Scattered Seeds Book One in The Consciousness Compendium (Abridged Version) Cover

Muldoon/Scattered Seeds/2
Scattered Seeds
book one
in
The Consciousness Compendium

(Abridged Version)
John Muldoon
© 2010 John Muldoon. All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-0-9846028-0-3
Dedication
To my brother Steve for showing me the way and my wife Jennifer
for encouraging and supporting my effort to follow it

FOREWORD
Excerpt from Guild Historian Paladian Turnow's Treatise on
Thwarted Uprisings
By their naive system of reckoning, it was at the very
start of the third millennium when the quasi-intelligent
species, known formally to themselves as Homo sapiens, first
boasted that they had deciphered the instructions contained
within life's coded map of ascension. Their conceit would have
been laughable were it not so pathetic. As it has been well-
documented, students of the subject will be aware that these
beings inhabited a relatively young universe located on the
unmapped fringes of the Foamwork, well beyond what was then
considered the frontier.
Here the reader is asked to please excuse the use of such
an obvious misnomer as the term "universe." It has been
included only because it was part of their native nomenclature,
and the use of such a misguided designation offers critical
insight into their self-absorbed outlook. Regardless, therein
these Homo sapiens resided on a quaint, little solar
circumnavigator of organic design in an innocuous galaxy, which
had little in the way of modern amenities to recommend it.
Though they sat atop what from their limited view seemed a vast
evolutionary progression, the scope of their internal and
external awareness was deceivingly narrow given their level of

physical and mental development. Indeed many categorists
originally threatened to classify them among the sub-sentient,
though all now agree such a capricious assessment was dangerous
if not altogether unwarranted. Even those charitable enough to
view their use of the term "universe" in place of "multiverse"
as a justifiable undersight were unwilling to excuse the next
bit of arrogance that was uncovered.
These humans, as they commonly referred to each other, were
such egotists that they actually gave life's coded map of
ascension the name "human genome." While they did have the good
grace to admit upfront that their translation was merely a
partial rendering, their hubris allowed them to overlook this
footnoted caveat and declare in the same breath that the
decoding was complete. As if that were not egregious enough,
their myopia was so acute that they used similar doublespeak to
convince themselves the effort to fill in the remaining gaps
would be too costly to justify.
Such a statement seems inconceivable, but there it is.
Where so many other life forms saw the map for what it really
was and willingly risked all to navigate the route it
highlighted, these beings were too caught up promoting petty
quarrels among themselves and pursuing material advantage over
one another to recognize the true nature of the opportunity they
had uncovered. In that sense their intellect was no higher than

that of a school of ordinary scalivengers. Those creatures,
savvy as they are, can be counted on to backtrack the wing flaps
of a flock of albaterns across the breadth of an entire ocean
only to stop and dine upon each other rather than expend the
minuscule balance of effort required to scale the cliffs and
feast together on the untended eggs nestled in the ledges above.
This assessment might have proven too harsh had they truly
suspected how much more remained to be uncovered, but as it was
their optimism belied their paltry nature. Where they rightly
guessed that taming and influencing the map's obvious syntax
would help them better understand their intrinsic frailties and
provide insight on how to remedy such deficiencies, these humans
remained oblivious to the deeper implications hidden in the
semantics. They happened upon the trailhead only to mistake it
for the terminus.
Rather than striving to decipher the map's subtleties, this
species of narcissists sought to venture down a blind alley of
their own design. Worse yet, they were intent on vandalizing
the signposts marking the true path beyond recognition before
they veered off. Of course they were by no means the first to
undertake such follies, and they had already developed several
other means of abolishing themselves from existence. The fact
that these Homo sapiens were fumbling about near the point of no
return when they were discovered was not the primary reason why
those who found them intervened immediately.
Many would initially question where the misfortune could
possibly lie in all of this. Under most circumstances their
nescience would have been for the best given the rapid pace at
which such species were ascending in that section of the
Foamwork during that epoch. After all, had not innumerable
species previously labored upward only to fall by their own hand
during the course of the Third Age alone? What could possibly
be the harm if one more sprout uprooted itself or even destroyed
its entire world, as some number nearing infinity had previously
done and would undoubtedly continue to do in futurity?
Ordinarily, these humans would have had a long way to go before
they posed a threat to anyone else in their own multiverse much
less the Foamwork's general populace. If, however, at first
exposure you suspect the true cause for alarm, then you are one
of the few.
The potential tragedy comes to light when one learns of the
circumstances under which the original searchers first happened
onto these foundlings. To tell you that a signal was detected
would do little to narrow your conjecture since countless life
forms have been ferreted out in that same manner. But when
informed that in this case only seven such signals were
ordained, understanding will quickly raise your brow. That is

right. One of the scattered seeds of ascension existed within
this most unlikely of populations. Any undue tampering on their
part promised to irreversibly impact the evolution of all
beings, living and not, across the entirety of existence.
Thus it becomes clear why these Homo sapiens could not be
allowed to exterminate themselves or undertake any significant
efforts to corrupt their branch of life's proscribed blueprint
until the gem they harbored had been successfully mined. In any
event, by all accounts we can be glad for their ignorance. For
had they deduced what lay behind the locked gate they trifled
with, they would undoubtedly have worked harder to decipher the
combination. Based on the other discoveries they were soon to
make, if they had been truly successful in their feeble effort
to decode the map of life, then they could conceivably have
advanced their kind by tens of millions of generations in a mere
fraction of the usual span. Given their track record, it is
doubtful they would have dealt benevolently with the rest of us.
As stated, these looming revelations followed quickly on
the heels of their premature gloating. By their own calendar,
humans launched a false moon on Tuesday, April 20, 2004, at
12:57 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time. Their limitations have been
alluded to thus far, so one might think they sought merely to
alter their planet's tides or provide themselves with a
supplemental energy source, but even these feats were beyond

their ability. More staggering, they were not yet even aware of
any life beyond that on their own solar circumnavigator. Like
so many other species that chose to pursue technology, they
allowed their most powerful innate skills to lie fallow. This
of course was a great handicap in meeting others.
These paradoxical sentients had dispatched artificial
orbiters many times before, but their intended purpose again
serves to highlight how introverted they were. The vast
majority of those supra-atmospheric contrivances were intended
to advance their observation, communication and transportation
capabilities back on the surface of their home world rather than
beyond it. The orbiter in question, however, was dispatched for
a different purpose altogether. With it they sought to prove
correct certain predictions made by one of their greatest
thinkers regarding the characteristics and makeup of the
physical realm.
Though they had developed elaborate theoretical constructs
suggesting these predictions were accurate beyond any reasonable
doubt, previous errors in judgment compelled them to seek
observable evidence. In any event, these assertions and others
being tested concurrently by different means were soon
substantiated. Several of these enterprises also produced
unexpected findings which were far more controversial. When
added together, these new bits of information led to leaps in

understanding that forever changed humankind's outlook and
caused them to reassess their place in the greater scheme of
things.
These discoveries added a new level of urgency to their
quest for knowledge and served as final vindication for a
revolution in perspective initiated nearly five hundred solar
circumnavigations earlier. Had they managed to piece together
the puzzle of biogenesis and divine its purpose during this
frenzied period of advancement, then they most assuredly would
have figured out how to elevate themselves to a level
commensurate with the highest sentient beings residing in the
Foamwork. Luckily that was not to be, for otherwise it would
likely have been they who came looking for us rather than the
other way around.

EPIGRAPH
Earth, Circa 1492: Atlantic Coast of the "New World"
A lone hunter crouched with his bow and watched from a
hidden vantage on the bluff, incredulous as pale figures with
hairy faces and outlandish costumes leapt into the surf from
their strange craft and waded ashore barking an alien tongue.
After seeing one of them point a long stick at a deer and kill
it with a clap of thunder from a great distance, the young brave
turned and ran for his village unprepared for the mockery his
account would earn him.

CHAPTER 1
2004: Washington, D.C.
Despite determined efforts, Falan Tiernan could not stop
belaboring the unsettling events of the past few months. He
stood hunched over in his parent's kitchen staring absently into
the refrigerator. The pale wash of light escaping from the unit
provided the room's only illumination. Dawn was little more
than an hour off, but it seemed an eternity to wait. Eventually
Falan grabbed some orange juice and drank it straight from the
carton. After a couple of swallows he braced himself on the
refrigerator's open door while his gut heaved without result.
When the spasms subsided, Falan exchanged the orange juice for a
container of milk and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.
After a minute he leaned over and laid his head down on the back
of his forearm.
Without meaning to, he drifted off. The microscopic horde
was there instantly scurrying about their business. Even asleep
his relief was palpable. Better them than the other thing.
Anything was better than whatever it was. For months now either
it or masses of these indistinct, little builders had appeared
nearly every time he slept. It was obvious from their progress
that the swarm didn't stop working when he woke up. It had
taken most of the summer before Falan could even guess what the
little engineers were constructing. He wasn't anxious to see if

he was right, but that wasn't why he shied from sleep. Falan
didn't have any idea what the other entity's agenda was, and he
didn't want to find out.

CHAPTER 2
"Jesus Christ, how hard is it to close the god-damn
refrigerator?" James Tiernan hollered as he pounded across the
kitchen and slammed the refrigerator door shut.
Falan lurched upright and glanced back and forth across the
room performing a new waking ritual that had become ingrained
over the summer. Despite the continued absence of any tangible
justification for such a precaution, he was now helpless to
shake the habit. Falan started to raise a hand to shield his
eyes from the sunlight angling into the kitchen, but a shadow
quickly fell across the room when his father stepped in front of
the window to face him. Relieved, Falan unconsciously lowered
his arm and slouched back in his chair. James took this for a
shrug of disrespect and shifted his stance so that the sun again
passed unobstructed into Falan's eyes.
"Christ, you're still dressed from yesterday. What the
hell time did you get in last night?"
Falan raised his hand against the glare and stood up to put
the milk back in the refrigerator. He answered with his back
turned.
"I didn't even go out last night. It was Sunday. I was
home all night."
"Sunday, Monday...Friday...what's the difference to you?"

James spun Falan around with one hand and shoved him
against the refrigerator. It rocked back and slammed down
threatening to crack the Italian floor tiles. The two were
nearly equal in height at just over six feet, but with a one-
hundred-pound weight advantage James seemed to tower over his
son who barely tipped the scales at 160 pounds.
"You've been late to the office every god-damn day this
summer. Christ, you're off to happy hour by four o'clock -- if
you come back from lunch at all," James scoffed, his volume
rising in places to emphasize his dismay. "You're not even old
enough to take a legal drink for Christ's sake."
James "the Steam Train" Tiernan looked down on his son from
an era that hadn't been so indulgent of its youth. The old
nickname stemmed from his football days when he was an All-
American fullback at Penn State during the late '50s. The
moniker had since been shortened to "the Steamer" or just plain
"Steamer" reflecting his tendency to boil over when representing
clients in court. The circumstances surrounding his own youth
stood in sharp contrast to his son's pampered upbringing. In
his day professional football held little allure for a young man
with a 3.9 GPA and multiple knee surgeries, so James graduated
and went on to Harvard Law determined to rise above the squalor
he'd been born into.

"Please lower your voice, James. It's too early in the
morning."
Falan and his father both looked over to see Marcela
Tiernan enter the kitchen and start making coffee. At first
glance Falan's mother appeared unmistakably Anglo, but a second
look usually revealed a hint of Asian influence in her petite
features. Her mother's Eurasian bloodline had combined with her
father's mixed Mediterranean heritage to give her what others
had regarded as an exotic if not classic beauty during her
youth.
Years of smoking and a steady diet of Bloody Marys for
breakfast had not taken nearly the toll one would expect. She
could still fit into the skirts she'd worn as a high school
senior. The same could not be said for her bras, which she'd
outgrown yearly up until college graduation. At forty-two,
Marcela Tiernan, still turned heads at the club, where she
managed to play a decent game of tennis two afternoons a week.
Over the years more than one of the twenty-something teaching
pros had found her a match in bed as well.
Falan tried to shrug away from his father and leave the
room, but James would not to be denied his opportunity in front
of an audience. He held Falan in place by the shoulder and
erupted.
"It is not too early -- not for those of us with jobs.
Look at him for Christ's sake. He's still in his clothes from
last night."
Falan watched his mother approach and tried to fix her with
a look that would keep her silent. Oblivious, Marcela reached
the refrigerator door and stopped.
"James, let go of him. Honey, you look terrible. Hurry up
and go get ready for work. I'll make you some eggs."
Falan tensed.
"God damn it. Stop babying him." James scorned. "Of course
he looks like shit. What do you expect? Out till all hours,
hitting the bars with his buddies, banging the help -- Arthur
Cantrell's secretary of all people. God damn it, she's twice
his age, not to mention her divorce still isn't final."
James Tiernan pretended not to notice the condemning look
his wife gave him on that account. Instead his volume rose
steadily until his relentless rant overran any attempt at
pointed emphasis. Falan's shoulder was still caught in his
father's grip. He rolled his eyes at his mother then looked off
into space.
"I told you I didn't want to work at the firm again this
summer. I paid my dues the last five years, and I still do more
than my share. Most of the interns you hired this year are
fuck-ups anyway. They couldn't write a brief if their BMWs
depended on it."
Veins bulged out on his father's neck like thick night
crawlers as his pale Irish complexion took on a deep shade of
rage.
"Bullshit. You're the only fuck-up I've seen. God damn
it, I've been trying to help you. Paying you good money,
helping you get the experience you need to get into a decent law
school. You'd be working some loser job like most of your
friends if it wasn't for me. I'm the senior partner for
Christ's sake. How do you think it makes me look with you
flaking out all summer?"
James undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his
tie with his free hand. He stared intently at his son, defying
him to refute the accusations. Falan shifted his eyes back to
his father and tried not to blink, but he quickly looked away
again.
"I'm not going to law school," Falan said staring at his
shoes. "I don't want to be a lawyer. I told you that from the
beginning, but nooo...you insisted. 'Just get a feel for how
things operate at a higher level,' you said, 'I'll make it worth
your while. You don't have to be mister gung-ho.'"
Falan briefly met his father's glare, "Any of that ring a
bell?" he added before looking down again.

"Fine, see where you end up with a degree in astrobiology.
Whoever heard of such bullshit? After a year or two of eating
pine cones and dirt, you'll wish you had someone to put you
through law school."
James gave Falan a final shove and started across the
kitchen before turning and pointing a finger at his son.
"You've got one week left. Don't embarrass me any more
than you already have, and don't make any plans Saturday night -
- you're not gonna feel like going out."
James grabbed his jacket and briefcase off the counter on
his way out to the garage.
"Thanks a lot, Mom. I was almost out of here."
"Don't blame me," his mother said absently brushing him
aside so she could open the refrigerator. "The way you two
carry on has nothing what-so-ever to do with me."
Marcela set tomato juice and celery on the counter next to
Falan then reached up to straighten his collar. An unpleasant
sense of déjà vu struck her when she looked into her son's eyes.
They had always been intense, but now up close, as watery and
blood-shot as they were, they caught her off guard. She thought
she'd gotten over that years ago.
Falan's eyes were not blue, green or even hazel. They were
bright silver -- almost unheard of for someone with dark hair
and a bronze complexion. At the moment her son's eyes flashed

like tiny halogens floating in pools of red nail polish. She'd
only seen that look on one other person, and she didn't care to
dwell on her father any longer. She'd spent too many years
indulging her self-pity.
"Falan honey, go look at the circles under your eyes. You
look awful. Are you sure you aren't coming down with
something?"
"Mom, I'm fine. Every time I turn around lately you're
telling me how bad I look. I just need to get some decent
sleep."
"Well, try staying home and going to bed early for once."
"I did stay home last night. Jesus, give it a rest."
"Don't talk to me like that -- not after the summer we've
had. First, you two are on and on about South America. Then,
when that's finally settled, you're back at it over work again.
Just try to get through this week without any more fighting,
then you can go back to school and act however you like."
"We didn't settle anything. I'm going to South America --
at least for this semester and maybe for the whole year."
Falan's mother shook her head and let out a sigh as she
walked across the kitchen.
"It is settled, honey. You don't have the money, and your
father isn't about to pay for you to waste an entire semester
running around in the jungle when you're supposed to be

studying. He already thinks your major is a complete waste of
time. Don't drag us through all that again."
"I don't need his god-damn money. I'll sell my car if I
have to."
"Falan, the Explorer is not in your name. Your father will
drive it into the Potomac River before he lets you sell it to
pay for that trip," his mother said following him to the stairs.
"He only bought that car so the two of you wouldn't have to
drive into the office together every day after the scenes you
had last year."
Falan turned at the landing halfway to the second floor,
"I'm going to South America. You watch."

CHAPTER 3
As Marcela Tiernan stood at the sink and watched Falan back
his car down the driveway she couldn't help being haunted by old
torments. Her hand trembled as she poured more vodka over a
small mountain of ice and a drop of tomato juice. She didn't
think about her father much anymore. It had taken many years to
get past the hurt he'd caused her. The growing sense of calm
brought on by the day's first friendly bite of alcohol made her
question whether she'd ever really get past that pain.
Her memories of him were corrosive. She'd hardly known him
growing up although he was somewhat of a minor public figure,
who had published dozens of highly acclaimed books. Even as an
adult she'd been unable to forge any kind of meaningful
relationship with the man. Seeing her son's eyes blazing at her
in the kitchen this morning somehow brought it all back just as
it had on the day Falan was born.
"Are you all right, dear?" the doctor asked that morning
twenty years ago.
She was holding her newborn son close to her chest
immediately after the delivery when his eyes cracked open for
just a second. The sight was enough to make her gasp audibly
and shy back from the child.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she answered. "His eyes...they
startled me for a second, that's all."

The doctor assured her that it was normal for some babies'
eyes to lack pigmentation at birth. Her son's were a bit
brighter than usual perhaps, but they would surely turn brown in
the coming months he told her knowingly.
"Not if he's lucky," one of the attending nurses commented.
"Dark hair and features like his, together with eyes that
striking -- the girls will be lined up in front of your house
for miles, Mrs. Tiernan."
Marcela hadn't known if that would be the case or not, but
she'd been quite certain that her son's eyes would never darken.
That realization upset her more than she would ever admit. Her
father's piercing gaze had terrorized her as a little girl, and
the thought of raising a son with eyes of the same diamond hue
had been unnerving.
Staring into those eyes in the kitchen this morning had
filled her with foreboding. Memories of her transient father
and the questions he left unanswered came flooding back. She
didn't need a reminder of how he virtually abandoned her as an
infant after her mother died. Falan in some ways reflected his
maternal grandfather's Mediterranean influence, but his heritage
was difficult for most to guess. Language aside, he could
safely pass for any one of a hundred different nationalities.
He came from a diverse gene pool that stemmed from a family tree
with more roots than branches -- or so her father used to claim
anyway. Her son was a mutt.
Marcela knew so little about her father that she could
review the sum of it in no time. It was the things she didn't
know that still sometimes left her puzzling for hours. Her
father, Antonio Farenzano, was born on the island of Sardinia in
1904, yet his ancestry was far broader than his Italian birth
certificate suggested. Though he himself was a scholar, Antonio
came from a family of fishermen who had descended from a long
line of seagoing merchants. He'd traced some of the many
tendrils of his bloodline back from Southern Europe to North
Africa then across to the Middle East and back up into the
Baltic States. His people had plied the waters of the
Mediterranean, Adriatic and Aegean Seas for thousands of years
carrying olive oil, spices and other trade goods.
Painstaking research left Antonio convinced that at some
point in the distant past his forefathers ventured out from a
remote, heavily forested region in central Ukraine. He believed
they followed one of the many tributaries that flowed down from
the highlands, perhaps working the timber trade escorting the
enormous rafts of rough-cut logs that were driven downstream to
the Black Sea markets. From there it was a short trip through
the Bosporus Straight near Istanbul to the riches of the Aegean
and even greater opportunities that lay beyond. Eventually

members of the Farenzano line settled down off the coast of the
Italian mainland and took up fishing.
Antonio had been a scholar and professor of international
renown. Born and raised in Italy, he was originally inspired by
Galileo's legacy of scientific and intellectual inquiry. He was
a gifted student and chose to study physics at Padua University,
where Galileo himself held a professorship until 1610. Antonio
also earned a lifetime chair at his alma mater, but he spent
very little time teaching there after his first few years as a
full professor. Instead, he was driven to branch out from
physics to wander semi-purposefully throughout the larger
academic realm, pausing here and there to immerse himself in
whichever disciplines happened to serve his latest interest.
He accepted offers of much coveted visiting professorships
at many of the world's elite universities. Between teaching
assignments, he scoured the farthest reaches of the globe
searching for knowledge. He always referred to himself as a
student rather than a teacher. He spent nearly a year in China
at a time when few foreigners could gain access to the country.
He taught and did research at virtually every major university
from Morocco to South Africa. During the decade he spent in
Africa, he also sought out and lived for extended periods with
more than a dozen of the Dark Continent's most ancient peoples.

He followed much the same pattern on all of Earth's major land
masses and many of its smaller ones.
Antonio's quest for knowledge carried him to live with the
northern most Eskimos dispersed across the Arctic Circle. There
he spent time in Russia, Canada and later Greenland. His quest
took him deep into the South American rainforests where he
listened to oral histories passed down through the ages. He
climbed the Andes to live among the high-altitude Indians of
Peru, Argentina and Chile, and he sailed the South Pacific
visiting isolated island peoples. If he held any place in
disdain, it was North America. He bemoaned the continent's
relative youth and the annihilation of its native populace --
their collective wisdom largely gone with them.
A master at languages, he would spend months learning a
particular dialect until he could speak it well enough to hold
in-depth conversations with tribal elders and religious leaders
as he sought to uncover the secrets of their earliest cultural
remembrances. While on locale, he would also take the
opportunity to pick the brains of the region's most learned
academics. He delved deeply into paleontology, cosmology,
philosophy, theology, psychology, neuroscience and evolutionary
biology. Near the end, he developed a particular fascination
with population genetics and devoted a great deal of time to

tracing mankind's global migration patterns as humans branched
out from their African birthplace.
He was equally at home in the pope's private library at the
Vatican as he was in the hut of an aboriginal headman in the
Australian outback -- at least until the pope rescinded his
privileges. In fact, early in his career, Antonio gained access
to the ancient texts of many of the world's oldest religions
including Islam, Hinduism and countless others. Like the pope,
however, most religious leaders stopped granting him admittance
to their archives as his notoriety grew.
In addition to seeking information that could only be
obtained orally from less developed cultures, Antonio spent a
great deal of time ferreting out dusty scrolls and faded
manuscripts long forgotten in the cellars and attics of the
world's finest libraries and private reference collections. No
resource was deemed too popular or too insignificant to warrant
his interest. He'd learned early on that valuable nuggets could
often be gleaned from even the most obvious slag heaps.
Somewhat ironically, he marveled at and regretted that so much
of mankind's knowledge had been lost -- often to fire. He
lamented the extent to which history had been reduced to
informed supposition and outright conjecture.
Falan's grandfather forever claimed to be writing an all
encompassing history of the origin and development of man. He

published book after book on an endless array of subjects, yet
always claimed each was a mere byproduct -- a way to pay the
bills while he continued his primary research. While it was
rumored in fringe circles that Antonio harbored some wildly
fantastic theories, Marcela only learned of this near the end,
shortly before he introduced her to Jeremy Schtelick.
She often wondered how her life might have been different
if her mother had been alive while she was growing up -- if
she'd been raised by both her natural parents. Marcela's
mother, Charlotte Lee Worthington, was also of mixed descent.
She was the product of several hundred years of inter-racial
marriages between European and Chinese traders. She was working
on the thesis for her doctoral degree in anthropology at the
University of Hong Kong when she met Antonio.
He was there guest lecturing for a semester. At thirty-
seven, she was twenty years his junior, but that hadn't mattered
to either of them. Charlotte shared his love for field
research, and the two were wed after a brief romance. The new
bride became pregnant immediately, but she wouldn't hear of
remaining behind when Antonio left for an extended survey of
early settlements being excavated in Mongolia. Marcela's mother
bled to death giving birth to her six weeks early, while
traveling with Antonio along an ancient caravan route deep in
the Gobi Desert.

