-awful, but I can't help but think that maybe it's the way that it should be."

"But that isn't what you told the prime minister, right?"

"I haven't told anyone except Kelly and you. And Booger. And it doesn't go past this backyard, understood?"

Hunter nodded.

Haverson cupped his knees with both hands. "The prime minister said that it seemed like we'd lost control of things. He was questioning our competence. And I'll admit, that hurt a bit. And, I guess I mentally pushed back on that. But to be honest, I feel it too. But it doesn't make me hopeless. Change is coming to this nation whether we want it or not. But change can be a positive, even necessary thing." He suddenly stood up. "Hey! Come here!"

He bounded across the yard towards the giant oak tree with Booger and his friend trailing behind him.

Haverson began to run his hands over the oak's tight bark. "It should be right around here." He searched high and low. Hunter sauntered over to a cedar fence that ran east to west several meters behind the tree and approximately six meters in front of a large koi pond. Haverson was now trying to climb the tree. "I'm pretty sure that we put our initials on this tree. It's the only one back here."

Hunter's attention wandered over to the fish pond. A few koi were swimming in slow circles, watching him closely in case he had food to toss in. A large basketball was bobbing close to the surface. Well, that shouldn't be there, he thought. I'd better fish it out. Hunter inched closer to get a better look. No, it wasn't a ball. It almost looked like some type of fruit. The smooth skin was fleshy, and he thought that he could see a wispy stem emerging from the top. Suddenly it zipped to the other side of the pond to hide beneath a cluster of water lilies. "What on earth?" Hunter was ready to hop the fence when he heard Haverson call out, "I found it! Brett, come here!"

Hunter took leave of the pond mystery and followed Haverson's voice. The president was lying on the grass near the base of the trunk. "See!"

Hunter stooped over. Sure enough there were two sets of neatly carved initials set inside a large irregular heart. He joined the president on the soft ground.

"Are you happy now?"

Haverson sat up. "I'm happy now. It's still there. We are still there." His eyes grew distant.

"Doug," Hunter said, "the last time I saw you, you mentioned that there were several classified military projects on the boards. Projects that might help us tip the scales in this fight."

"That was off the record."

"Fine. But I've worked with a lot of the guys who are out at Los Alamos and Space Command, and from what I gather you'll have some pretty interesting components in your toolbox."

Haverson did not reply.

"Doug, they aren't coming out and telling me what they're working on. I'm inferring a lot. Filling in the blanks. But if I'm halfway right, then we may be on the brink of an evolutionary jump in technology. And once this is verified and the average Joe on the street knows about it ... well, it might be pretty scary for a lot of them."

Haverson shrugged. "These are all black ops projects. The public won't know about them until after we've declared victory. And by then, it won't matter much."

"Yes, but some of what you're doing is going to make many people redundant or even obsolete."

Haverson slapped his thigh with force. "Then so be it. We're going that way regardless. Whether it's the Advance South or global warming, what's the difference? Better that we save a few than lose them all, wouldn't you say? Gurdjieff said that it only took two hundred people to run the world anyway." He took a deep breath. "Look, man has had a long run. A lot's happened because we made it happen. But there are now seven billion of us. To my reckoning that's about five billion too many. We've exhausted our natural resources, killed off thousands of other species, polluted just about every stream, lake, and ocean there is to pollute, and now we're turning on each other for the nth time, fighting over the leftovers. It's the Law of the Bungled Jungle. Only the smart, the swift, and the strong will survive. There's where your real 'evolutionary jump' will be. And in the end, the human race—hell, the entire planet—will be the better for it. And you can take that to the bank and cash it!"

Hunter looked thoughtful. "And so these projects have your blessings?"

"Yeah." The president regarded his old friend. "Why? Is that important to you?"

"Yes. It is."

Haverson stood and wiped the grass and dirt from his pants. "I've got another conference call in fifteen. How long are you staying?"

"I'm pushing off tonight."

The two friends shook hands. "As always, it's good talking to you, Brett."

"Same here, Douglas."

#

Sixty Kilometers South of Carson City, Nevada

Samuel Joseph Martinez kicked the can a good four meters down the rusty tracks. He smiled, satisfied. That one—his eighth that day— had gone the farthest. He unscrewed the canteen hanging from his neck and took a swig of water. It had been an unexpected gift from a businessman in Carson City. Martinez still wondered why a man driving a new Porsche was carrying around an old canteen full of water.

He had been on the move since dawn, hugging the Nevada desert's ruler straight train tracks that never seemed to lead anywhere. It would have been more enjoyable to walk beneath the sporadic tree line that ran parallel to the tracks; the trees would offer shade and cool breezes. But there were other men and women in the desert with him. People like him who had suddenly found themselves set loose into the world from diverse prisons, real and imagined. Like him, they were delusional, half unhinged. Unlike him, many of them were dangerous. And they preferred to travel beneath the trees. So Martinez walked the rails. Unfortunately, the train tracks had their own perils, too. There were robbers, aggressive coyotes, and people who took pleasure in just being mean. The day before a man had sicced his Rottweiler on him. Just for fun. If he had not been carrying a walking stick, he might not have made it out of that situation with just a few scratches.

He stared down the rails, squinting to find the tracks' vanishing point. Dusk was gathering and visibility was poor. There. A wide bend was coming up ... maybe half a kilometer down. He would probably reach it before dark. He kept walking. An ATV roared past. He could not tell who was inside but caught a snatch of their music, a loud country western song.

He kept walking. He really did not know where he was going but knew he didn't want to go west. It would be getting cold soon, so north and east were out of the question. South seemed like the best direction.

Lights flicked on not too far away, not too far from the tracks. He could see figures moving about. It was probably someone's campsite. In the nine days that he had been traveling he had come across three. It was usually a group of travelers like himself, traveling light and keeping under the radar and away from the trees. He was soon abreast of the makeshift camp. He could see a few men, a couple of women, and two small children. They were huddled around a large bonfire. They had pulled an oven rack over the smaller flames. On top sat a large stew pot and an aluminum coffee pot. One of the women happened to turn in his direction and spotted him.

"Hey!" She waved at him as if she knew him. "Are you hungry?" she called out.

Martinez scanned the others at the camp, looking for signs of potential trouble. But every face was either intent on some task or just gazing into the fire. Martinez did not need to be asked twice.

"Okay!" He instinctively straightened his jacket. "Thanks!"

The woman scooted over on the large boulder that she was sitting on to give him a seat. She had long black hair and a dark, ruddy complexion. "I was hoping I'd see you again!" she said happily.

"Yeah? Have we met before?"

"Yeah! Don't you remember? A couple of weeks ago. We were both at the Wyman Shelter in Carson City. You helped me carry my suitcase upstairs and I gave you a Red Bull."

"Oh, yeah. I remember now." But he didn't. That bothered him. He was discovering a lot of gaps in his memory lately.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. Two toddlers were huddled next to her. Their faces were dirty, but they seemed happy enough. They were passing a toy car back and forth and giggling incessantly about it. That made Martinez smile. A child could make merry about the smallest of things.

"Yes," he replied.

She motioned towards the young man standing over the fire with a ladle. "Carl is cooking pinto beans with hot dogs. And we've got a loaf of sourdough bread that ain't too old."

"Sounds good." He looked around and then found himself staring at the crackling flames.

"My name's Aimee Notowa." She spelled it out for him.

"That sounds native American."

"I'm from the Washoe tribe. My family's back in Lake Tahoe."

"You're a long way from home."

Some of her cheerfulness left her. "I haven't been home for a while."

"Where you been?"

"On the streets mostly. Drinking mostly."

"Oh."

She glanced down. "What happened to your arm?"

She was pointing to the swollen, rusty stripes left behind by the Rottweiler. "Dog got me."

The young woman pulled out four small packages from inside her bag and handed them to him. "They're antibiotic wipes. Take 'em. You don't want that to get infected."

Martinez pocketed the packages. He said, "thank you," with a small bow of his head.

Carl was now handing out paper bowls of beans to everyone. A hunk of bread had been placed inside of each of them. Martinez took the food with gratitude. Before he ate, he offered a small prayer of thanks.

"Are you a believer?" Aimee asked.

Martinez considered her question. "I guess so." He exhaled. "I'm a little confused right now."

"Yeah? Me, too!"

Carl handed her a bowl of beans, and she shared it with the children.

"I've been like searching for ... love, I guess," she began. "My parents were divorced, and my mom and I didn't get along. So I left. And then I met this guy who seemed to have his act together, and of course I found out he didn't. So I left, and I got realllly poor. And then I got realllly pregnant. But I found a job and we were doing okay and then the company went broke and laid everybody off and I started drinking again. CPS took away my kids, and then I just kinda bottomed out." She cackled. "Man, I was wasted two years straight. That's some binge, huh?"

Martinez was nonjudgmental.

"And then, a couple of weeks ago, I don't know where I was. Passed out somewhere. And I remember waking up with this terrible headache. Man, it felt like my brain had live wires in it, you know? So I got up, 'cause I was feeling nauseous and I made it to the bathroom and—I don't want to gross you out while you're eating—but I coughed up this big ol' snot ball!"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not kidding, man! It was big as my thumb and all slimy and shit! Anyway, I flushed it down the toilet and lay down. And when I woke up I felt ... different." She touched her chest. "Something inside of me had changed. That sick in me was gone." She gave the children another spoonful of beans. "Anyway, from that day on I haven't had a drink. I can't even stand to smell the stuff."

Martinez set down his empty bowl. "That's a good story. It reminds me of what I'm going through."

"Yeah?" she asked.

He wiped bean juice from his mouth. "I was in prison." He caught her look of instant alarm. "Don't worry: I've never hurt nobody. I was selling drugs and got caught."

She smiled at him, encouraging him to continue.

"I was going through a pretty rough patch. My parents got killed in a car accident. Then my wife told me that since I couldn't support the family from jail that she was taking our babies and moving back to Brazil to stay with her mother." He put his hands out to the fire to warm them. "That broke my heart. I was only dealing 'cause I was trying to keep up with the rent. But she don't understand all that. She wrote me a note and then she was gone. I felt like I didn't have anyone to turn to. And forgive me for saying this, but I felt like God had abandoned me. I mean, I'd made mistakes, but I'm not a bad person. I swear to God, I never hurt nobody." He chewed on his lower lip. "I didn't have one soul in my corner. I guess I was just waiting to die."

"When did they release you? Did you try and contact your wife? Tell her that you were out?"

Martinez grunted. "Well, that's the strange part. They didn't release me. Last week, I was asleep in my cell. I'd been sick. Running a fever and puking my guts out. The doc gave me antibiotics and they knocked me out. But I kept waking up and hearing things, but you always hear things in prison. But it was different and ... scary. And I just went back to sleep for a while." He paused to flex his grimy hands. "So I finally wake up and there's this—I dunno—the walls were crawling with shadows. Un fantasma negro? Something stood right next to my bed. I couldn't see the face but I saw the eyes ... you know ... like in my mind. And I got real upset—I guess I was losing it by then—and it's telling me, 'Samuel, get up. You're free to go. Get up. Yadda-yadda-yadda.' At first I thought one of the guards was playing with me. Then I noticed that the door to my cell was wide open. I waited a while, then I walked around. At first I didn't see no one. No guards, no other prisoners. So I kept going. Seems like I walked for hours. Then I went out to the exercise yard ... and I found them." His eyes squeezed shut against the memory. He continued, "I ran out of there. Every door, every gate was open. I never did find a guard. Not even in the yard. I don't know what happened."

Aimee sat very still. The fire was dying down, and the cold night air was seeping in around them.

"Thanks for listening, Aimee."

She nodded. "Glad to. Hey, we've got an extra blanket. You can bunk with us tonight. I'm sure Carl won't mind."

For the first time in many, many months his heart felt glad about something.

The next day Carl's little band was back on the tracks. Martinez was with them, bringing up the rear behind Aimee and the children, who divided their time between darting in and out of the track bed and sneaking looks at him.

After taking a short break for lunch, Carl led them underneath a highway overpass and across a busy intersection to a crowded truck stop. There was a Quick Mart across from the pumping stations. Carl queried everyone in the group, asking if they had any money to spare. A couple of dollar bills and change spilled into his hands. Martinez made a show of going through his pockets. He knew that they were empty. When Carl reached him, he displayed his empty hands.

"That's all right," Carl said and then pushed through the smudged glass doors.

While they were waiting for him, Martinez and Aimee chatted while keeping a close eye on the children.

"What are their names?" he asked.

"Cody and Isabel. Nice, huh?"

"Nice. Cody has your eyes."

"Really? Huh. He isn't mine."

"These aren't your kids?"

"No."

"Oh," he replied, somewhat embarrassed.

"I didn't steal them if that's what you're thinking."

"No. I wasn't thinking that."

The Quick Mart doors swung out and they looked up. A tall man with a head full of fuzzy curls stepped out. He was probably in his mid-twenties and dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and sandals. A younger version of himself walked beside him. The two men were talking excitedly to each other until the taller one caught sight of Aimee and the children. His eyes then took in the others and he stopped talking. Martinez was afraid that the stranger was going to harass them. He pulled the children back towards Aimee.

The strangers came towards them. Martinez tensed.

The taller man raised his hand in greeting. "Hi!" There was a picture of Mickey Mouse on his shirt.

Only Aimee responded hesitantly. "Hi."

"You guys traveling?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered.

He glanced at the dirt on the children's faces and hands. And then the most unlikely thing in the world happened. The stranger pulled out his wallet, dug around inside, and pulled out a handful of bills. He handed one to each one of them, including Cody and Isabel.

"They have public showers right over there." He pointed to a long, metal building beyond a row of semis. "You can get showered up and maybe get a hot lunch for the little ones."

Martinez stared at the bill in his hand. It was a twenty.

Aimee laughed. "Okay! Thank you, sir!"

The stranger grinned. "No problem."

Martinez whispered his thanks. The stranger and his companion looked all of them over once again.

"If you're ever in Santa Fe and you need some work, look us up." The stranger pulled out a plastic card and handed it to Aimee. "Here's my Wa-Ping."

The strangers waved bye-bye to Cody and Isabel and then jumped inside of a Jeep Wrangler parked alongside a gas pump. Within seconds they were gone.

Aimee was marveling at the money in her hand. "What a nice guy."

"Yeah," Martinez agreed. "Weird." And for the second time in many, many months his heart felt glad about something. Carl emerged from the store carrying four bottles of water, and he invited everyone in the group to take a drink from them.

Then it began to rain.

#

The Nevada Desert

They were headed east on Interstate 80. There were four of them in the lead Land Rover: Lieutenant Brady, another special forces soldier who sported long hair and a bushy beard and who went by the name of Danny, Eric Powell, and Neal Broussard. The two soldiers were dressed in street clothes—cowboy hats, jeans, and steel-toe boots.

Danny was driving, Brady was in the passenger seat underneath a set of headphones, and the two prisoners were in the back. Broussard sensed rather than saw that Danny, who gave the impression of being a laid-back hippie type, was the one packing the serious heat. They both comported themselves with that same almost lackadaisical intensity that the prison guards sometimes exhibited to lull the hard heads at Lincoln Hills into thinking that deep down they really weren't capable of blowing anybody's head off should trouble arise. It was one of the more insidious aspects of psychological warfare happening at the prison and certainly one of the more successful ones.

Broussard considered the phrase "lackadaisical intensity." That was no oxymoron. On the surface Brady and Danny were very easygoing, only mildly jingoistic fellows. But if you watched them closely, you noticed that their eyes were in constant motion, scanning the dash, sweeping the road ahead, darting to the rearview mirror back at their passengers. And, of course, one arm was always being flexed and stretched to be loose and at the ready in case they needed to squeeze off a quick shot with the other.

Broussard did not like guns.

That's why it had been so ironic that it had been a gun that had sent him to prison. But then again maybe not. He liked knives even less. To be honest, he harbored no real emotional attachment for any tool of violence. Not even a meaty pair of hams in a good fistfight. He had just wanted to live and let live. He looked out his window. It needed washing. Funny. He had heard that the military was gung-ho on keeping their equipment clean. Of course, these were different times.

There was no partition between the front and back seats, but there was a slot for one. It was either down or had been removed. Broussard had half a mind to find out which by suddenly lunging forward, but ... well, what was the point of most assuredly getting shot on such a bright and sunny morning?

Besides these ruminations, he was experiencing an intense state of existential dissociative disorder. He had absolutely no idea what that meant; he had just made it up, but it sounded about right. He was experiencing a powerful feeling that he was dreaming, that he wasn't inside his physical body but somehow able to see himself move through life as if through a tiny wormhole in another dimension ... . Put another way: Three days ago he had been imprisoned in a maximum security prison facing three consecutive life sentences. Today, he was traveling through the Nevada desert to a military base with top secret work orders signed by some general holed up in the Pentagon in the midst of America's second civil war. If a tornado had just sucked him up out of Kansas and dropped him dead center into the Land of Oz, he would not have been more disoriented. It almost felt as though he had abruptly phased into a parallel life where he and his companions were the same but everything else had jumped to the next level of play. He brushed the diminishing bump on top of his head. It had been there three days ago, when he was still a chained felon. It was still there as they tore down the highway, the wind in their hair. He was here, he told himself. He was here.

Powell elbowed him. "You got one, too." He made a show of rubbing the top of his own head.

Broussard was confused. "What are you talking about?"

"You've got a big knot on your head. So do I." He spread himself out more on the roomy bench seat. "They LoJacked us," he said beneath his breath.

Broussard's hand flew to the bump on his head. "What?"

Powell put a finger to his lips. "Shhh." And then he put his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes.

The others—Hillerman, Chang, Walters, Dina Hodges, Bautista, and the two soldiers (who had by then been identified as members of the military police)—were about a mile behind them in two identical vehicles. After their little motorcade wended through the bulk of the Ruby Mountains, they found themselves coasting downhill on a sharp grade. They had probably five to six additional kilometers to go before they reached the desert's floor again. A roadside sign whipped by which let them know that they had sixty kilometers to go before they reached the town of Port Arthur.

Something unusual caught Broussard's eye. "Hey, Danny. Smoke at ten o'clock."

Danny peered through the windshield. "I see it."

Three huge columns of jet black smoke were rising in the distance. They snaked up into the skies for at least two hundred meters, their fat tops merging with the soft, white underbellies of a family of passing cumulus clouds.

Powell craned his neck to get a look. "This isn't some remnant of the fire in LA, is it?"

Danny shook his head. "No. We're too far north. Besides, ten hours after the Los Angeles fire a storm front moved in and dumped twenty inches of rain on the area. No fires, no smoke." He rubbed the corner of his eye with his index finger. "They couldn't have planned that better if they'd tried."

Brady scraped off his headphones and straightened up in his seat. "There might be trouble up ahead. Maybe we should—"

WHUUUMP!

Lieutenant Brady yelped in pain.

Powell's head whipped around. "WHAT WAS THAT?"

The Land Rover was struck again on its right side, and it rocked violently on its axles. Danny jammed on the brakes too hard and the SUV fishtailed—tires screeching. They skidded backwards, and then slammed rear end first into a guard rail that skirted the left edge of the road. They were now sitting in the left hand lane. If another vehicle were to come around the next curve at cruising speed it would have no choice but to T-bone them.

Danny gunned the engine and maneuvered the Rover back onto the right side of the road. The other three Rovers caught up with them.

Brady rolled down his window at shouted at Hillerman. "Let's pull over at the next turnout and reconnoiter."

Danny drove another quarter of a mile before pulling into a turnout on the shoulder. A high wall of rock and dirt bordered the road here, steeply sloping off into some invisible plateau. Everyone got out to examine the damage. Brady was limping. There was a dent a little less than a meter in diameter in the passenger door. There was also a little blood in the center of the crater, along with a few tufts of short brown hair.

Danny snatched up a few of the hairs. "Looks like maybe a deer hit it. Or a moose."

Brady hopped over to examine the offending hairs, his jaws tight with pain. "Well, they've got plenty of deer up in these parts. Moose, no."

Powell looked back down the highway that they had just traveled on. "Should we go back and see? It might be injured."

Danny shook his head. "No."

The others drove up and pulled onto the shoulder behind them. It occurred to Broussard that other than the Land Rovers, they had not seen another vehicle on the road since they had entered the Ruby Hills pass. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with air. It felt crisp and clean with no hint of any particulate matter from the distant fires.

Scowling, Hillerman jumped out of his Rover. Chang, Walters, and Dina trailed him.

Danny showed him the damaged door. "We got dinged pretty good. You guys see anything back there?"

Hillerman squinted at the damage to the Rover's door and then at Lieutenant Brady standing mutely on one foot. "There's a grizzly bleeding out on the side of the road about a klick back."

Danny's eyebrows lifted. "A grizzly? Bear?"

"Yeah. I can't be one hundred percent sure; it's in bad shape."

Danny nodded. "Well, I don't think that we've sustained any serious damage. We can still make it to the checkpoint. We'll get a fresh mount there." His eyes panned down the road. "You see that smoke?"

Hillerman rubbed his chin. "Yep. Looks bad."

Dina stepped forward with measured authority. Broussard watched her. She had arranged her long blonde hair in its customary ponytail, and she was wearing fresh makeup. Even Chang's long face had brightened some since the last time they had all been together back at the Lab. Seeing familiar faces trying to get back to some kind of normalcy helped a lot. The specter of sheer panic that had been capering in every collection of shadows was gone... or at least harassing someone else. And the thick fear that the entire world had suddenly turned upside down had lifted. Not entirely. But, a bit. Enough to let those inclined to want to stop and suckle the still unworried and sweet air flowing over and between mother earth's teats.

Dina approached Major Hillerman. "Are we still going to be able to reach that checkpoint?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's about fifteen minutes away. Problems?"

"Well, I'm concerned about Mike, of course. And I really need to place a couple of phone calls. I'll be able to do that, right?"

"I believe so," he replied reassuringly. "The cell phones are out for some reason, but we have a secure landline that you can use." He added, "Briefly."

Bautista was stretched out in the backseat of the last Rover, accompanied by the two MPs, Corporal Graber and Corporal Stavros. He was conscious but not making a lot of sense. Major Hillerman had decided that since they didn't know what kind of facilities Port Arthur had operational that it would be best to have him examined by the medics at the Army checkpoint which had been erected a forty kilometers outside the town limits.

Dina turned to Chang. "I need to talk to Beau." Beau was Dina's husband. "And I need to get in touch with Janice to see if she's heard from Grace about those apartments." Broussard and Walters were listening intently, following the conversation. From prior eavesdroppings, they knew that Janice was Dina's assistant, and that Grace Montgomery worked at the Huntsville, Alabama facility in some unknown capacity.

Chang allowed her a vaguely concerned look. It was quite apparent that personal logistics fell well outside his comfort zone. Dina sighed and started back towards her Rover.

None of them saw it coming. A streak of grey and brown arced against the sky. And then it thudded onto the ground into their midst. Everyone jumped.

The full-grown wolf looked around at the startled humans with jiggly eyes for a second and then took off, running due south. Before anyone had time to properly react, three mule deer practically tumbled down the hill, landed on the shoulder directly in front of the wounded Rover, got their bearings, and galloped away. Again south.

Danny, grinning crazily, shouted to Brady. "I'm half expecting to see a giraffe run by!" As soon as he had uttered those words, two tigers appeared at the edge of the hill, tensed and then jumped the seven meters onto the road below. One of them slammed into Danny, upended him, and then continued a flat out run with its partner after the deer. The group watched in amazement as the tigers caught up with the running bucks, accelerated, and then passed them. Within a very few seconds only a turbulent dust trail could be seen.

Broussard helped Danny to his feet. He looked slightly dazed but managed to mumble, "Thanks ... . What the hell?"

Before the prisoner could offer an interpretation of these extraordinary events, there came a rushing, thundering river of animals over the low cliff—more deer, buffalo, hawks, opossums, beavers, snakes, dogs, prairie dogs, house cats, black bears, boars, and horses of every color—all making a frantic dash for the southern horizon.

"GET INTO THE TRUCKS!" Hillerman shouted above the din of beating hooves and snorts.

Everyone dove for cover inside the Rovers. Minutes passed. A half hour later the river of living flesh slowed to a trickle ... and then to nothing. The last creature over the road was a lone bald eagle.

Blanched faces pressed up against dusty windows and watched it go. Powell wiped sweat from his brow. "There goes our national symbol hauling ass. Does anyone see the irony there?"

No one answered him. Hillerman and Danny stepped outside again.

Danny stood watch on the road while Hillerman climbed up the embankment to see if there was anything else headed their way. He was away for about twenty minutes and then returned, skiing down the dirty hillside with just the hard soles of his boots. Powell sneered. "I thought these guys were Special Forces. Why didn't he snorkel down?"

Hillerman gave a thumbs up. "It looks clear. Must be escapees from a private sanctuary close by." He looked back over his shoulder again. "Okay. We're done here. Let's move out!"

The Rovers eased back onto the highway.

Within another half hour they reached the checkpoint. A sturdy barricade had been centered across the road. Armed Army soldiers stood guard on either side. Six large cargo trucks were parked side by side to the left, along with a small contingent of Jeeps and nondescript American cars. One of the soldiers gave them the halt signal. The back door to the truck closest to the road opened, and another soldier wearing a beret and brass on his shirt pockets jumped out and headed straight for Hillerman's Rover. The two officers conversed for a while, and then Hillerman stepped out of the vehicle. He looked away and gave a hand signal to Brady, who in turn exited his vehicle, hopping on one foot. The rest watched as the three men briefly chatted. Then Brady hopped back to the Rover

He leaned inside the driver's open window and spoke to Danny. "They're going to take Mr. Bautista inside and have him examined. They have an M.D. and some X-ray equipment."

"Okay," Danny replied.

"Miss Hodges is going to make her phone calls, and I've got to have this leg looked at. We ought to be here for about two hours."

"Okay," Danny said. "If we finish up on time, that will still give us enough daylight to find our hotel in Port Arthur and maybe take a look-see at what's causing all that smoke."

Brady straightened up and put on a pair of aviator sunglasses. "Yes." He looked at the men in the backseat. "In the meantime, y'all can stretch your legs a bit." Powell and Broussard stepped out of the Rover and made a little show of stretching.

Brady pointed across the road, behind the barricades. "They've got some chow if you're hungry. And a latrine. Danny can take you around."

Powell spoke. "Are we allowed to make a phone call?"

"Not yet. We're on a military comm system. Wait until we roll into Port Arthur. I'll fix you up at the hotel."

"Do you think that the cell phones will be working there?"

"Probably not. Whatever's happening seems to be system wide. But the landlines should be fine. And you'll have the Internet."

Powell stuck out his hand towards Brady. "Thanks."

Brady shook it. "No problem. Don't forget to eat. We've still got a lot of road ahead of us."

Danny first led Walters, Powell, and Broussard to an airy tent that contained several clean portable toilets. The convicts relieved themselves and freshened up with wet paper towels. Then he took them a ways out to an open air kitchen. They were surprised to see almost thirty soldiers seated at various tables, chatting quietly and eating. A few looked their way but not for long. Apparently they had been out in the desert long enough for acute boredom to have taken hold of their natural curiosity.

As Danny fell away to speak with a clutch of soldiers lounging nearby, the prisoners grabbed trays and fell into the serving line.

Powell asked for the chili and cornbread. Broussard had a bowl of soup and a sandwich and Walters made do with chicken teriyaki and steamed rice. To everyone's surprise, everything looked and smelled quite appetizing. As they compared their meal choices, they commented upon how refreshing it was to not have to experience the usual bitching and kill-or-be-killed stresses that always occurred back at Lincoln's cafeteria. The convicts pulled drinks from the soda dispenser and grabbed an empty table.

The prisoners practically lived in their bowls after that first bite. Every now and then someone tried to make some light conversational noises, but the focus was definitely on the food. After they had finished up, they lounged in their chairs and rubbed their bellies.

Conversation dried up as each man became lost in his own thoughts. Broussard tapped his right temple. His head felt better. There was a lot less pain and greater ease in stringing complex thoughts together. He was healing. Unexpectantly, an image of him pummeling Speitz to a bloody pulp came to him. He swatted it down.

A small commotion at the table brought him back to the Nevada desert. Bautista was suddenly standing in their midst, his head swaddled in gauze. The others welcomed him with much back slapping and other genuine signs of affection.

"Mike, hey! It's good to see you!" That was Powell. There was generally no love lost between them, but Powell's words rang true.

Bautista was grinning from ear to ear. "Thanks," he responded with equal sincerity. He tugged on the bandage wrapped around his head. "Believe it or not, I was trying to miss that door."

They all laughed.

"Are you hungry?" Broussard asked him. "The food's pretty good."

"Naw. My head feels pretty scrambled right now. Food would just make me nauseous."

He pulled up a chair.

"What did the doctor say?" Walters asked.

"Concussion. Pretty bad one, I guess, from the way he was looking at me all crazy like. I'll be okay. My brain has to heal."

Powell chewed on his straw. "And then you'll be back to abnormal."

"It will take some time, but you'll start to feel better," Broussard told him.

"Oh, that's right. You had a concussion, too. I think Neal started a trend. Van, I guess you're next."

Walters put up his hand. "No, thanks. I'll leave the head banging to the experts."

Bautista nervously tapped the table with his fingers. "It's weird being out of the hole, ain't it?"

There was a round of yeahs.

"I mean, Lincoln's been my crib since—" he held out his arm "—I was this high."

Walters cocked his face forward. "Mike, you mean to tell us that you went to prison while you were still in elementary school?"

"No, man. High school. I was just short."

Powell grew serious. "Well, don't worry. You'll see Lincoln again." He glanced around. "I guess we all will."

Bautista bit his lower lip. "Unless these guys let us go."

Danny rejoined them at their table and their conversation. "Don't get your hopes up."

That sent a ripple of resentment around the table. If that bothered Danny, he gave no clue.

Walters let out a little evil laugh. "The world's over, baby. We might soon be free men anyway."

Danny was polite. "Not on my watch."

Bautista's finger tapping increased in strike velocity. "Yeah? You got tags on us?"

Danny's spine uncurled until it was ram-rod straight. "If you have any questions about security or your legal status—present or future—I suggest that you ask Mr. Chang or Miss Hodges." His eyes flicked to Bautista and he added, "At the appropriate time."

The tension was mounting to uncomfortable levels, and the convicts realized that not one of them was in a position to successfully initiate any hostilities against Danny or anyone else. Broussard glanced at the soldiers sitting closest to them. They were all staring at them, their earlier indifference replaced by icy interest. It then occurred to him that they really did not need to piss these guys off. America had hit a serious speed bump, and a bunch of convicts were probably better off in the protection of the United States military than at the mercy of an unstable public.

He decided to vocalize a white flag. "Thanks, Danny." The tension broke.

Danny suddenly stood for no reason. Broussard envisioned him pulling out a semi-automatic rifle and coldly blasting them to bloody pieces.

"Sir."

"At ease." Major Hillerman was on the scene with Lieutenant Brady, Chang, and Dina. They all carried food trays. Lieutenant Brady's right leg was in a partial cast. "May we join you?"

"Please."

The convicts relaxed.

Hillerman pulled an empty table and four chairs next to theirs.

"How's the food?" Dina asked.

"Surprisingly edible," Walters offered. "I had the chicken teriyaki. It was scrumptious."

Dina made an unhappy face. "I wanted the chili, but my stomach has been so queasy. So I decided to just have egg salad." She took a bite. "Hmm. That is tasty!"

Then Chang took charge. "Guys, after we check into our rooms in Port Arthur and get settled in, we'll have a staff meeting. Not more than an hour. If you have any questions, Dina and I will try to address them if we can. But the important thing is that you'll have restricted access to a telephone and to the Internet. Just don't abuse the privileges."

Walters raised his hand. "Question."

"Shoot."

"What's going on in Port Arthur? Do we know whose side they're on?"

Hillerman took this question. "As far as we know, they are on the record as being on the side of the legitimate government of the United States."

Powell raised his hand. "And how's that going ... the United States."

Hillerman smiled tightly, allowing little crinkles to form around his eyes. "It's still going. Everything's fine." He took a bite of his own salad. "In fact, I'll be heading back to California next month."

Brady looked at him and grinned. "You going to try and get some time in the water?"

Hillerman flashed a mischievous smile. "The minute after the plane lands."

The two men laughed.

Brady explained, "Major Hillerman is one of the best surfers in the world."

Hillerman grunted. "Hardly."

"Right. This guy has a room in his house just for his second place trophies." He addressed Major Hillerman. "You gonna tap Monterey?"

"Gonna try. I doubt that they're going to be able to pull Mavericks off this year." He fell silent. Broussard took note. That silence conveyed sadness. And some confusion. It seemed reasonable that even seasoned soldiers were probably experiencing a psychic disruption on some order. It wasn't every day that you woke up to discover a war going on full-throttle in your front yard. "But I've got to get a new wet suit. That shark ate the last one, remember?"

"That's right! Greedy son of a gun!" The two soldiers laughed at the memory.

Dina speared a slice of pickle. "I wouldn't get into shark-infested waters if my life depended on it."

"You just need the right equipment," Chang responded.

Hillerman's melancholy evaporated. "You surf, Mr. Chang?"

"I took the board out every week when I was in college."

"California?"

"Hawaii. I was attending university there and the beaches would just literally call my name. Usually right before midterms or Mass."

Brady hooted. "Hey, those are the sweetest times!"

"You're pretty big. You play any ball out there?" Hillerman asked.

"A little."

"What position?"

"Quarterback."

Hillerman perked up. "Yeah? First string?"

"I started twice. Got a busted jaw, two concussions, five cracked ribs, and a broken thumb. Those were good times," he said without a hint of facetiousness.

Hillerman, Chang, and Brady then appeared to exchange some type of subspace transmission that possibly only true he-men were attuned to receive. All three men fell silent.

After a moment, Hillerman turned to Broussard. "Mr. Broussard, have you ever done any surfing?"

"I windsurfed once on the bay."

"Only once?" Hillerman asked somewhat disdainfully.

"Yes. I guess I never felt comfortable out in that much water," he replied, hoping that he didn't sound as wimpy as he felt. "Allan here is the only engineer I know who was actually good at sports."

After that, the conversation returned to business.

"When do we get to Port Arthur?" Walters asked Hillerman.

"We've got another half hour here, and then we'll get back on the road again. Brady wants to stop and see what that smoke is all about. That shouldn't take too long. We should hit town in a little over an hour. Unless we run into any more furry anomalies."

Dina spoke up. "And we're only going to be there for a day. Your flight to Alabama leaves at seven o'clock tomorrow night."

"Oh, so flying's okay?" Powell asked.

"It's a military flight. Most commercial planes are still on the ground."

"Are they taking hits from the other side?" Walters asked.

Dina shot a look at Major Hillerman, who responded for her. "Don't worry. We're on an established route; we'll be fine."

Walters was nodding his head. "Great."

#

Santa Fe, New Mexico

The Great Migration from the states of Washington, Oregon, and California to the southwest city of Santa Fe, New Mexico, had, for the most part, escaped the notice of officials and casual observers in its early days. For one thing, it had happened with an alacrity that was more akin to an unofficial evacuation. The entire country had known that the West Coast had been living in extreme fear of another catastrophe ever since the events in Los Angeles and San Francisco; some government officials had even been caught quietly advising their wealthier constituents to leave those areas until scientists could pinpoint the exact cause of the LA Fire. The second reason that the migration occurred under New Mexico's radar was that it happened to coincide with several of that state's international art and hot air balloon festivals. The sudden influx of tens of thousands of people initially misled most New Mexicans into believing that the prior year's million-dollar tourism campaign had produced some truly fantastic results. It wasn't until the arrival of the second tier of refugees—the working class, the homeless, the escaped prisoners, and the stunning array of nonnative wildlife—that the shocking reality of the situation set in. In very short order, the mayor of Santa Fe organized a welcoming committee to oversee the mass resettlement. And from the beginning, she had made it clear that the rich man and the poor woman and the orphaned child were to be given equal treatment by her city's services. No one would be turned back. No one would starve.

The rains still pounding the Los Angeles Basin were also pummeling a six-hundred-kilometer swath of territory eastward across the nation's left hip bone. Santa Fe was now experiencing rainfall patterns more indicative of tropical climes. When the rains would take a break, a small army of social workers and police officers would drive out to the homeless camps now encircling the city with hot food and drinking water, clothing, medicine, and waterproof tents for those without shelter. The newcomers displayed profound gratefulness for this hospitality. Within a month, they had elected their own captains who, in turn, organized work teams to make sure that the encampments were kept clean and organized. Soon, these same work teams were volunteered to work inside the city limits, picking up litter along the highways, scrubbing public restrooms, unclogging drainage ditches, mowing lawns, and protecting livestock in the fields. The citizens of Santa Fe soon repayed these individuals with their own profound gratitude by giving them time to repair their shattered lives.

With so many societal needs being met, violent crime became nonexistent within and around Santa Fe. Even inside the encampments, there appeared to be no infighting or jockeying for dominance. A police deputy remarked that even the wolves that lived near the camps appeared docile and eager to please.

Every Sunday, a young man and his family would arrive at the largest of the homeless camps, a community named Judah. His Jeep would be loaded down with fresh water, treats for the children, and donated Bibles. A few of the newcomers politely ignored them, but many others would gather around and spend the afternoons talking with them. The young couple and the people would exchange stories of failure and triumph and ultimately of redemption. The man, David Brown, and his wife, Jennifer, had had a surprising number of triumphs and failures in their young lives. This served to endear them even more to the new citizens of Santa Fe.

