 
The Ghost Wars

Chapters 1-6

Cole J. Davis

Copyright Cole J. Davis 2012

Published by Garconer Publishing at Smashwords

THE GHOST WARS is dedicated to all those whom desire a better world.

# CHAPTER ONE

Looking back on his life; Jason Bowen could pinpoint the exact day it all began to turn around for the better- October fifteenth, twenty thirteen. On that day events conspired to lead him out of the mire; tossing him the metaphorical life preserver to a man drowning in the darkness and the filth of a life not worth living. In the days to come, he'd be granted the gift of his first meeting with the woman who'd come to be the Isolde to his Tristan. Further to that, Jason garnered himself the career of a lifetime.

Now, with a thirty year old son named Ben following in his mother's footsteps as a social worker to Vancouver's East Side, and good friends to keep him company, life for Jason Bowen was glorious. Thinking back to the days and years before that, Jason shook with the remembrance of the desolation he'd once felt; the things he'd done to make a living, choosing to punish himself for past mistakes, for just being himself. It was sad, the state he'd allowed himself to descend to. Jason owed his life to three people in this world- Doctor Brittany Longfellow, although she hadn't yet been a doctor at that point, for loving him; Captain Cole Jacob Billington for being willing to take a chance on hiring him; and finally, Marsha Bradshaw for starting the whole ball rolling.

That day, thirty seven years previous, Jason strolled into the Café Vaungarten on the northwest corner of Vancouver's Library Square, on a breezy, mid October morning. Heading into the café', Jason smiled knowingly, taking note of the sweet musical tones of the Canadian Weekly Top Forty playing over the sound system. Along the walls of the establishment were an assortment of high priced paintings by Gertrude Brighton, a local artist. The paintings were

acrylic abstracts, of a blend of blue and turquoise splashes of paint; bringing to Jason's mind the

movement of the waters of the Pacific during high tide. Jason was a slim, well built, tall young

man in his late twenties, of Scottish descent. The woman he was meeting, one Marsha Bradshaw,

a heavy set blonde in her early forties; was an investigative journalist for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, here in the city. Marsha had an air about her, one revealing a desire to hunt down the truth.

Going towards her, towering over her with his six foot two frame, Jason introduced himself, saying; "Hello there, I'm Jason. You must be Marsha Bradshaw. I've heard very good things about you. I'm looking forwards to working with you. In close proximity, if you know what I mean?"

"Hello Jason," Jason took a seat at the small, round café table across from Marsha, who bent forward towards him. Marsha spoke intimately, not wanting to be overheard by the surrounding café patrons; "Here's the thing, Jason. There is something very odd going down at the Point Grey Campus of the University of British Columbia. It is my job as an investigative journalist to search out the truth. When we blow this baby right out of the water, it'll be the story of the century."

In later years, the goings on of the CPB would be old hat, but right here and now, this was all new to Jason. Following Marsha's lead, Jason spoke quietly, "So, what do you reckon is going on down there, Marsha?"

"Well, at first, it seemed relatively straight forward. The CPB, or in long form, the Commonwealth Protection Bureau, appears to be a straight up social agency. They work with the

down and out, mostly in the city's East End. They've got some of Canada's best minds involved

with the project." She paused in thought, before adding; "It's clearly a smoke screen. I really would be interested in finding out what's actually going on out there Jason."

"So would I."

"It was begun back when the Commonwealth was still a major player. That's where the name came from, presumably."

"I would presume so, yes."

"Now, getting back on topic, Miss Brittany Longfellow has won awards for her work with the people of the East End." Marsha paused, retrieving a photo of Miss Longfellow from her portfolio; showing it to Jason.

Jason remembered the first time he caught sight of the woman he would eventually come to love. Even if it had only been a photograph, she was truly beautiful; time hadn't changed that. Even if she was now sixty five years old, so was he. She would always be beautiful to him, for her soul shone free, loving and brilliant in so many ways.

Back inside the café', all those years ago, a much younger and spryer Jason Bowen took a moment to appraise the photo appreciatively. Brittany was a slim, relatively attractive First

Nations woman in her late twenties. Her long, dark hair shone, catching the light of the sun off

the photo, and Jason said; "Nice."

She had been nice, beautiful even, later that afternoon, when Jason got to meet her in person. Less accepting of his appreciation for Miss Longfellow's physical assets, Marsha gave him a haughty look, leading Jason to respond with a smirk. Handing the photo back to her, which she promptly returned to its place inside the portfolio, he said; "I was talking about the awards, but she's a looker, too."

"I'm glad you think so Jason, because she's the one you'd be best to get close to."

"Hot dog, I like this plan more and more."

"Now," Picking up another photo from her portfolio, Marsha said; "This man is the heart of the entire organization. This is Captain Cole Jacob Billington. He's a real enigma. He's the glue holding together this entire mystery."

Looking back on his life, Jason considered the broadened horizons working with the Captain had given him. For the past thirty seven years, he'd been given the access code to a much wider vista; the universe was grander and far more complex than he'd ever dreamed of. Here it all began, in this nondescript café', with a woman who wanted to know the truth; the truth of what was really going on around the world in front of her very eyes.

At the table, Jason took an appraising look at Captain Billington. The man appeared to be around fifty years of age, Hispanic, and in obvious need of a personal trainer for his five foot eleven frame, and he said; "Alright then, so what's so important about him?"

Marsha sighed, saying; "We don't know."

He'd raised an eye at that, saying; "Well, I like your honesty."

Marsha smiled, saying; "Thank you."

Jason looked around the busy shop, his eyes passing momentarily from the line of customers at the front, to the harried Barista; doing her best in an understaffed business, to the gorgeous paintings arrayed along the wall, before allowing them to come to rest back on Marsha, saying; "And you want me to find that out for you, do I have that right?"

Pointing a hand towards him, two fingers splayed in a 'gotcha' gesture, she said; "You've got it in one."

Shifting slightly, attempting to get comfortable, Jason said; "So Marsha, it's time to come clean, what's so special about this frumpy captain that you need me to go into the belly of the beast? Are we talking something criminal? Because you know, if that's the case, perhaps I should decline. I'm trying to put that part of my life behind me, you know? Three years in the Agassiz Correctional Facility is quite long enough, thank you very much."

"Jason, the corporation doesn't think that is the issue. My colleagues at the CBC feel it's more of an issue of some deep government program. Something very odd is going on at that campus, and we deem to find out what it is. Using any means necessary."

Raising a sceptical eye in consternation at her last statement, Jason said; "It sounds dangerous." He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed against his chest.

"It might well be. Are you game?"

"Very much so."

Marsha smiled, saying; "Good for you." Placing her hands on the table in front of her, she said; "Now, let me tell you exactly what I know, which I must admit, is not much. But what I do know is very strange indeed. At first, the corporation was just interested in doing a Human interest piece on an award winning social agency, and the people who worked for it. We thought they'd appreciate it, you know?" He'd nodded, as she'd continued, saying; "We made an assumption, and you know what they say about making assumptions Jason."

"I'm right there with you, Marsha."

"It's always good to promote agencies doing good work for the community. It gets people out there helping others, volunteering in their own communities, that sort of thing."

"Go on."

"That's where it gets weird."

"How so?"

"Our producer tracked down Captain Billington for an interview, perhaps a bit more. You know, a day in the life type of thing? We were hoping if we got enough public interest, the next step could be some sort of reality series." Jason gave her a roll of his eyes then, in an expression saying 'what did you expect?' Jason had always despised those types of shows. Marsha seemed

almost apologetic in her explanation to him, saying; "Of course, that's the in thing the last few

years. They're cheap to make, popular with the public and the easy line to fall back on."

"Of course, but they're not very challenging, wouldn't you say? Not much writing goes into those things, and the acting's pitiful. That's if there is any actual acting going on, which isn't

necessarily always the case, is it?"

"Be that as it may, our attempt to woo the captain to our proposal fell utterly flat. It didn't make any sense; he should have welcomed a story on the workings of his organization with open arms. But his reaction was the complete opposite to which we'd expected. We were completely mystified." Jabbing a finger at the stack of photos in her portfolio, she looked up at Jason,

saying; "But when we began to look deeper into the captain's project, his wariness suddenly began to make a whole lot more sense. The CPB is way more than just a social agency Jason." taking a third photo out of her portfolio, Marsha said; "Here we have 'Exhibit A'." She showed the photo to Jason. It was of a man of First Nations descent, looking to be in his fifties.

"Who's this?"

Marsha jabbed a manicured finger at the photo, saying; "That is Doctor Reginald Desmoire, who has a PhD in theoretical physics. Now what would a social agency need a physicist for? That is the question of the hour, Jason. That was our first inkling something wasn't right."

"Hmm, something is definitely rotten in Denmark."

"Uh huh, like day old fish."

Jason positioned his body forward in his chair, attempting to prevent a crick from developing in his neck, saying; "I'll concede your point Marsha; it does appear a tad murky. I'll give you that. But come on, what do you really think is going on here? It must be something serious to get the CBC all in a huff."

"I've done the research on this shadowy organization, Jason. When I blow this story wide open, and believe you me, I will; it will completely change the way society looks at life."

"If that really is the case Marsha, do you really think it's your place to kick society out of its nest? Some things are just better off not being known."

"Yes Jason that is my place. That's my job, telling people what they need to know."

"But who are you to decide what they need to know?"

Her shoulders squared, she said; "Well it certainly isn't the governments' place to hide the truth from its own citizens, now is it Jason?"

"Whatever. We don't even know what's really going on. Or do we, what else do you know?"

"What I do know, is this. The CPB was started up in nineteen ten, under very mysterious beginnings. There is talk on the conspiracy pages on the web, that they built the entire university

as a cover for their little project."

"That can't be true, do you think?"

"It's a bit much, I'll grant you. But that's where you come in, Jason. It's hard to know where the tin hats end and the truth begins. I need you to get inside."

"Descend us, down, down unto the belly of the beast."

"Exactly," Marsha nodded, placing a hand on the table, gesturing wildly, saying; "Get to know that organization and the people who run it like the back of your own hand. Do you think you can do it?"

"Oh yeah," Running a hand through his shoulder length, wavy dark hair, Jason asked her; "Is it hot in here?"

"You're just excited."

"You've got that right, babe."

Gazing at Jason in disapproval, Marsha told him; "Now none of that now Jason, my husband's a former extreme fighting champion."

Jason's eyes boggled at this, as he said; "Seriously?" Marsha nodded, not revealing a single sign of dissembling on her face whatsoever. Bringing his face closer in to address Marsha, he said; "Doesn't that worry you? That type of man, with that in his background, what if he turns on you? That sport is seriously dangerous."

"He's not a dog, Jason."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Besides, you're one to talk. Do you want people to hold your past against you, as well?"

"For the record, I was never a violent man, just a bad man. I like to think I'm doing much better now, but you know, it's a work in progress."

"Jason, if you feel remorse for what you did, and are trying to become a better person, I find it hard to believe you were ever truly a bad man. Look to the future, face forward, that's all that really means anything in the long run. Wouldn't you say?"

"That's why I'm a tad wary about being an informer. For all intents and purposes, this organization sounds like it's doing some incredibly good work. Do they really deserve to have a

spy in their midst?"

"Well if everything is on the up and up Jason, they don't have anything to worry about now do they?"

"You have a point."

"However, I really don't think that's the case here. Something's just not quite right; I can feel it in my bones. Jason, they're up to something, and I aim to find out what that is."

"What do you think is really going on, then?"

"The conspiracy pages have come up with all sorts of bizarre theories."

"What can you expect Marsha? They're conspiracy theorists; they're not necessarily right in the head."

"But they're the only ones that may have any information at all Jason. The whole thing is very hush, hush."

Sitting forwards, gazing at her intensely, Jason said; "Tell me Marsha, what should I look for when I go in?"

"You'll need to find out who Captain Billington really is. His identity is highly protected by the federal government. It's rumoured he's got family in Texas, so he's possibly American. However, that may just be a piece of disinformation for the nosy public's consumption; you can't believe anything you hear."

Jason hadn't liked having to deal with all this subterfuge, it reminded him too much of the reason for his stint in prison; conning people out of their hard earned cash. He said, "Well, in that case, how will I find out what you need to know?"

"That's why it is very important that you look, listen and learn; it's the first lesson you learn as a journalism student. It's probably good advice for a spy, as well."

"That's good advice for daily life, as well. You are one smart cookie Marsha, I like you."

"That's good; we should get on well."

Standing to stretch his legs, Jason said, "So, how about I go and get you a coffee Marsha? Then we can continue our conversation."

"I'd like that Jason. Two creams, one sugar please."

"You've got it, I'll be right back," Heading off to stand in the already long line up, Jason

enjoyed the view of the pretty Malaysian Barista stood behind the counter of the shop.