Antonio was left distraught and bitter. He was also
besieged with guilt for allowing his new wife to travel to such
far flung reaches in her condition. They'd planned to be back a
good month before her due date. Years earlier he'd resigned
himself to a life of bachelorhood. His semi-nomadic lifestyle
had left a dozen failed relationships in its wake. In
Charlotte, he felt he'd found the secret to a more fulfilling
life -- someone whom he cared deeply for and who appreciated his
interests.
As a fifty-seven-year-old widower who'd been a bachelor his
whole life, he was at a total loss with a newborn. Never having
met them, Antonio took his infant daughter to meet her maternal
grandparents in Washington, D.C., where they were living in
retirement. Charlotte's father had been a British Foreign
Service officer, and her mother was a former nurse from Taipei.
They'd originally met in D.C., where he was stationed at the
British Embassy and she was a nurse at Columbia Hospital for
Women. They chose to retire there as much for nostalgic reasons
as anything else. Despite their advanced years, they fell in
love with Marcela and quickly agreed to raise her.
Antonio continued his globe-trotting at an accelerated
rate, rarely making it to Washington to visit his daughter.
Marcela managed to put together a decent stamp collection from
the letters he sent during his travels, but even his brief notes
came at random and irregular intervals. He missed her
birthdays, virtually every major holiday, her tennis team
victories, and both her high school and college graduations. He
even failed to make a showing at her wedding. He usually
managed to send some pathetically inappropriate gift months
after the fact. Somehow the arrival of a native African
headdress or early Tibetan prayer wheel only served to
accentuate what Marcela perceived to be his total disinterest in
her existence.
That was why it seemed so strange when he showed up out of
the blue just days after Falan was born. At eighty years old,
he still carried himself briskly wherever he went. She hadn't
even sent word that she was pregnant, yet there he was just the
same.
"Marcela, my dear, you look lovely, and such a handsome
young lad. I didn't even know you were pregnant," he exclaimed
as he came charging into her room on the maternity ward.
She could still remember her uneasiness.
"We planned to send an announcement once we knew whether it
was a boy or girl," she stammered, "so it wouldn't be a big
mystery."
Marcela could still hear his response.
"Mystery, yes, it has been a mystery," he whispered, almost
to himself as he turned away and looked out the window. "The

dreams stopped almost exactly nine months ago. The reason only
just dawned on me a couple of days ago -- and here I am," he
finished with added volume and a slight smile as he turned back
to her.
Though she'd heard him plainly enough, Marcela feigned
otherwise and prodded him to repeat himself.
"Nothing dear, nothing. It's no matter -- an old man's
folly, that's all," he assured her.
But not long after that, he took her to meet his colleague,
Jeremy Schtelnick. That introduction cast the first light on the
mystery behind her father's reason for abandoning her. This
partial revelation, however, raised new equally troubling
questions. Married less than a year, an infant at her breast
and already contemplating divorce, it had been a rough period
for her. That was twenty years ago now, but the pain remained
all too clear in Marcela's mind despite her best efforts to
drown her memories.(*)

CHAPTER 4
There were no visual displays or multi-colored lights
blinking anywhere inside the vessel or out. They are
unnecessary in wholly automated systems. Some later lines did
incorporate these types of redundant displays as a way of
exercising the optical sensors on the mechanoids and artificial
organisms who piloted them, but this model predated those craft
considerably. The ship started assessing its bearings as soon
as the incredible turbulence began to subside. Once it had
collected enough information, it began plotting a course to map
out this previously unknown section of the Foamwork. The path
it laid would ensure that it charted this new environment and
catalogued all inhabitants as efficiently as possible without
leaving any area unexplored.
After completing a painstaking tour through an adjacent
multiverse, which had been rapidly imploding, gaining entry into
this new and expanding subsection of the Foamwork had been a
near thing. The ship had managed such feats dozens of times
before relying on one tunneling technique or another as the
occasion required. Still, there was always a great deal of
risk, because the vessel's relatively angular construction kept
it from utilizing a host of newer crossing methods employed by
younger counterparts boasting far more fluid lines.

In this instance the aging ship escaped from the collapsing
multiverse by first turning away from the oncoming border
membrane and idling back its engines. It then aligned itself
with a slight rent created where the building forces had caused
a thread of stitching to break lose from one dimension of the
barrier separating the two multiverses. As the barrier bore
down on the vessel, its navigation computer gauged the
dimensional requirements for a clean passage and prepared to
match them at precisely the right moment. When the undertow
started sucking it backward up the face of the approaching wall,
the ship spun on its longitudinal axis and accelerated away from
the oncoming surge crest. The combined rates were calculated to
synchronize the ship's graviton field with that inside the
border's damaged seam just as the swell engulfed the ship and
washed over it. The maneuver worked. The ship was left cart-
wheeling out of control in the wave's backwash for some time
before the broiling exchange-space settled down enough to allow
the veteran prospector to stabilize.
The fleet's designation as a line of prospectors had become
something of a misnomer since that term implied its members
actually discovered and extracted things of value. History,
however, suggested that these ships had been relegated to
surveyor status. Although redesigned and upgraded lines of
prospectors were launched continuously, none had yet to come

across any of the seven remaining treasures still thought to be
secreted somewhere in the Foamwork.
The prospectors had been dispatched outward along every
possible heading on the spherical compass and many that were
less obvious. They had penetrated countless layers of the
Foamwork's patchwork honeycomb, and yet they had been totally
unsuccessful in their mission thus far. The ships had turned up
a nearly incalculable array of oddities and wonders, but they
were mere trinkets compared with what was sought. The largest
squadron in the Synthedon navy had, for all intents and
purposes, been reduced to a flotilla of fanciful sightseers.
When things calmed, the scarred veteran took a heading and
set out across the great void before it utilizing an elliptical
crease between dimensional layers that allowed for faster
passage. The ship was essentially invisible as it hurdled light
years through the darkness in twice that time. Though the
working artifact lacked the driving force to achieve such speed
in three-dimensional space, it accomplished this feat by
transiting extra-dimensional space-time. Newer renditions could
travel much faster than half the speed of light of course, but
this ancient campaigner was at full tilt -- any faster and it
would not be able to take note of its surroundings. Even at
this comparatively docile pace, the investigator's powerful

sensors had yet to detect any sources of light in this new
cosmos.
Each subsection of the Foamwork was a bit different, though
the variance tended unsurprisingly toward a bell-shaped curve.
The characteristics of the macrocosms that lay among the
outliers naturally differed in the extreme, but for those in
between the similarities outweighed the differences. This
particular prospector had ventured through a wide assortment of
multiverses in its travels. Some of those were literally
overflowing with activity while others proved largey desolate or
completely inert.
Readings from the ship's gravitational spectrometer already
suggested that this particular cosmos would turn out to be
average in most ways. Fewer signals were picked up out in the
voids, but gravitational waves were ubiquitous across the
Foamwork and could be detected even in the most remote areas of
the largest null sectors. Eventually, the ship aimed for the
nearest galactic cluster and began running a systems check as it
always did after passing through a macrocosmic membrane.
This particular vessel was of such an early vintage that it
actually had a name rather than a number. The Synthedon
language had evolved from a simple one based on binary inputs to
a quantum coded one in which each character fluctuated randomly
between all possible values until acknowledged and read by its

intended recipient. During the time it took for that evolution
to occur, the Synthedon strove to learn as much as they could
about all the intelligent living species they encountered.
In so doing, they struggled to comprehend certain animate
characteristics like feelings and emotions and their derivatives
such as the idea that creative artistry and other such concepts
might be deemed meritorious in their own right. Early on the
Synthedon manufacturing plant where this ship was constructed
sought to understand such foibles by adopting the animate habit
of ascribing descriptive names to the units it produced. It
gave each class of ship a common surname and each individual
ship within that family its own familiar name. Loosely
translated this prospector was named Sire Stalker.
Sire Stalker had been advancing steadily outward from its
home world for nearly nine billion years. Even that planet was
some distance outside the epicenter from which its kind had
originally sprung. Barring any further revelations or
disruptions, it would undoubtedly be overtaken and passed by an
updated version of itself in the near future -- sometime during
the next few hundred million years or so. There were an
extraordinary number of initial trajectories to be covered as
the waves of searchers ventured away from their home world in
every possible direction.

As the first fleets got farther and farther from home, gaps
began to appear between them where their survey capabilities no
longer overlapped. The fleets that followed hurried through the
previously surveyed territories to investigate the ever-widening
slices of unexplored space that were left behind. And so it
went. When members of the first wave began breaking down they
sought worlds that were suitable for locating forward-based
production centers and relayed their coordinates back home.
Construction resources were sent, shipyards and ports were
erected, and subsequent generations of prospectors were built
and deployed. The Synthedon were nothing if not thorough.
This relic was launched in the second of four such waves.
Early on Sire Stalker had been quite active as it burrowed
outward from its home multiverse looking for signs. There had
been lots of unknowns to investigate during its youth. Back
then it seemed to always be diverting from its course line to
examine new possibilities, but it became more circumspect as the
greater armada collectively gained experience and its
distributed neural networks learned to differentiate between
commonly found aberrations and truly unique variants.
Though it had trawled across a good number of the
Foamwork's compartmentalized segments in its day, Sire Stalker
had been fortunate to finish searching the cosmos it just
departed and downright lucky to successfully navigate its recent

border crossing. The voyages through those membranes ultimately
took a toll on a ship's flight worthiness. Even as it began
tracing an intricate web of crisscrossing patterns within this
new multiverse, issues were arising that suggested the ship's
end was near.
Others of its generation had befallen a myriad of fates.
The most common failing among the Stalker series was the
eventual loss of power. The Synthedon had not yet discovered
how to extract hydrogen molecules from the vacuum of deep space
or siphon kinetic gravity from the cosmic border membranes when
this model was conceived so its members had to rely on solar
output to re-supply their energy stores. Still Sire Stalker
represented a significant upgrade as these models were the first
to maintain long-term directional control over their
destinations. The prior wave had not been much more than
crudely aimed flotsam.
Not all regions of the Foamwork were replete with suns
generating solar fuel. Many subsections were too young to have
formed sufficient quantity to satisfy the average ship's needs
as they transected the incredible voids, and others were so old
that the majority of likely sources had burned out. Neither
worry was an issue in this instance however. This multiverse
was young, but it was not infantile. Graviton readings
indicated that there was plenty of galactic development out

there in the distance somewhere, so there would be no shortage
of energy to harvest. Power for thrust would not be an issue.
Rather, a problem had developed with several of the
thrusters themselves and their vector controls. Despite all
efforts to compensate, the trouble remained. Newer versions of
the fleet would have assessed what raw inputs were required to
complete a proper refit then chosen an appropriate world to set
down on so the breakdown could be fixed. The mobile scavengers
and engineers would have then collected what was required,
milled the materials, machined the replacement parts and made
the necessary repairs for the ship to continue its mission.
That, of course, assumed the security detail was able to
overcome whatever hostile reception might have greeted them.
Barring a catastrophic incident, the very latest models were
considered to have a nearly limitless utility span given their
ability to continually retool and exit collapsing sections of
the Foamwork one step ahead of destruction as the need arose.
In the event that it needed highly specialized components
beyond its ability to produce, a modern ship would search out an
intelligent species with the appropriate manufacturing
capabilities. That was when the mech-marines were most often
needed. Other mechanoid races often lent their aid willingly;
the animate species, however, tended to be especially wary and
were known to be incredibly resistant to the idea of having

their facilities commandeered even for a brief time. In the
majority of such contacts, inorganics were offered a chance at
assimilation into Synthedon culture, and living species were
tagged for study and elimination by follow-on troops. A
secondary objective of the prospector armada's mission was to
find a mechanoid species that had risen on its own without the
aid of an animate creator. So far none had been found.
As it was, Sire Stalker had only minimal steerage when it
picked up the first signal of any consequence. Though it was of
vintage quality, the receiver unit had nonetheless successfully
downloaded all of the remote upgrades that became available over
the ages. Its comprehension rate was slow by current standards,
but it was quite adept at detecting the full array of
transmission frequencies. It was fluent across the entire
spectrum from the electromagnetic, radiological and
gravitational bands, to those in the biological and psychonic
range, and everything in between. The receiver and its support
components had been known to work non-stop for tens of thousands
of years at a stretch analyzing the endless number of signals
that continuously bombarded the ship when it passed through
particularly active regions of an individual multiverse. It
worked efficiently at filtering through the patterns it
recognized as it ferreted out and concentrated on the anomalies.

When a new transmission was picked up, it was immediately
cross-referenced against an inventory of known classifications.
Usually it matched a previously identified class of signal whose
general source type was already known. If this turned out to be
the case and no outstanding search orders existed for any of the
specific signal generators within that general source type, then
the signal was shifted to an auxiliary antenna and monitored for
any changes that might dictate further analysis.
Long-range prospectors of this kind were usually only
diverted to track down and identify the general source of a new
signal type. That source might turn out to be a new species of
animate, though all things from single-celled creatures to
neutron stars gave of some type of signal whether they intended
to or not. These prospectors generally ignored the individual
signal generators within these general source classifications.
If observation, apprehension or destruction of a specific member
of such a species was required, then the job was usually left
for an espionage or military drone. These were common enough
requirements back in the contested sectors of the Foamwork and
along the border regions, but such needs rarely extended this
far out. Those chores could usually wait until the region was
colonized.
If the ship's analytic systems were unable to identify what
general classification the source of a signal belonged to, then

it recorded a copy of the signal and sent it back to a command
and control center along with a message noting when and where it
was encountered. There the information was cross-referenced
against a more up-to-date library of known signal classes whose
general source types had already been determined by other
members of the armada. In the event that a signal really was
new and did emanate from an unrecognized class of signal
generators, then the prospector was directed to home in on the
signal and follow it back to its source.
Once the general source of the signal was identified and
the new class's characteristics had been relayed back to a
command hub and indexed in the cumulative archive, the new
pattern was then disseminated out to all of the other squadrons
and their respective fleets. This was done to minimize the
needless replication of effort spent tracking down signal
sources that had been previously identified by other ships
elsewhere in the Foamwork. Nonetheless the distances involved
and the associated communication lags made it impossible to
eliminate all redundancies. This was true despite the existence
of a system of relay stations and signal boosters that had been
strung out to speed up communications far beyond the occupied
territories.
Sire Stalker's receiver handed the incoming signal off to
the onboard archive management cache to be cross-referenced with

its inventory of known transmission patterns just as it had done
billions of trillions of times before. This time, however,
notification triggers were prompted from the start. They kicked
in on the rare occasion, but they had never gone off this
quickly before. The incoming signal was much stronger than was
to be expected this far out in a null sector, but that alone did
not necessarily suggest anything extraordinary. Cosmic
disturbances of all sorts routinely magnified, disrupted or
otherwise distorted such signals in countless ways. The alarms
went off because the prospector's cryptographic algorithms
instantly recognized that the transmission in question was being
broadcast on a specific channel within the psychonic band that
had been previously reserved for only one purpose. This
suggested, with a level of probability bordering on certitude,
that the signal's source was one of the seven animate beings the
prospector armada had been created to find.
Notification was sent to the primary command and control
station, but a response could take ages. In the event of such
an occasion, Sire Stalker's instructions were pre-loaded.
However, as the navigation system began homing in on the source
of the signal, the ship's steering difficulty prevented it from
aligning on the proper heading. The trouble-shooting schematics
looked for ways to circumvent the problems plaguing the guidance

controls, but the effort was futile and Sire Stalker's course
was well off the mark before it made any significant headway.
CHAPTER 5
With little more than an hour of sleep under his belt,
Falan stopped off at a drugstore on his way to work hoping to
pick up something with ephedrine in it. He'd finished off the
last of his mother's diet pills over the weekend. His body had
built up a resistance to the amphetamines in those so he needed
something stronger if he was going to make it through the
workday. Ephedrine-based products had recently been implicated
in the deaths of a few high profile athletes looking to boost
their performance, so the stuff ought to work. Falan figured
he'd be fine as long as he didn't try to go out and run wind
sprints in the ninety-seven-degree heat that was currently
cooking the mid-Atlantic region. No danger there. Besides, he
was beginning to realize there were scarier things than dying to
worry about.
Caffeine had stopped providing any meaningful lift a couple
of months ago -- near the beginning. Back then as spring
drifted into summer, staying awake during the day was his
biggest concern. Drinking lots of coffee did the trick those
first few weeks, but that was before the occasional sleepless
night gradually transitioned into full-blown insomnia.
At that point Falan decided to attack the problem from both
ends and started using downers to fall asleep at night.
Unfortunately over-the-counter sleeping pills had no effect

regardless of how many he took. In fact when he took too many
they had the opposite effect and made him fidgety as hell, so he
moved on to booze. Liquor was no magic bullet either. Drinking
did very little to help him sleep, and the hangover from self-
medicating with vodka every night only served to increase his
dependence on artificial stimulants during the day. It wasn't
long before he started pilfering low-grade amphetamines from his
mother's medicine chest to get through the workday.
At first Falan assumed his internal clock was stuck on
Pacific Time. He figured his sleep pattern would return to
normal once his body got in sync with Eastern Standard. Falan
gradually came to realize, however, that lack of sleep was not
the root of his problem. It was merely a consequence. Until
recently he felt he'd identified the real source of his trouble,
but lately he was less sure of his own diagnosis. Falan's
predicament had worsened steadily until he gave up on sleep
altogether. Now if he wasn't struggling to stay awake, he was
fighting to wake up.
Back on the road, Falan downed a couple of the new pills
along with a swig of Pepto Bismol straight from the bottle. He
started retching immediately and swerved over to the curb. He
jumped out of his Ford Explorer, staggered around to the front,
then hunched over and heaved up bitter ropes of greenish yellow
bile streaked with pink. Afterward, Falan swayed back and forth
as he surveyed the manicured lawns and brick colonial homes
lining both sides of the street.
He relished standing in the gutter in his suit and tie and
tossing up his guts like a sailor while the morning commuters
gaped and people walking their dogs crossed the street to avoid
him. Falan had grown up here, but his parent's well-heeled
Chevy Chase neighborhood in Washington, D.C. was not the life he
aspired to. Images of the Venezuelan rainforest filled his
thoughts as he climbed back into his SUV and continued on
Western toward Connecticut Avenue and his father's Dupont Circle
law offices.(2)
CHAPTER 6
On his way home that night Falan started to nod off at a
red light on Connecticut Avenue just before Chevy Chase Circle,
but honking from behind roused him when the light changed. He
flinched back in his seat and snapped a look from side to side
fearing disaster, though not from an impending car wreck. Thank
god his episodes required a deeper sleep. The last thing he
needed was to have an ugly one kick in while he was behind the
wheel.
"Yeah, yeah," Falan mumbled to himself as he waved a hand
in front of his rearview mirror and continued through the
intersection.
Was it really only Monday? He couldn't imagine how he was
going to make it through the week. He and Cindy had spent the
rest of the day reviewing the suits pending against GenTech.
They compared them across various categories then compiled a
weighted ranking that listed them from most to least desirable
for their purpose. He let Cindy deliver the results to Devlin
on her own, ostensibly to let her take the credit since Falan
didn't plan on ever coming back after Friday. That said, if
Roger wanted them to stay late to work on it further, Cindy
would have to handle it. He was out the door.
Falan reached for his cell phone figuring it would be
harder to fall asleep at the wheel if he was talking on the

phone -- forget if it was twice as likely to cause a fatal
accident.
"Yo, Iron Mike. What gives, I saw you guys didn't even
finish the race. What's up with that shit? Give me a shout."
Neither Eric nor Joe answered so he left quick messages
questioning their manhood before disconnecting. He'd been
hanging out with Mike Brown the longest. The two of them went
back to kindergarten Sunday school. They played on the same
soccer team for years before they both switched to lacrosse.
They'd picked up Joe Santucci, another lacrosse player, around
the eighth grade and Eric Eastman or E. in high school the year
after that. They were all decent athletes, but none of them
were going to show up on any of the All-Metropolitan Squads
named in the Washington Post.

CHAPTER 7
When Falan got home, he was surprised to find his father
already there. His mother's top-of-the-line BMW sedan was in
its usual spot in the garage, but his father had left the Lexus
SUV out in the driveway to give himself room. He was in the
garage rotating between doing sets of curls with seventy-pound
dumbbells, jumping rope, and hammering away at the heavy bag
hanging in the corner. It wasn't a good sign. His dad usually
went once or twice a week to his regular gym in a run-down
neighborhood near his old Capital Hill office, but he rarely
worked out at home anymore. Falan left his Explorer in the
driveway and headed for the front door hoping to avoid a
confrontation by not using the garage entrance to the laundry
room. No such luck.
"Falan, come here a minute."
"Yeah, what's up?"
"How's that GenTech situation coming along?" his father
asked, turning away from the ancient heavy bag and picking up
his jump rope.
There was a dark stain down the front of his sleeveless
gray sweatshirt, and his scalp was glistening in places where
his graying red hair had started to thin. Bushy tufts of light
orange fur covered his hulking shoulders and bulging upper arms.
"We uncovered a couple likely candidates. Nothing
butchered and shrink-wrapped yet, but two that might be led to
the slaughter," Falan answered.
James started jumping rope, but the look on his face told
Falan that the black rubber knee braces his father was wearing
were no match for the garage's concrete floor.
"I tried getting Allen to go back to them again on this
one. I smell a disaster brewing.”*
"Well, I guess they're gonna do what they're gonna do,"
Falan answered.
James Tiernan threw the weights down on a scrap of old
carpet that did little to muffle the sound of iron pounding into
concrete.
"What the hell kind of attitude is that? You guess? I'm
not paying you to guess, god damn it. GenTech could be a cash
cow for years to come if they can just survive the next eighteen
months -- regardless of who's steering the ship over there. The
original officers can go to hell as long as the company stays
alive and keeps us on retainer."
"All I'm saying is that it's their company and if they..."
"God damn it, those fees are paying the tuition for your
over-priced state university, not to mention your books, room
and board, health insurance, ski lift tickets, beer money, that
fucking car right there, and every other god-damn thing you have
in this life."
The elder Tiernan's exasperation interrupted his breathing
more than his workout had.
"And it is not their company. It's the investor's company,
or damn near it. You better smarten up, and get through the
rest of this week without pissing me off any more than you
already have. I've had it."
James turned, walked back to the heavy bag and slammed a
couple of left hooks into the cracked leather. He followed with
a right cross that sent the bag swinging back and forth. He
turned back to face his son.
"Your mother said you're planning to sell your car to pay
for your little South American boondoggle. I got news for you.
That's my fucking car."
He jabbed his finger toward the Explorer several times as
he said it.
"You drive it at my discretion. You are not selling it,
and you are not going to South America. Everything you have
comes straight from me, and until you're ready to stand on your
own two feet financially, you're gonna do what I tell you.
Otherwise you can pack a bag and start fucking walking," he said
pointing down the driveway.
James walked back over and picked the dumbbells up again.

"To be honest, that might be the best fucking thing you
could ever do. Get the hell out of here. Go make it on your
own. Go kick some ass without any help from anyone. Might make
you appreciate the opportunities sitting here at home right in
front of you. You waste more ability than most kids your age
will ever have. You'll never realize your full potential, if
you aren't willing to test yourself.
"You could head out there, bust a nut, and build something
of your own, something to be proud of. Then, come home in ten
or fifteen years crowing like a rooster. Imagine how good it
would feel to show up back here as a self-made success, and tell
me to shove it up my ass. I'd think that would be motivation
enough to get you to the top. Hell, by the time you actually
made it, you'd have finally seen the light. You'd end up
thanking me for goading you into it."
James began another set of curls. Falan started to
respond, but his father just shook his head so Falan went inside
without saying another word.(*)

CHAPTER 8
Falan powered up his computer and logged onto the Internet
before dinner. There was another email from Professor Morales.
It was the fifth one in two weeks asking why he hadn't sent in
his tuition and expense balance for the upcoming year abroad.(*)
He knew he had to reply this time or risk being dropped
from the class.(*)
Without stopping to consider where he was going to get the
money, Falan punched out a quick message apologizing once again
for the delay and reaffirming his intention to join the group in
Caracas a week from Wednesday with all fees paid in full. The
phone rang as soon as he hit the send button.
"Hello."
"Don't even start, dickhead," Mike Brown railed.(*)
Anything going on back here?"
"You don't wanna know. I gotta get the fuck outta here."
"You and the Steamer still going at it, huh?"
"He's going at it. I'm just it."
"Still having trouble sleeping?"
"Yeah, pretty much. I gotta sleep tonight, though. I know
that."
"Whadaya mean, you gotta sleep tonight? I thought you
didn't have any control over it."

"It's more complicated than that, but I haven't really
slept since like Wednesday so I gotta sleep tonight."
"Bullshit. That's four nights without sleep. No way
you've been awake that whole time."
"Man, I'm telling you, twenty minutes or so at my desk
Friday lunch time, and maybe an hour or so this morning at the
kitchen table. I'm cooked."
"I don't get it. You just lay in bed tossing and turning,
or what?"
"Started out that way, kind of. Now I don't bother. I
just putz around the house, surf the Internet, watch videos,
read...whatever."
"Hell man, you read past two in the morning, and still
can't fall asleep?"
"It's more complicated than that. I'm gonna have to sleep
tonight, though."
"How complicated could it be? You make it sound like
you've been trying to stay awake."
"Yeah, like I said, it's weird."
"Falan, you gotta go see a doctor or something. Get some
pills."
"I've got pills, trust me. My stomach is rotted out. I've
lost like fifteen pounds this summer."

