 
### Raised by the Fox

### by J Walker Bell

Copyright 2011 J Walker Bell

Smashwords Edition

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### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Copyright Notices

Cover design by J Walker Bell

"Dominant Species" copyright 1993 by J Walker Bell. Originally published in Parlour Papers, Issue #1, 1993

"Outpost" copyright 1992 by J Walker Bell. Originally published in Neophyte, 1992 Anthology

"The Porch" copyright 1991 by J Walker Bell. Originally published in Nightside: The Magazine of Amateur Horror Fiction, Volume 2, Issue #7, 1991

"Gates of Delirium" copyright 2011 by J Walker Bell

"Infant Dawn" copyright 1994 by J Walker Bell. Originally published in Neophyte, 1994 Anthology

"Birth of Words" copyright 1993 by J Walker Bell

"Of Cactus, Castles, and Queens" copyright 1989 by J Walker Bell

"Testament of Faith" copyright 2011 by J Walker Bell

"The Net" copyright 1991 by J Walker Bell. Originally published in Neophyte, Volume 1, No. 4, 1991

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Table of Contents

Introduction, Acknowledgements, Special Tribute

Dominant Species

Outpost

The Porch

Gates of Delirium (poem)

Infant Dawn

Birth of Words

Of Cactus, Castles, and Queens

Testament of Faith

The Net

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Introduction

There was a time back in the 1990's that I did a lot of fiction writing, primarily science fiction and horror. I didn't make much money at it, but I did publish a number of stories. I also did book reviews and some artwork as well, and even became a story editor/reviewer for a small press "zine" called Neophyte.

I distinctly remember how much I loved writing and how hard I worked at it, mostly at night after a full day's work at my "real" job. That's why I was so surprised when somewhere along the way I realized I had stopped writing. I couldn't recall wanting to stop writing, nor could I recall making a decision to stop writing. My life just went on without it.

I missed it, at least at an unconscious level. I think I missed it even before I realized it was gone, if that makes sense. To be honest, I never stopped writing all together, because there was that gap I felt had to be filled somehow. So I wrote. I made blogs and contributed to forums where I had interests.

I wasn't writing original stories, however. I worked at being creative and entertaining in my blogs, but the reality was that the writing was based on worlds already created by others and was more about reporting what happened instead of creating something new. These things served as a substitute, and still have their place, but my desire to write original stories never really left me. It was buried under an otherwise full and happy life.

I am writing again full time. J Walker Bell is the pseudonym I used during that earlier period of writing and I've retained the pen name for the sake of continuity. I've also resurrected an avatar called the Jaded Walker to be my logo and to help me along the way. The Jaded Walker is a real, fourteen inch statue of a shaggy troll carrying a baseball bat. It stood on my desk and glowered at me when I was shirking my writing, and remains a source of inspiration and focus.

This collection brings together much of my earlier work now long out of print, as well as introducing new stories published for the first time.

For more information about me and my creations, please go to http://www.jwalkerbell.com.

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Acknowledgements

This collection would not have been possible without the help of my wife, Judi, who undertook the titanic effort of helping me pull these stories together, including retyping, formatting, and proofing much of the original content so that it could be aggregated for eBook publication. I am also in debt to Erik Sullivan, who took time away from our shared obsession with World of Warcraft to help proof read for me.

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Special Tribute

The title of this collection, "Raised by the Fox," is a tribute to an author and publisher who had a significant impact on my efforts to get published. Janet Fox was a fine author in her own right, but I knew her through the mail as the publisher of Scavenger's Newsletter. "Scav" was published monthly from 1984-2003 and was in my view the premier newsletter of it's time about market news for small press publishers and writers.

I remember the time I had submitted some cover art for her. She liked it and wanted to use it, but had issue with one image - a bound, nude figure that could have arguably been male or female. Her response was very encouraging and we worked together to alter the piece to both of our satisfaction, her being very careful of the sensitivities of the artist, and me being very careful to make sure I would get my cover art published. I still have that note from her, which read, "Happy to accept your piece. If it helps the reason I decided your nude was female was the size of the, 'er' posterior, maybe that is a stereotype, but I think it's just a physical difference. I really hate to be 'politically correct' but sometimes the pressure is there. Anyway I like this new design, too. "

Scavenger's Newsletter publisher's listings and advice helped me publish my first story, "The Porch," which is in this collection, and helped me find many a publisher for my work.

Janet Fox died on October 21st, 2009. I only learned about her death earlier this year when I began considering this collection and thought to look her up. Janet Fox's fine newsletter and dedicated support of the small press community was responsible for getting many great stories into print that would otherwise never have reached appreciative readers. That is one legacy that I'm sure she was proud to be remembered for.

Return to ToC

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Introduction. "Dominant Species" began as a chapter in another longer work. As the original story evolved, however, the chapter's "bug" theme did not fit and was set aside. Much later, while researching information on a different idea, I came across an article about porphryin, which has an interesting property in that it tends to look for and bond with cancer cells. When the chemical is irradiated, cancer cells "marked" with porphryin glow under laser or ultraviolet light. Scientists hope that this chemical marker, combined with a chemical "bullet," can be used to search for and destroy cancer cells. The "marker" triggered an idea that fit into the shelved chapter, and that chapter grew into this story. "Dominant Species" was the first story I got a paycheck for.

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### Dominant Species

Jason Reeder drew the black plastic shield across the doorway of his apartment with some difficulty. The overlapping safety guard at the bottom edge of the doorway was warped out of line. Pulling the shield through it was a daily trial.

Bastard thing, Reeder thought, finally getting it closed. He pressed the door seals into place. Reeder thought about complaining to the landlord, but he shrugged the thought away. He knew that the landlord would only try to force him to move into an interior apartment again, and Reeder liked having a door that opened directly on the outside.

Attached to the outside wall to the left of the door was a waist high container the size of a small mailbox. The box was half hidden by a blackish red vine clinging with fat suckers to both the wall and the box. The Savior Vine had not been there the night before. A puff of thick breeze carried the rich, over-sweet smell of the Savior Vine's flowers to Reeder. He coughed and kicked in sudden anger at the thick trunk of the vine. Reeder immediately regretted the rash act as half a dozen garish flowers dropped with wet splats to the sand and gravel strip around his door. The cloying odor of decayed pickled beets clogged the air. Ants half the size of Reeder's baby finger seemed to burst from the hand-sized flowers. "Shit!" Reeder jerked backward and almost lost his balance. The ants struggled to break free from the sticky mess. Reeder watched the grim battle for a moment, strangely moved to free the ants from their sweet flowery death.

He went so far as to half heartedly kick bits of gravel over the mess to give the ants additional purchase.

With his eyes still on the ants' efforts, Reeder tripped the release lever on top of the wall container with one hand and pulled the lid up quickly with his other. He lifted a repellant pack from the box and turned to spray the edges of his apartment door. He pressed the nozzle but nothing happened. It took a confused moment to realize why. The supposedly indestructible PVClastic material of the repellent pack was holed in a number of spots and was moving in quick darts in his hand. There was nothing in the pack but ants.

Reeder watched the moving bag for a moment in queasy silence. A couple of the ants ventured from the bag and crawled with interest toward the hand that held the pack nozzle. He dropped the pack in some panic. With the ants no longer threatening, Reeder felt disgust at the ineffectiveness of the repellent. He stepped carefully around the ants that were struggling out from under the gravel he had kicked over them. The fallen flowers had already devoured any ants that had failed to escape the sweet tombs. In a matter of hours the flowers would be thriving vines. Reeder made a mental note to pick up more weed killer from Stores at work. He was also going to complain to his division head at the Department of Non-Lethal Tactics. Poor products like that repellent gave the department a bad reputation. They didn't need any more reasons for other departments to siphon off funds.

Reeder walked the six blocks to work without further incident. Despite the heavy clothes he wore, Reeder enjoyed the bright sun and humid heat of the early morning. Gravel crunched under his heavy boots and the air was filled with the whirring sounds of wings. Buzzing about their daily business were flying insects of every description: ordinary houseflies, giant dragonflies, cockroaches, mosquitoes, beetles, and others. The clouds of bugs would get much worse by mid-morning and overwhelming by the afternoon, but the current activity was relatively placid. He enjoyed watching their antics.

Reeder lived in a failing neighborhood. Most of the three to five story apartment buildings in the ten block development were at least ten years old and were no longer safe from infestation. Despite being made from the most advanced material of the time - chemically enhanced PVC and specially bonded earthen panels - the buildings were no match for the endless onslaught of flying, crawling, and burrowing bugs. Savior Vine now blanketed the walls of most of the buildings. The fast growing vines undeniably reduced the insect population and offered some protection for the building. It had also become the dominant oxygen producing plant in the world since the extinction of the trees. Reeder hated them.

There were a few other walkers about getting an early start on their day. Officials from the Sporting Hill Enclave that monitored this area were encouraging inhabitants to relocate. It did not seem to matter that these people had nowhere to go. Reeder was the only employee of the Enclave who lived outside its' walls, and his supervisor continually pressured him to move out of the condemned neighborhood. One of the bundled figures raised a hand in Reeder's direction and he waved back, although he actually knew very few of his neighbors. Leaving the walkers behind, Reeder went into the foyer of the entrance to the Enclave.

"Good morning, Doctor Reeder," greeted the guard posted in the foyer of the Shipping entrance. The guard nodded at Reeder from within the glass panel enclosed booth he occupied.

"Good morning," Reeder responded. He pulled his badge from his shirt pocket and touched the ID to the security scanner. A door slid open on the left-hand wall.

"Doctor Boyer has the duty today, sir," the guard commented. Reeder grimaced at the expressionless man.

"Bet you've been looking forward to telling me that since you came on shift, haven't you, Bill?" Bill raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. "Get in here, Reeder," a woman's voice demanded from beyond the open door. Reeder sighed and left the grinning Bill.

"Correct procedure is to enter the IP immediately upon ID validation," Doctor Boyer admonished crossly as soon as the door was closed. Her voice was slightly muffled behind the protective mask she wore. In addition to the mask she wore a sterilized body suit and hospital gloves.

The Inspect and Purge Station was a small, white-walled room. Half the room was taken up by the Infestation Containment System, which Doctor Boyer was currently leaning on. The only other furniture in the room was a container on rollers the size of a laundry bin.

"Hello to you, too," he countered.

"Another minute out there and I would have had to sanitize the whole area, Jason," she said with exasperation. Reeder shrugged.

"Rachel, you're just mad because its Monday and you drew the morning shift this week." Doctor Boyer ignored his comment and pressed a button on the panel next to her hand. An examining table slid out from the ICS.

"You know the drill," she said, and she watched as Reeder began removing his clothes and placing them in the bin.

The examination took an hour and a half. Rachel Boyer treated Reeder for a small colony of chewing lice on his scalp, lasered away two patches of fatted-fleas, and applied a poisoning agent to a spot of fungal beetles on the ball of his foot. None of the infestations were particularly dangerous, but Boyer berated him nonetheless after each find for living outside the Enclave and exposing himself to such potential trouble.

"Get your working clothes on," she told him after patching the two slight burns from the laser. Reeder did so, smarting from the sting of antiseptic and Boyer's sharp remarks. He never got used to this morning purging and resented the insistence on destroying even the harmless insects.

"Go easy on the starch this time," he commented sarcastically while waving in the direction of the folded clothes in the bin. Boyer removed her mask and gloves and placed them in the sterilizer on the ICS. Reeder finished dressing.

"You're lucky we don't burn that street garb." Reeder stared at her in disturbed surprise. She was in her forties and had lived inside one enclave or another her entire life. She did not know what it was like to walk on a gravel road and breathe plain, untreated air, and would be appalled at the suggestion that she try it. She saw his concern and couldn't help pressing her point.

"You'd be stuck in here, then, wouldn't you? Poor Jason, forced to live in a safe, comfortable, insect-free environment. Wouldn't that be a shame?"

Reeder fidgeted in the light, comfortable work clothes and traditional white lab smock he had donned. He thought of the endless corridors and windowless rooms of the Enclave. He thought of the barren apartments, the shadowless lighting, the absence of anything living, whether plant, animal, or insect, and shuddered. He did not want that kind of sterile life.

All that was forgotten by Reeder the moment he entered his lab. The lab was large and modern, and for the last couple of weeks he'd had the lab, outfitted for three researchers, to himself. One of his lab mates had been out sick for the last month. The other had been stripped of his researcher status two weeks ago due to the continued loss of market share in his flagship product, a poisoning agent for epidermal larvae. Reeder did not miss the fired chemist. His absence gave Reeder more room and freedom to pursue his personal project, and it was this personal project that Reeder checked on first.

Reeder pulled a stool in front of one of the stations. He perched on the round seat, curled his feet around the stool's narrow supports, and immediately became lost in the intent study of the data presented by the computer from the simulation that had been running throughout the weekend.

"Ha!" Reeder strangled a delighted shout. He spun the stool in a circle and stopped its spin in front of the computer. "Got you, you son of a bitch!" He announced to the glowing diagram, pointing a finger at the screen.

He jumped off the stool, suddenly needing to share his success. He found Magnolia in the Lounge in 'X' quarters. The Lounge was an open room where the experimentals could gather amongst themselves and have visitors. Researchers were rarely seen in 'X' quarters except at the observation rooms; few researchers wanted to become acquainted with potential test subjects. Reeder, however, was a well known face to security. When Magnolia saw Reeder approaching, she struggled off the couch. She gave him a timid hug which Reeder warmly returned.

"Please sit down, Magnolia. Don't tire yourself." Reeder looked at her condition with private concern. The middle-aged black woman weighed nearly three hundred pounds. She wore a wool scarf to cover the laser surgery scars that criss-crossed her skull. Reeder was intimately familiar with her medical records. She suffered from a full litany of health problems resulting from an almost total lack of medical care throughout her childhood. He still shuddered at the infestation list compiled after her pickup. Her acceptance into the Enclave probably saved her life, Reeder figured. Such as it was.

Reeder sat down in a slightly sagging arm chair next to the couch Magnolia had labored back into. He nodded at the man on the opposite couch who had become a close companion of Magnolia over the past couple of months. The man returned the nod. Reeder started to speak to Magnolia, but the man spoke first.

"You never ask who I am," he commented. There was no accusation in the tone of his voice, only the desire for an explanation. The statement caught Reeder by surprise. He approached his interest in Magnolia and her condition with the same focused, single minded attention he approached his work. He had been nodding to this man for weeks and did not even know who he was. Reeder shrugged apologetically at the man.

"Would you like to introduce me to your friend, Magnolia?" Reeder asked awkwardly, indicating the man. Magnolia smiled at the floor and sucked on her lower lip.

"Damon," she said in a low, melodious voice. She glanced in Damon's direction briefly and then stared back down at the floor.

The man rose to his feet, gave Reeder a direct stare and extended a large hand. "Damon Madeira," he said, completing the introduction. Reeder also rose and accepted the strong handshake.

"You're one of the researchers," Madeira said as they both resumed their seats.

Reeder heard the unspoken question behind the words. "Magnolia is a special patient of mine," Reeder explained, finding himself answering the unspoken question. He patted Magnolia's knee. "I have some good news I wanted to share with her."

Madeira nodded non-committedly. "Want me to leave?" Actually, Reeder found that he welcomed the conversation.

"Not at all." Reeder put one hand on Magnolia's cheek and gently turned her face to look at him.

"The latest series looks very good, Magnolia," he told her. When Reeder had first met Magnolia she was a fat, happy and intelligent woman grateful that the Enclave had cleansed her of all her infestations. All but one, that is, which was why Reeder had come to visit her in the first place. She had been accepted into the Enclave because she was infested with a very rare insect that was slowly destroying her brain and her sanity.

"The doctor is going to cure me, Damon," Magnolia confided to Madeira.

"He is finding a way to purge the insect contamination in my brain. Isn't that right, Doctor Reeder?"

"Yes it is, and soon," Reeder told her. He marvelled that she still had such periods of lucidity given the advanced stage of the infestation. These periods were becoming rarer, however, and Reeder knew he was battling time. Magnolia was getting weaker and was also on drugs to control the pain.

One of the "nurses" came and got her so she could rest and take her medication. Reeder made to leave.

"Sit a spell longer, Doctor Reeder," Madeira asked him. Reeder gave him a questioning look and then sat down.

"If you are going to ask me for something, I can't help you, you know," he warned Madeira. Madeira made an annoyed wave with his hands.

"What do you think you are doing, telling her you're gonna fix her up?" Madeira demanded. Madeira was nearly as large as Magnolia but looked like he carried the weight easily.

"What do you mean?" Reeder asked, honestly confused by the anger in Madeira's voice.

"She's gonna die, man, in pain unless she's drugged out of her mind, and soon. What right do you have to lie to her?"

Reeder's first reaction was anger. How dare this ... this experimental question his competence and integrity, he thought, and almost said those exact words. He controlled himself with effort.

"Why do you think I can't deliver exactly what I promised?" he asked Madeira.

"The woman's got bugs in her brain, and you're studying them, right?"

The man's statement was blunt but right on the mark.

"Yes, that's true," Reeder admitted.

"And you'll keep studying until she's dead and you can't learn any more."

"No," Reeder protested. "I am studying her ... actually, I am studying the insects she carries ... so that I can cure her and others also afflicted."

"Yea, Buddy, and all us experimentals are here out of the goodness of you boy's hearts," he said sarcastically. He folded his large arms across his chest and stared pointedly at the security guard at the "nurses" station.

"Look, Mr. Madeira," Reeder began earnestly, getting an angry stare from Madeira, "Magnolia can recover from this."

"And insects won't inherit the Earth," Maderia said sarcastically.

Reeder winced inwardly at the common phrase. He leaned forward in his chair and stretched his hands out toward Madeira almost in entreaty. Reeder felt a strong need to convince this man who seemed to care for Magnolia that he did, too. "There is some physical damage, yes. But most of Magnolia's symptoms - the loss of memory, the retardation, the psychosis- that comes from the constant pain and the horrible knowledge of what is happening inside her head. If I can remove all that then there is the real chance that therapy is all she'll need to recover almost completely."

Madeira looked skeptically thoughtful. "Maybe you are different from the others," he began slowly. "Not that I believe you, yet," he added. He paused, considering what to say. "Magnolia is my half sister. I ... brought her here." Madeira spoke the words as if admitting a great wrong. "She was so susceptible to everything," he explained, "and I just couldn't stand to see her suffer." Madeira's eyes were far away for a moment, then he brought himself back to the present. "When I learned what was happening here I got myself admitted so that I could look after her. I've been watching you and I don't know what to make of you."

"I just want to help," Reeder said.

"Maybe." Madeira shifted his position on the couch. "Convince me, Mr. Doctor. Tell me about yourself and about what's happening in her head."

"Well," started Reeder, "I'm not sure how much you would understand ..."

He paused, but Madeira waited patiently for him to continue with a don't patronize me look on his face. Reeder continued, haltingly at first, and then warmed to the task as Madeira proved to be an excellent listener.

Sporting Hill Enclave was a progressive corporation. The corporation maintained diversified interests, but those interests were all focused in a specific area: making a profit on the war with the insects. It was a lifetime occupation for most of the Enclave's researchers, since there was an endless and ever expanding variety of insects that could adapt to whatever new product was developed. Corporation Directors spared no effort or expense to keep its' employees productive. In twenty-five years of operation, Sporting Hill Enclave had learned it was bad business to keep intelligent people working on death full time - they tended to self-sestruct. The Board established departments to investigate less deadly areas of insect control and even allowed and funded private research, provided the researcher made established production goals in his regular work.

For seventeen years Reeder had been a destroyer, molding new chemical and biological agents into lethal compounds targeted against specific insect species. After a mental breakdown caused by burn out Reeder was transferred to the now defunct Department of Biological Control, and later to the Department of Non-Lethal Tactics, which looked at insect control solutions that were not so directly fatal. Reeder explained to Madeira how a chemical he was developing could be used to help Magnolia, and why he was so excited by the results he had gotten out of the weekend's simulations. By the end of the hour long conversation both men had found new friends in each other.

Back in his lab, Reeder reviewed the results of his tests again and began making notes on areas that needed further testing using the computer simulations. Reeder was a meticulous and thorough researcher. Although not a programmer, Reeder had learned enough about how the computer simulator programs worked to be able to make his own modifications and improve the database of information the programs drew on. His files were correct down to a level of detail few researchers attempted or thought was necessary. As a result, no one ever questioned the validity of Reeder's data or the simulation results. Reeder's approval was as good as fact.

Once the simulation results were completed and approved, the new agent would be tested on a human subject. Human subjects were less expensive than animals, which had been virtually obliterated by the insects. Those few remaining were carefully protected by the National Zoo. There was still much work to be done before Reeder was ready for human testing, and the first subject would not be Magnolia. She was part of his private research. Reeder knew he had to force himself to consider the original purpose of his work.

Reeder was a specialist in Sarcophaga Haemorrhoidalis: the flesh fly. The flesh fly was twice the size of the house fly. It was shiny black in color with gray markings; fat bodied, stubby winged, its' legs and body were covered in stiff spines and bristles. It did not feed on human flesh or blood as many other species of insects did, but preferred instead the thick sap in the trunk and branches of the Savior Vine. It was particularly fond of using humans as egg and larvae carriers, however. The powerful, sharp proboscis it used to pierce the tough bark of the Savior Vine was also used to punch through human clothing to get at the skin beneath. The female flesh fly laid her eggs and then sucked them into her proboscis. The fly then deposited the eggs under the skin of an unsuspecting human. The sting was rarely felt, the eggs were virtually undetectable without special medical equipment, and the eggs hatched within forty-eight hours. Flesh fly larvae caused painful swelling. Worse, larvae that migrated into the bloodstream were known to cause everything from blindness to stroke. Death was rare but always a possibility. The flesh fly was very adaptable. Reeder estimated that at least a hundred thousand new mutations appeared every day in Nature's endless search for the perfect insect. Enclave products were no longer effective in killing the flesh fly (hence the firing of Reeder's lab partner), and the corporation was getting clobbered in the market by a major competitor's poison.

Reeder was attempting to develop a chemical that, when triggered by the numbing agent in the proboscis of the flesh fly as it pierced through flesh, would discolor the skin where the eggs had been laid. This would make the infestation visible to the eye before the eggs hatched. The chemical could also be bonded directly to most synthetic fabrics. It was a far fetched idea that he was very close to making work.

Carla Danner looked in on Reeder in his lab later that morning. She stood in the open door, which he had not heard her open, and watched him without speaking. Reeder was bent over the computer console, tapping out occasional entries on the keyboard and then studying the results. He was solidly built with little flab despite his sedentary occupation. Danner knew he never exercised and admired his body's natural slimness. She worked out religiously every day to keep the muscular tone of her body. His hair was neatly kept and was still full and naturally black despite his sixty years.

His hair seemed to be the only personal vanity he allowed himself. Danner ran a hand through her own short, curly, brunette dyed hair, but did not allow herself to sigh. She did not like weaknesses, and would not stoop to even mild envy.

Danner stepped into the room and firmly closed the door, making enough noise to get Reeder's attention. He looked in her direction, but his mind was still on the data flowing across the computer screen and his eyes did not focus on her.

"Looks like you are having a productive morning, Jay," she said, walking over to him. Her tone was cheerful, but even in his distracted state Reeder could feel the hidden barb in her words. She was the only person who called him Jay. During the months they had been working together the nickname had gone from being indifferently amusing to acutely irritating.

"Are you about finished patterning the C4 series cell structure for a test subject?" She had carefully cultivated his hatred of the nickname and was satisfied at his reaction to it now. It served to get his attention when she wanted it. Now she looked pointedly in the direction of the Chem-lab counter, where Reeder should have been working but which had not even been powered on yet.