# CHAPTER TWO

We appear to have gotten a bit ahead of ourselves. Jason's tale began much earlier than that day in the Café'. It was a complex tale of a complex man. It had twists and turns and great lessons for all to glean. But no man is an island; our tale is not only Jason's to tell, but that of all the people around him. It is the tale of a splendid city, one of the best cities in the entire world. In the early part of the second decade of the twenty first century, Vancouver was entering the trying times of its adolescence, as it began to feel the growing pains of its entrance into the adulthood of a world class mega-city. The same could be said for the nation surrounding it. Canada would be a great place to live, if only the vast majority of its land mass would stop being so utterly cold. But Vancouver was different. Vancouver was like the Garden of Eden in the midst of a desert. It was the shelter from the cold, and from the misery of a small town's ever constant drudgery of a hum drum life.

Tonight, earlier in the evening, on this balmy, late April evening of the year twenty-fifty; Jason's colleagues at the Commonwealth Protection Bureau had thrown him a retirement party.

Even though the nation's official age of retirement had been pushed forwards to sixty seven years of age back in the year twenty-twenty, Jason chose to take partial retirement two years earlier. He would still be available for consultation work when needed, but for the most part, he chose to focus the bulk of the next two years on his memoirs, as well as doing a bit more of the unpaid work he did with the needy. The book he was writing was merely the latest in a long line of books he'd authored throughout the past few decades. The present book would serve several

purposes. First, Jason wanted others who once felt like him to know there was a light at the end

of the tunnel. Second, he wanted his future grand-children, if Ben ever sired any, to be able to get

a sense of how life was at the turn of the century. Finally, he didn't want to be forgotten; he wanted there to be a lasting legacy of his time on Earth.

"Hard at work dear?," Jason smiled up at his gorgeous wife from the chair he sat in as he worked on his memoirs as Brittany came up behind him, spinning it around so she could take a seat on his lap; wrapping an arm around him, coming in for a kiss.

"What would I have ever done without you, dear heart?"

Smiling tenderly, gently moving a strand of greying hair away from Jason's green eyes, she said; "You may never have known love."

"I might not at that."

"I'll leave you to your memories; come to bed when you're ready."

"I'll do that," Watching his forever beautiful soul mate slink out of his private study, Jason allowed himself time to ponder the worst time in his life, and the day it finally came to an end. Jason hadn't always made the greatest decisions in his life, and this culminated in him having to serve three years at the medium security Agassiz Correctional Facility, during a period in his life ending six years before his fateful meeting with Marsha Bradshaw.

"Sign here, here and here," Duty Warden Margaret Daniels shoved the piece of paper granting Jason Bowen access to his possessions he'd had with him when he'd entered the correctional facility three years previous; waiting as he signed his John Hancock. That done, she grabbed his file bag from across the processing room; both doing their best to ignore the cat-calls from some of the prisoners peering in from the nearby common room.

"Are you leaving us Jasie waisy? Oh, we're all going to be so, so sad!"

Derrick Seymour had been one of Jason's biggest tormentors throughout the three years he'd spent behind bars. He'd made him do things he'd never wanted to experience with another man. It hadn't only been Derrick; Jason's natural gentleness, making his white collar criminal activity all the more out of character for him, guaranteed Jason a spot on the daily roster of Batty Boy fodder. Sometime during his first week in here, Jason developed the ability to check out mentally as these daily assaults were occurring, searching out peace and tranquillity in his own personal world. Externally, three long tortuous years passed by, but to Jason, locked away in his own little world; it felt like weeks.

In all that time, another Jason Bowen arose to take his place, taking the rapes as he hid inside his inner world. Another self, viewing itself as female; Jacquelyn had always been there, lurking deep beneath the surface. The assaults inside the correctional facility merely served to bring her to the surface, forcing the psyche to release her from the prison inside the mind she'd spent the majority of her life in. So out Jacquelyn had come, free to live her life, but to what a life she'd found herself living. In all that time, piled upon the rage of being locked away for a lifetime, was the new rage of the fury Jacquelyn felt at having been left to hold the bag while Jason had been kept safe and protected from his tortuous reality now surrounding him.

Retrieving the items taken from him three years previous, the duty warden opened the outside prison door, leading Jason to the main gate, saying; "Good luck Jason. Try to make a good life for yourself, you hear?"

Walking along with his head down Jason left the grounds of the Correctional Facility, saying; "I don't know where to go."

After spending three months in a nearby halfway house, where he'd applied for disability assistance for his diagnosis of Aspergers Syndrome; the universe appeared to take pity on Jason.

His beloved Aunt Katrina, whom he'd adored, and she him, suddenly passed on. She'd been hit

by a passing car in front of her own house. The driver, drunk out of his mind, hadn't even paused

in his driving. They never did catch him. But out of this sorrowful event had come something

good after all. With one week to go before Jason was set to leave the halfway house, word came

from his mother that Aunt Katrina had awarded him her house on Union Street, bordering Vancouver's China Town; in her will.

As nice a thought that it was, the responsibility of paying off the last of the mortgage, as well as the property taxes fell to Jason. This had given him cause for concern, did he sell the house, and look for something he could easier afford, or did he allow himself to fall back on old habits, and find a way to make some quick and easy cash? Unbeknownst to Jason, as he'd been mulling the issue over, Jacquelyn had been making secret plans of her own.

Suddenly, Jason began losing hours, sometimes even days at a time. He'd go to sleep on Monday, and wake up on Wednesday or Thursday; finding hundreds of dollars of cash next to his bedside table. He'd find lists of clients and schedules and payment plans posted to the kitchen

fridge. He'd find clothing and other items he'd never bought, their receipts showing someone had in fact paid for them. Worst of all, he'd find packs of cigarettes sat on the kitchen counter, and cases of beer inside the fridge. Jason didn't smoke and he'd been sober for more than three years; ever since he'd entered the clink. What the hell was wrong with him?

Somehow, during all this time that this had been going on, something made Jason forget he wasn't the only one laying claim to the body he inhabited. The missing time and everything

else provided clues to the knowledge someone else existed, but they weren't revealing themselves to him directly. Was it purposely malicious, or were these others just as mystified by

it all as he was?

It all came to a head one evening; finding himself standing on stage, gazing out into a tiny, packed theatre, the audience waiting for Jason to say his next line. Jacob had been another, better part of him. Jacob had been just as in the dark about the situation as Jason was. Also experiencing mysterious blackouts and wondering where all the cash and the beer had come from, Jacob decided to try his hand at acting. With his good looks and innate talent, Jacob garnered the leading role in a play paying a small stipend at The Chrysanthemum Theatre, on Davie Street. Written and developed by young up and comer playwright Sully Campbell, 'Stonewall Nights' was a musical rendition of the events surrounding the Stonewall Riots. His life's work of 'Social Justice Crusader' had been a singular focus of his from the age of fifteen onwards. Now, at age thirty, Sully crafted the most exquisite piece of musical theatre Jacob had ever come across. The performance centred on the sweet romance between a young Drag Queen, and her deeply closeted lover. Jacob snagged the roll of the Drag Queen, Miss Well-Defined; it was a roll he'd relished more than he would ever admit.

Jason knew none of this, during that terrifying evening like something out of a dream. Arriving on stage for opening night, taking one look out into that packed theatre; gazing out at the well- dressed audience, Jason froze. The fear brought Jason back out; he hadn't known what the hell he was doing. Luckily, Jacob hadn't gone far. He stood in the cavern of their collective mind, whispering lines in Jason's inner ear. Thankfully, the performance had gone off without a hitch, although Jason had less of a natural talent for acting then did Jacob.

After that, the dissociative memory filter forcing Jason to forget about the world inside fell to the wayside, and he'd gone in search of his troublesome head mates causing him so much trouble. Although the greatest troublemakers refused to change their ways completely, they at least had been able to develop a system of continuous memory, allowing them each to take executive control of the body, while remembering the body's history as though it were their own.

One hand raised above his computer keyboard; a much older and wiser Jason Bowen brought his thoughts back to that fateful day inside the café'. Standing in line for coffee; his mind focused on the duelling matters of coffee for Marsha Bradshaw and himself, as well as the hard work of infiltration awaiting him; Jason barely registered the weather report broadcasting out of the shop's satellite radio quietly, unobtrusively playing in the corner. The chatter of the other customers in search of a caffeine fix stopped just short of blocking out the voice of the announcer.

"We'll be looking at high winds from the southeast, reaching a possible seventy five kilometres per hour, later in the morning."

Waiting in line for his order, Jason ruminated on the question of whether or not he was doing the right thing. Should he listen to the part of him warning this may not be the best decision; or should he follow through, despite the fact running such an enormous con made him feel down right queasy in his gut? That after all had been what landed him in the slammer. Jason never wanted to go through that horrific experience ever again. Would taking this job lead him onto the road to becoming a better man, or would it just lead him back down the garden path of temptation, where land mines waited to swallow up his soul? Jason hoped he was doing the right

thing; he just couldn't be sure. Life was full of land mines, and without a proper map to guide

him, it was hard for Jason to know whether he was doing the right thing or not.

Moments later; gathering up the coffees, Jason returned to the table as Marsha skimmed through the photos in her portfolio, and he said; "Here you go." Placing one of the two coffees in front of her, Jason said; "I hope you like it."

"Thank you Jason. I'm sure it'll be to my satisfaction," Marsha took a sip.

"I'm here to serve," Jason smiled disparagingly, taking a seat across from Marsha, saying; "So, what else have you got for me?" Marsha showed him a photo of an attractive, slim Asian woman, and Jason said; "She's pretty, who's that?"

"That's Constable Sera Rasmussen," Jason frowned slightly at hearing about the law enforcement angle. He didn't have all that great of a reputation with the local cops. Marsha continued with, "From what we can gather, she works as a liaison between the District RCMP

and the CPB."

"Well I can tell you one thing Marsha; I'll be looking forward to working closely with her."

"Don't be a pest, Jason. You'll never get the information we're looking for if you end up with charges of sexual harassment. Now be a good boy."

"Spoil my fun, why don't you?"

"That's what I'm here for."

Jason chuckled unpleasantly, saying; "Thank you Marsha, but I've already got me a parole officer. I don't need another one."

"You're a real charmer, aren't you?"

Jason grinned, pleased with himself, saying; "And the chicks dig it."

Showing Jason a photo of a nondescript, middling height, wiry man in his mid-fifties, Marsha said; "That's Doctor Bailey O'Bannion; he's been working for the CPB since the mid-eighties, apparently making him one of the longest serving members. The others were all hired on by Director Billington since the turn of the century."

Jason gave the photo a peremptory look, saying; "So, what's his story; is he a physicist as well?"

"Nope, he's the medic."

"Ah, a proper doctor, the right kind of doctor; good for him. You know, I always wanted to be a doctor myself, when I was younger. But then I realized I didn't have the brains for it, and my pipe dream came crashing down, like a house of cards."

"That's too bad. Is that what led you into a life of crime?"

"Don't be silly."

"There's no need to bite my head off Jason. I'm just trying to be a friend."

"I don't need a friend, I need money."

"Don't worry, we'll discuss payment when we're finished discussing the project."

"I hope it's worth it," Jason leaned in closer, saying; "Because if this organization is on the up and up, I'd love to make a career out of it. I need to become a better man Marsha. The way I'm living my life right now, it's not a good way to live." For a moment, Jason became confused about his surroundings, quickly covering it with a big dopy grin that lit up his face. Moving his slim hips, trying to get comfortable on the wooden chair, giving his shaggy hair a flip, Jason said; "Is there anyone else?"

"Yes," Watching Jason carefully, Marsha lifted a final photo from her portfolio to show him, saying; "Twenty two year old graduate student Samuel Peters was hired on as an intern under the purview of Doctor O'Bannion; however, he apparently shares duties with the entire team."

Jason took a look at the young man in the photo. Samuel appeared to be your typical athletic jock type from any middle class white Canadian family, and Jason said; "And that's it?"

"Those are the main players, yes. Of course, there's government officials who are most likely well aware of what's been going on beneath the citizen's noses. But we'd rather not take that route. We don't want to be too obvious. Who knows how far they'll go in order to keep the truth hidden."

Sitting up from a slouch, now suddenly full of energy, Jason said; "I'm always up for ruffling a few feathers Marsha. It keeps me on my toes; makes life a little more interesting."

"That's why we chose you, Jason. Your application for the job was just what the doctor ordered. The situation warrants a man of your quite considerable talents."

"Which are?"

"I've read the court's description of your exploits; you are quite the actor, Jason."

"You have no idea."

"We are going to need that if we ever hope to get to the bottom of this little mystery Jason."

"So I should be looking forwards to quite a substantial remuneration, yeah?"

"Is money all you care about, Jason?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

# CHAPTER THREE

Getting back down to business, Jason said; "What else have you got for me Marsha?"