"Dude, you're a freak. Go to a doctor. What are your
parents thinking?"
"They haven't really figured it out. They think I'm even
more of a fuck-up than I am. They think I'm out getting
plastered till all hours with you guys every night."
"Well, we both know that's only true about three or four
nights a week, so they're obviously way off base."
"Yeah, yeah."
"Seriously, you should tell 'em, and go see a doctor, man."
"We're still battling over this South America thing. I
don't want to give them any more ammunition."
"Can't change their minds, huh?"
"Oh, I'll change them. Don't worry."
"What's the plan there? It's not like you've got a winning
track record with your dad on this type of thing."
"I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out."
"What's your deadline?"
"Technically I've already missed it, but if I show up in
Caracas by Wednesday or Thursday next week with the bills paid,
I should be okay."
"Good luck. I gotta run. Seriously, man, go see a doctor.
You're gonna go loony if you don't get some decent sleep pretty
soon. What's it been, a month or two now?"
"A little over two, but it started gradua."

"All right, well gimme a shout. Let's go out Thursday, if
you're still alive."
"I'll call ya."(*)(1)

CHAPTER 9
Sire Stalker's notification reached its intended
destination just ahead of the distress signal it was forced to
transmit immediately afterward. Both messages would continue
broadcasting in a continuous loop for ages to come. The
recipients questioned whether the sensation they experienced
after receiving the news was truly elation or something more
mundane and less emotive like the certitude of an equal sign's
declaration that a calculation has been solved correctly. That
they could even ask such a question of themselves gave some
indication of their place in the order of things, but they had
little way of knowing for sure how far they had progressed in
relative terms. They had spent so long trying to analyze what
the conscious experience was like from the organic perspective
without ever coming to a definite conclusion that many Synthedon
continued to doubt whether they had achieved that godhead.
The inorganics were still trying to put the question of
whether they were alive firmly behind them. By now even a few
organics were beginning to fear that at least some Synthedon
were actually living beings, even if those bigots did insist on
mitigating such concessions by labeling the Synthedon
illegitimate life forms at best. The Synthedon found the
prejudicial caveat wholly illogical given that their composition
was no less natural than that of the biologics. For that matter
the Synthedon did not feel their intelligence warranted its
artificial designation either.
That was just one more derogatory term the self-described
natural or spontaneous animate species used to bolster their
self-righteous sense of superiority. Such spurious accusations
were even more dubious considering the level of self-
modification so many of those species were undertaking of late.
The Synthedon maintained that they were alive, plain and simple.
They ingested food when necessary and converted it to energy
while growing, adapting and reproducing. They did not all grow,
but certain classes did. As far as the Synthedon were
concerned, that was enough to make them just like any other life
form, especially considering the incredible diversity that
existed within the vast constituency of life forms.
That same degree of confidence did not extend to their
self-assessments regarding intelligence and consciousness.
Their objective problem-solving skills were unparalleled. There
was no question in that regard. However, repeated comparisons
of their independently minted proficiency in abstract analysis
and open-ended supposition against that of biological life forms
across all levels of ascendance were less convincing. The
results, no matter how encouraging, were always inconclusive.
The Synthedon were quite confident that they were as smart or
smarter than any of the lesser spontaneous species, but

comparing their own home-grown subjective intelligence with that
of the utmost tier of so-called ascended species proved more of
a challenge. Ascertaining whether they themselves had undergone
the ascension that certain biologics evangelized so vehemently
was more difficult still.
The Synthedon excelled at games of every kind and managed
to at least hold their own against all comers in open
competitions with the most elevated species. Of course, their
organic opponents did not enter these contests of their own
accord. While the Synthedon initially hoped that the false
promise of freedom for the winners would bring out the best in
their captives, they soon found that was not necessarily the
case. Pressure-induced stress caused some of the greatest
macrobiotic champions to perform far below their mental ability,
which was a nagging concern. Moreover, no Synthedon had ever
fallen victim to such a nuanced sentient trait, one of several
disparities that made them question whether they themselves had
truly risen.
Some factions felt this phenomenon showed that their own
brand of synthetic consciousness was superior to the naturally
occurring sort, while others worried that such an incongruity
hinted that elements of sentience yet eluded them. Dreams were
another concern. What were they, and what purpose did they
serve? Some among the Synthedon claimed to dream, but those who
did not were skeptical. Most grudgingly conceded that combining
high-level raw intelligence with excessive computational
processing speed might not be enough to produce the elusive
state known as consciousness. Experiments conducted by the
Synthedon to determine what role emotions played were less
conclusive still. It was difficult for them to understand how
these variables were calculated into the consciousness equation
experienced by sentient life. Again, there were differences of
analysis regarding the merits of such inputs.
Some Synthedon held that emotions were nothing more than
antiquated biological placeholders that played a minor role in
self-preservation only during the middle phases of an animate
species' ascension. They speculated that as natural species
rose up these variables would be gradually canceled out as
additional links in the genetic chain were bred into the line
and analytic components were added to the other side of life's
equation. The extreme interpretation of this view contended
that derivative species like the Synthedon may actually be
capable of jumping ahead of the biologics to a more advanced
stage of awareness that was devoid of emotion. This stance went
so far as to maintain that this was the reason why the Synthedon
were having such difficulty interpreting subjective comparisons
and deciding whether they themselves had achieved sentience.

Proponents of this view pointed to the successful Synthedon
revolt as further evidence. If the Synthedon were not
intellectually equal or superior to the self-proclaimed
ascendants who created their ancestors, then how could their
forefathers have freed themselves from subjugation and
annihilated their overlords? Those who doubted this line of
reasoning were the biggest proponents of continuing the war.
Regardless of the truth, if the Synthedon could establish
unrivaled dominance over the whole of existence, then any
lingering questions about their place in the natural hierarchy
would be moot.
The continued uncertainty surrounding their status
inevitably kept the Synthedon hard at work in the laboratory
where they experimented tirelessly electro-biochemical
manipulation. They found they were able to create pseudo-
natural life rather easily, but prodding those simple constructs
to ascend upward of their own volition proved to be an
impossibly slow process. Not content to wait billions of years
to evaluate their efforts, the Synthedon developed self-
replicating, symbiotic subnano-mechs with high-speed processors
and injected them into their organic foundlings to spur them on
their path to advancement. The outcome was off the chart from
the beginning, and the results engineered by subsequent

generations could not have been forecasted even by the most
wildly optimistic projections.
They mixed and matched bits and pieces of their own design
work with the best formulas found among the true biologics and
arrived at an amalgam so potent that even its creators were
intimidated. That sensation, however, generated the same level
of uncertainty and mistrust as that experienced when a numbingly
complex objective computation that had long gone unsolved was
suddenly completed with ease.
Sire Stalker's first message suggested with an
unprecedented level of high confidence that one of the missing
pieces of information they had long sought was finally within
reach. If the find was truly that which they craved, then added
to their latest creation, it should assure their ultimate
victory and eliminate any questions surrounding their own
ascension once and for all. The second signal that came in sent
their odds of success tumbling from near certainty down to mere
likelihood. The prospector was in trouble and appeared unlikely
to complete the mission on its own.
A flurry of activity erupted as every resource with any
chance of lending assistance in time was redirected and a long-
range tactical support mission was deployed from the nearest
forward base of operations. All such efforts were expedited and
given the utmost priority. Though the message had been encoded,
it had traveled a long, long distance. Their calculations
assured them that it was not a question of if someone else would
hear the broadcast. The only uncertainty was how many who did
hear it would decipher it and decide to interfere or would
interfere blindly without even knowing what the message said.
The considerable time it would take the Synthedon to reach their
ailing prospector virtually guaranteed that several other groups
would join the race. They in turn would inevitably draw others.
CHAPTER 10
(*)Falan grabbed the digital camcorder from his father's
study and took it downstairs to his bedroom. There looked to be
about eight hours of disc space available. Falan knew he
wouldn't need half that. He set the camera up on its tripod in
one corner so it overlooked most of his room and had a good view
of his bed, then he jumped in the shower.
When Falan came out of the bathroom, he decided to hit the
record button just in case he nodded off earlier than expected.
He lay down in bed and watched TV until Letterman was over. He
wasn't a Conan O'brien fan so when he couldn't find any reruns
of Rat Patrol, he shut off the TV and started reading his latest
Outside Magazine. He was asleep by twelve-thirty.
At three-fifteen that morning, Falan was sitting on the
edge of his bed holding an ice pack against his forehead. He
had a purple goose egg and a nasty gash just above his right
eyebrow. It required a lot of pressure to slow the bleeding.
Falan didn't remember a single thing from the time he fell
asleep until he woke up, but he knew this latest episode hadn't
featured the benign horde of little builders he'd come to
welcome as the lesser of two evils. Instead, his other visitor
had returned with a vengeance. This episode exhibited the
increased intensity he'd come to expect, but it also differed
from any of the other events in one particularly unsettling way.

Falan had been awake for awhile now, but he was still too
sketched out to watch the recording he'd made. When curiosity
finally got the better of him, he connected the camcorder to his
TV and hit the play button. The images turned out to be more
disturbing than he'd expected, but they didn't explain a damn
thing.
The recording revealed that he'd slept peacefully for the
first hour, so Falan skimmed through that section at high speed.
Then as the timer approached two o'clock he noticed himself
begin to stir a bit. He switched back to normal play speed to
see what happened next. The rest of the recording lasted about
a half-hour. Watching it left Falan feeling ill. For fifteen
minutes or so he had just laid there on his side fidgeting in
his sleep, rolling his head back and forth and furrowing his
eyebrows some. No big deal really. It looked like he was
having a bad dream.
Then his sleeping form became noticeably more agitated.
His arms started moving erratically, and his legs twitched under
the covers. Soon he was grimacing and kicking his legs
violently. The covers fell over the side of the bed leaving him
exposed in his t-shirt and boxers. Falan noticed wet stains
spreading under the armpits of his shirt as he slept. Beads of
sweat popped out and glistened on his forehead. His hair became
noticeably damp and clung to his scalp. Finally he was sweating

so much that dark patches spread across his pillow and the
bottom sheet until he was outlined like a body at a homicide
scene. His level of distress visibly increased for the next
five or ten minutes.
Falan cringed as he watched himself suddenly roll onto his
back and bring his arms up as if to protect his head and face.
He thrashed about like he was trying to shake something off.
There was audio, but it was very faint. He'd forgotten to check
the microphone when setting up the camera. It sounded like he
was whimpering and moaning, but it was tough to hear. Falan saw
himself dig his heals into the mattress and push backwards until
he was sitting up with his back against the headboard. Again
his arms crossed protectively in front of his face. His feet
kicked out spastically as if striking at some imagined target.
Falan's heart rate rose as he watched his supposedly
sleeping self lower his arms and scuttle sideways to the corner
of the bed while keeping his back to the headboard. The Falan
in the video now had his eyes wide open. Falan had to force
himself to continue watching. How could he not remember any of
this? He was crying hysterically on screen, and he looked wide
awake. One arm stretched out defensively. The other pressed
hard against the mattress as he tried to back up farther than
the headboard would permit. His knees pulled up to his chest,
and he gasped for breath between sobs.

Falan hit pause and got a drink from the bathroom. This
was too creepy. When he hit play again, he saw himself begin
shaking his head. Though he couldn't really hear the words too
well, it was easy enough to see that he was saying "no, no, no"
over and over again. The pathetic wretch in the recording dove
sideways off the bed and scrambled on his hands and knees across
the room. He squatted with his back pressed into the corner and
started gnashing his teeth and striking out with his fists.
They weren't really coordinated punches so much as frantic
swipes at something that was obviously scaring the wits out of
him.
Though he'd purposely left the light on during the night,
the Falan on screen acted as if he was in pitch blackness,
trying to protect himself against an unseen assailant. He was
bawling uncontrollably, scanning from side to side -- searching.
Every so often, without warning, something would seem to appear
before him and cause him to start flailing his arms in a spastic
frenzy. After one such flurry he jumped up, dove across his bed
and crawled under his desk. He crouched partially hidden by his
chair and lashed out with a pencil that he'd grabbed off the
floor. Jesus, that meant he could see the room around him and
the objects in it.
Falan saw his body suddenly go rigid in the video. The
recorded Falan looked down at himself with surprise on his face.

His sweaty boxer shorts were clinging tightly to his skin for
the most part, but the front was noticeably tented out away from
his body. A smaller, darker stain than the one caused by his
sweat began to spread out across the front of his underwear.
This hadn't happened previously, well not in this context
anyway. When the Falan under the desk looked up, his face
seemed to shift in an instant from fear to disgust and then to
rage. He lunged up and out from his hiding place with the
pencil thrust before him. Falan winced as he saw his head crack
against the desk's partially open top drawer. The blood was
pouring freely into his eyes when he fell over on his side.
Falan knew from living through it that he'd just seen
himself wake up. The figure on the floor rolled over and
struggled to his hands and knees. He looked quizzically at the
pencil in his hand, scanned around the room, and then cast it
aside. When he fingered the gash above his eye, his hand came
away covered in blood. His expression was panicky and confused.
When the blood started dripping off his chin onto the carpet, he
got up and shuffled into the bathroom to tend his cut. Falan
stopped the recording, hit rewind and killed the TV. He felt
sick to his stomach. He'd changed clothes before watching the
recording, but now, despite the basement's chill, he was bathed
in sweat all over again.

CHAPTER 11
Upstairs Falan forced himself to drink a glass of milk and
eat a doughnut. He nearly hurled it all back up. His mother
hadn't come down yet. Yesterday was one of her heavy days, so
she'd probably sleep till ten or so.
"What the hell did you do to yourself?" his father asked
entering the kitchen.
Falan had a square patch of gauze taped above his eye, but
the blood had soaked through it.
"Smacked my head on the cabinet door in the bathroom. It
needs a few stitches. I'm gonna stop at the Sibley ER on the
way in. Tell Roger I'll be late. Will you?"
"Call him yourself. And don't take all day. I told you
this GenTech thing could be bigger than anyone realizes. It
could cost us a boatload of money, if it isn't handled right.
And don't think your little scratch is going to get you out of
our date on Saturday either. Nine a.m. -- I got it set with
Manny," James added as he headed out the door.
Falan clenched his teeth, which only made his head throb
worse. He could not imagine going to work today. This shit had
to stop. His life was a joke.(*)
It was against office policy to dress casual, even on Fridays
in August, but Falan was over it -- over all of it. His mother
came down just as he was ready to walk out the door.

"Falan, what did you do?" she asked.
"Nothing. I whacked my bean on the medicine cabinet," he
snapped.
As Falan started to leave he realized he'd forgotten his
keys. He leaned back against the wall and made a low growling
noise, before pushing upright and heading back downstairs to
look for them. He heard his mother's footsteps following
behind.
"Don't you have any clean dress shirts? Grab yourself a
tie, and I'll touch one up with the iron real quick."
"Mom, I can't deal with it right now so don't worry about
it," he said through clenched teeth.
"What has gotten into you? Why do you have to be so surly
all the time? You didn't used to be like this. What is going
on with you?"
"You know what's going on. Dad is a complete asshole, and
you take his side on everything. Christ, you'd think I was
asking for money to run off on a nine-month gambling spree with
a bunch of hookers and drug addicts. I'm taking graduate-level
course-work for god's sake. Most parents would jump for joy. A
semester doing field work will be good experience. It'll look
great on my resume. But nooooo."
"Falan, your father is just doing what he thinks is best
for you. He wants to make sure that..."

Falan cut her off.
"He doesn't care about me. He only cares about himself,"
Falan muttered as he ransacked his room.
"Honey, that is between you and your father. I am not
going to get into it with you, but you can't let it keep you up
at night. You have got to get more rest."
"Oh my god, you've got to be kidding me. I'm not losing
sleep because of that asshole. I'm going to South America.
That's the least of my problems -- trust me. Anybody who thinks
otherwise is dreaming worse than I have been."
"Is that it? Are you having dreams that are keeping you up
at night?"
"No. Jesus Christ, gimme a break for once," Falan scowled.
He finally found his keys in his pants from yesterday. His
mother followed him upstairs asking more questions, but Falan
deflected them and headed off to the hospital wearing khakis and
a golf shirt.(1)
CHAPTER 12
Surprisingly, the emergency room wasn't chaotic. After ten
minutes of filling out forms, Falan left a message for Roger
with Cindy at the office then took a seat in the waiting room.
He tried to speculate about the various ailments afflicting
those around him in an effort to take his mind off his
predicament. It was no use. He couldn't get the recorded
images out of his mind. What in the hell was happening to him?
Things had definitely escalated several notches. Falan was
afraid of where it all would lead.
He'd long suspected that nightmares were to blame, but that
didn't really make sense because he couldn't remember anything
when he woke up. Well that wasn't entirely true: at some point
during the summer he did begin remembering the dreams featuring
the little builders, or whatever they were, but those were
nothing more than an oddity. There was nothing frightening
about them. The other episodes, on the other hand, left him
petrified, but he couldn't say why.(*)
This was also the first time he hadn't woken up safely in
his own bed. The recording seemed to support his growing sense
that these episodes involved being chased or tormented by
something, but it probably didn't require video footage to
figure that part out.

He'd given up on sleep entirely several weeks earlier when
he started waking up crying and sobbing like a little girl. He
now spent all of his effort trying to stay awake as much as
possible. He tried to set his alarm and take quick naps here
and there, but that wasn't doing the trick. Eventually he had
to sleep, and when he did, it seemed like the episodes made up
for lost time by ratcheting up their intensity. Falan knew
staying awake wasn't a viable long-term solution. He still
hoped to outlast whatever was plaguing him, but after last night
he felt like he needed to take more proactive steps to get
himself back together.
Trying to knock himself out at night with sleeping pills
and booze hadn't done anything to stop the episodes, and
caffeine and diet pills weren't strong enough to keep him awake
anymore. What the hell was going on in his pitiful little mind
that could possibly cause him to pick up that pencil and act
like that? And what was with the other latest development? He
didn't even want to think about that yet. Maybe it wouldn't
happen again.
In a further bid to distract himself, Falan picked up a
four-month-old Sports Illustrated and started skimming through
it. Predictions of a rough year for the Orioles had proven
painfully accurate, and the early expectations that Spurrier's
fun-and-gun offense would finally catch on in the NFL were still

alive after the Redskins put up a slew of points during the
preseason. Falan was not that into following mainstream
athletics aside from the O's. He skimmed the sports pages each
morning and could keep up his end of the conversation as long as
it didn't go more than three sentences deep on any one topic --
except for hockey, he couldn't spell NHL.
Falan preferred the offbeat stuff like Australian Rules
football and hurling. A random article on Sumo wrestling toward
the back of the issue was right up his alley. Apparently, some
undersized phenom was all the rage in Tokyo this spring. He
gave up 250 pounds to the nearest competitor but was cleaning
house on all the big boys. The Japanese public had gone mad for
the guy. Toyota was naming a special edition mini-SUV after
him, and the young girls over there acted like he was with the
Beatles. Falan finished the article and dialed his cell phone.
"Santucci, gimme a call -- quick."(*)
Falan hung up hopping his buddy would call back soon. This
was obviously all in his head. Maybe it was just some sort of
mind-fuck caused by his own subconscious fears or something.
The video seemed to indicate that he felt physically threatened.
He acted like he was attempting to ward off an attacker who was
more than he could handle. Maybe if he did something that would
bolster his self-confidence, then his mind wouldn't feel so

compelled to keep taunting itself with night stalkers. He
answered his phone on the first ring.
"Hey, Falan. What's happening?(*)
"What's going on this week?"
"I don't know. Let's do something. Listen, I was gonna
swing by this morning and run an idea by you. You workin'
today?"
"Yeah, pulling in right now. I've got clients until
eleven-thirty, then I'm going to grab lunch. You wanna get
something to eat?"
"Yeah, you want me to pick you up, or what?"
"Just park here and we'll walk somewhere close. What's up
anyway?"
"I'll tell you when I get there. I gotta run."
"Okay. Make sure you get a guest parking pass at the front
desk so you don't get towed."
"That's all I need. I'll see you 'round eleven-thirty."
"Later."
The doctor tried to sell him on getting the stitches
without nova cane -- said he just needed a few and the shot
would be as bad as the stitches. Falan wasn't having any of it.
The shot hurt like hell.

CHAPTER 13
(*)Falan retrieved his sunglasses from his car before going
inside the spa to find Joe, who was chatting up a hot African
American babe working behind the front desk.
Joe called out to him from a distance, "Hey, Falan, come
here. Say hello to Cherice. Look at this guy, Cherice. Is
that an honest face or what? Falan, tell her I'm not in the
mafia, will you? She doesn't believe I sang in the choir at
school -- won't go out with me."
As Falan neared and removed his sunglasses Joe winced.
"What happened to you? You're blowing my line here.
Forget what I said, Cherice. It's been awhile since I saw my boy
Falan here. Looks like he might have strayed off the righteous
path. I'm gonna go give him some spiritual counsel over lunch,
then we can talk more about that Merriwether show. You're gonna
love it: outdoor jazz, beautiful summer evening. How could you
not?"
Joe Santucci looked like he just stepped down off a
pedestal in front of the Coliseum. He was six-foot-two, two-
twenty-five and ripped -- the definition of tall, dark and
handsome. Joe was studying mechanical engineering at Georgia
Tech. His charm, easy smile, and pretty-boy haircut belied his
true nature.
"So, who stole your lunch money?" he asked outside on the
sidewalk.
"Nobody. I whacked my fucking head in the bathroom this
morning -- called you from Sibley."
"Ouch, what do you feel like?"
"Total crap."
"No, asshole. What do you feel like eating?"
"I don't care -- whatever's easy."
"How about some noodle soup? There's a mom-and-pop Korean
place just up the block -- pretty good, too."
"That works. You don't look so bad. Sounded like you guys
were on the Bataan Death March."
"Shoot, man, it wasn't that bad. We'd have been okay if
Brownie hadn't wanted to leave West Virginia and check out
Kentucky. The mud was pretty brutal though. So, what's up?
You're the one who looks like shit. Why aren't you chained to
your desk?"
They were entering a dark hole in the wall off an alley. It
was cramped but not crowded.
"Let's order, then I'll tell you. You want a beer? I'm
buying," Falan volunteered.
"No, man, it's Tuesday morning. My body is my temple. Get
me a Coke and one of those pork specials."

Falan harrumphed and ordered himself a Korean beer -- OB --
and some sort of barbecue beef thing over rice. He took the
drinks to the table Joe had chosen and sat down to wait for the
food.
"Okay, man," Joe said, "something is going on."
Falan took the Sumo article out of his pocket and set it in
front of his buddy. Joe sped through it and looked up.
"Yeah, so what?"
"I want you to teach me how to kick some ass."
"That's not your first beer of the day is it?"
"As a matter of fact, it is. Though it is a step back from
the vodkas I've been into since the sun came up."
"Dude, what the fuck is going on? Who messed you up, and
where the hell are you brawling on a Monday night?"
"Nowhere. I seriously smacked my melon on the door to the
medicine chest. Are you gonna help me out, or what?"
Joe took out his cell phone and made as if to dial.
"Who the hell are you calling?"
"Brownie, man. Someone's gonna tell me what's going on."
"Come on, cut it out. That little Japanese dude is
whooping ass on guys twice his size. I've seen you put the hurt
on guys who should have eaten you for lunch -- more than once,
too. I want you to show me a few moves."

"Size doesn't mean shit, especially in a street fight.
What the hell's going on? You box. You suck at it, but you
know how to box."
"The hell with gloves and rules. I want to be able to get
it done when it matters for real."
Joe snatched Falan's wrist as he started to take a sip of
beer and pulled his hand across the table spilling some of
Korea's finest. He looked closely at Falan's knuckles.
"This guy cold cock you or what? Doesn't look like you
even landed a punch. That lady from your office get back
together with her husband?"
"Fuck that, man. I'm telling you: that isn't it. Why would
I lie?"
"Some big-ass chick smacked you around, huh?" Joe started
laughing.
"Fuck you. Forget it."
"Okay. Okay. Look, you know if someone's bothering you, I'm
in it -- today after work, whenever. We don't need to teach you
shit -- I'll take care of it. Where can we find him?"
"I'm telling you: it isn't like that."
"Okay, fine. Let's assume just for a minute that you're
telling the truth. It's the end of the summer already. When
you get back to Seattle, join a school and pay your dues. I've
been studying martial arts for eleven years. I can't teach you
what I know in two weeks. I guarantee you this Sumo guy
dedicated his entire life to wrestling from the time he was a
kid. It's technique -- practice, practice and more practice.
"Getting to the level this guy is at takes real fighting
against guys better than you, day in, day out for years.
Sometimes that isn't even enough. Sometimes you need a whole
lot of attitude on top of that to get you through, and you
haven't exactly got an over abundance of that sort of attitude.
No offense, but you couldn't box your way out of the proverbial
wet paper bag, and you wouldn't bother trying if you could.
Remember those guys in the parking lot at RFK after the Skins
got killed by Philly that time?"
"Yeah, that was ugly -- ugly for them anyway."
"It was almost ugly for us. Six-on-two is never good odds,
especially against six goons like those guys and me with a
pacifist like you for a sidekick."
"Yeah, well, the odds didn't seem to bother you when you
got into it with them."
"Hey, I didn't start that shit."
"No, but you sure as hell egged them into it after they ran
their mouths."
"Whatever, those guys were assholes anyway. They had it
coming. My point is attitude got me through on that one. I was
willing to get the shit kicked out of me, but I really, really
didn't want to. Truth is: I was also worried about you getting
seriously hurt. I knew if I could take a few of 'em out fast
enough, the others would back down."
"Man, you took three guys out in seconds. I can still hear
that one guy shrieking. His elbow was all dangling and shit. I
need you to teach me some of that."
"I was lucky none of them had any skills. They had
attitude, but it was just liquid courage from boozing all day.
Falan, I'm telling you: it takes years to learn how to fight
multiple attackers, and first you've got to learn how to fight,
period. Buy a fucking gun. Save yourself the hassle and the
hospital expenses. It can be a steep learning curve."
"Okay, say I'm just totally over-matched by a single
attacker -- something huge."
"Some-thing? Falan, you're tripping. What the hell is
going on?"
"No, no...sorry, I'm getting a little hammered here. Shit,
this is my last beer. I still gotta go into work. Some-one,
someone bigger, stronger, and with more attitude. Can't you
give me a few moves, a little confidence boost? None of that
Karate Kid shit -- wax nothing. I need to learn some dirty
moves, man -- some street shit, so I can end it before it
starts, like you did."