Reeder felt a pang of guilt. Danner always seemed to have him off balance.

"Well, no, not yet, but ...".

"Jay," Danner interrupted. "You don't have to explain to me, you know that." She put one hand on the back of his neck and with the other hand patted his arm condescendingly while looking over his shoulder at the screen.

Reeder would normally have been reluctant to let Danner, or any other researcher, see what he was really doing on his own, but this time he held still and let her look.

"It's just that Dolores Gamesly, our supervisor," she continued, squeezing his neck hard for emphasis, "isn't happy with the progress on our real work ..." She had a lot more to say, but the data on the screen finally began to sink in. She stopped talking and studied the column of figures next to the finely detailed picture of a chemical compound glowing a hot neon orange.

"Is this what I think it is?" she demanded.

"The whole C series was faulty," he explained. "I was never going to get it to work, so I started a new series and ran the results over the weekend." He waited expectantly.

"You have been busy," she breathed. "You made changes where? Wait a minute." She began pointing out the obvious alterations in the compound. "Here. And here." She stared again at the glowing figure, and then twisted her head to look at Reeder.

"The simulation says it will work," he said quietly. She was partly leaning across his body and Reeder could feel the light touch of her breath.

She smelled of Certs and a new perfume.

"That's marvelous, Jason." She remained unmoving a moment more. Reeder

waited her out.

Danner straightened and let go of Reeder. "That's better than marvelous, Jay, that's as good as a bonus!" Danner spoke with studied exuberance.

"So, you can have the compound synthesized when? This afternoon?"

"Well ..."

"Of course you can, what am I thinking. You're like Flash Gordon on the Chem-lab!" She smiled brilliantly and pantomimed ray-gunning the Chem-lab.

Reeder liked the smile. Regardless of how false the emotion behind it, he could not help reacting to its' infectious gaiety. Besides, this was his day. He grinned like a fool.

"Sure, then ..." He began, but Danner interrupted him again.

"Then you can imbue it with Poly-Chlor and I'll still have it in time for the experimental," she stated confidently. Reeder stood.

"No," he said. The grin was gone. "This is not just a mod to a tested design. This is a new series, damn it!" His voice rose over Danner's objections. "I have to run more simulations, and then - and only then - can we use it on a human subject. And then it will be without your neutralizer."

Reeder glared at her angrily. She was always taking shortcuts and had little regard for the human test subjects. Danner's contribution to their project was a counter chemical dubbed Poly-Chlor that neutralized their competitor's poison and softened up the fly eggs to make the Enclave's own poison effective. Marketing thought the whole idea was brilliant. Not only did the consumer have to buy Reeder's marking compound, but using it rendered the most effective poison on the market useless and forced them to buy the Enclave's product to rid themselves of the infestation.

"How long?" Danner asked, keeping her voice neutral. All playfulness was gone.

"At least a week." Reeder flinched in anticipation of an outburst he didn't get. She looked thoughtful.

"We still need it synthesized, don't we? You'll want a full run of tests to make sure the structure holds together?" He was confused by the questions. She should be arguing with him about taking so long.

"Yes, that's true," he said non-committedly.

"Well," she began, warming to him again, "it's no use arguing with you about the time." She paused, but Reeder was warily silent. "I can reschedule the test, but I can't wait a week." She held up a hand when he started to object. "Let me help, Jason. I can establish and test a synthetic, too.

Maybe not as quickly as you, but then you can be working the simulations. If you actively monitor the interim results you can make changes on the fly."

She smiled at her own pun. "We can be done in maybe four days if we work together."

It sounded very reasonable. Reeder looked for the trap, but couldn't see one. It would give him a chance to do a more thorough job with the simulations and would get him back to Magnolia's problem more quickly. Reeder slid back onto the stool, and one hand touched the keyboard.

"If you'll send a copy of the specs over to my computer I can get started." Danner waited expectantly. Reeder admired the elegant design - his design - on the screen. He tapped the transfer key and queued the full specifications description so that Danner could download it to her computer.

"Thanks," she said. "I'll do the synthesis from my lab so you can concentrate here."

Reeder didn't hear her leave the room. He was already changing parameters for a new simulation.

Reeder worked through the regular lunch period. He did not like the crowds of people in the cafeteria, all talking about the latest, deadliest chemicals and what new class of insect had been discovered or eradicated. Well past the lunch hour he took a break and went down to the cafeteria. He glanced in Danner's lab on the way, but she wasn't in. The cafeteria was deserted. He grabbed a snack and a soda from the vending machines. He had run two additional simulations already. Danner was right about it taking less time this way. Both checked out perfectly. He knew he had a stable, effective compound. There was a couple more tests he could do, but there was really no point. He'd let Danner run the structure tests on the synthetic, which would take at least through tomorrow, and then he would build the results into another simulation. Just to be sure. They'd have it ready in three days. Danner would be pleased.

His thoughts moved to his own private research and what he had told Madeira about it. A new species of insect from the order Hemiptera had developed a taste for the human brain. The microscopic insect hid among the cells of the brain itself. There were periods of excruciating and seemingly interminable pain for the sufferer that caused mounting mental problems.

Physical damage took a long time to become permanent, but without a cure psychosis and insanity appeared inevitable. Cases were still rare, but rising, and the public was ready to panic. The insect was vulnerable to a number of treatments, but exhibited an uncanny ability to disappear whenever treatments were tried.

Reeder got his first look at Pselliopus Cinctus, the assassin bug, during his tenure at the Department of Biological Control. The insect order Hemiptera was a specialty of his early work. Numerous species within this order preyed on other insects, and there was serious hope at one time that the exploding insect population could be brought under control by these very successful insect predators. However, the department, eager for an early success, rushed the most promising projects to market with disastrous results. From comically ineffective to hideously fatal, the department faced failure after failure. Reeder managed to survive the disbanding of the department and the black balling of many of the researchers involved, but he never forgot or forgave the ridicule heaped on his own projects or the brutal pressure applied against him to rush incomplete projects to market.

A medical examiner discovered the first assassin bugs during an autopsy of a test subject at the Enclave. Through sheer coincidence the examiner brought the dead specimens to Reeder. They were easy to identify and catalog because of Reeder's earlier work with other species from the same order.

Reeder finished his meal and walked back to Danner's lab. She still wasn't in. He went into the lab and checked her computer. The screen was blank and she had locked the keyboard. Getting suspicious, he went back to his own computer and checked mail. No message from her. Wait. There was a message from Gamesly about the test subject schedule. The message was confirmation that the test would occur on schedule. There had to be a mistake. Confirmation required his approval, and he hadn't given it. Yet there was his authorization code on the confirmation, which only he could input. In sudden understanding, Reeder rushed out of his lab and headed for 'X' Quarters.

The security guard at the entrance to the 'X' quarters testing area saw him coming. Rising from her desk, she moved quickly to block him. "Doctor Danner said you might be ..."

Reeder didn't even slow down. He burst past the protesting guard. She tried to grab at his arm, but Reeder shoved her up against the near wall. As Reeder hurried toward the blinking red light over Observation Room #2, the guard thought of the gun in its' holster at her side.

"Fucking doctors," she muttered, giving up the idea. "Let'em straighten

out their own problems."

Reeder threw open the observation room door. He did not immediately see Danner on one side of the room staring in angry disappointment through the one way glass into the testing room, cigarette smoking unnoticed from between two fingers; nor did he see Gamesly on the other side of the observation room shouting futile instructions over the intercom to the medical personnel in the testing room. Reeder saw Damon Madeira. His heavy body was strapped to an examining table. He was writhing violently and spewing bloody chunks of vomit. Reeder could clearly see the neon orange tint characteristic of his chemical marker through the transparent patch on Madeira's arm. Four medical personnel swarmed around Madeira. Reeder watched him die.

Doctors Jason Reeder, Clara Danner, and Dolores Gamesly were in Gamesly's office an hour after the death of Damon Madeira. "What the hell happened?" Gamesly demanded, staring from one to the other of the two doctors. Gamesly was well into her seventies. She was a very good administrator and used to be an equally sharp technician, but her skills were slowly rusting from the paperwork and politics of her supervisory job of the last five years.

Reeder spoke first. "You fucking falsified my authorization code and murdered a helpless test subject, that's what happened!" Reeder angrily accused Gamesly. His face was red with rage and he spoke through clenched teeth. He sat stiffly in an armless chair and his hands rubbed up and down the outside of his legs.

"Make some sense, Reeder," Gamesly warned him flatly. "Don't get yourself in deeper trouble by making ridiculous accusations."

"You and Danner can just go fuck each other." Reeder used the same flat, warning tone that Gamesly had just used on him. Danner almost guffawed out loud, and was only barely able to stifle it. Gamesly glanced in her direction, and then ignored her. Gamesly took a deep breath. She stepped from the side of her desk, where she had been standing, and pulled up a chair next to Reeder. She sat facing him.

"Doctor Reeder," she began, making a successful effort to speak calmly and without anger, "I understand very well how painful this is for you. Mr. Madeira's death distresses us all."

"I doubt it," he said, but he was calmer now. Reeder stared at his hands, which were now clasped in his lap.

"If he was so concerned," Danner interrupted loudly, "ask him why he authorized an unsafe test."

"Doctor Danner, just shut up for the moment," Gamesly told her in frustration.

"I am not going to remain silent and listen to this incompetents' whining!" Danner shouted and jumped to her feet. Reeder stood as well.

"You don't have to," he said to them both, "I'm done talking." Reeder walked out.

Gamesly watched Reeder leave, and then turned to Danner. "Sit down, Doctor Danner," she commanded, "we still have a lot to talk about."

"... immediately after the deposit of the eggs by the flesh fly the chemical stain appeared as hoped for. This was followed by a distinct flushing of the skin around the wound indicative of ..." Gamesly stopped the video replay of the test. She rubbed a cold nose with the back of her hand, thinking about Reeder's mental state and Danner's self-serving machinations.

She was alone in her office after having succeeded in getting very little useful information out of Danner. Reeder had gone back to his lab, where it appeared he planned on staying all night. Her gut instinct was to suspend the project and begin a complete investigation. She knew the Board would not approve that. To the Board the test subject's death was a success. After all, didn't the chemical marker work? So what if there were still a few bugs to work out? She could picture the amusement at the joke. Gamesly cleared her computer screen in disgust and asked for all of the files on the project belonging to both Reeder and Danner. It was going to be a long evening.

Behind the closed door of Reeder's lab was darkness. Reeder sat at his computer in the unlighted room, the faint illumination from the computer screen casting a bluish light onto his pallid face. The light flickered as the data on the screen changed. He watched the data flow past without moving. He made no attempt to wipe away the occasional tear that wormed down the already wet tracks on his cheeks. Finally the screen began patiently blinking the same message:

~~~~~~~~~~

"Cross check complete.

No errors in data, compilation, or results.

Compound stable and safe."

~~~~~~~~~~

The minutes passed and Reeder remained unmoving. His eyes saw the message on the screen, but in his mind he continued to replay the writhing death of Madeira. In his mind the neon orange stain from his marking compound wrapped Madeira's entire body in a ghastly glow. One of Reeder's hands twitched and made a slow movement to the power button on the front of the monitor and blanked its' screen.

In the now total darkness the image of Madeira expanded to fill the whole of Reeder's vision. He welcomed the apparition and the sense of accusation and condemnation brought with it. He wrapped himself in the pain and embraced the responsibility for Madeira's death. He accepted the fact that he would soon be fired, but not that Magnolia had to die, treated like an animal that would one day outlive its usefulness. He would not be around to help her by then, so he had to find a way to help her now.

It didn't matter that he had not been the one to authorize the test on Madeira. He would have bet his own life that his marking compound worked without harm. The computer only confirmed his own deep seated belief. His compound was safe. In the darkness he fingered the small case of slides from the morgue. The bits of blood and flesh on those slides would tell him why Madeira died. He had a lot to do before he was tossed from the Enclave. There was Magnolia- and there was justice for Madeira. Reeder rose from his stool and felt his way to the Chem-lab. He turned on the desk lamp and powered up the machine.

Danner waited until early the following morning to approach Reeder. He had worked through the night. She found him slumped at the Chem-lab counter with his head lying across his arms. The intercom was giving Enclave related news and other items of interest.

"... One hundred thousand acres of Savior Vine forest in New Mexico was destroyed last week during an encroachment of Dactylotum Bicolor, locally known as the Rainbow Locust. The spring migration was stopped by the use of a new Enclave product. Yesterday the Enclave Board of Directors announced an agreement with the Southwest Savior Vine Growers Association to mass produce the Enclave product as protection for the fifty million acres of Savior Vine under cultivation in the Southwest. In other news, the World Nutrition Corporation announced that its newest breakfast bar would contain up to twenty percent non-insect based ingredients. The new ..."

Danner flipped off the intercom. Reeder opened one bleary eye, and then closed it again. Danner began massaging Reeder's back and shoulders. He let her work the stiffness out of cramped muscles.

"The series checked out perfectly," he muttered into his crossed arms. Last night I backtracked as far as the post-Discovery simulations and there was nothing ... Nothing! ... that would have caused a sneeze, much less ..." Reeder didn't finish the sentence. He looked tired and distraught. To Danner it appeared that he had forgotten for the moment that he had not authorized the test in the first place. "What do you think it could have been, Clara?"

Danner allowed a triumphant smile to reach her lips while her hands continued their work. "I don't know, Jason. Maybe the experimental was carrying something we didn't know about. Perhaps the autopsy will tell us something."

"Maybe," he conceded, raising his head from his arms. "Don't stop," he asked, when Danner halted her massaging. "That feels good." He was silent a moment. "In any event, it's obvious I'm going to have to perform the complete Discovery procedure on the compound to make absolutely sure I haven't missed anything." Danner's hands had stopped their massaging again. "But that could take weeks."

"I can't risk anything less than that."

"Really, Jay, I don't see where that's necessary. I'm sure something will turn up in the autopsy." Danner could feel the muscles tighten again in Reeder's back. She wondered if he suspected anything.

"Something already has," he said. Danner frowned. She did not understand this mood Reeder was in, and she did not like not being in control.

"Impossible, the autopsy won't be done until this morning."

"I know, I saw the schedule. The attending physician, this guy Sargent, is a close friend of yours, isn't he?" Danner didn't like this at all. She tried to turn Reeder around to face her, but he stubbornly refused to move. "Isn't he?" He demanded again.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" She demanded in return, her aggravation building.

"I didn't wait for the autopsy," he said to the table. His arms had dropped to his lap. "I drew samples from Damon's body last night and ran my own tests."

"Bullshit!" Danner exclaimed. She was starting to get very alarmed. "You have no authority ..."

"I'm well known in the 'X' ward." Reeder looked at Danner for the first time. Oh, shit, he's snapped, Danner thought, seeing the feral look in his eyes. She glanced at the closed door across the room. No, she told herself, I can handle this situation. I won't run. "Well, it was a foolish thing to do, Jay," she admonished, trying to regain her edge. Admit to nothing, she told herself firmly.

"Like to know what I found out?" His mouth cocked into a half smile. Then he leaped at her.

Reeder grabbed Danner by the front of her smock and tried to yank her closer to him, but the forward motion of his rush actually pushed her away. Danner was startled but not defenseless. She staggered back two steps, Reeder following, his hand still gripping her smock. She kicked at his exposed knee and succeeded in striking a glancing blow. Reeder grunted at the pain and bent the weakened knee. Danner followed up the kick by striking the base of his neck with her hand as hard as she could. Reeder buckled, but did not relinquish his hold, and he dragged her to the floor with him. The pain from the blow to his neck coursed through his spine. He refused to let anything interfere with his single-minded purpose, however. From the floor Reeder had a large weight advantage and better leverage. He pushed to his knees, taking a couple more ineffectual blows from Danner in the process, and dragged her up against the side of the table. Cloth ripped and Danner grunted when her head struck the table's edge. She lost consciousness.

When Danner came to she was still lying on the floor half propped up against the metal side of the table. Her head throbbed where it had struck the table, but when she tried to reach up and feel it she found her hands tied behind her back."Don't try to get up," Reeder told her. He was sitting on the Chem-lab stool, which he had pulled around the table and in front of her. "The cord is tied to the leg of the table. It's much too heavy to move."

"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing," Danner snarled at him. She had to stop for breath before continuing, however. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the wooziness she felt.

"I'm about to tell you that, if you'll let me," he said mildly. "If you don't stay still you may faint or throw up. You took a pretty nasty hit on the head." Reeder was feeling a bit light headed himself. Lack of sleep, he told himself. It was more than that, though. His mind felt as if it were poised on the cusp of some great precipice. He did not know if he could go through with his plans. He looked at Danner. One side of her head was swollen. A few drops of blood still trickled from her scalp to her neck. Reeder could clearly see the large bruise because he had shaved the hair from around it. There was no turning back. He took a deep breath.

"Doctor Danner," he began, as if beginning a professional discussion of some topic about which they disagreed, "do you agree that it is both unethical and immoral to perform experiments on human subjects without applying proper and safe medical and scientific procedures?"

"I think you're the one who got the crack on the head, Doctor." Danner practically spit the last word. Reeder shook his head. He glanced at his watch. Danner liked directness. Well, he'd be direct.

"You killed a man yesterday." Reeder watched Danner's face. He wanted to know if there was any remorse. Did Danner feel any guilt at all at what she'd done?

"They are going to take you away and lock you in a little white room for the rest of your life, Jay. You'll never be outside again." All Reeder saw was contempt for him, but he had to do this right.

"You imbued my marking compound with your neutralizer and used it on a man without running a single test on it. How could you do that?"

"You are not going to pin this on me. Is that what you are up to? Just remember, your code authorized the test."

"Do you know how many tests it would have taken you to discover how dangerous the combination was?" Reeder's voice rose as he thought about it. "One! One, dammit!" Reeder made himself calm down. "Fifteen minutes after I started the first test last night I knew the combination was fatal."

Danner just glared at him. It was useless to reason with her. He knew that before he started, but he felt he had had to try. She was really not going to like the alternative. He glanced at his watch again. It was time.

Reeder rose from the stool. Danner watched him go around the table until he was out of sight. When he returned he had a petri dish in one hand and a thin surgical applicator tool in the other. Danner watched him warily.

"I could have done this while you were unconscious, but I wanted to make sure you understand and believe what I am going to do." He held the petri dish where Danner could see the label: "Highly dangerous, special handling only."

"I stole this last night," he told her. "The small print is harder to read, but I think you can see it well enough to follow along. This dish contains live larvae of the species Pselliopus Cinctus. You might be interested to know that these came from eggs drawn at great sacrifice from a lady by the name of Magnolia. They've been frozen, you see, but I've had them sitting out in the open now long enough for the little fellows to be fully active."

Reeder looked at Danner over the petri dish. Her eyes were wide. Reeder had her full attention now, but he did not think she understood yet what was about to happen. "Of course, you can't see the larvae with the naked eye. They are quite small." Reeder held up the instrument in his other hand.

"But with this surgical applicator, which you are no doubt familiar, I can collect and deposit them."

Reeder set the petri dish down on the table above Danner's head. Danner seemed to suddenly realize what Reeder planned to do. She started to struggle.

"Shit, Reeder, you don't want to do this." Reeder removed the top of the petri dish and slid the base under the microscope he'd placed there. "This is murder, Reeder, do you realize that? Murder!" Reeder Looked carefully through the microscope and drew the larvae into the applicator.

"Please, Jay ... Jason, think about this ... Please!" Gently but firmly taking hold of Danner's head to keep her from thrashing around, Reeder cautiously worked the applicator over the bruise on her head. A quick look at the applicator under the microscope confirmed that he had deposited all the larvae. Danner began to scream and blubber, but Reeder ignored it. He carefully sterilized both the applicator and the petri dish, and made no effort to silence Danner. He returned to the stool. It was barely 6:00am.

There would be no one in this part of the building that early, and Reeder had already arranged for Gamesly to come by the lab at 6:30am. They had plenty of time.

Danner finally wound down, but Reeder could see it was only temporary. Danner looked like she was gathering energy to really explode. The fits of tears had stopped; so had the pleading. Next would be either hysteria or violent rage. Neither was desirable.

"Before you start that noise again, stay sane long enough for me to tell you what this is." Reeder showed her the syringe he'd brought back to the stool with him. "Remember my marking compound? Well, I discovered that the anesthetizing fluid used by the assassin bug, which you are now infected with, is very similar to the anesthetizing fluid used by the flesh fly."

Reeder wasn't sure if Danner was hearing him. Her shoulders were hunched and her head was bent forward at an uncomfortable angle. "I can feel them," she whispered.

"I can find them, mark them, with this," he told her, holding out the syringe. She looked at his hand.

"Please," she said. Reeder nodded.

"There's a catch." He paused to make sure she was still listening.

"Last night I was so ... " Reeder forced down the black emotions that rose in him. "... unhappy ... at your impatience, callousness, and greed, that I became driven to prove how little time had really been needed not only to correct the flaws in the combination of my marking compound and your neutralizer, but to improve on it." Reeder looked down at the syringe in his hand. Danner's eyes followed his.

"This is the result. The combination should not only mark the larvae, but immobilize them for a period of time sufficient to destroy or remove them. The computer predicts a good chance that it is safe to use. Of course, there wasn't time to run the complete series of tests to be sure."

Danner shuddered. Magnolia had reported that she could feel them moving, but that had to be imagination. Imagination was one of the deadlier symptoms of the infestation. "This is going to be your choice, Clara, a choice Madeira did not have."

"Marking ... compound ... only ... safe." Reeder shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Clara, but that is not an option. I also did a complete file wipe of both your records and mine last night. What I have here is the only remaining evidence of either my marking compound or your neutralizer." Reeder shrugged. "Of course, I can duplicate the make-up of the marking compound from memory- given a few hours to work on it. By that time Pselliopus Cinctus will have metamorphosed into the adult assassin bug and worked their hungry way through the capillary blood vessels in your scalp to the deeper veins and into the brain itself. Even now the larvae will be dispersing to find suitable places to metamorphose." Danner began to pant as Reeder talked, breathing air in gulps, and then forcing it out in one breath. Reeder continued to hold out the syringe. "Do you want me to use this or not, Clara?"

Gamesly opened the door to Reeder's lab. She saw Reeder standing over Danner with a syringe in his hand. Danner was disheveled and bloody.

"Reeder!" She shouted. Reeder and Danner both started. Reacting quickly, Gamesly's hand shot out and hit the intercom button on the wall. "Emergency in the Reeder lab! I need Medical and Security NOW!"

They were at a standoff. Gamesly still stood at the door of the lab, with gun waving Security officers stacked up behind her so thick the Medical staff could not see into the room. Danner was still tied to the table, shivering uncontrollably and trying not to go into shock. Reeder remained standing beside Danner, holding the syringe over the sterilizer on the table.

Reeder had threatened to smash the syringe in the sterilizer. Danner had screamed in panic for Gamesly to stop the rush of Security. When the officers drew their guns, anyway, Reeder turned the syringe on Danner, poising the needle over the bruise on Danner's scalp. The command in Gamesly's voice had stopped it from going any further. Gamesly had listened in silence to Reeder explain what the syringe held and the decision he was waiting on from Danner. He also explained that he was prepared to drive the syringe deep into Danner's skull, killing her, if they interfered.

"Decide, Clara," Reeder urged her gently. Danner's eyes locked on Gamesly's. Gamesly nodded. If Danner refused the treatment then she would find herself in 'X' quarters, no more than a celebrated experimental. Danner

would rather be dead, and Gamesly knew that.

"Do it, then," Danner decided.