Flipping through her portfolio, searching for the next pertinent piece of information, Marsha said; "This is what we're most interested in ferreting out. There's a secret facility in the Glenmore region of Kelowna; up in the interior of the province. We don't know what is going on

up there, but we can guess whatever it is, it certainly can't be good."

"Really?," Frowning, Marsha flashed Jason a pair of grainy, black and white photographs of what appeared to be old fashioned, summer cabins, amidst a stand of Evergreen Trees.

"We need you to work your way into snagging a job at whatever this place is."

"Hmm, now how do you suggest I get an in with the CPB, Marsha?"

"My little team have discussed that. It's why we chose you as our go to guy for the job Jason."

"Oh?"

"We think, with the issues you laid out for us in your application, we may just have the solutions to some of your problems. That is, if you're up for it?"

"I'm up for it, darling. I've got to get my head sorted, once and for all."

A much older and wiser Jason sat back in his chair inside his study on Union Street, taking time to think back on the night, a few months before his younger self's fateful meeting with Marsha Bradshaw, when he'd spotted the job application posted to the door of a pub. Slightly less than six years earlier after his terrifying ordeal at The Chrysanthemum Theatre; going in search of the culprits causing him so much trouble, Jason discovered it was Luke purchasing the cases of beer, and it was Luke going to the bars and getting wasted. Unhappy about this, Jacquelyn devised a means of exploiting Luke's lush prone personality flaws to her own ends. She'd search out the low-down on which local watering holes were the best establishments for using as a base of operations for her line of work; subtly leading Luke towards one of her chosen venues in his search for alcohol. Then, before Luke could manage to make the visit to the drinking establishment a total waste, Jacquelyn would grab the metaphorical reins, and she'd go to work.

After that night in the theatre; the ability to hide secrets from one another, as well as Jacquelyn's skill at manipulating others had been much reduced. Once Luke had been made aware of what Jacquelyn was utilizing his cravings for, it was the start of a war of attrition between the pair of them. Luke learned if he drank enough before Jacquelyn was able to become aware of it, he could prevent her from taking over. He really didn't mind Jacquelyn herself, only the career she'd chosen for them. Jason, Luke and Jacob, as well as all the others making up their collective being; none of them appreciated what Jacquelyn forced them to do. Neither did they like the fact she smoked, they feared the repercussions of that, far more than anything Luke ever did.

Finding all this strife far too taxing for their anxiety prone brain, the varied members of the Bowen collective chose to spend ninety percent of their time hidden away in a better world of

their own design. Whether their existence was due to the time they'd spent inside the clink, to their body's obvious mismatch in concern to their gender, or to their brain's position along the

Autistic Spectrum, making every-day life just too hard to deal with; whatever the reason, they did exist. It didn't matter that the medical community claimed their very existence was impossible, they went on living their lives, alongside the physical world of twenty first century Vancouver. As a man on the Autistic Spectrum, all of Jason Bowen's senses were hypersensitive. Cold air felt ten times colder, hot air ten times hotter; everything was amplified to the tenth degree. A group of ten felt like a crowd of a hundred to him. His mind couldn't handle it, so ninety percent of his being remained safe and comfortable inside the world he'd built for himself, as they all took turns on the duty roster of living the present Earth life.

Jason arrived when their collective being was five years old, the boy created to be the man Jacqueline couldn't ever be. But when he'd arrived, something occurred, resulting in Jacquelyn becoming locked away in the back of their collective mind. Jason knew that imaginal realm as their Rehab Centre, where the worst parts of him were interned for however long it took for his personal guides and healers to do their work; making them better men or women. Eventually, they'd let go of their rage and their bad habits, able to once again return to the Human race and enjoy their collective life. Jacquelyn and Luke really ought to have remained inside the Rehabilitation Centre to this day. It wasn't right that they were free to rain havoc on the collective's life. But clearly, they were too strong willed and stubborn to do what needed to be done for the good of them all.

Luke spotted the job offer on the door of the bar; but Jason ripped the application from the door it had been pinned to. Life had seen fit to use one of Jason's less than stellar decisions he'd chosen to make; turning it around for the betterment of his life. As a teenager, Jason chose to surround himself with the types of peers who were scraping the bottom of the barrow in terms

of life hood expectations. His friends were fellow misfits, most of whom hailed from broken homes, parents who drank or worse; it was often much worse.

Despite his good looks, Jason's overwhelming aura of misery permeating out of the very core of his being ensured none of the good kids wanted anything to do with him. Jason tried to fit in, forever failing in the pursuit, and as a life of misery lay out in front of him, he fell in with the

wrong crowd. With these angry young boys and girls, Jason discovered a sense of deep companionship with them, joining in willingly as they engaged in what they saw as heroic acts of

vandalism and petty theft. A life once merely miserable internally began revealing itself to the

world; it all began to come undone, unraveling at its seams. All the counseling in the world never came close to touching the edge of what wrought such a torment to young Jason's soul, for he never dare breathe a word of what really tore at him.

Starting out as a follower, hanging on at the fringes of the group, over time, the others began looking to Jason as the ideas man and the instigator of many a vile plan. At some point in his misguided youth, Jason moved beyond small acts of petty larceny, growing greedy. He'd wanted it all. He'd wanted money, and lots of it. Anything that would bring in the cash with the least amount of effort, he'd do it. As long as nobody became physically injured, he'd do it. He'd even use his own body to make a quick buck. You wanted to see him get buck naked? A hundred bucks; he'd even throw in a streak down the street for the entire neighbourhood's enjoyment. He'd drawn the line at outright prostitution; he did have some self-respect, after all. If only he could say the same for Jacquelyn.

After graduating from high school, where his disconsolation at the disappointments of what was his life made it so he'd just barely slid by; Jason had been given an internship as a lower rung grunt at his father's financial services business. This was where Jason had taken his criminal activities to new heights. Without his father's knowledge, Jason begun secretly advertising himself as a financial consultant, in order to lure the unwary into arrangements with him, where he would then proceed to seize his gullible clients' life savings. God, the horrified and disappointed look Jason's father wore that day in the office, watching his own son be escorted out of the building in handcuffs by the RCMP; it nearly broke Jason's heart. Jason had gone with them silently, his eyes downcast, an entire crew of financial consultants following him with their eyes. His father hadn't spoken to him for years after the fact, and after getting out of the clink, Jason felt as though he really had no one who truly cared about him anymore.

That night, Luke had been out drinking with Jason's old pals from high school. Lonely for company, knowing he shouldn't reconnect with his old trouble making pals, Jason agreed to meet up with them anyways. The decision to visit a few bars brought Luke out for the evening.

Bored of the group's drunken antics; Luke wandered off by himself in the heart of Historic Gas

Town outside the Water Front Station, gazing far down at the water below. Wandering over to

the nearby Steam Works Brewery and Restaurant, he somehow managed to walk straight into the

door, knocking himself flat onto his ass.

Drunk as he'd been, attempting to drown his sorrows in a bottle of Bailey's Irish Whiskey; Luke couldn't fail to spot the advert from the CBC. If the bump developing on his head from walking straight into the door hadn't gotten his notice, the green paper it had been printed on certainly would have. That very night, despite his intoxication, Jason had gone home, writing out all the ways his life had gone wrong. Detailing step by step, each misstep he'd taken in the game of life, the issues he needed to overcome, and the goals he needed to set for himself. The CBC wanted a sob story, and so, con man that Jason was, that was indeed what he'd given them. It was all true though, each and every word, every syllable.

Unconstrained for once in his life, Jason used the application as a means of catharsis. Pouring his heart out, he lay the bearings of his soul on the line. Like a voice in the wilderness, someone had been listening and his call for help had been answered. The Universe worked in mysterious ways; who was Jason to reject its overtures? With this new job, perhaps he'd be able to make a difference; make the world a little better than it had been before. That was his dream. He'd once had so many dreams, but real life had come crashing down, smothering a young boy's dreams; replacing them with nightmares young Jason feared would never end.

Lost in his memories, Jason was startled out of his musings by the sound of Marsha's voice, as she said; "Jason!"

Peering around the busy café', blinking at the spot of sunlight landing across his face from the half open door, Jason said; "Huh, oh I'm sorry Marsha, what were we talking about?"

Peering into Jason's eyes, Marsha said; "Are you still with us Jason?"

"I am now," Taking a sip of his coffee, Jason asked; "This government facility in the Okanagan, do you have any idea what they may be up to?"

"I know this will sound crazy Jason, but all the conspiracy pages are quite insistent it's aliens. Either that or that time travel is somehow involved. Perhaps it's both."

"Now Marsha, don't tell me you're sending me on a wild goose chase."

"I know it sounds ridiculous Jason, but we've got to be open to all the possibilities. It's the only way we can be sure to get to the truth."

"If you say so, Marsha. Tell me, what sort of proof do these conspiracy nut-burgers have to back up their claims?"

"That's our next item to be discussed," Gathering up a stack of police reports, Marsha handed the first one to Jason; he looked it over as she said; "That's from nineteen fifty four. According to Constable Norfred Fry of the East End RCMP Detachment, on a bright, sunny day at two o'clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, a strange, inhuman creature; described as 'a bipedal manatee' chose to take a stroll down the middle of West Cordova Street. A little while after that, a group of government officials ordered the area to be cordoned off. One of them looked the splitting image to present director, Captain Billington."

Marsha showed Jason a black and white photo of a dead creature which lay at the feet of a handsome man looking to be in his mid-thirties. In the background, Jason could pick out the iconic Water Front Station; and in the foreground, several nineteen fifties era vehicles could be

seen taking their place along the curve of the road. As to the dead creature, it looked as though

some psycho had placed a leather tunic on a beached sea mammal; and then shot a bullet through

the area analogous to a man's forehead. It brought to mind tales Jason had heard, of medieval

charlatans doing bizarre things with animals, making them appear to be Unicorns or Mermaids. When all was said and done, the Manatee was said to be one explanation for ancient mariner's tales of Mermaid sightings. Of course, the animals did not have feet like Humans, nor would they be able to survive for long on land.

Marsha placed the recently taken photo of Captain Billington right next to the older photo for comparison. Peering at the photos in confusion, Jason said; "It's the same guy. No, it can't be; too much time has passed. This isn't right. What's going on, Marsha?"

"It's the same man, Jason. The same man, fifty nine years later. But he's only aged about a decade and a half. Is he an alien with an extremely long life span, or is it time travel? You be the judge of that. Which do you think it is Jason?"

Stunned, the implications to this enormous, Jason said; "We've got aliens in the government."

"Scary thought, eh? Hey, maybe not, perhaps he's a time traveller."

"I think I'll believe in aliens, before I'll believe he's popped in from the nineteen fifties, Marsha."

"Yeah, me as well Jason, but hey, if we've got proof of one alien, what's one more?"

"This guy's running a government agency, Marsha."

"Scary, at least he's doing good work; we can't fault him for that."

"What's this then?," Gesturing at the black and white image of the still creature that lay dead at the captain's feet; a pool of blood congealing beneath its head, the lack of colour making it all the odder, Jason said; "That's not what 'good work' looks like to me, Marsha."

"He doesn't look happy about the creature's death either Jason. Not to mention this pertinent piece of information." Retrieving the police report from Jason's hands, Marsha began to read from it; "Officer Fry reports the group proceeded to get into an argument over the fate of the creature. The Hispanic fellow had been attempting to communicate with it; his betters demanding he shoot it right away. Refusing to execute it, Commander Bertram Russell forced his hand by holding a rifle to the fellow's temple. Forced to do the unthinkable, the fellow quickly shot five consecutive bullets point blank, directly into the creature's brain."

"Poor guy."

"Poor dead creature," Pensive, Marsha added; "It's sad to think these sorts of things were going on right here in Canada as late as the nineteen fifties. There's something about the military that seems to destroy the ability to be merciful. It's state sanctioned murder; and society will never move forwards until our species gets a handle on that; evolve past the willingness to kill others of our own kind. In this particular case, it wasn't another Human, so it's a little different. But if it was an alien, it was clearly a sentient being."

Jason listened for a moment to the news broadcast which had come onto the shop radio, as talk of the upcoming Leadership Convention soon to be held in the city was barely discernable over the loud racket of the other customers. His mind was somewhere else though, devising a hypothesis on his own variable psychology. After a moment, realizing he'd been staring off into

space for quite a while Jason told Marsha; "Sorry. You know, I've read a lot of Biological

Anthropology textbooks; there was a lot of information about Humanity's similarity to other

primates, how killing members of one's own species really is an aberrant trait in our cousins. If a

chimpanzee goes on a killing spree of other chimps, it's really abnormal. So our penchant for war truly is psychotic."

"I think it's because there's become too many of us, and there's such an over population that fighting is our instinctive reaction as means to thin the herd."

"Sure, but Humanity has been killing one another off even when our population was merely in the millions, so that can't be all it is."