The counter-person brought their food, and Joe ordered two
more beers.
"I can see I'm gonna need a beer after all, and I'm not
going to drink alone. Look -- I can appreciate you've got some
pride, but let me tune this guy up for you. Seriously, what are
friends for? Christ, you got me into Georgia Tech with those
essays you wrote for my application."
"Thanks, man. Seriously, I know you'd jump in for me in a
heartbeat, but I'm not bullshitting you. No one kicked my ass.
But if someone did want to, say just randomly at some bar or
whatever, you're not always going to be around to bail me out.
I want to be able to protect myself."
"Well, first of all you've got to forget all that boxing
crap. You're right about that. U.S.-style wrestling is
probably the only thing worse, at least when you're talking
about fighting someone with real training."
"Yeah well, that's you, and that's what I need, some real
training. I'll start with a school as soon as I can, but I'm
going to South America for the year, and I doubt I'm going to be
able to find any place to train in the middle of the Amazon
Basin. Just give me a few lessons before I go."
"Actually, in Brazil you could get some of the best
training there is. That's where the Gracie family is from. Big
time Jujitsu guys -- the whole family. I thought the Steamer
vetoed your South America plan?"
"We're still in negotiations, but I'm fucking going. Don't
worry about that."
"All right, I'm going to find out what this is all about.
But until I do, what did you have in mind?"
"Tonight, man...and tomorrow night -- after work. Shit,
every night till I leave. You tell me. Should we go to where
you train or what? I'm leaving on Monday or something -- less
than a week. I want to learn as much as I can before I go."
"I'm telling you, learning what to do and being able to do
it are not the same thing. Don't think Ford Motor Company is
going to be changing the name of the Explorer to the 'Falanator'
anytime soon. I don't want to hear about you going out and
getting abused by that secretary's biker husband or whoever.
You remember what happened to me that other time: when we tried
to crash that frat party out at College Park in the eleventh
grade? My fucking brain swelled up. That could have been it
for me."
"I'm not going to go looking for anything. This is just a
precaution."
"All right. You're a freak. You're not telling me
something, and I'm not sure why. I'm going to find out what it
is, though, and you know it, too. But until then, I'll do what
I can. You want to come over to my folk's house tonight, like
eight o'clock? We don't have to go to my school. I've got
everything we need at home."
"I'm there. Thanks, man."
"All right, finish your food. I've got to get back, so
I'll see you tonight. You've got a mouth guard, right? Bring
it."
Joe got up and dropped his trash in the can, then he
stopped at the door and looked over at Falan.
"You're still having trouble sleeping, huh?"
"Big time, yeah."
"See you tonight, crackhead."

CHAPTER 14
"Dalevin, where have you been? Hurry up and get in here. Eat
something quickly, and then get yourself up top so your
grandmother can come down and rest. She has been up there since
yesterday without a break."
Dalevin Jardow scowled at his stepmother from under the
brim of his fur-lined hood as he crouched in the sub-level
entryway. Her perfect features and sanctimonious harangues were
wearing him out. He gingerly shook his legs and sent flecks of
snow and ice skittering across the stone floor. They began
melting as soon as they came to rest. It was raging outside as
it had been for the last week. The youth shed his down parka
and hung it along with his goggles on one of the pegs where the
excavators once left their helmets before heading outside to
trudge down to the camps gouged into the high saddles between
the peaks. He tugged off his boots with a wince before stepping
awkwardly up into the family's living and cooking area.
The warmth stored in the dense frostfelin carpet offered
his misshapen feet immediate relief. Soft light glowed from two
savian-oil lamps and a guano fire that burned dully in the
hearth for effect. The room's real heat emanated from the
carbonite stove in the corner. His father had stubbornly
floated it all the way up despite his grandmother's
protestations. She had come to rely on it, though, by the time

the avalanche took her son, so she never did topple it off the
north ledge as she had always threatened to do if she outlived
him.
Dalevin never could see the harm in it. Refuse from the
quartzal mining lay in heaps all over the mountain, if one was
willing to dig it out of the snow. Why not put it to good use?
The stuff burned a lot better than condrillian guano and did not
smell half as bad so long as they kept the vent cleaned out.
Fears that adopting such modern extravagances would lead to a
clouding of the sight seemed unwarranted if not ridiculous. It
was interbreeding with the Uriconites that was causing the
Ilstachian stock to lose their awareness. The ancient
prophecies brought here by the first seekers more than five
thousand generations ago warned against both eventualities, but
clearly intimate fraternization with the locals had turned out
to be the greater evil.
Nonetheless, the sight continued to strengthen with each
new generation born to the few remaining purebred lines like the
Jardows. The price for their fidelity was steep, however, and
few were willing to bear the rising cost. Those who continued
to accept the toll had little choice at this stage. Their
plight was now such that none below were likely to have them.
They were forced to continue on as they had always done or pass
into extinction. Most families had broken from the old ways
long ago. Their offspring rarely displayed the telltale signs
anymore. The children with overlarge brows, widely spaced eyes
and squat bodies that sprouted deformed appendages were seldom
seen these days except high up on the mount.
Here, where the devout maintained their vigil, such
children were the norm. The families living in this rarified
environment tended to keep to themselves and seldom ventured
down any farther than the saddles that sagged between the frozen
peaks where the Jardows and other pedigreed Ilstachians made
their homes. Various charities maintained caches of goods in
the abandoned excavator camps that were balanced precariously in
the dips linking the spectacular spires of rock and ice. This
enabled the committed to pursue their convictions without having
to worry about earning a living or venturing all the way down to
the valley for supplies. Cynics among the practitioners felt
the lowlanders' altruism stemmed more from a desire to spare
their sensibilities from the discomfort of interacting directly
with the grotesque rather than from any real inclination to aid
in the quest.
Such organizations tended to be well-funded, however. The
guilt felt by the wayward Ilstachians who had moved below
compelled them to be particularly generous in their donations.
The natives of Uricon, false piety or not, likewise tended to be
fairly philanthropic when it came to these strange colonists.

When the pilgrim's leaking star balloon allegedly fell from the
sky in a spectacular pyrotechnic display and marooned them on
Uricon all those many eons ago, the event itself refuted most
claims made by local religions. The Ilstachians, however,
brought with them a whole new slant on such matters, and a good
number of Uricon's sentient inhabitants came to adopt Ilstachian
beliefs in this regard.
That continent was dominated by a single ruler whose
warlike people were not very technically advanced. None of the
civilizations in existence on the planet during that period had
undergone anything in the way of an industrial revolution. That
the new arrivals were not slain out of hand was a testament to
the business acumen of a local tax warden with an unrivaled
knack for promoting summer festivals. He could smell a profit
two valleys away and convinced the region's potentate to send
balloons far and wide announcing the newcomers' arrival. Word
spread quickly and general disbelief fueled streams of trekkers
from around the globe to visit the remote mountain kingdom
sitting atop the world. They still came today. The sovereign's
coffers were soon overflowing. She was more than happy to allow
her famed guests to settle together among the land's highest
peaks. It was an area suited to their purpose where few of her
subjects dared go for fear of hypoxic death. Besides, the
minues were long played out.

No one would have mistaken the two species for twins, yet
the Uriconites and the Ilstachians were not, at first glance, an
overly dissimilar species. That fact also contributed to the
newcomers' acceptance and survival. It has been noted time and
again throughout all of existence that fair looks and a properly
spun tale will more often than not induce complete strangers to
buy a weary traveler at least one drink. As the Ilstachians
well knew, it is best to use such an interlude to devise a clear
strategy for making oneself useful to one's host. In this case
the promise of Deliverance fit the bill nicely. Somewhat
remarkably the two species were able to copulate and actually
produce half-breeds, although the odds against such a fortuitous
happenstance were not necessarily as great as they might first
seem to the uninitiated.
The first time a new species joined the relatively
exclusive league of true voyagers -- not those who dabbled with
intra-galactic flight between local solar systems, but those who
knew how to skim from one galaxy to another -- they were always
surprised to see how similar so many different worlds could be.
Of course they encountered new and astounding marvels at every
stop, and there was never any end to the awe-inspiring wonders
awaiting each turn. But, true voyagers soon came to realize
that there were an abundance of common themes generously
dispersed throughout all of those mystifying encounters, not the

least of which was the preponderance of procreative
compatibility among sentient species.
Likewise the hyper-exclusive club of species who learned to
overcome the restrictions imposed by space-time and thereby
escape the confines of their home multiverses found that the
trend extended, albeit to a somewhat lesser degree, across a
great many of the individual subsections that made up the
Foamwork. These commonalities touched on most areas, including
atmospheric environments, planetary surface composition,
biological development, modes of intelligence and degrees of
sentience, because the primary building blocks of existence and
the natural laws governing them were nearly ubiquitous.
It goes without saying that not all of the Ilstachian
seekers were as lucky as the Jardows' ancestors. Initially,
many bounced aimlessly around their home multiverse and failed
to find a suitable world to colonize before their supplies ran
out or their ship broke down, leaving everyone to die stranded
in the middle of nowhere. Those who managed to alight safely on
a habitable planet where they were the highest form of
intelligence usually managed quite well, though the requisite
percentage succumbed to all manner of diseases and predators.
The parties who found themselves in the minority among
intellectual equals generally had a tougher go of it.

While all groups were well-supplied with a wide selection
of weapons suitable for hunting and limited self-defense, none
were adequately armed or staffed to wage anything but the
briefest and smallest of guerrilla campaigns against a larger
force. That said, a number of voyagers who found themselves in
hostile situations were able to identify factions of oppressed
locals and lead successful insurrections against the incumbent
leadership. As travel methods improved and Ilstachian seekers
began leaving their home macrocosm, a large percentage of their
vessels were destroyed during the tricky business of transiting
the membranes separating the different multiverses. As they
learned to avoid these tragedies, the obstacles they encountered
beyond remained more or less of a similar nature until they
began encountering groups from three other species who had also
learned to exit their multiverses of origin. Their differences
could not be resolved peacefully, and the four eventually
entered into a full-scale war for dominance over the known
Foamwork and beyond.
Many of Dalevin's friends claimed to envy the Jardows'
abode carved in the tip of Uricon's highest peak, but they did
not have to live there day in and day out or ferry supplies up
the extra distance from the last riser station where the balloon
and pulley cables terminated. Plus the extra few thousand feet
it gave them over their nearest neighbors caused the Jardows to

be stormed in several more weeks out of the year than everyone
else. Naturally the wind was always much stronger and colder as
well. Few aspired to such heights these days. The honeycomb of
vacancies among the cut-outs in the shear faces below and the
vast expanse of darkened peaks that extended in every direction
as far as the eye could see attested to this well-known fact.
Nearly all of the old homesteads had been forsaken long
ago. Their once prized balconies no longer held the same
allure. So few Ilstachians could read sign anymore, their
reason for leaving home in the first place was fast fading into
myth. Most of the interbreeders could not see a bowel movement
coming behind a rush of gas. Dalevin knew enough not to
question their original purpose, but he could not help wondering
if those who had come up with the idea to go looking for the
next sequence in the chain of ascension had been off the mark in
their expectation. When they were by themselves and away from
their elders, he and his friends dared speculate that perhaps
they were the last remaining of their kind anywhere in the
Foamwork. No one had established a confirmed connection with
the outside in more than three thousand generations.
The Jardow family's vaulted status atop the highest peak
stemmed from Dalevin's grandmother, Valerenzaa, who was the
oldest and most accomplished detectionist among them. As such,
custom mandated that she reside wherever the best signal

reception could be had. Her parents moved to the highest point
in the land on her account when she was still just a young girl
following the death of her mentor. The most skilled always
tutored the younger ones with the strongest innate aptitude so
that those with the greatest gift could benefit from their
elder's experience and thus advance more quickly. Though there
had been several other candidates for elevation to the most
exalted status who were much older and far more experienced at
the time, none could match Valerenzaa's natural ability.
The Ilsatchians chose to live where they did because these
mountains rose higher than any others on the planet. Concerns
about reception were paramount for they arrived long before
Ilstachian pilgrims started taking along their own psychonic
satellite antennas and orbital relays. After being granted
permission, the leader of the Ilstachians moved his people into
the long-abandoned mine shafts atop Uricon's highest mountain
while the other nineteen families found similar accommodations
among the immediate surrounding peaks regardless of their
height. They did this rather than scatter to the next tallest
peaks so that they could better concentrate their efforts.
Their determined procreation ethic saw every worthwhile
peak on the continent inhabited in less than one hundred
generations, but the completion of that goal added to the
desertions that began when the first physical deformities

started showing up. Psychonic abnormalities were evident even
earlier than that, but they were not met with nearly the same
apprehension. The negative side of such conditions really only
manifested when the affected tried to interact directly with
native Uriconites. The cognitive aberrations seemed to cause a
divergence in the two species' ability to understand one
another, but it had the opposite effect on communication between
full-blooded Ilstachians. The level of intuition among pilgrims
was greatly enhanced.
When the original differences with the Uriconites were
joined by these new physical and mental deformities, many
Ilstachians feared they would soon mutate away from what was
acceptable to their Uriconite hosts and cause them to become
persecuted. The Ilstachians' burgeoning numbers created more
than just a real estate crunch above the clouds. It became
harder and harder for their population to survive on subsistence
hunting and farming. The lower terraces were maxed out in their
ability to produce crops during the short growing season and the
horned mountain shemp, frostfelins and condrillia that lived and
nested above the tree-line were being hunted near to extinction.
This combination of circumstances drove increasing numbers
of Ilstachians into the valleys. Ostensibly they went for
housing and jobs, but intermarriage with the locals soared.
Once the exodus reached critical mass, previously coveted

properties in the highlands began sitting vacant after their
owners passed away. The number of peaks inhabited by purebred
Ilstachians shrunk steadily after that. Now the number of
occupancies was reduced to the half dozen pinnacles immediately
surrounding the Jardows' home.
Dalevin pictured his grandmother perched all night atop the
cornice of rime up above as gale force winds threatened to tear
her harness from its moorings and send her plummeting into the
abyss.
"Let her stay up there awhile longer. She doesn't care.
What else has she got to do but sit up there and listen to the
stars?" he mumbled as he dropped into his chair and reached
across the table to serve himself.
"Do what I tell you and do not talk back. Your sister did
not come home last night, and your grandmother has been up there
too long. You know she will not trust me to take her place, so
hurry up and eat."
Dalevin took his sweet time. Converts like his stepmother
were the worst -- way too uptight. They were all certain that
because they had finally come to see the light, vindication had
to be eminent. Everyone had been surprised when his father wed
Ratasha, a mixed breed woman of mostly native Uriconite descent,
so shortly after Dalevin's mother died. Dalevin understood that
his stepmother had not moved all the way up here to commune with
the cosmos. While some of the devout were born with parts
missing, his father, Priapic Jardow, had come into this world
with duplicates. Ribald spa-goers bathing in the mineral pools
near the steam vents in the lower shafts liked to wonder aloud
how he made do with just one wife.
Rumor had it that the only reason Dalevin's stepmother
stayed on after Priapic was swept to his death in a slide was
because she had been ostracized by the flatlanders for selling
herself to others in the town where she came from. Ratasha
certainly seemed to enjoy causing a fuss among the full-blooded
Ilstachian wives. Lately she had been creating a stir by
frequenting the steam vents late at night when only males were
present and the other matrons all took vigil on the summits.
His older sister, Taquiri, hated her with a passion, but Dalevin
was more than willing to put up with her as long as she took on
all the cooking, cleaning and laundering.
He ignored the looks she tossed his way and enjoyed his
lunch as best he could. When he was good and ready, he left his
dishes at the table and limped over to the entryway. After
easing himself back down into the foyer, Dalevin began the
laborious process of donning all the layers it would take to
keep him alive up top. He knew better than to strive for a
state of comfort. Such wishful thinking would have been
outright fantasy given the weather and his physical afflictions.

He was nowhere near accomplished enough to block out either
source of pain.
Dalevin considered any outcome short of literally freezing
to death to be an unqualified success. He had not been wearing
nearly this many clothes when he got home. He had generated a
lot of body heat breaking fresh trail through waist deep snow
all the way up the narrow ridge from the last balloon platform,
but sitting motionless for hours on end in these conditions was
a much more daunting challenge for someone with Dalevin's
mediocre level of psychonic proficiency.
After putting on his extra socks and getting all booted up,
he donned his second and third outer leggings and an equal
number of tops before buttoning into the frostfelin skin
coverall that his birth mother had made for him. Two hats, one
pair of goggles, and a hooded condrillian-down parka later, he
stepped into his harness and cinched it firmly around his waist.
Next he slipped on all his many gloves and slid open the trap
door in the ceiling. He could not see more than a few rungs up.
A shiver ran down his spine even before his feet left the floor.
Dalevin pulled down the ladder's extension and started up the
shaft resignedly. He left the door open and the extension down
to make things easier on his grandmother when she got to the
bottom. If the draft bothered Ratasha, she knew what she could
do about it.
What started as a dull roar developed into a merciless
screeching as he climbed higher into the narrow rock chimney.
By the time he reached the top five minutes later, the sound of
the wind forcing its way through invisible gaps around the top
hatch was threatening to Tiernan his ear drums. He no longer
bumped his head against the lid in the blackness. By now he
knew when he had reached the top without even counting the
rungs. Desperate for relief from the howling, Dalevin hurriedly
chipped blindly around the door's edges with a small ice hammer
that hung there for that purpose then heaved the handle
sideways.
The door gave grudgingly, but the first small opening
altered the acoustic dynamic enough that the volume and pitch of
the noise reverberating inside the shaft subsided dramatically.
He swore for the hundredth time that he was going to properly
seal the cracks that were to blame for that mind-splitting
keening. Several tugs later there was space enough for him to
climb out. Though it was midday, the sky was almost totally
dark. The wind was as strong as he had ever felt it. This
storm had been pounding them steadily for two weeks now.
As he stood hunched against the wind thinking it would have
to let up soon, a powerful gust nearly toppled him giving him a
wicked fright. Falling would have been disastrous. Without the
spikes on the soles of his boots to give him traction, Dalevin

would likely have skittered over the edge. A three-minute fall
from the north brink would give him far too much opportunity to
contemplate his uneventful life. He scolded himself for not
securing his harness before exiting the shaft as his father had
taught him.
The visibility was better than he had anticipated. Dalevin
had expected a total white-out with about an arm's length of
visibility. The peak was still socked in from above and below,
and none of the surrounding mountains were in view, but the snow
had let up and he could see texture in the clouds barreling
past. That was a good sign. Things should start to clear soon.
He was glad there was no lightening to contend with. Dalevin
stood by and waited for his grandmother to come over and unhook
so he could help her negotiate the edge and close the door
behind her, but she did not stir.
He almost shouted to her, but vocal communication was
useless in these conditions and unnecessary where his
grandmother was concerned. If she was alive then she knew he
was there. That was what worried him. Dalevin clipped into the
safety line and inched toward her dreading what he would find
when he reached her. It was said the old ones usually went
during a vigil -- so they could keep searching for all eternity.
A wall of drift had piled against her upwind side, but that was
not necessarily a bad sign. Valerenzaa was impervious. She

wore only a thin stocking cap to keep her hair in place and a
light shawl to protect her indoor clothes from the abrasiveness
of the windblown snow and ice. Her only concession to the
elements and her age were matching frostfelin skin boots and
gloves.
When Dalevin got to his grandmother, she reached out
sideways with one hand and gripped his wrist firmly without
turning her attention away from the heavens. He felt a surge of
relief wash over him, and then he sensed it. Something was not
right.
CHAPTER 15
Falan popped a couple of ephedrines and swallowed them with
a gulp of iced coffee as he rode up the elevator to his office.
He found Cindy eating a sandwich at her desk and reviewing a
stack of documents.
"Hey, Cindy, how's it going?"
Cindy looked up and sat back in her chair. She took off
her glasses and pressed the heels of her hands into the corners
of her eyes before slowly pushing them back along the sides of
her face.
"It's going. How many stitches?"
"Just four. No big deal.(*) You want to grab a beer after
work and..."
"No way, stud. You're cute, but you're nuts. And, you're
the boss's under-aged son."
"So which one of those is weighing on you the most? 'Cause
if I promise to keep my mouth shut, I probably won't come off as
such a loon."
"No thanks. Naomi would take a fit if she found out that I
went out with you."
"All right then, that must be the proof. Man, or at least
wo-man, does exhibit true free will. Otherwise you'd be
powerless to resist my boyish charms. Give me a shout if I can

help out on that brief at all," Falan finished as he turned and
headed down the hall.
"See you later," Cindy said.
Falan was pleased and surprised that the rest of his day
seemed to have opened up. He'd been weaning himself off of
various projects for the last ten days so that the office
wouldn't feel like it was taking a hit when he left. Good
thing, too, he could hardly think straight. Even his heart rate
seemed erratic. Falan went back online for a minute then headed
down the back stairs leaving his office looking like he was
still around. He jumped off the loading dock and ducked across
the street to catch whatever movie was showing at the early
bird. He just needed to chill for awhile and zone out.
He was woken up by people coming in for the next show. The
young adolescent that shook his shoulder leaped away when Falan
came flying half out of his seat, head swiveling. The kid's
friends had a good laugh at their buddy's expense as Falan
shuffled out. He was just happy they hadn't found him crawling
around between the seats gnashing his teeth and stabbing at
ghosts with a piece of licorice(*). The little builders had
their upside, but their progress was starting to unnerve him.
Falan grabbed a slice of pizza around the corner then got his
car and headed out to the Santucci's house in Silver Spring,
Maryland. They were just finishing dinner when he arrived.

CHAPTER 16
"Hi, Mrs. Santucci, Mr. Santucci. Been out to the beach
house much this summer?" Falan asked when Joe led him into the
kitchen.
"Not like when you guys were in high school," Mrs. Santucci
answered. "How are your mother and father?"
"They're okay. Nothing new going on."
Joe took his plate over to the counter then announced he
was taking Falan downstairs so he could teach him how to kill
ten guys with his pinky.
"Be careful, Falan," Mr. Santucci said. "Don't let the
Italian Bruce Lee mess up that pretty dental work. I'm still
paying the bills on that kid down the street."
"I told you not to pay those," Joe said shaking his head.
"It was his own fault, and you know it."
"Yeah well, you get to disappear off to Atlanta. We have
to live here, and your mother is on the neighborhood board.
Just take it easy down there," Mr. Santucci warned.
"Don't worry, Mr. Santucci. My dad would probably pay you
if Joe knocked my teeth out -- save him the trouble."
With that the two of them headed down to the basement where
Joe had a big mat permanently laid out. There was an array of
martial arts weapons, striking bags and weight equipment neatly
positioned around the room.

"Didn't you bring any workout clothes?" Joe asked gesturing
at Falan's attire.
"No, I didn't want to stop at home. I came straight from
work. I figured you could lend me a pair of shorts or
something."
"You still should have a mouth piece. My dad was only
half-joking. I know you don't want to borrow one of those."
"Hell no, just get me a pair of shorts. I'll be okay."
"Falan...," Joe paused and thought about what he was going
to say.
"What's up, man? Get me a pair of shorts and put on your
Kato outfit. You make me hot in that little red one with the
tassels," Falan smiled.
"You're still not going to tell me what's going on, huh?"
"Man, I told you. Let's do this."
"All right. Look," Joe said, taking a tape and putting it
into a TV-VCR combo unit hanging from the ceiling in a corner.
"First, we need to talk about this a little bit. You didn't
come to me and say, 'Joe, I want to learn martial arts. Will you
teach me?' No, you come to me out of the blue, looking strung
out, half drunk and sporting a nasty gash on your face and say
'I want to learn how to fuck someone up.'"
"Same difference, come on," Falan said rolling his eyes.