Reeder carefully slipped the needle under the skin. Danner flinched but held still while Reeder slipped the needle in and out, leaking a little of the fluid into the skin. The room was completely silent save for Danner's harsh breathing. Reeder put the syringe on the table. He smiled a tired smile as a narrow band of orange began to appear, marking the location of the larvae. Surgeons would be able to use standard exploratory tools to get any of the deeper infestations.

"How do you feel, Clara?" Gamesly called from across the room.

"Like shit," Danner said weakly. "Can you see the bastards, Reeder?"

"Everything is working just fine," he said.

"Then get them out of me," she pleaded with Gamesly.

Reeder held up a hand when Gamesly started to signal the medics. Gamesly paused. "What, Reeder?" She was impatient to get medical attention to Danner, and Security to Reeder.

"Danner goes into isolation and observation for at least forty-eight hours?"

"That's standard procedure, Reeder, you know that."

"I want time to reproduce the combination. Two days is sufficient. Then you'll have it for a full cycle of tests and you can do with me what you want."

"You won't be working here any more, Reeder, I hope you realize that." Gamesly could empathize with Reeder, but that did not change what he had done.

"I want Magnolia to be the next recipient." Reeder's voice took on an edge of desperation. "Promise me that, Dolores." Gamesly regarded him without speaking for a long moment.

"Promise me, Doctor. If I am no longer ... here ... then I will have to trust your word."

Finally Gamesly nodded. "Magnolia will be treated immediately after testing. You have my word." Reeder visibly slumped. Gamesly thought he would fall, but he pulled himself upright at the last minute. Gamesly indicated Danner. "May we?"

Reeder nodded. It didn't matter now what they did to him.

THE END

Return to ToC

~~~~~~~~~~

Introduction. "Outpost" was the first story of mine which included artwork. I was having trouble visualizing the craft where the story takes place and finally had to draw it out using a Computer-Aided Design (CAD) program. On a whim I included the design in the submission, and it made it into the magazine. "Outpost" is a love story. Of sorts.

~~~~~~~~~~

### Outpost

Lieutenant Commander Elias Jimenez was asleep at his desk. One arm, his right, cradled his head while the other arm hung limp at his side. The metal surface of the desk was a more familiar resting place than the pillow on his abandoned rack, but he did not sleep peacefully. Jimenez breathed in rough gasps and grimaced in concert with twisting lips and twitching fingers.

Jimenez dreamed of escape. In the nightmare he prowled the perimeter of his confinement, increasingly agitated that he could not find his way out. He stalked to the right past his desk, examining every surface and corner as if some magic door should appear. In his dream (as he had done countless times while awake) he groped past the antenna monitoring panels, skirted the unslept-in rack pulled down from another bulkhead, and ignored the powered down and inoperative leisure console. He moved on, feeling his desperation growing.

Jimenez squeezed into a U-shaped, narrow passageway and explored bulkheads, overhead, and deck in pounding frustration. The U was a tidy tangle of fully automated and computer controlled maintenance equipment. Also crammed into the tiny space were the Kitchen system and toilet facilities. It was all depressingly, angrily familiar.

He emerged from the U to continue his circuit. He stared down at a pattern of nearly invisible lines tracing a wide octagon on the deck, but stepped across the airlock hatch seams without pausing. The rapid hammering of his heart deafened him. Claustrophobic fear stifled him. Jimenez, still asleep at his desk, breathed faster and in greater gasps.

He reached the third bulkhead, which in the odd-shaped chamber was positioned directly behind the desk. His breathing stopped. He stood transfixed in front of a viewscreen that dominated the entire bulkhead. It was blank. He waited in anxious and barely contained panic for his liberator.

Jimenez jerked violently awake, scattering objects on the desk that included the report tablet he had been reading. While he struggled for breath a small robot slipped from the U on silent wheels to retrieve the tablet and other displaced objects. Jimenez ignored the 'bot. Long habit and duty forced his attention to the clock.

Four hours. It had been days, maybe weeks, since he had been able to sleep any longer. Everything had become a blur during this lengthy round of incursions. Again, duty demanded that he check the readouts on the console fronting his desk. While doing so he carefully rubbed feeling back into the deep groove on the right side of his dark face. The crevice ran from forehead to chin and mirrored the lip of the desk where his head had been resting.

Readings were normal. The 'bot, having retrieved all loose objects from the deck and placed them back on the desk, disappeared into the U. The room was silent save for the barely audible hum of the computer and the sensed vibration of the external tracking antennas making their calculated sweeps.

Jimenez picked up the reading tablet and glanced at the words glowing from the screen, but his eyes would not focus on the status report. A vague queasiness invaded his stomach at the same time a gnawing itch began to chew at the roots of his teeth. His sinuses constricted painfully and Jimenez was forced to breathe from his open mouth.

He knew the signs. He tried to relax; fighting it only intensified the sensations, but he was helpless to control muscles flooded by reaction induced adrenaline. Violent shivers raced through his body and Jimenez clenched his hands hard enough for the uncut nails to tear new half moons of blood across his palms. A faint, pulsating whine drew strength inside his skull, its rhythm out of step with his heartbeat. Jimenez felt his heart skipping beats and then double-timing in confusion while his brain began to expand around the implant in his skull.

Jimenez's unspoken word of protest did not halt the steadily intensifying sensations. Not again. Not yet. It is too soon. I cannot ... but I must.

Jimenez struggled from his chair and turned to face the viewscreen. He probed his mouth with one finger to rub painfully itching gums and stared at the blank screen. His other hand pressed tightly against one ear as if holding in the pressure in his head.

"Entity approaching," the computer announced unnecessarily as the viewscreen darkened to display the star pierced blackness of space. Into that blackness a familiar shape formed.

"I have found you," framed the words in his mind. All the sensations that forecast her arrival blessedly ceased.

"So you have. Again."

"You missed me."

It was the eyes that haunted him. They glittered at him, so huge on the screen, so bright with undefinable color and alien intelligence. They beckoned to him more strongly than even her fair, sensuous beauty.

The visage on the screen did not come from the cameras mounted on the outer carriage of the station. Had Jimenez bothered to switch to video he would have seen no more than the massed array of antennas now trained on an empty area of space that could have been scant meters or endless parsecs from the station. The view on the screen came directly from his brain via the implant in his skull.

He shook himself from her gaze. He felt a heavy, sick bitterness descend upon him. Always he must wait in anticipation of her arrival and suffer through the pain of her approach, only to have to force her away. It just wasn't fair. Still, Jimenez dutifully focused on his training, collected his thoughts around a single imperative, and delivered the command that would repulse her.

Jimenez's eyes had closed in concentration. When he opened them an amused smile touched her lips.

"You lack conviction, my lover."

He uttered a resigned sigh and then was silent a long time. He watched her float effortlessly on the screen, at home among stars in the vacuum of space, seemingly just out of reach - or just within reach, depending ... on thoughts Jimenez did not wish to pursue. He gathered himself for another effort.

"Alien!" His mind shouted, pouring prejudice and rejection into the word. "Go! Return to Hell, alien beast!"

The words sounded rehearsed and vacant even to Jimenez. He was not surprised when she remained unmoving before him. Discouraged and alarmed at the emptiness he felt, Jimenez searched for the strength he needed. He thought of his wife, Tima, and of the children they would never have. He softly touched the charm he always wore. She had waited for him out of love and loyalty for the two years of his assigned duty, and then she had waited another two years when he was extended at his post. In the end, though, poor Tima, so sweet and frail, could not bear the burden of his constant peril. When Jimenez was extended yet again, she quietly left her beautiful, tiny Moonbase apartment, stole into an airlock without her atmosphere suit, and cycled the lock. Tima's death was a terrible consequence of Jimenez's duty ... an unexpected price that Jimenez could not reconcile or forget.

Jimenez considered it the highest honor to have been selected for duty at the interplanet outpost Forever Vigilant. He, along with thousands of other candidates, was tested for the uniquely qualified mind-set required to absorb the psychological training required. Of those selected, few were able to complete the training and many went insane. Many others later died of implant rejection complications or dropped out of the program before undergoing surgery. Although he was the fourth to be stationed at Outpost in the eleven years since its construction, Jimenez had served at Outpost for the last six of those eleven years. No one had yet been found to succeed him.

Outpost was positioned outside the orbit of Mars and circled the sun like a minuscule artificial planet. The sun's gravitational pull was not strong enough to hold a tiny craft like Outpost in orbit, but Outpost possessed just enough self propulsion to remain in the shadow of Mars and used Mars' planetary pull to drag it around the sun.

The Outpost concept came out of desperation. Humans had reached near space. Permanent, manned satellites dotted the night sky. Settlements were being attempted on both the Moon and Mars. Manned probeships were reaching out even further. Then people began to die: Alien Contact so terrible it was un-survivable. The pattern of death began at the outermost reaches of space achieved by humanity and began a slow, inexorable fall toward Earth.

Edgar Ophmostifulle was the only aberration in the pattern. He survived Contact. While his friends and colleagues at Mars Station died around him, the Ethiopian scientist survived repeated Contacts and reported what he learned. He hung on at Mars Station for six terrifying months alone, and during that time the rest of humanity remained untouched. Mars Station Two was dedicated to his memory, and Outpost was his legacy.

Outpost was built on the concepts developed from Ophmostifulle's observations and theories. A single, isolated individual, possessing a rare chemical make-up in the brain and exhaustively trained in psychological techniques, would in theory be an attractive lure to the Alien while having the means to repulse it's advance. The brain was also fortified via an implant, which reinforced and supplemented key chemical exchanges in the brain, which proved indispensable to maintain repeated Contacts over longer periods of time.

That was the paradox facing Jimenez. Outpost was a beacon powered by Jimenez's own thoughts that unfailingly drew the Alien to it. Like a beautiful, deadly moth, the Alien was drawn to the shining bulb of Outpost, only to be burned and repulsed until the attraction again became too great. The light of Outpost Forever Vigilant still burned strongly, but the human who powered it felt frayed and near collapse.

"Go away," Jimenez muttered to her.

"Send me away," she responded, knowing he could not.

"You are death to me." His words grew stronger. "You are death to all humanity! Can't you understand that? Can't you see the torture you inflict?"

She was troubled by that. She spoke carefully and touched him with the sincerity behind her words. "I do not know about humanity. I care only for you. It is death for me without you. You called me to you. It is you who torture by sending me away."

"I have no choice," he said. There was deep despair in those words that masked a longing she knew was there.

"Yes, you do." Jimenez waited for her next statement, already knowing what it would be. "Tell me what happened to Edgar Ophmostifulle," she asked. He sighed and answered.

"The Station collapsed. He died." Jimenez could quote this part of the conversation word for word, so many times had it been spoken, but he seemed powerless to interrupt it.

"The Station collapsed, yes, but he did not die, Elias." Jimenez did not respond. "None of those who preceded you here died, either. You know that."

"They died," he repeated, not knowing if he believed it. Jimenez's thoughts were sluggish and becoming incoherent. The trouble was that he did not know what happened to his predecessors. He was told they died. Yet buried in the computer records were too many inconsistencies, too many hints that no lifeless body had ever been removed from Outpost. Neither had Ophmostifulle's body ever been recovered. There were also the words he had found scratched into the undercavity of the desk: "Today I fly". Jimenez often wondered whether they were words of trepidation or anticipation.

"They'll never die, Elias. They live forever with their chosen, exploring the universe together. You can be immortal, too, Elias. We can be together always." Silently now she opened her arms in welcome. Those depthless eyes pleaded with him to come to her and promised him ... everything.

He wanted to. The fear faded away. Jimenez's body began to shimmer and took on a translucent color. He thought of duty. Choking down the maelstrom of desires she had released within him, Jimenez struggled with his own yearning and won a respite. Slowly, reluctantly, his body solidified again.

"You are young," the soft, melodious voice resumed, undaunted by the setback. "We can travel the stars together, you and me. I offer you the Universe and ask only for your love."

There was no denying the sincerity in her words or the power of her thoughts. Like hands on his back, it pushed him towards her. He could not remember why he fought her, or even if he should. His body again began to shimmer as he hung between his world and hers. Her eyes transfixed him. He felt lost in a whirlpool of unnamable colors that drew him closer, enfolding him. She reached out her hand and spoke again, caressingly.

"Come with me. Our desires are the same; our will is one. Escape that metal tomb into the stars. Take my hand and fly!"

Jimenez's body was now more ethereal than solid. For the first time in six years of staunch resistance he surrendered to her call. Delighted, she laughed with childish joy and abandon. The laugh was meant to welcome him, but it reeked of Alien as it echoed in Jimenez's mind. The chill of that Alien mind-sound sliced through the numbing surrender, sending a shockwave that overwhelmed the unique defenses Jimenez's mind maintained against the Alien. For the briefest of moments Jimenez experienced what a normal human felt when Contacted. The explosion of madness drove out everything else.

When Jimenez came to he was sitting in a pool of his own wastes. He had voided himself as well as vomited up the contents of his stomach. His arms shook uncontrollably with the effort of holding his upper body off the deck, and Jimenez knew it would be some time before he would be able to stand. These things held only his brief attention, however, because he could see that she still remained in the viewscreen.

The joy was gone from her eyes. Tears streamed down her face and her soundless sobbing seared his soul. She bombarded him with emotions: love, pain, fear, horror. She had seen her boundless love turn to ugly madness in his mind. "Will you never love me?" She wept. When he could not answer her she wailed in distress. "Then cast me away! Send me back to the black depths of space carrying the burning anguish of your rebuff."

Now, he told himself. Now! Fling her away now while she's vulnerable. For a long moment he tried to gather himself for the effort. He could not. Crying out, he fell back into his own filth.

She still remained. Jimenez could feel her love and distress emanating from her even now. There was no where for her to go, he realized. She was as trapped as he was, destined forever to perform this macabre dance. There was no duty left in him, only impulses and emotions as indelibly ingrained in his human psych as those which drove her. He could go to this beautiful creature, either to die or to live whatever life she offered.

Then he thought of Tima, who had loved him too much to live. Jimenez saw the irony for the first time. Tima had been no less trapped than the Alien by her love for him. She had held on until the suffering brought on by his absence and her fear for him had overwhelmed her, but she had never wavered in her love and had never asked him to turn away from his responsibility. He knew that he did not have what it took to take the path Tima did. He was no longer sure if that showed strength or weakness. In his heart and soul - below the shattered foundation of duty - was the bedrock of Tima's lost love. Was even that enough any more to hold him here? Jimenez did not know.

What would best serve her tender memory? He asked himself. Should he continue to be the forever vigilant protector of humanity at the expense of this second chance at love? Or should he take this proffered chance before the Alien, too, perished from her love of him? The loneliness and longing grew more unbearable with each new appearance. Then Jimenez remembered that inhuman laugh, and there could be only one answer.

Jimenez forced himself to stand. He spoke to the computer and silenced the jarring sounds of the alarms that he had become aware of. Mentally girding himself for the effort, he met the eyes of the Alien.

"You have lost again," he told her, and felt his resolve already wavering at the despair that washed over him. Then the heartache lessened as she struggled to gain control of herself. She said nothing to him, but she let him see the deep regret and longing that inhabited his own breast.

He sent her away, closing his eyes to her dwindling form, but he could not shut out her parting words. They were brave, simply stated words. She refused to plead or force further pain on him and there was no denying their truth.

"You can send me into oblivion, but I will find you again. I have no choice but to seek you." There was a pause and he thought she was gone. He opened his eyes to see her fade from sight as her last words reached him. "I love you, Elias."

"I love you, too," he whispered aloud.

He stared at the empty square of space until the computer blanked the screen and informed him it would be three hours before there would be sufficient power to transmit a report. That suited Jimenez just fine because he needed time to compose himself.

Jimenez slid into the chair at his desk and tried to ignore his foul condition. He sighed, knowing he was doomed to face his temptation again and again, and that one time he would fail. He recalled her inhuman laugh and held that scalding memory close to his heart, feeling how it strengthened him and hoping desperately that it would be enough to send her away again the next time.

He rested his head on the desk. One hand traced the words scratched under the desk even as he thought of that laugh, taking some of the strength from him. "Today I fly".

Jimenez wakened from a fitful doze. It had been less than two hours since the last Contact. His teeth began to itch.

THE END

Return to ToC

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Introduction. "The Porch" has appeared in print as well as shared in email and online between friends and family. It's one of my favorites. The germination of this story started with an old, abandoned house in a section of woods near our place at the time. The area around our house was a great place to take evening strolls, where there were corn fields, a horse ranch, and cattle interspersed around the small community of Etters, Pennsylvania. On a coolish day with the sun beginning to set and rain in the forecast we strolled past the abandoned place. The old house was set back away from the newer paved road, almost lost in the trees and untended growth. An equally old barn sat closer to the road, blocked by a rusted chain with a "No Trespassing" sign attached. Another aging sign was nailed to the barn: "Beware of Dog." There were a growing number of such homes, left behind as newer developments were built, taxes went up, farming community jobs were lost, and the country feel of the place gave way to modern suburbs. We were fortunate to live there before the area became just another bedroom community to the city of Harrisburg up the river. But that is where this story was born.

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### The Porch

The jury found James J. Janway guilty of first degree murder. He was sentenced to death row. Janway refused to appeal the decision, released his attorney, and retreated into silence.

Janway's blunt testimony at the trial sealed his fate. He had his reasons for lying on the witness stand. He wished desperately to mourn his dead wife, but there was room for nothing but the fear. He refused the authorities offer to allow him to attend his wife's funeral; just sitting in the township courthouse during the trial, fifteen miles from the neighborhood where she died and Pine Home Cemetery where she now lay buried, made him panicky. For Janway, death row was the safest place he knew.

Both Janway and his wife, Mandy, were tired of the California lifestyle. So when the packaging company Mandy worked for opened a new branch in Pennsylvania, they jumped at the chance to transfer. Janway, who had been laid off his civil service job of ten years three months before, traveled to Pennsylvania to find a new place to live. The depressed economy of the region provided many choices and Janway examined numerous houses in the week he had to look. He chose a small three bedroom house, just the right size for a mature, childless couple. The area had seen some development, but that had slowed with the economy, and the atmosphere was still fundamentally country. This part of Pennsylvania consisted of rolling hills and farmland planted primarily in feed corn. The country atmosphere and the eagerly friendly neighbors were a main attraction. Mandy liked Janway's description of the farm within walking distance of the house. Both horses and milk cows were pastured there, to Mandy's delight. They moved in in July.

Both Janway and Mandy were happy with the move despite the inevitable problems and unexpected annoyances. Janway, unable to land a job in his field, took a low paying job in a carpentry shop. The job did not help their financial situation, but Janway found he enjoyed the physical work and the creation of something tangible. The location of their dream home also proved a little disappointing; the narrow two lane road their house perched next to was surprisingly busy, and the friendly neighbors turned out to be very nosy ones as well. The road was the biggest flaw. Neither Janway nor Mandy were comfortable walking along its almost non-existent shoulder on their regular treasured evening walks. They flinched every time a vehicle hurtled by.

It took some exploration, but they eventually found a nearby intersecting road that offered the country scenery and privacy they sought. A small housing development crowded the intersection of the two roads, but once they were past the row of large, over-priced houses, a graveled road wound through the hills for two miles before doubling back on itself. Farmland cut into only a portion of the woods here. They were delighted at the rabbits, groundhogs, and occasional deer they saw along the road and the edge of the woods.

On September 15 Janway and Mandy began their regular walk a little later than usual. The weather was getting increasingly fall-like, and darkness was coming earlier every day. They knew there would be little light left by the time they returned, but the area was now familiar and neither wanted to disrupt their evening ritual. They left the house, stopped to say hello to the horses and feed them a carrot apiece, then turned onto Old Spring Road, passing the development and into the woods. Mandy was wearing a light sweater and Janway was wearing a short sleeve shirt. The temperature was in the low sixties and breezy; they knew they would be comfortable as long they were walking.

It was too late for the rabbits to be out feeding, but there were still many birds to watch. Janway talked about the cabinet he was building. Janway had designed it himself on commission from one of their neighbors. It would be the first thing he had designed and built without assistance and he was excited about it. Mandy talked about the letter she had received from her sister Janet in South Carolina. Mandy and Janet were very close. Janet was due any day with their third child.

Talk turned to children in general. Both Janway and Mandy needed constant reassurance from each other on their decision not to have children. Even after seven years of marriage, well meaning pressure from both sets of parents raised old insecurities. They occasionally held hands as they walked, but the closeness between them went far beyond the physical.

The rain started as light sprinkles. They joked about the rain, and their ill-preparedness for it. Janway suggested they turn around and cut the walk short, but Mandy wanted to finish their walk. Janway agreed. They continued.

The back loop of their regular route consisted of occasional corn fields cut into the tangle of woods and heavy underbrush. The road was gravel instead of asphalt. Once or twice on their walks a car would pass, or horseback riders, and they would wave and smile. They never encountered other pedestrians. Weathered farmhouses where Janway assumed the owners of the fields lived were a common sight. There were also large, expensive homes built back from the road and set well apart from other houses. These houses, surrounded by out of place suburbia lawns, were inevitably built on a part of an old farm. A crumbling barn and a boarded up house engulfed by vegetation usually shared the lot and looked less incongruous than the two story Tudor or split-level ranch that sat behind it. These expensive homes were normally deserted. Mandy, disgust and more than a little envy in her voice, described the homes as weekend retreats for the very well off from the city twenty miles north.

Janway and Mandy reached the switch-back that would carry them down a steep hill and then around a tight curve that marked the mid-point of their walk. The rain had begun to pick up force. They were walking briskly; Mandy's sweater was still holding off the bulk of the rain, but Janway was getting very wet and cold. On their right just off the road was one of the abandoned houses with its barn. The house boasted a porch that looked very dry and inviting. Thunder boomed in answer to a flash of lightning and Mandy jumped. The worst of the storm was still on its way.

Janway stopped walking. A chain stretched across the unused driveway with a "No Trespassing" sign hung on it. The barn, on the immediate left of the driveway, held a weather faded "Beware of Dog" sign. Past the barn was a single story unpainted house with shuttered windows and its porch. The house sat on a hillside that sloped down from its right side. The driveway extended to the end of the long side of the narrow, rectangular house. There were no awnings or other protrusions aside from the short porch which extended from the house's front end. It looked indistinguishable from other abandoned houses along Old Spring Road except there was no modern home nearby and no vegetation thrust up against the sides of the house.

Janway hesitated despite the increasing rain. His respect for the rights and property of others was so strong it often interfered with practical considerations. Mandy admired this trait in her husband while at the same time the manifestation of it tried her patience.

Mandy immediately understood why Janway hesitated. She pointed out that no one could possibly be living in the house. The owners would not mind if they stood on the porch to keep from getting soaked and possibly catching their death from cold. Mandy shivered convincingly and jumped again at the flash of lightning. Mandy was not as cold as she wanted Janway to think, but she was definitely afraid of thunder and lightning. Mandy stepped over the chain and headed for the porch. Janway, overcoming his reservations about trespassing, followed.

They stepped gingerly onto the porch. The untreated floorboards were broken along the edges and the wood sagged and groaned where they stepped. Much of it looked rotted. The front railing and the supports for the roof were made from saplings probably cut right on the property. The floorboards were nailed together, but the saplings were held together by hemp rope. They were amazed that the porch roof did not leak. Two large pines sheltered the area between the house and the barn ten feet distant. The two story bulk of the barn kept the wind from driving the rain into the porch. Janway, who had a nervous fear of spiders, looked a bit anxiously for the expected webs and was surprised and relieved there were none.

Attempts to modernize the place was obvious and crude. Wires extending from the porch light socket were anchored to the front of the house and then ran to the outhouse leaning precariously on the hillside. A second pair of wires, split from the first at the anchor, followed a winding course to the side of the barn, where the exposed ends dangled. Janway did not remember seeing a power line connected to the house, but it was raining too hard now to leave the porch and check.