"You know how we'll know the answer to that? One day, hundreds or thousands of years from now, when we begin creating colonies on distant planets; we can wait for the population to naturally increase over the generations, and see how many people it takes for violence to begin

breaking out. Then we'll know how low the Human population is meant to be."

Sighing, placing his hands together behind his head as he leaned back against the wooden chair, Jason said; "Well that does us no good now, does it?"

Peering down at the police report she had before her, Marsha began reading from where she'd last left off; "The officer goes on to describe how he stood back and observed the group as they lifted the dead creature into their vehicle, which he claims was wearing some sort of weather beaten leather tunic, saying that 'The executioner was like a dead man, the light had gone out of his eyes, and there appeared to be no one home'."

"I know the feeling."

"The others apparently had to do all the heavy lifting themselves, as their underling stood there in the middle of the street, off in his own little world. They'd pulled him over to the vehicle, basically shoving him into the back seat once they were done; so torn up was the fellow. The second report is from just after the turn of the millennium." Marsha flipped through to the next police report, after returning the other one to its place in the portfolio. She found a photo of Captain Billington pulling up to an accident scene in a nineteen sixty seven orange Roadster; once again placing the most recent image of the director to the side. The man barely seemed to have aged at all. The photo looked more like it had been taken perhaps three years ago, not more than a decade past. The one big difference Jason could see was in the man's weight. The captain had put on quite a sizable amount of bulk over the past thirteen years.

Gesturing to the second image, Jason said; "It looks like responsibility clearly does not agree with him. Captain Hottie has morphed into Captain Lardy."

"Be nice now, Jason. Who knows how old this guy really is."

"Or where he's from."

"That'll be your job. We need to know what this guy's story is; I bet it'll be a beauty. Getting back to the topic at hand, this report details the events of an accident scene occurring at the corner of East Hastings and Main. Beat Cop Rick Solomon of the Down Town East End RCMP Detachment was there in attendance, after a woman was sideswiped by a passing car. She apparently just ran into the middle of the road. Thankfully, she managed to survive relatively unscathed."

"Thank God for small mercies."

"Quite; giving her report to the paramedics, the woman stated 'she'd stopped to offer her assistance to a sick man she'd found, literally lying in the gutter.' So horrified by the man's emaciated, inhuman features was she, it sent her running and screaming in terror right out into the street, where she'd been struck by a passing car."

"God."

"The report goes on to state that the unfortunate individual spotted lying prone in the gutter was suffering from both a case of massive malnourishment, as well as a serious case of withdrawal sickness from an addictive substance. Beat Cop Rick Solomon describes the man as 'huddled in a dirty grey sweatshirt, his arms shaking from the cold, from the withdrawal sickness of whatever demon of the streets had him in its grips or perhaps the hunger'. He goes on to say; 'I will never know for sure what ailed him, but I do know one thing for sure. There was something not right about this wretched creature giving cause to this woman's injury. There was something otherworldly about this shivering fool; I had a feeling I knew of someone very much interested in this particular specimen of outer space refuse. Without further ado, I put a call in to our esteemed local CPB operatives, awaiting their arrival'."

"I'd hate to see how this cop would have described me a few years back. Heck, I'd hate to see how he'd describe me now. My present activities aren't always all that respectful."

"Don't die Jason; then you won't have to worry about cops talking disrespectfully about you, problem solved!"

"That's real funny. You've got a real biting wit to you, don't you Bradshaw? But, I don't even mean that. Once you've got yourself a record, and spent time inside, the cops will always continue to watch you like a hawk. They've got their beady little eyes on you. They might as well have eyes in the back of their heads. It's eyes in the skies, man."

"Come off it, Jason! I think you're being a wee bit paranoid, don't you think?"

Jason smiled a dangerous smile, it was the sort of smile promising dangers to be found up ahead, if one weren't careful, saying; "Is that it?"

"There's more. The Officer continues with 'Moments later, as Captain Billington stepped out of his orange Roadster; Doctor Desmoire in tow, the first thought I had was that the vehicle was a rather ostentatious choice for use on the job. But what do I know? I'm just a beat cop, not a highly respected captain heading an elite provincial research organization. If the man wants to zoom around the city in a ridiculously ostentatious orange Roadster, making a spectacle of himself, who am I to make snap judgments?'" Jason chortled as Marsha shushed him, continuing with; "'However, in my humble opinion, it's rather rich for a man who by all reports, has made it his stated ambition to 'cut away the fat from the CPB's bloated budget'; to show up in the poorest neighbourhood in the city, driving a nineteen sixty seven Roadster. But that's just my humble opinion'."

Eyeing the corpulent man in the picture, Jason said; "I see where the fat went."

"Jason, that's enough!"

Jason looked contritely down at his lap, saying, "Sorry." Unable to hold onto this false façade for long, he quickly burst into chortling laughter, saying; "I'm sorry, I know I'm a tad immature for my age, but sometimes I just can't help it." Marsha gave him a long look in response, causing Jason to turn away, facing away from her in his seat, drinking his coffee in silence.

Weary of Jason's antics, Marsha said; "Come on Jason, we've got business to get too. We don't have time to waste on your Prima Donna act." Pouting, Jason turned back to face her, and she said; "Good boy."

Gracing her with a little boy smile, Jason said; "What happened with the junkie, was he even an alien, or merely someone with a facial deformity?"

Checking the report, Marsha said; "It doesn't say, just that the two men from the CPB did their best to make the man comfortable, carrying him over to the Roadster; driving off after placing him on the back seat. Then we have this." Marsha placed a financial spreadsheet in front of him.

"What's this?"

Placing a manicured fingertip atop the spreadsheet, Marsha said; "This is a cost analysis breakdown of the funding going into the bureau. You'll notice here, and here." Jason looked to where she was pointing, clearly delineated by the boldly marked, 'Ottawa Holding Facility'. "This is something we should look into."

Reading through the list of items listed underneath the previous heading, Jason asked; "What is the Ottawa Holding Facility?"

"I have no idea."

Skimming through the entries designated, 'Residents', 'Medical', 'Food Services', 'Therapeutic Rehabilitation' and 'Leisure Services', Jason said; "It's clearly some sort of prison; I know prisons."

"There is that," Retrieving the spreadsheet from Jason with a knowing look; Marsha placed it back inside her portfolio, closing the clasp as she said; "I guess we are pretty much done with the basics." Leaning in close, Marsha said; "Let's talk specifics, you're going to need a reason for getting in contact with Miss Longfellow. You brought up several issues on your application you told us you'd like help with; issues surrounding your identity as well as a dependence on alcohol. It seems your real problem is getting access to talk therapy you can afford." Jason nodded in silent agreement. Taking a sip of coffee, Marsha asked; "This other person you become, her name's Jacquelyn right?" Jason nodded, Marsha asking; "Can you tell me a bit about her Jason, if you don't mind?"

Smiling sadly, Jason said; "Jacquelyn sees herself as a woman mostly into other women. Unfortunately, she likes men just enough to be willing to use our body to provide a service to

paying customers. I hate it, I really do." Jason bowed his head in mournful contemplation.

"We'll get you straightened out Jason, don't you worry, no pun intended."

"Of course," Jason's next words were quietly subdued and full of shame, saying; "Normally I'm out for the count while Jacquelyn's busy entertaining a client in our home. But sometimes I'll find myself suddenly slammed back into executive control of the body, and I'll be left there having to go along with it; give the trick what he's paid for. The client's paid good money for my system's services; far be it from me to disappoint."

"I'm so sorry Jason."

"It's nice to finally have someone to talk to about this, I'm grateful Marsha; really."

"I'm glad I can help."

"I've got to find a way to put a stop to all this Marsha, it's getting worse all the time. Jacquelyn wants the body to reflect the fact she's a woman. She wants the breasts and the hips, the soft skin and the smell of a woman."

"How does a woman smell, Jason?"

Grinning like a predatory shark descending quickly on its next meal, Jason said; "Come here Marsha and I'll tell ya." Marsha pushed Jason gently away as Jason added; "I've got to tell you Marsha, I'm scared, I really am. I don't want any of this. Jacquelyn's stronger than me, and if I'm not careful, I could find myself blacking out for months, only to come back to find she's started us on the transition process. I've got to find a way to nip this thing in the bud, once and

for all. It's my last chance, Marsha."

"That's why I believe you are a great fit for this position Jason, and I believe in you. I believe you can get better, and you can rein in this other part of you; get Jacquelyn the help she so urgently needs, so she'll no longer feel the need to prostitute herself. You'll manage to get her

to start working with you, not against you; she'll see there are good things about life, you'll see."

Handing Jason a business card, Marsha said; "Here's the direct line to Miss Longfellow's business number; if you could call to make an appointment with her as soon as possible, that'll

get the ball rolling; both on the investigation end, as well as the treatment front."

Checking the front of the card; Jason saw that the letters 'CPB' were in bold, the name 'Brittany Longfellow' followed by her phone number, below, and he said; "Alright."

"Then, if you could contact us before you go meet up with her face to face? We'll have some paperwork for you to sign, as well as some electronic tech you'll need to find a way to place unobtrusively onto Miss Longfellow's person."

"You mean like a bug?"

"That's right, it'll pick up both audio and visual. Just stick it onto the back of her coat or something; she won't even know it's there."

"Cool, I'm liking this plan more and more."

Standing to gather her things, Marsha said; "It was good meeting you Jason." Extending a hand; Jason shook it.

Giving her a wink, Jason said, "Likewise, good to meet you Marsha."

Stopping in her tracks, Marsha told him; "Remember; call as soon as you are able." Smiling; Jason graced her with a mock salute as Marsha, stood as still as a statue, seemed to come to the realization she'd forgotten an item of great import. Waiting for her to go on, Jason gestured as she said; "Oh before I forget, I have some items for you to look through, when you have the time."

"Oh?," Retrieving a handful of Xeroxed copies of government records from her black leather carrying case; Marsha handed them to Jason to read. Glancing down at the printouts, Jason glanced back up at Marsha, asking; "What's this?" The top sheet had the name 'Doctor Reginald Desmoire' at the top of a write up on the aforesaid man, as well as a small, online icon sized, head shot of him at the top left hand corner of the sheet.

"Those are the public records for the city based hiring's at the bureau for the past ten years. That should tell you all the basics for the people you'll be getting to know."

Quickly glancing once more at the top sheet, then back up at her, Jason said; "Okay."

"Oh, and Jason?"

"Yes?"

Smiling pleasantly, Marsha said; "I believe in you." Satisfied she'd said all she needed to say, Marsha turned around and walked right out of the coffee shop.

Jason watched her go, and off she went, getting into a parked car near the curb. It was white, and if Jason were not mistaken, a Honda Civic of an unknown year. Drinking the tail end of his coffee, he numbly watched the car zoom off. Once she was gone, he started in on his readings of the company bios, endeavouring to learn just what made these people tick.

# CHAPTER FOUR

Concluding his readings of the public records, taking in a deep refreshing breath of the cool, coastal air, Jason exited the café'. A cool autumn breeze blew leaves from nearby trees coated in their autumn shades of orange and yellow. Glancing over his shoulder across the square; Jason gazed towards the mock coliseum style building housing the Central Library.

Ahead lay the IGA Market where Jason liked to buy his groceries, to the right, he could see the Cambie Street bridge; the Science World dome reaching high above it, sat on the old Expo 86 grounds. Jason had been only a year old when the exposition came to town; he hadn't had the chance to personally experience the extravaganza first hand. His older brothers told him all about it, describing in great detail the 3D IMAX images of Canadian Geese flying high above viewers' heads inside the theatre, as well as the Colour Wars clip of the four major shades of the palette; a clear metaphor for Human diversity in action, even if there were no such thing as a blue skinned Human. Jason remembered his eldest brother telling him how he'd gazed in rapture at the glass enclosed mummy of the Pharaoh Ramses, he didn't know which one; falling forwards to accidentally kiss the glass. One thing Jason could say about his brother, he'd given the dead ruler his due. Jason would love to have seen that.

Passing by the newspaper dispensers by the edge of the road, Jason gazed out at the early morning flow of rush hour traffic, headed towards the financial district to the southwest. An

oversized semi-trailer rumbled past, it's tailpipe dragging noisily along the pavement. Wincing,

Jason wrinkled up his nose at the stench of exhaust fumes released; dark hair caught up in a light

breeze; the scent of the Pacific Ocean travelling far inland, on the crisp, urban air. The shoreline

was only a few blocks away. The headline gracing the cover of the newspaper in front of him

catching his interest, Jason dropped a coin in the newspaper dispenser, purchasing a copy of the

day's 'Vancouver Province'. Continuing on his way, Jason passed an elderly woman out for a

walk with her tiny, fluffy white dog; granting Jason a friendly smile before heading off in the

opposite direction.

Returning the smile with a friendly greeting of his own, Jason said; "Nice day, isn't it ma'am?"