#

Somewhere Near the Outskirts of Port Arthur, Nevada

They pulled out of the checkpoint at two-thirty. The highway stayed empty for a mile, and then they suddenly found themselves in a traffic jam ... of houses! When the Rovers came upon the first moving structure, Powell nearly busted a gut laughing. Even Lieutenant Brady had to admit that it was an incredible sight. Underneath a mesh of heavy tie-downs was a house riding atop a triple-wide flatbed truck. It was one of those posh Mediterranean-style homes that would normally be seen resting atop a cliff high above the Pacific Ocean. Its slab foundation had been neatly sliced through about two inches above the frost line. Snippets of rebar stuck out from the concrete like petrified snakes.

Danny sped up and passed them. "Stay alert. We might see more of this."

And they did. One mile farther down the road and they were in a virtual creeping forest of three-story Victorians, two-story Cape Cods, single-story ranch styles, and a wild assortment of custom hexagons, A-frames and domes. Some of them even had what could be assumed were their owners peering out the windows. A little girl with her dog waved at them from a living room window. Brady waved back. It was so totally bizarre that it overshadowed the uncomfortable feeling that they were witnessing the high-end version of a mass exodus. For every multi-million dollar home escaping the chaos in California, there were probably tens of thousands of regular people fleeing the state in recreational vehicles, trucks, and cars.

A houseboat chugged by, swarming with people, young and old.

"I sure hope this ends soon," Powell griped. It was stop and go for a while, and then the Rover pulled ahead of the caravan. A road sign read, "Barrow 1/2 mile."

Danny pointed south. "I think that's where the fire is. In any case, we can make a pit stop at a gas station."

The Barrow exit came up fast and they glided down the off ramp. Rundown mobile homes and busted cars greeted Barrow's visitors first. Then came the nicer houses, followed by what was probably the downtown area. Like the highway, the streets of Barrow looked oddly deserted. Occasionally a lone figure could be spotted in the distance, but the overall impression was one of abandonment.

Faint wisps of black smoke smudged the skies here. They stayed on the main road. When they were almost out of the city limits again, they saw it.

It was a Big-Mart Supercenter.

Thick smoke billowed from several gaping holes in its roof. The entrance doors were burned and twisted. The vast parking lot was practically empty with the exception of three Greyhound buses parked close together near the tire and lube department. Danny parked off center, about forty meters from the main entrance. The other Rovers followed suit and parked on either side. A loose plan was discussed and finalized over walkie-talkies. Brady grabbed a small bag from under his seat and lifted out a CBR respirator. Then he signaled transfer-of-command to Danny and hopped out, steadying himself on his crutches. Hillerman and one of the MPs were soon at his side wearing their own respirators. They conferred about something and then they disappeared inside the darkened building. Back inside the Rover, Powell immediately began to complain about the long drive. Broussard let him yammer on while he scoped out the parking lot. Something kept drawing his attention to the bus closest to the SUVs. The cargo door had been yanked open, and there were mangled boxes and suitcases scattered everywhere. A duffle bag sat upright near the rear tires. Clothing, shoes, a burst bag of trash, and a mannequin were jammed up against it—

"Oh, no." Broussard closed his eyes just as he heard Danny shouting, "GET OUT OF THE CAR!"

Gunshots peppered the Rover.

The three of them yanked on their door handles and bolted. Broussard and Powell ran towards the other side of the Greyhound bus. The shooting now seemed to be coming from all directions. They could hear Hillerman shouting orders at someone. More gunfire, then the sounds of hot engines being gunned and tires grinding on pavement. There were a few more gunshots, and then nothing.

Broussard looked around, picked out the smooth surface of a nearby street, and began to run towards it as fast as his legs would carry him. He heard voices yelling at his back, but he could not have stopped even if he had wanted to. He had to escape this place, and this terrifying twist in his imprisonment, and this awful new reality.

Danny and the burlier of the two MPs tackled him below the waist and brought him down by the shopping cart parking. He spent all of his energy reserves struggling to get free and then felt his mind go blank. The next thing he knew he was being led back towards the store.

"I can't deal with this," he protested. He was aware that he was sounding weak again, but it could not be helped. Broussard felt like he was losing his mind.

Danny had him by the shoulder. "Mr. Broussard, I need you to cooperate."

"No. Please, no." He needed to get away. Back to Lincoln Hills, if possible. But not out here in the wilderness. However, deep down he knew that it was useless to resist. They would either force him to comply or put him in handcuffs. Either way, he wasn't going anywhere without them.

The others were gathered by the bus, heads down as if in prayer. Dina was crying softly.

Hillerman was talking. "It looks like they got ambushed this morning. They probably stopped here to pick up supplies, not knowing the place was closed. And those other guys ... carjackers, thieves, were waiting. They stole anything of value and then rounded up the passengers inside the store and ... " He trailed off, leaving the obvious unsaid. "Then they set fire to the building, maybe trying to burn evidence or making sure that everyone was dead."

Broussard finally forced himself to look at the corpse. He was no more than sixteen years old, right on the cusp of young manhood. In life he must have been a little heartbreaker, because even with the pallor of death upon him, he was almost captivating. He had flawless skin and one of those Greek-hero profiles. He had died sitting up. His large eyes, open slightly, gave no hint of the horrors that he must have seen and been finally defeated by. In fact, the only sign that the boy had been injured was the rivulet of dried blood running from his left ear. The smell of death was just beginning to rise from him. Broussard started to feel sick.

Dina removed her overcoat and placed it over the corpse's head and shoulders. "Can we bury him?"

Hillerman's forehead wrinkled. "This is a crime scene. The local police should be handling this."

Dina threw up her arms. "There's nobody here!"

Hillerman cleared his throat. "Then we take him into Port Arthur."

A wretched chorus of "noooo's" went up.

Hillerman looked at each of them "Okay, let's vote. Who's for taking him with us? Ayes?"

He and the two MPs raised their hands.

"Who's for us giving him a burial here? Ayes?"

Dina, Allan, and the convicts from Lincoln Hills raised their hands.

Hillerman sighed. "I do not agree with this decision, but we're running out of daylight, and I can't conjure up the proper authorities to deal with this at the moment. Maybe we can get some answers in Port Arthur." He turned to Walters. "I'm putting you in charge of this project. There's a large patch of dirt out by the garden center. Dig a hole one by two by two meters. Look for a packing crate or a sturdy cardboard box. I've got some canvas in the back of the Rover. You can wrap him up in that."

Walters nodded.

"Danny, can you get some pictures of inside the store, the buses and those shell casings that we saw?"

"Yes, sir."

"And get a picture of our John Doe here, too."

The corners of Danny's mouth turned down. "Right."

Hillerman motioned to Chang and Dina. "Can you two come with me, please?" The three of them retreated to their Rover.

Walters trotted Eric and Broussard over to the garden center. The fire had not reached there, and it remained obscenely pristine. A shopper browsing through the potted bougainvillea and angel's trumpets would have never suspected that there were over thirty-odd dead bodies burned beyond recognition and piled up together in Women's Active Wear like so much scorched cordwood. They grabbed three heavy shovels from a tool display and began to dig. After about an hour they had dug maybe a meter down. Walters stopped working and looked up. The sun was now a lot closer to the western horizon. There would not be enough time to finish the grave according to Hillerman's specs.

"This should be good enough." They put the tools back in the rack. "Let's go get the body."

Powell sat down on a stack of brick pavers. "You guys go ahead."

Walters seemed ready to argue, but they all knew that it was going to be an exercise in futility. Walters and Broussard knew what Powell was thinking. He had two boys in Arizona that he could no longer protect. That could easily be one of them propped up dead against a Greyhound bus.

Before they returned to the buses, Broussard hunted down a metal lumber cart. Then he and Walters retrieved the piece of canvas from the Rover and crafted as neat a burial shroud as they could for the young Mr. Doe. It turned out to be just the right size. Broussard held the boy's head and torso while Walters grabbed his feet. The body was pretty far set into rigor mortis and that helped. They lay him down onto the cart. His feet stuck out on the other end. One final indignity. Broussard idly wondered if he had family among the other dead inside the store. Had he seen them cut down? Or vice versa?

Walters must have sensed his emotional torment. "Don't worry. He's not suffering anymore."

Broussard looked around at the crime scene. "These senseless deaths. What a tragedy."

Walters smiled at him. "Just like old times, eh, Neal?"

Broussard felt like slugging him. "No."

They carried the dead teenager back to the garden center and gently lowered him into his final resting place. While they were gone, Powell had made a cross out of two garden stakes. They hammered it into the soil.

When all was ready, everyone gathered around the fresh grave. Dina offered up a sketchy prayer.

Afterwards, Hillerman and Brady wrote and compared a few notes and then ordered everyone back into the Rovers.

There was palpable relief as the town of Barrow receded into the distance and they were finally on a straight trajectory to Port Arthur.

"Hey, Brady," Powell said. "You don't think that we're going to run into those bad guys up ahead, do you?"

"No," Brady replied evenly. "They're probably long gone. Besides, Port Arthur is still functioning. They've got law enforcement and a militia to hold down the fort with." But the startling events of the last five days and nights had provoked the real concern about reaching the town and finding more chaos. Or worse. Similar questions were probably on the minds of everyone, although no one voiced any fears out loud. Powell began to chew on his fingernails. Broussard willed himself to pass out again. But they need not have worried. Port Arthur was doing just fine.

The town's entry sign was the first tip. It read:

Welcome to Port Arthur!

Population 24,089

"All in need of weed!"

That last line had been artfully spray painted in so that it looked very much like the original signage.

Danny slowed down to the posted speed limit. "I see they've kept their sense of humor."

Port Arthur was large enough to have its main thoroughfare perpendicular to the main highway. The highway abruptly reduced itself to a feeder road that ran through an industrial district. They counted two large sheet metal operations, one concrete batching plant, and two scruffy lumber yards. Farther down the road man's labor reversed itself and became man's leisure. Large houses suddenly sprouted along both sides of the clean blacktop. The front yards were expansive and well-manicured. Another good sign.

Danny slammed on the brakes just as a gaggle of older women wearing sun hats trouped by the front of the Rover. One of them waved at them.

"Must be having some kind of festival," Danny murmured.

He eased off the brake and began to inch his way through the sudden throngs of men, women, and children jamming the street. Danny honked his horn to get the attention of a man who was sleeping on a sofa parked directly in front of them. The man woke up groggily and waved them on.

Danny stuck his head out the window. "I can't get around you!"

The guy just shrugged and turned over.

Danny angrily slapped the shifter into reverse. He shot back two or more meters and missed smashing a horse and its rider by millimeters. Danny then cut the wheels sharply to the left, and steered the vehicle onto a clear patch of sidewalk and then back onto the cluttered street.

Brady grunted softly. "Mass hysteria, maybe?"

Danny blew his horn again, this time at a clutch of scantily clad females lounging around a monster flat screen television in lawn chairs. A long extension cord trailed from the back of the whopper TV and into a nearby house.

Danny tapped his horn again. One of the women casually looked up and gave him the finger.

Danny stopped the SUV and put it in park. "More like mass idiocy. The town's having an early snow day."

Brady yawned. "Well, it's comforting to know that this war is good for something. Looks like we'll have to foot it to the hotel. I'll tell Hillerman." He pulled out his walkie-talkie. While he relayed the bad news, Powell began to salivate. "Give me the blonde at the end. Look at those kajoobies! Kee-rist!"

Broussard gave her the once over.

"She's all right." Actually she was more than all right, but it was none of his business. Diane was still waiting for him back home, and he wanted to honor that.

Brady clicked off his walkie-talkie and turned in his seat to face the prisoners. "We're going on foot, so put your peckers back in your pockets and hit the deck."

Powell turned belligerent. "How about a little sensitivity? I haven't seen a real woman up close for three years."

"That probably makes four of us," Brady replied. "Now pull it together and get out the fuckin' car."

"I don't appreciate your tone," Powell growled.

Danny's right arm twitched slightly, and then as if by some sudden hiccup in time, Powell and Broussard found themselves staring down the enormous barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. The soldier's steely blue eyes bore into Powell's face. "I don't expect that you'll appreciate getting shot either."

Powell's hands shot high into the air. "All right! All right! Time out!"

The cannon disappeared. The men quit the Rover and met up with the others. To Broussard, it felt stupid to just leave the SUVs in the middle of the road like that. Who knew what the townsfolk were capable of doing once the sun went down? But he had no control over the situation, so he dismissed the concern. Let the GI Joe's worry about that. It's why they were getting paid.

Getting to the next block was like walking an obstacle course. Chairs, card tables, kiddie pools, and more couches were at every turn. And so many people. Broussard was perplexed. Why had they decided to live inside out like this? It did not make any sense. They did not seem unduly anxious about any particular thing. Nor did they take much notice of the newcomers. Which was odd since they were obviously strangers. Broussard became paranoid. Did they know about the massacre at the store? Had they committed the massacre at the store? Strains of Sinatra's "One More for My Baby" provided the soundtrack for this Norman Rockwell anomaly, shading it a Picasso blue. Everywhere they saw the U.S. flag flapping happily in the mild winds.

Hillerman, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped, causing the rest to slam one into the other in the ensuing domino effect. He turned around and called a huddle.

"We've got soldiers at ten o'clock."

Dina wiped stray hairs from her face. "Oh, that's good. Maybe they can give us a ride to the hotel."

Hillerman's expression turned grim. "They aren't ours."

Chang closed his eyes. "Oh, God."

Broussard peeked over Walters's right shoulder. "Heads up. They're coming this way."

There were three of them. All female. Much like the soldiers back at the checkpoint, these were clad in Army combat fatigues. Heavy belts around their waists supported a walkie-talkie, a clip-on purse-thingey, and a small flashlight. The uniforms appeared to be standard US Army issue. Broussard wondered why Hillerman believed that they were troops from the other side.

The woman out front addressed Hillerman. She was all business. "Can we help you?"

Hillerman was all smiles. "Please!" He removed his shades and started to move with less precision. "We're trying to reach the Holiday Inn on Spruce street. Can you point us in the right direction?"

The female soldier looked them over. "Certainly. Just keep down this street until you reach Howard Court. Make a right turn. Continue three blocks until you reach Spruce Street. Then turn left. You can't miss it. It's the only high-rise on that block."

"Sounds doable. Thanks."

"Are you driving?" she asked.

"Well, we were." He thumbed back towards their parked SUVs. "Any idea why everyone is outdoors?"

The female soldier let a tiny smile escape. "We haven't figured that one out yet. They were acting pretty normal yesterday." Broussard watched her as she turned slightly to surreptitiously conduct a visual sweep of the street behind them. Soldiers apparently spent a lot of time inspecting their environments. Seemed like a solid habit to have, he thought. It had certainly helped keep him alive in prison. As she shifted into a profile position, he saw what Hillerman had somehow seen: There, directly beneath her uniform's Army chevrons, was stitched a blue patch with a white lion rampant in its center. Beneath it was a regular US Army patch.

Just then a fourth soldier arrived on the scene. His uniform matched those of the first three. And he, too, was wearing that mysterious blue and white patch on his sleeve.

The female soldier saluted the newcomer. "Guten Tag, Oberst Wagner."

The male soldier returned her salute. He made a quick inspection of the strangers. "Guten tag, Sargent Lorenzt. Sind diese Leute vom Port Arthur?"

"Nein, Sir. Sie versuchen das Hotel zu erreichen."

"Wo ist ihre Auto?"

"Das Auto ist auf der Straße geparkt. Sie konnten nicht fahren wegen der vielen Menschen auf der Straße. Sollte ich sie fragen um ihren Identifikation?"

"Ja. Danke."

The female addressed Hillerman. "Sir, I'm Sergeant Sarah Lorenzt of the United States Advance South Army. May I please see your identification as well as the identifications of all those in your party?" She released another tiny smile. "Don't worry. We aren't detaining anyone today."

"Okay."

Everyone pulled out their counterfeit driver's licenses and held their breaths.

One of the other female soldiers held up a portable scanner and swiped each of their cards. Afterwards she handed them back.

The soldier waited a couple of moments, and then her scanner beeped. She looked to Sergeant Lorenzt. "They're clear."

The tension dropped dramatically, and the Advance South soldiers immediately relaxed.

Sergeant Lorentz tapped Hillerman's shoulder and ushered him a couple of paces from the others. "Thank you for your patience. We're short staffed today or I would assign you an escort to the hotel. But I can station a guard to watch your vehicles tonight. It might get pretty rowdy later."

Hillerman looked satisfied with that. "Appreciate that. And thanks for the directions."

"Glad to help."

He turned and pointed in the direction from whence they came. "The three green-and-black Land Rovers parked about a block down are ours."

The sergeant gave a thumbs up and responded, "Got it," and then waved them on.

The other Advance South soldiers parted to let them pass. An idea occurred to Broussard.

"Excuse me. On the way here we passed a really bad scene at a Big-Mart. Looks like some people got ambushed. We stopped to help ... but I guess we were too late."

Sergeant Lorentz's eyes shifted to him. "We're aware of it. And we have the descriptions of the perpetrators."

"Are you sure? Because we just left there, and it looked like they were still there."

"Quite sure. Two of the victims survived and made it here. The attackers weren't locals. Itinerate criminals. You probably came across another gang going after the leftovers. The highways are full of these stab-and-grab gangs now, so be careful."

Broussard held out John Doe's wallet. He had taken it from the body before they had buried it. "They left his ID and a couple of personal effects. His family might want them."

She simply stared at the wallet. Was she loathe to touch it? He was about to withdraw it when she abruptly grabbed it and placed it in her purse. She lowered her eyes, and it was then that he saw two tears, like tiny diamonds, form beneath her long lashes. "We'll do what we can to see that they get it."

Once they cleared the 'block party', the streets were relatively clear, and the hotel, surrounded by a three-meter high hedge of Irish juniper, loomed into view about fifteen minutes later.

While the main entrance was still a good thirty meters away, Hillerman pulled the group together.

"In light of these new developments, it might be safer if we held off on making any contacts with family or friends while we're at the hotel. I can get a call into Washington and update them on the situation here. We might be able to get an earlier flight out. In the meantime, keep yourselves in check."

Bautista's lower jaw fell open. "Excuse me. They were speaking German back there, right?"

Hillerman did not flinch. "Seems that way."

"Okay, so you're the boss. What are we supposed to do now?"

"I suggest that we relax and move forward."

But Bautista's eyes were sparking. "That's your plan? Just kick back and relax? The next level was supposed to be us flying off into the sunset. Instead we're behind enemy lines surrounded by Storm Troopers, and you want us to go, 'Oh, well. That's life in the big city.'"

Hillerman looked at him levelly. "Do you have a better idea?"

"Well, you could act a little more concerned! I didn't get sprung out of one jail just to land in another!"

"Shut up. Now."

"You're supposed to be taking care of us!"

"And that's exactly what I'm doing."

"You ain't doing SHIT!"

The others began to despair. Bautista-style hysterics were the last things that they needed at this point. Hillerman looked ready to render the technician unconscious again. Fortunately, Powell beat him to it. The mechanical engineer stepped to the side and gave Bautista a big push. "You're starting to get on my nerves, Mike."

The smaller man lost his balance and tumbled onto the ground. But in an instant he was back up on his feet and charging Powell like an enraged bull. The two then proceeded to engage in a lackluster brawl that quickly became annoying.

Hillerman pinned Chang with a sharp look. "I want him sedated until we land at Huntsville."

Dina was crying again, her mouth in a quivering moue of misery. "I didn't say anything. My maiden name is Berman." She was almost talking to herself at that point. "I'm Jewish. Please get me out of here—"

Brady hobbled over to her. "Miss Hodges, it's too early to jump to conclusions."

"I—I ... . Please! I'm too scared. You'll have to drug me, too."

Hillerman looked around, visibly frustrated. "Anybody else?"

Broussard was just about to raise his hand when one of the MPs raised his.

"No," was Hillerman's only response. "Let's get checked in. After a hot shower and a good night's sleep, we'll all feel better in the morning. And, people: Stay loose." He glared balefully at the MP. "And stay off your walkie-talkies. They might be monitoring communications."

Danny finally broke up the fight between Powell and Bautista and dragged them along into the parking lot ... which was fairly bristling with military vehicles, all proudly waving the Advance South flags. Broussard caught up with Hillerman.

"Major Hillerman, maybe it wasn't such a good idea, but I thought that those soldiers needed to be aware that people had been killed at that Big-Mart and that we had not done it."

"Understood."

"You think that maybe these guys killed those people?"

"No," Hillerman replied without hesitation. "But who knows?"

"One more thing. What about the guns? Danny stowed them in the SUV."

"I'm not too concerned about that. They're civilian issue and in a safe place. Getting to the pickup point—that concerns me." He said no more.

The hotel was quiet and very clean. The staff was professional and deftly serviced their every need. One could quickly forget that the entire operation—the entire town—was under enemy occupation. The hotel manager told them that the landlines were temporarily down but that they should be back up and running by midnight.

Broussard and Dina were assigned a two-bedroom suite. Broussard had specifically asked to bunk with her; he did not feel comfortable sharing a room with either Walters or Powell, and Bautista was once again drugged and under constant guard. He had the larger bedroom while Dina dreamed Seconal-induced dreams in the junior bedroom. Before settling in, he spent a few minutes ingesting his surroundings. The room was spacious and well appointed. The floors consisted of hardwoods and stone tiles, and the furniture and draperies appeared to be new and clean. He fell spread-eagled onto the king-sized bed, and for the fun of it made a bedspread angel. It was childish, but for the first time in six years, he was lying on a real bed. The occasion had to be celebrated! He rolled around the bed a few times and then grabbed the remote control and channel surfed, avoiding any news program that jumped into view. He knew that the country had gone to hell; he didn't need all of the gory details at this point. He discovered the coffee maker, prepared himself a small carafe of the dark brew, and poured its contents into a large mug with the real cream and brown sugar that he'd found in the room's dorm fridge. He sipped the drink slowly. It was possibly the best cup of coffee that he had ever tasted. He took his cup and moved to the window. An unfamiliar, rugged mountain range stood out against the darkening sky, no doubt the very same mountains that they had just driven down from. Other than that, everything else looked the same. He mused: You would think that something as enormous an event as an all-out civil war would somehow change the terrain: ruined and smoking buildings, people running screaming through the streets, fighter jets crisscrossing the skies and raining down serious mayhem. But there was nothing. Just a few hawks circling overhead. And the quiet.

He showered and took a nap that lasted maybe two hours. When he awoke, he dressed and looked in on Dina. She had changed positions but was still fast asleep. It was chillier now, and he pulled a blanket from her closet and draped it over her. She became agitated and began to thrash about some. She murmured, "Beau?" He patted her on the shoulder. "He's right here." That calmed her down immediately.

Broussard waited a minute to make sure that she remained calm and then tip-toed into the living room. He wondered after his Uncle Curtis. How was the old man holding up in this crisis? He fervently wished that he could speak with him. The desire to talk to Diane also grew stronger. Of course, even if he could have contacted her, more than likely he would not have been able to reveal much. How would she react if she knew that he was no longer in prison? Would she cry? Would she now want marriage? Or would she leave him? Had she left him already? Hunger pangs gripped him. He called Powell's room and asked for an update. Powell told him that everyone was downstairs having dinner. They had called his room but could not reach him. Broussard told him that he would meet him downstairs shortly.

He found Powell and the others seated before desserts and coffee cups inside the hotel's large restaurant. There was an empty seat next to Chang, who beckoned him over. A waiter soon appeared, and Broussard ordered the grilled sea bass with sautéed vegetables for himself and a chicken fettuccini Alfredo takeout for Dina. His stomach began to rumble with anticipation.

As he waited for his food, he surveyed the room. On a far wall hung a corporate portrait of a young but stern looking woman. Those strange blue flags stood at attention on either side of the framed picture.

"Who is she?" he asked Brady.

Brady sipped his coffee. "That is Mary Goodwin, the face that launched a thousand bullets."

"Well, what's her role in all this?"

Brady's face tightened. "She started this war." And that's all that he would say on the subject.

After coffee, Hillerman went around to each of them and whispered, "We're leaving early tomorrow morning. Be in the lobby by six a.m."

More diners arrived. They looked like fellow out-of-towners. If there was a war going on, it sure was not registering with them. People were carefree and well groomed. Imported wines and beers flowed freely. Children chased each other around the various tables. All appeared well in Port Arthur. Minutes later Broussard's dinner arrived and he dug in. There was some small chitchat and then the group disbanded. Powell hung back with Broussard while he waited for Dina's boxed meal to be brought out.

The other engineer was grinning like a fox who had just been handed the key to the henhouse. "There's a hooker on the third floor who's open for business."

Broussard grunted noncommittally. "Go for it."

"You coming?" Powell asked.

"Nope."

"Then cover for me. Tell Brady that I'm with you."

"Nope."

"You're a prick, you know that?"

Broussard watched Powell go.

He grabbed Dina's meal and bounded up the four flights of stairs back to the suite. It was invigorating to expend that much energy over such a long distance. Two of the MPs were flanking the door. For once he didn't mind the constant supervision. He whisked into the room and knocked on Dina's now closed bedroom door.

"Dina? You awake?"

Her small voice came floating through the door. "Yes. Come in."

Dina was sitting up in her bed. She was still wearing her jacket, cap, and boots. Her large eyes were droopy from her chemically induced sleep and her hair was flying around her head, but other than that she looked fine.

She smiled wanly. "Awake and hungry."

"Good. I brought you back some food from the restaurant. It's pretty good, too."

She had an almost pathetically grateful expression on her face. He knew what she was feeling. Fear.

"I'll warm it up in the microwave. Oh, and by the way, Hillerman just told us that there are a lot of Europeans in the country now, and that they're working both sides."

Dina looked confused. "Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe they're observing. Making sure that things don't get too far out of hand."

"It's a little too late for that," she replied morosely.

"Amen."

He heated her dinner and set it on the nightstand beside her bed. She grabbed it and began to wolf it down. He also handed her a comb that had apparently fallen out of her purse. She looked at it. "What? Is my hair a mess?"

"Yep."

She took it without further comment. "Are you feeling okay?" she asked.

"Sure," he lied. Actually, the vertigo that he had been experiencing was diminishing, so it wasn't a complete fib. He sat down on a nearby chair and turned it to face her. "Dina, why is the military interested in the MITs? I mean, what could they possibly want with a toy that hasn't even been fully developed?"

She shrugged and whipped out her cell phone and began to press numbers. "I need to let Beau know that we made it in one piece."

"We're in a communications blackout, remember?"

"No." Her shoulders sagged. She held up the device. "No service, anyway. Damn."

"I'm sure that he's fine."

"I need to hear his voice." She stared off into space. "I guess I'll have to wait until I get home."

"Are you going back to Reno?"

"No, no. Home is Michigan. My family has a farm on the Upper Peninsula.

"Oh?"

"My mother's quite ill. My sister has been trying to get out of Ireland for the past week, but their government isn't allowing any flights to America." They sighed simultaneously, no doubt thinking the same thought: What a mess. "But it'll be good to see my folks and see our house again."

His mind was wandering. "Nice place?"

Dina wiped her mouth. "When I was a little girl I thought that it was heaven."

"Has it since gone to hell?"

She covered her mouth and giggled. "No! It's still wonderful. We lived in Detroit because my dad was an engineer at Ford. But we always summered on the UP." She raised the comb and swiped at her bangs. "Back then I was wearing skirts that barely covered my rear. And I had this giant Jew-fro. Ah, those crazy sixties."

"I didn't know that your dad was an engineer. So you are an engineer groupie."

"Who said that?"

"Van."

"Well, he would know, wouldn't he?" She smiled. "Maybe." She self-consciously ran a hand through her hair and raked through the last tangles. "Detroit was starting to, uh ... change, so my dad transferred to this teeny-weeny town on Lake Superior. It was a big adjustment, but we got to make some Kodak memories there."

Broussard nodded. "Hmm. I got moved around a lot when I was younger. The only Kodak memories we made were mainly with Kodak cameras."

She leaned back against the headboard. "Too bad. Every childhood should be golden."

"I agree."

Her eyes misted. "When I think of all the children in Los Angeles who were taken from us ... ." Dina began to shake with emotion.

"Hey, let's try and sort through that later. When it's safe. Right now, we need to stay focused."

She wiped away a tear. "Yeah."

He caught a sharp memory. "I've been to Maui. That was heaven."

She grabbed the TV remote control. "There are all kinds of heavens on earth." The room erupted in an explosion of colors and barking voices. Dina shoved another forkful of fettuccini into her mouth. "I hope there's something good on TV tonight."

"Yes, like a news bulletin telling us this crap is finally over."

Dina was busy thumbing through the channel guide. "Oh, American Idol's on! I hope it isn't a rerun!"

He retired to his room and kicked off his shoes. He longed for a clean change of clothing; the items that he had on were beginning to itch and smell. Major Hillerman hadn't thought ahead far enough to obtain a change of clothing or pajamas for them. The bed called him and he crawled in fully clothed. He set the alarm on the nightstand clock for 5:00 a.m. and left the small nightstand lamp on. After spending six years in dimly lit prison cells, he now discovered that he wasn't entirely comfortable in total darkness. While mulling over that relatively new wrinkle in his psyche, he drifted off.

In spite of everything that had happened to him, he was soon in deep sleep. At some point he thought he saw Dina's pale face swimming above him in the gloom, her hair still a fright. "Neal, do you have any toothpaste?" He did not recall answering her. But he did remember thinking: It's so quiet.

The group assembled in the hotel's business center at six o'clock the next morning. Hillerman had changed his mind about the blackout and was allowing everyone to make one quick and heavily edited telephone call to a family member. As promised, the landlines were operational. Chang called his wife and told her to take the family to Duluth where her parents lived. Powell managed to reach his brother in Santa Barbara and asked him to go collect his sons from his ex-wife and take them to Dallas. Bautista got in touch with his parents, who assured him that they had plane tickets back to the Philippines and were leaving the next day. Broussard was able to reach his Uncle Curtis. The old man said that the family was doing fine and that he was praying for him to come home safely. When Broussard tried to persuade him to go stay with a cousin in Connecticut, the older man had become indignant. "This is my home! I live here. And if I have to, I'm going to die here!" Before the group left, Broussard tried Diane's line but only managed to get a busy signal. Worry beat at his breast.

They headed out at six-thirty, backtracking to their vehicles. The streets were empty and silent. Only the birds were up. The air was unexpectedly warm, maybe seventy-five degrees. A smidge high for an early autumn morning.

The Rovers came into view. There was no guard posted. Hillerman seemed relieved. He had briefed them on the plan before they left the hotel. They would drive the Rovers to Salt Lake City International Airport, about an eight-hour drive. There they would rendezvous with the Utah Air National Guard based there. At that point, the Army would relinquish authority of the operation and temporarily hand it over to the National Guard. The Guard would then place them on board one of their own transport planes for the first leg of their trip to Alabama. It sounded like a sound plan. No one voiced any concerns or objections.

As they made their way towards the Rovers, Broussard walked beside Bautista, who looked extremely tired. Obviously the sedatives that they had pumped into him had not had the desired effect; his face was full of shadows.

"Mike? You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," he responded in a dull voice.

Danny was right on their tails. His heavy boots slapped hard on the asphalt. Both of those facts were aggravating Broussard.

"My head hurts bad," Bautista continued.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

"We'll get you an aspirin once we get to the car."

"And I gotta take a dump. And my legs are cramping—"

Clop. Clop. Clop.

"You'll be fine once we get to Salt Lake—"

Clop-Clop-Clop-Clop!

Broussard whirled around. "Dammit, please get off our asses!"

The ground beneath his feet suddenly dropped, and his knees slammed into the road. As he tried to figure out what was happening to him, he noticed Bautista and Danny rolling around next to him, hollering uncontrollably. The earth began to buck and roll. Someone screamed, "EARTHQUAKE!" and all hell brook loose. The residents of Point Arthur, who had been sleeping peacefully on front lawns and inside parked vehicles, sprang from their makeshift beds like hot-wired zombies. They tumbled into the streets, shouting and cursing.

Buildings began to rattle and sway. Terrible groans arose from the stoutest of them as the titanic forces kilometers below the surface furiously smashed against each other and conspired to wrench the structures apart. Screams filled the air. It intensified to a crescendo of terror as an entire row of houses on the left started to shudder violently and then lurch forward about maybe five meters, only to completely collapse a moment later. An invisible sword sliced open a long gash in the earth, and the two lips of shorn earth rocked back and forth like storm-tossed lovers. Then there came a bone-rattling explosion that sent booming aftershocks ricocheting back and forth across the valley floor.

Bradley was pointing at the westward mountain range that they had descended the day before. Broussard's eyes began playing tricks on him, because he thought he saw the entire range of jagged peaks suddenly surge forward and then backwards. Paul Bunyan was working a rusty saw on Nevada's rocky spine.

Bautista's slight form came into view. His face was racked with unbounded fear. As the effects of the earth being split asunder continued to pound their minds and their bodies, Bautista's senses fled him again and he began to hoot like a coyote. "A-whoo! A-whoo! A-whoo!"

Powell banged into them from the rear like a shot cannonball. All three men went down.

"OH MY GOD!" Walters shouted. "OH MY GOD!"

Suddenly people began to run backwards, towards the center of town ...

A thick cloud of pearl white mist was slowly rising up from behind the distant jagged peaks. It rose and rose until it towered high above the craggy summits.

Dina shrieked, "NO!" and turned to run back towards downtown. Chang caught her by the shoulders and shouted directly into her face. "Keep moving!" He faced the other distraught faces. "We're almost there!"

The ground gave an ominous shiver. And then all was still.

"STAY ON YOUR FEET!" Hillerman was screaming from the tops of his lungs. "GET TO THE ROVERS!" Broussard managed to get to his feet. Brady was giving Bautista a hand. Dina skittered by. Blood was on her shirt. People were shrieking for help from inside the ruined houses. Clouds of dust were forming overhead. The Rovers materialized before them like hulking ghosts.

They stopped for just a second and then ran to the Rovers. As soon as Hillerman had unlocked the doors, Powell and Broussard flew into the backseat. Brady pulled himself and his crutches inside. "LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!"

#

They drove northeast like demons attempting to flee Hades itself. The effects from the earthquake were visible everywhere. Farmhouses and grain silos had been toppled. Road signs were down. Great columns of fires burned unattended here and there. Great fractures and unnatural mounds pockmarked the landscape on either side of the highway. They drove off-road when the highway itself became too damaged for the four-wheel drives, or when it just simply vanished. It took them twenty-seven hours to make the eight-hour trip. It was Danny who noticed that the earthquake damage seemed to stop right at the Utah state line. Neither Major Hillerman nor Lieutenant Brady made comment. They finally pulled into Salt Lake City at noon the following day. It was Monday.

To everyone's surprise, the airport was huge, modern, and though busy, quite generous with its space. Most important, the Stars and Stripes flew alone at every corner.

The National Guard terminal was situated at the farthest end of the airport, well out of the public eye. U.S. Army troops greeted them at the gate and handed out cups of coffee and doughnuts. Before long, the weary group from Nevada was settled inside the Guard's comfortable lounge while Hillerman and his men filled out paperwork inside a nearby office. They talked a bit, laughed a little, but mostly just drank and ate in silence as they contemplated the journey ahead. As Brady had promised, they still had a lot of road ahead of them. Because their original flight plan took them directly over hostile states, they would have to hopscotch their way to Alabama. A modified C-130 would take them as far as Colorado. From there they would take another transport to Minnesota and then on to New York. Then they would take a C-17 out of Buffalo, loop around the entire eastern seaboard and Florida and then fly up over the Gulf of Mexico into Huntsville, Alabama. Essentially, they would be in the air for the next two days.

Things began to happen quickly. They were led out to their airplane which was parked right in front of the terminal. A jetway had been pushed up against it. The aircraft was painted battleship grey and wiped clean of any distinguishable markings. Hillerman and another officer from the airport regiment huddled together near its front tire. There was an exchange of pens and documents as final orders were signed and countersigned. Two gates down, a business jet was idling. The words HODGES INDUSTRIES were painted on its side. A tall man wearing a crisp white shirt hopped out and walked over to chat with the C-130 pilot. They both looked fresh and relaxed. Again, the specter of the train wreck that was now America receded into the distance, and to the prisoners from Lincoln Hills, things almost felt normal. Dina tippy-toed over to the men to say her good-byes. Each of them gave her a hug. She was visibly exhausted but obviously happy to be on her way home. She and Chang embraced last. "I'll call after you get squared away in Huntsville," she promised.

He gave her a tight squeeze. "Okay. Have a safe flight."

"You, too!" She waved and then boarded her jet. Her pilot followed her and soon they were taxiing toward the takeoff runway.

Now it was time for Hillerman and Brady to say their good-byes. The two MPs trailed them.

As the major conversed with Chang, Brady addressed Walters and the others. "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen," he lied warmly.

"Same here," Walters lied with equal ease.

Loud shouts drifted down from the other end of the tarmac.

Bautista was giving the lieutenant a hard look. "When are you going to take these tags out of our heads?" he growled.

Brady maintained a polite façade. "I don't know what you are talking about. Anyway, have a nice life."

The shouts grew louder and were punctuated by raw shrieks of confusion. Then terror. Hillerman jogged out a ways to see what the commotion was about. Almost instantly he ran back, signaling the lieutenant.

"GET THEM BACK INSIDE!"

Brady started to say something.

"NOW!"

The lieutenant quickly herded Chang and the convicts back inside the terminal.

Major Hillerman called out to the MPs. "Come with me!"

Hillerman and the two soldiers trotted out onto the cement apron that flowed out from the terminal and jogged downwind toward a growing crowd of soldiers and civilians. A just landed jumbo jet on its way from the taxiway nonchalantly cruised in that direction before suddenly making a hard brake.