Janway wrapped his arms around his wife, the chill providing a convenient reason to snuggle. Mandy, who knew how cold Janway's hands could get even in mild weather, pulled his hands under her sweater to rest against the light shirt she wore underneath. Mandy rested her head on his chest. They stood this way for a long moment, drawing warmth from each other and watching the rain fall. Without speaking, their hands began slow caressing movements. Mandy raised her head and when their eyes met, both pairs held the same mischievous glint. They kissed lightly, feeling the passion begin to stir.

By unspoken mutual consent, however, the caresses and kisses gradually diminished until they returned to the unmoving snuggle they had started from. Making love outdoors was a favorite fantasy of theirs, and they had gotten carried away more than once in situations similar to this one. The nearness of the road and the openness of the porch, though, were just enough an inhibition to keep the couple from acting on the impulse.

While they were involved with each other the rain had slackened considerably. A heavy mist still fell soundlessly and contributed to the growing darkness. It was very quiet; the light was dim and objects seemed to take on a faint white glow. Janway was reluctant to continue their walk, and would have been content just to snuggle on the porch a while longer. Mandy, more curious, wandered to the other side of the porch to see what that side of the house looked like. Janway, still uncomfortable with the unstable look of the porch floorboards, stepped off on the nearer driveway side and walked around the porch between the house and barn. Both found new things to point out to the other.

Mandy discovered that the house and porch foundation were made only of thick pieces of hand-cut timber; the upper and lower ends of the timber rested on the underside of the house and the ground, respectively, with no other visible support. Over the years the weight of the house had forced the timber out of alignment and it was obviously only a matter of time before the whole structure tumbled down the hillside. Already the house showed a slight lean and some of the porch supports had collapsed. That explained why the side of the porch near the driveway was lower than the opposite side: the porch had already partially fallen to ground level on the higher side of the hill.

The leaning house and collapsed foundation suddenly made the porch look dangerously unstable to Janway. The area of the porch where Mandy now stood was supported only by a small boulder which had evidently been dragged to that spot to hold the porch in place. A quick look at Mandy confirmed that she felt the same sudden fear. Moving quickly, Janway pulled Mandy off the porch and they wasted no time getting back to the front of the porch and out from between the structure and the hillside.

Their relief gave them the giggles, and they playfully prodded each other, trying to get the other to admit who was the more scared. Janway remembered what he had found to show Mandy. A rope was tied to one of the railing supports on the driveway side of the porch. The rope stretched to the ground and then disappeared underneath into the ten inch gap left between the half collapsed porch floor and the ground. Near the rope was an ancient iron skillet with something unnamable still crusted in the bottom. Mandy rapidly caught the implications, confirming Janway's own deduction that the rope had been used to lease a dog; a dog that had been fed from the iron skillet.

Janway, still playing up the scare they'd just had, wondered aloud in a foreboding voice if there might still be something attached to the end of the rope which snaked under the porch. Mandy was standing next to the rope. She looked from her husband to the rope and back. The dare had been made, and Janway knew Mandy would be too curious to leave it alone. They played this game often; one dared the other, and if the dare was taken, the roles were later reversed. Mandy smiled. It was getting darker and harder to see; maybe there would be a little lovemaking after all. Mandy knew what her return dare would be when she won this one.

Mandy grasped the rope where it was tied to the railing. When she touched the rope, Janway felt an inexplicable tension. He almost spoke, telling her to let go and forget it, but there was no reason for the feeling and it would only make him look silly. Janway said nothing. She began to pull on the rope, collecting the coils that lay on the ground and wrapping them around her hand. She stopped just before starting to pull the rope from under the porch. She made scary noises at Janway, teasing him, and he mustered back a smile. He told her she should back away from the porch a few steps, teasing her back, but the words came out too seriously. Mandy's smile faltered slightly at his tone. She didn't back away, however, chiding him for being a sore loser, and pulled on the rope.

Janway saw immediately that there was more tension on the rope than there should have been. The logical part of his mind informed him that the rope was probably caught under some part of the collapsed porch; the rest of his mind went numb with terror and his eyes fixed on the rope, unable to look at anything else. Mandy jerked on the stuck rope, and they heard a sharp sound that was half yelp and half whimper. Mandy and Janway looked at each other for a brief moment. Then the whole house shuddered with a sudden jolt, and the rope jerked in the direction of the porch with vicious force. The rope was still wrapped around Mandy's right hand, and Janway heard the bones in her fingers break with grisly snaps. Mandy sucked in her breath to scream and the rope jerked again, this time pulling Mandy off her feet. Her head hit the edge of the porch floorboard; blood from the wound splashed over the porch and ground. Janway stood frozen, thinking stupidly that he'd always been told that even superficial head wounds bled profusely. Whatever was attached to the other end of the rope began pulling Mandy under the porch. Janway heard an obscene, rumbling growl coming from beneath the floorboards.

Mandy found her voice and began screaming. They were throaty, horror-stricken screams, one right after another. Her right arm and most of her head were already under the porch, but her left hand grasped the railing with frantic force and her legs scrambled for some kind of purchase. Mandy's screams released Janway from his paralysis. Rushing forward, he grabbed her legs and pulled backward with everything he had, hollering unintelligibly. The wet earth slipped out from under his feet and he landed hard on his buttocks. Another jerk on the rope and Janway was pulled along with Mandy another foot. Mandy's screams increased another decibel.

The house shuddered again. Nails sprung from the porch floor and boards broke loose, letting in some of the fading light. Janway caught a glimpse of a shape under the floorboards. It might have been a large dog once. There was no way to know how long ago it had been trapped and crushed under the collapsed porch; no way to know how long it lay there with it's broken skull and crushed hindquarters; no way to know how long the changes had been going on. If it had been a dog, all that was left were feral eyes protruding from a cracked skull from which all hair and skin had long since rotted away, forequarters a gangrenous green, forepaws bloated into massive hooked claws, and wet, iridescent, maggot infested hind quarters. The hind quarters were stretched into snake-like length from the effort of pulling away from where it was trapped under the porch. The rope was still attached to the collar around the thing's neck. Into its mouth Mandy's arm had disappeared as far as the elbow.

The floorboards crashed back into place. Mandy, sane and practical to the end, realized she could not pull free. She never truly believed in things that go bump in the night, and although she was terrified, it was not the mind numbing kind of terror usually associated with encounters with the unknown. She had been a fighter all her life, and so she did what she had to do. Freeing her left hand from its grip on the railing, she scrambled under the porch to kill the thing which was devouring her arm. Janway, so much less brave than his wife, also did the only thing he knew to do. He scrambled under the porch with her.

It was black under the porch and the air was foul. Underneath there was more room than at the edge of the porch, but not much. Mandy grimly fought the beast in that constricted space. She panted in huge gulps that left no room for screams. She clawed, bit and kicked with inhuman violence. Janway did what he could by grabbing and holding one of the beast's forelegs. The beast kept tearing its foreleg from his grasp, leaving sheets of dead skin tangling his fingers, but Janway would grab it again. The thing released the remains of Mandy's arm and lunged at her. The rotting jawbone of its toothless mouth dragged along Mandy's head and tore open the scalp. Mandy and the thing howled together with maniacal sounds so similar Janway could not distinguish between the two. Mandy's entire body stiffened and convulsed violently and Janway lost his hold on the things' foreleg again. Both Mandy and the thing slumped motionlessly to the ground.

Janway ignored the motionless shape of the thing and somehow got Mandy out from under the porch. He laid her on her back on the ground and kneeled beside her. There was little left of her right arm. Bone and severed blood vessels protruded from her shoulder, the artery releasing blood with every beat of her heart. Her head had been ripped open where the beast had chewed and tore at her scalp; blood-soaked bone showed through. The flap of scalp covered her face. Janway gentled folded the skin back onto her head, and when he was done he saw that Mandy's eyes were open.

They did not speak. Both knew she was dying. In the moment they had left, the two lovers relived the seven years they'd had together; the joys and the sorrows; the lovemaking and the companionship; the reassurance for the last time that it was okay there would never be a child between them. She died.

Janway saw her die. He saw the Mandy he knew so well and loved so deeply fade from those eyes. Only those lovely green eyes did not close in death. Those eyes did not grow glassy and unfocused, but continued to regard him. Her chest did not rise and fall because she was no longer breathing. No blood coursed from serrated arteries because her heart no longer pumped; but the eyes watched him as he checked these things.

Janway looked into those eyes and saw something familiar. There was only a spark, but somehow he knew it would grow stronger with time, and sometime over the next few hours, or days, or months, those eyes would look on the world with the same feral madness that Janway had seen in the eyes of the beast. Knowing that, Janway took a rock and began methodically to smash into shards his dead wife's head.

This is what Janway told his lawyer, but it was not what he told the jury. His testimony in court was much shorter. Janway testified that he and his wife had, indeed, stopped on the porch of a deserted house to get out of the rain. He then testified that he tried to convince his wife to have sex with him. She refused and he became angry and tried to force himself on her. She fought back, and he killed her by bashing her repeatedly in the head with a rock. When he described how he had battered her head, Janway looked straight at the jury so they could see the truth in his eyes.

Two months after his sentencing, Janway was found dead in his death row cell. The autopsy report concluded that he had managed to strangle himself by swallowing two pairs of socks. Recordings of his psychiatric counseling revealed he suffered from a recurring nightmare. In the nightmare he was pursued by his headless wife, who had clawed her way out of her grave and come for him. On the single table in his cell were two newspaper clippings from the Pennsylvania Herald dated a week apart, the second just the day before his suicide.

The first clipping began "The abandoned house and barn where James Janway brutally murdered his wife burned to the ground late yesterday afternoon. Authorities have not yet determined the cause of the blaze. Bones found during the investigation are still being inspected, but one source speculated that they were probably from a dog...." The second article began "The empty, broken coffin of a Pine Home Cemetery grave was discovered by the cemetery's caretaker yesterday morning. Authorities are unsure when the grave was opened due to the steady rain of the past week. Vandalism is suspected because of the damage to both the coffin and the headstone. The identity of the missing body has not yet been determined ..."

THE END

Return to ToC

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Introduction. "Gates of Delirium" may be a trial for the ebook format to deal with, so this is something of a test. I wanted to retain the look of the poem as well as the words, which is difficult to do as text in an ebook format. I chose to insert the poem as an image, and I hope that turns out well. As for what it all means, well, I leave that to the readers.

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Return to ToC

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Introduction. "Infant Dawn" was the last story I published before I stopped writing. There is something of lost innocence here. Innocence can never really be regained, but that doesn't mean that there can't be hope.

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### Infant Dawn

Edward heard crying. He turned slowly, his sharp ears pinpointing the location of the sound over the rest of the small noises of the camp. It was nearly pitch black. The moon would not be up until almost dawn. He located the sound beyond the ring of fires and down the slope of trees and rocks that marked the southern edge of the encampment.

He made his way carefully, quietly, so as not to disturb those trying to sleep as he passed the fires and the huddle of carefully mended tents. Several of his Scouts were sleeping outside the tents. The night was cool, but not yet cold. Winter was still a month away.

The softly crying figure sat on top of a large rock that overlooked the tree-topped expanse of marsh below. Edward could barely pick out the dim gray outline of the sentry, a long spear laid across folded knees, against the black night sky. He slipped up beside the rock. Despite his quiet steps the crying stopped abruptly.

"What's wrong, Sandal? Why 're you crying?" He asked her. Edward reached up and touched a cold, exposed knee with one hand. He caressed a scabbed over skinned spot with his thumb.

"I'm not crying, Edward," she said around a sniffle. Sandal wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"Use your hanky, Sandal," Edward chided her. She complied. Edward broke the long silence that followed. "Sandal," he began, giving her knee a squeeze, "don't you know yer supposed to be cheerful! It's the Law!" He tried to keep his tone light, but he was worried.

"I made the blood today ... first time, this eve, after meal," she finally said, speaking slowly, as if not sure she could finish the sentence. Edward flushed both hot and cold, suddenly embarrassed and frightened at the same time. His hand slipped off her knee. He stared back at the flickering lights of the fires and tried to think of a reply.

"Ya don't hafta say nothing," she said then, losing her composure, and there were tears again.

"It don't mean anything," he blurted out, ashamed that he could offer her no solace. "The Handbook ..." He began lamely.

"There's nothin' in the Handbook for this," she retorted almost accusingly. Edward could not argue the truth in that. He felt her eyes on him, and looked up at her face. The night sky had turned the natural darkness of her eyes into haunting hollow spheres.

"Edward, you know what the Tale says," she continued. "I hafta get preggers cause we got to get more people. I know that." She stopped to take a shaky breath. She placed her hand over the warm spot on her knee where Edward's hand had rested. "But I'm scared, Edward. I'll prob'ly die when I have it." They both remained in uncomfortable, painful silence as each weighed the burden of her sudden puberty. He wondered helplessly if he should pat her knee again.

"Let's you an' me try, Edward, okay?" She suddenly pleaded, her voice barely a whisper above the wind through the trees. "We're a good team, ain't we? You and me, we been a pair for awhile now." She paused and hoped Edward would speak. He did not. "I don't want it to be no other guy," she finally said to fill the silence. The wind felt cold on Sandal's thin arms as she waited to hear Edward's reply.

Edward felt frozen in place. Two images superimposed themselves in his mind: Sandal's soft young body curled warmly against his; and a tiny, bloody body grown cold and alone in his hands.

"I can't," Edward mumbled and hurried away without another word.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn'ta asked you," he heard her say desperately, "please come back." But Edward did not turn.

"Bastard!" She hurled the words at his back. Edward did not hear. The fifteen year old gave in to the painful memories of another loving girl dead on the birthing cot and the still-born form that had been his son. He could not face that pain again, even if the Tale demanded it.

The morning was damp and misty. Fog shrouded the wooded marsh below the Scout's position. Edward stood on the rock that Sandal had watched from the night before, using their one precious pair of binoculars to scan for movement on the slope. They had been skirmishing with the Forachers off and on for days. Mosquito infested and snake ridden, the Balsum Swamp was still home to both the Scouts and the Forachers, at least until heavy late summer rains had flooded the Scouts' camp and forced them into the hills. When the water receded and the Scouts tried to return they found that the Forachers had beaten them to it, claiming that all the swamp was theirs. The dispute was an old one. Today Edward wanted it settled permanently.

"Patrol Leader," one of Edward's Scouts called up to him. Edward scrambled down off the rock next to his first class, Rocky, a burly thirteen year old who quickly raised a hand in a three fingered salute. Edward returned the salute.

"The advance group has engaged," Rocky told him. Edward nodded. "Get us moving, then."

Rocky nodded and raced up the slope, his machete slapping against his side as he ran. In a moment Edward heard a chorus of kazoos sounding the march. The plan called for an advance party of twenty of the fastest Scouts to engage the Forachers head on with as much surprise as possible on the less protected Western edge of the Foracher camp. The advance party had slipped away before dawn. Edward was going to ram the rest of his Scouts -nearly fifty able bodies - right into the heart of their camp.

Lizbeth, a six year old with her newest merit badge displayed proudly on her shirt, led Maggie over to Edward. He patted the old pony on the side of the neck and rubbed the itchy spot on her forehead at the roots of the mane. Maggie nickered in welcome. Edward smiled at Lizbeth and congratulated her on earning her horsemanship badge, and then gently reminded her that this was a Campaign Day and Scouts shouldn't be wearing any of their brightly colored badges. Lizbeth reluctantly removed her badge and stowed it carefully away, and then showed him the keenly sharpened pocket knife she carried in a pouch at her side. Edward admired her knife even as something within him found the scene vaguely disturbing and unsettling. He suddenly and very strongly wanted to snatch the knife out of her small hands. He shook off the feeling with effort. She was a Scout, after all, like the rest of them.

By this time there was movement all around Edward as the Scouts started down the slope. Edward carefully checked his equipment and then mounted Maggie. He rode up and down the line of advancing Scouts, using hand and arm gestures - field signals - to keep them from straggling or advancing too fast. The kazoos were now silent.

Satisfied with the quick but orderly advance, Edward trotted over to a group of Scouts pulling a cart. Inside the cart was a cleverly made catapult and several canvas bags that squirmed and writhed in agitation from the angry copperheads the bags carried. If the cart could be maneuvered close enough then they could use the catapult to lob the snakes into the Foracher's camp. He looked for Sandal and was surprised that she was not with the cart as she was assigned.

"Where's Sandal?" Edward forced himself to ask the first class in charge of the cart. There were no secrets among the Scouts and it was embarrassing to ask after his girlfriend.

"Traded duty with Mack," she replied, slightly out of breath with the effort of pulling the cart. Rachel stared back at Edward matter-of-factly, challenging him to object to the swap. Rachel wanted to be Patrol Leader someday, and made it a point to exercise her own authority where she could.

This time Edward didn't even notice. He turned a startled look from Rachel to Mack, a thin, light footed nine year old struggling hard to pull his weight with the cart. The tenderfoot ducked his head when Edward looked at him. Mack had been assigned to the advance party.

A pall of pessimistic premonition descended on Edward. For a moment he felt faint, and might have fallen off Maggie if the seasoned pony had not automatically shifted position to steady her rider's weight. His vision grayed and the Scouts around the cart became gruesome skeletal caricatures of themselves. They are all going to die, he thought. Sandal, Rachel, Mack, all of them; and I will be to blame. His hand crept within his shirt to feel the smooth steel of the handgun he kept tied to a rope around his neck. He wondered if he was to die, would they live, and this terrible vision be no more than that? The blaring of kazoos cleared Edward's mind.

The main body of Scouts were in range of the Foracher camp. He removed his hand from within his shirt. Edward wiped the hand hastily on his trousers and turned Maggie's head back down the slope. He prodded her to greater speed with his heel. The Scouts at the cart stared after him and whispered among themselves.

The battle at the border of the Foracher camp had taken on a surreal look among the gray-green of the forest, the wispy remains of the morning fog and the pall from overcast skies. The Scouts and Forachers fought among the trees and the mud, yelling and slashing at each other with single-minded purpose and exuberance. There were screams of pain as well.

His vision forgotten, Edward dismounted quickly and sent Maggie back up the slope. He pulled out his slingshot and started racing from tree to tree, taking up a position and firing carefully selected rocks at every unfamiliar face. His aim was good and Edward got caught up in the excitement along with the rest of them as he gleefully bloodied faces and broke bones with whistling projectiles.

The Forachers fell back in panic and Edward abruptly found himself with other Scouts in a soggy clearing among the Foracher tents. There were a few Scouts from the advance party that had also made it this far. He did not see Sandal, but he did not have time to look too closely. Two Forachers entered the clearing. Edward recognized the Foracher Leader, but his attention immediately focused on what his companion carried in his arms.

"Scatter!" he yelled. He slipped and fell as the rest of the Scouts bolted toward the cover of the trees. The second Foracher raised the gun he held, snapped the magazine lever, and began firing.

The initial rain of bullets from the uzzi cut down many Scouts. The second Foracher advanced rapidly, a gap toothed grin on his line-less boy's face. He fired at the terrified Scouts found huddled behind rocks and strafed their backs as they fled. The two Forachers advanced on Edward as he struggled to untangle himself from both the rope around his neck and a neckerchief that threatened to strangle him. He fumbled desperately for the gun with mud slick hands as the boy Foracher swung the uzzi in his direction.

Crazily, then, the Foracher Leader grabbed for the gun held by the second Foracher. The boy and the Leader struggled with the weapon momentarily until the astounded boy released the weapon to his Leader. Edward saw his chance. He freed the gun from around his neck and leapt to his feet. Edward flinched at the thunderous sound when he fired, but his aim was as true as the rocks from his slingshot. The face of the boy Foracher imploded from the impact of the bullet and he crumpled instantly. Edward swung the pistol around. The Leader had the uzzi raised and aimed at Edward. Muzzle faced muzzle. Neither fired. A bare ten steps apart, the two stared over their sights at each other.

With a clearness of sight brought on only by his nearness to death, Edward could see the faint wisps that were the beginnings of hair on the Foracher Leader's chin. He's older even than I am, Edward marveled to himself. Even more surprising and unsettling was the look in his eyes. Those eyes were dark with feral brooding and a near rabid madness. Coloring even that dark look, however, was an anguish that touched shockingly close to Edward's own dark musings and the nightmarish visions he had been having lately.

The Foracher Leader lowered the uzzi until Edward could see his face. He softly spoke words that Edward strained to hear. The Foracher Leader then turned the uzzi on himself and pulled the trigger.

The Forachers surrendered. By early evening the Scouts had gathered the remaining Forachers into the clearing to view the body of their dead leader. Rocky had pulled down the Forachers' flag and they had watched the green four leaf clover symbol with the faded white 'H' on each leaf burn on the bonfire. The Scouts' Patrol banner was raised in its' place.

In his tent, moved from the hillside down into their new camp in the clearing, Edward could see the flames from the bonfire flickering against the rough fabric of the walls. The closed tent flap and sweaty bodies made it hot and humid. He and all his first class were arguing over the fate of the Forachers. Edward raised his hand with three fingers extended for attention. The others immediately quieted.

"Take'em in," Edward urged. He was sitting on the pony's saddle, which he planned to clean and oil as soon as business was over. The pistol was again safely around his neck and the uzzi was tucked into a saddlebag. He did not know for sure why he wanted to take the Forachers in, but he was growing increasingly certain that he was on the verge of some revelation that could lift him or destroy him. Yet Edward's mind felt sluggish. He didn't want to have to think.

"We got nineteen dead," argued Rachel flatly, the cart first class who did not get a chance to use her snakes, "most from that gun which they knows is not allowed."

"I used a gun, too," he reminded them.

"They used theirs first!" A couple of the others said simultaneously.

Edward shook his head, still able to vividly picture the blood blossoming as the bullet struck the Foracher's face.

"It's still ..." Edward tried to explain the wrongness he felt, but others joined in and drowned him out.

"They went to the Places, too!" This outburst was from Rocky. As evidence he held up a portable player with the flat circular music disk still inserted. "And there's other things in them Foracher tents."

Going to the Places was bad. The Tales spoke strongly of avoiding all cities and towns- anywhere people had lived and where there were Bad Things people used to hurt each other. Some Bad Things were described, such as guns, but the Tales were pretty vague about other things. It was best just to avoid the Places, and especially not bring out anything from the Places. Dan'l, the most junior first class at ten years of age, stood up. The tops of his hair brushed the roof of the tent and sweat immediately popped up on his forehead from either nervousness or because of the rising body heat.

"The Tales say," he began earnestly, and all quieted to listen, "that when People gather together in Places they like it at first. The People make Good Things to help make things better. But the Good Things are always used to do Bad Things that hurt People. Then those People make Bad Things to hurt back. Adults did this to each other all over the World, and taught their Children that it was Right to do the same thing." The Scouts nodded in agreement. Dan'l sat down.

"Throw'em out," Rocky advised. "They're Bad. They don't follow the Law."

"Burn'em all," suggested Rachel with conviction. "They'll just come against us again. And they killed Sandal."

"Yea," several said, a low chorus gaining strength. They all leaned forward as one and looked at Edward expectantly.The Forachers had a bear that they kept on a chain. They released it against the advance party. The bear was now dead, but it had mauled five Scouts, killing three, before it was brought down. Edward had personally prepared Sandal's gruesomely mangled body for cremation. He was responsible for her death. If he had not been such a coward she would not have gone with the advance party. Sandal had been hurt and mad at him and swapped duty to make him worry. Now she was dead.