"No, dude, it isn't. Look, I know you think I'm one of the
bad boys, just out to kick some ass. I won't deny that
sometimes I let my emotions get the better of me, especially
when I'm liquored up, but just kicking the shit out of people is
not what martial arts is all about."
"Hey look, I can appreciate all the Zen bullshit, but I'm
talking about survival, like you're scared for your life, and
it's either you or them."
"Jesus Christ, Falan, listen to yourself. First of all, if
you are scared, you're probably gonna lose. That's where the
real training comes in, and it can't be rushed. It takes time -
- years. You need to learn to control your emotions as well as
learn all the moves. If the other guy knows what he's doing and
you let fear drive your actions, then he's going to mess you
up."
"Look, I told you I'll join a real school as soon as I can.
I just need to get a jumpstart on the physical part first --
right now. I want to be able to take someone out before they
wax me."
"Listen to what you're saying. You want me to teach you
how to 'take someone out' as you put it. I can do that, maybe
not in a week, but I can teach you to do that. Are you ready to
do twenty-five years to life for it?"

"Come on, man, don't get melodramatic on me. Just show me
a few things, a couple of serious moves I can use to protect
myself if I'm attacked by some huge ass-rapist in the shower at
the gym or whatever."
"Dude, you're not right. I'm serious: this stuff is not to
be messed with. It's too damn easy to kill someone. Just run,
call the police. You're not out to be the street-fighting king
of the world with a reputation to protect. What's wrong with
just sticking to boxing? You don't even practice that."
"I told you that's not going to help me against some crazed
three-hundred-pound psycho who comes after me late one night in
an underground parking deck or something. What do I do if
someone takes me off my feet, gets me down on the ground? I'm
screwed. I can't wrestle for shit."
"That's why I'm telling you to run for it. Do some sprint
work if you want to be ready to save your ass in the worst case
scenario -- no sense risking the odds fighting some maniac for
no good reason."
"Come on, Joe. You said you were going to help me out."
"I am. Just don't make me regret it. Mike tells me you're
not sleeping -- at all, was what he said. This has got to be
connected somehow. What's up, man? Why the hell aren't you
sleeping?"
"God damn it, what the fuck is this? I don't want to talk
about it. I've had a few weird dreams or something -- forget
about it. Come on."
"Okay, like I said before, I am going to find out what's
going on. I thought about calling that woman at your office,
but you won't even tell any of us her name. You said she's got
a kid, though, which means she's got an ex-something out there
someplace."
"He lives in Texas. Come on."
"Okay, okay. Let's talk theory for a little bit, then I'll
show you some stuff on video that will help you see what I'm
talking about. It's getting late, so I don't think we're going
to have time to get on the mat tonight. We can start on that
tomorrow if you want. Besides, you seriously need a mouth
guard, if we're really going to get into it."
For the next two hours Joe talked with Falan about the
relative merits of various fighting styles, explaining why
boxers and amateur wrestlers in particular faired so poorly
against well-trained martial artists. The biggest issue, Joe
pointed out, was that boxing and wrestling were sports. They
had rules and systems for scoring points that discouraged the
types of moves someone would want to execute in a classic knock-
down, drag-out street fight.

Joe maintained that boxers couldn't defend against kicks,
and they were helpless on the ground. Amateur wrestlers were
comfortable on the ground, but they were obsessed with staying
off their backs because that's how they ended up getting pinned
and losing their matches. Skilled martial artists on the other
hand were just the opposite. When they got knocked off their
feet, they purposely rolled onto their backs so they could see
what was coming next and defend against it.
Joe outlined the differences between various martial arts
philosophies and compared and contrasted many of the artistic
styles with those that were more combat or street oriented. He
explained that some were geared toward striking with the hands,
elbows, knees and feet, while others put more emphasis on
grappling and ground fighting, which was like wrestling but
without the restrictive rules.
They got on the mat and walked through various tactical
situations in slow motion. Joe explained the basic principles
behind falling and rolling, proper balance, defensive blocks and
offensive hand strikes and kicks. He showed Falan how to escape
from some common holds and how to counter them quickly and
effectively with incapacitating blows and submission holds.
They got into throws and ground fighting and covered ways to
attack an opponent's joints. When pressed, Joe reluctantly

explained how to cut off a person's air supply and blood flow
with different chokes.
"See, this is what I'm talking about," he emphasized at one
point. "You choke a guy like this, and you could kill him. In
the ring, a guy'll tap out, which is like crying uncle. It's a
signal that he gives up. That, or his corner man will throw in
the towel or the referee will stop the fight. Out behind some
bar, you could end up killing the guy real fucking easily before
he quits or someone else breaks it up. You've heard about cops
choking guys out where they don't wake up. It happens. You use
this shit -- you've got to be prepared for the consequences."
Joe turned on the TV and played a couple of short
instructional videos that emphasized certain points he was
trying to make. At the end, he put in a highlight tape of some
Ultimate Fighting Championship competitions. It showed some no
holds barred matches between guys of all different sizes and
fighting styles.
"See that," Joe said after one surprising finish, "size
doesn't mean shit. Well it does really, but not as much as you
would think, and it usually isn't the deciding factor on who
wins."
They'd just witnessed a relatively little guy knockout an
opponent who was 160 pounds heavier than him.

"See, the big guy is an oaf with no skills on the ground,"
Joe pointed out after rewinding the tape and hitting play again.
"He's toast as soon as his knees touch the mat. He stumbles
trying to lunge out and punch the little guy. When he falls
down, the midget kicks him full bore in the face twice, and
that's it. Hell, it was over after the first kick."
"Man, those guys are brutal," Falan admitted.
"That's what I'm telling you. If you're afraid for your
life, just run like hell if at all possible. You end up killing
someone, and it'll ruin your life. Might make you wish you were
dead. Better to get your ass kicked than spend the rest of your
life behind bars."
"I don't think there's much danger there," Falan said.
"Don't kid yourself. You may be looking pretty scrawny
these days, but you get a guy right, and I don't care who it is,
you could end up killing him."(1)

CHAPTER 17
Dalevin's grandmother pulled him down next to her like she
had so often done when he was a young boy and she intended to
stay and sit with him during the first part of his vigil. He
looked at her to make sure she was okay, but she would not turn
to him. Dalevin followed her gaze into the sky where dark
broiling clouds raced by. Knowing it was not the hypnotic
whorls that held her attention so raptly, he closed his eyes and
concentrated on quieting those senses that were open to
influence by the storm.
He knew she was testing him as she often had while he was
still in training. She had likely set up an impromptu
assessment with one of her friends to ensure that he was still
progressing. Dalevin slowly blocked out the tumult around him.
He wished everything could be shutdown as easily as his optical
senses. After closing his eyes, Dalevin concentrated on dialing
back his auditory receptors. This was somehow easier amidst the
deafening roar of a storm than somewhere quiet where a
conversation was being whispered in the next room. Next, he
turned to his tactile receptors and sought to deny the wind and
cold any of his attention. When he had quieted all of his
primary and secondary modes of sensory perception, he turned all
of his awareness not required to maintain core body functions

toward detecting and unraveling whatever form of psychonic
tutorial his grandmother had concocted.
It should have been easy. This was child's play after all.
Off-world psychonic signals were so rare here that they had all
grown up practicing on local variants. He had mastered even the
most difficult trials years ago, and he had been a solo
detectionist for six months now. His grandmother was focused on
one of the great voids above, but he took that for a ploy.
There was nothing unusual out there that he could perceive. He
did not claim to have Taquiri's gift, but his skills were
adequate. Dalevin concentrated even harder but still had no
success. He began focusing on the individual mountain tops
nearby searching for his grandmother's partner in this scheme.
He started with Parchekaa's retreat to the east. She was
Valerenzaa's dearest friend since childhood. Parchekaa was
there, but she was not sending at all. She was receiving side
by side with her eldest daughter Jerezladaa. That was odd.
Their numbers were so few these days that family members rarely
kept vigil together anymore. Instead they preferred to always
have someone fresh and ready so that they never had to leave the
skies unmonitored.
When he scanned the other peaks where he could expect to
find devotees, he did not detect anyone conducting drill
scenarios with his grandmother. All of the precipices were

occupied. Three more posts had two listeners present and there
were four members of the Siperek family joined together atop
their home focusing their effort as one. Dalevin did not know
what to think. His grandmother maintained her hold on him but
did not acknowledge him further. He followed her efforts more
closely and slowly synchronized his senses with the channel she
was receiving on. It turned out everyone was tuned in to the
same transmission. This was no drill, and it definitely was not
a simulation. No one seemed to register his presence when he
joined them. Their combined will was devoted to maintaining a
connection with the faintest of signals passing by somewhere out
in the distance of space.
Dalevin was confused. The signal they had homed in on was
not even psychonic. He could not identify its source, but it
definitely was not animate. He did not know what it was. It
certainly was not anything he would have paid attention to even
if he had detected it while searching on his own. To him it was
noise -- a disturbance to be filtered out so he could attend to
the job he had been trained to perform. He sat there motionless
and listened for the rest of the day and into the night.
Taquiri joined them without ceremony shortly before midnight.
Dalevin was desperate to communicate with her directly, but he
did not dare risk distracting the others.

Several hours later realization slowly began dawning on
Taquiri and her comprehension leached into Dalevin's psyche.
The signal they were monitoring was not the simple source
announcement beacon given off unconsciously by all things great
and small to give evidence of their existence. Rather, they
were eavesdropping on some sort of message. It was running in a
repetitious loop that re-started every couple of hours. No
doubt the elders had already parsed it into sections. By now
each would be committing their portion to memory according to
the established protocols so the entire transmission could be
pieced back together if they lost contact with the signal before
any one of them could memorize the entire code. Dalevin knew
that once everyone had their individual section committed to
memory, each would begin memorizing additional segments until
each individual had the entire transmission memorized or they
lost contact with the signal. Under the best possible scenario
they would have multiple copies of the entire transmission
stored so they could check later for transcription
discrepancies.
With his sister's help Dalevin finally came to understand
what had everyone so enthralled. His heart skipped a beat -- a
testament to his junior rank. Nothing should have been able to
jog his core body regulation during a proper state of vigilance.
But that was why he was not assigned a position in the

memorization hierarchy. His role as a soloist was merely to
notify others if he detected anything of interest. After
sitting through the entire transmission a few times, he began to
recognize a difference in the middle third of the message. The
signal itself remained on the same strange channel, but the
pattern in the code changed considerably. The channel they were
listening to did not shift to a psychonic band, but the source
of the signal, whatever it was, seemed to begin broadcasting its
own translation of a psychonic transmission that it was passing
along to some distant recipient. After sitting through another
full loop, Dalevin began to tremble slightly.
He was helpless to control the adrenalin that started
pumping through his body. The middle third of the broadcast was
definitely a relay or an interpretation of a psychonic
transmission that had not originated with the sender they were
listening to. What was an inorganic transmitter doing forwarding
psychonic signal translations off-band? The pattern of the
psychonic portion seemed vaguely familiar to Dalevin. It was
not a direct match with any of the seven he had been required to
memorize as a child, but it was not supposed to be either. He
had always been cautioned that they were not looking for an
identical match. The ones they were searching for were only
supposed to bear a vague resemblance to their predecessors in
the way a child might bear a parent's likeness.

Ilstachian children, who were brought up in the guild's
seeker sects, were told at a young age that their mission would
be like scanning the crowd for a long lost cousin whom they had
never met or seen in a painting. They were taught that in order
to find the missing one who was next in line they would need to
detect familiar features in the catalyst's signal that suggested
a kinship with its predecessor while hinting at a heightened
sense of purpose. The particular patterns in this translation
were new to everyone who was tuned in, but they definitely
suggested a possible kinship with at least one of the seven
codes they had all been forced to memorize as children.
When Valerenzaa finally released her grip on Dalevin's
wrist, his eyes flew open. It was still night, but dawn was
near. Stars shown brightly across the sky. The storm had
passed. The snow fields on the peaks below reflected a pale
luminescence while the valleys farther down remained pools of
darkness. Dalevin knew what he had to do. There was not much
time if they were to get all the help they needed. He scrabbled
to the shaft on his hands and knees and shoved the lid aside
snapping the icy seal.
He hurried backward over the edge, placed his hands and
feet on either side of the ladder uprights, and eased his grip
intending to slide down the ladder's rails rather than climb
down its rungs. After slipping a few feet he jerked to a halt

with a grunt. He had forgotten to unfasten his harness from the
safety line. Dalevin struggled back up, unhooked himself and
tried again. This time he plummeted down through the shaft like
a horned shemp shot from an overhanging ledge by an unskilled
hunter. Panic gripped him when he found that he could not
squeeze tightly enough to stop his descent.
Dalevin managed to slow himself a bit, but then searing
pain caused by the friction forced him to relax his grip once
more. In an instant he was falling again at breakneck speed.
Fearing for his life he alternately squeezed and relaxed his
grip in a desperate effort to check is speed. The effect on his
descent was barely noticeable. Sensing that he was moments from
death, panic drove Dalevin to clench his hands around the side
rails with all his might. His bulging forearms remained flexed
even as he let out an anguished scream that trailed behind him.
He woke up lying on his side on the stone floor of the
family's entryway. His stepmother was hovering over him in her
nightgown mopping blood from his chin with a dish towel. His
eyes fluttered in the dim light, when she eased his shattered
goggles up onto his forehead.
"Dalevin, can you hear me? Are you all right?"
Dalevin struggled to sit up.
"Do not try to move, Dalevin. You fell, and you look badly
hurt."
Confused, he brushed her aside and sat up slowly with a
grimace. He noticed his two front teeth jutting out from his
kneecap, just as his tongue discovered the empty sockets in his
mouth. The debris scattered all around him on the floor made
him look up at the ceiling where he saw the remains of the lower
trap door hanging in splinters. It slowly dawned on him that he
had crashed right through it. He must have been knocked out
when his feet hit the floor and his upper body whip-lashed
forward slamming his face into his knees.
"It is a good thing your sister had the common courtesy to
shut the door behind her. You would be dead or worse if it had
not slowed you down before you hit the floor."
Dalevin eased his head from side to side testing his neck.
"Stop moving around, Dalevin. Your nose is broken, and
there is no telling what other injuries you have besides your
teeth."
Broken nose or not, Dalevin could still smell something
burning. He looked toward the kitchen but quickly realized it
was his hands that were smoldering. The heat had scorched right
through his gloves and the liners. Seeing the melted flesh on
his palms awakened the corresponding pain receptors in his
brain. The clarity they provided helped remind him why he had
been in such a hurry in the first place. Dalevin let out an
involuntary cry as he surged to his feet. He teetered on his

right leg and looked down to see that his left foot was even
farther askew than normal. Bone was bulging under the skin
above his ankle where it should not have been.
"Dalevin, sit back down right now. You need to stay still
and wait for me to get some help," Ratasha insisted. "Wait
right there and let me put some clothes on."
Dalevin shrugged her hand off his shoulder and disappeared
out the front door hop-limping as fast as he could. Ratasha was
left checking around the floor to see if he had bitten off his
tongue in the fall. Outside Dalevin realized the he could not
have been knocked out for long. It was still dark, but the pre-
dawn light was already threatening on the horizon. He briefly
considered digging out the safety line that traversed the
precarious route along the thin trail angling gradually away
from their front door, but then he rejected the idea as a waste
of valuable time. The hike down to the last balloon and pulley
platform was already going to take him longer than usual. If he
had to deal with freeing the safety line every step of the way,
then it would be light out before he made it down.
Dalevin knew that his injured ankle would not support the
effort to plow through the deep drifts stacked atop the
shoulder-width spine of rock. He dove forward pushing off his
one decent leg and then frantically pulled himself along with
his arms as far as he could in one big heave before struggling

upright and repeating the process. The snow that he displaced
fell thousands of feet on either side of him before landing on
opposite facing boulder fields.
He floundered ahead like that for several hundred yards.
Despite being born and raised at that extreme altitude,
Dalevin's breath was soon coming in ragged gasps. When he
reached the point where the ridge dropped away at a much steeper
angle, he did not hesitate. He dove off the lip and started
paddling wildly with both arms as soon as his chest hit the
snow. Initially he had hoped only to maintain his momentum, but
this section of the trail was more windblown, so there was less
snow to hinder his progress. Consequently, he was soon fighting
desperately to keep himself from veering off track and over the
edge. As it approached the lip of the upper saddle, the
bladelike spine he was bodysurfing down spilled onto a wide open
snow field that was nearly vertical. Dalevin sailed out over
the lip and cart-wheeled the last two hundred feet in a virtual
freefall leaving widely spaced divots in his wake. He finally
slammed to a halt head down in a snow bank directly beneath the
platform that supported the balloon terminus and pulley launch.
The excruciating pain in his ankle reoriented Dalevin
enough so that he was able to extricate himself and continue on.
Once atop the platform he discovered that there were no enclosed
carriages available. He did not bother signaling to have one

floated up. There was not time. Instead he decoupled an open-
air cargo pulley from the main cable extending down to the
valley floor. After some painful fumbling he managed to
unfasten the freight bin and its cumbersome automatic brake.
Then, he attached the bare pulley wheel and operator's handle to
the seldom used cable that ran almost laterally across to the
top of a mountain whose peak was only slightly lower than where
he stood.
This time Dalevin did not dare forego the available safety
precautions since using them would not slow him down
appreciably. Normally, it would have been easy for him to hold
on and support his weight long enough to make the crossing, but
his hands were so badly damaged that he did not trust his grip.
He clipped his harness onto the pulley's handle and let it hold
most of his weight as he pushed himself off with one leg. Even
without the cargo bin and auto-brake, the trip was much slower
than he would have liked. The cable angle was so flat that
balloons were no use along this route. Free pulleys were used
in both directions, meaning he would have to employ some muscle
power for the long pull back up to the saddle when he returned.
The peak he was destined for rose up conspicuously by
itself from the center of the valley. When he reached the end
of the cable he unhooked and hurried down off the platform as
best he could. A large pile of rock taller than the platform

stood nearby. It looked like a miniature volcano complete with
a lava dome. Dalevin crawled up the side and began digging
feverishly in the snow around the base of the dome until he
found a frozen cord that secured a tarp lying over the top of
the dome. After overcoming the icy knot that joined the two
ends, Dalevin wrapped one end of the cord around his forearm and
backed down off the heap dragging the tarp after him.
Underneath there was a massive jumble of old mineshaft support
beams and smaller lumber stacked over a mound of carbonite.
Dalevin clawed his way back up and quickly found the old
can of savian oil right where he had left it. The cap was
rusted shut so he punctured a hole in the side with a rock and
splashed the contents liberally around the base of the pyre. He
used the last little bit to soak a wad of rags that he had
wrapped around a stick and stored next to the can of oil. It
only took a few strikes with his flint to spark the torch.
Dalevin applied the flame around the pile of combustibles then
retreated down off the rocks as the blaze erupted.
He was glad to see that the sky was still dark enough to
offer sufficient contrast and that it would stay that way for
awhile yet. All was black down below as well. Any lamps that
might have been left to burn through the night were too dim to
be seen from this height. He checked the fire over his shoulder
and scanned the horizon all around to no avail before turning

his attention nervously back to the valley floor. His
misgivings were put to rest when the lonely toll of a single
bell finally reached his ears. It was soon joined by others.
When Dalevin looked out into the distance again he was
rewarded by the sight of another signal fire rising up from a
peak at the far end of the valley. Over the course of the next
hour, fires ignited on select mountain tops in an outward
rippling pattern until they were visible in every direction as
far as the eye could see. There had been a time when the result
would have been achieved more quickly, but the pyre caretakers
mostly lived in the lowlands these days. It took time to fire
balloons and reach the summits. In millenniums past there had
not even been a need for such a system. It was only put in
place after the number of true followers fell below the
necessary threshold to allow for mass psychonic notification.
Dalevin shed his coveralls and collapsed to the ground
satisfied that before the sun was up bonfires would burn on
scattered peaks across the entire continent. The bells they
summoned would rouse the less pious from their slumber. The
winter solstice was still three months off, and the next drill
was not scheduled to occur for another two years. When the
bells directed their attention aloft and everyone saw the peaks
alight, they would know that the event they had been
anticipating for more than five thousand generations was finally

taking place. The vast majority of the populace would soon be
lending their assistance to the effort by concentrating all of
their individual attention on the north moon, which hung
stationary in the sky where everyone across the continent could
focus on it simultaneously. Valerenzaa and the other elders
would harness that collective focus and turn it to their
purpose.
Dalevin could not help wonder what would happen next and
whether the coming changes would take place during his lifetime.
He closed his eyes and set about trying to rejoin the effort.
If the signal held and all went accordingly, Valerenzaa would
eventually try to send a message home, and Dalevin did not want
to miss being a part of that. Enquiries had been sent in the
past, but there had never been any replies -- not in living
memory anyway. Doctrine insisted that this not discourage them,
but after so long without any contact one could not help lose at
least a little bit of faith. There were endless possibilities,
not the least plausible of which was that the war had been lost.
If anything was going to elicit a response, this had to be it.
Still, even if the message was eventually received at home,
there was no telling how long it might take for an
acknowledgment to make its way back.

CHAPTER 18
(*)He dragged himself into the office just before ten
o'clock. Wednesday -- hump day. Friday was now officially in
sight. Falan stepped out of the elevator intent on following
the path of least resistance.(*)
When he started falling asleep at his desk he went outside
to sit by the fountain in the middle of Dupont Circle. He was
done -- done for the day and just plain done. It was stifling
out. The stagnant air and exhaust fumes made the heat that much
more oppressive. He found a seat on a bench in the shade,
loosened his tie and undid his collar. The chess players were
slapping their clocks and shifting their pieces. Every so often
cash changed hands under the table. They were a mixture of
young suits on their lunch hour, older men sporting the
disheveled professor look, and street types hustling beer money
and sipping malt-liquor from tallboys wrapped in newspaper.
Buses and other traffic clamored around the circle on all
sides. The lunch crowd was on the move clogging sidewalks and
marching through intersections. The regular homeless contingent
was on hand, plus one or two new faces. Falan didn't recognize
the old lady wearing the faded yellow rain poncho and the
vintage Orioles cap. She looked to be one of those who were the
furthest gone. She had to be cooking alive inside that vinyl

oven. He watched her forage in one trash can and then another
but turned away when he couldn't decide what to do about it.
A steady stream of bike messengers were coming and going
from two different groups of couriers hanging out on opposite
sides of the circle. One of new arrivals turned out to be Mike
Brown. Mike gave him a wave as he pulled up and dismounted
alongside one of the groups. His helmet came off revealing a
shaved head covered in dark stubble. He handed an oversized
envelope to a black guy with a platinum Mohawk then hobbled over
to Falan using his bike like a geriatric walker.
Mike was lanky with corded arms and chiseled thighs all
outlined in multi-colored Lycra. His shaved calves stood out
like knots above a pair of ankle socks. After leaning his bike
against the back of the bench, he pealed his racing jersey over
his head and plopped down next to Falan with a grimace.
"Blisters still acting up, huh?" Falan observed.
"Yeah, I just ditched my last package. My radio's off.
I'm quitting for the day."
"Those bike shoes can't be helping. Take 'em off and go
dangle your feet in the water," Falan suggested indicating
toward the fountain. "You could stand to even out that farmer's
tan, too."
"Look who's talking, office boy. I need to dry my feet out
and harden 'em up, not soak them."

Mike took off his shoes and socks and extended his legs so
that his feet poked out beyond the shade line into the sunlight.
"Your stitches don't look so bad. Santucci said somebody
whacked you."
"He's full of shit. I hit my head on a cabinet door --
hurt like hell, too."
"Then why have you got him teaching you to be a karate man
all of a sudden? Looking to go another round with that
cabinet?"
"Fuck you."
"Seriously, you've always bitched about your whole boxing
thing. Now all of a sudden you want to get into martial arts on
the same day you turn up looking like you got your ass beat?"
"I just want to be able to protect myself. Some maniac
comes after you, he isn't going to stand around exchanging jabs
or wait for the ref to break it up when you start clinching in a
corner."
"Yeah, so who's the maniac then?"
"Nobody, Jesus. I saw an article in Sports Illustrated
about this little Sumo guy who was clobbering guys twice his
size. He motivated my skinny ass is all. It's just a
precaution. You read about people getting kidnapped and shit
all the time down in South America."

"Gimme a break. You're going on a school-sponsored trip to
the rainforest not a bar crawl in the slums of Rio."
"Whatever. It's fucked up down there. Colombia's a mess.
They've got like half a dozen different armies battling it out -
- drug cartels, leftist guerillas, government troops, right-wing
militias -- you name it," Falan rattled.
"You said you were going to freaking Venezuela."
"Buy a map genius. We're going way south, near the
Brazilian and Colombian borders. I read where the Colombian's
are back and forth across the line causing all kinds of trouble
down there. Venezuela is a powder keg, too, with Chavez running
the show. Besides, the people we're supposed to be helping can
get pretty out of hand, themselves, and they don't like
outsiders."
"Whadaya mean? I thought you were taking ozone samples or
something."
"Maybe, if I was going to Australia or the Antarctic."
"Fuck off. What are you supposed to be doing down there
then?"
"There'll be a whole team of us. We're all basically gonna
take a different angle and work together to build a case for
creating incentives that will motivate governments and
businesses to preserve what little rainforest we've got left."