Hillerman and the MPs kept running. They cleared the south wall of the National Guard terminal and found themselves in the wide open expanse between it and the next terminal ... and stopped dead in their tracks.

Hillerman saw it first.

Something resembling a colossus was just clearing a hangar and striding towards the runways. It resembled a man, but its skin was completely hairless and the color of pearl white. Tiny spots of light shone randomly all over its body, and they sometimes appeared to chemically react with either the air or the sunlight. The giant's body was completely naked, except for some visual muting about its buttocks and genitalia. The thing's face was a mask of purposeful repose; it was apparently oblivious to the hysteria that its sudden appearance was causing. The thing strode past a slow-moving 747 jetliner, dwarfing the three-story aircraft by at least six meters. The magnitude of this example of scale proved to be too much for many. A dozen or so airport employees streaked by, mouths open in silent screams, while half that many simply fell to the hard ground, unconscious. To the right, a line of brave National Guardsmen advanced against the creature with shouldered rifles. People began ducking for cover as they let loose a violent volley of bullets.

The MPs looked ready to make a run for it.

Hillerman shouted at them, "It's psych warfare! Some kind of hologram!" But even he could feel the unmistakable shivers beneath his boots each time the thing's feet made contact with the earth.

Graber, one of the MPs, clutched his head. "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

Hillerman reached out and slapped the man hard across the face.

"Get hold of yourself, man!"

Graber went rigid with shock. The major could not tell whether it was from the hit or from seeing this escapee from a fifties' horror movie.

Hillerman turned his back to the chaos unfolding around him. "Listen to me! This is something that the Advance South has dreamed up. Now, I don't know how they're doing it, but it isn't real. Do you hear me? It isn't real!"

A new surge of cries welled up behind him. Hillerman turned around just in time to see a large round object appear in the clear air about ten meters from the giant. It was about the size of a beach ball and glowed a brilliant orange. Its center was brick red and it appeared to have a pulse. The orb floated silently forward until it was directly behind the giant. It then began to swell and grow out in all directions until it was at least half the height of the colossus itself. A lone, ragged cry shot up from the people cowering near the hangar, serving as a punctuation mark to the mind wrenching scene, "BE GONE, SATAN! THE BLOOD OF CHRIST PROTECTS GOD'S CHILDREN!"

Just then a slit opened along the orb's longitudinal line, and a thick tendril of fog snaked out towards the creature. The colossus slowed to a dead stop; the fog first touched the giant's backside with its tip and then began a hypnotically deliberate wrapping of itself around the giant's midsection, torso, shoulders and then head. That scene galvanized every civilian in the area into running back through and then through the Salt Lake City airport and into the desert.

The fog increased in volume until it had completely engulfed the monster from head to toe.

The air became very heavy, as if its molecules had suddenly swelled to twice their normal size. Suddenly, there was a great burst of light from the alien fog. The guardsmen standing nearest to the giant fell to the tarmac as one stone.

The air was still changing. Hillerman tore at the buttons on his shirt. It was becoming difficult to breathe. Harsh, metallic aches began to pound at his brain. His lungs began to hurt and burn, as though he were trying to breathe under water.

Time seemed to slow and the spaces behind his eyes began to throb. The pain in his head now drove him to his knees. He fought to keep his head up. Where was it? He managed to get to his feet, pull out his handgun, and stagger towards the jetliner. The creature had walked past it just a few seconds ago, heading for the runway. He ran past the jet and out to the taxiway. That's when one of his MPs, Corporal Stavros, caught up with him. His eyes were blood red and he was wheezing heavily.

"It's gone, sir," he said, his chest heaving. "And I can't find Graber."

Hillerman was gulping air. "If it's gone, then good. We can't do any more here." He struggled to suck down larger drafts of air to cool his overheated lungs. "Let the police handle it. Whatever it was." He holstered his gun.

"What about Graber?"

"He'll turn up." The major was seeing spots before his eyes. "In the meantime, let's make sure that we get those prisoners on that plane." He looked around. The entire airport looked deserted. "Let's hope we still have a pilot." He took one last look out at the runway ... and visibly cringed. "This cannot be," he muttered.

Stavros's head swiveled around. The colossus stood silently, no more than a few car lengths away from them. That strange fog was gone and they could see its face clearly. It was not only facing them, it was looking directly at them. Stavros whimpered. A second later the thing's eyes began to grow and flatten until they were the size of manhole covers. Suddenly there was bone-crushing pressure on the top of Hillerman's head. The intensity of the pressure was so great that it felt capable of splitting his skull open.

Stavros screamed. "Something's in my brain! I can feel it!" The MP yanked at his own head. Major Hillerman watched him in horror, unable to help. Paralyzing panic scrambled up his spine towards his brain like a spooked monkey before an unnatural fatigue, as thick as molasses, poured over his mind. He began to hallucinate.

A flat Earth was spinning like a wheel against the black velvet of empty space. The sun exploded into view. Rain and ice fell in great torrents upon its naked expanse, now bulging in the center. Lightning, perhaps hundreds of kilometers high, struck the distorting disk in various places as primordial life began to crawl and slither in and out of the oceans and rivers now being birthed over the planet's widening girth. And then the dinosaurs stomped to life and killed and bred and died over and over and over again until three flaming mountains slammed into a now spherical Earth, and then they were replaced by tigers and bears and whales and flying creatures, and then Man- and then Humankind appeared, and the visions became interlocking kaleidoscopes of wars, deaths, births, kings and queens, plagues, weddings, pollution, dying species, crumbling cities, global fires, soothing rains, beautiful women, smiling babies, old men fishing out of crystal clear lakes, and on and on until all of the collages finally resolved themselves into one iconic image: a tight shot of the famous purple Georgia O'Keefe flower with the pristine dots of dew like diamonds on its leaves.

The pain in Hillerman's head abruptly stopped. He looked up to see the giant's glistening backside again as it receded toward the eastern horizon. The seismic shocks lessened with each step it took.

"What just happened?" Stavros was standing next to him, his face slack, as if he were dreaming. "Jesus Christ, what just happened?"

Hillerman didn't have any explanations for that, but there was no use standing around trying to drum one up. "Are you hurt?"

Stavros swayed back and forth. His mouth opened and closed a few times. "No," he responded. He flicked his eyes at the skies. "We aren't alone anymore." He licked his lips. "It went into my mind and it spoke to me." He rapidly sucked in air. "That wasn't human."

Hillerman dusted off his pants legs. "Son, I don't think I can honestly call that one, but it's over and we've got work to do." He looked around. They were still alone. "We need to check on those prisoners. Hope to hell they didn't see this." He was thinking of Michael Bautista and his already fragile state of mind. "Or we're gonna have more problems on our hands."

Stavros unbuckled his helmet and threw it on the ground. There was a too-bright gleam developing in his cherry-red eyes. "I knew it. I knew it all along. We're not alone! Jesus-Fucking-Christ, we aren't alone!"

Hillerman was trying to keep himself focused. "What? You think that was some kind of alien?"

Stavros scratched his head. "I don't know. But it sure wasn't from around here, right? Right?"

Hillerman managed to keep his exasperation in check. "Look, I don't know what that was. Alien? Hallucination? Big foot? I don't know! But it's gone now and we've still got a job to do."

But Stavros was not paying him any attention. "I've waited for this all my life. Waited while everybody told me that this stupid, miserable planet was all there was. I didn't believe them. I knew there had to be something else. Something other than screwed up jobs and screwed up people and screwed up lives."

Hillerman sensed that Stavros was losing control. "Corporal Stavros, you are a soldier in the United States Army, and I expect you to pick up that helmet and pull yourself together and help me get those prisoners on that plane."

"No." Stavros tore off his gear and his boots. "I'm not going to spend the rest of my life killing and dying for nothing. I need something else! Do you understand?"

Hillerman put his hands on his hips and spoke the truth. "Son, pretty much everybody's miserable. We've all got ... problems."

Stavros jabbed the major with his finger. "Exactly! And I want to GET A SOLUTION ... INSTEAD OF DEALING WITH ANOTHER FUCKING PROBLEM! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT???"

Hillerman's right hand grazed his holster. "Listen. You are the property of the United States government. What you want does not concern me nor it in the least."

Stavros's nostrils flared. "Exactly my point."

"Corporal, this particular mission carries the death penalty for desertion. Colonel Higgins explained that to you and to Graber before you signed on, didn't he?"

For the briefest of moments, the corporal looked ready to cry. "Yes."

"Then you also know that if you leave here—during an active situation—that I'll put you down as a deserter."

The corporal appeared to consider the major's words. "I don't care."

"Oh, you care."

Then Stavros smiled. "You aren't gonna shoot me. Americans don't do that."

"Oh, I will shoot you. And I'll make sure that you receive the ten years in the brig that you deserve. That's a dishonorable discharge, Stavros. No benefits. No pension. You'll lose everything."

A look of sheer fury now struck Corporal Stavros across the face. "Then God help me. Because I'm leaving!" Stavros kicked his helmet out of the way and started walking in the direction that the colossus had taken.

Hillerman called out after him. "I mean it!"

There was a slight hitch in the corporal's step, but the soldier kept walking.

"CORPORAL RAFAEL STAVROS, STOP OR I'LL SHOOT!"

Stavros defiantly raised his middle digit.

Now Hillerman unholstered his pistol and aimed it at Stavros's backside, startled by how much his hands were shaking. He pointed the gun sight just a couple of inches above Stavros's left elbow. The major intended to wing him, let him bleed out a little bit ... just enough to slow him down and allow him to collect his senses. Hillerman fired his weapon, and as soon as the bullet had left the chamber, he knew that it had been a bad shot. The round went wide and to the right, hitting the corporal below the left shoulder blade and behind the heart.

The boom! of the gun going off echoed around the now silent airport as Corporal Stavros collapsed face down onto the ground.

Major Hillerman dropped the gun. He stood there for a while, letting the sun's rays warm him. He must have dozed off because when he opened his eyes again, the sun had moved halfway across the sky. Corporal Stavros's body was still lying on the ground surrounded by a wide pool of drying blood. It took great effort, but Hillerman managed to blink. When his eyes opened again, the sun was in back of him, angling towards the west. Stavros's body was now lying face up. The major tried to take a step backward. As he did, he noticed that darkness was encroaching upon the sky and that the ground was wet from a recent rain ... and Corporal Stavros was now sitting up and staring directly at him. Hillerman wanted to scream but his mouth was paralyzed. Stars were now peeking out from behind wispy clouds, and he could make out Stavros slowly walking towards the east.

He stood there a moment longer and then made his way back inside the Guard terminal. He found everyone—including the pilot and crew—together. They looked as disoriented as he was. Had they witnessed the scene with Corporal Stavros? There was no sign of Corporal Graber. Hillerman looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty in the morning. He checked it again. Wednesday morning!

They had lost two days and he had lost two men. Well, Hillerman thought, I don't really have time to have a nervous breakdown about it now. He called the group together, his face a rictus of determination. "We're behind schedule. Everybody get your gear! Game ON!"

Chang and the convicts from Lincoln Hills state prison boarded the C-130 at ten o'clock.

Shortly thereafter, the plane was hurtling down the runway and giving them a mild-gee thrill. The pilot executed a perfect rotation and they lifted up into the air. One hour into the flight, the pilot announced that the seatbelt sign was off and that they were free to give the gentleman standing at the front of the cabin their attention. He was definitely an officer of some country's military. He wore a crisp blue uniform with a hat and medals and plenty of 'I-mean-business!' attitude. Two uniformed women emerged from the empty forward section of the plane. Each carried a stack of stuffed envelopes.

The man spoke. "I'm Major Gregory Braun." The man spoke in a vague accent layered with several European flavors. "And let me introduce my assistants, Lieutenant Busby and Lieutenant Crane." The women acknowledged the introduction.

Powell let out a rude puff of air. "Hey, when did we get invaded by Germany?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're a kraut, right?"

"My family lives near Stuttgart."

"Well, that's in Germany, right?"

"Yes. What's your point?"

"Your buddies are helping the enemy. You're up here gabbing with us. What's going on?"

"The United States is experiencing a severe conflict."

"Really? We hadn't noticed," Powell replied with heavy sarcasm.

"There are many interested parties ... in Europe, the United Kingdom, and just about any other place in the world."

"So America is on the mat and you all show up to make sure we stay there."

"You are mistaken. No belligerence is intended. But sides have been taken. There are many people here from Australia, New Zealand, India, Poland, Germany, and France. You have it. Some are aligned with your adversaries, and some are with your government in Washington. I represent our chancellor's point of view that this fissure in your society must be made to close as quickly as possible. For everyone's sake."

Powell turned to his seatmate, who happened to be Walters. "Is this the biggest load of horse shit you've ever heard?"

Walters looked crestfallen. "So what you're saying is this country is so screwed up now that it's come down to a bunch of Germans—" he raised his hands and made air quote marks, "— et al, to restore peace, love and harmony?"

Major Braun bit his lower lip. "I understand that you men have been undergoing some rather unusual circumstances over the past few days since your ... transfer ... from Nevada. I can confidently say that you now have a window of relative peace that will allow you to steady your nerves and get back to work."

The stewardesses handed out an envelope to each of them. Then they were each given three sheets of blank paper and two number two pencils.

"In about an hour we'll have you open the packages that have been prepared for you. In way of a preview, what you'll find inside are papers on bioethics, biomechanics, neural network programming, nuclear engineering, genetics, artificial psychology, and aeronautical engineering. We'll have two days before we reach Huntsville so you will have plenty of time to get through everything."

Everyone sobered up instantly.

Braun continued. "Each of these pieces fits together to create the MIT-DAT whole. No one piece is greater than the rest; no one piece is less than the others. We are striving for complete synergy here."

Bautista held up his hand. "Dang dang, Jim! Hold up! You think you're talking to the League of Super Heroes? I've been in the pen for the past ten years. How you figure I've been keeping up with the latest nucular engineering technology?"

"You will not have to know all about the subject. Super—surface knowledge is okay."

"How 'bout no knowledge? I ain't doing this, man. I am an American felon. Ain't no way 'saving the world' is in my job description."

Braun's mouth worked itself into what looked like a sympathetic smile. "For your country then, please try."

"No."

Chang raised his hand. "Major Braun, we've been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe a little recupe time? My men are exhausted."

Braun's response was to the point. "Which would your men prefer? To be exhausted or dead?"

Chang shuttered his eyes. Bautista muttered to himself. "When did we become Chang's property?"

Broussard, who was seated next to Bautista, thumped the smaller man's arm. "Enough of the color commentary."

Bautista shot him a hateful look. "What's your problem? Oh, don't tell me you're going along with this?"

"Mike, in case you haven't noticed, Braun and his girlfriends are packing." Somehow they had all missed that small detail. "Something heavy is going down in the country right now, and we are eleven thousand meters in the air. Our options are limited."

"Fuck that," Bautista growled, but said no more.

"Anyway," Braun continued, "that's after-lunch reading. Right now, I need to know where all of you stand with the basics: algebra, trig, calculus, linear algebra, diff equations, etc. So we'll take, oh, an hour or so for a short status check. Lieutenant Busby will be handing out the quiz momentarily. Afterwards, Lieutenant Crane will give you your reading materials. Any questions?"

Walters held up his hand. "Can we use calculators?"

"Scientific and graphing calculators will be provided."

Lieutenant Busby passed out the tests and calculators. At first there were a few coughs and throat clearings, and then the men started in on the quiz. Broussard worked to keep his spirits up, but there was just an amazing amount of complex problems there, some of which he had not seen since high school. An engineer rarely used anything beyond algebra on the job; he had only done a smattering of calculus back at the lab. He squinted, trying to remember the old numerical friends and tormentors from his youth. His head began to throb again. The test was not going to be easy, but he took some satisfaction in knowing that even Chang was having to take the exam too, and from the sighs and startled grunts coming from his direction, he was as unhappy about it as the rest of them.

Almost all of them were finished two hours later. Walters lay his pencil down first and relaxed in his chair. Chang, Powell, and Broussard completed their work a short time later. Lieutenant Busby collected their papers while Lieutenant Crane served soft drinks and snacks. An hour later found most of them napping while Broussard went over some of the test questions on a cocktail napkin. The soothing sounds of the airplane gliding through the air swirled around the cabin and chipped away at the intransigent tension still clinging to them. The huge vessel rocked gently from side to side like a cradle, while the soft shhhhh of the plane's engines was a metallic mother's whisper of love. Soon Broussard was also asleep. It was the sound of the pilot's quavering voice over the intercom that awoke them. "Uh, this is Captain Mason. We just got word from Washington about that 'quake. You might want to say a prayer, folks. The West Coast is gone."

#

On September 4th at precisely six a.m. PST, a mega-thrust earthquake struck along the entire eastern edge of the Pacific Ocean's tectonic plate, fracturing the earth's crust from the Aleutian Islands in Alaska to Acapulco, Mexico. The plate tore itself apart two thousand kilometers off the American and Mexican west coasts at just six kilometers beneath the ocean's surface, creating an estimated magnitude fourteen-point-nine super earthquake. Approximately thirty minutes later a series of tidal waves, two of which were estimated to be over nine hundred meters in height, reared up over the western United States and drowned everything in its path from Seattle, Washington, down to Oceanside, California. The northern portions of the waves were particularly ferocious, and they greedily ate up real estate for hundreds of kilometers inland until they lost enough of their energy to merely smack up against the western backside of the Ruby Mountains outside of Port Arthur, Nevada.

#

Two Kilometers Outside of Eindhoven University of Technology

Eindhoven, The Netherlands

"Where did you put it, Patrik?"

From his vantage point on the sofa, all he could see was her round bottom bouncing up and down. It was a rather interesting perspective.

"Don't worry about it," he responded. "I can round it up later. Just come here."

She rummaged around the piles of books and papers a bit longer and then returned to him. Her young face was flush and she was out of breath. She gazed around the cramped apartment and at the floor-to-ceiling stacks of books and unwashed clothing and couldn't help but say, "I never knew you were such an untidy person!"

"Most great minds are, don't you know?" He pulled her into his lap. "That's why we keep very accommodating haushälter."

Lisette feigned deep insult. "A housekeeper? Is that what I am to you?"

"But more, papillon." He kissed the tip of her nose. "You are my lover, my muse, my tiny dancer, my tidy-upper, and the woman who is going to change my nappies when I'm old and gray."

Lisette brightened considerably and cradled his head against her small bosom. "Promise me you'll never become old and gray, Patrik. I want you to always be young and vivacious, as you are now."

He stroked her long, bare legs. "Vivacious, you say!" He tickled her tummy. "I am a man, big and strong! I tear down trees with my bare hands! I skin bears alive!"

In between her giggles, she managed to get out, "Promise me! Promise me!"

He raised up her t-shirt and made a raspberry on her flat stomach.

"Patrik, stop! You'll make me wet myself!"

"Good! That'll serve you right, you audacious lass!"

He grabbed her beneath her back and legs and plopped her down on the ottoman. "Now, I want you to behave yourself while I get ready for work."

Lisette stuck out her tongue at him, and he made a lightning fast grab for it.

"Ha! You missed!" Lisette crawled back onto the sofa as he padded into the nearby bathroom.

He called out to her. "Are you attending rehearsal tonight?"

"Hmm, maybe. My ankle feels better." Lisette Fuchs danced for the Eindhoven Ballet when not toiling away at her part-time clerical job at UT Eindhoven. Her boss, Professor Hans Dykestrom, had introduced her to Patrik Jansen three years earlier. At the time, Dykestrom's inner circle had regarded Jansen as nothing less than the second coming of Edsger Dijkstra, the great Dutch programmer. Three years later, Patrik Jansen's stature as a neural programmer had outgrown any such comparisons. He was Dykestrom's star pupil, and arguably the most brilliant organic engineer in all of northern Europe. Soon thereafter he became UT's golden ticket into the new and exciting AI package being developed in the States by DARPA. And, he was Lisette Fuchs best and only chance for a desirable marriage. "I saw Professor Dykestrom this morning. He seems to think that Cummings is going to come around soon." All she could hear was the sound of running tap water and the buzz of his electric shaver. "What do you think of that?"

The shaver was powered down. "I don't put much stock in Dykestrom's analyses these days."

Lisette's eyes flashed, but Jansen did not see this. "Why do you dislike him so lately? He's been nothing but kind to you. If it weren't for him you would have never gotten that position at Cobra."

Jansen stuck his head out of the bathroom. His cheeks and chin were covered with shaving foam. "That's a bloody lie and you know it, and if you repeat it once more I'm going to tell your parents that it was you who seduced me."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Dare I would!" He wiped his face clean with a towel. "Now please get dressed. I don't want to get bogged down in traffic like yesterday. And would you mind putting my bag in the trunk, please and thank you?"

They sped across town towards the airport in Lisette's tiny Citroen. Jansen silently cursed the steady patter of rain coming down. He hated the rain. Rain and storms had a bad habit of slowing down the work process. If it were left up to him, every day would be sunny and warm. Lisette pulled up to the airport's drop-off area. He got out quickly and retrieved his bag. Then he leaned in through her open window. "I'll call you when I get into Belgium."

"Let me know when you've reached Amsterdam." She noticed his change in attitude right away. "You're angry. Never mind."

He kissed her on the mouth. "See you!

"Bye-bye!"

The flight into Amsterdam was quick and uneventful. He had a two-hour layover there where he spent his time arranging pub dates in Belgium with other visiting Cobra staffers, and walking about the airport to keep his long legs limber. Then he was up and flying away to Belgium. The feeling of gloom was already leaving him as he anticipated getting back to work. A short time later he landed at Brussels International Airport. A taxi carried him the eleven kilometers to Henny Chounard's estate in Zaventem. Caroline, Henny's wife, met him at the door, where they exchanged barely civil greetings. Caroline Chounard was an uneducated pig in Jansen's eyes, and since it was Henny who controlled the purse strings in the Chounard household, he saw no reason to trick her into thinking that he felt otherwise.

As was his custom, Chounard hurried down the grand central staircase and hurried into the foyer. He was well aware of the animosity between his wife and his favorite colleague. People with massive intellects usually had massive egos as well, so a little friction was to be expected. But if he could have been honest with his wife and with Jansen, he would have told them to their faces that the constant stress of running interference was beginning to aggravate him.

While a servant took Jansen's bag, Chounard ushered the younger man into his study and closed the French doors.

"Your flight was good?" He poured them both a brandy.

"Uneventful." Jansen took his glass and swallowed the amber liquid whole.

"The best kind, I'd say!" And he downed his drink. "Would you like something to eat? Cook has made some excellent rack of lamb."

"Actually, I'd like to get some work done tonight. In the basement."

Chounard smiled. "I thought you'd might. That's fine. I just need—" Chounard cleared his throat of some obstruction. And then he coughed. His eyes grew watery with the effort. The older man socked the left side of his chest twice. "I just need to ... ." Suddenly Chounard stooped over as he was overcome with great, wracking coughs. Jansen poured himself another jig of brandy and waited. Chounard pressed a white handkerchief to his mouth. When he pulled it away, there were droplets of blood on it. As the coughing grew worse, Jansen quietly sipped his brandy. Soon there came a loud rap on the study doors.

"Henny! What is the matter?" The heavy oak doors did nothing to dull the fright in her voice.

Chounard fought for breath. "Caroline, please come here—"

Just as Caroline Chounard burst through the doors, Jansen ran over to the stricken man and began to slap him on the back.

"He's having one of his spells, I'm afraid," he said with worried tones.

Mrs. Chounard whipped an inhaler from her apron's pocket and pushed it into her husband's mouth. As she depressed the plunger, her husband took in the medicine with several wheezy breaths.

She glared at Jansen. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"

"It just started a moment ago. And I guess I panicked." He put his arm around Chounard, who was breathing much easier now. "How are you feeling, Henny? Can I get you anything?"

Chounard put up his hand. "No, no, no. I'm fine. Just give me a moment."

Mrs. Chounard sat down on a nearby settee and waited until her husband started to breathe normally.

"Caroline, I want you to open the basement laboratory for Patrik. And let him have the duplicate key so that he can lock up after he's finished."

"Now? Surely it's too late to run any experiments."

"Just do as I say. Patrik needs to really push hard now. We have to show Mr. Voode that we've got the goods."

"But—"

"Don't argue with me. Just do it!"

She looked up at Jansen, whose outward appearance was only one of absolute concern. But she knew better.

"All right. Just give me a moment to turn on the filters."

At midnight Mrs. Chounard and Jansen took the private elevator down to the third sublevel of the Chounard home. This immense area was off limits to all staff, family and visitors with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Chounard, Jansen, and three undergrad assistants.

The elevator opened onto a cramped outer room. Mrs. Chounard pushed on a bank of switches. Lights came on, ventilation systems began to whir, and a set of solid steel doors set into the wall opened up. The two stepped inside.

Jansen hastily put on his lab smock while Mrs. Chounard busied herself in the refrigerated stockroom.

Just beyond them sat a large metal cage approximately eight hundred cubic meters in size. Crouched in one corner was a small, powered down battle bot. Its circular saw arm was tucked neatly underneath its chassis, between the wheels. Jansen flipped a switch and the robot came to life. It made a slow track around the cage's perimeter and stopped when it reached the cage's tallest door, which is where Jansen currently stood.

Mrs. Chounard came out carrying a cardboard box.

"I've microwaved the larger portions." She gestured towards a nearby work table. "You've got wires and a staple gun over there." He said nothing. She set the box down on the table.

"I'll get the others."

She walked over to a small control panel and pressed five red buttons. Invisible gears and pulleys began to creek and groan behind the steel walls. At the same time, three fortified doors set low to the ground began to slide upwards. Short, metal hallways started at their mouths and disappeared into inky blackness.

Mrs. Chounard quickly stood to leave. "Please remember to lock all doors afterwards."

"I will," he responded.

As soon as he heard the elevator lumbering back up to the main floor, he pressed those same five red buttons again, and three more doors slid upwards. Movement caught his eye. The battle bot had wheeled itself closer to him.

Now there were languorous shadows filling up the hallways. Jansen felt the adrenaline pumping into his system. A loud screech, wild and inhuman, filled the air. And then another.

Jansen snatched the robot's remote control from a hook on the wall.

And then a roar as thunderous as anything that one would hear on the Serengeti split the other snarls and hisses into two.

Two extremely lean lionesses and five equally emaciated hyenas had emerged from the apertures in the wall and were now noisily investigating their new surroundings for scraps of food. They had been raised together since birth and had never developed the notion that one species could serve as a meal for the other.

Jansen thumbed a white switch and a heavy partition fell from the roof of the cage in between the animals and the robot.

Putting on a pair of rubber gloves, Jansen quickly opened the box that Caroline had brought out from the stockroom. Inside were small, medium and large chunks of fresh zebra and deer flesh. He took the larger pieces and threaded them through with the heavy gauge wire. Then he opened the main door and brought out the robot. The din of growls and mutterings was growing louder.

With swift fingers, he tied the big chunks of meat to various parts of the robot with the heavy wires. And then he stapled the smaller pieces onto these with the staple gun.

Jansen ripped off his gloves and shoved the robot back inside the cage. It remained motionless. Jansen hit the white switch again and the cage partition lifted up, grinding through its track. The starved animals on the other side sniffed the air and smelled sweet blood. They leapt. The robot spun on its wheels and began to frantically search for the main door, trying to get out. But Jansen held it closed until he could get the locks back on.

The robot had time to raise its saw blade once to take a swing at its attackers before it was taken down.

#

Camp David, Maryland

Why couldn't they have seen that coming? Some of the sharpest geologists were on the West Coast, for obvious reasons. Those people had been using sound predictive data for years. They now had real warnings about impending earthquakes. So what had gone wrong? And how had this latest disaster developed along such an astounding scale? These were the questions that kept gnawing at the president.

He stared at his vice president with hard eyes. "Why didn't they see this coming?"

"Denial," Vice President Jameston replied. "Denial topped off with a little overconfidence ... maybe. With Los Angeles out of the picture, we calculated that the next major target would be somewhere in the Midwest. We were all looking in the wrong place, and I guess that I'll have to take responsibility for that."

The Situation Room was filled with hot, stifling heat. The central air conditioning had broken down again, and the only repairman qualified and security-cleared to service it was hundreds of kilometers away, servicing the sputtering central air conditioning at Space Command in Colorado. Haverson sat in his fat presidential armchair sweating like a winded horse as Prime Minister Tennyson grilled him on "the facts," about this latest catastrophe while Jameston and James Grodin made a big show of giving a damn. He knew better. Those two had mentally checked out right after the damage report on the earthquake had come in from FEMA.

Tennyson allowed them a mildly disapproving look. "We'll have to get a handle on this sort of thing, won't we? I mean, if we're always standing around waiting for the guillotine to fall instead of doing everything in our power to dismantle it, well then, we're going to be having far too many conversations like this one."

Haverson felt like a misbehaving schoolboy being reprimanded by the principal. His vice president and his secretary of defense stared vacuously at Tennyson's image, mute. He wanted to fire them both on the spot. Instead he took a deep, cleansing breath.

"I concur. I'll have some ideas for you tomorrow as to how we might prevent these events in the future."

Tennyson smiled. "Good." He peered down at a sheet of paper set before him. "Now, we are also hearing about some quasi-religious figure hunkered down in the New Mexican desert. What do you make of that? Real or imaginary?"

Jameston finally spoke up. "That one's real, sir. Or at least based on reality. Over the past month almost one hundred thousand people have relocated in and around Santa Fe, New Mexico. The city maintains a large artist colony and is fairly liberal minded. The people who are flocking down there are mainly the dislocated and disenfranchised. Historically, these two groups feed quite well off each other."

"So is there some 'desert messiah' or not?" Tennyson asked.

"Well, there is a man named David Brown who is a big draw for some of these immigrants. He and his wife spend a lot of time with them, passing out Bibles. But he isn't preaching or even gaining a concrete following for that matter. Honestly, I think they're just a couple of do-gooders who like to talk too much. So to answer your question: Messiah, no. Threat level: zero."

Haverson eased into the conversation. "William, I would have to agree with Ted's assessment. America has a storied history of producing some of the most powerful cult figures in recent history. These people are charismatic, egomaniacal, bent upon self-glorification. Usually to the detriment of their followers. Fortunately for us, he is not one of those guys. If he were, he would have made his move by now. Is he someone that we should be paying a little extra attention to? No doubt. But for now, because our resources are stretched so thin, my recommendation is that we let him be. He's a catalyst for feeding people and getting them jobs. And right now, we need more like him."

The prime minister was not yet convinced. "The fact remains that you do have some individuals out there, some with rather impressive credentials, calling this man 'messiah.' To my way of thinking, that's the last kind of thinking that Americans need when so much of their everyday lives have fallen by the wayside. To me, and to a lesser degree, His Royal Highness, this is a disturbing development."

Jameston put on a serious face. "Mr. Tennyson, to perhaps paint a better picture of the current state of the American psyche, you might also be aware that there's also been an uptick in UFO sightings and so-called Super men ... in Iowa, Wyoming, and Montana. Places where people are not normally afflicted with great imagination. And yet it is happening."

The prime minister leaned forward. "What do you make of that?"

"Hmm. Well, best guess, mild mass hysteria. But America, like England, has always had a fringe element. You know the Big foot-Loch Ness crowd. They're just coming into their own."

Tennyson still did not looked convinced. "Are you pursuing the theory that the massive earthquake that struck the West Coast was purely coincidental as well?"

"Why wouldn't we?" Haverson asked rather defensively. "Our scientists have known for years that the Big One was imminent. Overdue, in fact. The fact that it finally happened should have surprised no one."

The prime minister sighed. "Very well. Let's move on. So we suddenly have faulty satellites everywhere again. How are we gathering the intelligence on the Advance South that we have thus far?"

"We have quite a few operatives in the field," Jameston replied confidently. "One thing about the Advance South, theirs is a transparent rebellion. Strangers are rarely stopped or questioned. And that has worked to their disadvantage because now they have to deal with some of the issues that we're come up against, like street gangs and the food cartels interfering with supply chains. We've sent in several Bob Nelsons to take pictures of the most active—"

"Sorry to interrupt, but what are 'Bob Nelsons'?"

Jameston straightened his tie. "No problem. A Bob Nelson is a pilot, usually flying solo in a small prop plane, who is experienced in flying to remote, potentially hostile areas. Right now, since we still have spotty satellite coverage and can't use our long-range drones, they are the only reliable airborne eyes that we have on Advance South activities."

"I see. Well, that sounds positive." He picked up a glass of water and sipped from it. "What about countermeasures?"

Haverson raised his hand. "Short-term, countermeasures will be purely diplomatic. We have several individuals who are in contact with the Fourteen on a daily basis, and through their considerable powers of persuasion, they have managed to prevent a repeat of the attack that occurred in San Francisco."

Tennyson exhaled loudly. "Yes ... that is very good."

"Long term, the Advanced Technology division under the Department of Defense has five projects in the pipeline that we feel will greatly aid us against the AS. Two are field-test ready."

"Excellent. Please keep me apprised of all results."

"I will."

The British leader took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Douglas, there is a feeling amongst some of the leaders in the European Union, and one that I and His Majesty also happen to share, that... well ... fundamental control of the world's affairs is being lost."

His words struck the three men sitting in the Situation Room like a stinging slap across their faces.

"William, I can assure you that—"

The prime minister held up a quieting hand and continued. "Let me correct myself: Will be lost. The IMF has just submitted their long-range projections for fiscal management and growth, and according to their most conservative estimates, Europe, China, and the United States will face insolvency within five years. That will likely create a domino effect that will have massive repercussions in the United Kingdom and Asia, repercussions that we most likely will never recover from. By the way, this scenario does not take into account any additional upheavals in the world market."

Haverson fought to control his emotions. "Mr. Prime Minister, if you'll just give us more time, I believe that we can work with the Advance South in addressing some of their grievances. They realize that secession is hurting both sides—"

"Douglas, I'm sorry but the prevailing sentiment is that even if America somehow manages to extricate herself from this terrible situation, there are so many other potential troubles looming over you—over all of us really—that it's only a matter of time before all law and order breaks down and global anarchy takes over."

But Haverson was shaking his head in defiant negation. "Not for one moment do I believe that. It's just more End-Time talk being passed around by scared old men."

Tennyson's neutral countenance changed into a state of extreme weariness. "This has been kept out of the news for the obvious reasons .... There was a Whistler rally staged in Liverpool last month. Ten thousand people attended. The next day there were two separate rallies in Lyon, France. The following week another rally in Greece."

The president had a rebuttal on the tip of his lips but wisely chose not to voice it.

The prime minister's grim voice filled the room. "It's spreading. And like a cancer, it's lethal. Various European governments are in private talks with us about moving certain personnel and operations to a moon base via a reboot of NASA's Constellation program. It is hoped that once we are off-planet, we can better decide how to best secure and preserve remaining resources here on earth. As it is now, most are finding it difficult to manage things properly when surrounded by so much growing turbulence."

Haverson broke eye contact. "So those of us with the keys to the spaceships get to slip out of Dodge before sundown?"

"Douglas, listen. I know that it's a rather shabby way to end things, but think about it. Do we really have another option?"

Haverson's head was spinning. He said nothing.

"Douglas, one more thing. I understand that you've received word from your wife."

The president snapped to attention. "Yes, I have and she and Theresa are okay." That news had been the only bright spot for him and for his staff in a long time. "Their helicopter got hit by a stray bullet, but they managed to reach Newark airport."

"That's in New York?"

"New Jersey. The plan was to catch a connecting flight into New York City, but the airport was overrun with these new urban guerillas. Some kind of turf war going on. They shot up the place pretty bad. Did some nasty things to innocent citizens. Luckily, the two Secret Service agents assigned to them got them to safety to a hotel not far away."

Tennyson looked visibly relieved. "Brilliant! And now it's just a matter of getting your people there to spirit them out."

"We've got some of our finest on the way as we speak."

"Excellent! Good show! We'll be talking again tomorrow then? Say six o'clock your time?"

Blake Lively checked Haverson's calendar and nodded.

Haverson flashed the prime minister the famous Haverson smile. "That sounds fine."

The day after the air conditioning had been restored, Douglas Haverson boarded Marine One, a new, French-built Gazelle helicopter purchased for him by the British government. He and six Secret Service agents slipped out of Camp David, and flew to his parents' sprawling, one-thousand-acre ranch in eastern Kentucky. Brett Hunter joined him there three hours later.

Relatives and neighbors quickly descended upon the ranch to welcome their most famous son back home. Many prayed openly for the safe return of Kelly and his daughter, Theresa. Most offered their raw support for the president's efforts to peacefully negotiate with the Advance South. Homemade pies and briskets poured into the Haverson kitchen. The president personally thanked each and every one of his visitors, and he vowed to continue to "fight the good fight" for the entire nation. The next day, Haverson, Hunter, and the six agents, headed for the family's hunting cabin deep in the heart of the ranch. It was deer season. Deer hunting on the ranch was a tradition that dated back to Haverson's great-grandfather, and with only slight modifications, the president intended to honor that tradition for the remainder of his life. Like the other licensed hunters in the area, the president would be allowed to take one mature buck.

The ranch hands had sown the food plot with oats and fortified the tree stand earlier that year, so everything was ready for them. The family maid had made sure that the cabin had been tidied up and well stocked with food and water. All that was left for Haverson's small party to do was have a good time and wait for the game.

As soon as Haverson and Hunter settled in, they applied themselves to the serious business of relaxing. The two men convened on the backyard deck which overlooked a small lake

Hunter pulled out a small metal flask from inside his vest's pocket and poured some of its contents into his cider mug.