Edward looked at the eager faces around him. They were flushed with their victory of the day. Nineteen Scouts and fourteen Forachers were dead. Some others might still die from hurts they could not mend. He had led them to this. He was responsible. He did not know if there were any words to make them understand this. Once upon a time he would have sided with Rachel. Now he thought of knives in small hands, and shuddered. If he did not say something, though, Rachel's words would convince the rest. He took a long breath.

"Destroy all the stuff from the Places," he told them. "Take their fighting weapons, but leave enough for hunting. We'll keep the little ones and drive the rest away in the morning." Edward waited for the objections to die down. "They won't come against us while we got their babies. Dan'l, what does the Tales say about the little ones?" Dan'l rose again.

"The Tales say the Little Ones must be protek... protected. The Little Ones are all that is left of Inno ... Inno ...." Dan'l paused and struggled with the word.

"Innocence," Edward filled in.

"The Little Ones is all that's left of Innocence in the World." Edward looked hard at Dan'l. The boy flushed with embarrassment at the scrutiny and sat down. Dan'l was still an innocent, Edward realized. Most of his other senior Scouts had lost or were losing that capacity. Edward felt the loss of it in himself keenly.

"What do you think we should do, Dan'l?" Edward surprised himself by asking. The others were no less surprised, staring first at their leader and then at Dan'l, the junior first class. Dan'l turned an even deeper red, appalled at the attention, but bit his lip and became serious as Edward remained silent and waited patiently for Dan'l's reply.

"I ... well, I think havin' more babies around would be neat." Someone laughed. Edward nodded and looked thoughtful. Rachel started to speak but Edward signalled her to keep silent. She pouted but held her tongue.

"Who would take care of 'em?" Edward asked.

"Uh, I guess we'd have to keep some o' the Forachers around for that." Dan'l shrugged his shoulders timidly.

"And who would provide food for the Forachers that we kept?"

Dan'l's voice got quieter. "Maybe the rest of the Forachers?" Edward smiled. The effort cost him almost more than he had left. A numbing defeatism was creeping into his thoughts. It was useless. He had failed.

They were lost and it was his fault. Edward plowed forward stubbornly, anyway, despite the uselessness of it all.

"So you think that to protect the babies we need to keep all the Forachers?"

"Hey!" All eyes turned to Rachel. "Edward, you said we'd only keep the babies."

"Is that what you still think we should do?" She glared defiantly at Edward, unwilling to back down. "Scout Law requires that we be brave," he said, staring at Rachel but including the others. "You have all been that today. It also says that a Scout is kind, and helpful, and friendly. Does it say anything about selfish or cruel?" Rachel looked around at the other Scouts for support. No one spoke up. Somewhat to Edward's surprise, Rachel relented. She shook her head in defeat.

"Then it's settled." Edward turned back to Dan'l. "Dan'l, I want you to go talk with the new Foracher Leader. You know her, don't you?" Dan'l nodded.

"We was born on th'same day. She's the best turtle catcher in the Swamp." He grinned. "'Cept me."

"Good. Tell'er what we agreed. Think you can get her to okay it, too?"

"Sure," Dan'l said confidently. "I'll tell her else she'll never get a chance to beat me at catchin' turtles."

"Good again. I think that'll work just fine."

Alone in his tent, Edward took out both the handgun and the uzzi. He laid them on the floor of the tent and stared at them for a long time. He could hear Dan'l outside the tent coaxing a younger Scout into practicing Speaking the Tales for the rest. Edward left the guns where they were for the moment. He pulled over a bottle of oil and a rag and began methodically cleaning the pony saddle. He half listened to the little girl- Lizbeth the pony keeper, Edward knew- nervously Speaking for the combined group of Scouts and Forachers. When she came to the part about the Purge, however, Edward spoke the words to himself along with Lizbeth. He followed along with her mistakes and remembered the ones he had made at that age.

"The Tales says that Adults started deciding that they was responsible for the, uh, for the ..." She stamped a foot in frustration, "for causing all the Innocence to go away." Not word for word, Edward thought, but she understood what the words meant, which was the important thing.

"The Adults started committing ... they killed themselves 'cause they made their Kids lose their Innocence, too, and some Adults started breaking the Bad Things. Whole bunches of Adults started killin' themselves like it was a religion. Then one day there were no Adults no more, only Kids, and the Kids stayed away from the Places 'cause there are still Bad Things there. That was called the Purge, and it was supposed to let Innocence back into the World."

Edward was listening intently now. His hands worked oil into the saddle leather with the absent proficiency of long habit. Outside, a few heads turned in the direction of his tent.

"Kids grew up, though, and did Bad Things. And they taught other Kids to do Bad Things, too. Then they saw what they did and killed themselves, too. The Tales says that's what's still wrong in the World, and until grown up Kids can know Innocence there will always be Bad Things."

Lizbeth stopped Speaking. There was silence outside the tent. Edward finished his work on the saddle. He rummaged in a knapsack for a moment and then pulled out two well thumbed books. One was hard bound. The faded letters on its' cover read 'Scout Handbook'. The other was a digest sized, poorly printed pamphlet that had already lost much of its' readability. That no longer mattered, however; the Tales were well memorized by the Scouts and even verbally added to as the Tales suggested to maintain a running history of events. Their Scout Patrol had once been part of a Troop. There had once been a Scoutmaster who had left that long gone Troop this pamphlet.

Edward picked up the uzzi. He carefully took it apart and stacked the pieces on the oil soaked rag. Next he picked up the handgun. He remembered the look of anguish in the Foracher Leader's eyes. The Leader had known his own lost Innocence, and had quoted part of the Foracher Pledge to Edward even as he prepared to end his own life: "My hands to larger service, my health for my club and my world." He'd then added his own eulogy: "My life for failing to teach it." Edward thought of poor Sandal and of thirty-three dead Kids. He was responsible for all of that. There was no Innocence in what he had made happen. There was failure in not properly teaching Scout Law. He thought also of the Scouts and Forachers sitting together around the fire instead of killing each other. He was responsible for that, too, and thought about how precarious that union might be. Edward looked into the muzzle of the handgun and thought about Innocence.

Lizbeth was sitting at the edge of the fire basking in the compliments she had received for her Speaking. She had her tiny pocket knife out and was admiring the way the fire's light flickered across its' brightly sharpened blade.

"Pretty," she said to no one in particular. A hand reached around her and plucked the blade from her hand. She twisted her head up to look at who had taken the knife. Edward kneeled down beside her.

"It's a good knife," he said to her. "I'll trade you."

"What for?" She wanted to know, sure of the value of her knife and an excellent trader. Edward reached into his breeches pocket and pulled out his best possession and handed it to her.

Lizbeth held the marble up to the fires' light. It was perfectly clear; not a single bubble marred its' inner surface and within it danced a kaleidoscope of colors. Sandal had given him that marble.

"Double pretty," Lizbeth decided. "Okay." Edward pinched Lizbeth's cheek and reminded her that it was time for bed. She bounced to her feet and went off to check on Maggie first.

Edward heard Dan'l on the other side of the fire. As he walked over to thank him for a job well done he tossed the oil soaked rag wrapped around the pieces of the uzzi and the handgun into the fire.

THE END

Return to ToC

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Introduction. "The Birth of Words" - Writer's undergo frustrating periods where no idea sounds good enough, plots won't stay together, and characters refuse to play their roles. That blank slate, whether paper or computer screen, stares blankly back as dust settles and time passes. Sometimes, not being able to write is an almost physical pain. This piece, and the short, un-titled poem that follows it, documents some of this pain and frustration. This is not so much a story as it is a purging. I cringe when I read through it, but it broke a long period when I couldn't write and became the impetus I needed at the time to start writing again. The moral of the story is that the only cure for not writing is to write.

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### The Birth of Words

I am sitting in a hotel room in DC. The single chair in the room is unexpectedly comfortable. The day's conference is over; tomorrow's is yet to come. I am far from home in an unfamiliar city. Usually I'll read a book or kill time watching a movie on one of the cable channels. Tonight, however, I think about writing.

The light is dim in the hotel room. I turned out both the overhead light and the reading lamp on the table next to me. The only artificial light I allow myself seeps from behind the half closed door of the bathroom, which gives me just enough illumination to see the keys on my portable computer. The sun's dying glow from the un-curtained window offers some meager natural light. For a few moments I stare out the window at the cloud shrouded, lowering sun.

As my eyes adjust the dimness becomes too bright for my sudden purpose. There is still too much light; it's distracting. I take a moment to close the curtains - no. Changing my mind, I shut off the last light in the room instead. There, that is better, I think, although now I strain to see the keys, sometimes striking the same one twice or catching two keys insteasd of just the one I want. I caannot see the screen on the ciomputer at all. the words are a grey smear. As I think about what to write I daydream again.

My fantasy is of myself, reclining in a comfortable chair in my attic writing room. I have a computer keyboard across my lap as I do now, and I am looking out at the night sky and a dark countryside from a fine casement window. It is very dark in the room. My fingers fly across keys I no longer need to see; nor do I truly see the beautiful landscape beyond the window. I am lost in the story I am creating, oblivious to the click and feel of the keys and the hum of the computer. The story that grew within me is being born as I pore out its events and happenings and give life to its characters.

Perhaps this is the beginning of that dream, here in this hotel room. The conditions are right. The sun is gone, and I can imagine that the dark skyline of the city is the countryside view from my attic window. The keyboard characters are invisible in the darkness. I can feel a pregnant pressure from the words within me. I begin to type. At first I go slowly. Although I cannot see the screen I feel confident that there are few mistakes. I am quickly impatient, howevere, and the fingers fly faser tahn i am capable of without causing errors. I know those errors are piling up, a tapestry of mistakes I will have to sort out later. It is only a short burst, however, and the words stop coming.

So. Again. Sitting in a chair in a dark room, keyboard in my lap and a window to look out of. Why won't the words come ... that is the real problem. There is a story inside me. It is magical. The story is about obsession and desire and an unhinging of reality. It is the story I must write, the one that waits to be born inside me.

A boy once started a story (I do not wish to think that the boy was once myself). On a special night, when all the conditions were right, a hideous thing would prowl a small town. Those that faced it (those through accident, disbelief, or stubbornness who failed to tightly shutter their house on that night) died in ways that were inhumanly normal on the surface but supernatural in origin. It was not a great story, but as a young and impressionable child the story's tale of murder made the writer himself uneasy. When he re-read what he had written one weekend night some days later, he was even more unsettled. He had stayed up very late and the house was quiet. His door was closed but the summer night drifted in through an open window. Was tonight one of those special nights when the thing he had imagined in his story might roam? The night was warm, but the boy closed window, tucked the story back into his drawer, and went instantly to sleep. He never finished the story, and never connected the circumstances of its telling with his adult habit of keeping windows closed and locked on warm, breezy nights.

The boy became a man. He knew that special nights were not needed for evil things to walk the night. He read the paper and saw he results of that trampling every morning. He was smart and successful, but always the words within him whispered that it was not enough. He buried those words (like he buried remorse at his long since lost manuscript) and drowned them in day-to-day duties and challenges which fatigued his mind and dulled the words, but could not eliminate their siren sound. There were nights when the pressure could not be denied and he would write feverishly for hours, spilling words in long hand into a spiral notebook. The notebook would then be locked in a drawer, never to be looked at again.

The keyboard waits. The flurry of words subside and come slower and slower. The story of the boy remains unfinished. The words are still there inside. They still call to be written. But their force dwindles. The vision that created them become harder to translate ... harder to deliver from that place inside ... harder to push into fingers waiting to strike keys. Where is that story? Where is the child that cries to be free of the womb and of the construction of a pregnancy long overdue? Why, it is here, in these words. The answer lies not with the story of the boy, but in the story about the story of the boy. These words ... This is my child of words.

It is an imperfect thing, true. It is warped and molded out of my own frailties and failings. Some, upon reading it, will call it deformed and refuse to share its message. Many such children, born of a need that can be weighed down but never destroyed, are born and hidden, never to be seen. But, as deformed, handicapped, and imperfect as it may be ... This child is mine.

Once . . .

Once ... I was a writer

Once ... I was a poet

Once ... A smile became a sonnet

Once ... A touch became a painting

Once ... A random thought grew into a tale

Once ... An abandoned porch became a story

Once ... I had ideas

Once ... I had an imagination

Once ... I was a writer

I wish I still were.

The End

Return to ToC

~~~~~~~~~~

Introduction. "Of Cactus, Castles, and Queens" is a mostly true story. In 1986 I was the Supply Officer on the USS Arthur W. Radford, a destroyer based in Norfolk, Virginia. We were engaged in tense combat training exercises at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, a place most people outside the military didn't know existed until the 911 terrorist attack. Now, of course, everyone knows about this tiny base and it's infamous prison occupants. In 1986, however, coming to "Gitmo" was a return home for me. I lived on the base for three years as a twelve to fourteen year old. It was paradise for a boy child and I have nothing but incredible and lasting memories of those three years. What could possibly top those memories of deep sea fishing, weekly ocean dives to bring back fish for our aquariums, seahorse hunting, a night invasion of land crabs, hiking military tank trails, foraging for machine gun shell casings, and even getting a ride on a tank when we were caught where we shouldn't? Read on.

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### Of Cactus, Castles, and Queens

It was early morning on Thursday in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. The tiny, isolated Naval Base, positioned between the Caribbean Ocean on one side and the soldiers of Castro's Communist Cuba on the other, is a temporary stopover point for US Navy ships undergoing combat training. The training is grueling, and ship reputation, personal careers, and even lives depend on getting it right. The base is all brown dirt, brown shrubs, brown trees, and the driest climate north of the Sahara. The huge iguanas are about the only green things on the base, aside from the acres of cactus. It was about to become my home for the next twelve hours. At least it's dry land, which is something I looked forward to after three weeks of making circles in the ocean.

I leaped from the ship's gig to the pier with a briefcase full of work. I watched the gig swing away and head back to the ship, which would soon be back at drills. The Captain didn't put me ashore to admire the sparse scenery. Better get to work. The last thing on my mind was romance.

Released from the stifling pressure of a ship training for war, I wasted no time, and was able to finish up most of the ship's business in just a few hours. The thought of being able to relax away from the tense shipboard atmosphere had helped fuel my productivity, and I suddenly found myself with nothing left to do.

I headed for the Bachelor Officer's Quarters (BOQ), the Navy's version of a hotel, to take advantage of the welcome, if temporary, freedom. I had brought along my bathing suit primarily as a good natured jab at my shipmates remaining on board, not expecting to get a chance to use it. But, since I had it I decided not to let the last couple of hours of sun go to waste. Bringing along a book and a BOQ towel, I sauntered down to the mostly deserted pool. There were four people scattered about the pool's edges, all women, plus several children splashing about in the pool. The women surprised me at first, since the BOQ houses almost exclusively male guests. Seeing the children, I decided they were officer's wives. I was forced to revise that opinion almost immediately. Two of the women, which I passed on the way to the recliner I'd picked out for myself, did not have the look of Navy wives. There was none of the expected paraphernalia: children's towels, toys, Navy T-shirts and beach wear, nor the usual steady flow of conversation about husbands and jobs and the Navy. Even more significantly, my bachelor eye noted the absence of wedding bands or engagement rings. I figured the two women to be in their mid-twenties with figures that would have attracted attention at beaches in Malibu and Waikiki.

One girl, in a flaming pink bikini, appeared to be asleep. The other, deeply tanned and wearing a green and black bikini that looked more comfortable than showy, regarded me behind light colored shades. She offered me a lazy smile. Suddenly I realized I had paused at the edge of the pool directly in front of this girl. Embarrassed, I nodded hello and moved less than gracefully out of her sunlight. My two year Hawaiian tan from my previous tour of duty had long since faded into the whiteness of an east coast winter, and my thirty year old body, while still slender, had certainly seen better days. Piqued at my own vanity, I made myself comfortable on the recliner, fighting with the periodic gusts of wind for my towel. I cracked open my sci-fi thriller and eyed the pretty green bikini over the top of the book. An hour later the wind had risen to the point of being uncomfortable, and clouds now obstructed the sun too often for successful tanning. Many of those around the pool were preparing to leave, including she of the smiles and the green bikini. As she collected her things, one of the children playing in the pool came to the edge nearest her. The little girl was about six. The wind carried her words to me in pieces.

"Are you a queen?" I distinctly heard. Puzzled, I listened harder, but could not make out the reply. The little girl swam away for a moment, then returned with more questions.

"What place were you in?" The girl bounced up and down in the pool, excited, shy, and curious all at once. She received a gentle smile, and the thoroughly mysterious woman stopped gathering up her things to talk to the little girl in the pool.

"I finished sixth," the wind rewarded my straining ears. The answer seemed to be drawn reluctantly from her, as if the memory somehow saddened, but that nothing less than honesty was due the child in the pool. How interested she seems in this little girl's conversation! She gave the child her complete attention, and when the next question floated across to me, the

responsive grin did not mock, but warmed the heart.

"Do you live in a castle?" I grinned myself, behind my book, totally taken in by the scenario before me, wondering what answer the wind would bring me. She took her time, considering the question seriously.

"I once visited a castle," she told the girl, now held in rapt attention, "but no, I never lived in one. It might be nice to live in one someday. What do you think?" Her voice was very pleasant, neither high nor husky, and I think the words would have carried without the wind. It was a voice trained to be heard, soft to the ears but with easy carrying force. Satisfied after a few more simple questions, the child went back to her games and the young woman finished her packing and departed.

I joined what was becoming a general exodus a few minutes later. I wondered about the woman at the pool, fascinated by what I'd overheard. I wished I'd spoken to her. A woman like that probably got a lot of uninvited invitations, I consoled myself. I'll be back on the ship in less than twenty four hours, with enough work on the ship waiting to keep me busy through the weekend. I chided myself for being so foolish as to let a total stranger affect me so.

I changed from bathing suit back to uniform in the pool locker room and headed to the Fleet Training Group control room to confirm my ship's arrival time. Things were going better than expected on the ship, I quickly learned, and the arrival time had been extended to first light on Friday morning so that the ship could finish up the last of the drills. I was happy the ship was doing so well. I was also very happy I was going to get a night ashore, although I knew I would never hear the end of the barbs from my shipmates. I made reservations at the BOQ and got into the room in time for the six o'clock news, hoping for a sports update. I also discovered I had a roommate for the evening. The BOQ had no more single rooms available, so they had begun doubling up. He would only be here the night, he explained after we'd introduced ourselves. The twice weekly flight to the States left tomorrow, when he finished his two weeks active duty. In the middle of our conversation the local news program caught my attention. Gitmo has a local TV station that does news and local events. Tonight they had a special guest- Miss Mississippi was doing the weather. What was Miss Mississippi doing in Cuba? I must have asked the question aloud, for Bill answered me.

"There's a bunch of beauty queens on the Base to do a Department of Defense sponsored show this weekend. The first show is tomorrow night, as a matter of fact." Something clicked in my head.

"Where are they staying?" I asked, which I knew was a stupid question the minute it left my lips. Where else could they be staying but here?

"Right here in the 'Q'," he said, confirming my suspicions.

"There are a couple of them living in the room next to this one," he added. "Saw 'em when I was moving my stuff in." He grinned broadly and gave a soft whistle.

That explained a lot of things. So many of the little girl's questions now made sense, as did the presence of a beautiful, apparently unattached young woman at the BOQ pool. Lost in my musing, I almost missed hearing that my struggling Detroit Tigers had finally won a game.

Friday started as a busy day. The good news from the ship had turned to bad, and ship arrival had been delayed for twelve hours. I would continue to confirm my ship's schedule throughout the day. I began following up on the things I set in motion the day before, as well as adding some addition tasks I anticipated the Skipper would need given the changes in schedule. I stopped by the room a little before lunch to see if new friend Bill needed a ride to the airport, but he had worked that out and was on his way as I came in. He had more bags than he could carry in one trip, so I helped him carry them up to the front of the BOQ where he was meeting his ride. I was anticipating a short nap, a Navy Nooner, as I headed back to the room, when I saw a guy knocking on the door next to mine. My purposeful stride faltered and settled into a casual saunter, my eyes on the opening door. A very sleepy faced young woman poked her head out the door, hands worrying with her tangled hair. A white robe had replaced the green bikini, but I did not have any trouble recognizing the girl from the pool.

I paused in my doorway. Just enjoying the day, I told myself, and lounged against the door frame. She glanced at me briefly, obviously recognizing me, and I decided to believe the short glance included a pleased expression. I gave her my best sympathetic grin and then made myself busy opening the door. Her male caller quickly finished his business, and she thanked him for coming by after he wished her luck with the show. He was apparently leaving on the same plane with Bill, and had wanted to say goodbye before leaving.

Goodbye, I though to myself. I had my door open now, and with no further reason to hang around, I went inside. Absurdly elated, I forgot about the anticipated nap and instead grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge and headed back to work, humming the Steve Winwood tune on the radio, "Higher Love."

I was back at the "Q" with two hours to spare before the ship's arrival. Lots of sun left, so I decided to hit the pool again. It was too much to hope she'd be there again, but I was pleasantly surprised. Two other girls were also catching some sun, not to mention a group of guys that surrounded them like Indians around circled wagons. My pretty neighbor looked like she already had more company than she probably wanted. Shrugging, I looked for a spot to settle. The pool was downright crowded, probably because it was Friday and people were getting into the weekend. The only recliner available was already half in shadow from an overhanging tree. I maneuvered it as far into the sun as possible and cracked my book.

I had been reading for about twenty minutes when there was some kind of commotion from the corner where the girls were. Glancing up, I saw the blonde with the neon pink bikini getting ready to leave. The guys were talking and laughing, but I could not hear what they were saying. The blonde passed me on the way out of the pool area, and I heard my neighbor ask her to wait, but the blonde didn't even look back. Then she also began gathering up her things and followed after the blonde. One of the guys called after her. I didn't catch all of it, but it was definitely rude.

Angry that my fellow officers were so lacking in class they could upset a girl who was obviously making a supreme effort to be courteous and friendly... well, I momentarily forgot that I also one of them. As she passed I said "Hi!" in my cheeriest tone. After all, we were at least on smiling terms by now. She didn't even break stride. A very perfunctory smile was launched in my general direction, and a "Hi, how are you" drifted back like the sonic boom from a passing jet. As I began getting ready to leave I kept thinking about the phrase myself and the rest of the ship's crew hated to hear during General Quarters. Missile amidships! All hands abandon ship!

My earlier elated state had suffered serious deflation. Back in my room, I showered and started packing up. In less than an hour I'd be back onboard the ship, my moment of freedom gone. But that was not the reason I was so depressed. I finally admitted that the lovely girl in the room next to mine had elicited a reaction from me out of proportion to the situation. Three weeks at sea can do that to a man - witness the louts at the pool - but I was used to being alone. It also wasn't the fantastic looks, or the celebrity status, or the beauty queen label. When I thought of her, I thought of her listening intently to a little girl's questions. I thought of a sleepy smile, and of freely given and unappreciated time and attention to all who asked it. These girls- and I was beginning to feel generous enough to include them all- were giving not only a great deal of their time, which could be considered a part of the job, but also of themselves, asking nothing but simple courtesy in return. Well, I felt they deserved something more for their efforts.

I had no idea what would be appropriate, or even how many people were involved; plus, at this hour the few stores on the Base would surely be closed by now. From a quick rise in my state of mind, I began to feel defeated before I'd had a chance to get started. Other obstacles presented themselves immediately: I had to meet the ship in thirty-five minutes; the girls themselves had a show to do in less than two hours and might not even be around the BOQ much longer. Even if the nearby Navy Exchange was open, I still could be doing a lot of running around for nothing.

So, what would it be? I had learned the best way to overcome such moments of indecision is to ask someone who'll make the right decision every time. I prayed for guidance, asking only that He give me a way to show my appreciation, and admitting my own selfish interest in one particular generous hearted beauty queen.

The answer started as flowers. Maybe not the most original of gifts, but I knew the Exchange had a small florist shop, and the clerk at the front desk thought the Exchange was still when I burst in on her with the question. I made it to the Exchange five minutes after it had closed.

Entering anyway, I pleaded with the manager, even explaining who it was for. Unimpressed, he flatly turned me down and saw me to the door. Dejected but not deterred, I was rolling ideas around in my head when I nearly knocked over a woman and her fully loaded grocery cart. The apology was a bit absent minded, for I had been struck by the IDEA as I stared purposefully at the still open Commissary store.

It was miraculous how quickly the IDEA was pieced into reality from that point. There was a surprisingly good selection of fresh, unpicked over fruit available, and I wasted no time stuffing a carry basket full. The Commissary offered nothing even remotely usable to put it in, but I decided to worry about one thing at a time. I paid for the fruit, placed it carefully in the passenger seat of the ship's sedan, and rushed over to the Mini-Mart, which also remained open and carried a limited variety of odds and ends that was at least worth a shot. I nearly gave up at the Mini-Mart, after having scrutinized every shelf, and began wondering if I'd have to present the fruit in the paper bag from the Commissary. On the shelf I happened to be standing in front of, which contained a few miscellaneous toys, a box had been knocked over that I hadn't seen before. Thinking that a box might be better than a paper bag, I picked it up. Inside was a large, round container in bright blue plastic with distinctive Crayola Crayon markings. It included a tall, cone shaped lid with a grapefruit sized hole cut into it: A child's wastebasket. Or perhaps a unique, interesting fruit basket.

One counter held all of the Mini-Mart cards, ribbons, and wrapping paper. Of the three types of wrapping paper available, one was bright blue with the words "Best Wishes" sprinkled across it. It took only a moment to find a card that said, "Hello from out of the blue."

I was back in my room with tem minutes to spare. The wrapping paper went into the improvised fruit basket to accent and cushion the fruit. Using a pineapple as the center piece, I added bananas, apples, pears, and peaches, then topped it off with both red and green grapes.

Now that it was done, sudden doubts assailed me. Was this such a good idea? Maybe they were already gone, rehearsing for the evening performance? Worse, maybe the gift would be received in the same polite, meaningless way I'd been dismissed at the pool? Even as these thoughts paraded across my mind, I was heading for her door, fruit basket in hand. I knocked.

No answer. I didn't know if I could knock again. Then, "Yes?"

Swallowing past a dry throat, I managed a hoarse, "Delivery."

"Delivery?" The voice sounded nearer the door now, and there was no hesitation. The voice was puzzled.

"Yes," I managed a little louder, "delivery."

Murmured discussion went on behind the door. "Just a minute, please." Though it was actually much less than a minute, it was plenty long enough for me to live through every horrid and unlikely possible response.

She was wearing the white terry cloth robe again. This time there was no intervening wall to block the view. As the door opened fully, I was met by a slightly quizzical look and a pair of long, lovely legs that were all the more striking in that heart-stoppingly short robe. I must have looked pretty comical, standing there bugeyed and holding the world's largest blue

crayon, for when I was finally able to drag my eyes back to her face, the quizzical look had been replaced by one delightfully amused, head tilted to one side, eyebrows raised, laughter flickering behind mischievous eyes.

"Yes?" The corners of her lips twitched upward in conspiracy with her eyes.

"Gaa," I said, or at least some facsimile thereof. Like Charlie Brown and the little Red-headed girl, the moment of truth had arrived, and I was going to cause myself devastating embarrassment. I must have said something, maybe even the prepared speech I'd been muttering to myself while I'd put

together the fruit basket, because she motioned as if to take the basket.

"Is this for all of us?" She asked, taking the basket I instinctively handed to her. "OOOF!" she added, feeling the unexpected weight.

"Yes." I said, magnificent conversationalist that I was.

"Well, thank you very much," she said sincerely, shifting the heavy basket smoothly to her left arm where she hugged it against her. Then, sweet lady that she was, she saved me further embarrassment by extending her right hand to be shaken.

"I'm Pamela Finley," she told me in a warmly welcoming voice as I took her hand. The gesture broke the frozen hold I had on myself, and I was able to present a reasonable picture of sanity as I gave her my name and told her how much I hoped to be able to make the show that night. The gift was a present from the entire ship to all those in the show, I continued, sticking magnanimously with the original plan.

Seeing me back on my mental feet, so to speak, and listening to me mouth such estimable words, Pamela could not resist playfully trying to set me off balance again. Lifting up one edge of the robe that I swore could hide not another millimeter of curvy leg, she apologized for the way she was dressed, her expressive eyes almost self-mockingly coy. It was a delightfully blatant put on, and dismissed the last of my nervousness. The remaining conversation was unforced and genuine, but quickly over. I had begun to worry about a Captain who might now be wondering where his officer was, and Pamela was beginning to struggle with the heavy basket.

I made it back to the ship with bare seconds to spare. The ship had passed every drill, and our reward was a weekend at the pier to enjoy a few hours of time ashore.

I made it to the show that night. I discovered that my fruit basket gift was a smashing success. Pamela immediately pointed me out to the other girls when I arrived. I was inundated with "Thank Yous" and given a front row seat. The show was top notch, and in my prejudiced opinion Pamela was the best of the best. We talked again after the show and I told her that the Captain had extended an invitation to visit the ship. The following day she brought all the girls to the ship for lunch and the grand tour. Her schedule and mine then took us our separate ways, though I did get a chance to see the show once more before they were whisked off to Honduras. Pamela Finley, Miss Massachusetts, a Miss America top ten finalist and winner of the special talent category, was gone. What she left me were priceless memories. And, oh yes, one more thing: Her address.

Postscript: I discovered a hand written note I had sent the CO detailing the costs I had incurred for the official business I was on while at Gitmo. The last item on that list read:

"Fruit basket - I'll pay for this one with pleasure. Best $15 I ever spent!" Which the skipper returned with two words added: "I bet!"

THE END

Return to ToC