Heading southwest, among the tall buildings of midtown Gas Town, Jason found his path temporary blocked by a greedy crow; swooping down to peck at an empty Subway Sandwich

wrapper. Jason stood for a moment, watching the urban scavenger peck at the wrapper with an

amused grin. Deducing that the bird had absolutely no intention of moving along any time soon,

Jason gestured at it, saying; "Get out of here, you furry blighter." Despite Jason's command, the

crow did not appear to care what the silly Human thought of his morning pursuits. Sighing, Jason

gave up on this fruitless pursuit; walking around the tiny, black creature. Waving crazily at no one in particular, he said; "Adios, my furry amigo!"

On Jason walked, headed nowhere in particular, the thought of perhaps quenching his craving for a beer foremost on his mind. Darn Luke and his incorrigible unwillingness to stay sober. Alcohol had been Jason's solace from the world; ever since the age of fifteen, when he'd realized the occasional drink would appear to take all his troubles away. Upon entering the criminal justice system as a felon, Jason made a concerted effort to go dry. He'd managed to stick to his resolution for a good long three years, until Luke managed to sabotage them all. While Jason made a concerted effort to attend the occasional AA meeting throughout the last six years, Luke had no interest in giving up his crutch. If they ever wanted to get their life under control, they'd have to begin working together for the benefit of the common good. Those of them whom had the power, needed to step up to the plate, stop thinking only of themselves, and do the right thing for the community making up their collective being.

Heading towards the heart of Historic Gas Town, Jason passed West Hastings; continuing down Richards Street. The surrounding area always made Jason feel as though he'd fallen through a time warp into the very early part of the last century. Down the way, the green marble steam clock sounded its pips. The clock marked the spot once dead centre of the city's skid row during the mid-point of the last century. It was still a work in progress, even now more than four decades after the area had begun gentrification. With every decade that passed, the heart of the

city's pit of hell moved farther and farther east.

Now, thirty seven years further a field, as a much older and wiser, as well as a kinder Jason Bowen pondered the ways his life had once been; he knew the patch of land carrying the taint of hell would continue to be pushed further and further eastwards, until one day, perhaps centuries from now, it would be outside the present city limits. Throughout the city's history, skid row passed from Yale Town to Gas Town to the intersection of East Hastings and Main; and now, halfway through the twenty first century, the hell zone was centred at East Hastings and Commercial Drive. His son Ben did the best he could to help the street kids finding their ways

down there; the children that fell through the cracks; unwanted by all but street gangs and pimps.

It was a losing battle; there would always be children that were mistreated and unloved, born to

parents who were reprobates down to their very souls. That was the problem with free will,

individuals could choose to be cruel, despite everything.

Back then, close to four decades earlier, the darkness grabbing a stranglehold of the five block radius centred on East Hastings and Main, still managed to send its dark tendrils out into the rest of the city. Over the last few years the neighbourhood surrounding Historic Gas Town played host to a mostly hidden to the general public, but well known to those in the know; brutal gang war. More than that, the area led people to desperate straits, plying their trade with the only thing

they owned- their own bodies. Young men and women could be found wearing revealing clothes,

trying to make a quick buck, both at night, as well as in broad daylight. Jason knew all too well

this side of life.

The block had been redesigned in decades past specifically to attract the millions of tourists lured to the portside city each year. One couldn't throw a pebble more than half a foot, without hitting the lens of someone's camera. The neighbourhood was a historian's dream. The architecture was designed in a glorious mosaic of the varying styles finding such prominence throughout the twentieth century, and perhaps just a tad into the early twenty first. Nineteen twenties black stonework intertwined seamlessly with the red brickwork of the nineteen seventies.

Across the street, The Harbour Centre, a modern shopping mall, was positioned directly off the walkway. A city transit bus pulled up to the stop at the corner; a crowd of commuters waiting impatiently. Across the road from The Harbour Centre was the Water Front Station. Originally built in nineteen ten for use by the Canadian Pacific rail line; it was now primarily in use as a Sky Train terminal; its neoclassical architectural style lending the area a sense of Edwardian class. Across a pay parking lot overlooking the brilliant blue waters of the Pacific Ocean was the Steam Works Brewery and Restaurant. Despite its historic appearance, it had in fact only opened in nineteen ninety five. Jason adored the eatery's stuffed crab mushroom appetizer, um hmm.

The neighbourhood was the very definition of class integration. Intermixed with million dollar condos set above guarded underground parking facilities were the very last government owned single room occupancy hotels. To those living in the surrounding area, the local homeless population maintained a soothing balm of familiarity. Walking down these streets, the same

individuals could be found staking out their small piece of pavement, day after day, evening after evening. There was the long haired fellow with the gorgeous brown hair, his sick old dog spending all his time sleeping; like sentries, the pair sat constant watch over the Water Front Station, man and dog's inner beauty shone out for all to see. This was not just Jason's opinion; many a kind hearted stranger took time out from their busy day, or part of an evening, to sit with the man; keeping him company. Two men blew bagpipes at deafening levels, quite nearby. The jury was still out whether their music was beautifully stunning, or just a lot of loud racket. Jason was of the former opinion, but many a business man heading home from an exhausting day at the office was known to complain about the noise. There was the man who slept beneath the Granville Square overpass, the green marble plaque announcing to the world- 'Welcome to Historic Gas Town'. A little further down, outside the Starbucks across from the steam clock, sat an artist revering Davinci; painting his version of the Mona Lisa day after day. There was a thin line between genius and madness; those with a creative eye falling all the more further along that line. Close by, stood a busker with a guitar; although his talent with the musical instrument could not be surpassed, his voice had much to be desired.

There was such beauty to be found even in the worst of situations. Even the addicts had their own sense of inner beauty, hidden beneath the sickness and the horror of the injury they caused to their bodies on a daily basis. The container housing their souls may be battered and bruised, but inside their essence remained untouched and pure as the day they were born. The life path of those souls choosing the lessons of addiction, had to be one of the hardest paths to choose. Jason knew some of this to be true, for he knew deep down in his very soul; his own path was full of twists and turns. Temptations lay along the garden path throughout Jason's life, criminal acts he'd once taken too far, compounded by his love for the bottle, all in an attempt to squash once and for all, all those hidden secrets he fought so hard to ignore.

Soon, despite his best intentions Jason found himself propelled through the door of a low class public house, kitty corner to Richards and historic West Cordova Street. It was out of his control; Luke was up to his old tricks; and for once Jason just wished he had the luxury to be his own man; the others were truly driving him around the bend. Still maintaining executive control of the body; Luke took control of the motor functions, impelling Jason to simply go with the flow.

As Jason headed up to the bar, the greasy haired bartender looked up at his latest paying customer, saying to Jason; "What can I get for you sir?"

Taking a seat at the bar, Jason said; "Give me a light Mint Pina Colada, with a lemon wedge." He smiled sadly at the bartender, whom returned the smile.

"You've got it! That'll be one light Mint Pina Colada with a lemon wedge coming up; I'll have that ready for you in one moment sir." Jason gave him a mock salute, the bartender chuckling good-naturedly; returning with Jason's drink a moment later, saying; "Here you go sir; if there's anything else you need, anything at all, I'll be happy to provide it."

Jason nodded, a little uneasy in the man's presence, saying; "Right."

Jason took a moment to look around the pub. This was just the place that Jacquelyn would thrive in. Here, with the walls plastered with old posters for cabaret acts, and a notice board announcing the weekly transgender support group at the Three Bridges Medical Clinic; not to mention the two men kissing in the far corner, this was certainly a place where Jacquelyn would be in her element.

A moment later, a friendly voice called out; "Jackie baby, nice to see you, sexy girl."

Jason turned and squinted in the dark room; the alcohol beginning to dull his senses. Coming towards him was a slim but muscular, tattooed man of average height. His head was shaven, and he was perhaps just a few years older than Jason. Giving the man a nod, Jason said; "How's it going?" As Jacquelyn whispered the man's name in Jason's inner ear, Jason quickly added; "Mike."

Taking a seat next to Jason, Mike gave him an odd look, clearly confused by his sudden change in demeanour from the one he was more used to getting from Jacquelyn, saying; "Are you working baby girl? I thought maybe the two of us could have a bit of mid-morning fun, are you up for it?" Mike placed a friendly hand on Jason's left bicep.

Carefully removing the man's hand from his shoulder, Jason feigned disappointment, saying; "I'm going to have to take a rain check on that offer for the time being Mike. I'm moving up in the world, I'm on the fast track to a better life."

Mike chuckled, asking; "How drunk are you Jacquelyn?"

Jason raised a brow, saying; "Less than you'd think."

Laughing, Mike stood, saying; "It was good seeing you Jacquelyn, maybe another time eh?"

Nodding, Jason watched Mike turn on his heels and head towards the back of the pub where a pool table had been set up; a few of his friends standing around it. Zoning off, Jason took another look around the pub. Mike was in the corner, playing pool with a couple of biker chicks and their bearded tough guy boyfriends. A gaggle of Indo-Canadian and South East Asian men and women came and plopped themselves down in front of the far end of the bar.

Catching the eye of a pretty Japanese waitress busy scrubbing down a nearby table; taking a large gulp of his drink in order to gather some liquid courage; Jason headed across the pub to her side, saying; "Hey there sweet thing, I'm Jason." Jason gave the pretty little thing a wink.

Continuing to wash down the table, she gave Jason the brush off with a classic 'hands off, buster' expression, much to Jason's great disappointment, saying; "I'm Narisse, and I'm working."

"Sorry," Heading back to the bar, Jason took a seat, wishing a black hole would see fit to open up right then and there; swallowing him whole. Ducking his head, Jason looked back covertly at Narisse as she continued to work. Smiling shyly, he wondered what he'd have to do in order to woo a sweet honey like that.

A shout came from the end of the bar. The group of men and women sat there were chugging down shots of Scotch; chanting; "Chug, chug, chug, yes!" Jason turned to watch them.

"Now you go," One of the men handed a half full shot glass to a woman. Taking it in hand, she downed it all in one go.

"Wooo!"

With that, Randall, one of Jason's more responsible aspects, gave him a nudge, saying; "Time to get a move on, Jason my lad. Let's go, get up." Stepping away from the bar, Jason took one last glance over at pretty Narisse; walking out of the public house. Whispering in Jason's ear, Randall said; "Good boy."

With Randall nipping at his heels like a dog on a leash, Jason began to head home. Lost in his thoughts, time seemed to pass him by, and Jason soon found himself heading down West Pender Street, in the heart of China Town. Suddenly, the quiet was broken by the loudly shouted derogative; "Faggot!"

Spinning in shock and anger, and just a bit of fear, he was suddenly drenched in ice cold root beer; a car full of hooligans shouting the dreaded derogative at him, out a passing car. The now empty can that hit Jason across the side of the head, came to rest on the pavement beside him. One of the youths in the back seat; looking to be around eighteen or nineteen years of age;

whistled, saying, "That's going to leave a bruise." Pouting at the continuing catcalls, Jason

waited for the vehicle's inhabitants to grow bored of the game; speeding off from the scene of the crime a moment later.

The assault was enough to bring Patrick out of hiding, muttering; "Little fuckers, God!"

The three of them, Jason, Randall and Patrick stood together; Jason in the executive seat, Randall to his right and Patrick to his left; a triumvirate of seething anger. Placing a calming hand on Jason's shoulder, Randall guided him past the offending soda can, saying; "Come on;

forget about it, let's go."

The stationary object was too much temptation for Patrick; always a bit of a hot head. Kicking out hard with one leg, Patrick sent the empty can of root beer rolling down the street; coming to a sudden stop after rebounding off a tire of a parked police car. Giggling nervously, Patrick placed a hand over his mouth, saying, "Oops!"

Awarding him with a death glare, managing to make Patrick giggle all the more, Randall said; "Sometimes you act like such a child."

"I know! Isn't it fun?," Jason chortled at Patrick's response, leaving Randall no other option but to roll his eyes; Patrick muttering; "Come on now Randall, don't be such a stick in the mud."

Grinning, enjoying the entertainment the pair provided him; inside his head, Jason took hold of the both of them by the shoulders, squeezing them affectionately, saying; "I wouldn't trade this for the world."

"Fair point, although," Moving in close to speak quietly in Jason's ear, Randall said; "We've got to do something about Jacquelyn; it's not right what she's been putting us through."

"You've got that right, the bitch is going down," As Jason and Randall gave Patrick the stink eye, he just looked at the pair, not understanding the problem, saying; "What?"

Chuckling, grinning wryly at Patrick's naive misogyny, Jason said; "Crack open a textbook one of these days, Patrick. You might learn something."

Huffing in indignation, Patrick headed back inside to his humble abode where he lived a false suburban life in their mind's recreation of Middleton, Wisconsin, with his wife Angie, and his son, seventeen year old Cal. At least Angie never gave the lot of them the troubles Jacquelyn did. Patrick muttered, "You people are impossible."