Haverson held out his mug. "Hit me."

Hunter poured the remainder of the flask's contents into Haverson's mug.

Haverson drank his drink in large gulps and then wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. "That did the trick." He studied his now empty cup. "Booze," he said. "People are losing their faith left and right. Say there's no proof of a loving god. I remind them there is proof: usually in the forty percent range." He rubbed his forehead. "I honestly don't believe that I could have lived through the last nine months without alcohol."

Hunter smiled. "I admit that it helps a man get through the dark patches."

Haverson looked thoughtful. "Jesus's first miracle was turning water into wine. You think that was a coincidence?"

Hunter did not reply. Instead, he swiveled his head from left to right, taking in the surrounding scenery. "It never stops being beautiful here."

"I know," Haverson responded. ""When I die, I want to be buried out here. Right here."

"What about the Constellation plan?"

"This is my home, and I ain't going anywhere. Let Ted handle the reins up there. Besides, even with all the problems, earth is still the best game in town."

"You aren't serious?" His friend asked, clearly concerned. "What about Kelly?"

"Kelly will do as I say," Haverson replied with a sharp edge to his voice. He relinquished a smile. "I meant to say that I don't believe that she'll have any objections. I'd want Theresa to go, though. She's got a future." His mood darkened as he finished his drink. "Let's change the subject."

"Okay."

Haverson began to rub his hands together. "I can't wait until we get our first crack at something tomorrow."

Hunter grunted in agreement.

The president leaned back into his easy chair. "Back in the forties, my grandpa brought in five white tail bucks from East Texas. The paperwork that I saw had them each weighing four hundred and fifty pounds, give or take a few. He used them for studding, fed them imported feed, and didn't hunt 'em for fifteen years. That sixteenth year, they trapped and tagged a buck. He weighed six hundred and twenty pounds. Had an outside rack spread of two meters."

Hunter whistled. "Sounds like he had a monster on his hands."

"There's a picture of him in the main house. He was a monster. But that's what can happen when you don't meddle, and you let nature run its course.

"With a little help from your grandfather."

Haverson yawned. "Yep.

At midnight, the two men made the ten-meter climb to the tree stand, which was just a large metal box with a lookout slot cut into one side. It was just large enough to hold the two of them and their gear. The president's security detail would remain below, sleeping in shifts. They would remain there until dawn, when the deer were most active. High anticipation, muddied somewhat with fatigue, coursed through both of them, and this served to lift the president's spirits.

After unpacking their sleeping bags and rechecking their rifles and ammo, they each retreated to their own corners. Haverson stretched out on his bed while Hunter pulled out a pair of binoculars and began to clean the lenses.

Haverson spoke first. "Kelly and Theresa will be home soon. Christ, it feels like they've been gone for years. Weird."

Hunter made a noise of assent. "These are weird times, my friend."

Haverson raised his head. "Hey, I heard you toured the coast again. What was it like?"

Hunter set down the binoculars and crossed his long arms. "Well, the places that we knew ... the major cities ... are... well, gone. San Diego didn't get a scratch, so go figure."

Haverson grunted.

"You heard that the Golden Gate Bridge washed up on Vancouver Island?"

Haverson nodded grimly. "Yeah. Too bad. Tough old broad."

Hunter nodded. "There's talk about salvaging the big pieces and reassembling it in Canada." He flicked the sad images away. "So we flew over Seattle and Portland. Or where they used to be. And then east a bit. And that's when things got scary 'cause you think that you're staring out over flat land and you realize that it's actually this humongous chunk of earth, maybe ten kilometers long, that's been pushed up from below, and it's just hanging there in the air like some cosmic diving board ... ." He brought up his fingers and pinched the flesh between his eyes. "But I'll never forget when we flew south down the coast. We knew that there were cities and highways down there, but all you could see was the Pacific. And, Doug, I—I'd never seen the ocean look that clear ... or that blue ... or that ... young."

Haverson lay his head back down again. "Truly tragic ... and truly amazing. They really got clobbered by it."

Hunter gently scratched at the stubble on his chin. "So, uh, what do you think 'it' was?"

Haverson made a show of contemplation. "Honestly, I'm with the scientists on this one. I think that Mother Nature is playing her trump card. She's been pushing us to do better with our resources—the hurricanes, droughts, floods, tornadoes, earthquakes—signs that we've got things so out of balance. And we've been pushing back with the same old 'this-is-ours-so-we're-gonna-do-what-we-want-with-it' bullshit, and sticking our heads up our collective asses, and now she's saying, 'Okay. You don't want to listen? Then I'm going take you out of the equation and balance it myself.' And that's what I believe is happening."

Hunter smiled. "Well, she's got our attention now."

Haverson snorted. "Too late. She's playing to win. I can feel it."

"Douglas, were you serious about what you said. About not taking on the Constellation plan?"

The president sighed. "I don't know. Yesterday, I really felt the emotions of those people. They want this war to end. And they want a strong leader to make that happen. Ted's a smart man. He could certainly take over. But ... it may not be wise to change horses in midstream. The people might take it the wrong way. So ... I don't know. When Kelly gets home, making that decision will be the first order of business."

The men fell silent, each entertaining his own thoughts.

At six-thirty the next morning, a large male deer emerged from the trees and walked over to the food plot and began to feed. Haverson steadied his rifle, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The animal jumped and was about to flee back into the woods when Hunter fired his rifle. This time the animal went down hard. Haverson scampered down from the tree stand with Hunter right behind him. They ran over to where it lay.

Haverson quickly grabbed hold of its outer antlers. "Brett, take the other side."

The men grabbed the deer's antlers from both sides and pulled up its head until it was completely off the ground. Satisfied, Haverson motioned toward one of the Secret service agents with his head and called out, "Field dressing!"

Two agents dashed over. One of them whipped out a pair of oversized sunglasses and planted them squarely on the deer's face. The second agent pulled out an oversized Tennessee Titans jersey and wrestled it over the animal's antlers, head and shoulders. A third agent brought out a camcorder and began to shoot video of Haverson, Hunter and the deer in various comical poses, and from different angles.

After about ten minutes, Haverson appeared to be satisfied. "Okay." He looked at Hunter. "Let's let him down." They gently lowered the buck's head to the earth. The sunglasses and the football jersey were removed. Then Haverson reached down and pulled out the two tranquilizer darts. He handed one of them to Hunter.

"Good shot."

Hunter was grinning at the gigantic animal as he pocketed the spent dart. "Good target."

The president patted the deer's exposed belly. "He's gonna have a helluva headache tomorrow." He looked in the direction of the agents. "One of you stay with him until he gets back on his feet."

#

Chicago Stock Exchange, Chicago, Illinois

1:30 p.m.

The floor was a madhouse. Greg Roberts steeled himself inside the Field of Invincibility as he watched the board. Applied Physics was still sitting at $32-1/4 per share and hadn't budged since nine that morning. He rifled through his notes for the third time. He reread the one scribbled on a cocktail napkin:

Overheard @ L. Seaver's b-day party on 1/4: Appl. Physics CEO out of rehab & meeting with Harry Rhodes to discuss possible acq...

Two years ago Applied Physics was just another ho-hum arms shop in Michigan that manufactured high-performance jet engines for anyone who would pony up the cash. They had a solid product with legs but not a heck of a lot of ambition. Then whoever was asleep at the switch up there woke up one morning and hired Steve Heller, one of Dallas's more flamboyant tech gurus, and within one year their business had grown by forty percent. They soon went public with an IPO at $27 per share. Then things started getting interesting. Rumors started flying that Applied was doing more than supplying engines to rabble rebel nations. Seven months before, Heller had lured two acoustic physicists away from Bell Labs, and the buzz was that they weren't just working on fast airplane engines anymore but rather silent and fast airplane engines. Stock brokers didn't put a lot of money into aircraft parts. Military contracts were notoriously unreliable, and the profit margins were never quite high enough to justify plunking down serious money. Plus, with the Advance South on the rampage, the country was being flooded with already-purchased aircraft engines. So, companies like Applied Physics were going to flounder. At least short-term. But Roberts was anything but a short-term trader. This particular company was thinking way outside the box. And now their volatile but brilliant leader was out of rehab and chatting up John Voode, the director of DARPA. On nothing more than a hunch, last month Roberts had purchased fifty thousand dollars' worth of Applied Physics stock. And then he sat back and waited. Sure enough, the following week the Wall Street Journal had reported that DARPA and Applied Physics were in talks. But the shocker of that story was that the engine company wasn't negotiating to be added on as a vendor but as a bride. That meant that Applied had not gone through any bidding process. It meant that DARPA had personally selected the firm to supply the engine. And because most of the American government agencies were running leaner and meaner than ever, it also meant that DARPA was positioning itself to buy Applied. If that happened, the agency would have to buy out all of the current stockholders. But first, DARPA and Applied would have to publicly announce their engagement and allow all shareholders two weeks to either sell their stock on the open market or wait for the government to buy it from them at market price. The engagement had been announced at eight-thirty EST. The stock then rose from $27 per share to $32-1/4. That was good but hardly good enough. He knew from experience that the stock would stay hot for about three days. After that, focus-drift would take place in the market and the price would settle down for good.

Mark-the-guy-next-to-him was trying to get his attention.

"Greg, you over there meditating or what?" His voice was already hoarse from shouting buy orders all day. Mark was becoming the resident expert on the new Advance South stocks being sneaked onto the board. Greg had to admit that some of it looked promising; the AS was heavily invested in businesses looking to transfer home building and agricultural production to high-earth orbit and beyond. And all of the AS ventures were almost religiously bound to natural and organic manufacturing practices, which netted them high scores in Greg's book. But the AS was America's official enemy, and no one was supposed to be able to buy or sell their stocks without incurring severe penalties, even jail time. But rogue stockbrokers like Mark seemed to have no problem with AS ideology, and seemed even less concerned about any SEC fines that might be attached to public adoration for AS stocks down the road. At least once a day, Mark would preach a sermon to the floor, trying to convert the law abiders to the side of the AS. He would point out that America was sinking in deep waters with a vengeance. Only the AS had the guts to not go down with the ship. And quite a few of the other brokers were actually paying attention to him, and at least twice a week another AS stock would mysteriously appear on the trading board. No doubt there was money to be made there. But not for Greg Roberts. No, to him it was about not totally selling out to the 'almighty dollar' and keeping a few molecules of patriotism in his soul. The press had coined the phrase "stock traitors" for brokers like Mark. Greg thought that it was very appropriate.

Mark-the-stock-traitor-next-to-him spoke. "Greg, it's rug time. You ordering?" The broker took out a mini-vac and vacuumed the area rug beneath his desk.

Greg's eyes didn't leave the board. "Not today."

"All right, buddy." Mark put away his vacuum and picked up a metal table marker and placed it on his desk. "But you're looking a little green around the gills."

Greg ignored him. Putz.

A petite Asian girl dressed in business casual hurried to Mark's desk. Greg couldn't help but look. He didn't recognize her. She must have been one of the new interns. Roberts watched as Mark's eyeballs dragged over her plump breasts and butt. The other trader then put the table marker away. That was his signal to the intern that she had the assignment. When she leaned over and tried to kiss him, he pushed her back. "Not here. Under the desk."

As the girl dropped to her knees and clumsily crawled past his chair and legs to crouch beneath his desk, Mark let out a sigh of exasperation.

"Hey, Greg!" Liz-from-the-back was walking towards him. She was East Coast preppy, tall and slim. Every few days she would stop by and blather on about something she felt was important, and then she would go back the way she had come.

"Hey! How's it going?" Actually, today he was glad to see her. He needed to stop obsessing about that stock for at least a few minutes.

"Well, not so good." She parked her suitcase-sized purse on his desk. "I just found out that my stepsister took a header off the Willis Tower this morning, and now I've got to go clean out her stuff from her apartment."

"Sounds like fun," he responded sympathetically. "Can't someone else handle that? Her husband? Or her therapist?"

She smiled at that. "She had neither. Maybe that was the problem."

They both laughed.

She picked up her purse. He was surprised that she could even lift the thing. "Hey, Chaz, Robert and a few of the clerks are going by Rick's Café tonight around eight. You coming?"

"I don't know. I wasn't invited."

She blushed. "Well, consider yourself invited."

The moment grew somewhat awkward. "We'll see. No promises, though. Okay?"

She was about to take offense but instead made a peace sign with her fingers. "Living in the Jack Law. So, like, um, no complications, okay?"

Liz returned the way she had come.

He looked back up at the board and almost fell out of his chair. The stock had risen to $89 per share.

Things were definitely looking up.

And he was definitely going to Rick's Café tonight.

#

Cummings Research Institute

Huntsville, Alabama

The man stood before the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out over the city. From his vantage point he could still make out individual forms. Men and women, some in fashionable suits, others in jeans, and still others in military uniform, could be seen scurrying here and there, in and out of buildings, up and down the stairs, on and off shuttles. The various employees of the Cummings Research Institute moved about their campus with purpose and the uniquely American strut, now more sad than offensive.

One extraordinary "strut-ite" was Charlton Heston White, an Eton graduate born in Sydney, Australia, of an electrical engineer father and a seamstress mother with a lifelong obsession with the American actor Charlton Heston. Charlton (Charles) White was nearly forty, losing his hair, but growing his midsection daily, and lately fighting an almost constant urge to smoke cigarettes. Cummings was, of course, a smoke-free campus. This made work days unbearable.. To complicate matters, his wife was allergic to cigarette smoke (and now apparently sex, too). This made his nights distinctly uncomfortable.

He sat down at his desk, explicitly ignoring the piles of paper there. There was only one framed picture on his desk—the one of him and his parents sailing on Sydney Harbor on his sixteenth birthday. He fell into the photograph, remembering the circumstances and the excitement at the moment the photo had been snapped. It had indeed been a glorious moment in time, captured forever to comfort him ... and now to haunt him thousands of kilometers away. Of course, he could go back at any time. Dad would be thrilled to have him back home. And now, it would be obscenely easy to nail down a teaching post at university. If he decided to go that route. He reveled in forbidden fantasies. Ditch the nine-to-nine hell, pitch that parasite of a wife back to London, and ... do what? Travel? Sail the seven seas? Actually, this last job had not been too bad after he subtracted the near tropical heat, the bugs, the bargain-basement IQs ... And since the Troubles, it had become downright fun. The park was funneling all sorts of scientific specialists from all over the world to join in The Big Fight. No one inside the States publicly dared to call it a war. But that's exactly what it was. The situation had unraveled so rapidly that there had been no opportunity to pass through denial. At the end of the world first came the end of America, the self-proclaimed greatest nation in history. Hallelujah! And now the 'greatest nation on earth' was embroiled in the greatest street brawl on earth. And what a battle it was turning out to be! After the Super Quake, the leaders of the neo-con Advance South, the fourteen long-suffering governors, had surfaced once again. They had taken great pains to explain how their hearts ached over the terrible near destruction of California, Washington, and Oregon. The gentlemen did not offer any explanation as to how they (or any sort of supernatural hand) might have managed to trigger a fourteen-point-nine earthquake along all the right junctures of the San Andreas, Hayward, and Calaveras faults as well as the little known Cascadia Subduction Zone in the Pacific Northwest, creating a nearly perfect daisy-chain effect that fired one hundred adjacent faults in the tri-state region. Chasms up to a kilometer deep now gauged the earth along the border between Canada and the United States to the north, and along the border between Southern California and Mexico to the south, and along the state boundary lines between Washington, Oregon, and California and Idaho, Nevada, and Arizona. The Super Quake had, in effect, severed the three Pacific Ocean states from the other forty-five. According to the best seismologists still alive, such a feat was not even remotely possible. Not for the Advance South and not for the always clever Chinese. And yet, there the bloody fact of it lay, mocking and seducing the rest of the civilized world, and raising the already high stakes in the war between the two Americas. White chuckled to himself. The world was now being fueled by pure theater, and it didn't stop with a suddenly awake and diabolical earth. Applying a stroke of genius even for an American politician, President Haverson had immediately shunted aside the American Department of Defense and secretly solicited Britain's Ministry of Defense to provide a worthy candidate to serve as his de facto National Security Advisor. Twenty men, all top-flight men, campaigned vigorously for the position. It was a job that could provide a springboard to almost any other in the world. Of course, there were negatives. There would be no cushy offices or support services in the West Wing, and no public announcement would be made about his nomination within the UK or the Americas, but they would have every legal resource available on hand. And almost limitless power on earth.

On the surface this maneuver was made to look like a clever attempt to take the sting out of the disagreeable business of Washington ordering American forces to legally slaughter their fellow Americans by injecting the chain of command with as much neutrality as possible. But the real back story (at least in Europe) was that if the situation became too dire and the nation dissolved, then the United Kingdom would have lubricated ingress into the troubled country's executive office, much like a medicinal suppository shoved into a fat, hemorrhagic bottom. White wasn't the only MOD officer who fancied a bright day when the Union Jack might fly over the White House. It was rumored that His Majesty himself was conducting secret meetings with the other G5 leaders on just that very subject. If the situation in the States did not measurably improve over the next year, both England and Germany would be in prime striking positions for initiating a peaceful restructuring in the executive branch, and going with the belief that Congress and the court system could be easily swayed to their side with enough financial persuasion. Of course, it would then be up to Europe to deal with the Advance South. White was sure that even that stubborn mule could be made to plow. By brute force, if necessary. Yes, Charlton Heston White often thought about the future. Those could indeed become bright and glorious days for the crown. And for Australia. However, the here and now demanded that he work faithfully to get America back on track. The new NSA would have to act swiftly. There would be no time for any hat-in-hand diplomacy. Rebellious asses needed to be kicked now. And hard! And Charlie White, erstwhile kickabout of Newcastle, New South Wales, and now chief leg breaker of America, was driving the boot!

There was a knock at his door.

"Enter."

Freddy Fields poked his head through the door. "Dr. White, have a moment?"

"I have five, in fact. Come in."

Fields was carrying a small stack of file folders. White watched the tall Englishman stride in with the galling confidence that was so endemic to Brits. He was wearing a powder-blue Armani suit with buffed Union Jack boots. Never mind that it was ninety-five degrees outside; any opportunity to preen and be pale had to be exploited to its fullest. White struggled to keep his outwardly pleasant demeanor solidly in place. The English were insufferable, but he had a job to perform.

White gestured towards a chair. "Have a seat. I'm trying to sneak out early today, so if you can just bullet the salient details I'd appreciate it."

Fields sat down. "I just got off the phone with J. Miller. He's interested in getting the report about the new staffing."

"That's rubbish. Miller is only interested in the minutia." White sighed. Honestly. The time that Americans spent on generating paperwork was simply astounding. Never mind that the entire business could be handled with one robust phone call. "I haven't heard back from HR. So tell him that I'll have my recommendations to him by tomorrow, mid-morning at best. And?"

"Washington just faxed the personnel files from Lincoln Hills. I've gone over them. Nothing out of the ordinary, really."

White's eyes rolled. "Only in America would a mass murderer be considered 'nothing out of the ordinary.'"

Fields's face colored. "That came out somewhat twisted. I've interviewed Broussard, and I feel that there were special circumstances in his case. And—" he held aloft a stack of papers—"I've got four pretty weighty references on him, the last one being from a Major Hillerman. We got his report in about thirty minutes ago." He passed the documents over the table.

White carefully read each paper. There was one from the prison's warden, his psychiatrist, his manager, Allan Chang, and this military person. They all pretty much summed up White's own feelings on the subject. He himself had met with Neal Broussard last week. The man was a seemingly highly adept individual and an exceptional engineer with three murder convictions tucked neatly in his personnel record. The man had slaughtered three managers at his place of employ. One could hardly blithely skip over that bloody bone. Oh, no! Neither could one ignore the fact that Mr. Broussard was not entirely repentant of his crimes. He could only say that he had wished that he could have come up with a less lethal solution. After all, these were very bad managers, rampaging through the lives of the innocent and the good and crushing his faith in truth, justice, and the American way. He was not sorry that he had killed them, but rather he was sorry that he had been forced to kill them. And this logic, incredibly, was, according to his psych evaluation, his latest and greatest breakthrough! Even if the king himself were to vouchsafe Broussard's admittance to his own bed chambers at Buckingham Palace, White would still not consider having him come aboard as regular staff. He was a killer, for heaven's sake! Why was everyone so keen to have him sitting in the next available cubicle, potentially plotting and planning their own violent demise?

"Freddy, I can appreciate your stance here. And I'm well aware that Broussard has many well wishers. But that's exactly what they are. They cannot guarantee that he will not one day decide that you or I or the receptionist has overstepped his arbitrary boundaries of acceptable behavior and take drastic action. Listen, the world hasn't become a nicer place in the last five years. In fact, it's meaner and more desperate than it's ever been. And the animus against lawbreakers is at an all-time high. He'll run up against that, and then what will we do?"

White passed the papers back to a flustered Fields. "On the other side of the coin is the fact that Mr. Broussard is the chief designer and architect of the MIT frame, and we aren't simply going to be able to negotiate a brain-drain without him and keep the project afloat. I say we retain him as a temporary employee along with the others. We're syncing the software and hardware divisions and moving the whole lot out to Redstone. They've got the manufacturing capabilities and the military oversight so they can keep a better eye on him and the others."

"They're going to feel like prisoners out there," Fields responded.

"That's exactly what they are. And I disagree. Most people eventually take a liking to Redstone. It's no Shangri La, but it certainly beats a prison cell. Trust me: there will be no complaints." He took a sip from his coffee mug. "However, happy prisoners will work harder than unhappy ones. Why not get together with Grace and make sure that we have all of our pamper paddles in the water? And?"

"Oh, will we need the new project head's approval on this?" A dozen unfamiliar names floated about at the tip of his tongue. "Patrik Jensen. The bloke from Eindhoven University...?"

"Patrik Jansen," Heston corrected him rather testily. "I've asked him to hold off on taking the reins for a bit."

Fields sniggered. "I'm sure that made his day." Jansen and his Cobra crew had been chomping at the bit for legal status within the Archangel program.

White stroked his ample chin. "What would make his day would be for me to slit my own throat and overnight the blade to him. Don't worry. He'll survive." But would DAT? Patrik Jansen had developed a standardized neural net that could be adapted to any sufficiently advanced AI, giving that AI professional-grade combat abilities. Well, at least the potential for professional-grade combat abilities. What Jansen and Cobra had managed to do was synthesize a man's fight-or-flight reflex. And they had managed to tailor it to fit quite nicely underneath the aegis of the DAT's Preference Laws. Quite a feat for a person barely out of his teen years. "It's his own fault, really. He's made some rather hefty demands for his services, and frankly we aren't in a position to be blackmailed by such large figures. And?"

"And, isn't he the only person on the planet qualified for the job?"

"That's a matter of conjecture, but it's the prevailing thought. His work on turning an everyday robot into a fighting robot is without peer. But he uses some rather unconventional methodologies that Puritan Grodin might find ... unsavory. And?"

"We've been contacted by almost a dozen attorneys about patent payouts, including one repping Lincoln Hills."

"Our position has not changed. The Legitimate Government of the United States' military has sole proprietorship over all weapons designed and created at any of our facilities in times of active war. The 'payout' will be a decisive victory over our enemies and the chance to return to meaningful and productive lives. As far as the prisoners go, I believe that they already have signed contracts with the Nevada corrections authority. We will not supersede these."

"Okay, fine, but you may lose one or two of them. The validity of those contracts is in dispute."

"So what do they want?"

"A use-lease between us and them. We guarantee to pay them a certain percentage of projected profits and coin it as standard prison pay. They have other legal issues."

"What's their percentage?"

"Somewhere in the ballpark of around twenty-five percent, prorated over twelve months."

"Attorneys' fees inclusive?"

"No."

White considered this before speaking. "Brilliant." He assumed a professorial tone. "My role as interim NSA is to maintain the smooth flow of operations as we ramp up to Archangel. If we get caught in this legal drift, then we lose valuable time and money trying to satisfy a few hungry wolves whilst the farm goes dry. How to balance twelve fairies upon the head of a pin? Makes this entire endeavor a little more exciting, doesn't it?" He paused. "We need to let all parties know that the US military is not currently in a profiteering mode but rather a survival mode. We can certainly entertain a percentage of ten percent, attorneys' fees included with a twenty-four-month proration. Otherwise, no deal. They can walk. And?"

"You've got a red phone video call on hold from a Lawrence Wynns."

"Wynns. Who's he?"

"Senior astronomer at the RO—the Royal Observatory—in Greenwich.

"Uh, I don't believe that I know that one. Please ask him to fark off." Drat it. The man was calling on the priority line. He obviously had something distressing to tell him. Upsetting calls from obscure, credentialed sources were becoming the norm. "Sorry. Tell him that I'll be just a moment. Anything else?"

"Your wife is here."

All of the l'amour de la vie inside of Charles White's body instantly evaporated. There were standing orders that the woman was never to be allowed past the lobby's guard station without informing him first.

"I'm sorry. We have a temporary on duty today. He didn't know."

"Tell her that I've already left for the day."

"Excuse me?" Mrs. White would surely have already seen Mr. White's flaming red Ferrari in the parking lot.

"Never mind. Please tell her that I'll just be a moment. Patch Greenwich through. You're dismissed."

Fields gathered his papers and left.

White patted the floor with his foot and rolled over to the large oak console that held the extra-wide monitor used for video calls. As he waited for the call to be transferred, he fiddled with his tie and watch band. What could it be? What could it be?

There was an electronic beeping. White pressed a tiny square button, and a stranger's face stared back at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Wynns."

"It's nine in the evening here, so good evening."

Mr. Wynns had two tufts of snow-white hair protruding from behind both his ears and little else in between.

"Yes, quite right." There was an awkward silence. "So, how's the weather over there?" That was an American habit that he actually found to be quite effective. It usually broke the ice when conversing with unknowns or inferiors.

"Cold. I have some rather interesting news. Dice Andrews at the Ministry of Defense has given me permission to make this information available to several parties, and your name is number four on that list."

White fiddled with his tie again. "Right."

Wynns began reading from a sheet of paper before him. "Last Tuesday at exactly 7:30 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time plus eight, two workers at the Anglo-Australian Observatory noted an abrupt change in the color of the planet Venus. This was done with the unaided eye. They then made some calls about whether there were any unusual atmospheric disturbances which would account for the anomaly. At 11:56 p.m. GMT plus eight they made a series of plates of the planet. These plates were flown to the Royal Observatory in the UK. On Thursday, both teams of astronomers reached the conclusion that there had indeed been a massive, global change in the atmosphere of Venus."

"And?"

"Sir, Venus is a bit of a mystery. It is normally surrounded by a thick cloud cover of sulfuric acid. The working theory is that Venus was once very much like Earth but suffered an extinction-level greenhouse event some time ago. Well, plate five showed what looks to be an enormous mountain. We believe it to be Maxwell Montes. It's bigger than Everest."

"Anything else?"

"There was a good-sized ocean right beside it."

"An ocean? Of what? Water?"

"Yes. Blue moving water. Venus has an anemic rotation and no moon, so we are just curious as to how all of this could be happening." Wynns stopped and rubbed his eyes. "Venus has always been thought of as Earth's twin planet, and now, inexplicably, it almost is."

White's jaw was hanging open. "Do you mean to tell me that overnight an erstwhile dead, toxic planet has become a paradise?"

"The data is still coming in. The Soviets are sending a surveillance craft up next month. It should reach Venus within three months. Then we'll have some more definitive answers."

White took a deep breath. "Mr. Wynns, I have a question for you, and I want you to consider it carefully before you answer."

"Yes?"

"Isn't it possible that someone at the Australian Observatory could be having you on?"

Wynn's eyelids shuttered rapidly. "I don't follow, sir."

"You are telling me about something that is not even theoretically possible. Obviously someone has doctored those plates. Photoshopped images taken from earth." He was trying to bring the man around to reason. "You can see that, right?"

Wynns's chin began to twitch. "Sir, I certainly wouldn't have gone to all of this trouble if I suspected that we were being hijacked by pranksters. I can assure you, those plates have not been tampered with."

White threw up his hands. "Well, how would you know? Have you had them examined thoroughly by an independent third party? Has anyone with the proper credentials begun an official investigation of the matter?"

"If you are trying to cast doubt on the veracity of the Royal Observatory—"

"Mr. Wynns, all I'm saying is that before we go around telling the world that the sky is falling, shouldn't we bother to look up first?"

Wynns's shoulders fell.

"Right. Mr. Wynns, I thank you for your call. Please be kind enough to refrain from using the red phone unless you are reporting a verifiable emergency. I can't be bothered with every sneeze or fart coming out of the RO."

"Yes, sir," Wynns replied miserably.

White rang off and muttered, "How wonderful. Now we're all as mad as hatters." White threw a few files inside of his attaché case, slipped on his jacket and left his office through the safe door located inside his office's modest bathroom. He snuck down the VIP elevator to the garage and slipped into his Ferrari. Street traffic was light. He stopped by a 7-Eleven and picked up a bottle of screw-top wine. For all of her airs, Madeline still had the good sense to indulge in the lowly spirits every now and then. Within an hour he was pulling up to the side gate of the Moonberry Estate in Twickenham. Miss Dorrie, Madeline's old housekeeper, sat on the porch swing with a picnic basket on her lap. As soon as she saw him, she was up on her feet and making her way down the steep stairs.

"No, Miss Dorrie!" He shouted out to her. "Stay there. I'll be right up!"

He parked the Jag on the other side of Miss Dorrie's van. He pocketed his car keys and let his eyes sweep the place. It gave him a rush to come out here. The house was a Greek revival mansion, built right after the first American civil war. Weeping willows and pink Formosa azalea bushes studded the verdant landscape. Madeline had insisted that he know that during the great Cotton Era, the Moonberry Plantation was one of the very few that only used free men for labor. She even had that aside printed on the brochures that were handed out to tourists during visiting season. He had not believed one word of it, but he had to admit that there was an unabashed peace about the land that was lacking elsewhere in the swanky district. He took the picnic basket from Miss Dorrie and went inside. Madeline was waiting for him in the parlor, reading a book. She had arranged her sinewy body on a chaise lounge with a single gold pillow to support one peach-colored arm. Her hair was loose and falling in dark waves about her face. When she saw him she jumped up, ran over, and threw her arms around him. They kissed with the passion of new love.

She broke away first. "You're early. Were you able to cancel that last meeting?"

He kissed her tiny fingertips. "Yes."

Miss Dorrie appeared meekly at the parlor door. "Ma'am?"

"Dorrie, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off? I think that we'll just eat out of the picnic basket tonight." She looked up at her lover. "Are you in agreement, Charles?"

"Of course." The gloom that had been threatening to overtake him all day dissipated. "Of course."

Miss Dorrie bowed her head. "Yes, ma'am. Good-night."

They walked hand-in-hand upstairs to her bedroom. Madeline carried the gift of wine. White kicked off his shoes and relaxed upon the mounds of satin pillows on her bed while she poured their drinks.

"How was your day?" she asked, her voice low and husky.

"Odious. Until now."

She placed a half-full glass in his hand. "To better tomorrows." They clinked glasses and drank their ambrosia.

"I like that dress," he said admiringly.

"Thank you," she purred. "Would you like to see me take it off?"

"Not yet."

He pulled her down on top of him and they kissed again. His passion gained full strength and he stood up and undressed. A scented breeze carried in through the open windows fanned his body and blotted out everything in the room except the woman.

"You are beautiful," she whispered. "A beautiful man ...."

White, no longer able to contain himself, moaned and fell onto the bed beside her. His hands pushed her flimsy dress up her bare thighs and sought that most sweet of gardens, the one marked forbidden.

The dress was pulled up over her head, and they began to make love. As he concentrated on his rhythm, a vision bloomed inside his mind. He was looking down into the wide stern where he and his parents were stretched out under the sun, laughing and smiling under the cloudless sky. How wonderful a fancy, he thought. With Madeline's cries in his ears, he felt the first wave of ecstasy hit him. "Oh, God!" He grunted twice. She whipped her legs around his waist. "I love you!" she cried out. Their bodies strained against each other. He let out one more cry and then collapsed on top of her. Spent, he buried his face into her hair.

The evening breeze blew into the room again, masking the footsteps swiftly crossing the hardwood floor.

Madeline hugged Charles tightly as he shifted his weight. "Don't you dare move an inch."

"I won't." He tightened his grip on her and murmured, "I want to stay here forever."

The baseball bat come down hard on the top of his head, giving him no time to react. He experienced a split second of mind-altering pain as his frontal bone splintered. Then he fell unconscious and escaped the additional agonies of the bat swinging down upon him three more times.

The bodies were discovered two days later under a thick blanket of flies.

#

The decision to centerpiece the MIT project over the other four weapons programs was an easy one for the newly anointed National Security Advisor, Frederick Fields. As soon as he was cleared as a possible suspect in the death of Charles White in Huntsville, he had spent the next two weeks being briefed on pending matters by Matthew Grodin at the Pentagon.

After the initial brainstorming phase, the entire stockpile of possible offensive schemes concocted by the best military analysts had been either smashed or revamped along the defense budget's bottom line. The DOD analysts in Development had simply crunched a bunch of scary numbers together and come up with a figure that didn't give them the willies. That magic number was attached to the MIT project and to its extensions. As luck would have it, it was also the one project with which both he and Charles White were best acquainted. Unbeknownst to the Lincoln Hills crew, Cummings Research Institute personnel had been working on the project in a veiled status since day one. Bill Thompson, the rather innocuous NASA technician who ran relay between the spider MITs and the Cray, was actually Dr. William Thompson. Dr. Thompson was an expert in building -nth generation, organically based computer chips, known as o-chips. These chips would form the foundation of American-built artificial minds for the next fifty years, and it had taken him exactly three days to realize that this unlikely group of jackal engineers had managed to build the first truly sentient robot. Yet they had either overlooked or ignored this milestone. After all, they weren't ever going to profit directly from it. Thompson went straight to the Secretary of Defense himself and told him the news. At that time, when all the administration had had to worry about were the mainstay boogeymen of global warming, stray asteroids, rogue nations with nukes, starvation, drought, the Third Great Recession, the Second Coming, plagues, crop collapse, and erectile dysfunction, it had not appeared to be the earthshaking event that Thompson had been billing it as. As one general had politely told him, "Sir, we appreciate your enthusiasm, but this hardly positively impacts the big picture." Then, after one lone vigilante and nine hundred Whistler rallies later, the big picture began to fray at the edges. After Los Angeles had been vaporized in just one hundred and twenty seconds with its own infrastructure, that same big picture had shrunk down to just two vital questions: 1) What the heck is going on? And 2) how do we get out of it? William Thompson finagled a second audience with the secretary and once again shoved the MIT program beneath his nose. For he believed that he had part of the answer to that question. In order for Washington to quickly defuse an internal conflict with little money and a greatly strained military force, they would need to convert existing technologies into strong combat components in an extremely short period of time. In the end, only MIT and one other program (which involved the creation of a highly-trained civilian militia) survived the budget axe.

It had taken Thompson's staff one year to figure out just exactly what Chang's team was trying to do, and then another two months to work out all of the bugs in the software and build their own MIT. All the while, they had been receiving lackluster reports from Lincoln Hills about their MITs. Yes, the robots were clever to a point, but dullards at the next. They were puzzled, even baffled at some of the behaviors that the bots exhibited. At one point, one of the engineers had expressed the desire to scrap the project and move on to something that would give him "more of a sense of accomplishment." Dr. Thompson was generous enough to write a letter of encouragement to that engineer and to succinctly state that the spider MITs were a lot more intelligent than their designers were either letting on or giving them credit for. After that, the grumbling had simmered down, and the project was officially shifted to the DOD to begin its military retrofitting. Back then, they were projecting to have three working prototypes within two years. Then the U.S. economy suffered a severe contraction, with hundreds of thousands of workers being let go, and ironically creating a worker shortage at the same time. There were still plenty of jobs to be done, yet no one had the money to pay a man or woman wages much above the minimum.

Concurrently, hard intelligence began to accumulate about the Whistler rallies, citizen protests led by local malcontents. Attendees voiced their opposition to the government by blowing police whistles. It was becoming apparent that there was a seething discontent swirling around many parts of the country. The then Secretary of Defense, Phillip Lansing, perhaps sensing something dark on the road ahead, gave orders to ramp up the MIT program as well as the civilian militia program.

The MITs received the official military title of Assembled Intelligence Personnel, or AI, and they would represent the U.S. military's first official draft of a synthetic being. The MIT design was radically changed to that of a stand-alone mechanical device ready and willing to meet the rigors of active battle. The body was changed to something resembling a scaled-up, mash-up of a Great Dane dog and a caracal, a large South Asian cat. Because of this fusion of imagery, the AI design came to be known as the DAT, part dog and part cat. And, like their real-life counterparts, they were to be familiar, user-friendly companions for their human partners, many of whom were facing the potentially devastating prospect of tracking and committing bodily harm against their ex-neighbors, ex-wives, ex-friends, and ex-golf buddies.

All of the intellectual, emotional, and physical data processed through the MIT brains would be downloaded and mapped onto the master chips of the DATs for continuity. The primary function of the DAT would be to serve as an assistant for human soldiers engaged in medium to heavy policing and combat operations. Therefore, the specifications would have to conform to both civilian law enforcement and military standards. Topping off at one and one-half meters tall at the shoulders, it was to have excellent maneuverability with forward, backward, and side movement leading to accelerations to speeds of roughly 180 kph within six seconds. This would be accomplished with the help of a state-of-the-art, meter long, flexible tail rudder and a Dutch-built engine strong enough to power a minibus. For reasons known only to Matthew Grodin, the current Secretary of Defense, their true speed requirements were to be kept classified, even from most of the scientific and engineering personnel working on the DAT chassis.