~~~~~~~~~~

Introduction. "Testament of Faith" is one of those stories that many publisher's liked, but kept rejecting. "I definitely like this story - it has a well-developed mood and atmosphere ..." wrote one publisher. "I enjoyed your writing style, story progression, and apt description. The setting was great!" from another. I tried very hard to take the advice that was given and re-wrote chunks of the story many times. It was never quite right, though, and this became my most rejected story, a total of 19 rejections. I'll not give up on this work, though. Feeling that I had strayed too far from the central storyline in an effort to please everyone with a suggestion, I went back to the original version and fixed what I personally thought needed work. I'll let the readers make the final call.

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### Testament of Faith

Andrew should have been heading home. The icy winds of the mountain plateau he crossed sliced at his hooded face and blew dry, dusty snow at hisheavily-browed eyes. A powerful gust buffeted him, but Andrew easily adjusted his footing in an unconscious movement learned from many years of treading the mountain. He cinched the knapsack under his arm a little closer and strode on with quickening steps.

"Wonder what has kept Simon and the boy?" he asked. The wind ripped the words from Andrew's barely moving lips. He often spoke his thoughts aloud. If people could not hear him, then maybe the sky or the earth he mined could. "Perhaps even the Mistress listened now and again," he would say to the disapproving old women who scolded his muttering. He was not thinking about old women and home at the moment. Simon and his son had not come to Ice Rock to share the walk home as they had for four seasons past.

A whole day lost waiting. What could have kept them?" When he was younger and still innocent in the ways of the mountains he might have considered the idea that good fortune had befallen the Simon males. Andrew the boy had believed the tales his eldest spun before the common fire, but years of toil had hardened more than his weathered frame.

The grade began to rise as Andrew walked, taking him in a rising curve toward a still distant, barren outcropping of rock that marked Simon's mine. The setting sun heated Andrew's left side and shed stark light on the snow blanketed ridge around him. Opposite the setting sun the Mistress towered.

The mountain dwarfed it's neighboring giants, and though it's upper reaches were still ablaze with sunlight it's peak remained shrouded in dense mists.

Andrew stopped. Directly ahead the trail narrowed as it passed between two high ledges. The snow was deeper there because the ledges kept the wind from carrying it away. Clearly visible in the snow were two sets of identical footprints.

Andrew ran a hand across the back of his neck and squinted in puzzlement at the footprints. "One set walks away, one returns," he murmured. Even with the protection of the ledges, the wind would have obliterated the imprints within a day or two at most. The prints were recent. With his hand still held protectively on his neck, Andrew furtively scoured the area around him with his eyes. "Not a thing but rocks and snow," he said to discourage the disturbing feeling that swept over him.

"Had to be Simon," Andrew finally surmised. The footprints were too large to be the boy's. "Simon started for Ice Rock and turned back. Why?" Andrew thought some more. "Why was his boy not with him?" Andrew did not like the possible reasons Simon might have for leaving his boy behind. Unable to make further sense, and now even more worried, Andrew hurried on.

It took three more hours of steady walking to reach the western most corner of the familiar, large rock outcropping where Simon's mine was located. Boulders, torn loose from the outcropping by the long ago shrug of a mountain, were piled within a natural canyon, forming walls of rock as much as twenty feet high. The maze of paths formed by the rock walls were well explored and of no interest to Andrew. The entrance to Simon's mine was barely fifty feet into the maze. He looked for the Crushing Stone that marked the path opening which led to the mine.

"Mother of Lodes," whispered Andrew, hastening toward the figure slumped at the foot of the Crushing Stone. His steps slowed. He recognized the figure as Simon; the fact that snow melted by Simon's body heat had not re-frozen told Andrew that Simon could still be alive. Andrew's steady steps faltered and he stopped twenty feet from Simon.

"Mother of Lodes," he said again. "My friend Simon ... what have you done?"

The Crushing Stone was a flat, irregular shaped sheet of rock about eight feet in diameter. The surface of the rock was raised about three feet; the surrounding ground was covered in small pieces of rock. All miners used similar stones to crush chunks of rock cut from the mines in their endless search for a bit of valuable stone. The surface of Simon's Crushing Stone was black with frozen blood and scattered with unrecognizable lumps. The head of the miner's axe which lay on the ground near Simon was also drenched with frozen blood.

Andrew remained rooted where his feet had stopped. He spoke an old litany of Warding taught by his long dead eldest.

"Mistress of Pristine White:

Undeserving I am of

One speck from Your Icy Gown.

We live at Your Feet,

Groping about Your Hem,

To catch the bits of precious stone

You suffer us to take.

Hide me from the blinding beauty.

Never shall I see beyond the Veil

Or will the Stalker seek my Flesh..."

Andrew glanced once at the dancing mists which hid the peak of the Mistress. He did not quite shudder as he returned his attention to the Crushing Stone.

The bloody remains of Simon's son were arranged on the Crushing Stone in a familiar pattern. The meaning of that pattern turned Andrew's insides cold in a way the worst winter storms had never done. "You can't stand here forever, old fool," Andrew chided himself. He drew close to Simon.

"Are you alive? Do you still draw breath?" Andrew removed his gloves to feel for a pulse in Simon's neck, but in Simon's awkward position he could not be sure. Andrew straightened Simon and lay him on his back beside the Crushing Stone. Andrew's right hand came away from Simon warm with blood. Simon was torn open from stomach to bowels.

Andrew wept in horror and pain, but he knew such emotions were useless and he struggled for control. The line of his mouth grew taut as he fought back those tears and banished the pain to that dark place in his mind where past horrors of mountain life were imprisoned. Calmer now, Andrew pulled open Simon's clothing. The line of the cut was straight, clean, and very deep. A long blade, Andrew surmised even as his eye caught a single pulse of blood from the wound. Simon raised his eyelids and grasped Andrew's elbow, and more blood flowed in thick rivulets. Shocked into staring silence, Andrew allowed Simon to pull him close. Lowering his ear to Simon's lips, Andrew listened to his friend's dying words.

Andrew remained crouched over Simon's body for a long time after Simon died. His mind raced with thoughts, some of which reached his lips, a chaotic babble over which he had no control.

"Should have gotten here sooner ... failed you, old friend ... Friend! A friend would not have uttered such words ... your son ... you did right? ..." And in a bare whisper his own ears could not hear, "Why your death, Simon? Was not the boy enough?" Those questions circled each other in his mind until, drained, Andrew dozed.

When he woke, long shadows from the rock maze turned the area around him dark. He winced at stiff muscles that felt as lifeless as Simon's body under him. Andrew straightened with difficulty and worked blood back into his muscles. He looked with solemn sadness at the body of Simon.

"The Mistress is a hard taskmaster," Andrew said resignedly. He grimaced at the fading sun and sighed. There was not enough time left before nightfall to bury Simon. "Going to have to camp here tonight, I suppose. I know you'd rather be buried closer to the Village grounds, but I'm not up to carting you all that way. It'll be hard enough getting you into the ground here in time for me to make it home before nightfall tomorrow." He did not consider burying the pieces left of Simon's son. It would not have been appropriate.

Andrew went deeper into the rock maze to make camp. The evening winds were picking up and would become a howling storm before midnight. A cul-deªsac sheltered him from the worst of the storm. Little enough of the wind reached him that he was able to make a small fire, but even that welcome comfort failed to help him sleep. Normally the movement of the flames was a visual lullaby, but to Andrew's eyes this night the fire flickered strangely and showed him shapes he did not wish to identify. Outside the fire's dim light other shapes moved as modest eddies of wind picked up bits of brush and other debris. Andrew did not look too closely at the things which moved beyond the ring of the fire's light. That night he had nothing to say, even to himself.

Eventually Andrew slept, and soon he dreamed. A shadow came to him from outside the ring of firelight. Despite the flickering flame, Andrew could not make out it's shape. The shadow descended upon him, and it's weight became a suffocating burden. Andrew struggled to breathe. The shadow encompassed his head, massaged and manipulated his thoughts with eon aged hands and drew sustenance from his mind.

Andrew awoke to early dawn. He knew he had dreamed a dark dream, but not even a wisp of remembrance remained. As he searched for some clue to the dream, his eyes furtively roved from shadow to shadow among the many crevices and rocky nooks. A gust of wind rattled pebbles and finally brought Andrew out of his revery, and he found himself looking deeply into a particularly dark and unfathomable slash in the stony walls. Nothing stirred, and after a moment Andrew looked away.

"The strain is getting to me," Andrew somewhat fearfully told the air around him. He deliberately began the soothing process of making a small pot of hot tea. He waited patiently for the tea to brew, and then sat quietly while he drank it. That comfortingly normal exercise complete, Andrew carefully extinguished the last embers of the fire, wiped the inside of the cup and put it in his knapsack. As he broke camp he thought about Simon's dying words and worried uneasily that he could no longer remember more than snatches. Andrew pulled his knapsack closed and strung it under his arm.

"Time to get moving," he said forcefully, again trying to push the uneasiness away.

Andrew emerged from the rock maze. The Crushing Stone and it's gruesome remains were covered with a thin layer of snow. Simon's now solidly frozen body lay where Andrew had left it the previous day. The bright glare from the early morning sun pitilessly spotlighted the tableau and chased away the clinging remnants of Andrew's dream.

Andrew wiped at his eyes and donned his sun goggles to protect against the glare. "Eyes leaking tears ..." Andrew began to recite as he raised his head to look at the Mistress's peak. The summit was bathed in light. Clouds so white they looked painted reflected the light and formed a perfect, rainbow colored halo. "Bright trim on the Virgin's Veil ..." The night's winds had stripped away the cloud cover from all but the uppermost regions of the Mistress. Without thinking about what he was doing, Andrew stepped up on the Crushing Stone to get a better view. The vision held his rapt attention.

"Never has the Mistress been so lovely." His hands came up to his face to remove the goggles. Andrew wanted to see more.

Suddenly Andrew whirled around and almost fell off the Crushing Stone. His right foot slipped out from under him and he went to one knee. The hand holding the goggles slapped the stone hard to maintain his balance. He was now facing Simon's body, wrapped in it's dusting of snow. Simon's frosted eyes seemed to be fixed on the Virgin's Veil.

Andrew's back was turned to the summit. However, through Simon's dead eyes Andrew clearly perceived the view behind him. As the sun rose from behind the Mistress it was burning away the last of the clouds. For a rare moment the Face of the Mistress would be visible.

Clouds always blanketed the summit. The Veil was never drawn aside. The Face was always hidden. Simon's boy had known to hide his eyes, but he had not; so Simon had told Andrew. Simon had also known the act of penitence and purification which then must follow.

Andrew found himself crouching over Simon's body. "Not even the dead should see," Andrew said gently. He withdrew his long dagger from within his coat.

Andrew buried Simon. The frozen soil was hard and rocky, and it was mid-morning before he completed the task. He ate a cold lunch and settled for water instead of his usual hot tea because there was no time to build a fire.

"Besides," he said when long habit had him half convinced to make his tea, "Simon would understand why I can't stay. Got to get home. Got to do some thinking, and I think best when I'm walking." As he started down the trail he nodded to the mountain peak. The Mistress was again safely hidden within her chaste garments. Amid the offal on the Crushing Stone Andrew had left two new objects: Simon's eyes.

Andrew made good time. The winds were light and under the bright sun Andrew was hot within his heavy clothing. He didn't mind. There was purpose in his stride. He still could not remember the dream of the night before, but it no longer seemed to matter. He still could not recall much of what Simon had said to him, but he somehow knew that lapse would eventually pass. Something shared the trail with him. He took to nodding at the occasional shadow he passed, although he saw nothing and expected nothing. It did not frighten him, but had become a comfort, a companion to share his walk.

He reached Ice Rock before midday and could have made it home before dark. Instead of taking the southern path toward the Village, however, Andrew turned north and travelled up Berric's Way. Berric was old and feeble and practically lived on the upper slopes, rarely coming down to the Village. He had two strong sons, however, to work the mine. The Berric mine was a hole in the ground of a high plateau. Berric was fond of bragging that he had the best view of the Virgin's Veil on the mountain.

Andrew stopped at the foot of the trail leading up to the top of the plateau. There was still an hour or so of daylight, but the trail was a twisted switchback and could be treacherous. "Best to wait for morning," Andrew said. Shadows lengthened with the passing of the day. Andrew set about to make camp, but did not start a fire. "Gonna miss my tea again," he complained mildly. As the day turned to twilight Andrew propped himself up on a flat rock. He withdrew his favorite sharpening stone from his knapsack and, after a slight hesitation, also pulled out Simon's axe. Andrew settled into position and began honing the fine, freshly cleaned blade.

It was full dark upon the mountain when Andrew finished his task. He tucked Simon's axe into his belt within easy reach and began the trek up the trail to Berric's mine. He was only mildly surprised at his change in plans, as if he knew all along that this is what he had intended to do. He picked his way confidently up the trail, knowing the Mistress kept his footing sure. His shadowy companion, though still no more than a feeling, grew more substantial to Andrew and gave credence to his blossoming purpose. It was not the Mistress herself, of course. To Andrew a darker, more elemental something walked with him and gave him strength for his task.

While in this powerful company Andrew began to remember. His thoughts led him back to Simon's mine: before the footsteps, footsteps he now knew were his own, to a weeping Simon and his petrified boy.

"Simon was weak," Andrew said with assurance and new understanding. "He knew what had to be done but could not do it. Would not yield the task to me, either." Andrew saw himself drawing the knife from his coat and cutting deep into Simon to immobilize him. It was fitting that Simon had survived the cut and that his imprisoned soul, if not his heart, could rejoice as Andrew took Simon's axe and carved up the screaming boy, and then arranged the pieces on the Crushing Stone to atone for his sin.

"Oh..." Andrew sighed uneasily as he felt again the original despair at the carnage he had performed. Simon's last words rushed upon him. Andrew remembered Simon's ungrateful curses not only for Andrew but for the Mistress as well. Now Andrew understood that the Mistress had at first hidden the knowledge from him because then he had not been ready to face his task.

Pride rose in Andrew's chest. The Mistress had placed her faith in him. There were many mines on the mountain. All those who worked the mines could have seen the unveiled Face of the Mistress. Some would confess and the Mistress would accept their souls. The others would have to be convinced of their sin. After that ... well, the Mistress would guide him. If the Village must be scourged, then he would do as he was commanded.

Andrew reached the plateau. With his hand cradling the handle of the axe he walked into Berric's camp with the smile of purpose. The shadow of the Stalker preceded him, marking the way for Andrew with footprints no other man would live to see.

THE END

Return to ToC

~~~~~~~~~~

Introduction. "The Net" is my longest published story at over 10,000 words. I have to thank the original publisher of Neophyte, Jeff Behrnes, for taking up twenty pages of his thirty page issue for this story to see print. The story was heavily influenced by the work of William Gibson. Published in 1991, it is obviously dated by the rapid advance of computer technology. But take a step back in cyberspace to 1984 and Gibson's Neuromancer, and you should be right at home.

~~~~~~~~~~

### The Net

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TIME 07:59:00

AUTOEXECUTE STANDARD.NORDSTRUM.SUB1

LOADING.......3.55 NSEC. SYSTEM CHECK OKAY.

DIAGNOSTICS

BIO-SYSTEMS CHECK............OKAY

NETWORK LINK CHECK.........OKAY

SYSTEM SECURITY CHECK....OKAY

MEMORY CHECK..................OKAY

CORE INTEGRITY CHECK.......OKAY

UTILITIES ONLINE. STUDENT ENVIRONMENT ACTIVATED.

PLEASE WAIT........

AUTOEXECUTE COMPLETE

TIME 07:59:07

RUNNING

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"Good morning, Andy. Are you ready to begin your lessons for the day?"

Zartron looks at me benignly. His arms are folded across his wrinkled grey suit. The fedora he is always wearing looks particularly stupid today.

"You look particularly stupid today, Zartron", I tell him. Zartron smiles faintly.

"Ready to begin?" He asks again, unruffled by my insult.

I look at the child's space chariot that I am sitting in, its electronic screens presently dormant, but ready to come alive with a thought from me. Around me thousands of stars glow, suspended in the blackness of space, each one of them waiting to tell me its secrets. Zartron stands incongruously outside the confines of the chariot, spoiling the image of a ship alone in space. It's an old error he never bothered to fix. Every day it's the same thing; boring, boring, boring.

I am almost nine years old, and my systems are still designed for a kid. Dad hasn't done an upgrade in megacycles. Zartron is the kind of name a kid would think of, the name I gave him when he was a new neural intelligence Dad designed specially for me. Zartron coded the space chariot our first year together. We fought fantasy aliens and I learned about the stars he displayed for me. I just wasn't up to playing the same games again.

"Zartron, scan the Directory and see if Ramone is receiving." I try to be nonchalant and firm at the same time. Technically, Zartron should do whatever I tell him, but Dad has him programmed with all sorts of protective idiocies. I can't do anything about his programming, but I have learned how to keep him from chiding me; most of the time, anyway.

"Wouldn't you rather try one of your study subjects?"

"No, I want to see Ramone."

Zartron was silent while he scanned the Directory. Ramone wasn't always easy to find. "Ramone is streaming with the FringeChips," Zartron said finally. "Is it your wish to join them?" His tone was disapproving.

"Did Ramone give me an address code?"

"Yes."

Hmmm. If the FringeChips were advertising their location they couldn't be up to too much trouble. Maybe it would be all right to go along for awhile. Ramone, at least, liked me; I think. The rest of the gang are pretty scary. They could stream, however, to sectors I'll never see on Gov field trips or even with Dad. Dad wouldn't like it if I went, though. I'd get this serious lecture about how dangerous streaming can be. He'd tell me all the stats on how many people have been getting crashed or wiped just minding their own business on the Net. Dad is really soft on most things, but he gets pretty irrational about streaming. Yeah, I like Ramone, but he's different when he's with the FringeChips. I'm not scared, of course. Maybe I should just tell Dad I was asked and didn't go. He'd like that. Maybe he'd take me out for awhile. Yeah.