Back home, in the recesses of their collective mind, Patrick made a somewhat respectful living as a successful mystery writer. His wife Angie worked from home, creating advertising copy for her employer in nearby Madison. Their son Cal enjoyed a balanced life of football, theatre, Student Council, as well as doing rather well on the academic front. He had plans to enter the political realm as part of a future career. Patrick was mighty proud of his boy and he couldn't be happier with what the three of them had created for themselves here. It was just too bad none of it truly existed on a more cohesive basis.

"Just don't let Angie hear you using that type of language Patrick. You'll be in divorce court quicker than you can say 'I'm a sexy hottie'."

Adding to Jason's missive, Randall said; "Or at least the dog house for the next week."

Jason laughed; Patrick waving their concerns away, as he stood in the driveway of his created home, saying; "Whatever."

Jason warned him, "Well okay; don't blame us when you find yourself up the creek, without any nookie."

As Patrick once again disappeared into the recesses of their shared mind, the reins were handed over to just Jason and Randall. Wrapping a friendly arm around Jason's shoulder, looking him in the eye, Randall attempted to cheer him up with; "So good buddy, let's get you home and cleaned off."

Determined to forget all about the events of the last little while, Jason said; "Sure thing."

Incidents such as this made Jason want to run and hide in his own little world. Run and hide; never to come out. He'd run and run and run; never stopping. He'd keep on running, just for the thrill of it, because he could. Because the mind was deep and never ending, like the dark abyss of space; and in his own head, he could explore the endless unknown without end.

Walking past a Korean restaurant, the tangy scent of egg noodles hitting his nose, he caught sight of a wanted poster for a scam artist on the lam. Sighing, Jason felt the guilt of remembrances past. That had once been him, in his younger days. 'Con man extraordinaire', he'd likened himself. What a fool he'd been; look where it landed him, into the Agassiz Correctional Facility, three years of hell. This deal Jason made with Marsha was his ticket out of the sex trade. If he could show Jacquelyn a better way of making a living, where they could help people, and perhaps make a difference in the world, perhaps that would be enough to get her to pull her head out of her ass long enough to stop servicing men. He darn well hoped so; because he didn't know how much more of this he could take. Jason hadn't had a girlfriend in years; he never knew what to say when they always inevitably discovered he was involved in the sex trade. It wasn't just him he needed to worry about; there were all the others in here as well. None of them wanted the sort of life Jacquelyn forced them to lead; they were all searching for their own way out.

# CHAPTER FIVE

Strolling confidently into the private lounge of the Commonwealth Protection Bureau housed in the southwest corner of the chemistry building of the University of British Columbia's Point Grey Campus on the endowment lands; Captain Cole Jacob Billington of the Canadian Navy grinned. The Garconer transplant was a long ways away from home. With a bioengineered projected lifespan of around three centuries, the interior director to the West Coast Division of

the CPB had already used up two thirds of that lifespan. Falling through time and through space,

Cole had been trapped on Earth, in his society's distant past, since eighteen seventy.

Cole could remember the day he'd been whisked out of his comfortable life he'd been living in the first quarter of the fifty second century, as though it were yesterday. At sixty years of age, his Garconer physiology gave him the appearance of a twenty year old Human male. His partner of four decades, Horatio Domini was Human, and he was aging gracefully. He may have aged four decades past what he'd once been, but he would always be glorious in Cole's eyes. That day on Incuba Five, the distant planet the pair called home for years on end; Cole headed into the city centre of the planetary capital, its name the Incubi translation for 'Unity'. Waking early that morning, just after sunrise, Cole immediately set out to purchase something extra special for his honey. Horatio hit his sixth decade of life the previous evening and he was feeling a tad down in the dumps about that fact. So Cole set out to do something about it. The morning was balmy; it always was in the city of Unity. The planet was an odd one for biological life, its environment of mostly desert landmasses forced its three primary sentient species to evolve a digestive system that did not rely primarily on the ingestion of other plants and animals.

It was cooler in the core of Unity then on its outskirts. Built amidst a cool oases in the far southeast corner of the East Coast Desert, the city core was busiest in the mornings, before the

heat of the afternoon sent its citizens indoors or underground to get out of the waves of heat

pouring in from the surrounding desert. About a hundred miles to the east, the continent of

Equanimity; half the size of North America; met up with the Danzig Sea. This, as well as other

steam heated bodies of water; it's natural volcanic vents keeping the water as warm as a warm

and relaxing bath; was where ninety percent of the planet's lower life forms made their home.

From here, a series of overland, intermixed with underground streams made their winding ways

inland towards the city of Unity, as well as the other, sparsely placed oases; dotting the

surrounding landscape.

The city was renowned for its underground grottos built out of the prehistoric caverns in which much of the water from the trickling springs eventually ended up. This produced warm pools of water, interspersed with plenty of dry granite, packed with nutrient rich soil fallen from the surface above; the occasional sinkhole allowing the sunshine to nourish the small, wispy trees growing near the waters' edge. Over time, the evolving Incubi, a once closely knit tribe making the oases their home; discovered the miles of underground caverns winding their ways through the centre of the place to one day be known as the city of Unity; would make a perfect underground home.

Over the passing eons, time would see the once peaceful, united tribe evolve into three separate but related species. This led to various disputes. The differences brought about by the forces of evolution were so immense, only a molecular comparison test would determine the truth. Two of the three species once united in common cause, took control of their new society, resolving to toughen it out on the surface of the planet. Becoming the leaders and policy makers, the Incubi of import; the Hominids and Senators left the Grotto Dwellers to pick up the scraps from what their Over-Lander cousins left behind. Over time the Incubi making their homes down in the grottos had been reduced to a slave caste, existing only for the pleasure and comfort of the Over-Landers. The Senators controlling the developing society above, took control of the grottos, converting the natural pools into Incubi made bathing facilities. All manner of debauchery was known to be indulged in in the hidden nooks and crannies of the converted showers and saunas of the underground.

This unfortunate state of systemic inequality eventually came to an end when a mysterious stranger arrived on the scene. Legend told of a man from the future, from a planet called Earth. At the time, the native populations didn't know anything at all about Earth, or anything else about the rest of the universe. At the time of his arrival, this citizen of Earth was saved from the grips of death from the elements just outside the city; taken to the nearest grotto, where the inhabitants offered him their hospitality. According to the legend, the man left his home in the early twenty first century; finding himself two millennia in the past. Being a writer, he'd found new meaning in this new society. He'd found himself amidst a world of immense change, as a new order was about to be created from the old. This man, this Human who spoke in strange ways, who had strange tales to regale his listeners with; he became the Josephus to Unity's slave

uprisings. As Josephus told of Rome's troubles, this man from another world told of Unity's

revolution. Five thousand years later, first year university students throughout the galaxy would

still be reading of the boy named Charn, whom led his people to victory. Deep beneath the ground, hidden in a grotto on the edge of the city, a young, seventeen year old Comfort Boy once

led a revolution to bring equality to his people.

Five millennia later, the same underground grottos remained, partly as bullet train stations, partly as shelter for those needing it, and partly as a historic reminder of how society had once been. Near the entrance to one of the major grottos, the city on the surface was rather reminiscent of twenty first century Vancouver. Across the street, a row of shops of all sorts lined the road. Opposite that, a vast and lovely park was laid out, the offices of the City Senate reaching high above. It was here where a space time anomaly whipped up so suddenly in a fraction of a second from the depths of creation, too quick for Cole to realize what was happening. It was too quick to make a run for it, and it was too quick for Cole to call out for help.

A much older Cole Billington entered his base of operations for the day, glancing towards the small, high window, set above the decades old, battered green couch against the far wall. A light rain began to descend, sliding down the outside of the window pane. Walking over to the coat rack, Cole removed his green naval jacket, placing it atop the rack. To Cole's right sat a long wooden meeting table with a fair number of black chairs set around it; and beyond that, there was a counter top with a Coffee Mate machine, a sink and a microwave set against the wall. At the opposite end of the lounge, another door led down a single step, into the main working area of the base. In the corner, between the second door and the counter, a printer was set up.

Heading over to the Espresso Maker, Cole proceeded to pour himself a rich and creamy, Ecuadorian Roast; the CPB's head medical officer, Doctor Bailey O' Bannion strolling on past,

saying; "Morning, Captain."  
Giving his medical officer a respectful wave as he continued on, Cole greeted him with; "Doctor."

The CPB had been up and running since it's very inception more than a century ago by the provincial government way back in nineteen ten. The dedication of the newly minted provincial university had been the perfect front for the creation of an underground military organization set up for the sole purpose of protecting the public from ultra-terrestrial forces. For the first decade or so while the organization was in existence, when the university had been located in the heart of the city, the base maintained a small building on the endowment lands, carefully hidden from prying eyes by a copse of trees. This secluded space had been perfect for the exploration into the unknown. Once the chemistry building had been ready for construction in the early nineteen twenties, the original base had been seamlessly interwoven into the new foundation. None of the students in attendance in the classrooms down the hall had been any the wiser that there was a secret government agency hard at work in their midst.  
As stewards of the Time Winds it was the CPB's, with Cole's present leadership; sacred duty to stand guard over the shifting gravity streams of unstable space-time particles. All manner of people and objects, at one time or another, found themselves in a new land, perhaps a new time. That day so very long ago when Cole fell through time and through space, he'd found himself stranded in Bellingham, Washington; his golden complexion and hair the colour of midnight setting him off as an outsider in a mostly white world.

Over the span of the next forty years, Cole made a new life for himself down in America in Fort Worth, Texas. Spotting an ad for a dispute mediator posted in the Galveston Daily News three years after he'd fallen through time, Cole headed into Fort Worth to apply for the job. His years of experience as peacemaker with the Council of the Galactic Alliance in London shone through, making him the perfect fit for the job.

A few months later, Cole came across a beautiful Mexican girl named Carmina. At twenty years of age, her father was desperate to find a worthwhile suitor for her, and Cole was just the ticket. Carmina had been working the front counter of her father's dry goods shop, trying to pass the time under the sweltering heat of a Texas Summer when in strolled Cole, looking to purchase some essentials. The rest, as they say, is history.

One thing led to another, and two years later, in eighteen seventy five, shortly after a quick wedding, Carmina gave birth to the pair's eldest son Jack. Five years later, along came their daughter Emelia, and five years after that, it was their youngest and final child, Emelio. Cole doted on them all; teaching them about his otherworldly heritage, trying to pass along his core beliefs about creating true peace. His youngest Emelio would always be his father's son; following in Cole's footsteps, trying to make the world a better place. The same couldn't be said for Cole's eldest son Jack; the consummate soldier, dying in combat in nineteen fifteen. His daughter Emelia had the typical American life, unusual only in her expected lifespan of two centuries.

Taking a job with the bureau in nineteen hundred and eight had left Cole's family feeling betrayed, like being American wasn't good enough for him, he'd rather be Canadian. Nationality hadn't a thing to do with it; it just so happened the Commonwealth Protection Bureau was a Canadian designed affair, and when Cole had been asked if he'd be interested in joining the project in order to provide his own non terrestrial perspective to the project, he'd jumped at the chance. Besides, his relationship with Carmina had begun to unravel at the seams. They'd been together for thirty seven years, and while Cole looked to be around twenty five years of age, his dear Carmina, at age fifty seven, had grown bitter at her husband's youth. Cole tried his best but it was hard to stay with a woman who'd begun to begrudge him his extended youth.

Cole built his reputation through the tail end of the nineteenth century on bringing the unlikeliest of foes together to the negotiating table; from bitter family feuds in Fort Worth, to the resolution of the Spanish-American war over in Cuba. Over time, Cole's bizarre extended youth began to become a point of conversation amongst the military brass across the continent, and when the Canadians hit on the truth that he was from another world, they'd offered him a position with the bureau.

Arriving in Vancouver in nineteen hundred and eight, two years before the base headquarters were finally finished being constructed; Cole spent the intervening years working two jobs along the edge of Burrard Inlet; working to save up for a down payment for a home, as well as setting aside some cash to send to Carmina down in Texas. In the early mornings, he'd work a tough shift loading cargo down at the docks; in the early evenings, he'd serve drinks to his fellow longshoremen at one of the best saloons in the region.

In nineteen ten the base was finally up and running and Cole joined up with the newly created Naval Services of Canada, becoming known as the Royal Canadian Navy a year later in nineteen eleven. It maintained this designation until nineteen sixty eight when it took on the title of the Canadian Forces Maritime Command, or MARCOM for short. It kept this title until August of twenty eleven, when it became the RCN once more. Cole worked hard, keeping his nose to the grindstone, and in a few years time, he'd risen to the rank of Captain.

"Hey Cole, how've you been?"  
Turning in response to his friend and colleague, Constable Sera Rasmussen, Cole followed her down into the main room, responding with a warm greeting of his own, saying; "Morning Sera; did you and Gerald have fun at the theatre last night?"