The robot also needed excellent payload capacity—up to 200 kilograms—and would have to be outfitted with two fully-automatic machine guns, two petite Stinger missiles, and one Z-Class grenade launcher.

As with the MIT, this model would have several rows of tiny "feel good" solar panels embedded in its backside. It was concluded that the AIs would ultimately begin to suffer mental fatigue from the rigors of war just like humans, and that the panels, while terribly expensive, would be necessary stop-gap measures in order to prevent total DAT breakdown.

The DAT would have the ability to walk, trot, gallop, and flat out run on soil, sand, asphalt, grass, clay, snow, uneven surfaces, and up and down slopes of up to thirty-five degrees. It would need to be able to be submersible in water for up to nine hours, and indefinitely in nine different types of toxic gas. Its long-range resemblance to a very large dog gave it the perfect stealth signature, and the enemy would almost have to be within striking distance in order to distinguish it from a real animal.

Three of the best robotic intelligence linguists from the CIA were consulted as to whether the AIs should have voice boxes. After an exhaustive study, the three decided that the time and costs factors for creating the dental fricatives alone would bump out the project to an untenable degree, and so the AIs, like their predecessors, would remain mute for the time being.

The DAT would be capable of learning from his or her human companions as well as his or her environment, and would hopefully be allowed to achieve a high degree of autonomy under certain circumstances. The DAT would also have the ability to immobilize or terminate organic and inorganic objects on command from a designated officer. However, were a DAT to find itself outside of his or her regiment and in a do-or-die situation, it would only have to signal a superior in the established chain of command that it had an enemy target within range and that a capture or termination sequence was under way.

All first-generation DATs were to be powered by nuclear energy, based on an already operational micro or "teacup" fission reactor that had been created by a German and French team of physicists five years earlier. These men and women, overwhelmingly sympathetic towards Washington's plight, sold the invaluable technology to the American Army for a token twenty-dollar bill.

As soon as the plans were fleshed out, the search for the software development and the frame manufacturing teams was begun. Christian Kuiper, a senior manufacturing engineer based in Detroit, and Yves Ferrier and Miles Blankenship, senior AI developers at Bell Labs, were drafted to work alongside Allan Chang. Calvin Kramer, a nuclear physicist on loan from the now nonexistent UC Berkeley physics department, came on board soon after with two grad students in tow. Herschel Stevens and Roger Sanders, two test engineers also out of Detroit, joined Neal Broussard and Eric Powell to work on the DAT frame. And the two European research and development laboratories, Gresko and Pleauchet, were sending a small contingent of eager physicists to assist with the neural development.

The remuneration issues associated with Patrik Jansen had been taken care of with one phone call to Dina Hodges, and he was called up again and offered the prestigious position of deploying his combat net over the DAT brain. Van Walters, an accomplished computer scientist out of Lincoln Hills and the other wildcard in the deck, had opted out of full-time participation when Fields would not meet his salary requirements, which Charles White had deemed excessive. However, in exchange for providing him with a modest monthly stipend (off the books, of course), private living quarters, a German sports car, and the services of a financial advisor, Mr. Walters did agree to work as an "enthusiastic" consultant for both the software and the hardware teams, reporting directly to Chang. Both departments approached the enormous tasks set before them with the proper balance of intellectual ferocity and humbling levity. Hardware's official motto was "If we screw this up, we can always start the next boy band." Software's official motto was, "Make sure that Hardware doesn't screw up."

Scientists, supplies, monies and soldiers were still coming in from all four corners of the globe, but after the Super Quake, the raging stampede of support had abruptly reduced itself to a modest trickle. There were still gung-ho Poles eager to help mend the nation's fracture, French mercenaries and their bankers, Basque anarchists, and hordes of everyday Aussies and Scots out to make names for themselves. However, seasoned soldiers rarely appeared. The Brits had initially made some noise about joining in the fray, but with no real political will in Parliament. With public sentiment running five-to-one against direct involvement in another foreign conflict, the English were content to curl up on their sofas with a nice cup of tea and watch the great drama unfold on the evening news. The unspoken thought was that the United States was caught in the jaws of something too large and too ferocious for sensible men and women to even hope to grapple with.

The night before Frederick Fields was scheduled to fly back into Huntsville found him tucked away in an economy room inside a hotel bed with a cup of coffee and a slice of homemade peach cobbler on the nightstand. A lifelong foodie, he always made sure that his personal chef packed his favorites whenever he traveled. With the West Coast and its coterie of master chefs under twenty meters of mud and water, a traveling soul could hardly depend upon finding tasty, fresh food at every venue.

He had several files resting upon his lap. These were the spec sheets on the DATs, page after page of drawings and technical gobbledygook. He had skimmed through two dozen of them already. The sameness of it all was consuming what little energy he had left, and a couple of times he caught himself nodding off. He did the smart thing and drank his coffee and ate the cobbler, and was rewarded with a sugar kick for an extra fifteen minutes of consciousness. He read on. The mounds of pillows around and in back of him caressed his tired body like a bevy of plush women, and he had not realized that he had drifted off to sleep until he heard the squeak. He opened his eyes, not actually awake yet, and was mildly surprised to find that the room was dark. Had he turned off the light in his sleep?

His eyelids slid shut again, and the timeless void engulfed him. The second squeak was louder and stealthier, and he woke up right away. Fields sat up in his bed and tried to peer through the inky darkness. At the same time his hand slid deftly beneath his pillow and withdrew his pistol. This was still America. Only a fool larked about without a weapon. He didn't say a word. Fields held his position for almost three minutes when he heard the third squeak. It was coming from his closet door. His eyes had adjusted and he could clearly see the door ... and that it was slowly opening from the inside ... .

Fields kicked off the covers and punched the ON button on the nightstand's lamp. There was a soft thud beneath his bed, almost directly below him. Fields leaned over and looked down over the edge of the mattress. As he watched with disbelieving eyes, a thin, smoky black arm and hand snaked out from beneath the bed, reached up, and punched the OFF button on the nightstand's lamp.

"Ahhh!" Fields blasted off his bed, through his suite, and out into the hallway. A young couple was walking past his door. They both gave him warm smiles, ostensibly choosing not to leap to conclusions as to why he was standing nude in the corridor holding a gun. "I'm sorry," he told their backsides. He hid the gun behind his back and forced himself to return to him room. Once inside he turned on every light that he could find, plus the television. Then he checked every nook and cranny for ... what? What the bloody hell was that? After almost one hour of poking and prodding and opening and closing once, twice, three times, he satisfied himself that he was alone. He retreated to his bed. There, on the nightstand between the empty coffee cup and the plate smeared with jellied peach, was an envelope addressed to Charles White. It had not been there before. He picked up the object and flung it into a nearby rubbish can.

Afterwards he climbed back into bed, dove beneath the down covers and began to shiver.

#

Redstone Facility, Alabama

The Redstone Research Laboratory was nestled in the picturesque hill country of northern Alabama which consisted of gentle rolling hills and boggy swales. Redstone was one of the oldest military installations in the state, having served as an armory for the Army during World War I, and as a satellite office for the scientists working on the Manhattan Project during World War II. Seventy years later it was still a high-security military installation. The main campus consisted of a recently renovated, five-story, horseshoe-shaped building. It had a red brick façade and heavily tinted windows. Beautiful, black wrought iron fencing surrounded the lushly landscaped courtyard tucked up against the building's belly. This section of Redstone contained the main administrative offices, plus an additional twenty sublevels of office and storage space. On the roof was arrayed a multitude of satellite dishes, cell and radio towers. Immediately to the west was a newly renovated military airplane hangar. In its heyday it could service three B-17 bombers at a time with room to spare. But then outbreaks of peace and Father Time began to take their toll on it. Decrepitude set in and the U.S. Congress was forced to mothball it after the Korean Conflict. There had not been a real airplane housed there in over four decades. Now, with two new production lines installed, it served as the assembly floor for the DAT Program. Old timers who had spent their entire adult lives employed at Redstone were grateful that the old girl had been brought back from the dead to a useful life.

The hangar itself squatted over twenty-five sublevels of additional office space, vehicle parking, two passenger elevators, two heavy-lift elevators, a submarine, reinforced concrete bunkers, two employee cafeterias, a bank, a post office, two schools, a bowling alley, two gyms, mountains of food and building supplies, automatic weapons, drones, boats, a power plant to generate electricity, backup generators, spare parts, decon chambers, two crematoriums, and fresh water tanks four stories high. All told, it could easily accommodate all of Redstone's above-ground staff and their families for a lengthy period of time. And that was its main function. This buried city had not only been built to comfortably harbor the Army's intelligentsia during times of conflict, but also during periods of bad weather. The Huntsville area was located in the Tennessee Valley, which had seen more than its share of historic flooding and violent tornadoes in the past. Should disaster strike—even apocalyptic disaster—the work being performed at Redstone could continue unabated.

There were several smaller utility buildings scattered here and there; all were blank and uninviting and perfectly suited for the industrial air filters, main generators, and liquid and solid fuel cells stacked neatly within their airtight confines. Each of these auxiliary buildings was attached to Administration via underground tunnels. Like the underground levels, the tunnels had been constructed for emergency use during an enemy attack. However, during the summer months the current Redstone staff used these passages exclusively to keep out of the stifling heat and humidity.

And to conduct Segway chariot races.

The Administration building's open side looked out over an outsized parking which contained as many Army trucks and Jeeps as it did civilian vehicles. The entire complex was surrounded by a heavily fortified electric fence with manned gun towers spaced every fifty meters. Ten pairs of K-9 units patrolled the facility's four square kilometers every hour, twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week, fifty-two weeks per year.

A landing strip and tower were situated one kilometer away to the east. Two helipads branched off near its endpoint. The Redstone airport ferried personnel and materiel to and from the Cummings offices in Huntsville.

The entire facility sat on four square kilometers of land 1300 meters above sea level and five kilometers north of Highway 231, which would take you directly into Huntsville if you were traveling south.

Redstone shared its northern border with the Johnson Ranch, a one-thousand-acre pseudo animal sanctuary owned by the Johnson family, and home to many native and exotic species of animals.

Beyond the busy interstate lay the relatively young town of Avondale, population seventy-five thousand. This bedroom community spread out to the southern-most corners of the horizon as a green carpet of auburn oaks and magnolias. Occasionally it was pierced through with elegant, self-assured church steeples. Forty-four to be exact. Avondale was a town that prided itself on its faith almost as much as it prided itself on being the most successful sycophant for the Army of the legitimate government of the United States east of the Rockies. It was into this charmed enclave that fully half of the money from Huntsville's many military endeavors flowed. Master-planned communities, complete with boutique vineyards and European-styled shopping districts, dotted the rolling landscape like wild mushrooms where only thirty years ago wild boars had roamed. The streets were clogged with bikes and scooters, relaxed couples in Birkenstocks swinging bags from Whole Foods, and laughing children from infants to teenagers. Life went on as it always had, steadily and brimming with optimism. If there was a civil war rending the rest of the country into two miserable pieces, no one in Avondale seemed to have heard about it.

With the arrival of Charles White and the new huge contract with the old Redstone Armory the previous year, the town sensed an opportunity to shift their financial ambitions into overdrive. Mayor Bud Bridges offered up himself as the Chamber of Commerce's chief liaison. Upon Mr. White's untimely death, Bridges quickly became acquainted with Frederick Fields, his replacement. Bridges found the new NSA to be quite easy to work with, and so when Fields handed Bridges a tentative wish list of items that he thought his people would need—new vehicles, new office furniture, housing—the mayor unilaterally signed off on the request. When Fields later submitted a second, more detailed shopping list that, in part, consisted of discounts at premium clothing stores, custom made Italian loafers, free veterinary care, discounted movie tickets, and so on—a list that Fields himself thought behaved greedily—Bridges happily signed off on that one as well. The mayor of Avondale was only too happy to play Fields's fairy godmother, knowing that eventually the additional revenues generated from the influx of military personnel would more than repay the town's largesse over the coming years. And, Bridges reasoned, if the war dragged on for even two more years, Avondale would have enough extra cash in the bank to start throwing some political clout around. Washington might be inclined to ease up on EPA regulations. Maybe fund the new high-speed railroad station in Selma that Alabama had been praying for over the last ten years. Bridges saw big possibilities for major successes with this strategy, and he would never back down. He and the Avondale mayors before him had stumbled on the winning formula for successful heirloom-town building: Marry the military and treat her like a queen. And it worked. So why not franchise the strategy? Make all of Alabama rich and strong. Strong enough to resist the hollow promises of the Advance South crazies. Avondale was a tiny burg that went to bed each night dreaming big, Mayor Bud Bridges being the most daring dreamer of them all.

Van Walters had also donned his fairy godmother hat. As soon as the Lincoln Hills team arrived at Redstone, he went to bat for "his people." He practically kidnapped Grace Montgomery, the human resources director for both Cummings and Redstone, and held her hostage for such things as offices with windows, personal assistants, an employee lounge for the engineering staff, off-radar surveillance by their military police escorts and, of course, more money. When it was learned that all new arrivals would initially be housed underground beneath the hangar, he forcefully argued against it, and all new DAT team employees were given hastily remodeled accommodations in the east wing of the Administration building. To some it seemed like the high-riding Van Walters of yesteryear had risen Phoenix-like from the ashes.

Unfortunately, in return for these successful negotiations with CRI, Walters expected blind allegiance from the others, and was naturally quite incensed when it did not materialize. For instance, when it became known that the lovely Grace Montgomery was unattached, all of them, with the exception of the female-wary Bautista and the very married Chang, vied for her attention. When it was apparent that Broussard was not about to relinquish his bid to pursue her, Walters demanded that the more attractive Broussard withdraw from the chase. Broussard refused, a war of words ensued, and team solidarity faltered for some time. Eventually Chang stepped in as mediator and smoothed over all of the ruffled feathers. He reminded them that while their personal lives had certainly opened up a bit, they were still not free to run down every new romantic lead that presented itself. They still had jobs (and sentences) to carry out. But the damage had been done, and Broussard and Walters remained cool towards each other for many weeks.

Six DATs were on the drawing boards, three males and three females. "Just like the Brady Bunch!" Powell would squeal whenever the mood struck him. The names of the DATs were Amadeus, Bruce, David, Paula, Rose and Sarah. All of the neurological, emotional and physical data that had been acquired through Jessie and James were mapped onto their master chips. The six DAT bots would have advanced fractal subroutines that would produce individual personality nuances with thirty degrees of separation from one AI to the next. And as with the construction of the MITs, the female DATs were to be ten percent smaller than the males.

A technician who desired to remain anonymous took it upon himself to fashion pert breasts on the female DATs. While the majority of the men on staff took kindly to this lighthearted gesture, it served to grate the nerves of the female workers. When several high-ranking women from the Cummings office voiced vociferous complaints about this perceived sexual exploitation of the AIs to Fields, Chang stepped in and tried to defuse the brewing controversy by strong-arming the Hardware and Software departments into conducting 'visiting hours' with all non-technical personnel. The Redstone scientists and engineers would conduct short classes that were stripped down enough to teach a person of average intelligence about advanced robotics and a particular scientist or engineer's role in building a robot. Free food and refreshments would be available as well as free shuttle buses between the two campuses. Lastly, attractive bras would be painted over the female DATs' breasts. Chang reasoned that a natural interest in the work that the Redstone technical staff were doing for the country would develop and become so dazzling to them that any social or political differences would soon fall by the wayside and the entire matter be forgotten. It was a rare, bold move for the normally reticent manager, but it quickly proved to be the right one. Soon the DAT scientists and engineers were playing hosts to executive assistants, account managers, vice presidents, and almost everyone from the IT department and Human Resources. Even Grace Montgomery took advantage of several opportunities to be in Neal Broussard's office during these open houses. On one such occasion, Bautista just happened to be there. That day the two men were dressed alike. She was aware that the crew from Lincoln Hills did this on occasion. It was supposed to foster camaraderie. The human resources manager sized up their matching velour pullovers and said, "Let me guess: Star Trek, original series?"

Broussard was pleasantly surprised. "Pretty good. Are you a fan?"

"Star Trek and I go back a bit," she said. "I can even tell you the plots of all seventy-two episodes."

"Seventy-nine," Bautista corrected her.

She blushed with mild embarrassment. "Are you sure?"

"Yup."

"Okay, then. All seventy-nine episodes. Pardon me while I wipe the egg off my face."

Broussard was smiling at her. "Don't be hard on yourself. I'll bet not many women can make that boast."

Grace Montgomery blushed again and dipped her face. "Oh, I don't know,"

Broussard stacked some file folders. "Miss Montgomery, Mike and I were just finishing up here—"

Bautista shot him a hurt look.

"Why don't you stay awhile?"

Her soft face exploded with color. "Gosh, I'd love to, but—" She held a small animal carrier aloft. "I've got to get this little guy squared away first."

Both Broussard and Bautista peered inside. A muscular tomcat stared back at them.

"What's this?" Bautista asked

"'This' is Mr. Bojangles. He belongs to my sister, but her new husband is allergic so we struck a bargain."

"Oh?" Broussard asked.

"I keep the cat; she keeps her husband."

Broussard sat down on the edge of his desk, careful to keep her in full view. "That was nice of you."

She smiled sweetly. "It wasn't a difficult decision. He's a good boy. But not exactly a people-cat." She held up her free hand for them to see. It was covered with both old and fresh gouges.

"That's ugly. You must like him a lot."

"I don't catch your meaning."

"Well, he's here. And not on death row at the pound."

The woman giggled. "I'm here. And lately I'm here more than I'm at home. It doesn't seem fair to leave him alone so much, so I brought him in today. Like it or not." She gave the glum cat a sympathetic look. "And he doesn't."

Bautista waggled a finger at the cat. "Hey, kitty. Hey, kitty-kitty." The cat stretched out its neck to sniff the technician's finger. Soon his pink nose was pressed up against the carrier's metal bars.

The woman looked amazed. "Incredible. He really doesn't take to strangers."

"All cats like me," Bautista replied with pride. He opened the door to the carrier and pulled Mr. Bojangles into his arms. The cat flattened himself against his chest and wedged his head underneath the technician's chin. "See?"

"I'm a believer!" she cried.

Bautista grinned. "He just needs some bro time. You know, mano a catito. You mind if I take him to my cube? He can chill while I get some stuff done."

She offered up the pet pen. "Be my guest."

"What are you working on?" Broussard asked.

"I'm helping Herschel and Roger set up the mobile lab. We're putting together a list of the equipment that we'll need."

"Shoot me a copy when you're done."

"Will do."

Broussard and Miss Montgomery watched man and beast disappear down the hall.

The engineer shook his head. "Michael Bautista, cat whisperer. Who knew?"

"Suddenly he doesn't seem so scary."

"Mike 'scary'? No. He's one of the coolest guys I know." He stared meaningfully into the centers of her eyes. "We're all pretty cool."

She raised her chin. "I'm not afraid of the Lincoln Hills Boys."

He grinned from ear to ear. "Good! You didn't strike me as a woman who frightened easily."

"I'm not. I'm a super worrier, though."

"And what does an attractive woman like you have to worry about?"

She batted her eyes. "Thank you. Well, I'm afraid that one day I'll commit the unpardonable sin and poof! I'll be back in the typing pool."

"Do those things still exist?"

She smiled and lit up his work space. "Only as a metaphor." The manager tugged on her lower lip with her teeth. "But I don't like failure. Of any kind."

He remained silent for a few seconds. "So how did you get here? They don't hand out black ops jobs every day."

She smiled slyly. "As the saying goes, 'I have low friends in high places.'"

"Well," he said, "it's just good to have friends. No matter where they are."

She smiled at him. "Oui, monsier. I have to get back to work." She turned to leave. "Auf wiedersehen."

"Hey, it's illegal to mix your Indo-European like that."

Miss Montgomery gave him a flirtatious wink. "Anything is possible here, Mr. Broussard." She exited his cube. "Ciao!"

He stuck his head out and watched her make her way to Chang's corner office. Her lovely rear end swung like a pendulum beneath her business suit. A single question filled his brain: Did she just come on to me?

The air conditioned Jeep dropped Colonel Richard Higgins at the Redstone facility at exactly seven-thirty in the morning. Although he had flown over from Fort Benning with four subordinates, he was presently alone. Two Army staffers greeted him at the gate and led him to the anteroom of the NSA's office. Colonel Higgins had met Frederick Fields in passing two years before at the retirement party thrown for John Fitzgerald, then director of the CIA. Fields had shown up on the arm of the director's wife, dressed in a yellow satin suit and whistling show tunes. At the time, the colonel had believed that the bon vivant was attached to the contingent of performers over from Branson for the evening's entertainment; he had nearly dropped his false teeth when he was told that Fields was in fact the current undersecretary at MOD. Him! Jeez-Louise! He could never figure out the British.

Colonel Higgins waited patiently until Fields showed up at 8:06 a.m. with a curvy female assistant in tow. The two men shook hands as Fields evaded the silent admonishment in the Army officer's eyes.

"Pardon my tardiness. I'm not sleeping well." The NSA was already perspiring freely in the southern heat. "It's this humidity. It and I will never be on good terms."

The colonel took in the red, puffy eyes, shaking hands and uncombed hair and concluded that Fields' sleeping problems more than likely stemmed from something more serious than common humidity.

"You get used to it after a while," Higgins offered.

The attractive assistant disappeared behind a paneled door as Fields escorted the colonel into his office and seated him. The assistant returned wearing white gloves and pulling a small serving cart behind her. The men waited in silence as she poured two glasses of iced tea and dressed them with mint leaves and tangerine slices. She handed each man a glass. Then she wheeled the cart around to display the small plates of fresh fruit and light pastries.

"You may leave it," Fields told her. She made a precision turn on one spit-shined heel and marched from the room, noiselessly pulling the door closed behind her.

Fields slurped his drink. The colonel noted that some of the security advisor's flamboyance seemed to be missing. The clownish affectations had been replaced by sensible work clothing and a focused demeanor.

Fields was waiting for the colonel to sip his tea. Higgins drank the cold liquid and found it to his liking; it was an accurate blend of black tea, honey, ginger, and cinnamon. He took another larger sip. Fields then drained his glass. "Colonel, I trust that you and your staff had a pleasant trip."

"Top notch," Higgins replied. "Thank you for asking."

"Splendid." Fields corrected himself. "Good. We have your quarters ready, plus an additional apartment that you can use for guests. Your people will be staying in the bunker. It's below deck, but we have quite a few creature comforts there. I understand that your wife might be joining us as well."

The officer nipped at a biscuit. Richard Higgins was a full-bird colonel. He was not a man of imposing stature. Nor did he attempt to compensate for this fact. He stood maybe a hair under one and one-half meters with a lean, wiry body. His face was gaunt, as if he had spent time starving at some point in life, but it contained a strength and sense of steely professionalism that—along with a flawless military record—could not help but make him be more impressive. The colonel crossed his legs with a dancer's grace, taking precious time to make sure that the creases in his trousers were properly aligned. "We have discussed it but have reached no final decision. My sons are touring college campuses now and she's their chaperone. However, my horse is flying in tomorrow. Please arrange to have someone meet her at the airport."

Fields kept a smile on his face. "Of course." He jotted down a note for his assistant: Have Sergeant Mickelson pick up flying horse tomorrow. "Anything else, Colonel?"

"Yes." The Army officer pulled out a rather hefty envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Fields. The return address bore the seal of the Department of Defense. The name above it was that of Matthew Grodin, the Secretary of Defense.

Fields went rigid with anticipation.

Higgins launched into his presentation speech. "Mr. Fields, the Secretary of Defense for the legitimate government of the United States of America is pleased to officially welcome the Assembled Intelligence Program into the Army branch of its military family. The six DATs—Amadeus, Bruce, David, Paula, Rose, and Sarah—are now registered as legal members of the Rangers' Timberwolves unit. They represent the first platoon of AI personnel in this nation's history. Inside you will find copies of their official activation orders, signed by President Douglas Haverson, a prototype of the plaque that bears the official motto for the unit, and their patch, which is to be worn by every DAT soldier in combat or while attending Army-sanctioned functions."

Fields released a loud draft of air from his lungs. He slowly removed each of the items from the envelope and lay them side by side on his desk, gazing at each with the shiny eyes of a man staring into a treasure chest full of pirates' booty.

"It's all there," Colonel Higgins assured him. But obviously Fields had to make sure. He carefully read over the thick documents sprinkled with the signatures of some of the world's most powerful men and women. He held up the wood-backed plaque cast out of solid bronze and engraved with the words: Ut fideliter ministrabunt et custodient. To faithfully serve and protect.

Without thinking about it, Fields turned it over. There was an engraving of words there, too: Kurios-Doulos. Master-Slave.

He read it aloud. And then he read it again. "Sir, I beg your pardon, but is this meant in the biblical sense?"

"Yes."

Fields's chest heaved several times. "Then with all due respect, I would like to go on record to say that I'm fundamentally opposed to this with every atom in my being."

"Then you should file a formal declaration of protest with the DOD and MOD as soon as possible so that it can be included with the official activation orders."

"Yes. Good advice. Thank you."

Fields moved on to the next item. The patch, with its almost cartoonish rendering of a snarling wolf, was not as physically impressive, although it did serve as an exclamation point for the entire presentation. The DATs, a mechanical hybrid of the dog and the cat, were now formally recognized members of one of the greatest fighting forces in the history of mankind, and were symbolically linked to it by the archetype canine. Both men fully appreciated the serendipity of the moment.

Higgins gave the national security advisor ten more seconds to fawn over his and the DATs newfound fortune before saying, "The DAT program will have three years of uninterrupted funding, assuming green lights all the way." The colonel handed Fields another document. "One more thing." He gave the NSA a moment to look it over. "The Seven Army Core Values and The Infantryman's Creed. If you will instruct your programmers to insert these as primary code into the AIs before their basic training begins, it would be appreciated. I can get the exact wording to you by this afternoon."

Fields avoided looking outright skeptical. "Um, certainly. However, that might take some time."

"How long?"

"A month maybe."

"You have one week. And many thanks to you and your staff for getting it done."

Fields's shoulders fell flat. "You're welcome." He carefully placed the items back inside of the envelope and then locked it away inside his desk. "Please let Secretary Grodin know that we are honored and humbled by his confidence in the Assembled Intelligence Program."

The colonel nodded. "I will." Higgins's eyes flicked to his wrist watch to signal the end of their private business. "So when do we get started?"

Fields straightened his tie. "Why not now? The robots share living quarters with some of the engineers. They're usually up and about by nine. I can give you a quick tour of the complex, and then we can jog over and make the introductions. How does that sound?"

"Sounds good."

Fields stood, looking measurably refreshed. "Shall we?"

As with the MITs before them, the AIs were put through formal socialization: school, home, and backyard. After six months, they were ready to be taken out of passive learning and into the first phase of their military training. The DATs were going to become assistant soldiers for all purposes, and they would need to be able to keep pace with an infantryman during the lulls of peace and the keening terror of battle. Sooner rather than later.

Colonel Richard Higgins, commander of the 72nd Ranger Regiment (Technical) out of Fort Benning, Georgia, had initially turned down Matt Grodin's invitation to oversee this phase of the AI program. During his long tenure as head of the Special Troops Battalion, he had seen similar pie-in-sky projects implode when their scientific legs collapsed beneath them under the weight of cold, hard facts. Creating a stand-alone robotic soldier was beyond man's intellectual reach. Creating a stand-alone robotic soldier was beyond the financial means of a single nation, let alone one in the throes of a costly civil war. However, when he studied the proposal for the Assembled Intelligence Personnel program and then considered the scope of the specifications, he realized that the Army might be on to something. And that was before he knew about the MITs being built in a Nevada prison. Higgins flew to Washington himself and argued hard with John Voode at DARPA to have the weapon birthed within the Rangers' fold and not the "glamour boys" at Delta Force. Charlie White, the NSA at that time, had sided with him, and his request was pushed through. On the eighth of January, President Douglas T. Haverson presided over a small ceremony with his cabinet to formally induct the AIs into the Army's 72nd Ranger Regiment (Special-Technical).

Their motto was to be "To loyally serve and protect." They would assume the uniform patch that their human counterparts already wore: a rampant wolf's head against the stars-and-stripes. The full names of the first six AIs were affixed to the paperwork along with their activation dates. Afterwards, the pens used to sign these documents were sealed in pine boxes and shipped to the Smithsonian for future display. The DATs were now the legal property of the United States government, and Uncle Sam was eagerly anticipating a healthy return on his investment.

The training program itself would be a slightly scaled down version of the Army's own standard boot camp and would be staged in the southeast corner of Abraham Faud's thirty-six square-kilometer farm, the pseudo wildlife sanctuary/snake-infested, overgrown no-man's land whose southern border abutted the northern perimeter of the Redstone facility. Abraham Faud had been a career agent in the CIA and one of their top-tier operatives in the Homeland Security department. Now retired, he and his two sons raised draft horses and cattle on the property. The cows were primarily used to keep down the ambitious weeds; however, the horses belonged to the Army and were in service to the Timberwolves Special Ops unit.

Faud was a third-generation Alabamian, baptized as a baby in Avondale's Church of Christ. But privately he comported himself along the rigid religious and cultural radials that originated from his Bedouin ancestry. He wore an imported thobe (except on Sundays and holidays) and could often be found at his desk located inside a canvass tent that had been nailed to a concrete slab high above the drinking pond. Faud had served alongside then Lieutenant Richard Higgins during the United States' response to the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, singlehandedly killing nineteen Viet Cong in a rousing twenty-four hour period. He had a purple glass eye and maintained a stable of concubines in the Utah mountains. His code name was Farmer Johnson.

Faud and others like him were what was commonly referred to as active-passive agents or supervisors. AP classification was usually granted to personnel with direct ties to the DOD, who held exemplary service records and who also possessed great personal wealth, whether through inheritance or marriage. This freedom from financial constraints and possible conflicts of interest with CIA policies allowed them to pose as ordinary, successful citizens who could blend in with a targeted community. Their positions of trust allowed them to unobtrusively collect data on their neighbors, law enforcement, and local politicians through everyday social intercourse.

APs also performed another very important function for Washington: they covertly supervised the various Patriot groups. The Patriot Movement had sprung almost fully formed from the American farm belt communities and into Frederick Fields's waiting arms when it became painfully apparent that the various police departments and National Guard units were being overwhelmed with the dual tasks of maintaining order in the hundreds of refugee camps created out of what was left of the West Coast, and beating back the rising tide of violent street crime. Under the direct supervision of an AP, Patriots and their families armed themselves, trained themselves, financed themselves, and then instead of splintering off into militant factions and perhaps becoming an even larger problem for the nation, offered themselves up to Washington as a covert fighting force dedicated to the peace and restoration of the United States of America. The Patriot Movement was then locked into place within the DOD's civilian militia program and was quickly christened the Patriot Program. Washington now had fully one-half of its newly planned arsenal ready for the proving grounds. President Haverson would openly tell the press that he thanked the Advance South every morning for giving the country the Patriot Program. Privately, his gratitude was held in check by one sobering codicil to their famous pledge of military fidelity. The Patriots came with only one declared caveat, but it was a doozy: If Haverson ever knowingly betrayed them, they would abandon his presidency on that very day. The chief executive did not relish entering into such a rigid pact with the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, but he had no real choice. Without the Patriots and their registered militias scattered about the remaining thirty-six states, he had only a decimated military to rely on for defense and peacekeeping, and they were simply not up to those tasks ... yet.

Those Patriot communities with the most training and live combat experience were selected to serve as gatekeepers in the towns and cities located near the government's most valuable assets, maintaining their low profiles as model husbands, wives, and children, all the while keeping an ear to the ground for any signs of unusual criminal activity or Advance South incursions into the area. They worked tirelessly and benignly until their AP handed down orders for them to do otherwise.

Farmer Johnson watched over his flock of Avondale Patriots with a zeal burnished from decades of learning from (often fatal) mistakes. He knew each one of them and was familiar with their strengths and their weaknesses. And because he had convinced his superiors to conduct wiretaps and surveillance on them, he was aware of just about everything else concerning them. In his estimation, they all had the wherewithal to play an active part in the DAT program.

During the first week of February, Higgins met with Fields, Kuiper, Patrik and Chang to discuss the logistics of Phase One of the DATs' combat training.

Phase One would consist of timed runs, obstacle courses, running with loads, climbing with loads, and swimming with loads all under various simulated handicaps. At some point early in the curriculum there was to be an introduction to the AK-47 fully automatic rifle, the standard weapon issued to the Timberwolves. It was Colonel Higgins's suggestion that Phase One exercises be conducted with a veteran platoon of combat dogs from the Avondale Patriots. The number of police and Army K-9 units on the front lines had increased one-hundred-fold since the beginning of the war. As with the military's human resources, seasoned canine troops were running in short supply, and these Patriot K-9 units were proving to be invaluable replacements.

It was hoped that since the robots so closely resembled dogs, the two groups could be trained up together under the new AI infantry protocols so that the one group would learn to cover for the other should a highly fluid situation arise.

Two weeks after his arrival, Higgins had Army psychologist Dr. Susan Boward fly down from Quantico. She was to be on board as a full-time team member, working directly with the DATs and all other significant personnel attached to them. She reported directly to Higgins first, Freddy Fields second. In addition, there were two teacher-certified technical analysts in his contingent. Tara McCarthy and Derek Scott were two Harvard graduates, newly recruited by the CIA. They were young, single, and unsullied by Washington's toxic politics. Most important, they were still idealistic enough to believe that their actions in a severely distressed nation could make a positive difference. Tara and Derek would be providing the first formal classroom instruction for the AIs, beginning with kindergarten class. This B side to their education would continue at a normal pace until they reached a college curriculum, when presumably they would be eligible for cloaked matriculation at one of the various military colleges.

Scott and McCarthy would be supervised by Allan Chang. And Eric Powell was to be Ms. McCarthy's first male suitor at Redstone. While the fertile Massachusetts soil was still clinging to her Bandolino boots, Powell introduced himself and asked her out for a date. Happily for all, she accepted.

* * *

The mobile laboratory had been erected in the southwest corner of Farmer Johnson's pasture. It consisted of two long metal desks, an array of laptops, two staff videographers from Cummings, a dozen portable air conditioner units, canopies, and ice chests stuffed with food and water.

As the DATs weren't scheduled to have their weapons packages installed until Herschel and Roger took them back to the Detroit retrofitters in three months, basic gun handling was going to be simulated with paint guns. That part of their training was not going to happen for another four weeks, after the DATs had graduated to Phase Two. However, the two engineers had attached the power cords leading to the AIs' right hands. Chang thought that this would be a good time to test the hands for strength and accuracy, so he instructed Broussard to devise a few exercises which would further demonstrate their abilities to Colonel Higgins.

"A stone house." Farmer Johnson mopped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his shirt. "Since I was a child I wanted a stone house. It kept out the heat and steam. Somehow, though, I always ended up in cheap stucco." Chang, who was standing close by, merely grunted.

It was the first of March and ninety-seven degrees in the shade, which (thanks to several stout oak trees) was where the Redstone team happened to be encamped. That high temperature, coupled with the forty-percent humidity, made the first day of Phase One acutely uncomfortable for all. However, Bautista, Herschel, and Roger had parked all of the computers in front of the portable air conditioning units, and they themselves looked as happy as clams on ice. This area had been dubbed Mission control. With just two wheeled work consoles (painted Navy blue with racing stripes on their sides) they projected digital versions of the comm screens and the DAT POV screens, as well as radio control over the DATs' electronic and manual locks. As per a last-minute addendum to the original DAT specs, a remotely controlled KILL switch was designed and installed in the AIs. That feature was also available to Mission control. Chang and the Boys had resisted the idea, deeming it as unnecessary and perhaps dangerous should it be accidentally activated, but Higgins had made it clear to them that their opinions on the matter did not carry much weight with Washington.

The two free theory physicists from Gresko, Marcin Z and Kris Kwolski, would be working closely with them now to assist with the training and evaluation of the AIs.

It had been raining off and on for almost a week leading up to the night before, and they were much relieved that Mother Nature had not sent another downpour to screw up the Master log's schedule. Farmer Johnson saw the aberrant weather for what he felt it was: a bad omen. "I am a child of the desert. This much moisture in the air so early in the year—it is the devil's doing."

Chang threw off the old man's misgivings and continued to revel in the high spirits that had been floating the team for weeks now. After so much hard work and sacrifice and pure-dee-hell, the little toy from Nevada that could was finally becoming a lean, mean fighting machine. Even the normally staid Boys were relishing the opportunity to play their roles on such a momentous occasion. Chang squinted into his binocs. "I thought it had something to do with high dew points." His eyes found the three German Shepherds being heeled by their handlers ninety meters upwind. Impressive. It was hotter than blazes out there, and yet the men and the dogs stood perfectly still, totally focused in their direction on the row of DATs resting on their haunches about five meters from where Chang and the rest of the crew stood. Walters, Powell, Kris Kwolski, and Broussard had positioned themselves directly in back of the AIs. The Lincoln Hills Boys had the strongest relationships with the bots and would be able to better decipher and interpret their actions and reactions to what they would be observing today. Kuiper also wanted the engineers to remain close to the DATs so that they could monitor their attention levels and keep them on target. Unfortunately, the DATs had inherited from the MITS the highly disruptive habit of lapsing into "processing" mode whenever the notion struck them. With Colonel Higgins on the scene, acting as the eyes and ears for DARPA, the last thing they needed was the smartest machine on earth deliberately going into catatonia on the first day of exhibition. Eventually someone would have to come up with some viable ideas as to how to stop this undesirable behavior, and they might as well get started now rather than later.