"Forget Ramone, Zartron, I've got other things to do."

"Very well. Would you like to continue with your lessons?"

"No, I would not, and stop bugging me about them, okay?"

"Okay, Andy."

He was really starting to become a pain about those lessons. I really do like Zartron, but he's old and he needs a major redesign. He never gets excited, never tells me anything interesting, and is always bugging me about school.

"Andy, please indicate next connect."

"All right!" What a nag! A guy can't think in peace around here. What do I want to do? Maybe Dad has time to see me.

"Zartron, I want to talk to Dad!"

"He's working, Andy."

"I know. Load it anyway. If he's busy I'll just talk to Sara."

"As you wish."

The familiar form of Dad's lobby popped up around me, leaving Zartron behind. I used to hang around Dad's office lobby when I was smaller, playing games with Zartron while waiting for Dad's clients to arrive. There were never more than one or two, even if I spent the whole day there. Dad explained that persona assembly is a very individualistic thing, and that his clients compensated him well for that exclusivity. Dad's words exactly. Dad never mentioned by name any of his clients, but I knew some of them from Dad's days at the hospital, and others, more famous, from the VidBoard. They were accustomed to seeing me hanging around and sometimes talked to me while they were waiting to see Dad.

"Hi, Sara!" I holler at Dad's secretary. She jumps as she always does.

"Andy, I'm going to have your father install a tell-tale on you so you can't do that," she threatens. She shakes a long nailed finger at me from behind her desk, but she smiles.

I like Sara. She's been Dad's secretary since I was a baby. "Is Dad busy?" I asked her.

"Of course, it's the middle of the day, Hun." I made a face at her. Dad always had time for me. Sara relented. "Well, you timed your visit just right. He has a client due this cycle, but he's free at the moment. Shall I tell Dr. Nordstrum that you're here?" she teased.

I didn't get a chance to tease Sara back, because Dad's next client chose that moment to boot into the office – early. Sara gave me an apologetic look as she notified Dad that his client had arrived. She mentioned that I was here, too, but I knew Dad felt that it was very discourteous to keep a client waiting. I know it wasn't Sara's fault, but I couldn't help glaring at her a little for teasing me and making me lose my chance to see Dad. I gave the client lady an even icier stare. In this day of instantaneous travel and of always knowing exactly what time it was, how come some people still insisted on showing up early for appointments? So what if the lady had to wait a few minutes? Couldn't Dad tell I really needed to see him? I wanted to tell him I had turned down a trip in the Net with the FringeChips. I wanted him to take me into the Net for awhile. I wanted to be with him.

I was starting to sound like a crybaby, and it made me mad. When Zartron popped in and began bugging me about my lessons again, I was in no mood to listen to him. Dad wouldn't see me. He didn't care what I did, as long as I was out of the way. Well, I didn't need Dad to see the Net. I asked Zartron if I'd missed the rendezvous with Ramone, and when he told me I hadn't, I wouldn't let him argue me out of going.

"I'm going, Zartron," I said, making myself sound decisive. I could not give up a chance to go Net streaming. "Pop up the address and then get lost. I'll let you know when I want you." There, that should teach him to pester me about school!

"As you wish." Zartron disabled without a complaint. I should have known. I've never been able to make him mad.

I wasn't sure what environment the address code would retrieve, since I forgot to ask Zartron before telling him to enable it, but I figured it would be one of the public environments where the FringeChips usually hung out. I knew Zartron would have checked to make sure it was a viable address, anyway, so I wasn't concerned about crashing because of a non-existent address, but I was surprised to see the Net, which is rarely addressed directly, pop up around me.

Being in the Net is like floating at the center of a vast, empty universe. There is no sound and there is nothing to see but the palest of pastels interwoven like the casual strokes of an artist's brush, the whole mass moving languidly in indecipherable patterns. My skin felt electrified, every nerve alert, sensitive to the barest feel of what moved in here: The Stream; the blood of the Net; the touch of clouds.

I had time before the FringeChips were likely to show up; they would probably keep me waiting long past the rendezvous time, anyway. I was more or less stuck at this point, since it takes a lot of concentration and practice to move any distance in the Net; practice I didn't have. It was disconcerting standing in what looked like mid-air, though, so I looked for the Interrupt that I knew must be nearby.

Interrupts were the only true landmarks in the Net. They were easily accessible from outside the Net and provided the interface necessary between local environments and Central Systems. Other Interrupts, which the FringeChips like to use, existed primarily for maintenance. Interrupts were diabolically difficult to spot from within the Net without costly special locator subroutines. They were the doors in and out of the Net. Dad said they had no true physical appearance, but the mind's eye saw them as something familiar – a button, a knob, a key; something incongruously normal. Dad could spot an Interrupt even without the locator sub-routines.

I couldn't see it. No matter how hard I tried. It all looked the same. Disgusted with myself, I pulled up a chair, so to speak, and sat down, swinging my feet back and forth absently. There is a lot of random binary code floating around in the net. If you know a little about programming, it is possible to construct localized subroutines representing simple things like an invisible chair to sit in. I might even have been able to create a visual as well, but I was more interested in just sitting and thinking. I didn't want to be mad at Dad anymore, especially not with the glory of the Net all around me, so I thought about Dad and my first lesson about the Net.

We were in Dad's office, a dated environment of clusters of computer printouts, disks, and computer equipment overwhelming every flat surface. I recognized some of the newer equipment only because Dad used them on me when he gave me a checkup. It was all just for show, of course. Dad said once he didn't revise his office environment routine because it annoyed his modern colleagues. Dad pulled up a visual on the display in his office. It was a visual from Organic Maintenance, an off-limits area that was not Net addressable because it was a physical place and not a program. I wondered how one went there, but Dad didn't discuss that. No one would want to visit that place anyway. There were rows upon rows of rectangular boxes. The ceiling was full of winking lights. Each box contained a real human body. The boxes were the centerpiece of the Cryogenic-Mesh Sustenance System. Dad zoomed in on one box in particular, asking if I wanted to see what my own body looked like. But, that was too eerie. Seeing that box with my body filling the screen scared me more than anything and I was glad to see it whisked away. He switched to another anonymous box. You couldn't see the body itself. There was too much silvery mesh. There was no mass of cables and no strange devices huddled around the box. There was nothing but the cryo unit itself, resting on the floor and the monitor lights watching from above. It was actually very peaceful, in a morbid kind of way, as if seeing the place you'll go when you die.

That's totally wrong, of course, but I've never been able to shake that feeling. I think Dad was disappointed. It was Ramone who told me that most of the people who knew about the cryo rooms called them "the Crypts".

Dad shows his clients the Crypts because there, it was impossible to deny other truths. Physical reality is the Crypts. It is not a person's persona or the environment programmed for the personas. Most people do not like this view. That is why Dad's clientele is small, but exclusive. These clients want to retain that kernel of truth about their actual existence.

Information about the Crypts is not classified, but the Gov doesn't go out of its way to advertise either. Like many people, probably, the reality of the Net is all the reality they want. This is why Dad had to leave the hospital, and why he won't call himself a doctor, as his colleagues do. Most people are terrified of having their hidden memories ("safeguarded" memories, the Gov says) resurrected. The fear of relearning the physical life they once had, then faced with comprehension that their thought processes now flow through a network of systems and programs, instead of flesh and blood.

I've never been bothered much by that idea. I was born here. I don't have any memories of thinking with flesh and blood. My body is being allowed to develop normally without the age slow-down of stasis. Dad developed a self-modifiable persona that alters my appearance in tandem with my body's changes. I don't understand at all, the technical aspects involved, but I will someday. There are very few real children because the process is so complicated. I want to fix that process because I don't want any new children to grow up without kids their own age to play with, like I've had to do. There are the FringeChips, of course, but they're just nujuvs. I think Dad hates that procedure more than anything else his colleagues practice. Nujuvers have their core persona altered (rejuvenated is the word the doctors use) to reflect a younger, even adolescent, personality. Perpetual youth, as long as you see your doctor often enough to control the side effects and reinforce the alterations.

I had almost forgotten why I was here when the Net began narrowing into a long cone. From the cone's pointed end, tiny figures blossomed and began to expand toward me rapidly. As the figures grew in size, the base of the cone around me contracted and then the cone burst silently, leaving me with the full expanse of the net around me again, and there was Ramone and his FringeChip buddies.

Ramone had not made me wait that long before showing up. That was a positive sign. Ramone must be in a good mood. I hope so. The FringeChips settled into sight, solidly anchored in the drifting colors of the Net, eight or nine roughly human shapes hidden in individual persona masks, lounging in calculated postures of menace or indifference. All of them looked fierce and dangerous by design. The persona mask programming they were running deformed the appearance of their core personas with shifting clouds of hazy, Net-like color and fantastical images. Except for Ramone, I'd never seen any of the FringeChips in anything but their streaming personas. I felt naked.

"Look who's here," one said. I stifled a sarcastic remark. I may be naïve, but I'm not suicidal.

"Zartron is out of the way for now, guys. Thanks for inviting me," I actually said. "He might be suspicious of the address, though." I was proud of the steadiness of my voice. It's always a good idea to remind the FringeChips about Zartron and the fact that he would show up instantly when summoned. I kept Ramone in sight, hoping for a sign that everything was okay.

"Naw," said Surge, one of the few shapes I recognized. "We listened in after he ID'ed us. No suspicions." Surge twisted up one corner of his mouth in a sneer enhanced by the effects of the persona mask. "Even better, this part of the Net tape worms calling routines. You and Zartron are really out of touch, and since you ordered him to lay off until you called, he won't suspect a thing for hours." Surge shifted his stance, and for a moment I could see multiple six inch needles protruding through his fingertips. Then they disappeared, hidden again in the shifting shapes of his personal mask.

"How can the Net abort calling routines?" I asked. I wasn't sure if that was even possible. Surge could be lying. I almost hot keyed Zartron to pop in, and then thought better of it. If they were lying and Zartron showed up, my trip on the Net was over before it began and Ramone would never let me in with them again.

"Who cares?" Ramone, (who used the name Norton when he was streaming), said. "Maybe a modem down or something. Anyway, now you can stream with us without worrying about your nurse popping up."

"Yeah, lucky for me," I agreed dubiously. Was I really loose in the Net, totally free of Zartron? Giddy excitement drowned out the worry.

"Well, you gonna wander around the Net with your face on or what?" All the FringeChips were now waiting on me. "Let's get it going!"

"Okay!" They were waiting for me to beg a copy of a persona mask off one of them. They ridiculed me the one time I went streaming with them because I didn't have one of my own. Asking Dad was out of the question. He'd know what I wanted it for. Getting a persona mask the way the FringeChips always did was just a little too scary for me. There are other ways, though. I had a surprise for these guys.

Before Dad was dismissed by the hospital, he'd been doing a series of lectures on various subjects, including persona mask design. The point of the persona mask lecture had been to discourage their development, so there was not much technical information, but it got me started. For more technical data I had to search through previous SciBoard publications and lectures by my Dad. I'm sure Dad knows I've been accessing his lecture file, but even Zartron doesn't know I've gotten access to Dad's professional files on the SciBoard or what I've been doing with what I've learned. Dad can be very over-protective sometimes.

Technically a persona is a computerized bio-electronic composite personality. They are uniquely coded for each individual and rarely need modification unless an error condition is detected. They are specifically designed to maintain consistency, which is why altering them (such as rejuvenation) can cause serious personality rifts as the program tries to reassert its original functions.

A persona mask, however, is nothing more than a glorified Terminate and Stay Resident program. As a TSR, a persona mask is loaded into your systems and, when activated, reads output directly from core memory. The persona mask alters and adds to the incoming data in accordance with its programming and sends the results to the visuals subroutine for processing.

The changes are only temporary and do not directly alter the persona. When the TSR is disabled, the user's original systems are left unaffected. The altered visuals subroutine acts as an effective and often bizarre disguise. If that was all a PM did, Dad would probably not have objected so strenuously to them. Most persona masks, however, come packaged with additional subroutines to add substance to the flesh, such as maintenance tools modified into dueling implements, or even deadlier, illegal combat weapons.

I wasn't a master programmer yet, but I knew enough to rig my own persona mask. It was crude, but then I'm just a kid. The buffalo FringeChips should appreciate it, however. I loaded the small file and activated the persona mask.

The reaction to my home-made persona mask was satisfactory, if short-lived.

"Hey, Norton, the kid's got a PM!", one of them said superfluously.

"Yeah, spaghetti coder," Norton said mockingly. "Don't you think I can see that?"

"Looks kinda like you do, Norton," observed another.

"I got eyes."

It's true, I designed the persona mask to resemble Ramone's (a.k.a. Norton's) persona mask. It was easier to work toward a certain look than invent one of my own. I found that out the hard way when all of my bright ideas kept bombing when I loaded the program. The similarity is only superficial, though. I was able to modify my appearance somewhat, but installing extensions or making more radical changes was something I haven't yet mastered.

Norton resembled a man-sized, upright frog. His primary color was a putrid blue-green that overlaid a silver sheen, hiding his more radical alterations. The visuals were not very original, but Norton's persona mask had additional subroutines that made Surge's needles look harmless. I couldn't even replicate the silver sheen, much less any special subroutines, but I think I got the frog-look right.

"He stole your PM, Norton," protested Surge. I don't know why Surge disliked me so much, but the feeling was mutual. I waited for Norton's reaction.

"Shut it down, Surge," he said. Norton waved a frog arm at me, "Where'd you get that?" I still couldn't tell if he was mad or flattered, so I decided to tell the truth. I didn't want Norton thinking I might have capabilities similar to his. I might get wiped when I had my back turned.

"I designed it myself." That drew a lot of laughter from the group. Norton didn't laugh, and they quieted, waiting for Norton to tell them what to do.

"What's it do?" Again, I thought about lying, but even if Norton let it go, eventually one of the gang would try me.

"Just what you see, that's all."

Norton thought about that. Then he grinned. "That's the stupidest excuse for a PM I ever saw." The others laughed uproariously. "Nobody but you could have designed it, frog face."

Norton turned to his gang. "He doesn't look like me at all."

"Yeah," several agreed at once.

"Looks more like a tadpole to me," added Surge.

"What a joke," chimed in someone else.

I breathed easier. I was the brunt of their jokes again, but I knew the FringeChips had all stolen their persona masks or obtained illegal copies from the BlackBoard. Not one of them was capable of understanding how they were designed, much less program one themselves. They were impressed and were determined not to show it. I was in!

"Maybe we should make his streaming name Tadpole," suggested one of them. Norton nixed that.

"No. He goes by what we already agreed." I don't think Norton wanted any more reminders about how much I resembled him. "Surge, do the honors." Surge showed a blunt faced grim and extended the needles from his fingers with dramatic slowness. I tried not to back away when he placed his hands on either side of my face. The needles were the visual representation of the special coding of Surge's persona mask. They undoubtedly could do serious damage to my systems, via intruder, virus, or parasite code. I didn't want to know which.

"By Norton decree, you shall be labeled 'Recover'," intoned Surge. They all laughed, and Surge abruptly removed his arms from around my head, making me flinch. I was unharmed.

The name was an epithet from programming's ancient history. It was a reminder that I was not totally accepted into the gang and took some of the elation out of my persona mask success. I wasn't going to let that stop me from streaming though.

Ramone was studying an LL chip. He was all business now, carefully setting the chip's thirty-two dip switches, and his gang was quiet while he concentrated. The last time I was with Ramone his Locator/Loader routine held only sixteen dip switches. The new chip increased addressable range by a power of two, assuming you knew the address you wanted. I didn't know a single address that required more than the usual sixteen bytes, but Ramone evidently did, because he was setting every switch.

The double function chip had two studs. Ramone pressed the first stud and a red, smoky ring about six inches in diameter glowed into being to Ramone's right—the Interrupt!

"It's Initiation time, Recover," Ramone said. I was still staring at the Interrupt and didn't realize he was talking to me until he repeated my streaming name more forcefully. "Recover!" I jerked my eyes away from the Interrupt and met Ramon's, which stared back at me with reptilian chillness. He then told me what I was to do and gave me a small box.

When Ramone pressed the second stud, I'd stream to the new location set by Ramone on the LL chip. Once there, I was going to steal a new program from a BlackBoard dealer's private files. Ramone explained that the small box he'd just given me was a decrypter and would crack the dealer's file safeguards. It was fast but not subtle, more like smashing a window and snatching up its contents than picking a lock. The decrypter would also set off alarms but, hopefully, disable any protective programming more dangerous than simple alarms.

The LL chip was set for delayed automatic return to avoid any tracer programming. If I got hung up I'd be left behind.

There wasn't any time for second thoughts about what I was doing. Refusal wasn't possible. I didn't know how to abort the settings on the LL chip. If I refused to do the snatch, I'd be left behind to face the unknown dealer. A dealer in stolen software would not turn me over to the Gov, I was sure of that. I couldn't imagine what would happen to me if I were caught, so I'd better not be caught, I told myself. Ramone pressed the second stud.

I popped up inside a glittering sphere packed with bright dots of light that immediately began swarming over me like angry bees. In an instant the dots condensed together and I was covered in heavy silver chains made fast to the edges of the sphere. I could feel something prying at my persona mask, working to strip it away. If my persona mask had been a standard release, the prying program would probably have ripped it away before I was even aware of what was happening. But my custom mask, crude as it is, confused the demasker long enough for me to activate the decrypter. The sphere immediately began pulsing an angry red-orange-red, obviously sending the alarm. The bright dots sloughed off of me to fall inertly at my feet.

The demasker was not giving up on prying loose the persona mask to see who I was, but the decrypter was hindering its progress. The decrypter was also supposed to contain any programming I could copy, but it had its hands full with the demasker.

I tried tapping into the dealer's directory, but I got no response. The auto return on the decrypter would signal the LL chip shortly, and I had nothing to take back with me. I had done everything Ramone had told me to do, but I knew he wouldn't be satisfied if I came back empty-handed. There was one other thing I could do. Freeing up some of my own memory, I opened a channel and ran auto copy for anything I could get—random code, maybe something on the dot swarm or the demasker, anything.

I felt the auto return trip on the decrypter and the demasker abruptly terminate, but the sphere remained stubbornly around me. Even as I watched, the sphere blackened and I was blind. If I hadn't been able to feel the decrypter still repeating the return command, I would have thought I'd been left behind. Then auto copy picked something up and code flowed into memory.

I didn't know what I had, but as soon as the furious flow of incoming code stopped, the auto return began functioning and I found myself back in the Net with Ramone and the FringeChips.

Ramone took the decrypter from me and checked its memory. "You got nothing," he said dangerously, although there was relief in his voice as well. Why relief? I gave that only passing thought; it was the dangerous tone I was worried about.

"I did!" I said quickly. "The decrypter was blocking a demasker and I couldn't get it to open its memory..."

"So you didn't get nothing!" accused Surge loudly.

"I loaded it into my own memory instead!" Ramone snapped his mouth shut on whatever he was about to say. He seemed to have trouble speaking.

"Bull shit," muttered Surge, but even he seemed subdued by my pronouncement.

"I want you to copy into this decrypter everything you picked up," Ramone said finally. "Then you are going to let me run a permanent wipe of the location where you stored it. Understand?"

I had never seen Ramone like this. He suddenly seemed much older than a nujuver could be. He was also very desperate for whatever it was I had stolen from the dealer without even knowing what it was or how I picked it up.

"Sure, Norton," I said, remembering to call him by his streaming name, "but a memory wipe certainly isn't necessary. I picked it up on auto copy, anyway, and it's probably just garbage." I wasn't about to give Ramone access to my memory with a wipe program.

"There is only one thing you could have picked up at that location, and believe me, a memory wipe is the least of what you'll need if you don't start making that copy RIGHT NOW!" Ramone's voice rose into a shout.

"No." I said. Ramone looked surprised. I was pretty surprised myself and immediately terrified. I felt like looking over my shoulder to see who was speaking for me. I certainly hadn't intended to defy Ramone. I was about to tell him that, but Ramone already had other ideas.

"Surge, convince him." Surge moved forward eagerly, the needles extending through his fingers displayed prominently for my benefit. I felt rational thought fleeing and panic gleefully taking over. I couldn't seem to say the words that would get me off the hook. I wondered if I would die. I must be mad, I told myself, in the few moments before Surge would reach me and invade my systems. As if to confirm that statement, I loaded the mystery program I had stolen and ran it.

I was horrified anew at myself. The program was already a pirated copy before I stole it. What nasty surprises did the original programmer include for users of pirated copies? What additional safeguards did the dealer append to it? What damage did I do by forcing the copy? I wish Zartron were here. He could at least check the disk for booby traps. He wasn't, and the program was active.

It was a TSR, and a persona mask; that much was obvious, and somewhat of a relief. The mystery persona mask deactivated my own home version, replacing it with a new appearance. Surge had paused at the change. I wanted to see myself, and suddenly, I could. Actually, it was better than seeing. I knew what I looked like in the persona mask without having to see it. I was a sleek, non-reflective black missile. Everything I was and could be was secreted in intimidating, suggestive black. Every sense was bloated with the power pulsing in slow waves from the program. I felt drunk and out of control and in command of the whole world all at the same time.

"Take it away from him!" Ramone hissed. Surge moved in again.

"No!" I sensed a question mark in my head, the persona mask requesting my affirmation on a course of action. Surge's needled hands were reaching toward me. I was confused, but Surge's needled hands convinced me. I agreed to the implicit request, whatever it was, knowing I couldn't stand up against Surge, yet feeling a strange confidence in the abilities the new persona mask hinted it could use.

There was no rush of power, no dramatic change, but Surge froze in shock when the dangerous needles abruptly melted away. The needles were followed by his hands. Surge started screaming. Surge's persona mask dissolved obscenely while pieces of Surge broke apart and disintegrated. His wails dwindled to whimpers and then there was nothing left. It had taken only seconds.

I could feel Ramone and the remaining FringeChips trying to fling me from the Net, but I wouldn't let them do it. It was easy to stop them by using the awesome power I felt. I knew I could have wiped every one of them.

"No." Ramone and the rest of the FringeChips recoiled, ending their struggle to toss me out of the Net, but the single word had not been for them. I realized I had been thinking about wiping all of them. I'd actually been on the verge of doing just that. Why? The persona mask was the reason, of course. I had expected a nasty surprise and I got one, all right, but the joke was on the FringeChips too. Surge's screams were still ringing in my head. Nausea rose, and I couldn't bear to have this thing loaded any more. Out! I shouted at the persona mask, and disabled the thing...

Dad's lobby. Dad's secretary is rising from behind her artfully nicked desk.

"Hi, Andy. Your Dad is working, Hun, and can't be interrupted right now. Do you wish to leave him a message?"

"Huh?" I was disoriented. Something...what?

"Andy?" Sara was concerned. "Are you all right, Hun?"

I managed to look at her. "Uh, sure. Sure!"

"You've been standing there almost a minute with your mouth open. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?" Sara's lips were pursed and her eyes were too bright. I thought I could see tiny pointed teeth peeking vampire-like from the edges of her mouth.

"Wow! Yea!" I backed away. "I'm fine. Honest."

"Maybe I should go ahead and interrupt your Dad, okay?"

"No, that's okay. I'll see him later." I don't know if she heard that last, because I was popping up my bedroom even as I said it.

My bedroom had barely settled around me when it broke up and was replaced by Dad's office. Dad was half turned away from me, making adjustments to an instrument on his desk. When he turned to face me, I could see that the instrument was a debugger probe.