Constable Rasmussen was on loan from the Point Grey RCMP Detachment. Her husband Gerald worked in the local film industry, where he was presently in charge of scheduling shot locations for a local television series production. Sera answered with, "It was lovely. Thanks so much for the tickets, Cole. It was very thoughtful of you to remember Gerald's birthday like that. He never expected it. He was extremely grateful."  
"Actually, you can thank Pete for that. He got the tickets from a developer he's recently taken on as a new client."  
"Tell him thanks."  
"You've got it."

Cole had been with his thirty seven year old partner Pete Roschilde for the last twelve years, eight of those connected via Common Law. The pair shared a two bedroom condo together in the classy, Coal Harbour neighbourhood, overlooking the waters of Burrard Inlet. One of the bedrooms had been converted into an art studio for the paintings Cole occasionally dabbled at, as well as a space for Pete to hone his writing talent. Although Pete had dreams of one day becoming a published author, for the time being, he made a rather respectable living designing environmentally sustainable industrial facilities. He'd worked his way up through the corporate ladder, at the top development firm in the city, and he now headed his own design team, at the corporate headquarters on Burrard.

The pair met at a top end men's clothing shop on Granville Street in two thousand and one. It had been lust at first sight, then extreme affection, and finally, onto pure and simple love. Unfortunately for Cole, Pete hadn't been all he'd appeared to be. He'd put on a show, trying to

lure Cole into his hidden web of deceit, winning his heart, not revealing the truth until it was far

too late. Beneath the public façade of a beautiful art lover, both inside and out; lay the damning

truth of the nasty, misogynistic, shallow gym bunny which lay beneath. As time wore on, Pete

was becoming harder and harder for Cole to deal with. It was true what they say, beauty really is

only skin deep. Beyond his man's surface beauty and toned physique, lay the shallow visage of a

vicious, vindictive, abusive jerk.

Why Cole chose to stay with him, despite his constant stream of insults directed mostly at Cole's weight; he didn't know. Perhaps it was because he felt he deserved it, or because Cole hated the way he looked just as much as his honey did; perhaps it was because he felt he had nowhere else to go and he didn't want to be alone? Or maybe it was that nothing had gone past mere words? Mostly though, Cole believed it to be his own embarrassment, he didn't want to have to explain to all his friends and colleagues he'd been living a lie. He didn't want to have to confess to Sera the man she'd become good friends with, had over to her own house, was not at all how he appeared to be on the surface. Cole didn't even want to have to admit it to himself.  
Heading further into the main workroom of the base, Cole gave a friendly greeting to Doctor Reginald Desmoire, sat at his desk in the far right corner of the room, saying; "Morning, Reg."  
"Captain."

It was a tad gloomy in this main area, due to the lack of windows built into the foundation as a security issue. As well, the door out of the main room into the lounge was the only exit out. In case of a security issue, such as a dangerous alien needing to be contained, the main section of the base could go into lockdown, and the rest of the building could go on about its business, utterly in the dark about the events occurring nearby. Adding to this air of mystery were the series of antique Halogen lamps positioned strategically around the room, near the ceiling.

Stopping in the centre of the room, Cole lay a hand flat on a long wooden table. To his far right, Reginald's workstation had a flat screen monitor set above a computer keyboard on the right side of the desk; a photograph of his two teenage daughters, fifteen year old Victoria, and sixteen year old Mable was set against the opposite end. Reginald's wife Marissa was the eldest daughter of the reigning Chief of the local Musqueam First Nations tribe; as such, she'd been gifted with a lovely big home as part of her and Reginald's wedding gift.

Across from Reginald's workstation, another desk was set at a right angle to the first. A pile of reference books on the topic of a long forgotten, but well trod myth sat at the edge of the desk nearest to where Cole stood. A collection of file folders containing Cole's business plans for an American off shoot of the CPB, sat against the opposite side of the desk. Cole assigned the

development of a new organization run out of Fort Worth, Texas; to Miss Brittany Longfellow,

who just so happened to be stepping through the doorway behind him at that very moment.

Cole turned around as Reginald glanced up suddenly towards the entrance, calling out loudly, "Brit, good to see you."  
The bureau's sociological researcher took a seat at her workstation, placing her supply case on top of the desk, in between the file folders and the reference books, saying; "Right back at you, Doctor Desmoire."

Earning herself a Masters of Sociology at age twenty four, four years later; Brittany was hard at work on her Doctorate Study. Her background as a member of the local Squamish Nation, as well as the realization that the world was a whole lot more complex than it would at first seem; led her to design a project to search out the truth of the existence of a creature known only as 'The Undying One'. Brittany was still in the process of concluding her readings on the myth, but in a few weeks time she'd start in on the interview process of the local First Nations Elders. In the mean time, in between working on her studies, and developing Cole's Fort Worth offshoot, Brittany managed to do some excellent work in the city's East End, working evenings at the Carnegie Community Centre.

Smiling at his team, Cole gazed affectionately at Sera, whom had come in behind him. Stood across from him, the constable checked her Black Berry device for any hint of unusual police contact warranting a deeper look by the bureau. Behind Reginald and Brittany, a pair of narrow corridors led out of the main room. Behind Brittany, a row of aging photographs of those who came before led down the wall towards Cole's office, set halfway down the corridor; past that was the armoury, which thankfully was not often used. In an earlier era, when the bureau had a much closer connection to its military roots, going in guns blazing was much more likely to occur. But Canada in the early twenty first century was a different kettle of fish altogether. Given Cole's adolescent penchant for gathering super loaded, silent but deadly assault rifles during his rage filled youth, weapons gathered and utilised by his loyal Garconer followers willingly fulfilling his every abhorrent order; Cole would prefer not to have instruments of death close by. He couldn't afford to get bogged down in painful memories.

The corridor beyond Reginald's workstation led down to Doctor O'Bannion's Medical Lab on the left, and further along the corridor, a piece of technology of unknown alien origin Cole dubbed the QEF Generator, or in long form- the Quantum Entanglement Field Generator, had been attached to the wall. The QEF was programmed to realign the molecules in the area, reducing the original gradient of the flooring to a lower level, pulling quantum matter out of

nearby universes in order to add a ten percent increase to the base's square footage.

Cole discovered the QEF Generator back in nineteen twenty eight, when a small, alien craft containing a dead alien pilot crash landed in the cold waters of English Bay. Despite his origins from three millennia up the time line, the technology underlying the QEF Generator was far beyond anything Cole had ever come across in his home era. Back in nineteen twenty eight, the man who had been his superior at the time, General Tyson Montgomery assigned Cole the job of working out the intricacies of exactly how the technology worked. Never let it be said that Captain Billington was a stupid man, however the technology was the likes of which it would

take Humanity close to a million years to fully understand. Where ever the alien pilot had come

from, his species' knowledge of the higher sciences was far beyond anything Humanity could yet

grasp. Despite all that working against him, eventually Cole did manage to find a use for the

technology, even if it took him sixty years.

Beyond the generator lay a decontamination area, as well as a storage room where odds and ends from the farthest reaches of time and space were archived for safe keeping. Whistling a jaunty tune, Cole squeezed past Reginald in order to have a look at what the physicist was working on. The doctor ran a computer simulation of the region's gravity waves, which had been acting a bit odder than usual for the last little while.

Squinting at the simulation, Cole peered at the flat screen monitor. He had a feeling his aging eyes would be needing glasses in the coming years, and he said; "Do you have any idea what's causing the fluctuations in the Time Stream?"  
"I have no idea. I do however have a few theories based on modern day weather science."  
Crossing his arms, Cole said; "Do tell Doctor."  
"Do you see these patterns here?," Reginald pointed to a pair of squiggly lines centred near the apex of the simulation.  
"I see them."  
Leaning back in his chair, Reginald looked up at Cole, still staring at the screen, saying; "It reminds me of a hurricane. Perhaps the time stream works in a similar way, albeit on a massive scale, as the atmospheric patterns do here on Earth or any other planet for that matter."  
"Good work Reg, I like the way you think. The question is, which pattern is the precursor of the other, is it global warming?"  
Turning to look up at Cole, Reginald said; "How do you mean?"  
"Well, with all the tropical storms we've been experiencing along the coast the last little while; not to mention the oddest assortment of future tech has been coming through at an alarming rate; I'm just wondering if our culprit may be global warming."  
"Can you imagine the public outcry we'd have on our hands if knowledge of the gravity wells and the possible ramification to the very foundations of time itself, were ever to become public knowledge?"  
His face grim, Cole said, "Perhaps that's exactly what it will take for the nay-sayers to take the threat to the planet seriously. If the damage being caused by Humanity to this world is causing a ripple effect across the entire cosmos, then we really do have a serious problem."  
"Cole, you know I love the Earth as much as any other guy out there, but isn't it a bit arrogant to think one planet can have such a devastating effect on something as fundamentally vital to the universe as the time stream?"  
"Suppose the Earth is like a cog inside a machine. Gum one cog up and the entire engine is fucked up." Turning his attentions to Brittany, Cole saw she'd taken her laptop out of her supply case, and was now checking her schedule for the day.

Looking up from her work, noticing Cole watching her, Brittany asked; "Has Sam been in yet?"  
"Not that I've seen."  
Samuel Peters was the Bureaus' twenty two year old Intern; working most mornings, attending classes on campus during the late afternoons. As a pre-med student, Sam had a good chance of taking over Doctor O'Bannion's position as Chief Medic to the bureau once he retired a decade from now. Sam was a bit rough around the edges, but he was also a hard worker; soaking up knowledge like a sieve.  
Brittany told Cole, "I need Sam to run down to the Student Union building to find us some printer ink. We're running low."  
"I'll be sure to pass that on, if I see him."  
Smiling pleasantly, Brittany said; "Thanks, Cole. You're a peach."  
"I do try."  
With that, Cole left for his office, passing Sera as she came up the other end of the corridor, carrying a file folder of the past week's time stream fluctuation patterns in her hands. The pair shared a set of discrete smiles, passing one another; Cole entering his small, personal office, closing the door behind him. As much as Cole liked to make out he was mister convivial, showing the world around him a happy face, so much of it was just an act. Some days, the face

Cole put on, was so fake, he felt like a performer wearing a mask. This happy act Cole had going

on, it was all a show. There were days when catastrophe rained down on the city around him and

nothing could go right; he'd come home to Pete being his nasty self, and Cole would pray for a

gravity well to open up and sweep him back to his home era. Life didn't work that way; the

strands of time were like a beautiful dress, once shiny and new, now tattered and torn, their edges

fraying at the seams. The land of his birth was so far away, and so beyond his reach; Cole sometimes despaired at what life sent his way.

Heading behind his desk, Cole collapsed into his black leather chair, running a hand through his dark bangs threatening to cover his eyes. On either side of him stood tall red filing cabinets, and in front of the desk, two chairs were set out. Switching on his laptop, Cole began to peruse his email; deleting a plethora of spam encouraging him to 'enlarge his member', or wire money to a long lost cousin in Nigeria, in the process. There was a knock on the door, and Cole said; "Come in."  
"Cole."

Looking up, Cole watched Sera step quietly into the room, and he said; "Hey there Sera, what can I do for you?"  
"Cole, are you all right?"  
"All's well in my world. Tell me Sera, is it the gravity well again?"  
"It's going full throttle again Cole, the security cameras are showing images of all sorts of gear coming through."  
"Alright, have Sam suit up with the protective gear and have him go check it out. Make sure he has someone else there with him. We don't want any accidents; we've had enough of those for one lifetime."  
Backing out of the office, Sera said; "I'll go."  
"How's the weather?"  
"It's gone completely insane."  
"And the gravity well, is it on the beach again?"  
"It's its new favourite spot Cole."  
"I hope I don't have to remind you to be careful?"  
"Aye aye, sir."

Chuckling at Sera's mock salute, Cole told her; "Good luck." Sera smiled as she left the room, leaving Cole alone with only his thoughts once more. Once she was gone, Cole made a call, saying; "Pete, hey it's your honey bear. What are you wearing?"

# CHAPTER SIX

Samuel Peters gazed out across the glistening blue waters of the Pacific Ocean; a freighter passing across the horizon, a beam of sunlight forcing itself through an opening in the clouds, battling the rain for supremacy; giving Sam an eerie sense of being inside one immense car wash. Sam wore a white biohazard suit specially designed by the good folks at NASA. After that, the suit had been sent to the Shropshire Patrol Company in the small market town of Bishop's Castle along the Welsh-English border of southern England. The private security company was actually the front for a secret Crown research agency set up to monitor temporal discrepancies. Both the CPB and the SSPC were member agencies of a vast network of secret research agencies from all throughout the Commonwealth. These agencies; connected via the same Head of State, freely shared information amongst themselves. There was much more of a security firewall between agencies of the Commonwealth and agencies of non-commonwealth nations. There were some in the higher levels who would love to see the British Empire reign supreme once again.