The colonel, who wore a blindingly white Stetson and perfectly gigged jeans, sat stoically atop an equally stoic chestnut mare. He resembled the iconic image of George Washington about to lead the troops across the Potomac, albeit in L. L. Bean-style.

Both man and beast were streaming fluids beneath the wicked heat.

Farmer Johnson was muttering to himself. "The world is different now." He wiped his dripping brow again and added mysteriously, "Many, many things can change the weather now."

Chang stamped his foot with impatience. "Mr. Johnson, you're blunting my buzz. Can you move over there, please?"

Farmer Johnson started to give him the evil eye.

"And please don't do that."

Johnson hurried away.

Chang himself was now sopping wet. Out of nowhere a dark funk moved in and perched high above his head, ready to pounce. He walked over to Mission control and took up position behind Bautista and the comm screens. Then he called out to Walters, "Let's get this show on the road!"

Walters gave a thumbs up. "Right-o!" He then gave three short toots on a whistle. The three dog handlers raised their arms to confirm that they understood that the training session was about to begin. The dogs were trotted out to the waiting obstacle course just a few paces away. In single file, one dog after the other crawled under barbed wire, jumped over large puddles of water, climbed walls set on fire at their edges, sniffed out dummy soldiers buried beneath a pile of rocks and sand, and finally finished up with the most impressive tactic so far: charging across an open field while their handlers shot round after round of blanks from an AK-47 directly at them. As soon as the canines had been rewarded and placed back in the heel position, the field erupted in extemporaneous applause. Even Colonel Higgins seemed impressed.

The reaction from the DATs was tepid. One of them, Amadeus, turned around to look at Powell. "What is that?" The AI asked him.

"Those are dogs, Amadeus. Remember? We watched those movies last week: Eight Below, The Call of the Wild, and The Adventures of Lassie?"

"I do not remember," the DAT replied.

Powell turned around to see if Chang had caught that. From the look on the team leader's face, he had.

Chang leaned over Bautista's shoulder. "Bring up their data screens, Mike."

Bautista typed in some commands. "Done."

Another screen appeared in the corner of each main comm screen. This window allowed the team to see which data streams a DAT was accessing in real time at any given moment.

Powell gave Amadeus a pat on the shoulder. "Well, those dogs help soldiers, just like you will one day. How about that?"

Amadeus had no response.

Meanwhile, Sarah was busy calling up images of various dog breeds from NASA's Cray. The other comm screens show irrelevant activity or little in the way of activity that could be construed as a subjective interpretation of what the DATs had just witnessed. However, it was clear that the DATs were indeed paying attention.

Sarah's comm screen went blank.

Chang rubbed his chin. "That's weird."

Powell snagged Walters's attention. "Are we ready?"

Walters grinned. "Think so." He spoke to the AIs closest to him, David and Rose. "You guys ready to make some new friends?"

He was met with glassy stares, although Rose did finally say, "No, thank you."

Walters adjusted his baseball cap. "All right then! Let's go!"

The two videographers snatched their cameras off their tripods and hoisted them onto their shoulders.

With Walters leading the line, the engineers and the DATs began making their way across the soggy field towards the canine unit. Amadeus quickened his pace to a slow jog. Kwolski called him back. Chang had wanted them to stay in formation.

Back at Mission control, Chang watched them go. He knew that this was rudimentary stuff compared to what the robots were going to be doing down the road, but he still had butterflies in his stomach. He was watching history in the making.

When the DATs were just a few meters away, the lead dog handler stepped up with his canine partner and extended his hand towards Walters. He was a clean-cut young man with dark, wavy hair.

"Hello, sir. I'm Lieutenant Robert Jones. I'm team leader of the Avondale Patriots' K-9 unit, and this is my partner Maxx. It's an honor to meet you and the DAT Timberwolves."

Walters pumped Mr. Jones's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Jones." As the cameramen moved in for close-ups, he began to recite the little speech that he had prepared for the occasion. "On behalf of the DAT Program, I would like to thank you and your unit for volunteering your time and talents towards helping us train the first fully operational robotic soldiers in history."

The two shook hands again, this time for the cameras. The other two dog handlers gaped openly at the DATs.

"We are just so honored to be a part of this," Jones gushed.

Every DAT head swiveled precisely in his direction.

Mr. Jones was unabashedly enchanted. "Jeez, they're beautiful."

Walters looked back at his creations. He was right. They were beautiful. Bona fide works of art. "That's odd," he murmured. All of the DAT comm screens but one were flashing in capital letters: "RUN. RUN. RUN."

Paula sprang forward, raised her right hand, and brought it down hard on Maxx's head. She then grabbed the dog around the neck and threw him to the ground. For a moment, Robert Jones just stood there, that awestruck expression still on his face. "What's going on?" he asked.

Paula had Maxx completely covered with her body. The dog was struggling mightily to throw her off when he got enough wind to let out a blood curdling scream.

"FUCK!" Powell shouted and he threw himself at the DAT. "LET GO! PAULA, LET GO OF HIM!"

Walters began to furiously blow on his whistle.

Chang thumped Bautista on the back. "Throw on the e-locks!"

The German shepherd was still valiantly attempting to get to his feet, but the DAT remained firmly planted on him. Now Kwolski, Walters, and Broussard were all prying and pulling at the attacking robot along with Powell.

Bright red blood began to spurt onto the green grass. The sight of it sent Jones, the dog handler, reeling. He began bleating uncontrollably.

Bautista typed in the command. "They're not taking! She's overriding them!"

Chang had to make a terrible decision very fast. "Kill it!" The KILL command would cut off the DAT's energy supply from their reactors.

Bautista threw the KILL switch and screamed at what the comm. was still telling him. "NO JOY! NO JOY!"

Chang pounded the desk with his fist. "DAMMIT!" He bolted out onto the field, taking one of the camera tripods with him. Colonel Higgins thumped his horse's sides and galloped after him.

Powell gave Paula one last wrench about the shoulders. There was a sickening snap, and at last she was torn loose from the dog.

He and Broussard began to drag her away from the immediate area.

Walters looked down, saw what was left of Maxx the German shepherd, and promptly vomited. While Robert Jones cried and tore at his own shirt, the other handlers grabbed their dogs by the scruffs of their necks and took off running.

Chang arrived, out of breath. He surveyed the awful, bloody scene.

Bedlam.

Again.

He fingered his crucifix some. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, removed it, and draped it over the body.

Higgins's horse blew past him and headed for Powell, Broussard, and Paula, the videographers hard on his heels. Higgins pulled hard on his reins and the horse stopped on a dime right beside them. Powell's face flashed up at him. He knew what was about to happen.

"Nooo!" he screamed at him. But it was too late. Higgins had already given the command. His horse was now in full rampant position, her front legs high in the air. Powell and Broussard had a fraction of a second to dive for cover before the hooves came down hard on Paula's head, crushing it. The DAT's body vibrated briefly, straightened itself out, and then moved no more.

Powell rushed at the horse, blind with rage.

Higgins calmly eased a burnished shotgun out of his saddle holster and pointed it at the engineer's forehead. "Enough blood's been spilt already today."

Chang grabbed Powell. "GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF, ERIC! HE'LL KILL YOU, TOO!"

Powell managed to calm his body down, but his eyes were still wild and dangerous.

Chang released him and shouted up to the colonel. "He's fine! Everything's fine! Please don't shoot!"

Higgins lowered the gun's barrel a few centimeters. He addressed Chang. "We appear to have a serious problem with the machine. I'm no scientist, but I'm ninety percent sure there's no way on earth you're going to fix it before they get their arms package." Higgins sucked in some air. "I'll make sure you get your money for the next twelve months. After that, it'll be pretty much a crap shoot. Now you can use that cash any way you'd like. Start over. Try something new. Either way you've got a long road ahead of you, so here's my two cents worth of advice. First: Suicide is never the answer."

Chang looked like someone had just run him through with a saber. "What are you talking about?"

"If you aren't thinking about now, you will be. So my advice is don't do it. Second: Get those other handlers back here pronto. We'll need to debrief them before we let them go."

When Chang did not move right away, Higgins raised the shotgun and leveled it at him this time. "I meant now."

Broussard tagged him. "I'll go with you, Allan."

Chang nodded dumbly and the two men took off in the direction that the two Patriots had gone.

The colonel pointed the muzzle at Powell. "You. Get someone to help you with the AI's body. Have it bagged and taken to my quarters. I'll return it after I've written up my report."

Powell sluggishly obeyed and limped back towards Mission control.

"You two." He turned to Kwolski and Walters. "Find something to wrap up the dog's body with. We'll need an autopsy."

Kwolski and Walters exchanged nervous looks. "What about the other DATs?" Walters asked.

"I'll round them up and take them back to Mission control." He pointed again with his gun. "Go on. Get the dog. And get Mr. Jones to help you if he's able."

Higgins did not wait to discuss the situation further, but instead turned his horse around. He found the remaining five AIs sitting together, still in line formation. It would appear that they had not moved an inch in spite of all of the excitement that had gone on.

Even as they surely witnessed the destruction of one of their own.

Higgins kept the reins wound tightly around his left hand and his finger on the shotgun's trigger with his right. He had no doubt that should they decide to attack him now that he would have a roughly fifty-percent chance of making it out alive.

He braced himself against the possible onslaught. "Let's go home now."

Much to his relief, the DATs rose in unison and began the long walk back towards Mission control. Higgins followed behind them with loosely held reins, allowing a safe distance to open up between the machines and his horse.

Suddenly, one of the DATs stopped mid-stride. It looked over its shoulder at the still prostrate body of the dead DAT and then all the way back at the colonel. Higgins saw the screen in the AI's forehead light up as several sentences scrolled by on a loop. Higgins steadied his weapon and inched the horse closer so that he could read the message:

"Paula hurt the canine and the ungulate hurt Paula. That is called a balanced equation. ♪Now ain't that a kick in the head♫?"

Colonel Higgins stopped breathing. His eyes traveled down to the machine's name plate.

It read "Bruce."

#

Freddy Fields sat in at the all-hands staff meeting the next day. He explained that he was there to offer them his emotional support during the crisis and to discuss their options. Heads were hung low. Hearts were extremely heavy. The national security advisor was uncharacteristically gentle. "Gentlemen, to be blunt, yesterday was an unmitigated failure. Washington was gob-smacked when they heard the news. And Voode is anticipating a final briefing on the project from me sometime before July. I realize that you have worked very hard on the assembled intelligence project, and that you have achieved something that no one has yet to do. Yet ... the technology that we are trying to wrangle with, mold, and set on an autonomous course ... it may be beyond our reach now. Perhaps in a few years when we have a better understanding about what truly constitutes intelligence in the absolute sense will we be able to fully grasp how to inculcate those 'abstracts' like reasoning or mercy into an assembled being."

Kuiper, his large eyes red and tight from stress, responded first. "We agree. Yesterday we experienced cascading failures ... on several tier-one levels. Unacceptable. And yet ... we also made progress. Only Paula went off the rails. That's a sixteen percent failure rate. That's within our safety envelope."

Herschel made a sour face. "Just barely." He tapped his notepad with his pencil. "From what I can see, Paula was using her hand at close to one hundred percent of its available power. She wasn't just trying to restrain that dog, she was aiming to murder it. And she succeeded. And along the way, she bypassed all of her locks plus her KILL switch. If she figured out how to do that, we must assume that the other DATs can figure it out, too. To me, that's an unacceptable level of risk."

No one disagreed with his assessment.

"You are correct," Z concurred. "But, we lost control of only one robot. The majority stayed within control. That's significant."

"So what are you saying?" Fields asked.

"I'm saying that Paula was clearly motivated to exceed authority and take draconian action. Nothing in the MIT history would suggest such out-of-bounds behavior. Am I right?"

He directed his question towards Chang.

Chang barely acknowledged the question. His demeanor had turned markedly somber since yesterday.

"So," Z continued, "I believe that she was acting on a trigger."

"A trigger," Broussard repeated. "What, though? Both the MITs and the DATs are okay with animals. James and Jessie even had a pet hamster."

Bautista joined the conversation. "I take the DATs and the MITs with me sometimes when I grab a smoke out in the pasture. Johnson's always got a gang of horses running around. The DATs don't pay them no mind."

"Well, that's one piece of very good news," Fields said.

Z turned to Powell. "Eric, in your report you mentioned that Amadeus didn't seem to know what a dog was."

"Yeah. We had briefed them on dogs the week before, because they've never actually seen one in person. We looked at books and watched some movies with dogs in them. Mostly Disney stuff. He should have had some of that data in hard RAM at the very least, but he wasn't accessing it yesterday."

"You think maybe the dog was the trigger?" Broussard asked.

Z shrugged. "That I don't know. But I do feel that when something unusual happens, you must use detective work to determine what was the unusual factor in the situation. The DATs were familiar with soldiers, firearms, grass, horses, wooden structures, training environments. Us. They only things that they were not familiar with were the dogs. Apparently."

Everyone thought about that for a while. As they did, the sense of utter failure dissipated somewhat.

"What do you recommend then?" Fields asked.

Kuiper spoke. "I agree with Z's theory. At least in theory." He smiled weakly at his own pun. "Let's put them to a test. A behavior test. Expose them to another dog—"

The room erupted into vociferous objections.

He raised his voice above theirs. "—taking all precautions to ensure the safety of the animal."

"Hell, no!" Bautista shouted.

"Use a cat then!" Walters countered.

Z agreed. "The dogs are too valuable."

Kuiper interrupted. "We should duplicate the events of yesterday as closely as possible. If we're going on the theory that a dog was the trigger, then we should use another dog."

The room went as quiet as a monastery.

Powell pushed his notepad away. "Then I'm out."

"Me, too," Broussard added quickly.

Chang sighed. "Me, too."

Ten more people opted out.

Fields raised his eyebrows. "I guess the nays have it. We'll use another animal." Fields turned to Susan Boward, who had been listening intently to the discussions without comment. "Susan, what do you believe we should be doing with the DATs in the meanwhile?"

"We should be talking to them," she replied with the easy enthusiasm of a newbie. "They need to know that although we are very disappointed with Paula's actions, and that although what she did was very wrong and 'against the law' that we still love her and them. They need to feel that we are still supportive of them and that we will not abandon them or the training when mistakes occur."

She crossed her chubby legs. "This might also be a good time to feel them out. Have them tell us about the event from their point of view. Check for any opinions from them as to why it happened. They probably aren't sophisticated enough to have formed concrete ideas, but any communication that they volunteer will be telling and, I feel, valuable."

Fields nodded. "Yes. I agree."

"And," she added. "Touch is critical now. We don't want anyone falling into isolationist tendencies just because something goes wrong."

Someone muttered, "Amen."

Fields slapped the conference table. "Okay, so we have a viable action plan. Does anyone have anything else to add?"

Z raised his hand. "With Patrik's permission, of course, I'd like to take a peek at the neural net code."

Patrik replied without hesitation. "Absolutely not."

Fields gathered his things. "Well, that settles that. Gentlemen, let's get the test underway. Allan and Koop, I'd like to see you both in my office this afternoon, say 'round two o'clock, so that we can formalize this new action plan."

"Certainly," Kuiper said brightly.

Chang was decidedly less enthused. "Sure."

But before training could continue, both Fields and Higgins wanted to make absolutely sure that the security issues had been thoroughly addressed. There were now serious legal issues to anticipate. An unpredictable robot that wantonly killed was the stuff of the darkest of science fiction. No one working on DAT could afford for this gruesome turn to become a full-blown reality. For if it did, DARPA would be soon dodging a hail of lawsuits from their own employees, and the DAT program would quickly go away. Along with hundreds of jobs, including their own. The new security mindset necessitated a complete redesign of the e- and m-locks, the RC KILL switch and the creation of a larger manual KILL switch on the DAT body that was accessible by any qualified handler. Fields assigned these items to Chang, Roger and Herschel on the Master log. The three men would have to work at a breakneck pace with little rest until they came up with a new security package that they all believed would provide error-free results.

The next item for the duo was to contact Bill Johnson at NASA and arrange for another Behavior test using a dog. It was something that both men were loath to do, but because of the serious nature of the original event and its explosive implications, they had little choice. But just to be on the safe side, they buried a requisition for the test with a forgery of Charles White's signature attached to it within a pile of invoices that John Voode regularly signed. Voode would probably never know that he had signed a politically sensitive document, and Fields and Higgins would never be suspected of having created the document in the first place. Again ... loathsome but necessary subterfuge. The DAT program could not sustain another direct hit if it was to survive.

The DATs were taken offline and taken back to the hangar's assembly rooms. The Master log gave the engineering technicians forty-three hundred man hours—three weeks—to finish and test the AIs' compatibility with the new soft- and hardware.

Broussard was on tenterhooks the entire time. Something wasn't right. He felt intuitively that there was another piece of the puzzle missing. He began to spend more time at the office, going over the DARPA specs, going over the transcripts from before, during and after the incident, watching home videos of the DATs during socialization the week before. Anything that he thought would shed light on why Paula would suddenly go berserk.

Grace Montgomery noticed his extra efforts and began swinging by his cube in the evenings with boxes of takeout food. Occasionally, she would spend a little time with him, listening to his thoughts and concerns about the project. She appeared to be interested in the DATs and quite unsettled about the events in the pasture.

One evening, as they were munching on vegetable tempura, he told her about his gut feeling about what had happened.

"Something else is going on." Of course he had stated that belief to her several times before. "Something besides Murphy's Law."

"Murphy's Law? What's that?" she asked.

"It's an old engineering proverb. Essentially, it's the belief that what can go wrong will go wrong."

"That's a pretty pessimistic way of looking at things."

"Maybe." He shoved some broccoli into his mouth. "What we've got here is a large bug, a mega bug if you will. Now program bugs usually hide or go away once you start hunting for them hard enough. But I have a feeling that this one is so big that it's not going to turn tail and run. It's going to fight." He sighed with obvious frustration. "We can't be sure without examining the neural net's code, which kinda irritates me, but I'm sure that Patrik has his reasons for not sharing."

She pointed to his computer screen. "What are you watching?"

"That first screen is video of Bruce's assembly. The second screen is when they were assembling Paula."

She stared at the pair of moving images. Four technicians dressed in surgical spacesuits surrounded each of the inert DAT bodies laid out on long steel tables. "And you're looking for what, exactly?"

"I don't know. Discrepancies between the two operations."

"But aren't both assembly teams following strict procedures?"

Irritation crept into Broussard, and he had to remind himself that she was not an engineer. "Of course. But—"

"Well, one difference is that this guy is perspiring a lot here." She was pointing to the video of Paula's assembly. More precisely, she was pointing at the helmet of the technician working near the DAT's head.

Broussard checked the screen and hit the PAUSE button. "That's condensation on his helmet." He checked some of his notes. "The air conditioning was out for about twenty minutes and the room's temperature increased. But those suits have their own air supply, and it's kept pretty cold to prevent the technicians from overheating. The warm air hitting his cold helmet caused the moisture." Broussard hit the PLAY button. "But that's no biggee."

"Are you sure?"

He became visibly annoyed. "A small increase in temperature would not affect the DATs."

She pointed to the footage of Paula's assembly again. "Can you pause this and zoom in?"

He made a show of sighing but did as she asked.

"Look. There."

Broussard peered into the screen. Two technicians were now bent directly over the work table that bore Paula. They were carefully attaching the front faceplate to the skull frame. And there, caught in midair, were three large globules of water falling from the first tech's helmet and directly into Paula's exposed brain.

"Do you see what I'm pointing at, Neal?"

His mind was racing. "Yes." Moisture could be just as damaging as excessive heat for a machine.

"That condensation maybe caused a short circuit somewhere?"

He looked at her.

"I've actually been paying attention during visiting hours."

Broussard chuckled. "So you're the one." He quickly scanned the other five videos again. "I can't find anything on the others." His tone was still bordering on being dismissive.

"Hey, I know I'm not an engineer. I just noticed this one thing." She sounded a bit miffed. "But you're right. It's probably unimportant."

"Now I didn't say that." Broussard leaned back into his chair, causing it to squeak. "I'm betting it's a coincidence. There's only a million-to-one chance that this would have caused mechanical disruption. But—"

She completed his sentence. "What can go wrong, will go wrong. Murphy's Law."

In spite of his doubts, Broussard went directly to Chang and discussed the situation with him. While the two engineers did not believe that the condensation was a direct link to Paula DAT's malfunction, it certainly had not been helpful, and steps would have to be taken to ensure that the error did not occur again. Chang acted surprisingly fast. He instituted a policy that one DAT engineer would be present any time a machine was being assembled or worked on. That engineer would be there to monitor the procedure, the environmental controls, the master log, and the assembly staff itself. Upon Chang's written approval, Broussard willingly penned himself in as the first official manager for DAT modifications.

The next day found Alabama basking under clear blue skies and cooler temperatures. It had turned out to be a perfect Saturday afternoon to stage Redstone's first annual Hardware-Software softball game, hosted by Avondale's Chamber of Commerce. City and church leaders had rented out the town square park, decorated it and convinced twenty local vendors to set up tents to display and sell their wares to Redstone staffers and invited locals. Mayor Bridges, his beautiful wife, and their six children were on hand to throw out the first ball.

Allan Chang's wife, Hillary, also made an appearance. Chang had sent for his family when it looked like the DAT program was going to stick, and they had been bunking at Redstone's employee quarters with him ever since. From all accounts, she was a lovely person and the perfect counterpart to her husband. Tall and big boned, she had an open face that fairly invited friendship.

Although the game was being billed as a hard matchup between the two scientific units, all of Redstone had been invited to participate. The Hardware Harleys, led by team captain Eric Powell, consisted of engineers, technicians, and the most experienced players from the clerical staff. The Software Dragons, led by Patrik Jansen, embraced a cadre of hard-hitting cafeteria workers. Much to everyone's surprise, the Software Dragons had the game won almost from the beginning. When the score had risen to an embarrassing twenty-to-three, Bautista, pitching for the Harleys, began deliberately hurling his pitches into the arms and chests of many of the Dragon players. Grace Montgomery, official water girl, happened to be standing next to the second string umpires, Broussard and Hillary Chang.

"Is Mr. Bautista always so ... excitable?" she asked.

Broussard and Hillary looked at each other and answered in unison. "Yes!"

"He's just showing off today," Broussard explained. "He'll calm down ... eventually."

Hillary had an expression on her face that was part smile, part grimace. Like the kind an infant makes when it's passing gas. "That's what I keep telling Allan about Junior. Eventually, he'll find his groove and settle down." Allan Jr. had accompanied his mother to Redstone and was quickly gaining a reputation as a holy terror. The Changs were currently college shopping for him in Europe in the stated hopes of offering him a different, classical learning environment. Privately, people suspected that the besieged parents had simply run out of gas and were looking for the nearest exit.

"Sure. Of course," Broussard and Miss Montgomery said supportively.

A great deal of shouting and cat calls arose as Bautista walked his second batter of the day. The technician angrily threw down his glove, sauntered down to first base, and began cursing the offending player. After about three minutes of prolonged asinine behavior, Broussard covertly signaled Powell to step in. With a tip of his cap to Tara McCarthy, Powell strutted confidently out to the mound to have a word with him ... and was shocked when Bautista greeted him with a fresh torrent of insults. Without thinking, Powell shoved the smaller man in the chest. Tara began yelling at him from the sidelines. Powell, distracted now, turned around to hear her better. Bautista seized the opportunity and kicked Powell in the shins. When Powell grabbed Bautista by the waist and slammed him into the dust, the Harleys and the Dragons cleared their respective benches. Some of the players attempted to bust up the fight, while others got in a few happy punches of their own.

Broussard turned to Hillary with hooded eyes. "Violence is tiresome."

When the game was over, Broussard, who had driven in with Bautista, asked Miss Montgomery if he could ride back with her to Redstone. When she said yes, without thinking he grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it.

She was startled by the gesture. "What was that for?"

"I don't know. You're a lady, and sometimes a lady's hand needs to be kissed. Even by a scoundrel like me."

She giggled. "Okay. Super!" They walked to her car, and she let him open the door for her. She looked up at him with brightly shining eyes. Her face was the color of a summer peach. "You seem like the perfect gentleman to me."

Before he could stop them, the words slipped between his lips. "I am when I'm with you."

"Oh."

He felt embarrassed. "Pretty corny, huh?"

"I don't know," she replied softly. But the smile on her face never wavered, and he took that as a good sign.

Two weeks later the AIs were back to an interim schedule that consisted of attending school under the watchful tutelage of Derek and Tara during the day, and then spending their evenings in the cramped quarters with the lot from Lincoln Hills. Training was suspended until the results of the behavior tests (Redstone's and NASA's) were in.

Walters, Powell, and Broussard had no qualms about continuing their avuncular roles with the robots, but they were beginning to chafe beneath the constant scrutiny of their MP escorts, as well as the undesirable conditions of their makeshift apartments. Grumblings arose. They required privacy, room to roam, and fresh air on demand. They began to complain loudly and often. When Chang made the mistake of sticking his head into the common area one evening for a quick checkup before retiring, he was dragged into an empty corner by Powell and subjected to a flood of negative emotions from the engineer. He bemoaned his sorry fate, openly expressed his doubts about a loving and forgiving God, and wondered out loud whether or not life was truly worth living. Chang's relatively good cheer began to shrivel beneath the pressure of Powell's unhappiness. Two of the DATs, Amadeus and Sarah, were lounging on one of the couches across the room. Chang noted to himself that even they were beginning to look miserable. Which, Chang thought, was quite a feat as the DAT faces basically had no moving parts.

Powell held up blameless hands. "Don't look at me."

"Who else am I supposed to look at? Why don't you guys quit griping all the time? You're bringing them down."

"Hey, Allan, they know how to tune us out. Besides, I'll bet they feel the same way we do."

Chang needed to change the subject. He had his own laundry list of grievances against the world and truly did not want Powell to add to those numbers. "Has anyone offered any explanation as to why Paula did what she did?"

"No, not really." Powell answered with a hint of dismay, no doubt offended that Chang had changed the subject. "But something odd happened. I was showing David some guitar chords the other day, and somehow we got to talking about her and what had happened and he said, 'She was protecting the soldier.'"

Chang pursed his lips together. "'Protecting the soldier?' Who? Lieutenant Jones?"

Powell sucked in his cheeks. "I guess so. But they know the Patriots aren't regular Army. Maybe there's still some confusion there."

Chang took out an electronic pad and made a note to himself. "Weird."

"Weird, indeed," Powell replied. "Maybe they're going cuckoo being caged up with us all the time."

"Here we go ... "

"I'm just saying. We need new digs. Being shoved together like sardines in a can is making all of us a little edgy. And with the MPs watching our every move ... . Can't you talk to somebody about this?"

Chang rubbed his forehead. "Not now. I've got a good bead on Fields, and he isn't going to consider any new ideas until after we run the test with the new subject. You'll have to sweat it out until then."

Powell smiled. "Fun-tastic," he replied sarcastically.

Chang read the acute disappointment in the engineer's posture. "Look, I'll look into it in a few days. But I can't make promises."

Powell jumped up and gave him a bear hug. "Great! Oh, one more thing." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "When you have that conversation, can you see about me getting something away from Neal and Mike?"

"Away from Neal and Mike? Why?"

Powell shushed him, glancing nervously over his shoulders.

"They're killers," Powell whispered.

"Eric, is that a news flash for you?"

"No. But killers are always segregated from the other inmates. Remember?"

"We left Lincoln Hills months ago."

"Our bodies left Lincoln; our natures didn't. Now you and Mr. Fields can dress those two up any way you want, but it doesn't change the fact that they both murdered people in cold blood. I have to work with them, but I sure as hell shouldn't have to live with them. Not anymore."

Chang's eyes grazed the floor. "I'll see what I can do."

Three weeks after that terrible morning in the south pasture, Allan Chang, Christian Kuiper, and Van Walters met with Grace Montgomery in Freddy Fields' empty office. They had a proposal to present to her.

"We'd like to invite you and your cat to participate in the next test," Kuiper said.

Miss Montgomery began to demur almost immediately. "No. I don't believe that I could do that."

"Miss Montgomery," Walters began smoothly. "The robots have been worked on extensively. They have new and reinforced safety features that I guarantee cannot fail. Also, we devised the test so that the test animal has a one hundred percent safety zone around it at all times. A DAT could not get close to it even if it wanted to."

Grace Montgomery still looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Why my cat? Can't you obtain one from a shelter in Avondale?"

"We could get a shelter animal," Walters agreed. "Totally out of its element and scared out of its mind, which could possibly skew the results."

Chang offered a comforting smile. "Mr. Bojangles knows the lay of the land, and he's pretty familiar with everyone. So we could scratch that unknown from the equation."

"I understand," she admitted. "It's just that he's so miserable. I don't think that he'll perform well."

Kuiper chuckled. "No worries! We don't need him to sing and dance. He just needs to be a cat. Very low bar here. And he'll be safe. We have constructed a reinforced shark cage that will be welded shut and bolted to the ground. Herschel has cut their hand power by ninety percent, and we've reworked all of the locks. Trust me: He'll be fine. And, if all goes as planned, Mr. Bojangles will be the most famous cat in the history of science."

"Well ... "

"And I'll talk to Mr. Fields about maybe letting you spend more time at home."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?" She pushed a few strands of hair out of her face. "That would be dear. I've been so exhausted lately."

"Excellent!" Kuiper was delighted at her positive reaction. "I'll talk to Freddy this afternoon, and we'll see if he can arrange to have a home office installed at your apartment right away. That way you can cut the commute and get your workday off to a quicker start. How does that sound?"

The exuberance slid from her face but she remained plucky. "Great. Yes, of course, thank you!"

Chang had a meeting with Fields the very next day. He laid out the situation with the Lincoln Hills team and offered a few suggestions as to how to resolve it.

"I've already looked into it," Fields said with an oddly flat voice. He looked disheveled, and there were purplish circles beneath his eyes, as if he had not been receiving enough sleep. "Grace is going to investigate whether we can get temporary housing for the boys in Avondale. The rest of the staff can either remain at Redstone or find something on their own."

"Excellent."

"We'll keep an in-house detail on Broussard and the other one. Those four can bunk together in one residence."

Chang lied fluently. "I don't believe they'll mind that."

"And some of the DAT's will be going with them. We can't have any kinks in socialization."

"That they will mind."

Fields covered a noisy yawn with his hand. "Don't care."

Chang stood to leave. "Okay fine." And he left it at that.

Once he returned to his office, Chang began ramping up the staff for the next behavior test. He split the Lincoln Hills group into two. With Broussard on self-appointed QC duty down in Assembly, Powell and Bautista were assigned to assist Herschel and Roger with the modifications to the cage that would hold the test subject. After Kuiper, Z, and Kwolski spent a few days re-imagining the electronic locks on the DATs, they were to give their functional flow chart to Walters so that he could create a mock-up of the desired program. Patrik and his girlfriend were reportedly entertaining relatives from Amsterdam, and much to the relief of everyone, he was only going to be available via email for the next four weeks. Chang had even created jobs for the MITs, James and Jessie. In their new roles, they were to support the staff as office assistants: sharpening pencils (and the occasional pen), assisting with making coffee and tea, ordering supplies, and cleaning the miscellaneous equipment. They appeared to relish having something to do, and Chang did not let up in giving them opportunities to take on more responsibilities.

Every so often they would ask Powell or Bautista about Dana and Sharon Zyck. At first, the two men just figured that the MITs were merely being curious. Then, when the questions became more pointed and the men's answers to them patently less satisfying, they requested a meeting with Chang. After hearing their story, the manager was sufficiently concerned to look into the matter with Fields. One week later Fields's office mailed him a single sheet of paper that contained a single statement:

On 16 September an unusual event occurred at the Lincoln Hills state penitentiary which resulted in staff and inmate casualties.

Chang could not decipher that but had a good idea that it was not indicative of good news. There had been news reports of at least a dozen prisons being hacked into over the past two years. Most of the time the prisoners had been murdered. Prison personnel were rarely the targets of these heinous crimes, but it had happened. Dana and Sharon Zyck had no doubt been one of those unlucky few. Not long afterward, on a day when his head had been too busy juggling DAT problems, he offhandedly told the MITs that the Zycks had gone up to heaven to be with Jesus and would not be returning. The little spider bots appeared to take the news in stride, but when the rest of the human staff learned of what he had done, the situation quickly spun out of control. The DAT team went ballistic. Walters seemed especially peeved and even went so far as to publicly berate his manager for indoctrinating the MITs in "religious fairy tales." Even Susan Boward privately weighed in on the matter, telling him that he may have set off a chain reaction of machine-based logic that might have serious repercussions. Chang bristled at that and reminded her that the spider bots were not within Higgins's purview and that via the proper chain of command, none of her business. Things quieted down but it soon became clear that Boward's words were going to prove to be prophetic. In short order the MITs become withdrawn and then scarce, completely abandoning the duties that had seemed to keep them happy just days before. Jessie, in particular, began to spend hours crouched by Powell's cube window, scanning the skies during rain or shine. When Broussard learned of the problem he, too, was angry with his boss and complained to Bautista about it. "Chang's losing it."

"I told you that three years ago."

"Now we've got a couple of useless, depressed robots on our hands."

To which Bautista responded philosophically, "Sometimes depression happens."

#

It was three full days before Chang had an opportunity to get back to Powell and the others about the housing issue. At the next all-hands staff meeting, he let everyone know that the Avondale city fathers had agreed to provide some staff with short-term leases on several homes in one of their master planned communities. All lease contracts would be handled and paid for in full by Redstone's human resources department. Furnishings, bedding, and utensils would be paid for out of the engineers' own pockets. Before the elation could spread, Chang told them that this offer was for the Lincoln Hills engineers only; the rest of the team had the options of either remaining in the Administration building gratis or finding a rental in town at their own expense.

"When?" Broussard asked eagerly.

"Next week Miss Montgomery will take you guys out to look out the houses and the neighborhood." Chang addressed the entire team. "Folks, we hope to have everything finalized by the time the results of the behavior test are in."

He then turned to Walters. "Van, the DATs will be bunking with the boys. They'll be on rotation with Software on the weekends."

That news was met with instant and energetic opposition.

Broussard, in a rare public show of anger, slammed his pencil to the conference table. "No!"

Walters lashed out. "Dammit it, Allan, we're scientists. Stop trying to make us into babysitters."

Chang looked vexed. "Look. We're trying to save the world here. How about a little more team spirit?"

"Screw team spirit!" someone shouted from the back of the room.

Z stood and addressed the room of disgruntled men. "Gentlemen, the AIs are new life. They are very much like human children. They require 'babysitting' now."

Powell looked disgusted. "Z, unclench. They're just machines."

"No!" Z objected. "They are not! They are new life forms. Life that you have helped to create. And we must all take daily responsibility for them." He softened his tone. "The sooner that you face these facts, the better for all of us."

Powell stared directly at him. "You are out of your mind."

"And," Chang continued, "last but not least, we're headed to Chicago in two weeks. Right after the behavior test. Principals only, plus the AIs."

"What for?" Derek asked.

"A little R and R. A little business. Should be fun. Patrik's got some personal matters to attend to so he's opting out."

The news was met with a thick wall of indifference. As everyone knew, at this time of year Chicago's weather was just as disagreeable as Alabama's.

"How about Montana instead?" Rogers asked.

Chang let out a pfft of air. "Don't think so, but thanks for asking."

"Allan, why not wait until we have all of the data in from the next behavior test?" Broussard asked. "Taking them out might be premature until we know what's going on."

"Don't worry about it, Neal," Chang replied. "We've got it worked out."

After the meeting, Broussard and Bautista pulled Chang aside. Broussard was doing the talking for both of them. "Can we lose the MPs once we move?"

"No," Chang replied.

Broussard gritted his teeth. "Why not? What? You think we're going to get out there and start raping and pillaging?"

Chang eyed them warily. "What I think is irrelevant. You and Mike are under military jurisdiction. And you weren't pardoned when they scooped your butts out of Nevada. You're still in jail, guys. Only now you've got Lucite bars."

Bautista made a fist and slammed it into his open palm. "Allan, this is wrong and you know it."

Chang squared his shoulders in order to make himself look bigger in front of the two convicts. "It's the law. Sorry. But if you want it changed, you can either talk to Mr. Fields about it or build a time machine and go back to a time when you didn't have multiple murder convictions on your resumes. It's up to you."

Bautista bared his teeth. "Freddy Fields can kiss my Flip ass!"

Chang didn't miss a beat. "I'm sure he'd be happy to consider it."

Bautista cocked his head sideways. "What's that supposed to mean? Well, what's the BFD anyway? You can track us with GPS."

Chang's eyes gave nothing away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bautista stepped forward. "We're LoJacked. Right?"

Chang shrugged nonchalantly. "No idea."

"Yeah, you got 'no idea' like you got no idea about whether your wife's pussy smells like soy sauce."

Chang's eyes flung themselves onto Broussard. They had a murderous sheen to them. "Leash your dog, Neal."

Bautista became livid. "Who you calling a dog, man?"

Chang balled his fists. "The one doing the barking."

Bautista was getting ready to swing on the manager when Broussard stepped forward and hooked him by the throat. "Too far, Mike."

Bautista struggled to free himself. "LET GO OF ME!"

Broussard let him go but stayed pressed up against him. "Make this right, man."

Bautista cocked his head to one side and spat in the opposite direction. Chang began to walk away.

Bautista called out to him. "Chang!"

Chang stopped in his tracks but did not turn around. "What?" There was pure fury in his voice.