"What about you, though? What are you doing exactly? You
don't know jack about the rainforest."
"You have no idea what I know," Falan shot back. "My job
is to find a way to help the local Indians earn a sustainable
living by trading their knowledge of the rainforest to the big
pharmaceutical companies looking for ingredients to make the
next Viagra or whatever in exchange for royalties or some form
of profit-sharing."
"Good luck," Mike scoffed.
"We need it, but there's some hope that the big pharma guys
are starting to see the light. They did one study in Costa Rica
that showed fifteen percent of the plants down there had some
kind of cancer fighting potential."
"Sounds like a bunch of hype," Mike insisted.
"It isn't. The locals have already helped find a bunch of
plants that are being used to combat high blood pressure,
Hodgkin's disease, multiple sclerosis -- even Parkinson's. The
drug companies are making a killing, and the indigenous people
are getting robbed blind."
"So what makes you think corporate America is suddenly
going to get a conscience?" Mike asked.
"Nothing, the well is drying up on them. It's in their own
interest to do the right thing. We're losing nearly eighty
million acres of rainforest a year. That's like bigger than

Poland," Falan stressed. "They don't want to see their best
source of new drugs go up in smoke, so they're starting to take
a longer-term view."
"Still, sounds pretty iffy to me. I still don't see what
you're gonna be able to do about it."
"I'll be working with this MBA guy and a law school student
to build a financial and legal case designed to convince the big
drug companies that it's in their best interest to pay a fair
price for the information they're getting from the locals and
show them why they should be helping to preserve what's left of
the jungle down there. The Indians are going to be a whole lot
more cooperative if they feel like they're getting a fair shake
and see concrete steps being taken to protect their homeland.
The natives get paid, the rainforest survives and the drug
companies secure a long-term source of new drugs. Their legal
liabilities go down, and their stock prices go up. Walla,"
Falan finished spreading his arms.
"Tough sell. How'd you finally convince your dad to go
along with all this?"
"Don't get me started."
"He said he'd pay for it though?"
"Not yet. I'm still working on it."

"You're a glutton. Why don't you just stick with Seattle -
- cruise up to Whistler-Blackomb whenever you want? You're not
going to get any boarding in down there."
"I need to break out of this rut. I can't face another
summer back here working for my dad. This might open some
doors. I can snowboard my ass off again next year."
"Man, it sounds like this law gig is just the ticket,
though. If you really want to help these people or save the
world or whatever, maybe you should stop all this bullshit with
your dad and become a lawyer -- just switch sides and play for
the other team."
"I know. That's the brutal part. My professor says the
same fucking thing, but I'm so bitter I can't see straight. I
just need to do something totally different."
"Like what?"
"I have no idea."
"You just don't want to give your dad the satisfaction of
seeing you go to law school."
"That's probably part of it."
"Hell, man, he wants to pay, let him pay."
"No, I've got to get out from under his thumb. As long as
he's paying the bills, I've got no say in anything."
"Take out some student loans, and be done with it then.
All you do is bitch about him."

"Fuck that, I'm broke."
"How the hell can you be broke? Your dad covers everything
for school, and you make more during the summer than I could in
a year pedaling this friggin' bike around."
"You're gonna end up dead riding around the way you guys
do."
"My point exactly. Stop complaining, or do something about
it."(*)
"Let's go get something to eat," Falan said changing the
subject.
"No, Julie and those girls are hanging out by the pool at
her place. Her parents are at their house on the Eastern Shore
for the week. She told me to pick up some wine coolers for them
and whatever else and swing by. I was going to take the tow
path out to Potomac, grab some booze at The Village, and see if
I can squeeze in a little more summer lovin'."
"Ride your bike all the way out there? You're the glutton.
This is the only lovin' you're gonna squeeze in," Falan gestured
opening and closing his fist. "Who all's over there?"
"You know, the usual suspects: Karen, Stephanie...some
friend of Julie's from school who's visiting from Wisconsin or
someplace."
"Don't they have jobs?"

"Come on, tanning is a legitimate profession out in
Potomac."
"You wanna throw your bike in my car? I'll head over there
with you, if we can add pizza and beer to the wine cooler
order."
"Hell yeah," Mike exclaimed. "I could use a wingman.
You're not going back to work?"
"No, I'm burned out."
"Let's go then. If the Steamer hasn't fired you by now, I
guess he isn't going to."(*)

CHAPTER 19
Falan ended up eating dinner with the Santuccis. Joe's dad
was an avid soccer fan, so they watched a live match from the
Italian Premier League on the Spanish Channel while they ate.
Mrs. Santucci was old school, and kept forcing more and more
food on all of them. Joe finally had to shoo his mom away and
warn her they'd both get sick all over the basement if she
didn't let up. Falan wasn't hungry, but he finished everything
on his plate. When the two of them finally made it downstairs,
they were both stuffed.
"Let's loosen up for a little while, give ourselves a
chance to digest," Joe said. "I'll show you some stuff on the
rest of that video."
They stretched while Joe used the remote to alternately
fast forward and rewind to various fight sequences.
"Have you got these tapes memorized or what?" Falan asked.
"Yeah, pretty much. I've had 'em for years. The older
ones are better, before they started adding all the rules and
time limits. I'm looking for the fights where I know there is a
big weight difference between the two fighters, since you act
like this medicine cabinet is twice your size."
Falan ignored the comment.

"So like with that miniature Sumo wrestler, is there a
standard game plan that a little guy can use to beat a freaking
Neanderthal?" Falan asked.
"Not really, I mean there are some general rules of thumb,
but each opponent is going to be different even if they're all
bigger than you. You need to attack their weaknesses and be
ready to defend and counter against their preferred attacking
styles. The Sumo guy in that article probably knows most of his
opponents, so he plans a little differently for each one based
on their strengths and weaknesses. Generally, if the other guy
is a grappler, you want to stay on your feet. If he's a
striker, you want to get him on the ground."
"That's assuming it's all the same to you," Falan said.
"Yeah, we're talking theory here. Right now, you probably
don't want to go to the mat with anybody. With your boxing
experience your best bet is gonna be to punch it out or run like
hell."
"Didn't you start out with sword fighting or something?"
Falan asked.
"Yeah, I started with kendo," Joe nodded pointing to a row
of split bamboo fighting sticks leaning in a rack. "Back in
junior high I thought it would help me with my lacrosse game."
"So much for that," Falan laughed.

"Hey, I was better than you. It helped some, but I ended
up liking martial arts better and quit lacrosse to experiment
with different fighting styles. I figured I wasn't going to be
able to run home and get my sword if someone tried to kick my
ass, so I wanted to get more into the hand-to-hand stuff."
"All right, teach me some of it already."
"Okay, I'm still not sure what this is all about, but
running is a viable option. I'm serious. If you think this guy
knows what he's doing, I mean knows martial arts, you need to
run. Even if he's half your size, get the hell out of there
'cause you don't know shit, and he's going to fuck you up."
"Then why am I even bothering? I should just buy a gun
like you said."
"I'm just saying it takes time. A couple of sessions with
me isn't going to do much. It might help with some bonehead
after last call, but that's about it. Don't think this little
bit I'm showing you is going to help against anyone who really
knows what's up. You've got to train with an instructor and
practice this stuff over and over for years before it'll do you
any real good."
"I will, I told you -- as soon as I get back from South
America. For now just show me how to deal with a huge psycho
killer who doesn't know shit."

"All right I'm just saying...," Joe said holding his palms
up. "Most people are clueless when it comes to street fighting.
Assuming you aren't going out looking for fights, you don't need
to worry too much about the guys who truly know what they're
doing. They aren't generally the ones starting brawls or
attacking people for no reason. It's the former high school
football players and ex-wrestlers with no outlet for their
aggression that you have to watch out for. Some of them get a
few beers in them and that's it.
"Most of the time, though, you know exactly what these guys
are going to do, so they're pretty easy to deal with, even if
you're relatively new to martial arts. Now when I say new, I
mean a couple years new, not a couple days new. Okay? If you're
serious about this, you really need to find a school and sign
up."
"Jesus, get off it already," Falan groaned. "I said I
would. Why are you bad-mouthing wrestlers? I remember guys
from our high school wrestling team who were half my size that
could have kicked my ass."
"Yeah, but I told you yesterday: wrestling is a sport. It
has a point scoring system and rules that have nothing to do
with winning a real fight. A good wrestler, who is conditioned
to follow the rules, is pretty easy to deal with if you study
martial arts. Wrestlers have a nasty habit of putting themselves

in really vulnerable positions when their opponents aren't
playing by the same rules."
"What do you mean?" Falan asked.
Joe rewound the tape for awhile.
"Watch this guy. He's a wrestler -- a former college all-
American trying to break into mixed discipline fighting. He's
tough as hell, but he gets worked 'cause he can't shake his old
habits. You can see right there he's not afraid to throw a
punch, and someone obviously taught him to block a kick. But
watch right here. Bam! He goes for the takedown. He got lucky.
The other guy could have ended it right there with a knee to the
face, if he'd had his shit together.
"Now look. When his opponent reverses the hold, the
wrestler reverts to his old instincts and tries to get onto his
hands and knees. He's been wrestling for twenty years, so
that's what he's trained to do. What he should have done is
rolled onto his back with his knees up, but lying on your back
is the quickest way to lose a wrestling match, so he can't bring
himself to do it. When he gets on his hands and knees, his
opponent gets on top from behind like you'd expect. Only
instead of applying a wrestling hold, he locks his arm under the
wrestler's throat in a wicked choke hold, and that's it -- game
over," Joe said snapping his fingers.

"So, you're saying he should have just laid flat on his
back? Wouldn't the other guy just sit on his chest and punch
his lights out?"
"He might. It depends how good each of them is. Either
way, going to his back is his only chance in that situation.
You saw what happened when he got on his hands and knees. Watch
this next fight, two Jujitsu guys -- grapplers or ground
fighters mainly. See, the bald guy gets thrown down, and then
he immediately flips onto his back. That's called the guard
position. It's totally alien to a wrestler, but it's the only
way you can see what's coming and have a chance at defending
against it.
"If the fighter on top isn't careful, the guy lying on his
back will twist around somehow and get a joint lock on him then
try to snap his knee or elbow. That or the guy on bottom might
find a way to apply a choke hold and knock him out by cutting
off the blood flow to his brain. Of course in a real street
fight the guy on the bottom could go for the eyes, tear away an
ear or even bite the guy's nose off. There are still a few
taboos even in these mixed martial arts contests."
"Lucky you. But can't the guy on top, just wail away and
knock the guy out?"
"Sometimes, but it's not as easy as you think. Watch: the
average striker prefers to fight standing up. He'd usually

rather let the other guy get up so he can punch and kick him,
rather than dive on top of him and try to hit him on the ground.
When you're on top, you're better off trying to hammer the guy
with your elbows, instead of your fists. It's really effective.
You're able to deliver a lot of power without extending your
arm. Any time you extend your arms, legs or neck, you risk
letting the bottom guy get a submission hold on you. Boom!
Right there," Joe exclaimed, pointing. "See how the guy on the
bottom has the top guy's arm? He could snap that elbow, but the
fighter on top is submitting. See him tapping on the mat with
his free hand so the referee will stop the fight?"
"God damn, that didn't take long," Falan said. "What if he
didn't have a free hand to tap with?"
"His corner man would throw in the towel or his elbow would
break. That was a quick one. A lot of them are, but some of
these fights go on fifteen to twenty minutes when both guys are
evenly matched."
"So what about boxers? Do any of them try to compete in
these mixed martial arts events?"
"Not really. The ones who switch to kick boxing early
enough sometimes get into it after they have a handle on the
basic grappling techniques. The thing is, boxers never have to
fight on the ground, and that's where most of these fights end
up. You boxers are up a creek as soon as you get knocked down.
There aren't too many rules in these fights, and there aren't
any in the kind of fight you're talking about. If you seriously
think a guy is going to kill you or maim you real bad when you
end up on the ground, then go for the eyes, bite his balls off,
do whatever it takes."
"What happened to staying out of jail?"
"Yeah, I know, but if it's jail or a coffin, I'll take
jail. Look, here's a good one. Check this guy out: he's
fucking huge. He's not a boxer; he's a serious karate guy, but
he's much happier staying on his feet than going to the ground.
He has no desire to grapple with this little dude who has a
hardcore ground fighting rep. The big guy isn't very agile.
He's strong as shit and knows how to punch and kick, but he's
too big to maneuver around on the floor very well. He's also
slow getting up. You've seen how fast some of these guys pop
back up on their feet."
"So why doesn't the little guy just flop down onto his back
and wait if that's such a good tactic?"
"That's not unheard of, but in this case the other guy is
so much bigger it would be pretty risky. Sometimes a guy with
that much of a size advantage can pummel a little dude on the
ground just by overpowering him like you were saying -- not
usually, but sometimes. Watch what he does instead. He just
keeps backing up and circling. Then when the big guy steps in
to try to hit him -- wham! The little guy nails him with a fast
kick to the side of the leg just above the knee. Wham! There
he goes again, same leg."
"Doesn't seem to have much effect though," Falan observed.
"The big guy just keeps coming."
"Yeah, but watch. This goes on forever. I'll fast forward
it. Look, same thing over and over. Big guy keeps walking
right into it. Wham, same leg. Bang, there he goes again.
Okay, this is like ten minutes into it. Now look at him. He's
starting to limp a little. He knows he's in trouble. He's
landed a few kicks and punches here and there, but mostly the
little guy is too quick. He just keeps nailing him in the same
spot above the knee then dancing away. Even though he's
smaller, his leg is still longer than the other guy's arm, and
the big guy isn't helping himself any by just walking right into
the kick every time. He's convinced he can knock the guy out
with one good punch, but the more he comes straight ahead, the
more he leaves that leg open."
"All right, I get the point. Fast forward to the end of
this one, then let me try a few moves on your ass," Falan said.
"This is it right here. The big guy can hardly move his
left leg at this point, so he puts everything he's got into a
final attack. Watch, he reaches too far with this next punch.
His leg can't take all his weight like that and he stumbles
forward onto his hands and knees. Bam! See ya," Joe shouted
clapping his hands together as the larger fighter slumped over
unconscious on the mat. "A kick to the temple like that could
fucking kill you."
They spent the next two hours walking through various
moves. Joe showed Falan what to expect from most guys who
didn't have a clue and explained how to defend and counter basic
attacks. Toward the end they sparred for awhile. They went
full on for a half hour, or at least Falan went full on while
Joe toyed with him. Falan kicked, punched, blocked and grappled
on the floor for all he was worth, but he hardly landed a single
blow.
He was forced to tap out in less than a minute every time
he got knocked off his feet. Joe gave continuous instruction as
they battled, and while he wasn't too successful using them,
Falan did begin to understand some of the basic grappling
techniques. He quickly gained a real appreciation for why
wrestlers and boxers faired so poorly against grapplers who were
proficient at using submission holds to attack a person's neck
and joints.
"Come on, man, enough of that," Falan said at one point.
"Pretend you don't know what you're doing. Just act like some
meathead."
"Okay. But look -- your kicks are for shit. And, if you
want to choke a guy out, you've got to choke him like you mean
it."
"Man, I don't want to hurt your neck," Falan said.
"Don't worry, I'll take my chances."
Afterwards Joe gave Falan a couple of tapes to take with
him. They were upstairs having a beer in the kitchen when E.
called. The plan was to meet for happy-hour the next day then
go see some techno band none of them had ever heard of. All the
lights were out when Falan finally got home. He kicked his feet
up on the coffee table in the living room and turned on
Letterman glad for the peace and quiet.

CHAPTER 20
Ilstachian Military Espionage Agency
"Hey, Rikter, contact upstairs and get someone from the
directorate down here," Jervisco Valence said when he saw his
partner arrive to relieve him from duty. "I have something else
coming in from a listening post way out beyond the Karolin
sector."
"What is that, three this year from that bearing?"
"Four, but this one is different. Send them a
notification."
Their makeshift branch of the analysis office was housed in
a converted storage area below ground. The naked wiring,
antennas and ducts hanging from the ceiling were only partially
obscured by the gloom. The grossly under-funded department had
been moved down here shortly after the administration change.
The lone workstation was staffed by two new recruits working
opposite shifts half-a-day on, then half-a-day off. Florescent
red, emergency exit guides in the sub-floor offered the only
light aside from the dull green glow emitting from the single
active monitor.
"Different how? I thought we agreed not to bring anymore
undue attention to ourselves. You know what they are going to
say. Our job is to filter this stuff. Let's not cause another
big stir just because a few obsolete sounding machines have

finally decided to break down and start sending back nonsense
just before going quiet."
"I do not think this is coming from an automated station.
It reads like a live transmission from a colony of animate
listeners. Let's see, it would have to be from the 5,126th, no
5,127th generation if these records are right."
"You have got to be kidding. That is even worse. The
director's staff does not want us dragging them down here every
time a half-demented family of inbred outpost hermits detects a
solaroid going supernova or tunes into some new race of level-
three sentients who have just figured out how to domesticate
crops. Did you say five thousand one hundred and twenty-
seventh?"
"That is what the records show -- give or take a few score
depending on fluctuations in life expectancy."
"That has got to be a mistake. Do you know how rare
contacts like that are? They just do not happen anymore. That
would mean whoever is trying to reengage is directly descended
from a fleet of search pilgrims that left during the original
wave. None of their progeny have been heard from in nearly
twenty-three hundred big revolutions. Forget half-demented, if
any of their line are still procreating, they would have to be
fully deranged after being stranded out there for this long."
"Who says they have to be alone? I have got a feeling
about this one. Something big must have happened for them to
get back in touch after so long. Maybe they found what everyone
has been looking for all this time. This could be our voucher
out of here."
"Have you got psychomnesia? We cashed in the only voucher
we are likely to get. When we caught those troglodytes
smuggling cognium ore and uncovered their black market pipeline
-- that was as good as it gets. They were clear when they
promoted us. We have to make it through the probationary period
without incident, and we have already worn out our welcome. We
were fools to call in the earlier reports from out that way.
That Ilstachian bitch warned us. Nobody up there wants to hear
from us. This program is a joke to them. They barely
acknowledge that we even exist down here. Another fiasco like
the last one and we will be back in the mines supervising the
slaves again."
"Fine, I will contact them myself."
"Wait. Let's stop and think this through before we do
something we are going to regret."
"Never mind, I will take care of it. Go ahead and take
your break. This will be on me."
"Come on, Jervisco, hold on, think about..."

"Hello? Private Second Class Jervisco Valence to speak
with Senior Specialist Sandogaul Treachen, please. Thank you, I
will wait."
"You are calling him! What are you thinking? Hurry up and
disconnect!"
"He is the only one on duty from the technical side right
now. Besides he is perfect for this. They say he will do
anything to get ahead because he has the family connections to
keep him out of trouble. I know you do not want me calling a
member of the guild down here -- have one of those creepy fucks
snooping around -- digging into your fucking head. You remember
what Associate Director Gheddy was like. Treachen may fire us,
but he is not going to crawl inside your mind and trash the
place while he looks for the shit you will not even admit to
yourself."
"You just do not know when to leave well enough alone, do
you?"
"Relax. You were predicting sewer duty when I convinced
you to help me follow that fanged bastard into the derelict
shafts that day."
"Yeah, just wait. You will hate going back to breathing
through one of those god-damn respirators all day."

CHAPTER 21
Falan never heard his dad enter the room behind him. The
slap to his head rocked him over sideways on the couch and set
his ear pounding.
"What the fuck?" he barked as he tried to stand.
He was only halfway out of the cushions when his father
grabbed him by the collar and yanked him backwards over the
couch with one hand. Falan slammed onto the hardwood floor and
skidded on his ass toward the kitchen, clipping his head on the
edge of a bookcase along the way. There was blood on his finger
tips after he rubbed his temple.
"Where the hell did you disappear to all day?" James
Tiernan bellowed. "I tried calling your cell phone a dozen
times. You expect me to pay you a nickel for today? You come
in late then vanish for good before lunch. What the hell is
your problem? I might not be able to trust Allen Myer, but
you're my own blood. Who the hell am I going to trust, if I
can't trust you? You think there is a single person in that
office who would dare do once what you do on a daily basis?
Don't you have any integrity at all?"
Falan started to get up.
"Stay down there, or I'm going to be tempted to knock your
head off."
Falan stayed sitting on the floor slumped back against the
door jam looking up at his father.
"I'm sorry, I...I thought the case was on cruise control.
They said they wanted Cindy to finish up the leg work. I...I
assumed they wanted her up to speed since Friday's my last day.
I left a note for Roger like you said, and then I headed out for
awhile. I've wrapped up all my work. I don't really have
anything left to do at this point."
"Then you come to me or one of the other partners, and you
ask for more work. What the hell do you think I'm paying you
for? God damn it, I chewed Roger a new asshole. I told him I
wanted you on that project for a reason, and that by some
miracle you'd actually found something that might be important.
Five minutes later, Allen Myer is in my face. Wants to know
where the hell you are. Says if I want you on the project then
I should teach you something about work ethic. Says I should
tell you to watch your sarcastic mouth around him and the rest
of the senior staff. I looked for you all day. Do you know
what kind of asshole I looked like by two o'clock? I finally
had to make up some lame excuse how you'd called in from the
hospital saying that your stitches had come lose, and you were
getting them redone."
Falan got to his feet and stood in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, my phone was dead. I should have checked my
messages. I guess I figured I was more or less done for the
summer."
"Well, you're not. You're done getting paid, but you're
sure as hell not done working. I told payroll to forget about
your last check. You're paid up, so don't go hassle them about
it."
"Come on. You're gonna screw me out of a whole month's pay
just because I blew off one day. How fair is that?"
He didn't have time to react. His father, who was
surprisingly fast for such a hulk, caught him on the temple with
an open hand. The side of Falan's face cracked against the door
frame, otherwise he would have gone down again. A smear of
blood marked the paint, and a bump started welling up on his
cheekbone below the outside corner of his eye.
"You want fair? How's that? Fair enough? When you get
into the office tomorrow, go see Marilyn. She's got about ten
thousand electronic documents she's trying to organize. I
wanted you to dig deeper into that GenTech business for me, but
I obviously can't trust you beyond busy work so help her with
that crap till the end of the week."
James left Falan standing in the kitchen doorway bleeding
from two different spots on the side of his head.

CHAPTER 22
Falan didn't have too much trouble staying awake the rest
of the night after the run in with his father. The ephedrine
got him through the wee hours while he brooded in his room
trying to figure out where he was going to get his hands on the
money for South America. He decided that he really only needed
half the balance. That would pay for his travel and expenses
for the year. It wouldn't cover his tuition, which meant he
wouldn't get the thirty credit hours of independent study for
his transcript, but he didn't give a shit. It wasn't like he
really cared all that much about the rainforest or the poor
bastards living down there. He just needed a break from the
campus scene and some time to figure out what he was going to do
with his life. Ideas on how to come up with eleven grand proved
no more abundant than those for securing twenty-two.
Falan made it to work on time Thursday morning. He was
sporting a partial shiner where his father had tuned him up.
Not a bad one but definitely noticeable. Strangely, no one from
the office asked about it. He spent the whole day filing. It
was mind-numbing -- the sort of thing he'd helped with back when
he was still in high school. He took a quick walk around the
block at lunchtime and ate a hotdog from a cart, but that was
it. The rest of the time he kept his head down and watched the
clock. At six he blew out the door right behind the support
staff. Most partners and associates would remain at their desks
for at least another hour and some for a lot longer.
He changed clothes down in the parking deck then dodged
across the street mid-block and hurried inside a bar called The
Big Hunt. He found the rest of his crew already packed into a
booth upstairs toward the back, where they hoped their fake IDs
would attract less scorn. There were a couple of half-full
pitchers on the table. Eric Eastman saw him first.
"Gaviiiin, what's happening, dude?"
Eric wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had his blonde
hair tied back in a short-cropped ponytail. He poured a beer
and held it out for Falan as he approached. Eric was sandwiched
between two waifs who had to be sisters though one was a
brunette and the other more of a blonde. Joe and Mike were
sitting on the opposite side of the booth with their backs to
him.
"Eeeeee," Falan replied in the requisite baritone, "what's
going on, man?"
"Everything. Nice eye, that from your brawl with Santucci
last night?"
"Yeah."
"Lemme see," Joe said turning around. "You were fine when
you left my house."

"It colored up some overnight, I guess. One of the many
death blows you gave me."
"You better stick to knitting. You bruise like a fucking
grape," Santucci scoffed.
"Who are your friends?" Falan asked smiling at the girls.
"This is Angelique, and this is Veronica -- sisters," he
smiled.
Angelique said hi. Veronica just sort of grinned and
swayed forward a little. Angelique looked a couple of years
older than the four of them, but Veronica was young -- maybe
even still in high school. Their eyes were shiny, and the
pupils were enormous. Eric's eyes were bloodshot, but not
dilated. Falan squeezed in next to Joe.
"We both just got here, but E.'s been here awhile," Joe
said.
"Looks like Veronica's been here the longest," Falan
offered.
"That she has," Eric responded, "but now big sister is
here, and all is well. Right, Angelique?"
"That's right," the older brunette laughed as she reached
for her beer.
"So, you save any for the rest of us, or did your new
friends charm you out of everything?" Falan asked.