Engineers at the SSPC added a built in time stream reader to the suit, warning of upcoming gravity well fluctuations. In this way, Sam would know whether or not he needed to vacate the area with due haste. Alongside him also suited up, was Constable Rasmussen. The constable collected debris from the time stream as it fell onto the shore of the beach. Keeping hold of a cardboard box, she watched Sam haphazardly toss various odds and ends into it as he gathered them from the shore line.

The beach itself was strewn with rocks, logs and shells; covered in slimy kelp and various other sea creatures. Sam had to be careful to not allow his trousers to slide into the pools of sea water winding their ways merrily up the beach. Past the water line, the rocky beach gave way to a forested, wood lined trail, leading onto sacred First Nation's land. Perhaps this was why the

gravity well chose this point geographically to settle itself. Then again, it was more likely the

other way around. The original inhabitants of the lower mainland may have picked up on the

fragility of the quantum foam holding the material world together in the region. They would not

have known the higher physics underlying the mathematical principles behind it, but they would

have sensed the reality, nonetheless.  
"How are you doing there, Sam?"

Sam could barely hear the pretty constable stood beside him, between the driving wind and rain, as well as the biohazard suits they both wore. Constable Rasmussen was a third generation immigrant to Canada, with a bicultural parentage of a Japanese father and a Jewish Russian mother. According to Sera, her grandmother Marla had been a Russian Jew who fled to Canada in nineteen thirty three after experiencing a series of visions of the coming war. To her grandmother's good fortune, her father made several excellent business decisions years earlier in

the shipping line he ran out of northern Russia; allowing Marla the luxury of having the ability to

apply for an Investors' Visa into Canada. Two years later, she'd met her future husband, Sera's

grandfather Bruce Slowcowski, at her local Synagogue. Bruce had been a fellow Russian immigrant, although in his case, a less well to do one. The son of a southeast Russian farmer

raising native Russian cows, Bruce wanted more for himself than the life of a farmer. Putting

together the money, eventually he had enough to set up a small farmer's market in Yale Town.

Sam didn't know anything about the constable's father; as a matter of fact, he didn't even know

if he was even in the picture anymore.

Peering at the object Sam held in his hand, Constable Rasmussen said; "What do you have there, Sam?"  
Peering at it curiously, Sam said; "I don't know."  
"Come on, let me see," The constable held out her hand to accept the oblong, silver metal object.  
Handing it to her, Sam said; "Be my guest, heck if I know what it is."  
"That's the point, Sam. We don't know what any of this stuff is. We don't know where it's coming from, and we don't know when it's coming from. It could be a billion years down the line; it could be next week."  
"What happens if we get a missile coming through here; what do we do then?"  
Gazing out across the choppy waters which lay before them, she said; "I don't know, Sam. Duck and cover, I suppose."  
A chubby sea gull chose that exact moment to fly past them, noisily expressing his displeasure at the Human interlopers whom stood near his feeding grounds. Gesturing to the silver metal object, Sam said; "Come on, put that in the box. We've got a ton of riff raff to collect. Old King Cole will not be pleased if we miss something and it manages to create some major malfunction in the city."  
"Don't call him that," Sera tossed the object into the box.  
Grinning, Sam said; "Which part, old or King?"  
"I don't suppose he'd approve of either one."  
Frowning, Sam said; "Spoil my fun. Besides, it could be worse. I could have dubbed him an old Queen."  
Dropping the box of objects onto the slimy, gritty sand, Sera said; "Sam, let's you and I get one thing straight, right now." Sam looked her in the eye, his attention held by her brusque tone, as she continued with; "Captain Billington is the Director to our little organization; as such, he deserves our full and complete respect. But even if he weren't in charge, he's an amazing man,

and he's had to go through a crap load of shit to get to where he is today. So I won't have you

talking smack about him, are we clear?"  
Gritting his teeth, Sam said; "We're clear." Grinning, he added; "You're in love with him, aren't you?"  
Her eyes widening, Sera said; "What? No! What would ever give you that idea?" Sam raised his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced, as she said; "Besides, even if I wanted anything to happen on that front, I've got Gerald, and Cole's got Pete."  
"These things can change."  
"Yes, well I'm not looking to be Billington's dirty little secret Sam, thank you very much. Anyways, I've got too much riding on my relationship with Gerald to risk it on something that

has no hope of ever going anywhere."  
"I don't know about that," Bending down to toss another object into the box behind him, Sam said; "Your loss."  
"Samuel Peters, this is not the type of conversation we should be having in the workplace."

"We're on a beach."

"I know. Believe me; I don't want Cole, as much as he'd prefer it be otherwise. I adore my husband. He's loving and giving and absolutely the man for me. Besides, Cole's nothing to write home about."  
"You don't say! You certainly wouldn't think so watching how he walks around campus like he owns the place."  
"Alright Sam, enough! Let's forget about Cole, and just finish this up," Finding another strange black object lodged beneath a rock, Sera removed it with just a bit of difficulty; dropping it into the soggy cardboard box.  
"If only it could be that easy. I just don't like the man, okay?"  
Rolling her eyes, Sera said; "That man is your employer Sam, and I happen to think he's rather sweet. Now is it just me, or do I seem to be doing most of the work here?"  
"It's not just you," Grinning, Sam hurried off to pick up a couple of objects he'd spotted a few meters down the beach.  
Turning to watch him, Sera said; "Where are you going, Sam?"  
Picking up a yellow object, Sam called back to her; "There's more down here!" Sam wandered back to where she stood, carrying a bundle of colourful objects in his hands as he did so. Dropping them into the box, lifting a hand to his chin and rubbing it; Sam fingered the small

edges of stubble just beginning to erupt through his skin. He'd been a bit remiss in shaving that

morning, and the results were beginning to show. Looking over by the water's edge, where a

truculent sea gull wrangled a tiny, red sand crab, Sam laughed, saying; "Would you look at that."  
"Nature's a vicious task master, Sam."  
"You've got that right. Are we done here?"  
Searching the beach with her eyes, the Constable said; "Just about." Spotting a narrow, silver object, she retrieved it from the ground, tossing it onto the ever growing bundle of future and non-terrestrial tech, saying; "There we go. Come on Sam, let's get out of here. I'll buy you a coffee."

Smiling, Sam said; "Alright, I'm your man." Taking the heavy box from her, Sam headed up the beach, towards the trail leading towards the campus.

Following at a quick pace, Sera said; "Don't tell Gerald." Smirking, the ocean breeze blew Sam's hair every which way.

Still sopping wet and sticky from the unexpected root beer dunking of earlier, Jason Bowen headed down Union Street, towards his home. Alone at the helm once again, Jason finally had time to himself just to think. Swatting a flying bug away from his face; the sticky soda plastered to his hair beginning to attract just the wrong type of attention; Jason watched warily as a bee flew over his head, telling it; "Get out of here, nasty."

Needing a distraction from the over stimulation the insects were causing him, Jason looked inwards to see what the others were up to. An entire universe was contained within his head; all the world was a stage. Jason continued his search for the culprit causing him so much trouble of late. That was the trouble with Jacquelyn, she was a troublemaker; always taking control when she wanted, never available when Jason needed to speak to her the most. Reaching the front entrance of his home, Jason finally managed to make contact with his troublesome head mate.

Miss Jacquelyn sat at the bar of a mental recreation of the outer city's Steam Works. Allowing Luke the luxury of taking executive control of the outside body, Jason himself strolled up to Jacquelyn's side. Other than the pair of them, the bar was empty, and Jason said; "There you are. You're a hard woman to get a hold of these days Jacquelyn, when you want to be."

Frowning, Jacquelyn peered down at the black marble floor surrounding the bar stool she sat on.

It was strewn with peanuts from the bar counter, and Jacquelyn did not appear to approve of the

mess. She took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long and relaxing drag. Wrinkling up his nose in

distaste, Jason said; "Do you have to do that, Jacquelyn? It's right nasty."

Winking, Jacquelyn said; "Don't you worry your pretty little head over what I do on the mental plane, sweet heart. Remember this, If I keep it in here, no harm's being done to the body, yeah?"

"Jacquelyn we need to talk, man to woman."

Jacquelyn gave him a withering look, but nodded for him to say his piece, saying; "So go on boy, spit it out."

"Honey, why do you insist on putting yourself and us through this; when are you going to stop punishing yourself? Jacquelyn, it wasn't your fault what happened to you in lockup; you're not going to cease to exist if you stop being a plaything to horny men. This isn't all you're good for; we'll find something else for you to do. You just need to be patient, and work with the rest of us in here, and not act like you're all on your own."

Giving Jason a hard look, Jacquelyn said; "You're right, it wasn't my fault."

Jason grinned, happy to be getting through to her for once, saying; "Now we're getting somewhere."

Jason's relief was to be short lived as Jacquelyn threw a volley at him; "It wasn't my fault at all, it was yours Jason."

Frowning in horror as her implication sunk in, he said; "What?"

"It was your criminal acts which led to us being locked up. If it wasn't for you Jason, none of this would have ever happened."

Covering his eyes, the enormity of his youthful indiscretions coming back to hit him like a twelve ton weight; Jason spoke as though the air had been knocked right out of him, "No."

Jacquelyn snapped at him viciously, "Yes! It's all on you Jason. You were the boy who could never get enough, the boy who wanted it all, anyway he could; until he was finally stopped; until the courts had enough. Society may be willing to forgive you your past misdeeds Jason, but I'm not done punishing you for what I had to go through. I won't be done for a long while yet, a real long while."

Staring at her in horrified dread, Jason said; "No."

Jacquelyn snarled at him cruelly, "Yes! Why do you think I occasionally shove you out front when I've been in the midst of entertaining a client, eh? It's always you Jason my boy, I never do that to anyone else in here, just you. Do you ever wonder why?"

Desolate, Jason said; "God you really hate me, don't you Jacquelyn?"

"Yep."

If Jason bothered to take the time to really look at Jacquelyn, he would have realized not all was as it would appear to be. But Jason did not care to delve any deeper than the surface façade Jacquelyn put out to both him, and to the world. So he missed her true intentions, that of a lost and lonely scared little girl who only wanted to be loved; loved for her mind, not her body; trapped in the body of a man, Jacquelyn only wanted to be herself. But Jason saw none of this,

merely giving Jacquelyn a disappointed frown, saying; "Look, be that as it may, are you on board with the plan or not, Jacquelyn?"

Appraising Jason with a look of distaste, Jacquelyn said; "Considering the amount of money we'll be bringing in through this gig, I fully support this venture."

"Is that all you ever care about Jacquelyn, the money?"

"Don't you worry yourself about my reasons, boy. All you need to know is that I'll be a good little woman, and I'll behave myself." Jason gave her an unreadable look at her choice of

words as she continued with, "I'll make the call to Miss Longfellow, I'll meet up with the crew

from the CBC, and I'll take the meeting with little Miss sociologist. I've got it all in hand." Jason

spared a glance towards the imaginary bottles of wine spirits lining the back shelf of the bar. Taking note of Jason's look of extreme want, Jacquelyn got a gleam in her eye; knowing just

how to best hurt Jason the most, she said to him; "Sit down and take a load off, have a drink or

two." Shoving her face directly into Jason's space, her voice taking on a note of venom, she spat

out; "Or ten."

"It's been nice talking to you, Jacquelyn."

"Are you going to cry now Jason; do you want your mommy?" Jacquelyn grinned, but when all she could manage to get out of Jason was a penetrating stare, she added a final, pleading; "Come on!"

Giving her a withering look, Jason told her; "Good bye Jacquelyn, I've got better things to do than stand here and listen to this."

Reminiscent of a seaside turtle, Jacquelyn snapped a response; "Sure you do Jason; you are such a waste of space."

Having already gone through the door, Jason was now making his way westwards along the middle of his mind's recreation of West Cordova Street. Passing the Water Front Station, Jason spotted Luke and Tyrone playing one on one with a basketball in the parking lot. In front of the station, insubstantial citizens, creatures just as false as the city around them, their visage put into place for the amusement of the mind's actual residents; stood waiting for city transit that would most likely never come. Not unless one of the true residents of the brain got a hankering for a ride. Jason observed his head mate Boe, whom appeared to be in his early forties, and whom could stand to lose a few pounds, his dysphoria over the male body revealing itself mentally in the form of an overindulgence in food and beer; sneak up suddenly on one of the men waiting for a bus. Boe had this game he liked to play when he grew bored; feigning to be a Vampire, fangs and all. It was all in good fun; useful for transferring life force energy from one part of the brain to another.

Boe's intended victim ran away screaming, careening down the centre of the street; Boe just stood following him with his eyes, disappointed the man refused to play along. Taking one last glance at the tableaux in front of him, Jason took off down the street in the same direction the man fled; reaching the corner of Seymour and West Cordova, Jason disappeared from view.