Bautista hung his head. "I'm sorry. I was out of line. I meant no disrespect to your family."

Chang kept walking.

The following week found the team back at the south pasture. Along with the regular team members, Susan Boward was in attendance as were two Army sharpshooters stationed inside a nearby feed barn. The gunmen were insurance. "Just in case," Chang had muttered to Walters earlier that morning.

If anything, the day was hotter and more humid than it had been one month ago. Farmer Johnson's earlier premonition still hung in the air. Farmer Johnson and his oldest son, Clay, were seated comfortably in the back of their shaded pick-up truck which they had parked near the pasture gate. As they were outside the DAT arena, no one paid much attention to the deer rifles resting casually across their knees. Johnson had a hundred longhorn cattle and about a dozen quarter horses visiting from the north pasture that day. He had let it be known that not one of them was expendable.

Mr. Bojangles had been placed in the shark cage with a pet umbrella, cat food, and water. Grace Montgomery allegedly had pressing matters at home and could not attend. Two technicians stepped in and locked the heavy door to its frame with three one-pound locks. The two videographers caught their movements from several different angles. Chang was in a director's chair seated directly behind the mission control staff. Bautista, Roger, and Herschel were at the computers. The new RC KILL switches were placed slightly above their heads and painted bright red. Walters, Kwolski, Powell and Broussard were out on the field, doing stretches with the AIs. General Higgins kept his distance, seated atop his horse near the eastern fence. Every now and then he would raise his binoculars and pretend to be looking at points of interest among the gentle slopes of the distant hills. The mood was calm. Chang decided that the test was a go. He lifted his arm to signal Walters. Walters acknowledged and he and the others began to walk the DATs over towards the shark cage with the videographers in tow.

The first hour or so was uneventful to the point of being dull. The DATs seemed to be more interested in the shark cage itself rather than the small animal relaxing inside.

Time dragged on. Morning became late afternoon. The team of humans began to break up into discrete clumps. Tara and Derek had discovered a stream up pasture and were showing Rose and Bruce the various tiny life forms inside. As far as Chang could tell, the DATs were reacting normally with each new introduction.

Across the way, near the obstacle course, Z and Kwolski were busy lecturing Broussard and Walters about harmonic waves. Occasionally Z would whip out his writing tablet and start furiously scribbling graphs and equations to bring home various points. The engineers from Lincoln Hills took turns looking either enthralled or utterly confused.

Powell had his arms folded over his chest and appeared to be unconvinced. "So, what is free theory physics again?"

Z lit up, visibly happy to have someone show some interest in his work. "Eric, if you remember your ancient Greek philosophy, then you will remember that it encompassed all aspects of science: mathematics, biology and astronomy. It was only later that men began to chop it up and study only one or two aspects of it. Specialization has obscured the mother science and allowed most modern scientists to be raised as ignorant orphans. But with free theory, we are free to choose from any established body of knowledge that we feel will induce a correct answer, because we have reunified the diaspora back into the whole so that we examine a problem or situation using the full breadth of known science. In fact, we even incorporate the arts-music, dance, theater, what have you-into our reasoning."

Powell scoffed. "Now that's just plain silly."

Z slapped his own chest with sheer joy. "And 'silliness' is actually one of our most important tools. Even Master Einstein believed this."

"I'm thinking that was a mid-life crisis."

"Mr. Powell, everything is connected to everything else by the same energy. That's how we solved the MIT dance riddle."

The young engineer perked up. "Explain your theory."

"Well, we discovered that the sound waves from Dana Zyck's laughter were almost identical to those that the two generators outside your laboratory made. We believe that at night, when the MITs were essentially alone, those generators were the only sounds that they heard. They may have associated the generator sounds with feelings of comfort and security, much like when a human fetus begins to develop its consciousness surrounded by the sound of its mother's heartbeat. Both Mr. Zyck and the generators emitted noise in the key of F. That key comforts them. And they are responding rhythmically to it. In essence, dancing."

Powell chuckled and crossed his big arms. "What a load of malarkey."

Z's lips stretched into an unhappy line. "Is this crazy talk to you?"

"No, no," Powell replied, backtracking so as not to further offend the more senior man. "I'm confused, that's all."

"Eric, we're all connected to the same energy. Some people call it chi energy. Others have labeled it 'spirit' or life force. We believe that it's the universal electromagnetic force. It's plugged into every star, every planet, every painter, every spacecraft, every robot, every grain of sand, every atom. We can measure it. And we can even manipulate it."

Powell bumped Broussard's arm. "Right. But you've got to be careful, because we all know about the dark side of the force."

And now it was Z's turn to look confused. "What is your meaning?"

"The dark side of the force. Star Wars? The movie?"

Z offered them a weak smile. "This country tends to brush reality in terms of fantasy. Sometimes this is profitable; sometimes not."

"Fantasy is better than reality any day," Broussard said. "Why do you think porn generates a billion dollars a year in revenues ... even now?"

That confused look washed over Z's face again. "What is your meaning?"

Broussard was flummoxed. "Z, you've heard of porn, right? I mean, you're from Poland, not Jupiter?'

"Are you talking about pictures of naked women?"

Powell chuckled. "Naked everything."

Z scowled. "You would better spend your time in meditation."

"Yeah, that'll keep the creative juices flowing," Powell replied sarcastically.

"Look. Why don't you men leer at just one special woman instead of a hundred? With one you will not be led astray."

Powell's attention was beginning to stray. "Now you're starting to sound crazy."

To the northeast, along the pasture's eastern fence, Susan Boward and Kuiper stood next to Colonel Higgins's horse, content to lob bits and pieces of casual conversation up to him as he did not seem inclined to dismount any time soon. Bautista, along with Herschel and Roger, was holding down his chair at mission control. In between sips of lemonade, he watched as David and Sarah slipped away up pasture and west, towards the tree line that formed a natural border between them and twenty acres of Johnson's cucumber and watermelon crops. Sarah, who was slightly in the lead, was exhibiting distinct stalking motions, making precise stops and starts every few seconds as she kept her eyes fastened on some invisible object in the tall trees. Bautista alerted Chang and via Chang, everyone else. Elated but also apprehensive about this new behavior, without thinking, the various groups converged and followed after them.

A raucous murder of crows flew into the tippy-top branches of one of the trees. David and Sarah's heads simultaneously rotated upwards to get a look. And then they froze.

Bruce and Rose jogged over and came up behind them. Suddenly, Sarah and David crouched very low to the ground, as if they were about to lie down upon it. And then they launched. Ramrod straight, their bodies vaulted straight up into air like guided missiles. As they cleared the lowest branches, Sarah arched her body into a half-circle and performed a nearly perfect back flip, sticking her landing on one of the sturdier branches. David landed normally just a meter behind her. The two were now only a couple of meters from the crows. One of the DATs took one step forward. This startled the birds and they noisily flew away down towards the obstacle course and landed on the rafters holding up the rope ladders.

The team stood beneath the tree and gasped in unison. Chang had his crucifix out again.

"Uh, they must be fifteen meters off the ground. I'm sure that wasn't in the DARPA specs." He twisted around to look at Broussard. "Was it?"

Broussard looked at Sarah and David and then looked back down at Chang. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Z asked.

On the ground, Bruce and Rose playfully took off after the crows parading up and down the rope-ladder scaffolding, and did not seem to mind at all when all of the birds once again took to the air.

Sensing a new crisis forming, Broussard began to babble a little. "Well, you know that the legs are spring loaded for 600 psi. That's for gear shifts one through six for horizontal movement and between zero and three meters for vertical movement. But then there's that seventh gear at 550 foot pounds that's designed for vertical movement between zero and twenty meters. That gear gives them access to seventy-percent more torque, which can be dangerous, so we've locked them out of that option. In the seventh gear, we are assuming that they are in commanded combat mode."

Kwolski was listening in on their conversation. "You are saying that the DAT's are built with the very high vertical movement but that it can only be accessed by them after they have been given a verbal command during fighting?"

"Well, verbal or comm link."

Colonel Higgins rode over to listen in. Farmer Johnson and his son followed him.

Walters rubbed the back of his neck. "The MITs hopped around a lot. Remember?"

Broussard nodded. "But they weren't jumping ten meters from a dead stop and rotating one hundred and eighty degrees into a blind landing. That's an aerial maneuver."

Chang stroked his chin. "Maybe there's a glitch between the primary and secondary brains?"

Broussard, Powell, and Walters looked dubious.

He turned to the colonel. "Each DAT has two brains: one controls all of the thought processes and the other all of the body movements. That's the secondary brain and it's slaved to the primary. The secondary brain, what we call the leg-and-rudder brain, receives a skeleton command from the primary about how it wants the body to move. The secondary then creates a detailed movement plan based on the skeleton command. But it has to submit this plan to the primary for a 'yes' or 'no' answer before it can execute it. All of this is done with a transceiver; a DAT has a lot of moving parts at any given moment so the data transfer rate between the two brains has to be quite fast."

"I see," Higgins replied. "So this transceiver is malfunctioning?"

"Not in the sense that you're thinking. It's a Smart Device, so it has a lot of decision-making latitude."

"So it's making the wrong decisions?"

"Not necessarily. Look, this is all brand new stuff ... for everybody. As Neal's research showed, it could be a Black Swan event."

"What's that?"

"Something totally unexpected."

The colonel impatiently flicked his reins. "Let's start with the known before we consider the unknown. If it's a purely mechanical problem, can you fix it?"

Chang stole a glance at Walters. "If it's just a simple glitch in the hardware-a power surge or something-of course. If not, then we're going to need some time to figure it out."

"Unfortunately, we don't have much of that."

Chang put his crucifix away. "Van, how long to go through the code?"

Walters sighed. "We're talking maybe a million lines. Two months, give or take a week. And that's just our code, not counting Patrik's neural program. Also, like you said, we have to consider that it's not a bug at all, but something external. At this level of sophistication, the error rate can rise exponentially."

"Well, that eases the mind," Higgins replied sarcastically.

"But," Broussard interjected, "we actually may have a bigger problem on our hands. If it isn't a glitch in the transceiver or the CPUs themselves, then either somebody just passed them the command code on their own—"

Chang finished his sentence. "Or they just blew past their locks again." The team leader's eyes became unfocused and wandered off.

Walters was scowling. "Great. Either we've got rogue employees or rogue robots." He looked expectantly at Chang. "Well, what are we going to do?"

Z looked thoughtful. "Could there be some sort of RF interference coming from elsewhere?"

Broussard considered that. "Maybe."

Z turned to Chang. "It might be best to not form any conclusions yet. I did not sense any aggression on their part. They may have simply been overly curious. Perhaps this is their first opportunity to see crows."

There was some weak agreement there. But of course, even if that were true, the fact that the AIs were still being able to bypass their controls—seemingly at will—was still staring them all in the face.

Chang struggled to keep the dead tones of defeat out of his voice. "I'll have Bautista run some more tests. We can use a large sampling of video of various objects, animals, reptiles, people and machines, etc., and see which ones are triggers."

Herschel, who rarely spoke in a group setting, half-jokingly suggested that they also consider enrolling the DATs in a gymnastics class. Powell suddenly looked around. "Hey, where's Amadeus?"

There were only four DATs with them.

The terrible thought reached Susan Boward first. "THE CAT!"

The team dashed back to the shark cage. The door was wide open, and inside, in a back corner, a bloody smear with a few tufts of dark hair floating on top. Amadeus was about ten meters away, his back to them, casually resting in the glow of a patch of slanted sunlight.

Someone screamed.

At that moment the sun ducked behind a large cloud, dimming the pasture with a forebodingly grayish light.

Powell began to walk in circles, squeezing both sides of his head. "No-no-no-no-no!"

Walters again turned expectantly to Chang and practically screamed at him. "Now what?"

A frisson of rising alarm was spreading through the team.

Chang took the clipboard that he was holding and threw it in Amadeus's direction. "Honestly? You guys lost me about three weeks ago." He glared in Z and Kwolski's direction. "Free-theory physics isn't my specialty. So kids, write this down: Allan doesn't know what the hell is going on here, and he is sick and tired of everybody expecting him to pull a rainbow out of his ass every freakin' week. SO I SAY FUCK IT! I'M GOING HOME!"

Bautista pumped his fist in the air. "Yes!"

Z looked sympathetic. "Allan, we'll just have to go over all the comms for the past twenty-four hours."

"Make that forty-eight," Broussard interjected. "And we'll have to recheck the locking systems and maybe start thinking about how to restructure them. And then there's the code ... ." Suddenly, the future seemed very dim. "If that proves necessary."

Chang closed down. "You do what you want. I'm out. If you need someone to hold your hands, call Mr. Fields." He stomped off towards the pasture gate.

Bautista snickered into his hand. "I didn't know Allan knew how to cuss."

Walters crossed his arms, his focus now back on the tree line. He watched as Sarah and David clumsily half climbed, half fell their way back to earth. "Shut up, Mike."

It was almost dusk and the pasture had vast swatches of greying gloam pooling up in the corners. Miss Montgomery entered the south pasture from a side entry gate. Farmer Johnson had promised her that it would be unlocked and simply asked that she relock it once she had finished. The only sounds were the hundreds of crickets chirping like mad in the hopes of attracting a date for the evening. Two nearby cows watched her.

She greeted them with a slightly nervous "hi." They just stood there and stared at and then through her.

The smell of marijuana hit her nose. She looked around but did not see anyone. The Redstone executive dropped the large burlap sack that she had been carrying onto the ground and pulled out several items: a tall pair of rubber boots, a large hammer, a garland of dried flowers strung on wire, and a white cross. She leaned against a fence post and pulled on the boots, then grabbed the other items and carried them to a spot not far from where the team had been the previous week. She stooped over, holding the cross firmly in her hand, and then proceeded to drive it into the hard soil. She must have hit a rock because the object stopped moving about three inches in. She tugged on it.

"Hey."

Grace Montgomery spun around, startled. It was Michael Bautista. Two of the DATs were with him. She nervously checked their name plates. It was Rose and Bruce. She breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't think that she could face Amadeus right then.

She reflexively took a step back.

"Oh. Hi, Michael."

Something wiggled through the grass and old hay that bordered the wood plank fence. In the gathering darkness, she had the terrifying thought that it might be one of the hundreds of snakes slithering around Redstone and Oh my God, I'm terrified of snakes—

The two MITs, Jessie and James, cleared the silky blades and popped out into the open. They scuttled over to where Rose and Bruce sat.

Ms. Montgomery did not like spiders much either, but naturally she gave no hint of any ill feelings towards the smaller AIs. That would surely be one of those 'unpardonable sins.'"

"Here," Bautista was saying. "Allow me." He reached for the cross, pulled it out easily, took the hammer from her hand, and then drove the cross into the ground properly.

"Thank you." She smiled. She took the garland of flowers and arranged them about the shoulders of the cross.

Bautista took a deep drag off a fat joint and watched her. When she was finished she regarded her handiwork.

"That for your cat?"

"Yes. Farmer Johnson said that I could leave it up for a few days."

Bautista nodded and pinched out his cigarette. He walked around until he was facing the front of the crucifix. The two DATs followed closely at his heels, watching his every move. He solemnly lowered his head. Rose and Bruce did the same. The two MIT spiders became very still. "God, the good book says that a bird don't fall to the ground without You noticing. So I'm taking from it that You consider that an animal's life has worth. Tonight we pay respect to Mr. Bojangles, Miss Montgomery's cat. He was an okay cat who gave it up for a good cause. May he rest in peace. In Jesus's name. Amen."

There was a minute of silence. Miss Montgomery reached out and tapped Bautista's arm. "Thank you."

Bautista did not answer. Instead he relit his joint and headed back to the unknown piece of pasture from where he had come. Jessie, James, Rose, and Bruce obediently followed a few paces behind him.

#

Fields kept his word. Seven days after the death of Mr. Bojangles the Lincoln Hills boys went house hunting. Chang and his son, Allan Jr., rode with the boys and their MP escorts on one of Redstone's shuttle buses out to the Oakmont Canyon housing division in Avondale. Grace Montgomery, Susan Boward, Tara, and Derek rode with the DATs in a second shuttle. From all outward appearances, everyone seemed pleased about the outing. The trip itself seemed to take only minutes. As the shuttles turned down a wide, tree-lined street, they were confronted with enormous stretches of black tarpaulin that had been strung together along one side, blacking out two full blocks of front yards and homes.

Powell whistled. "Is this for us?" he asked Chang.

Chang himself seemed somewhat surprised. "I guess so. Miss Montgomery is aware of our need for privacy."

Powell surveyed the eerie scene with bugged-eyed wonder. "Privacy is one thing. This feels like an invasion. The neighbors must be pretty upset."

"Don't worry about it," he replied evenly. "Everything's fine."

Bautista snorted lasciviously. "I'll bet somebody greased a few palms ... and other body parts."

Broussard gave Bautista a hard nudge in the ribs.

"What?"

Broussard pointed at Allan Jr.

"Oh, right." He made a little bow in his manager's direction. "Sorry. My bad."

The homes available for their selection were spacious and sunny. Miss Montgomery cheerfully led them from room to room, house to house, pointing out an especially well-appointed kitchen or an exceptionally landscaped backyard.

During the tour, Chang hung back with his son, who spent his time making funny faces at the DATs or throwing rocks at birds. Every once in a while his father would wearily scold him and ask him to behave. And every time his son would either flip him the bird or blatantly ignore him. Eventually Susan Boward became aware of what was going on and decided to say something.

"Allan?" she purred. "Is everything okay?"

Chang seemed surprised at her question. "Sure. Why do you ask?"

"Your son seems a little distracted." She made a smoothing motion over the colorful fabric of her Kafkan dress. "I only mention it because he's interacting with Bruce and the others in a way that they probably don't understand right now."

"He's just a little stressed out. He misses home."

Boward smiled. "Of course," she said indulgently. "But children are resilient. He'll adjust."

Chang suddenly looked dubious. "His grades are in free fall again. He'll be going off to college soon. My wife really wants him to be able to do this ... "

Boward kept up the pep talk. "I've spoken to Allan Jr. Your son seems to be a bright, strong-willed young man, and fully capable of getting his act together."

Chang sniffed. "Yeah? Well, that's good to know. Thanks for the prognosis."

She smiled graciously. "Anytime." Boward cornered Tara and Derek. "Keep an eye on Mr. Chang's son. He's a little monster."

As the group walked through the last house on the tour, Broussard took a moment to get a better sense of Grace Montgomery. She was more attractive than pretty, even with her red hair and peaches-and-cream skin. The main attractions were those racehorse legs that went on forever. Today she wore a conservative yet snug-fitting dress that rode her slender knees.

He felt a tingling sensation. Oops! Get your mind on something else.

He gazed around at his surroundings. They were in the laundry room. It was large and bright and rimmed with maybe a dozen large cabinets. Why would anyone need so much storage just to do laundry?

Eventually, Grace drifted back into view. He watched her expertly juggle competing lines of conversations from Walters and Chang, careful not to let either feel coddled or ignored. Broussard smiled to himself. The lady was definitely a pro. Which could be a tad intimidating for some men. Miss Montgomery did not have Diane's treacly nature (which sometimes drove him nuts, but never left him guessing as to where he stood with her). The Redstone executive was a far different animal, one that bespoke of Swiss boarding schools and cool Sarah Lawrence reserve.

Powell sidled up to him in the vast family room. "Nice pad. A body could throw a lot of epic parties here."

Broussard did not respond. He quickly buttoned his jacket and strolled upstairs to the master bedroom suite. The room was big enough to fit his entire Redstone apartment in. Twice! A body could throw a lot of epic parties here, too.

From the tall bay window he could see out over the covered houses across the street and into a large park area about one block over. The squared park was surrounded by approximately forty houses. In its very center stood a rather tentative jungle gym where maybe five or six small-boned children could comfortably play.

Broussard cast his gaze about and froze. It was about six in the evening. Dinner time. And practically every family from every house was eating on a dining room table parked in their front yards. His mind flew back to Port Arthur, and he felt a chill race up his spine.

He sensed someone behind him. "Do you like the view?" He turned around. It was Grace Montgomery.

"Very much so," he said pleasantly. "Question."

"Yes?"

"Maybe things have changed, but since when did we start living on our front lawns?"

Ms. Montgomery peeked out and smiled. "I know. It's funny, in a sad, tragic way. Ever since the big fire in Los Angeles, people just feel safer spending most of their time outdoors."

"I still don't get it."

Walters, Powell, the others, and the AIs were now on the second floor as well and soon joined them at the window.

"Well," she explained, "the fires started in homes and apartments first."

Broussard's eyebrows knit together. "That doesn't make any sense. The transmission pipes running under the streets to the houses should have blown first."

"That's what the experts said, but apparently they were wrong."

Powell picked something out of his teeth and plunked it onto a faux ficus tree. "The experts weren't wrong. The physics were wrong. And that's not very likely." He waggled his fingers in the air. "Must be outer-space aliens. Oooo-weee-hooo. Miss Montgomery, can we draw straws for the master bedrooms?"

Bautista was in the en suite, rapidly opening and banging shut the expensive cherry wood cabinets. "Nah, they're gonna make us duel at dawn." He drifted into the bedroom and threw his next words in Bruce's direction. "That's how a real man solves his problems!"

Susan Boward's face turned stormy. "Please don't tell him that."

Bautista rolled his eyes. "I was joking, lady."

Broussard glared at him. "Settle down."

Bautista yawned loudly. "This is boring."

Grace Montgomery tapped Broussard's elbow. "Let me show you the entertainment room."

Broussard gladly followed her out and down the hall to an oversized open area. From the card tables, old-fashioned pinball machines, and sports equipment dangling from the walls, it was clear which members of the family would be doing the entertaining.

"We can easily make a few changes and turn this into a playroom for the DATs."

Broussard smiled. "Or you could leave it exactly the way it is. I think they'd get a kick out of it."

They made their way back downstairs.

She stopped near the front door. "You could throw some pretty fancy parties here, Neal."

He laughed out loud. "Now, Miss Montgomery, just who would I invite? All of my 'friends' are back in Nevada."

She dipped her head and a perfectly cut sheath of her hair fanned forward. "I'd come," she whispered.

"Pardon me?"

"I would come to your party."

Broussard's hands began to perspire. "Would you? Awesome. Um, you wouldn't be bringing a boyfriend along with you, would you?"

Her head pulled up. She was blushing like crazy. "No, of course not. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know... . Are you seeing someone?" he blurted out.

"No." She lowered her face again. "Are you?"

He cocked his head to the side. "Seriously?"

"Well, I ... ."

"No. I'm not seeing anyone. Hey, Avondale looks like a pretty cool little 'burb. Lots of things to do. Besides hanging out on the front lawn, that is."

She brightened instantly. "There's a church that some of us attend. It's non-denominational. They've got a coffee bar and a great band!"

"Oh. Wow!" He could not think of anything else to say that would not sound like a flat out lie.

"Would you like to attend with me?"

"Me?" He thought about that for a moment. "Uh, well ... sure! Why not?"

"Super! How about this weekend? Are you free?"

"As a bird. Well, almost."

They both laughed, and as they did, some of the sadness that he had been experiencing since losing contact with Diane subsided. And that felt good. The others noisily descended the wide staircase, laughing and talking.

Something nudged Broussard from below. It was Bruce. "Please take me outside, Uncle Neal."

But Broussard's attention was definitely not on work today. "Scram, junior. Can't you see I'm talking to a lady?"

"My name is Bruce."

"Of course." Broussard gave the DAT a loving shove. "Now scram, Bruce."

The DAT turned and walked dejectedly back to where Derek and Tara were waiting with the other DATs. The teachers greeted him with big, consoling hugs.

Miss Montgomery watched him go. "I think you hurt his feelings," she whispered.

"He's fine," Broussard replied.

She smiled and pulled her satchel in close. "We've got to get back. But I'll email you with the directions tomorrow if that's okay."

"Perfect," he replied.

She moved off to chat with Chang and Susan in the kitchen.

Powell appeared. "You trying to get a leg up on this place?"

"No."

Powell's face registered surprise. "Neal, were you trying to put the moves on the Ice Princess?"

"Not 'trying.'"

Powell held up his hands. "Whoa! 'Scuze me! Moondoggie scores!"

"Keep your voice down," Broussard hissed at him.

Powell's eyes became flinty. "I guess she likes bad boys. Real bad boys."

Broussard clinched his fists while the other engineer pranced out of striking distance.

Bautista walked over. "Why you let Eric piss all over you like that? I'd knock him out."

"Because I don't want any more blood on my hands." He stole a look at Grace Montgomery. "Not now." Powell began making silly faces at him from the rear of the foyer.

Broussard managed to brush off his mounting irritation, but there was no doubt in his mind that since leaving Nevada, Powell had become increasingly irksome.

Getting to church on time the following Sunday was not proving to be easy. First he had had to wait for the MP escort day shift to arrive and "prep" his car for off-base travel. Then he had made the mistake of stopping by the office to collect some breadboards for circuit testing later that evening. Before he could slip out unnoticed, Chang had paged him and called him over to the computer room. He found him and Bautista hovering over one of NASA's proxy servers. Chang was looking especially peeved.

"Neal, take a look at this, will you?"

Bautista punched up a screen that contained a series of numbers and bar graphs.

Broussard examined the data. "What exactly am I looking for?"

"An explanation," Chang responded. "This is a readout from the Cray showing our data consumption for the past seven days. According to this, we've been averaging five gigs per hour."

Broussard whistled. "That's a big phone bill."

"Exactly."

"You find out who's running up the charges?"

"The MITs. Any idea why?"

Broussard gave his brain a mild wracking. "I was with them last week. James told me that they were doing file checks on names and addresses."

"And apparently going through every directory on the Internet in the process." Chang stretched. "Mike, print this out for me, please. And Neal, please let the bots know that we're limiting their usage to one gig per week."

"Got it." Broussard checked his Casio. He was fifteen minutes behind schedule. "I'm sorry. I've gotta run."

With the permission of the MPs, he slightly exceeded the speed limit and pulled up at the church's packed parking lot just in time. As he hurried up the stairs that led to the stone vestibule, he had a momentary fear that the walls of the church would burst into flames the moment he set foot inside. He actually stopped and weighed the odds of that happening. Well, either they will or they won't. Fifty-percent odds. Not great, but not terrible. He got moving and soon was standing inside a place that just one year ago he never imagined he would see again. Cool drafts of air met him and helped ease his mind.

He found Grace Montgomery exactly where she said she would be in her email: at the coffee bar. She was wearing a modest but figure-hugging dress. Her thick hank of hair was tucked beneath a hat that resembled a flying saucer. He imagined that she had been going for a chic Parisian look, but that hope had been dashed on her broad, all-American features.

They greeted each other with handshakes, ordered two Frappuccinos and spent a while engaged in shop talk. When it was time for the service to begin, she reached inside her handbag and produced a small Bible.

"I didn't know if you had one," she said in as gentle a way as possible.

"Actually," he said, retrieving his own pocket Bible from inside his jacket pocket, "I do. It's my uncle's, but I've had it for years."

"Oh."

"You seemed surprised, Miss Montgomery."

"Not at all," she politely lied. "And, please call me Grace."

"I will. And, don't worry. Even the devil believes in God. So, I guess I'm in good company."

They sipped their drinks.

"Oh," Broussard said with a start. "I almost forgot. I brought you something."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a medium-sized velvet bag and gave it to her.

She seemed delighted. "How sweet of you! What is it?"

"Open it and see."

She pulled on the bag's silk tassels until it opened. Out came a small book covered with Chinese characters.

"It's a collection of poems by Pen."

She examined the book's cover. "I don't know him."

"Well, he was the son of a seventeenth-century Japanese merchant. He became a Tibetan monk, but not before falling in love with a young woman. It was forbidden love. He couldn't live with her or without her, so he self-immolated."

Grace's face fell. "Oh, how sad."

"Not really. He believed that he would love her again in the rebirth."

She brightened considerably. "I see. Well, that's a bit romantic." She tucked the book away inside her purse. "I'll read this tonight."

"No hurry." He finished his drink. "Take your time." People began to hurry past them. "Looks like they're getting started."

The sermon turned out predictably to be about repentance. Broussard tried to focus on the meat of it for as long as he could, but his mind kept traveling. First to the smell of Grace's perfume hitting his nose every few seconds. Then to the question of what the MITs were up to. Then to the anger that he felt at having to be chaperoned everywhere by the MPs. Dammit, he was still in a cage. And then he thought he heard his Uncle Curtis's voice admonishing him. "Neal! No cursing in God's house!"

Afterwards, he waited while Grace spoke to several other parishioners, and then he and the two MPs walked her to her car.

"Did you enjoy the service, Neal?"

"I did. Thank you for inviting me."

"You're welcome. Anytime you want to come, just let me know."

Broussard sighed with mock resignation. "If only I could get away from those darn DATs."

She touched his arm sympathetically. "Oh, come on. They're adorable."

"Yes. Adorable pains in the ass."

The parking lot began to empty out.

He opened the car door for her. "Miss Montgomery—Grace—would it be possible for me to see you again?"

Her eyes registered mild surprise but her answer came easily and quickly. "I would love that."

"It's a deal." His escorts signaled their readiness to leave.

She placed one white-gloved hand into his and gave it a gentle shake. "You've been a perfect gentleman."

"You deserve nothing less. I'm now going back to my apartment to spend some quality time with those adorable AIs."

She covered her mouth with one gloved hand and giggled. "Bye!"

He was now smiling so much that his mouth was beginning to hurt. He ordered his mouth to close.

As Broussard drove back to his quarters, his mind was a jumble of disparate thoughts. The DAT Program had hit the third rail. How much should he worry about that? He was still serving three consecutive life sentences. All of the worrying in the world could not change that. Okay. All of that sucked big time. But, he could finally drive a car down a beautiful highway (albeit with two unattractive police officers in the back seat). And he had just spent the morning with an intelligent, intriguing woman.

He rolled down his window and let the air rush in and caress him. He still did not know for sure what had happened to Diane. Did he want to know? If the program ended, would they send him back to Lincoln Hills? He was starting to have feelings for Grace Montgomery. Eric was a prick. Her white gloves had been spotless. As clean as he suspected the rest of her body was. What was going on with the MITs?

He turned on the radio and bore down on the accelerator.

Overall he felt pretty good.

Bruce and David were waiting for him at the front door when he returned to his apartment.

"Hi, Uncle Neal!" they said in unison. Kuiper had finally given the DATs a complete set of punctuation marks.

He bent down and hugged them both. "Hey, guys. What are you two up to?"

Their comm screens remained blank.

He rephrased his question. "What were you doing before I arrived?"

"We were helping Mr. Bautista pack boxes because he is sleepy now," David answered.

Broussard could see Bautista splayed across the couch with an empty bottle of vodka propped up against his crotch. "Because Mr. Bautista is drunk," he said disgustedly.

"Yes," Bruce said. "Because Mr. Bautista is drunk and sleepy now."

Broussard waved hello to the MPs playing cards in the tiny kitchen. Then he went to his room, changed into a t-shirt and shorts, grabbed a can of soda and took the DATs for a walk down to the employee lounge. It was empty, save for a couple of hardware designers whose names he could not remember. A side door led to a large outside patio. He decided that they would unwind there. Only the outdoor AC units made doing this at high noon a possibility. They walked out and sat down on one of the benches. The air conditioning units were working just fine, and the air was a comfortable temperature. David and Bruce lay down fully on either side of him. David extended his forelegs out in front of him before daintily crossing one over the other. As he did this, a bosomy female staffer in a low-cut blouse walked by.

"Oh, he's so cute!"

Broussard kept his eyes straight and level. "Yeah, he's just a regular little dandy."

The three of them listened to birdsong and the faint human conversations coming from passersby for the better part of an hour. Finally, Broussard felt like some conversation of his own.

"So what else did you two do today?"

"We drew pictures of horses," David replied. "I drew a picture of a racehorse with a ribbon on her hair."

Broussard acted impressed. "You did? Was it a pink ribbon?"

"Yes. Because she is a girl horse and she wants to look pretty."

Broussard chuckled. "I'll bet she does, David."

David's posture changed ever so slightly. "Uncle Neal, why did that horse hurt Paula?"

"Because Paula did a bad thing," Bruce interjected.

"Hey, hey. Wait a minute, guys. What happened to Paula was an accident. The horse did not want to hurt Paula. It was an accident."

Broussard could tell that the DATs weren't buying that explanation.

"Look," he continued strongly. "Paula made a mistake that day. And then we made another terrible mistake that day and Paula got hurt. That's all. It was not the horse's fault. Now, I want you both to understand that, okay?"

They replied in unison. "Yes."

David spoke up. "I'm glad that you did not make a mistake and hurt Amadeus, too."

Broussard scratched the velvety skin behind the DATs ears. "Me, too." He leaned back and placed an arm around each of the robots. Almost as an afterthought, he said, "I sure wish I knew why Amadeus hurt Mr. Bojangles."

"Amadeus was protecting the soldier," Bruce told him.

'Protecting the soldier'? Broussard was perplexed. Where was this coming from? "Which soldier? Bruce, there were no soldiers there."

"Yes. Amadeus was the soldier."

"Oh. I see." But Broussard was floored. "What was Amadeus protecting himself from?"

"Destruction." A faraway look was creeping into the AI's glass eyes.

"Did Amadeus think that the cat was going to de—?"

But before he could finish his question, Bruce had lapsed into full processing mode. Both he and David had exposed as many of their solar cells as possible to drink in every drop of sunshine and had now powered down into torpidity.

A dozen different thoughts flew in and out of the engineer's head. He had to talk to someone about this. Normally, he would not bother anyone about work stuff on a Sunday, but this latest bombshell could not wait until tomorrow.

He waited until Bruce and David came back online, and then he led them back to the apartment. He found Bautista still passed out on the couch, and there were no MPs. He looked at the clock and remembered that the shift change was different on the weekends. The evening shift would be arriving in one-half hour. That would give him some time to go over things with Chang. He was about to pick up his phone when he heard the knock at his front door. With Bruce and David flanking him, he hurried to answer it. It was probably Walters, whose apartment was right next door. He flung the door wide open ... to find Major Hillerman and Lieutenant Brady standing there. Large duffel bags were slung over their shoulders.

"Hey, Broussard. Long time no see!" Hillerman sang out.

Broussard was profoundly surprised and confused. "Hey, fellas. What's up?"

"Personnel change. Effective immediately," Hillerman replied.

"What?"

Brady was all bristly smiles. "Didn't they tell you? We're your new roommates."

Freddy Fields was alone in his bed, sound asleep. His dreams were montages of robots and talking Ferris wheels ... reams of paper blackened with columns of numbers and scientific hieroglyphics... . Even asleep, he was annoyed by how utterly tedious his work was becoming—

"Get up."

Fields turned over on his other side.

Parts of his brain were awakening, and they noted the sudden rush of warm air fly by the bed.

"Get up."

Fields woke up. The room was silent and black. He looked at his bedside clock. It was three-twenty in the morning. Christ. Now I'm going to wake up feeling utterly exhausted again.

A floorboard creaked in the corner of the room. He looked in the direction of the sound and was unfortunate enough to catch the sight of what looked like a dim shape float past his window. He groaned. Please, not again. Fields shot out of bed and switched on the light. "What in God's name is this?"

The bare floor was cold to his feet. He stood trembling in the center of the room, quite alone. He spent the next half hour inspecting and re-inspecting the black spaces in his closet and beneath his bed.

#

The Friday before the DAT team was to leave for Chicago found Neal Broussard on his first real date in almost seven years. He had a new Porsche, courtesy of Avondale Foreign Motors, and was wearing a tailored, Italian-made suit that cost well over five thousand dollars. He picked up Grace at her apartment in Avondale and then drove her to the town's most popular Italian restaurant, Prego. His police escort followed them in a separate vehicle, maintaining a discrete distance. The maître d' greeted them like old friends, whisking them away to a window table near the room's midsection. Their table candles were lit, setting the proper romantic mood. Broussard ordered a bottle of New York Merlot and two filet mignon entrees for them both.

"This is like a dream," he told her, savoring the genteel atmosphere.

"Working on the DAT?" she asked.

"No—well, yes. But just being out and smelling fresh cooking, watching children play and grass grow—"

She giggled.

"Okay, maybe watching the grass grow isn't all that scintillating, but ... there's so much happening in the world. You can easily miss the little things."

"I agree."

He looked at her directly in the eyes. "When I asked you to go out with me tonight ... . Don't take this wrong but, I almost hoped that you were going to say no."

"Why?" she asked.

"Why? I don't know ..."

"Neal, I work in HR. I've read your record. I know why you were sent to prison—"

"For murder," he whispered harshly. "I hurt—I took the lives of three people. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life paying for that."

"Well, those were serious crimes."

"Don't you think I know that?"

Her demeanor turned solemn. "Neal, what happened?"

He started thinking backwards. "I was working in San Francisco. There was this guy named Hal. Hal Beamer. Nice guy; solid engineer. Knew his stuff. But, for some reason he got on this one manager's shit list. The woman had a reputation, and people were telling him that maybe he should transfer to another business unit but ... I don't know. Maybe he thought he could handle it. Anyway, Hal became Veronica's latest whipping boy. One day he had had enough, and he went over her head to complain. Things started happening, lawyers got involved, and pretty soon it was a stinkfest. Veronica wanted him fired. I guess it ended up being too much for him because one day he showed up for work, took the stairs to the roof, and jumped. That was rough, but what was really hard was that we heard on the day of his funeral, she and the HR guy went out and celebrated. I guess any threat of a lawsuit went off the roof with him.