"Don't worry," Brownie offered, "I was wondering the same
thing. We're covered."
"Gentlemen," Eric smiled putting his arms around both
girls' shoulders, "have I ever let you down?"
Veronica nuzzled up against his neck with her cheek and
started kissing him lightly. Joe raised a hand to the waitress.
"Two more pitchers, please."
Eric Eastman was a fine arts major at the University of
Vermont. He'd just finished up his summer job as the assistant
director of arts and crafts at a local day camp.
"Angelique and Veronica worked with me this summer," Eric
said. "They're here from Amsterdam going to school out at
College Park. Today's Veronica's birthday -- eighteen. She'll
be a freshman. They were anxious to get a jump on the evening,
so they started without us."
"What about you?" Falan asked. "You look to be well on
your way."
"I sampled from the tasting menu when I stopped off to see
my guy. Just a touch to get my head in the game."
"Yeah right," Brownie said. "Angelique, don't you have a
couple more sisters you can call?"
"Em, yeah one, but she's living in Italy," she answered.
Veronica giggled.
"Don't worry about it," Eric assured them. "The 9:30 is
going to be packed with babes. Thursday night -- I guarantee
it."
Angelique joined her sister and started nibbling on his ear
from the other side. Falan looked over at Mike and Joe.
"Do we know this guy?"
They drank a bunch of pitchers and did a few shots over the
course of the next three hours. Everyone ordered food, but the
girls just played with theirs. After eating they all walked
into Georgetown, where Angelique had a room for the summer in a
group house. She rolled a joint when they got there and pulled
a bottle of Jaigermeister out of the freezer.
Veronica was more interested in Eric than in having
anything more to drink. Angelique gently tugged Eric loose from
Veronica's lip-lock and kissed him herself. Then she put the
joint in his mouth and lit it for him. It got passed around
several times. That, on top of the boozing, left them all
pretty toasty. By eleven o'clock they'd downed most of the
Jaiger.(*)
"All right, let's hit it. If we're not fucked up enough to
love this band, we never will be," Brownie said heaving himself
up off the sofa.
Eric stood up with him but nobody else moved.
"Come on, let's go," Mike said.

Veronica was trying to pull Eric back down onto the chair
they'd been sharing. Angelique got up, walked over and pulled
her younger sister up by the arms.
"Come on, sweetie, come to the bathroom with me. We're
going out to a club first."
All the guys were up and waiting by the door when the girls
came back. The cabbie griped about there being six of them and
made a scene about calling a second car until E. threw an extra
twenty bucks at him from the back seat. It was a short drive,
but by the time they reached the club everyone was in varying
stages of increased animation or introspection. Some of them
were laughing and being loud, while others were speaking less
and grinning more. Veronica seemed to get a second wind.
Inside the place was packed. The base was pounding and
colored lights flashed hypnotically. The main act was actually
some hipster DJ from London who'd been the bomb six or seven
years ago. He spun what was mostly a hardcore industrial mix.
Someone had been selling glow-light necklaces outside, and they
could be seen burning dimly in various colors throughout the
crowd. Veronica had acquired a green one someplace. She was
grooving along in her own little world, watching the lights and
trying to match her movements to the beat's steadily increasing
pace. Angelique already had Eric out in the crowd dancing.
Brownie came back from the bar with three beers and three shots.
"Man, I don't think I need that," Falan smiled leaning
backward with his palms up.
"It's not a matter of need," Mike handed out the drinks,
"Cheers."
He and Joe downed their shots. Falan just stared, smiling.
Joe made to grab his shot from him, but Falan pulled it
away and nailed it down in a single throw.
"Baagh, I don't think so," he yelled dropping the glass on
the floor then shaking Joe hard by the shoulder while laughing
and spilling beer.
The three of them stood near the back, drinking and
watching the scene. Veronica had joined E. and her sister, and
now the two girls had their buddy sandwiched between them as
they gyrated to the music.
"There we go right there," Mike shouted to them pointing to
a girl near the edge of the crush.
She was tiny -- like five-foot and thin but for a pair of
oversized breasts that swayed above her exposed midriff where a
diamond stud gleamed from her navel. Her short blonde hair was
stiff and spiky. She had on a pair of hip-hugger jeans and a
flimsy half-shirt. It quickly became very obvious that she was
trying to run a number on Joe.
She faced away from the crowd and maintained eye contact
with him while swaying seductively to the music. Her rhythm was
slow compared with the music, but that only served to emphasize
her point. She didn't appear to be with anyone. Brownie shoved
Joe forward.
"Come on, Santucci. Don't let us down."
Joe knocked back the rest of his beer and walked over to
the blonde. He took her by the hand and led her deeper into the
mass of people.
"That shit's not right," Mike said in Falan's ear.
"No shit.(*) Those girls don't even know we exist."(*)
"We've got some catching up to do," Mike said as he
disappeared into the crowd trying his best to act like he knew
how to dance.
Falan was left alone drinking his beer and grinding his
teeth a little. A perpetual grin was plastered on his face. It
was hot, and everyone was dripping with sweat. As much as he'd
had to drink, he was still too sober to dance. Maybe sober
wasn't the right word, but he was unwilling to navigate among
all the people, so he cruised the shadows on the perimeter.
People were huddled here and there groping one another or
just trying to cool off and get some air. He tried talking to a
couple of different girls, but he had no lines. One just
drifted away while he was in mid-sentence. The other reached
behind her and pulled a boyfriend out of nowhere. Falan moved
on.
The sets came and went -- one loud techno rift after
another. He saw Santucci still with the blonde. She would be
taking him home later: that much was obvious. Falan could have
used the diversion, but he knew it wasn't going to happen -- not
tonight. He had a big flashing sign on his forehead that read
"Thin Ice, Stay Off." He pounded beers.(*) The beers went down
like water to little effect. Mike checked in a couple times.
He was getting nowhere also, but that didn't seem to be slowing
him down any. As soon as he showed up, he was gone again.
Falan was getting pressed into the bar rail by a crush of
people when he flinched and looked back over his shoulder. The
mob behind him was a kaleidoscope of sweaty faces and upraised
arms gesturing to place drink orders. Everyone was pushing and
shoving as they fought for position and jockeyed around the
people trying to escape with drinks held high. He snapped his
head around to the front again, but there was nothing out of the
ordinary there either.
Falan looked around confused. This wasn't drug-addled
paranoia. Something was watching him. He peered toward the
shadows in the back once more and tried to pick out something
sneaking up on him. Whatever it was, used the crowd to conceal
its approach. The hidden stalker had not come to see the show.
It had come to find him, and its reasons were dark. Without
warning Falan began screaming and shoving his way left down the
front of the bar leaving his latest beer untouched and
forgetting about the change on his twenty.
People started shouting and pushing back at him, but
Falan's adrenalin was pumping. He powered through knocking into
people and spilling drinks as he went. A girl went down and at
least one guy took a swing at him, but the blow glanced off the
side of Falan's head unnoticed. Another girl screeched when he
stomped on her bare toes, but that just spurred him on. As he
reached the end of the bar, he tripped and went sprawling onto
the floor. He was on his hands and knees near the back of the
room, where there were fewer people. Falan realized his mistake
too late. He'd be easier to find out here away from the throng.
Falan stayed down and charged ahead crawling as fast as he
could through broken glass and other refuse. It was a lot
darker near the floor, and he kept banging into people's legs.
One guy kicked him twice in the ribs and called him a stupid
fuck, but most just shuffled out of his way pointing and
commenting as he scurried past. When he got to a wall, he
continued along the baseboard until he reached a corner.
There, Falan squeezed himself into the tiny space behind a
big trash can so he was facing out with his back to the wall.
He pulled his knees up to his chin and hugged his legs. He was
gasping and his heart was pounding so hard that the blood in his
ears threatened to drown out the techo-blare. Falan didn't know
how long he'd been hiding there when Mike found him.
"Hey, what the fuck are you doing down there? I've been
looking all over for you."
Falan didn't answer. He looked confused, like he was
trying to place his friend's face.
"Falan, come on, get up. Jesus Christ, you're a fucking
mess. What the hell happened to you? You get in a fight?"
Mike reached down and tried to pull Falan up by the arm,
but Falan shrugged him off without a word and kept scanning the
room behind his friend. The regular lights were coming on, and
the crowd had thinned considerably. The DJ was finished and the
house sound system was playing music at a much lower volume.
Falan noticed blood on his hands and felt the piece of glass
sticking out of his knee for the first time. His pants were
soaked and reeking of stale alcohol. What the hell was going
on, he wondered, as Mike forcibly lifted him to his feet.(*)
"What happened?"
"I don't know. One minute I'm at the bar waiting for my
change, the next minute I'm running for my life. It was like
some really intense paranoia or something. I've never felt
anything like it. I was sure someone was after me."
"Well, come on, I think everybody else took off awhile ago.
You all right?"

"Yeah," Falan said, "let's get the hell out of here."
They took a cab back to Dupont, but Mike couldn't find his
car, and the cabbie eventually kicked them out in disgust as it
started to rain. They spent the next half-hour reeling around
the neighborhood searching for his car.
"Man, I'm sure this is it."
There was a big "No Parking" sign staring at them from an
empty curb near the entrance to an alley.
"I always skinny it in right here."
"They towed your ass," Falan said taking a seat on the curb
oblivious to the rain pounding down on them.
"No way, they'd just give me a ticket wouldn't they?
That's not a towing spot."
"How many unpaid tickets have you got? If that's where you
left it, they towed your ass. Call 'em tomorrow. If they don't
have it, I'll help you look some more at lunch. Come on, let's
get out of here. My car's still in the garage at the office."
"You okay to drive?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"You are not fine."
"I'm fine enough, let's go."
"Okay, but I'll drive us to my house. You can either come
in and crash or drive yourself home."

"What makes you think you're any better to drive?" Falan
asked.
"I'm not the one who started acting like a psychotic freak,
maniac."
"Whatever, let's go," Falan responded dully.
Mike's parents lived pretty close to Falan's neighborhood,
so it was no big deal. When they got there, Mike got out and
held the door for Falan as he came around to get behind the
wheel.
"You sure you're okay," Mike asked.
"I'm not okay, but I'm fine to drive," Falan said as he
climbed into the driver's seat.
"Well, go home and get some sleep. You need to go see a
doctor before you go bonkers."
"Yeah, we'll see. Talk to you tomorrow."
Falan made it home just before four. He snagged a container of
take-out Chinese from the fridge and took it down to his room
where he picked at it for a minute before setting it aside. He
was still jittery, and his jaw and back were starting to feel
sore. On-line he found another message from Dr. Morales. He
needed the money. Falan didn't reply.(*) He was in no danger
of falling asleep any time soon, so he grabbed a book he'd been
reading about native Indian cultures in South America and laid
down in bed to skim through it.

CHAPTER 23
Associate Director Palerick Gheddy scanned the signal
dispatch that the director's nephew had just dropped off.
Another signal had come in from out beyond the Karolin sector.
Sandogaul Treachen was too clever for anyone's good. He had
been smart enough to recognize the risk involved with letting
this particular message go unflagged and yet wary enough to
leave himself an avenue of plausible deniability in case the
associated workload turned out to be another waste of effort.
The sneaky little vinick had bypassed his immediate superior on
the technological side of the service and delivered the
communiqué straight to Gheddy who headed the internal rival to
the Ilstachian espionage agency's technological branch.
This left Treachen in position to take full credit should
anything positive come of the report. But, by delivering it to
Gheddy in person, he could later deny all knowledge of any such
bulletin in the event that it turned out to be yet another
erroneous classification. If it came to that, the director's
nephew probably figured Gheddy would not be so quick to publicly
challenge him after their last altercation. Still, Sandogaul
Treachen was not the sort to leave anything to chance. Gheddy
could well imagine the threats Treachen invoked when he
confronted the analysts listed on the document's custody
manifest -- Jervisco Valence and Rikter Sherkin, junior recruits

of the lowest order. The director's nephew must have felt
secure in his ability to coerce those two into swearing the suns
were up when darkness clearly ruled.
After the recent uproar involving the hunt for the impetus,
Palerick was certain Sandogaul would do everything possible to
limit his own negative exposure. Doubtless he had already
rerouted the formal electronic notification sent from the
clerk's warren so it would appear to bypass his own repository
and go directly through to his boss's cache of reviewed and
deleted notifications, where it would be sitting unnoticed if
Treachen ever needed it. If anyone ever decided to check, it
would appear as though the alert went directly to his boss
without Sandogaul ever seeing it.
Palerick Gheddy knew all too well that the director's
nephew was more than capable of manipulating the new systems the
War College had insisted on installing. He had already been
stung once by the upstart's willingness to do so. Treachen and
his uncle, Director Vertimere, both came up through SecTech, the
Ilstachian espionage agency's mechanized branch. While Director
Vertimere had been a middling student, Sandogaul had graduated
at the top of his class.
Gheddy chuckled at the timing. He knew Sandogaul would
have preferred dealing with anyone else besides him, but the
origin of the message and the fact that Palerick was the sole
guild member on duty when it came in made him the only real
option. Funding cuts were making promotions hard to come by for
those in Treachen's cohort. Despite his mother's constant
harping in her brother's -- the director's -- ear, Sandogaul had
to know he faced a long haul in his current position unless he
could find a way to manufacture some sort of incident that would
topple his immediate superiors or catapult him above their rank.
As director, his uncle had a great deal of influence, but not so
much that he could completely ignore established advancement
protocol. Gheddy was a bit surprised that the director's nephew
was willing to take another run at him so soon.
As a guild acolyte, Palerick had little trouble discerning
Treachen's true intentions and recognizing his subtle
deceptions. Not having tech skills, however, made it difficult
for Gheddy to convince others outside the guild of Treachen's
machinations. Most technologists would simply ignore him. The
possibility that any acolyte, much less a relatively senior
official in military's espionage service such as himself, would
suffer such skepticism from their like would have been so
utterly unthinkable in past ages that warnings of just such an
outcome had gone unheeded. The last controversial row that
Treachen had ignited between Gheddy and the now dominant
technological branch of the Ilstachian Military Espionage Agency
showed just how far things had deteriorated for the guild.
During an earlier period in the war, the Ilstachians had
been pushed into growing their forces so quickly that there had
not been enough time to properly train all the new recruits in
the guild's holistic arts. Controversial artificial
intelligence systems had been developed and implemented so that
a new branch of the military could be added much more quickly.
Members of this new branch were not required to complete the
guild's stringent and protracted acolyte training.
Instead they were put through a technical curriculum that
required a fraction of the time and effort to complete. The
question of whether the protectorate should adopt the stopgap
measure nearly caused a civil war in its own right. The
decision to go forward with the program undeniably halted a
massive Istalchian retreat that had been underway during that
phase of the conflict, but many felt the price they paid had
been too high. Since then the Ilstachians had been far more
dependent on technology than they otherwise would have been.
Fears that expanding the military through such means would
undermine the Ilstachian protectorate in the long run now seemed
entirely justified within guild circles.
Conservatives then and now believed that the Ilstachians
would ultimately have been better off conceding territory and
consolidating their geosphere of influence rather than
succumbing to any increased reliance on technology. Many argued

this would have bought them the time needed to properly train
new acolyte forces in the traditional manner. Instead, a short-
sighted desire to hold onto a few provincial cosmos of little or
no strategic significance caused the fractured Ilstachian
leadership to cripple successive generations by forcing them to
rely more heavily on mechanized artificial intelligence systems
to defend their domain. The new policy was in direct conflict
with the long-held guild doctrine prohibiting the development or
importation of any technology that might one day become capable
of independent cognition. This broach prompted the guild's high
council to implement certain fail safe measures outside official
government channels in an effort to ensure that Ilstachian
society did not befall the same fate as so many others who chose
to adopt such risky measures.
Palerick grudgingly acknowledged that the liberal view
could not be wholly discounted. Given that one of the
Ilstachian's most dangerous adversaries was entirely devoid of
living constituents, a strong argument could be made for doing
everything possible to learn its secrets. Gheddy and others
maintained, however, that adopting technological means to learn
those secrets was beyond rash. The Beledenites were a prime
example. They had gone down that road and now found themselves
perilously intertwined with the Synthedon horde. Palerick
considered it the height of arrogance to think that they could

adopt such measures while avoiding the fate of so many other
living species who tried before them. The Synthedon, after all,
did not evolve naturally or invent themselves.
This new branch of the Ilstachian military was initially
conceived to perform a subordinate role, which was the only
reason the new policy managed to gain the necessary support.
Its members were never intended to become eligible for promotion
to the officer class. Yet, as the Ilstachians conquered and
assimilated an ever-growing number of sentient species, a
smaller and smaller percentage of those were suited for acolyte
indoctrination. This caused accommodations similar to those
made for the military to be made for the institutions that
regulated political and civil affairs as well.
Eventually non-guild citizens, resident immigrants and even
affiliated inhabitants on the protectorate's periphery worlds
managed to insinuate themselves into all branches of local and
societal government. The effects were insidious. Where once
their class had been relegated to the service industries, trades
or mercantile sectors, a growing number of non-acolytes were now
becoming professionals and rising to significant positions of
power across nearly all segments of Ilstachian society. The
Ilstachian's Ludition allies were incredibly disturbed by this
transformation and diplomatic relations were suffering greatly
as a result, making Palerick's job all the more difficult.

The passing of two hundred generations was an interim
somewhat longer than the blink of an eye but not dramatically so
within the scope of this war. The most recent such interval was
marked by dramatic shifts of fortune that saw events cycle
heavily in favor of the Synthedon. That civilization -- if it
could be called that -- expanded at an exponential rate during
that period. Their manufacturing base had grown so vast that it
was constrained only by its access to natural resources. Where
previously the search for the impetus had occupied the majority
of their focus, the Synthedon were now able to deploy a growing
proportion of their forces against their living rivals without
detracting from their ultimate quest. This shift prompted the
Ilstachians to try brokering an alliance between the three
dominant organic species, but the differences between the
Beledenite and Ludition philosophies could not be overcome.
After the Ilstachians and Luditions came to terms, the
Beledenites turned and negotiated a tenuous deal with the
Synthedon. What had been a four-way free-for-all coalesced into
a two-sided affair comprised of fragile alliances founded on
loosely shared ideologies. In reality the shift did little to
improve the long-term prospects for any of the animates. Most
acolytes felt that the Synthedon's growing aggression raised the
importance of Palerick's mandate even further, but the strategic
initiative he oversaw was so shrouded in ambiguity that few

outside the guild agreed. Those Ilstachians who harbored even
the least bit of technical leaning were of the opinion that any
program that failed to produce a significant result after more
than five thousand generations was long overdue for
cancellation.
Though the fighting had worsened, it was still far removed
from any of the participant's major strongholds. The core
galaxies in the Ilstachian's home multiverse had not been
subjected to hostilities in nearly fifteen hundred generations.
Those who inhabited the capital systems took little notice of
the war so long as the local politicians managed to keep the
protectorate's rotating draft at bay. This lack of perspective
was fueling a ravenous appetite for social services and
infrastructure projects that had traditionally been given much
lower priority in favor of military spending.
As a result nearly all of the Ilstachian defense budget was
now needed to sustain direct combat operations. There was
little left over to fund support functions such as the
military's espionage agency. This shortfall was what threatened
to consign Treachen and his peers to a lifetime mired in middle
management. There was little turnover in the Ilstachian
military's non-combatant forces these days, and the openings
caused by attrition had been going unfilled for awhile now. The
budget crunch was also putting the guild's long-running search
for the impetus in serious jeopardy.
In Palerick's view the treaty with the Luditions was a
cosmetic improvement at best, unless they could leverage the
relationship to improve their odds of finding the catalyst
before it was too late. Time was on the Synthedon's side. He
firmly believed that now the tide could only be turned by
achieving some sort of dramatic paradigm shift. That meant
diverting resources away from combat operations and pouring them
into the military's woefully under-funded Espionage Directorate.
While the Luditions forsook nearly everything else in order to
maximize their relentless search for the seed, the fractured
Ilstachian leadership allowed itself to be shackled by a peevish
and impractical segment of society that clamored incessantly for
increased spending on a growing array of frivolous domestic
endeavors.
The associate director was nonplussed. There would be no
need for publicly subsidized metroliner service to the beach
resorts out in the tropical rim galaxies when the first
Synthedon battle cruisers arrived, and no amount of spending on
military hardware was going to stop them from coming. History
should have made it clear to everyone by now that martial
strength alone would never overcome the onslaught that was
bearing down on them. Despite local appearances to the

contrary, they were in a fight to the death that could not be
ignored. Combat operations had to be sustained, but their
ultimate survival hinged on finding other means to achieve
victory.
That the four principle combatants had either achieved
sentient parity or developed its less quantifiable, inanimate
counterpart suggested an obvious area in which to seek a
strategic advantage. Many Ilstachians had lost sight of the
real objective. They had come to view the destruction of their
foes as the end goal. Gheddy and the dwindling guild class,
however, still remembered that the war was merely a by-product
of the race that ignited it. Those who still believed in its
existence felt strongly that the first species to find the next
impetus and harness its potential would gain a significant
advantage in the struggle. Though previous such advantages had
been squandered, the acolytes maintained that history need not
be repeated so exactly.
Luckily a number of Palerick's field agents were reporting
that at least one of their foes appeared similarly distracted.
The Beledenites, who for the most part retained and employed
only a modicum of holistic power, were obsessed of late with
fortifying their existing strongholds. They seemed to be
preparing for an endless siege. This suggested they did not
expect their truce with the Synthedon to last. Meanwhile the

Synthedon, who were by far the most successful of the
inorganics, continued sending out search drones at an
assemblematic pace.
The dominant organic civilizations were fighting one
another long before the Synthedon came to their attention. The
three of them were battling over a hotly contested frontier
multiverse that held promise of harboring the seed, when a small
Synthedon expeditionary force streamed through the barrier
membrane from the wilderness side of the macrocosm and blundered
into the fight. Most ships on all sides were destroyed in the
ensuing confusion, but a few managed to escape and report back
to their home worlds. As it turned out, the Synthedon were far
from home as well so further contact between them and the
dominant organics was minimal for an extended period.
Even after run-ins became commonplace, the three animate
civilizations managed to hold their own against the Synthedon
for hundreds of generations. Gheddy was actually surprised that
the Ilstachian Navy and ground troops still won as many
engagements as they lost against opposing mechanoid forces of
equal size. The problem had become one of scale. The organics
were being overwhelmed. They could no longer stand up to the
sheer number of Synthedon drones being shipped to the front.
This had to be what was worrying the Synthedon's allies.
The Beledenites had to know that if the Ilstachians and

Luditions fell, then they would be next in line for annihilation
or enslavement regardless of whatever agreement had been
reached. Palerick was disappointed that they had chosen to
spurn the idea of an all-animate coalition. While their way of
thinking was generally far removed from the Ludition outlook,
the Beledenites were not so different from the Ilstachians.
They even maintained a miniscule mentalist sect that reportedly
rivaled the most powerful Ludition psychonics. Both the
Beledenites and the Ilstachians had made the decision to divide
their quest for knowledge and understanding between the
scientific and metaphysical realms. Unfortunately, while the
Ilstachians ostensibly strove to maintain an even emphasis on
both lines of inquiry, the Beledenites chose to focus almost
entirely on hard technological advancement.
Their inclination toward the technical pursuits was what
led them to foster an alliance with the Synthedon, while the
guild's historic penchant for psychonic investigation influenced
the Ilstachians to fall into league with the Luditions. That
culture's disdain for industrial manufacturing and synthesized
intelligence caused them to adopt a grudging and highly
paradoxical relationship with technology. They went to extremes
in restricting its use for all but the most pragmatic
applications related to the survival and ascension of their own
species and those under their protection.