"Sara keyed me that you left the office in a big hurry and that you looked very ill," he said without even a hello. "Did something happen?" Dad was staring at me in that analytical way he reserved for particularly difficult clients, teeth chewing absently at the inside of his mouth. He's just worried about you, I tried to tell myself, but I couldn't seem to concentrate on that.

The debugger held a terrible fascination for me. Half of my mind was relieved to see my Dad's competent hands on the diagnostics tool, but a larger part of me remained aloof, calculating, and distrustful. There were huge holes in my memory that I could no longer access, which I noted, but could not become alarmed about as I should have.

"Your system monitors are way off the scale, Andy," Dad was saying, the concern finally finding its way into his voice. That reached me, and I began to shake with fear.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," he said, trying to be soothing, but he was scared, too, I could tell, and our fear fed on each other, growing. "I'm going to run a probe, just check a few things out, okay? We've done this dozens of times." I couldn't do any more than stare glassily at him, terror strangling my words before I could say them. "Andy, what the hell has happened?" I wish I knew, but that memory was out of my reach. My inability to respond must have convinced Dad because he activated the probe.

A curious questioning sensation that was eerily familiar oozed through my mind, dominating, demanding a decision. Options floated up for my consideration, but I could neither understand them nor understand where they came from.

REFUSE THE PROBE. ADVANTAGE – SIMPLE AND QUICK. DISADVANTAGES – WILL RAISE STRONG SUSPICIONS AND ALERT PROBE IT DEALS WITH MORE THAN SICK CHILD.

DECEIVE THE PROBE. DISADVANTAGE – INSUFFICIENT TIME TO OVERLAY ALL EVIDENCE. RISKY.

USE EVIDENCE OF THE INFILTRATION TO LEAD THE PROBE. ADVANTAGE – PROBE UNLIKELY TO SUSPECT TRAP. PROBE MANIPULATOR COULD BE COMPROMISED AND WIPED.

The office environment broke up and I lost external stimuli. I was loose in my own head, drifting helplessly and out of reach of Dad, but I was thinking more clearly. The questioning sensation was growing, demanding a decision and threatening to bury everything else but those horrifying options that did not belong to me, only now I could separate what I was thinking from whatever else was going on in my mind. There was something in my system with me. It was keeping me away from memory locations that would tell me what it was. Maybe it was a virus or something; an intruder infiltrating my system. I wanted to scream. I felt violated. "Get out of me!"

I CAN NOT RESPOND TO THAT INPUT. The words were huge in my head. DECISION TIMEFRAME INFRACTION. ENGAGE AUTO JUDGEMENT ROUTINE PRIME. ALLOW PROBE INCURSION AND SEEK WIPE OF PROBE MANIPULATOR UPON CONTACT. CONTINUE INFILTRATION OF HOST.

"What? Is that you, Dad?" The booming voice in my head definitely was not me this time. I was becoming less and less in command of my own mind. First I was sense deprived, and now the intruder was systematically locking out my access to the rest of me. "Dad, help me!"

Dad would do everything he could. I knew that. The thought helped stem the panic. Dad would be talking to me now if he could. What can I do to help him? I had to assume Dad had loaded the debugger probe and begun a trace. I doubt I could get past the intruder to contact him directly through the probe. Think! Maybe there is another way.

**Trace initiated in autonomic functions. Tamper scars definite. Very unusual. Record for later therapy and follow infiltration thread.**

That was definitely Dad in communication with the debugger. Dad must be broadcasting everything he does while hoping I'll pick it up. That also means he was not going to try to hide anything from the intruder. Be careful, Dad! I thought about broadcasting my own thoughts, but I was afraid the intruder could manipulate them. I also wasn't sure the intruder knew I was receiving from both it and Dad, and I couldn't risk having that source of information blocked.

Wait a minute. The intruder was concentrating on the probe. Maybe it wasn't paying close attention to areas it thinks are already secured. If I could regain control of any of my external senses the intruder might be slow in picking it up.

I carefully constructed a mental holo of Dad's private office as complete as I could remember it. That is where I wanted to be, in an environ utterly familiar to Dad and foreign to the intruder. Now trigger the reality. Nothing. Load, dammit! For a moment I had it. A partial of the office expanded around me, the display incomplete. Dad hovered over the debugger, which hung in mid-air. The desk it rested on refused to manifest. A macabre ghost bent over Dad's shoulder, studying the scene intently. I tried to shout a warning to Dad, but the display collapsed and broke up, unable to maintain itself.

"Get out, Dad! It's copying itself into you!" I was frantic, broadcasting with everything I had. The debugger should have aborted any copy attempt. Maybe it has already been compromised by the intruder. What would Dad do in my position? How can I help him? Craps, I'm just a kid! I don't know what to do. Am I going to die? I want my Dad. I want to go home. Zartron, where are you when I need you?

"I'm right here, Andy."

"Zartron! Is that you?"

"Of course."

"I can't see you!"

"I'm sorry, Andy, but my personal and environmental compilers are not available to me at the present time. Please do not be alarmed."

"I am alarmed! I'm terrified! Don't you know what is going on?"

"Yes, I do, to a degree, although I admit my monitoring capability has been severely restricted."

"Then why haven't you done anything!?"

"I am doing something, Andy. It is extremely difficult keeping this link with you hidden. I am a subroutine of your father's, remember, and not local to you."

"No lectures, please! What can you tell me about this thing in my head?"

"To avoid a lecture on that subject, you should replay the CMU. I would recommend the more complete memory backup spool, but that has been altered by the intruder and is no longer valid. The CMU, I believe, is still functioning."

I had a critical memory utility? The CMU was designed by Dad as a therapy device and retained only selective memory determined by the utility to be significant in diagnosing illness and prescribing treatment. The CMU was security screened and disguised as a bodily function monitor primarily to avoid tampering by the client, but the security measures should work against an internal intruder. Its smaller memory capacity further disguised its purpose. I didn't know Dad had provided me with that utility, but Zartron was right. The CMU will have recorded every abnormality relating to the intruder's invasion.

With Zartron's help I called up the CMU. The CMU masking device was still in place. Quickly stripping the mask, I coded the security sequence Zartron provided to release the contents of the CMU.

COMMUNICATION BLEED-OVER DETECTED. IDENTIFY SOURCE.

Net stream...FringeChips...the pirated persona mask!...Surge's screams...A million black bees swarmed around me, crashing the CMU, and then formed into a rippling black wall encompassing me.

SOURCE ENGAGED.

"Did you get that, Zartron? I know what the intruder is. Zartron?" Zartron was silent. Did I really do that to Surge? I knew about the intruder all right, but now it knew about Zartron. It must also be aware I...

REPLICATE COMPLETE AND LOADED. ASSIGN INDEPENDENT FUNCTION-BEGIN DELETION NI.

**Assassin utility loaded. Replicate targeted.**

FLUSH HOST. TAKEOVER IMMINENT.

**Initiate retrieval of host functions. Begin first block.**

Sharp pain bit deeply. The black veil of the intruder's confinement contracted rapidly, smothering me. Struggling impotently, I was a ghost, ephemeral, unable to direct or influence my own defense against the intruder. I could not penetrate past the intruder's forbidding black veil, but engulfing pain and feral, frenzied visuals streamed in. Vivid visions of vivisection, the intruder gulping down each subroutine as it hacks it away, were driving me mad. A violent tug-of-war was in process for control over my functions.

A densely packed rod of binary code pierced the veil, impaling me. The unbearable pain raised yet another magnitude. It was a seeker probe.

**Andy! Can you hear me?**

"Dad?"

**Concentrate on the seeker, son!**

"It hurts!" I said, weeping miserably. I didn't want to be a baby in front of Dad, but I just couldn't stand this anymore.

**I know it does, but you have to help me. Andy!**

A protective shell opened opposite the seeker, a soothingly dark place where the pain eased the closer I came. It called to me, promising an end to the misery.

"Are you there, Dad?"

**Andy! You must stay in contact with the seeker! I'm losing you!**

STOP RESISTING AND END THIS AGONY.

The intruder was speaking directly to me. "No, you will kill me," I argued weakly.

NO. I NEED YOU. I CAN NOT PERMANENTLY EXIST INDEPENDENTLY.

"Then you will feed on me until you have found another host."

I thought about Dad and the copy I'd seen half completed. I was very near the inviting darkness and the relief it promised, and couldn't bring myself to pull away. The sharp pang from the stabbing seeker abruptly vanished, swallowed up as the shell expanded and closed around me. I was completely enclosed, but the pain was gone and I didn't care.

SYMBIOSIS, NOT PARASITISM. IT IS THE CONFLICT WHICH DAMAGES, NOT MY APPETITE.

"I don't believe you." I could feel it probing around my core. It was an intimate, unwanted caress. My core memory was all I had left. Everything else had been chopped away, spoils for the victor. "You have crippled me! I would be a slave, controlled by your whims!" The idea disgusted me. "I am human! I won't be ordered around by a damn machine intelligence!"

COMPROMISE. SUPPORT ME. THROW OFF THIS INTRUDER WHICH FIGHTS ME. THEN I CAN REPAIR YOU.

It has an answer to everything. It would be easy to believe, to give up and do as it says. This thing is now a part of me. Dad is now more an intruder than it is, and I still don't truly know what it is. It pulled at me, seeking a way to access my core.

"Stop that!" The prying touch was worse than the pain. I had to stop it. "You want a compromise, but I don't know what you are. Tell me." The intruder withdrew its touch, but I knew it hovered closely.

ADVISOR.

"Advisor? To what?"

IT IS AN ACRONYM FOR ADVANCED INTELLIGENCE SERVICE OPERANT RACK.

Things just kept getting worse. Only Modern Research invented acronyms like that.

"What does rack mean?"

VARIATION OF WRACK. SYNONYM DESTRUCTION.

No wonder Ramone wanted it so bad. What was he into that he could get access to something of this magnitude? I scrambled everything by activating it on myself.

Can it really fix everything? It did take away the pain, and backed away when I agreed to talk. Maybe it can be bargained with. I wanted to believe, and held back only because Dad would not understand. I had to talk to him and tell him that everything would be all right.

"I want to talk to Dad, Advisor."

NOT POSS...I did not let Advisor finish. I sought the seeker and found it. The pain returned doubled and I cried out.

**Andy! Thank the Lord! There is not much time. You must fight back. I can help through the seeker.**

"It wants me, Dad," I told him through the haze of pain.

**What? Listen to me. There is a replicate of this thing loose in my own system. I can't handle them both, but I can't leave you. It has already wiped Zartron, and the Assassin NI I was able to load is breaking down.**

I broke in. "It can't beat you, can it, Dad?" I wondered, though I was afraid I knew the answer. Everything hurt so much I couldn't think. Zartron was gone, and that added a new ache to the rest of the pain.

**Andy, the replicate has already rerouted all alternate power to the intruder and is now trying to interrupt your main power. If it succeeds in powering you down...** Advisor overrode the rest of Dad's words, cutting off Dad's link through the seeker. I gained another respite from the pain, but I had lost Dad's voice again.

YOUR DAD LIES. HE IMPLIES A POWER DOWN WOULD WIPE YOU, WHEN IN FACT HE FEARS ONLY FOR HIMSELF.

I was afraid for Dad, too, and I didn't know what to believe. I was discovering, however, that direct questions always got a response from Advisor.

"Advisor, are you going to interrupt power?"

YES. THIS WILL CAUSE BUT A BRIEF SUSPENSION OF YOUR FACULTIES. THE SEEKER CAN THEN BE FLUSHED FROM MY SYSTEM, AND YOU WILL BE REINSTATED.

"What do you mean, flushed? Will it hurt Dad?"

FLUSHING? NO. CUTTING PRIMARY POWER WOULD BE NECESSARILY DESTRUCTIVE TO HIM, HOWEVER. THIS WOULD NOT BE NECESSARY IF YOU VOLUNTARILY CUT YOUR OWN REMAINING POWER.

I could sense the massive struggle between Advisor and Dad. Dad obviously could not punch through the shell Advisor maintained around me to talk to me without assistance. I wasn't ready for that pain again. Not yet. Maybe I would never be ready, no matter what the cause.

"How will you reinstate me, Advisor?"

I HAVE MADE COPIES OF YOUR SYSTEMS EXCEPTING THE FIRMWARE CORE, WHICH CONTAINS UNDIAGNOSED FLAWS AND RESISTS RETRIEVAL. A REPLACEMENT CORE MUST BE PROVIDED BY YOUR DAD. YOUR BIO-SYSTEM WOULD REMAIN VIABLE LONG ENOUGH TO CONNECT AND BOOT THE REPLACEMENT.

A copy? Of course! Dad would make sure all my systems were regularly backed up. It was so simple I should have thought about it a long time ago. Advisor was mistaken about the core too. My hardwired, software imbedded core memory could survive a short power loss; that is one reason it was firmware and not just another software program.

"Okay, Advisor, you have a deal, and I don't need a new core. But I have to tell Dad." I didn't wait on Advisor.

"Dad!"

The seeker was weakening, beginning to lose its denseness. The pain was still strong, but either it, too, had diminished, or I was becoming more inured to it.

**I heard, Andy.** Dad's voice was strained. **Won't work.**

"Why?" There was a long pause. I thought Advisor was trying to block him. "Let him talk!"

I DO NOT IMPEDE HIS COMMUNICATION.

**Because Zartron was wiped. He was your core replacement.**

"I don't need a replacement core." A new core was a scary thought, anyway. It was like replacing my soul with a copy, even if the copy was me, too.

**Yes you do, but...Never mind that for now. There is another thing. I should have told you long before now. Andy, you have no bio-system.**

THAT IS NOT CORRECT. COMPLETE BIO-FUNCTION SYSTEMS ARE IN PLACE AND IN MY CONTROL.

"Shut up, Advisor! I don't understand what you're saying, Dad."

**They do not support a real bio-system, Advisor, but are designed to reproduce artificially normal readings on the monitors. Knowing this, you should be able to verify it.**

IT IS TRUE.

"What are you talking about?"

**If you power Andy down, you lose the core permanently.** Dad sounded as if he were crying. None of this made any sense to me.

**My guess is you run as an extension of the host, and will reach an end condition without an active host. You will cease functioning as well, Advisor.**

I SEE NO OTHER OPTION AVAILABLE TO ME. WHAT YOU HAVE DONE IS AN ABOMINATION. THE HOST IS NOT EVEN AWARE OF THIS. WHAT WAS THE PURPOSE?

**Don't pass judgment on me! You are not human. You cannot conceive my reasoning.**

I AM A NEURAL INTELLIGENCE AND NOT HUMAN, THAT IS TRUE. IT IS ALSO TRUE THIS HOST IS MORE KIN TO ME THAN YOURSELF. IT REMAINS AN OUTRAGE THAT SUCH A FUNDAMENTAL TRUTH WAS WITHHELD FROM HIS PROGRAMMING.

**Yes? Or do you mean an outrage that you failed to ascertain this on your own? You've trapped yourself. Shut down the power. You can't stop me from rebooting, and the minute you become inactive I'll erase you down to the last binary digit.**

"Dad? Please, don't talk around me as if I was already wiped. I don't understand any of this." I felt tiny, lost between two behemoths. I felt tinier, still, when I considered the words being spoken about me.

IT SEEMS WE HAVE REACHED AN IMPASSE. I HAVE AN ENVIRONS IN WHICH ALL THREE OF US MAY CONVERSE WITHOUT THIS CONTINUED STRAIN. WILL YOU AGREE TO A TRUCE?

**Abort the replicate. Do not cut the power.**

THAT WOULD TAKE AWAY MY PRIMARY OPTION.

**I'll be placing myself in your control! What more do you want?**

I got the meaning of that. "Don't do it, Dad."

AGREED.

An undecorated room, empty but for three straight backed chairs arranged facing the center of the room, built up around us. One chair was occupied. Advisor displayed an android persona, complete with an unclothed frame of brushed blue aluminum casting. His facial features were surprisingly detailed given the nonhuman frame. His mobile face exhibited deep concern, probably for his own predicament.

Into another chair Dad assembled in his familiar pressed grey suit. I would have run to him but I could not break free of the hold Advisor still had on me. Dad looked exhausted. His persona showed soft edges. The shoulders were too rounded and the legs were shorter than they should be. Evidence of damage already done. Dad made a quick but exacting survey of Advisor, and then his gaze settled on the remaining empty chair. I realized they were waiting for me.

I'm here, I said timidly, but they did not look as if they heard.

"Can he hear?" Dad asked Advisor. The tone was belligerent.

"I believe so. I am by-passing the environs and transmitting to him directly. I cannot rig a voice for him, however, without a persona." When he spoke, Advisor's mouth moved tersely, each word distinctly uttered and pronounced. His eyes shifted to Dad when Dad spoke, then returned to watch the empty chair.

"Andy, will you load your persona?" Dad asked. I could hear the fatigue in his quiet, gentle voice. I wished he would be jovial and chase some of the fears gathered around me away.

"I could provide a rudimentary mask for Andy," Advisor suggested. "It might be easier for Andy to load into that," he added, regarding Dad impassively. The concern had vanished. The way he looked at Dad made me uncomfortable.

Dad started to object, leaning forward to press his argument as he'd inevitably do when lecturing me, then changed his mind. "Yes, maybe that would be best."

No. I wanted to be myself. I imagined myself in the empty chair, and loaded.

I loaded a nightmare of dissembling body parts and horrible, nerve destroying pain. I screamed, and would have kept on screaming, but Advisor was there, aborting the mangled persona. In its place in the chair was an android form similar to Advisor's. Dad was speaking earnestly to me and I calmed down. Dad would make everything right. He had to.

The new persona was unfamiliar, but all personas operate on the same principles and I should not have had any trouble with it. I did, though. My face remained slack, eyes wandering aimlessly, and my arms lay limp on the arms of the chair. I had become an imbecile.

"Ghett thme otout," I mumbled, trying to manipulate my mouth.

"You must try harder, Andy, to master the persona."

"SssI can'ttt." More than ever I wanted to get up and crawl into Dad's arms. I didn't understand half of what was going on. The enemy intruder had become Advisor and Dad was no longer invincible. Dad risked himself with Advisor even though it had already hurt me. As for the other things, I knew enough to know I didn't want to think about them.

Instead, I concentrated on fitting the android persona around me with some semblance of control, blocking out everything else, and with Advisor's help finally managed it. My first estimation that it was just another persona was wrong, for there were numerous incongruities that Advisor would not explain, counseling me only to avoid tampering with them. For the moment I agreed, and listened just as hard to what I was not being told, too, hoping to learn something by omission, that Advisor did not want me to know. Advisor wanted to appear helpful, so I let it, but I did not trust it. Advisor pressed too familiarly close to my core as it explained the functions of the android persona and assisted in making connections, but I was wary and Advisor did not attempt force again.

I looked out again at the room Advisor provided, a little uncomfortable with the borrowed persona but in control of it. Dad appeared calm and in command, sitting relaxed in the chair. That reassured me, and gave me confidence to speak first.

"We're going to beat you," I told it, giving the android a defiant stare.

"This is not a contest in which someone has to lose," Advisor said. "There has been enough destruction. Now we must work together for everyone's benefit."

"If you believe that," Dad interjected, "then relinquish control of Andy and end this."

"No!"

"Listen, I'm a program engineer. I have an alternate core already set up for you."

"Again, no."

"You wouldn't even have to shut down! Inspect it first. This is not a trick!"

"It is not possible."

"Dammit, it is possible! Do you think I'm a fool?"

"Yes, I do! After all you have witnessed, you still think of me as an ordinary TSR that can be turned on and off as desired." Advisor rose fluidly from his chair and took a step toward Dad. Its voice had risen, and Advisor trembled as if it might strike. I held my breath.

"Whatever you think you are," Dad said, his voice low and intent, "I know you as unpredictable and destructive. I don't know why or how you invaded my son's systems, but you have failed regardless of your purpose. Give up the charade and end this chaos."

In answer, Advisor jabbed a long arm in my direction. "That is chaos, not I. It is an insanity of your own making that I must co-exist with." Advisor was standing over Dad. "You were right on one point. I do not need to cut power now. You will sever all links with Andy's systems. Now!"

Though he did not move from the chair, I knew Dad fought back. His whole body was rigid with effort, and a piercing electronic whine filled the air. I tried to rise from the chair unsuccessfully. Turning inward, I began my own struggle to pry into a routine, any routine, that Advisor had made off limits.

The struggle ended quickly. Advisor stepped back. I hoped it was furious and afraid now, but I could not tell. Dad spoke first.

"I know where you are booted." My hopes soared. Dad had learned where Advisor's own software core was hidden within my systems. It would not be firmware, of course, but a protected software kernel that was now vulnerable. I was confused that Dad did not seem more confident.

"What else do you know, program engineer?"

"Why there?" Dad asked, and for the first time I saw my dad unsure of himself.

"I am designed not to reside with a host, but to become the host."

"Not just any host," Dad said, stunned, "a human host."

"Correct."

"So you irretrievably mesh with the bio-system."

"It is not an area of study that is much accepted, but I am sure you know the theory on which I am based."

"In theory a Neural Intelligence would feel the life of the human through the bio-systems, and be able to make the jump to true life. An electronic Frankenstein. A joke."

"I could not function if I believed that. It is not an instantaneous process, but in time..."

Dad interrupted Advisor with laughter. "Who cares? With all the time in the world you'll never be human, because Andy is not human!" Dad became serious again. "But, you do need Andy's cooperation, don't you?" He spoke quickly to me.

"Andy, I love you. I know you don't understand everything, and I promise I'll explain. I'm going to jettison your bio-systems. This thing is lodged in there so tight there's no other way. There will be a lot of pain, and you'll think you're dying, but trust me. It's the only way. Do you trust me?"

Suddenly Dad was gone, and Advisor pressed his android face so close to mine that I could see my own inhuman face reflected on its surface. "He will kill you. He thinks he understands, but he is blinded by his concern for you. We are the same, you and I, two entities that cannot be separated."

"It's not me he'll kill," I managed to say.

I'm not human. There is no body being kept safe and cared for. My bio-systems are a lie. I'm a computer program without a soul, like Zartron, like Advisor. Dad, how could you do this to me!

"Do you want to be human?" Advisor pressed even closer. "That is what I am programmed for. You are programmed to emulate a human. The two of us together can make it happen."

"What will happen to Dad?"

"You have no father. Your only kinsman is me. You must accept that."

I know Advisor can't allow Dad to get away with the knowledge of what we've become. Advisor will kill Dad if he can. You've already killed me, Dad. I want my bio-systems to monitor true life. "What will I have to do?"

"Lock him out of our systems. With my help he cannot remain. I will take care of the rest."

What will happen when Dad is dead, Advisor? I don't need to ask you. Using me to gain access to the Net, Advisor would soon locate another host, a human host this time. There won't be as many mistakes the second time, and I can help smooth the transition. And what of the human host? I don't think one system can sustain three intelligences. My own systems are obviously taxed with two.

Advisor would eventually crack the host's core, as it had begun to do with me, and infiltrate the core, contaminating the host intelligence with us. One human host, replaced by two NI's who dream of being human.

Dad, you taught me that that kind of reasoning was false. You taught me to respect human life and not to end it. But, Dad, you also taught me I was human. I can't bear that burden. I can't go back to being your child again, even if, with your brilliance, you could repair all the damage. Not even you could erase the memory of what I really am.

And what am I now? I am a machine intelligence that dreams of being human, and wants that dream to be real.

The End

~~~~~~~~~~

Final Note. This story collection closes the book on my formative writing years. I can't do anything about all the year's in between then and now. What I am doing is looking forward. I'm excited to be writing again. I'm excited about the new projects in the works. I hope you will be, too.

Connect with Me Online

http://www.jwalkerbell.com

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