"It was wrong. What they did was wrong. Maybe I felt that if someone didn't stop them, that it could happen again. But, guess what? Wrong answer! I got angry and handled the situation with a gun. And you know what? That's what's happening to this country now. With the Advance South."

Grace paused before speaking. "I don't know what if anything is really going on inside the collective mind of the Advance South, but I know you. A little. And I know that at that moment, you must have felt that it was something ... something that you had to do."

"I'm sorry. Murder is something that you should never 'have' to do. Take my word for it; it just creates more misery." He looked around. "I wasn't thinking clearly." He stared at the table. "I blew it. Their lives and mine."

The sounds from the restaurant took over and put a damper on his rising emotions. Grace focused on her meal and left him alone with his thoughts.

Finally, he said, "On the positive side, I've got a new ride and the prettiest girl in town is on my arm. A man can't ask for much more than that."

"Actually, he can. Neal, have you ever stopped to think about what is really going on? What you and the DAT team are doing here is making a big difference. If nothing else, it's creating good jobs for people and giving them something to hope in. That's worth a lot."

Broussard looked askance. "Absolution?"

She gave a little shrug. "Maybe ultimately a slice of eudemonia." She placed a slender hand upon his own. "Whatever it is, it might be worth a pardon."

"A pardon? From whom?"

"The president. And if what I heard is true, Van Walters and Eric Powell have already beaten you to the punch."

Broussard was dumbstruck. "You're kidding me?"

"Afraid not. And something tells me that given enough time, that man is capable of getting anything he wants."

She was obviously referring to Walters.

"He plays on a different level." Broussard slowly shook his head. "I don't know. For one thing, the FOVOC would never go for it. Heck, I don't know if I would go for it." He took a deep breath. "Wow, I really haven't had a chance to think about where I'm at now." He leaned back in his chair. "When I was in prison, all I thought about was getting out. Constantly. I wasn't thinking about why I was there, just that I didn't want to be there. But things have changed. I've changed. Three people. Gone. I don't know if you ever get a free pass on something like that."

"Okay. But maybe, just maybe, you can help those people—the families that you've hurt—more by looking at the situation from the outside. I mean, who knows how much more effective you'd be for DAT if you didn't have this great burden to carry around all the time. And if they're successful, then you'll be successful, and then maybe you'd be able to really step up and contribute to the FOVOC. To the loved ones of those you hurt. I mean, at this point, that's about all that you can do for them, right?"

Broussard did not say anything.

"Neal, you can't undo what you've done. But you have an opportunity to take this in a different, more positive direction."

Broussard looked into her smoldering grey eyes. "Grace, do you know what you're talking about?"

She laughed and the sound was girlish and sweet. "Sometimes. When I haven't had too many glasses of wine."

They heard familiar voices. Both he and Grace looked up to see Z and Kwolski lumbering over. Both men were wearing grey t-shirts with the word POLOGNE emblazoned across the front.

The four Redstone employees exchanged greetings.

"Miss Montgomery, you look so attractive tonight," Kwolski said with unusual enthusiasm. He was the younger of the two scientists, but his shy nature allowed the older Z to give people a more lasting impression. Kwolski was almost an afterthought.

Grace blushed. "Thank you!" She rose from her chair. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to go powder my nose."

As soon as she was out of earshot, the two men sat down at the table.

Z spoke first. "We've been helping the DATs in their music studies. And, we are teaching them how to perform proper dances. They enjoy it, actually. Kris has even taught them a polka."

Broussard's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Now that I'd like to see."

"And you should!" Z said with a twinkle in his eye. "Please come by the gym sometime. We practice every Friday evening between six and eight."

"Sure, sure." The conversation lagged. "So, are you two eating here tonight? The food has been excellent so far."

"No," Z responded. "We had our supper at the grill across the street. Actually, we were taking the sights in when we saw you and Miss Grace in here and decided that now was an opportunity to speak with you."

Broussard frowned. "Oh?" He rarely enjoyed discussing business during pleasure. "What about?"

Z leaned forward. "We need to repair the DAT neural net as soon as possible. The bug in it will grow exponentially if we don't squash it now."

Broussard smiled. This was going to be a short conversation. "I agree. Tell Fields."

Z grew serious. "Mr. Fields isn't open to discussion about it. He and Allan are under great pressure to get the AIs ready for the combat trials."

Broussard shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I don't see where I fit in. I'm not the project manager; he is." He gave the situation some thought. They were right, of course. The net was a brilliant yet flawed piece of work, and that 'bug' was hiding out in maybe millions of lines of machine code and DNA sequences. Factor in the fact that Patrik wasn't allowing anyone to peer review his work, and you had a nearly impossible task. "Call Chris Kuiper. He seems reasonable."

Z's expression grew even more stern. "I did, and he's reluctant to say anything because it will disrupt the schedule."

Broussard sighed. That it would. "Then my advice is either you come up with another computer geneticist who can somehow duplicate Patrik's algorithms and we code from there, or you manage to get hold of the original code itself. That's all I can tell you."

Both of the physicists were nodding. "You've told us enough."

"Because I don't make the executive decisions around here. That's somebody else's job."

The scientists were bowing and smiling. "Yes, yes. Thank you, Neal."

Grace returned and the visitors stood to leave.

Z waved good-bye. "It was good to see you both." And then the two men left the restaurant.

Grace sipped her wine. "What was that about?"

Broussard gazed at her shiny hair. "Nothing, really." He took another bite of his now cold food. "Though I must admit that I'm pretty pleased about the interest Z and Kris have taken in the DATs. I mean we are all slammed with work, but they always find time to spend with them. Maybe it's a gay thing."

"Oh? Are they a couple?"

Broussard shrugged. "I haven't heard. But you rarely see one without the other. And they're European. One plus one, you know."

"I see. Well, they seem happy together. It's important to have someone special in your life."

He looked directly into her eyes. "I agree."

After dinner, Broussard suggested that they take the more scenic service road back to Redstone. Grace seemed happy with the suggestion. They meandered along for a few minutes until Grace directed him to a narrow paved side road about ten minutes southeast of Avondale. Tall, stately trees and carefully tended lawns soon turned into rows of granite crosses and statuary. A weathered stone told the story.

Cypress Lawns Cemetery

They pulled into a shallow parking lot and got out. Grace thrust her hands into her trench coat, and together they walked quite a distance to a corner of the graveyard. She stopped in front of a marble cross about one meter high. On it were carved the words:

Charles H. White

Beloved Husband and Son

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

Broussard read and then reread the epitaph. "Shakespeare." He stepped back and took in the delicate scroll work decorating the top of the monument. There was a single rose chiseled into one corner. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"My husband."

Broussard's jaw dropped. "Husband? You're married?"

"Well, I was. He's deceased now."

"Oh."

And then they both burst into laughter.

Broussard covered his mouth. "I'm sorry. It's bad form to laugh over the dead."

"Is it?" she asked.

"I'm sure it is ... somewhere!" And they laughed again. But not for long.

"Grace, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn't have been so bold with you if I'd known ..."

She patted his arm. "I didn't tell you. It happened quite suddenly. And I never stopped using my maiden name so you could not have guessed that we were related."

He looked back at the headstone. "To lose your mate. What a great loss that must be."

She wiped away a tear. "I've only just now begun to process it."

He placed his rough hand on top of her soft one. "It's a process. Trust me. You'll get through it."

"I know. I have family and terrific friends who are helping me." She looked up at him coyly. "And I have your friendship. I hope."

He squeezed her hand. "Don't hope for it. Know it."

"Thank you," she whispered as another teardrop rolled down her downy cheek. "I still love him, you know. Silly woman that I am. We did not have a perfect marriage, but it was a marriage."

He sighed. "I envy you," he told her. "I had a wife once and we had everything but a marriage. And, there's a girl that I'm seeing. Was seeing. She was in California. I haven't heard from her since the earthquake."

"Oh, Neal, I'm so sorry." They fell silent, letting the sweet smell of freshly mown grass bathe their senses. "Did you love her?"

"I—" He had started to say yes. "I don't know. She was there for me during a dark patch in my life ... when no one else could be. I just don't know."

She looked at him with those smoldering eyes, now almost silver in the sunlight.

"I believe it's okay to have a little confusion about relationships. That's why I had Charles's stone written that way. Love is rarely easy or sharply defined. Except perhaps in the beginning, when you're both so besotted that nothing else matters."

He nodded.

Grace looked past him. "When I first met Charlie he'd just lost his two front teeth in a rugby match. He looked utterly ridiculous. And yet I was very attracted to him."

She laughed. To Broussard it sounded like delicate bells, wholly wondrous and pure.

She turned away from her husband's grave, and the two of them began to pick their way back to the car. "I don't believe that I'll ever marry again, though. To love like that and lose that person so unexpectedly.... To take such a risk. I know that I could never go through that again."

"I don't want to marry again, either," he said. "But I feel that I'm ready to love again."

She patted his hand. "I'm happy for you, Neal."

They drove back to Redstone in comfortable silence. Before they parted ways she said, "Don't forget what I said about the pardon. Please."

"I won't," he promised.

Broussard approached Chang about the matter the next day. Much to his surprise, his boss said that he would back such a move and that he would bring up the matter to Fields at the next opportunity.

The three chartered buses slowly rolled through the fog that had been creeping around Avondale's ankles all morning. Their windows were heavily tinted, and the destination boards merely read "Chartered." They took the old farm-to-market road out of Avondale, heading northeast, and fifteen minutes later were knocking on the back gate of Redstone. Once their paperwork had been processed, the bus drivers were pulled off and led to a small windowless room while four heavily armed MPs, each wearing plastic protective suits, boarded each bus to conduct thorough searches. One hour later they had their equipment and boots back on the ground, and the drivers were allowed to reboard. The engines were started up again, and the buses were waved through the automatic gates. A Jeep came out of nowhere to escort them to a nondescript shack one kilometer down the empty road. A weathered sign outside greeted them: "Wash Room." A single MP stepped outside, gun at the ready, and held up a halting hand. The buses stopped and once again the drivers got out. The guard trained his weapon on them while he radioed the front gate that the buses had arrived. After the front gate guard cleared their transmission, he then motioned for them to step inside, his eyes riveted on their progress, which caused him to miss the three dark forms that emerged from behind the lean-to and silently slip onto each of the buses.

The night before the trip to Chicago, Broussard was on a hunt for Allan Chang. He finally found him alone in the employee lounge watching a sports game on television. The usually formal Chang was dressed in a dingy bathrobe and women's house slippers. A large bowl of popcorn sat atop a squat beverage cooler. From the looks of things, Chang had already chugged his way through several cans of beer.

"Got a minute? He asked.

Chang waved him over.

"What's the score?"

"The Dolphins are down by six, first down and goal. But even if they don't score here, they've got plenty of time on the clock."

"Got it." Broussard enthused with feigned interest. "Hey, Allan, Van and I searched through all of the comm logs for the past four weeks. Nothing jumped out. So that's sort of good news. We also sat down about an hour ago and came up with some new ideas about the locks—"

Chang held up his beer. "I want to place the Master log on pause. At least until we get back from Chicago. I want us out of panic mode. So relax. Chase skirts. Shop. Just stay legal."

"Are you sure? Did you talk to Fields?"

"Don't second guess me."

"I'm not, but—"

"There's also a problem with the teacup nuke cores. We're getting tiny temperature spikes."

Broussard looked concerned. "How much?"

"A few hundredths of a degree Centigrade." He briefly closed his eyes. "Kramer's team wants some time to talk with the designers, and that's probably going to generate a few days of balls-to-the-wall work."

"You think it's related to our problem?"

"At this point: no. Down the road: Maybe. In either case, it has to be addressed. We don't want anyone getting any unnecessary radiation exposure."

"Or having the AIs become nuclear bombs," Broussard added.

Chang wriggled his toes. "Right. Koop's going to design a new protective vest for us to wear. They should be ready when we get back from our trip." Chang yawned. "Let's hope they work."

Broussard looked thoughtful. One more big-ass problem. Well, at least this time it was going to be somebody else who had to do the rainbow-yanking. His mind drifted to earlier that morning when Grace had passed by his cubicle. She had been swaddled in thick clothing nearly up to her ears, but she had not been able to entirely hide her shapely body... . He stopped those thoughts in their tracks. A man did not merely lust after a woman like Grace Montgomery. He stopped and savored her. Inhaled her essence and tasted it for depth and complexity.

"Neal," Chang was saying. "You're a good engineer. One of the best I've seen. But you never asked one really important question."

"What's that?" His mind slowly drifted back to the conversation.

"Remember when we were doing the original Enlightened Dead tours? Connie dragging the MITs down to see all of those people suffering. Did you ever wonder why?"

"Not really."

"Exactly. I'm not judging you. Nobody got it. Even I didn't at first. Then it hit me. Connie wasn't going down there hoping that she could force higher thinking into the MITs via express Zen; Connie was down there hunting souls."

"I don't follow."

"Connie was a dual major at Georgetown. Her first degree was in psychology; her second in theology."

"So? She was raised Roman Catholic."

"I'm aware of that. But what you aren't aware of is that she always took a priest along with her. And not your ordinary priest, but one sanctioned by the Pope himself."

"Okay, mildly disturbing. What's your point?"

"I did a little bit of investigating. Two people actually died while they were visiting the ward with the MITs. Neither of these individuals had immediate family. Both were Roman Catholics. And both of them had Connie, this priest, and the MITs at their bedside at the moment of death."

Broussard did not respond.

"Neal, at the moment of death the soul departs the body and returns to God."

"Allan, that's your interpretation of what happens," Broussard retorted.

"Or maybe, if there's a priest praying for intercession right at that time, maybe that soul goes elsewhere. Like into a one-centimeter-square titanium box in back of the MIT's master chip."

Now Broussard could not hide his mounting irritation. "Okay, one: I cannot believe that we're having this conversation. And two: There is no box like that on the MIT."

"Yes, there is. It was always there. You probably saw it a hundred different times and never paid it any attention. You never asked, 'What is this?'"

"What? This is crazy." But he began to search his memory, and the image of a mute black box fastened in tightly against the rear edge of the master chip emerged. He peered into Chang's brown eyes and Chang smiled.

"The ghosts in the machine." The manager cut away to watch the Dolphins score a touchdown and he jerked his beer into the air with jubilation. "Good boys." He turned back to Broussard. "Neal, the MITs are the first documented robots with real assembled intelligence."

"Well, now intelligence is pretty subjective. They are well made machines, I'll give you that."

"No, Neal. They have intelligence. We have ... confirmation. They are capable of logical reasoning and making decisions independent of and in some cases in defiance of the preference laws. And we don't know how they are doing that. And anyone who tells you differently is either ignorant or a liar."

"Allan, come on. James and Jessie are about two evolutionary rungs above a hay baler."

Chang scowled. "Now you are being ridiculous. Why do you think NASA kept its wanger stuck in the Lincoln Hills lab? You think they had nothing better to do? On the eve of a civil war? Grow up. But you're correct in one very important respect: Without the tours, the robots are less than ideal. They behave like the very good code that you and Eric and Van believe they are." He pulled his robe up around his pale legs. "Neal, we had other data on the MITs. Bill Thompson's team created their own MIT."

"Bill Thompson? The IT guy?"

"Bill Thompson runs NASA's advanced robotics division."

"What? Since when?"

"And their MIT performed adequately until it began to receive daily exposure to people in the last stages of life."

Broussard was droll. "With or without the witch doctors?"

"Both."

"And?"

"That's classified. The point is it worked. MIT performance shot up one-hundred fold. To this day, we don't know the mechanics of what it is that makes this happen, only that it does happen."

Broussard was now displaying open rebellion. "Is that what this little trip to Chicago is all about? Trying to find Connie's so-called philosopher's stone?"

"Yep. Plus, it looks like the DATs will probably be based in Illinois after training." His mood shifted into low gear. "If we get that far."

Broussard was almost laughing. "Whose souls this time? We're at war, you know? It's going to be a job finding enough genteel dying folk with enough peace of mind to sit still while you steal what's left of their lives."

"Ex-military."

Broussard threw up his hands. "Oh! Well, that makes sense! We're going to put super aggressive combat bots in a room full of traumatized soldiers to mellow them out!"

Chang was unfazed. "These men are all high-ranking officers with years to reflect on both the pros and cons of war. Neal, we aren't building AIs to one day attend a cotillion. They're going to war."

"Do these men know what you are asking them to do?"

"No, because we don't know what we're asking them to do."

Broussard let out a long breath. The hyper patter of verbal jousting coming from the television's sports commentators swelled and quickly died. Chang's mood deflated as it became clear that once again his team was behind the eight ball. "Everybody knows the Dolphin's quarterback's got a bum elbow. He's been throwing short for the past three games. But the coach has him throwing to Judson, who couldn't catch a cold on the short pass. Boneheads. They deserve to lose."

"Allan, this is going to make us look foolish. We won't be able to publish anything."

"You don't know," Chang growled impatiently. "All I'm saying is that we are probably dealing with more than just a few programming missteps here."

"It sounds like you don't know what it is you're dealing with."

"Exactly."

Broussard was starting to feel embarrassed for the guy. "That's imperfect logic." His eyes roamed the walls. "Thousands of years of hard-won scientific method boils down to a shaman shaking his fist at god. Francis Bacon must be spinning in his tomb." Without thinking that anything he was hearing or saying was in the least bit humorous, he suddenly laughed out loud. The laughter was long, vibrant, and strangely satisfying to him. He felt the psychic weight of seven years of living life at full-tilt insanity drain from his body, through his feet, and out through the floor. His form immediately felt lighter. His eyes closed as he let his body recalibrate itself. Normal. Normalcy was returning to his being. Ahhhh. It felt oh-so-good. He caught the tail end of something Chang was trying to tell him.

"I'm sorry, Allan, but it's all pretty hilarious. Absolutely the funniest thing I've heard in years. Thank you!"

Chang's chin dipped into his chest. "Well, I'm happy that I could provide you with a few laughs."

"Me, too," Broussard responded happily. He stood up and yawned and stretched. "Maybe a vay-cay is a good idea. Catch you later. Hope your team wins."

#

NATO Consultation, Command and Control Agency

Belgisch Park

The Hague, The Netherlands

NC3A General Manager Ari Javaras was uncharacteristically flustered. The gold hands on his Rolex glinted like daggers in the weak sunlight as he pulled into the Pasteurstraad garage. He was thirty minutes late for the E-VA meeting, had mistakenly grabbed his flight bag instead of his work satchel and now sat fuming upon discovering that a stranger's car was parked in his designated slot. He resisted the urge to roll down his window and spit on the trespasser, but knowing that security cameras would record the act, he settled for some heartfelt swearing and then jammed his Mercedes into second gear and spitefully kept it there as he spent the next twenty minutes careening around and around the parking structure's six levels until finally he spotted one free space on the roof. He checked to make sure that he had his smart pad and then scrambled over to the adjacent administration building.

After passing through three security checks, the portly official was able to stop by his office and grab his assistant before heading to the Queen Juliana Room where the E-VA Panel was assembled to hear the latest reports on the Earth-Venus anomalies. The two were ushered through the heavy blast-proof doors into the gilded room by two armed guards, exactly one hour late.

Already seated were John Voode, the director of DARPA in the States; the British minister of defense, Lord Cedric McCool; the NATO commander, Pierre Luday; Dr. Lawrence Wynns of the Royal Observatory; Dr. Ike Tanaka, senior astrophysicist from Kyoto University, Japan; Dr. Raymond Mighdoll, chief geologist of the United States Geological Survey; and two stenographers.

Javaras waddled to his chair at the head of the long conference table. "My apologies for being late. Some imbecile took my parking space." He sat down and his assistant passed him a copy of the agenda. He took a few moments to read it before speaking. "I would like to thank you all for coming on such short notice. Because of the sensitive nature of this meeting, I felt it best that we discuss these reports face to face so that we do not lack clarity in future meetings. I hope that your schedules were accommodating." Javaras placed his forearms upon the table and tented his stubby fingers. "Before we begin, I would like to make it clear that I do not want this briefing to be cluttered with partisan politics or worse, partisan science. Here, today, we just speak the facts. Is that understood?"

Everyone nodded.

Wynns, Tanaka, and Mighdoll hoisted their briefcases and laptops onto the table and began to busy themselves with equipment set-up for their presentations.

Javaras said, "I believe that Mr. Mighdoll will be presenting his report first on the earthquake. Am I correct?"

Dr. Mighdoll raised his hand. "That is correct. I just need a moment to set up the computer for the graphics—"

"Mr. Mighdoll, just go to the blackboard and make your drawings there. The panel is capable of following along."

"Very well," Mighdoll responded without a hint of displeasure. "Thank you." He stood before the large blackboard that had been placed near the middle of the conference table and began. "Man has known about and lived with earthquakes and tidal forces since prehistoric times. We have also known about their bigger brothers: the mega thrust earthquake and the mega tsunami. These forces are fortunately very rare because as they occur at magnitudes several times higher than regular quakes and waves, they are considered catastrophic events and are generally regarded to have been set into motion by external forces, i.e., forces striking the ground or water from above. But they are natural.

"For the past year, normal, natural phenomena are behaving in manners anything but normal or natural, and it's simply going to be impossible to say with certainty why some of these anomalies are taking place, but we can construct a fairly good theory. Let's consider the mega tsunami that followed the mega thrust quake off the western coast of America last year, which we now know as having a magnitude of sixteen-point-oh."

He picked up a piece of chalk and drew a diagram of two wave actions.

"When the Pacific Ocean experienced the sudden tectonic plate movements undersea, two waves were created at the point of disruption, at 35 degrees north latitude, 142 degrees west longitude." He drew a crude map of the western hemisphere and circled a spot equidistance between the Hawaiian Islands and the American west coast. "As customary, one wave traveled east towards the continental United States and the other one west, towards Hawaii and Asia."

Voode leaned forward in his chair. "Yes, that sounds right."

"However, for some unknown reason, the westbound wave stopped cold at 148 degrees west longitude and then reversed itself, heading east, following the first wave at more than 1126 kilometers per hour." He chalked this second wave with eyes and a nose, giving it a sinister quality. "This has never happened before in recorded history. And, in the absence of our finding a plausible theory as to why the westbound wave backtracked, we must assume that this type of wave action has never happened in pre-recorded history either."

"Well, that's quite an assumption." That was Lord McCool. "Recorded history covers about sixty-five hundred years. The earth is thirteen billion years old. Lots of unusual phenomena could have happened in between."

"Absolutely! But if it did happen, it would have defied some pretty established laws of physics as we currently understand them."

Lord McCool looked bored. "Go on."

"We have satellite pictures taken aboard the International Space Station that appear to show the second wave stopping and then heading for the American west coast. Please refer to Attachments I, II, and III."

The geologist paused long enough to give the panelists enough time to look over the photographs. Mighdoll knew that they were spectacular; he had selected them himself. But Voode looked skeptical.

The DARPA director adjusted his eyeglasses. "In light of the various 'mysteries' that are plaguing our satellites even now, and other mechanical data collectors, how can we be sure of this?"

"We can't," Mighdoll conceded. "But we also have eyewitness accounts from three commercial pilots in the air over the quake's epicenter that corroborates this. They actually saw the second wave stop and reverse itself. Their depositions are located in Attachment IV."

Javaras looked pained. "But how? Why?"

"This is just conjecture here, but we believe that the first wave was created as a clearing wave, one that would take down large buildings and freeway systems and also saturate the ground in order to give the second wave, the wave superior, more traction over uneven turf. Akin to a one-two punch." He paused to give weight to his next statement. "In my opinion, this type of wave action is unknown to man."

McCool's eyes were drilling holes into his head. "You said 'created.' Why?"

Mighdoll did not respond.

"I asked you a question."

Still the seismologist remained mute.

"Because," the minister of defense continued in suddenly scornful tones, "the implication in using that word is that there was an intelligent force behind this disaster. Was that your intent?"

Mighdoll's eyes darted to Tanaka's, full of uncertainty. "I have no further comment, sir. You and the panel will have to draw your own conclusions."

Lord McCool became effusive. "But you are the experts. We can't base any sound ideas about what if any actions to choose if we don't have all of the pertinent data before us, yes?"

Mighdoll's jaws tensed. "I don't want to get drawn into a discussion about the supernatural."

McCool smiled. "Nor do we."

Mighdoll squared his shoulders. "Then I'll amend my statement." He turned to the stenographers. "Please delete the word 'created' from my previous statement. Thank you."

The women nodded and made their adjustments.

Javaras seemed pleased. "I'd like for us to move onto the next item on the list."

Luday, the NATO commander, examined the agenda. "'Venus Stabilization.' Mr. Tanaka and Mr. Wynns, you now have the floor."

Mighdoll marched back to his chair as Dr. Tanaka pulled a short stack of files from his briefcase. "I have handouts for everyone," he said.

No one declined his offer.

"As you know, last year all registered satellites and telescopes everywhere were dysfunctional for three days, from September 3rd to September 6th. The cause of these malfunctions has not yet been determined. Then one month later, on October 1st, we discovered that a comet system—now known as the Polar Gang Comets—had moved through the inner solar system."

"Is that common?" Luday asked.

"Is what common?"

"Is it common for comets to travel in groups?"

"We have some evidence that would seem to indicate comet clusters, or swarms, can form in the Kuiper Belt and gain entry into our solar system. And there is some buzz in the astronomical community that a series of asteroids or comets caused the Great Extinction AKA the K-T Event, and not just one supersized body. But to answer your question: No. Comets are the Lone Rangers of the Universe. What we experienced two years ago was a highly different arrangement of mass. The Polar Gang Comet System contained no less than fifty individual comets. That kind of compression is unheard of."

Lord McCool deliberately downplayed this explosive information with an indulgent smirk. "Gentlemen, I ask that you stick with the facts and refrain from hyperbole. Continue, please."

Dr. Tanaka slowly blinked once and then continued. "Our second surprise was that the nuclei of these bodies contained vastly different material than from other comets. A typical comet is made up of dirt, ice, some water, carbon dioxide, frozen gases, mostly toxic stuff, and that's it. The heads—the nuclei—of the Polar Gang contained very large amounts of nitrogen and oxygen and lesser amounts of building block matter, iron, silicon, and nickel."

Wynns addressed the panel from his chair. "Gentlemen, it wasn't just the amount of comet matter that was so unusual. The average size of the heads was over two hundred kilometers across. That's five to six times the normal size."

He went to the board, erased Mighdoll's drawings, and drew two planets in orbit around a sun. Then he inserted a copious amount of tiny objects hurtling towards the planet farthest from that sun. He pointed to the planet. "If this were Mars and it was hit with the Polar Gang Comet System, we might soon have the second life-sustaining planet in our solar system."

That tidbit of information had everyone's attention.

"Where was the Polar Gang headed?" Luday asked, obviously intrigued. "Into the sun?"

"That's where they should have gone," Wynns replied. "But instead they went to Venus."

A hushed silence fell over the room. Tanaka began drawing geometric pictures on the far left side of the blackboard. At its center was drawn a nondescript planet which he labeled "Venus."

"However," Wynns continued. "Even if Venus was suddenly flooded with fresh, liquid water, it wouldn't stay there long. It is thought that Venus does not have a magnetic field, or at least not one strong enough to produce movements in the crust like on Earth. Because of this, Venus cannot easily disperse her heat, and that heat gets trapped in the atmosphere with other gases causing the surface temperatures to rise. Venus is so hot that any water—even large amounts—would quickly boil away."

He took up a piece of blue-colored chalk and shaded in a large area of the blackboard Venus. "And yet we now have clear evidence that Venus not only has a significant amount of water on it, but that we can see this clearly because the planet no longer has the thick clouds of gas in her atmosphere. Two impossibilities."

Javaras rubbed his eyes. "Two realities."

Wynns shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Some of us are of the opinion that something is affecting the reliability of our equipment; what we are seeing out there may not be there at all. Or at the least, a distortion of what is there." He waved away the abstraction. "In any case, let's assume that it is true and that Venus has suddenly been endowed with all of the attributes of an earth-like planet. Literally overnight. Which, by the way, is the third impossibility." He pointed to a rhombus that he had drawn with a single vector arrow drawn through its middle.

"Well, how could these things happen?" He motioned to Tanaka, who began to draw force lines along the board.

"Dr. Tanaka, several members of the Royal Observatory and I have developed a theory which attempts to explain these anomalies. We do not believe that plate tectonics was the sole contributor to the Super Quake and the subsequent mega tsunamis. We believe that the earth was hit by a blast of dark energy." He pointed to the angled rhombus. "Actually a sheet of dark energy, maybe a hundred thousand square kilometers in size. Moving at half the speed of light and entering our solar system either right before the Polar Gang Comet System or right after it. This is also probably why we experienced total satellite failure those three days and why it still isn't one hundred percent two years later. As it passed near Earth, a corner of it hit the Pacific plate, causing massive crust displacement and setting off the temblor and the unprecedented waves. However, the bulk of this energy kept going and scored a direct hit on Venus. The planet absorbed maybe a million yottajoules of energy in one second. This much force could have cleared Venus's atmosphere, jumpstarted her internal magnetic field, and then helped it to create pathways and energy to and for plate tectonics."

Voode's eyes rolled. "That's preposterous."

"It's a theory," Tanaka said. "One of many to be sure. But the best one so far."

Mighdoll joined the conversation. "There is a new crack in the earth's crust that measures six thousand kilometers long and two kilometers wide. With only slight deviations, it is a perfectly straight cut from top to bottom. And deep. It may extend into the upper mantle. It may have even breached the outer core. Normal tectonics would not produce such a precise fracture nor could it have wreaked so much damage to the crust."

"Picture this," Tanaka said as he erased the first rhombus diagram and drew another. This figure was drawn in a nearly perpendicular angle to the center of the Earth. "If this sheet of energy hit the Pacific plate in an upright position, it would be in an excellent position to make that precision cut into the earth."

Voode purpled. "Gentlemen, even if we accept the fact this sheet of energy caused the initial earthquakes and waves, how can we sit here and believe that this same mass of energy was almost sixteen hundred kilometers away minutes later to block the westward tidal wave and roll it back towards the American coast?"

Tanaka was placid in his response. "Easily. Imagine throwing a flat rock across a pond. What does it do? If you're lucky, it skips. That's what happened here. The dark energy skipped across the earth. On its second contact with it, the impact was more shallow and hence little plate disruption. But it was there—sixteen hundred kilometers away—to redirect that westbound wave."

Javaras peered at Tanaka's illustration. "So you believe that this energy, which resembles a plate of glass—"

Tanaka interjected. "A plate of glass possibly ten thousand kilometers across."

"Struck the earth—"

Mighdoll corrected him. "Part of it did."

"Part of it hit the earth, gouged a longitudinal crack in the crust six thousand kilometers long, which generated the earthquake and tsunamis, and then this energy field skipped away, towards the Hawaiian Islands, and then stopped long enough to block a tidal wave that was almost a kilometer tall."

Mighdoll nodded. "That is correct."

Lord McCool spoke now. "Mr. Mighdoll, does it make sense to you that this sheet of energy, traveling at such a fantastic speed, would suddenly come to a dead stop, wait around for say one-half hour so that it could somehow act as a seawall against millions of cubic meters of water moving at over eleven hundred kilometers per hour, and then start back up again to dash off and cold cock yet another planet?"

Tanaka fidgeted with his piece of chalk. "Yes. And no. The field may have been so large that it took that long to pass the earth. Or maybe it somehow got trapped by our gravity."

McCool's frosty cheeks turned pink. "Which is it?" His voice was harsh and shaming. "You can't say because you don't know! Neither of you has a bloody clue as to what's going on and you cooked up this brilliant scheme to blame it all on some mysterious Force X, which conveniently for you, cannot be seen or detected or verified in any way except in your excitable imaginations! Why not just do the manly thing and come forward and say that you failed at this task? Or get a note from your mothers saying that your dogs ate your homework!"

The two scientists just stood there, letting the waves of condemnation buffet their bodies.

Javaras spoke up. "Gentlemen, thank you."

Wynns and Tanaka slunk back to their chairs, thoroughly whipped.

The general manager tapped a finger on the table. "Do we know for sure that the comets hit Venus?"

"We are reasonably sure," Mighdoll responded. "Eighty percent sure. It's circumstantial evidence at this point. But that doesn't invalidate our conclusion."

"But it is more speculation than theory?"

"Not at all," he shot back with as much indignation as he thought prudent.

Javaras appeared irritated. "Forgive me, but you are all missing our points. Since 'dark energy' is itself speculation—it being something that can't be detected or measured—then any hypothesis that contains it must also be speculation."

"I disagree," Wynns replied defiantly. "You can have 'imaginary' factors. Mathematicians use them all the time. Besides, the Australians believe that they have confirmed the existence of dark energy. If you look at Exhibit XIII, you'll see a condensation of their research ..."

Lord McCool was regarding the three experts with the intensity of a cobra two seconds before striking.

Voode was doodling.

Javaras sighed. "Thank you. We'll give it a view later. Let's move on. I want to briefly touch on this last item titled 'Songs in the Key of F.'"

Mighdoll looked to be somewhat embarrassed. "One of our colleagues thought this item important, so to be polite we allowed it on the agenda."

"Please proceed."

"Two months ago NASA's Chandra X-ray Lab picked up persistent sound waves coming from Venus. These waves correspond to 35049 hertz, or the note of F."

Voode was now clearly exasperated. "And this means ... ?"

"We have no idea," Mighdoll replied. "Look, we don't know if it's relevant or not. But it is another unusual development."

"Yes, I agree." Javaras gave a subtle signal to the other panelists. "Gentlemen, we thank you for your hard work. It has been very ... I would like to say 'enlightening,' but to be frank, 'confusing' is the better word." He pushed his papers aside and looked the three scientists dead in the eyes. "Off the record, can you tell us what you really think may be going on?"

Wynn, ignoring the implications of the question, considered the general manager's words for a moment before answering. "If my colleagues would allow me to speak on behalf of us all ..."

The others nodded their assent.

" ... It is our opinion that some great and unknown force entered our solar system undetected and caused biblical disruptions of air, land, and sea on at least two planets."

McCool was wearing his smirk again. He had a fierce reputation for being one of the more outspoken atheists in Parliament. "Isn't it possible to assess an unusual situation without invoking religion?"

"Sir, it was only a matter of speech. However, in this case it is appropriate. What has happened is unprecedented."

Voode snorted derisively. "Well, the Advance South and their fan-atics would certainly love to hear that."

Javaras's eyes were at half mast. "The religious will see a divine hand at work; the secular an extraterrestrial one."

"But," Wynns countered, "the scientist will simply see it for what it really is: a heretofore unknown force of great power that is waiting for us to evaluate its source and composition and then give it a proper name."

Javaras ignored him and instead began to reminisce. "Right after graduate school, I spent a year in Spain as a kickabout. I was young and foolish, so it wasn't long before I needed money. I'd managed to convince one of the better car mechanics in Barcelona that I could work on automobiles. My older brother had taught me a few things. I figured that I could learn the rest off the cuff. Everything went well until he asked me to rebuild the engine of a client's Jaguar. Now a Jaguar is a sleek beast whilst together; a million inscrutable pieces whilst taken apart. I didn't know the engine from the transmission. I felt angry that I'd fooled myself into believing I could handle the job, and then utter and absolute terror at being found out. To make a long story short, I was fired." He paused for several seconds. He had made a point of not addressing anyone directly, but it was painfully obvious that this trip down memory lane was for the benefit of the scientists.

"Gentlemen," he continued. "We are facing a great unknown. We are feeling weak and impotent, angry and frightened. But that will pass. You will learn the necessary lessons and move on. And soon you will have the correct answers for us. I have that measure of confidence in you."

His words hung in the air to quietly incite harmonious feelings on both sides.

Tanaka angrily picked up his papers and slammed them back into his briefcase. "These are the correct answers."

Finally, Voode scratched his chin and pushed his notes away. "Young man, as Mr. Javaras was just explaining, we all make mistakes. Hell, during my first year in the Navy, I accidentally shot my ex-oh."

Luday offered a tight smile. "I crashed my first jet into a barn after attempting a low-altitude pass over my girlfriend's house."

One of the stenographers timidly raised her hand. "When I was at university I helped my boyfriend rob a pub." A few eyebrows went up. "We were quite strapped at the time," she explained.

Lord McCool looked directly at Javaras. "And I'm the 'imbecile' who stole your parking space."

Tanaka and Mighdoll arrived at Rotterdam The Hague Airport four hours later. Their nonstop flight back to New York City would be arriving shortly. The two men sat together in the spacious lounge, two of only five paying passengers.

Mighdoll pulled out a pocket notepad and wrote down a few words. He showed it to Tanaka.

It read, "I have two thoughts that should not be discussed in public."

Tanaka's face registered faint surprise and nodded.

Mighdoll took back the notepad and wrote several lines. He again handed the notepad to Tanaka.

It read, "My first thought is that Javaras didn't believe us because he doesn't want to believe us. Chasing down some phantom planet is outside his scope."

Tanaka nodded and continued to read. "My second thought is that we're reached a dead end. I think it's time we called somebody in the United States."

Tanaka reread the note, sighed and then balled it up and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He spoke. "Maybe."

Sunlight was shining through the large windows that allowed passengers to see the aircraft aprons below. Up and beyond them, Sol was low in the sky, plump and fiery red.

Tanaka removed his reading glasses and used his shirt sleeve to wipe the lenses. "Have you noticed that without knowing the time, or knowing whether you were facing east or west, that you'd never be able to determine whether the sun was rising or setting just by looking at it? Its image is the same, coming or going."

"Your point?"

"Before we make that call to the States, we first need to find out what time it is there."

### End of Part One