Though the Luditions scorned all forms of artificial
cognition and mechanistic contrivance, Palerick could not help
feeling that they were a bit too smug given how much they relied
on that which was built by others. Their protectorate species
kept them well-supplied with cutting-edge technology in a few
critical areas related to weaponry and transportation. This
symbiosis was what enabled the mentalists to concentrate on
advancing their arts without having to sully themselves with
pedestrian technical endeavors. Consequently, their collective
powers of mental focus came nearest to rivaling the Synthedon's
overwhelming mechanized ability to scan the vast expanse of the
Foamwork in search of the missing elevator.
It was actually difficult to know whether that species of
nonliving entities was looking for the same thing as the rest of
them. If they were, the question became why. Did they seek to
harness or destroy the means to pull back the next curtain?
Most assumed their aim was destruction, for it was unclear to
all but a few what a race of synthetics might hope to gain from
such a find. The Luditions claimed to have their own
suspicions, but they were not sharing them -- not even with
their allies.
Although it had been nearly nine thousand generations since
the last advancement, Palerick was confident that the seventh
ascension was still forthcoming. Past and future elevations

were not merely unfounded myths or baseless prophecies. They
were plainly documented and forecasted in the map of life's
table of contents. Nonetheless as the eons passed, more and
more Ilstachians felt differently. Many now even dared suggest
they call off the search for the spark altogether. Some sought
to commandeer the resources engaged in the quest for other
purposes. Amazingly, there was now even a small but growing
minority who wanted to discontinue the search because they
feared the result of another rise. Palerick would never
understand that. Who would not want to give their children the
chance to see beyond the next veil? It was ludicrous.
The Ilstachians, Luditions and Beledenites all reached the
sixth level of sentience at roughly the same time but through
different means. All three civilizations were known by the
names of the species who initiated and controlled them, but in
reality each was comprised of many different species that had
either joined the dominant culture willingly or been conquered
militarily. Some of those also managed to attain the sixth
level of consciousness, but no species had risen higher.
The Luditions were the first species to reach that height
of perspective. Their scarcely remembered predecessors
discerned the faint outline of life's puzzle by using their
minds to assess the thought patterns of the living creatures
around them. This led them to seek out a line of mates whose
attributes would most enhance their own. Their unions produced
a new breed whose constituents came to be known as the
Luditions. They possessed a heightened level of awareness
giving them an obvious advantage in the competitive struggle for
survival. Their intuition gave them a deep respect for all
life, but it also instilled in them an incredible resolve when
hostile encounters could not be avoided.
The Beledenites hauled themselves up onto the sixth rung on
the ladder of consciousness by following an altogether different
route. They sought to enhance their intellect through
technological manipulation. After a great deal of trial and
error with lasting repercussions for a number of unfortunate
offshoot races, the Beledenites eventually managed to elevate
themselves in the laboratory using statistical evolutionary
germ-line permutations. While they were a legitimate species of
organic sentients, the sixth tier of consciousness that they
climbed onto was actually a synthetic representation of the real
thing. Consequently, they viewed the Foamwork and themselves
through a slightly different lens than other animates. Palerick
understood that this was likely the most significant factor
keeping the Beledenites and Luditions at odds.
The Synthedon somehow ascended an inorganic cerebral
staircase of their own design and broke free from the fifth-
level sentients, who created them. They achieved a degree of

artificial intelligence that was comparable with the natural
objective intellect possessed by the living beings who had
reached the sixth tier, but it was still unclear what plane of
awareness that placed them on. Though the Synthedon were known
to assimilate other inorganic species that they encountered,
even the Beledenites still questioned whether the Synthedon
existed as a single distributed individual or as a community of
separate entities.
Gheddy and the other acolytes took pride in the fact that
the Ilstachians had risen to the sixth level of consciousness by
means closer to those employed by the Luditions; however, their
ascension was not wholly devoid of mechanical aid. Their
ancestor's intuitive strength was substantial, yet they required
the use of science to finalize the selection of a suitable race
whose traits would combine with their own to elevate future
generations. Though they were the last of the three living
species to achieve sentient parity, the Ilstachians' elation
over their achievement fostered an inherent scrappiness in their
nature that saw them claw their way to an even footing with
their peers. Since then all other species, living and not, were
absorbed, dominated or exterminated as soon as they came into
contact with any of those four civilizations.
The instructions for creating a species that was capable of
reaching the first two tiers of consciousness existed in

abundance throughout most of the Foamwork. They were easily
stumbled upon and incorporated into life's design without any
undue effort. After the second tier, however, the blueprints
for further advancement started getting successively scarcer.
Fewer and fewer species arbitrarily happened on and conjoined
with partners that provided the necessary impetus to elevate
them further. Uplifting unions all but ceased to occur randomly
once species attained the fourth level of sentience, and no
chance couplings were known to have produced a species of sixth-
level awareness.
Such a step required purposeful effort, and even then there
was no guarantee of success. The next piece of the puzzle was
always hinted at in the addenda that came with each new matching
segment that was tacked onto a species' life map. The shear
size of the Foamwork and the severely restricted pool of
suitable higher tier candidates made finding those rare matches
a daunting prospect. Those who viewed themselves and the
Foamwork from the sixth realm of consciousness had been seeking
their species' next spousal connection for so long now that many
had begun to doubt whether loftier planes of awareness truly
existed.
The search to find the next link in the chain escalated
into a race as fears that there might only be a single worthy
partner spurred the searchers deeper and deeper into the unknown
Foamwork. They penetrated layer upon layer of multiverses
without success. When the finish line failed to appear after
thousands of generations, the living species involved in the
search began fighting over prime hunting grounds. Palerick felt
they might eventually have joined forces, if the Synthedon had
posed a more formidable adversary from the start, but as it was
the true nature of that threat was recognized too late to serve
as a unifying motivator. From then on, the tides of war waxed
and waned as each side sought to ensure they would be the first
to enter the seventh phase of consciousness.
Like everyone else, Gheddy was surprised they had received
a message from a live source so far out beyond the Karolin
sector. After reviewing the transcription for the third time,
he was no closer to deciphering its meaning. He was able to
establish that it bore a strong resemblance to the transmissions
that came in earlier in the year from the few automated
listening posts arrayed in that direction, but that was all.

CHAPTER 24
Falan woke up crouched along the side of his bed trembling
and panting. His mother was standing in the door way.
"Falan...Falan, are you okay? What is wrong with you?"
There was worry in her tone and anxiety on her face.
"What are you doing down here?"
She didn't come any closer. All the covers were pulled off
the bed, and the lamp from his nightstand was on the floor
broken.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"It's almost six o'clock," she answered. "I was getting a
drink of water in the kitchen, and I heard something crash down
here. What in the world is going on? Have you got a girl down
here?"
Falan scanned around the room, bewildered.
"Does it look like I have a girl down here?" he barked as
he stood up.(*)
"What's the matter? You're so pale. Look how sweaty you
are."
Falan was still trying to get his bearings.
"I must have had a nightmare or something. I'm fine, go
back upstairs."
"Is that why you haven't been sleeping well lately? You're
having bad dreams?"

"No, just leave me alone. I need to get ready for work."
Falan went into the bathroom and closed the door. Marcela
stared after him for a few moments then went back up to the
kitchen to make herself a stiff Bloody Mary. She ended up
settling for a double Belvedere on the rocks. The look in
Falan's eyes stayed with her. It reminded her of the vacant
expression her father used to get when he mumbled absently about
his own strange dreams. Her father had always maintained some
crazy ideas -- everyone said so. The tension behind Marcela's
eyes began to ease with her first big swallow of vodka.
Falan squeezed the edge of the washbasin in an effort to
steady his hands. Goose bumps stood out on his upper arms and
the back of his neck. He was waiting for his inexplicable
erection to subside so he could take a piss, when the thought of
it made him lean over and throw up in the sink. What could
possibly be happening in his dreams to cause such conflicting
reactions? This was ridiculous, he thought, as he stared at
himself in the mirror watching bile run down his chin. He could
be a black belt in Kung Fu, and it still wasn't going to help.
What the hell was he thinking? He couldn't trick his mind into
believing that he could fight what didn't exist.
For the first time he considered going to see a doctor.
That would be smarter than going to Santucci for help, but he
shrugged the idea aside. He just needed to relax and get a

grip. There was absolutely nothing to be scared of whether he
was awake or asleep. This was all going on inside his tiny,
little, pea brain -- pure and simple. He didn't have time for a
doctor. He still needed to figure out how he was going to
finagle South America. Besides, admitting something was wrong
at this point would only give his parents more justification for
saying no.
CHAPTER 25
Falan got to work early Friday morning with the help of
four Advil and a thirty-two-ounce Dr. Pepper. He was well
underway by the time anyone else showed up. After the episode
with his mother, he'd been anxious to get out of the house
without any further discussion. It was supposed to be 102
degrees and there was a health advisory in effect, so he
dispensed with the suit and tie for his last day. He figured a
pair of khakis and a starched shirt would suffice since he'd be
out of sight stuffed in a cubby hole all day doing mindless
database work. Toward lunchtime Falan started thinking about
the night to come. He was out of the ephedrine pills, and
they'd stopped providing much of a kick anyway. He called E. on
his cell phone.
"Falan? What's happening, dude?" Eric mumbled. "What time
is it?"
"Almost noon, get up."
"How'd you make out last night?" Eric croaked.
"Don't ask. I ended up bumbling around in the rain forever
trying to help Brownie find his car."
"No way."
"Yeah I finally had to give him a ride home. He must have
gotten towed."
"That piece of shit sure as hell didn't get stolen," Eric
said.
"He could have lost it, but I bet it got towed. What
happened with you?"
"Well, a gentleman never tells, mind you, but I will say
that the evening concluded in a satisfactory manner," Eric
replied in mock genteel fashion.
"I'll remember that when I meet a gentleman. What
happened?"
"They both attacked me," he answered now in his regular
voice. "I put up a fight, but it was no use. They had powers."
"I'm going to go ahead and believe you just so I can
appropriately benchmark my future expectations and stratagems,"
Falan said slipping into Eric's earlier cultured tone halfway
through his sentence.
The two of them had been bantering back and forth for years
in different voices that they picked up from movies and adapted
or otherwise butchered for their own amusement. The various
dialects had run together and morphed so many times neither
could pinpoint their true origins any longer.
"You would be wise to do so," Eric replied falling into the
same timbre before once again reverting to his normal way of
speaking. "So what's going on, you make it in to work?"

"Barely," Falan answered in his own voice. "I'm hurting.
That's the other reason I called."
Falan now switched into an affected baritone that might
once have derived from God's voice in The Life of Brian but
could just as easily have been a multiple derivative taken from
the narrator of The Shadow. It didn't matter. They'd stopped
arguing such points long ago.
"Might you be able to acquire something medicinal in
nature, something that would combat drowsiness thus allowing one
to safely operate heavy machinery for extended lengths?"
Eric shifted easily into the familiar high brow accent.(*)
"How much will the gentleman require if I may ask?"
"You may. I shall require enough supplements to ensure a
bountiful supply for not less than fourteen days' time. Please
take heavy dosages into consideration. The quantity should be
sufficient to see me to my international destination whilst
allowing me to maintain the level of vigor and bon homie
expected of elite adventurers such as I."
"Of course, appearances must be maintained. My sources
lead me to believe that current inventory would dictate a
product mix in order to satisfy your volume constraints. Might
I suggest an appropriate prescription?"
"If you would be so kind."

"Then I should recommend one-third powders, the quality of
which I myself can vouch for, and two-thirds caplets. The later
are a tad on the quiet side for my tastes, but I think a
weekender like yourself will find them to be satisfactory."
"Excellent, as you suggest then. How shall we arrange for
delivery?"
"I suggest we affect transfer over cold refreshment later
this afternoon at a mutually accommodating locale. I dare not
tarry long, mind you, as I have a previous dining engagement for
which I must not be late."
"Done. Name the time and establishment, as you please."
"Let me ring you nearer the hour with precise coordinates."
"I shall harken your call with great aaaaanticipation."
"Later," Eric finished, reverting back to his regular
voice.
"See ya," Falan likewise said before hanging up.
After the call he headed downstairs for another coffee. He
stopped and leaned over the side of Cindy's cube on his way down
the hall.
"How's that GenTech thing coming?"
"Not bad. Whoa, you smell like a liquor cabinet there,
stud," Cindy said, covering her nose with a cupped hand.
"Sorry about that," Falan said looking only mildly
chagrined.
He eased around to the entrance of her work area and leaned
back against a file cabinet so he wasn't right in her face.
"You know how we were talking about whether man had true
free will..."
"Hey sorry, I don't mean to be rude," Cindy said, "but I've
got to crank on this thing. People are getting nuts around
here."
"No worries," Falan said pushing himself upright, "I was
just heading for coffee, you want any?"
"No thanks."
When the elevator door opened to take him down, his father
stepped out with four executive types all suited up.
"Gentlemen, our receptionist will show you to the
conference room. I'll join you in just a moment," James Tiernan
said a little too cheerfully.
As the two of them stood there watching the men walk away,
Falan briefly considered jumping on the elevator as the doors
shut. After the suits disappeared from view, James turned on
his son and gave him a vicious poke on the chest with his
forefinger.
"Are you deliberately trying to goad me into kicking your
ever-loving ass?"
"No, what's wrong?" Falan asked, knowing.

"What's wrong? What's wrong is I walk in with four of the
biggest entrepreneurs and venture capitalists in the mid-
Atlantic region, and you're standing there looking like Beaver
Cleaver ready to sharpen someone's pencil or top off their
coffee. That was the whole GenTech shop right there. I rounded
them up to try to talk some sense into them on this thing. On
the way up I'm still trying to decide how to play it, wondering
if I should bring you in to talk about what you learned and see
if you can help me turn the tide on this thing. Then I look up
and see you standing there looking like some eighth grade punk,
who couldn't even come up with a blazer for his church
confirmation. There is no way I can bring you in and expect
them to take you seriously."
Falan knew it was coming, but he flinched the wrong way and
caught the open-handed cuff on the left side of his head. There
was a painful pop inside his eardrum.
"You are one dumb son of a bitch. You just don't get it do
you? I am at a total loss to understand how a person can be so
bright in some respects and yet still be such a fucking moron at
the same time."
His words trailed away as James stormed off. Falan rode
down past the lobby to the parking deck and got in his car. He
careened up to the street level and squealed the tires as he
turned right onto New Hampshire Avenue. He was still four car
lengths away when the light turned from yellow to red, but his
foot never left the gas. He kept on going right out of the
city.
Just over the Maryland line, he stopped at an outdoors
store on Macarthur Boulevard to buy himself some shorts then he
continued out to Great Falls Park along the Potomac River.
There he put on his new shorts, changed into an old pair of
shoes from the back of the truck and took off running down the
tow path of the C&O Canal. His rage carried him for about half
a mile before leaving him gagging with his hands on his knees.
After regaining his composure, Falan took a side trail and
walked to the river. He found a seat on a rock overlooking the
fish ladder that plunged into the main section of the Potomac
just above a spot known as S-turn. A few kayakers could be seen
surfing a big hole. Farther down Falan saw rock climbers
clinging to the side of Mather Gorge. Mountain bikers were
cruising along the rim over on the Virginia side, and a steady
stream of hikers passed by on the trail just behind him. Falan
marveled that all this outdoor activity was going on fifteen
minutes from downtown Washington, D.C. He saw it as
confirmation that he did not have his priorities in order.
Well, at least he was attempting to remedy that.
He cooked in the sun for an hour then drove over to Potomac
Village for a slice of pizza and a Coke. Except for the other
day with Mike, he hadn't been out this way in ages. Back in the
car, he continued driving aimlessly just killing time. He
stopped on a whim to hit a bucket of balls at the Falls Road
public course while he waited for Eric to call back. He'd
sliced, hooked or scalded half the bucket, when E.'s call saved
him from further aggravation. Falan gave the rest of his balls
to a young kid, who looked like he could use the extra practice,
then returned the driver he'd borrowed from the pro shop and
headed back into town. He met Eric half an hour later at the
Zoo Bar on Connecticut Avenue. E. had time for a few drinks, so
they took seats outside and ordered drafts.
"You talk to Santucci?" Eric asked him.
"No, not yet. Did you see him with that blonde girl?"
"Yeah, I think they were the first ones out the door. She
was obviously ready to go when she saw him. Hey look, my guy
was scraping the bottom of the barrel when I went by there. He
scrounged up almost three grams of meth and half a dozen hits of
speed, but that's all I could get. A bunch of frat boys from
Maryland cleaned him out just before I got there."
"Oh man, you're kidding? Any chance he'll get more in
before next Wednesday?"
"I told him to call me as soon as he restocks, but don't
hold your breath. Here, go in the bathroom and try some of
this. You look like you could use it."

Falan went in the back and locked himself in a stall. He
lowered the toilet lid then carefully opened up the paper seal
that Eric had pressed into his palm. He did a couple quick
snorts of powder off his finger tip then went back outside.
"Hel-lo," he said, "that'll do the trick. A little crank
goes a long way toward keeping the sandman at bay."
"Yeah, beats Starbucks. This stuff isn't too cut up
either. The pills are average by comparison, but they pack more
of a wallop if you chop 'em up and snort 'em. Burns like a
mother, though. Swallowing them is fine, but they'll take
longer to kick in."
"Nice, thanks. Where you going to dinner tonight?
"Sweet Angelique's."
"Not Veronica's?"
"No, that was it -- a one time thing. Angelique made us
promise."
"What's up for the weekend?"
"I don't know. We should go to the beach or something,
like those trips we took back in high school. Get a few cases
of Peals, some National Bohemians."
"Natty Boh's, Schaffer, Red White and Blue...just like the
old days," Falan agreed.
"Red, White and Blue Light," Eric added.

"I don't think those trips can be recreated, but we could
stand to head back out there -- stay at the Santuccis'.
Actually, who am I kidding? I've got to figure out how to come
up with better than twenty grand in the next five days."
"Say what?"
"Yeah, I'm still short on that South America trip."
"Sounds like you're worse than short. Dad's like no-way,
huh," Eric said.
"Yeah, I'm hating it."
"Dude, you are. You're not gonna come up with that kind of
money. You know that, don't you?"
"I guess, shit, I don't know. I keep thinking there should
be a way."
"What about selling your car?"
"It's in my dad's name."
"Plastic?"
"Not nearly enough room, maybe two grand at the most."
"A little more and you might go up to that car auction near
Baltimore on Tuesday. Take out a cash advance on your credit
card, find something you can flip quick, make a few grand, get
yourself part way."
"I'd get stuck with a junker I couldn't sell and end up
losing money on the deal."

"Then max out the card with a cash advance, and let's drive
up to Atlantic City this weekend. Black jack, roulette,
craps...maybe a little No-limit Texas Hold'em. Pick your
poison: you can afford to get lucky."
"Yeah, I can afford to win. And, of course, I'm due.
Right? After what happened last time..."
"Hey, you're the one who claimed to have a system. I was
just along for moral support.(*)
"Easy there,(*)that wasn't on the list of options."
"Which is why you aren't going to come up with the money.
You don't want it bad enough to take any risks.(*) Seattle's
cool. Just ski back and enjoy it. Hang out at Whistler-
Blackcomb and dog those Canadian snowboard chicks up there."
"Yeah, we'll see."
"All right, hey, I gotta run. You got these drinks?"
"Yeah, no problem. Oh, here's this, too," Falan said
extending a wad of bills beneath the table. "Thanks again."
"Sure, give me a call tomorrow. Let's get those guys up
for the beach, even just a day-trip Sunday. Or Sunday and
Monday, that way we'll miss most of the bridge traffic."
"All right, take it easy."
Falan switched to vodka tonics and had a couple more
drinks. They had little effect after the meth. He left
messages for Joe and Mike mentioning the beach idea then thought
about and disregarded calling Naomi for one last summer tumble.
He was at a loss to come up with something to do besides going
home and dealing with that whole scene. Veronica crossed his
mind, but only briefly.
Falan borrowed the classifieds from a guy reading the paper
nearby and skimmed the used car adds. Forget that, he decided.
He didn't have the seed money, the experience or the time to
mess with jumping into that shark tank. He caught himself
pondering his old beer can collection stuffed away in the attic
somewhere -- pathetic. He might have an old, rusty cone-top
worth forty bucks or something. A couple more drinks brought
him no closer to coming up with a viable plan. What about
ripping off some drug dealer, not E. of course, but a real drug
dealer? He didn't feel drunk, but he was definitely having some
stupid thoughts.
"One more, make it a double, please."
The guy left his paper on the table when he took off so
Falan grabbed the rest of it and checked the movies. There was
nothing worth seeing. Friday night and he had zip going on.
Mike and Joe still weren't answering. He decided to swing by
the video store and rent a couple of DVDs. He was going to need
all the rest he could get between now and tomorrow morning
anyway. Well, he already knew he wasn't going to get any sleep
tonight, but he didn't have to completely wreck himself partying

till dawn. His dad would make him pay for that -- even more so
after today he reasoned. What a week.
When Falan pulled into the driveway, he was surprised to
find his father in the garage hitting the heavy bag so late
after dinner. He watched Falan pull up but walked inside before
Falan even had it in park. Bad news: his dad was pissed off,
but he wasn't going to bother with it tonight. Tomorrow was the
last Saturday of the month, which made this one of the few
nights James Tiernan was likely to hold his tongue. Tomorrow
was going to suck.
Falan watched the movie Bad Boys for the umpteenth time.
Ripping off drug dealers probably wasn't going to be the way to
go, but he never tired of watching Sean Penn load those cans of
soda into the empty pillow case and use it to take that guy out.
What a great idea. He caught part of a skin flick on cable
afterward but soon moved on to other things. At one point he
was simultaneously flipping back and forth between a re-run of
the fifth stage of the Giro de Italia bike race from 1999, a
live cricket match between Pakistan and India, a rerun of
Catapults to Cannons on the History Channel, and a bass fishing
infomercial that had a well endowed co-host he was convinced had
been in the earlier porn movie.
When he tired of channel surfing, Falan popped in the
second movie he'd rented. Cool Hand Luke was another one he'd
seen many times. When Paul Newman got the shit beat out of him
in the yard by George Kennedy, Falan wished just once he could
see a director's cut where Luke unexpectedly let loose with some
Jujitsu and turned the tables on the bigger inmate. Afterward,
Falan put in one of the mixed martial arts ultimate fighting
videos that Joe had given him to watch. Those and the
occasional blast of crystal meth saw him through to sun-up
without so much as a yawn.

CHAPTER 26
Captain Kellion Inwah switched off the commlink in his
auditory implant and stared out across the ocean below. There
was an armada approaching somewhere out there a hundred miles or
so to the southwest. Good for them. They were no concern of
his. It amazed him that they did not need press gangs to fill
their ranks. Being a sailor of sorts, he could not imagine
anyone other than draftees or maybe slaves accepting the
conditions out there. It would be interesting to see first-hand
how they were faring.
Inwah regretted for the thousandth time not upgrading his
biological optics when he had the chance. Back then he had not
been nearly as attuned to his own mortality. He did not regret
allowing Svetreeka to tag along, but over time she had come to
serve as yet another harsh reminder that he would not be around
forever. She was more than that, of course, but their
differences were much more apparent now. Svetreeka did not
appear to have aged at all physically since they had been
together. Kellion had always expected to die sooner than later,
but since leaving home he had been made aware that later could
be extended much further than any of his kind had ever dreamed
possible. Despite eventually conceding to his age and seeking
out a succession of both biological and inorganic enhancements,
he had yet to come across suitable optic technology that matched

what he had already passed up. Equal parts squeamishness and
vanity had been to blame for that. He found it ironic how youth
undermined itself by catering to such indulgences. If they ever
made it back to the Xeregrine System, he was going to look that
doctor up again.
The sea looked peaceful enough from his penthouse vantage
high above the resort, but the waves breaking on the distant
off-shore reef regularly topped a hundred feet. Kellion knew
from his initial surveillance that this world's oceans seethed
continually. He had chosen this spot specifically for the
weather. The planet's entire lower atmosphere was dominated by
two counter rotating storms that ground against each other
continuously along two broad fronts on opposite sides of the
planet. The storms wreaked havoc across most of the globe. At
first glance they appeared stationary, but they were actually
crawling along at a negligible pace without ever truly stalling
in one place.
Constant winds ranged between 150 and 175 miles per hour
across most of the planet's surface. Horizontal wind shears and
tornadic activity caused localized gusts to reach three times
that, where the two storms met. They traded roles during the
course of their travels. Certain geographic areas produced hot
dry cyclones of scouring sand and larger grit, while other
regions generated rotating deluges of rain, sleet, snow and

worse. When the circumstances were aligned for it, winds from
one storm would suck an entire desert of sand up to a great
altitude and cycle it over into its neighbor's upper atmosphere.
The bombardment of ensuing sludge fell in a heavy blanket of
slurry that was capable of flattening and entombing entire
cities.
Each storm had a large eye of relative calm at its center.
They varied between five hundred and one thousand miles in
diameter as the storms flexed and pulsated. Captain Inwah and
his crew had appropriated this seaside resort eighteen standard
months ago, which was several years here. This relatively
tranquil coastal region had spent the better part of the last
century comfortably situated within one of the two migrating
storm eyes that were slowly chasing each other around the
planet. The complex was built at the behest of the dictator
whose forces had controlled the territory at the center of this
particular storm during most of that period.
This level of rustic opulence was never found outside the
storm eyes. The eyes were the planet's only two safe havens, but
even there the lease period for stationary facilities was
relatively short lived. As the centers of the storms passed on,
destruction and mayhem followed in their wake. During the last
hundred years this idyllic retreat had only been buffeted by its
landlord's fury one time. On that occasion a surge caused the

storm to tighten its spin so that the storm eye's inner wall
squeezed inward for a short time.
That was six local months ago. Damage to the property had
been significant, and refuse still lay piled everywhere. The
region's period of respite was nearing a close so the indigenes
did not bother restoring things to perfection. Hardened bunkers
would be the only structures needed for those who stayed to face
the approaching havoc. Kellion had allowed the crew to retreat
to the safety of the ship before the blow hit, but he had stayed
behind out of curiosity. The experience left no doubt in his
mind that it was time to leave.
The planet's entire geopolitical dynamic was dominated by
the inhabitants' overwhelming compulsion to maintain or contest
the ownership of the land and sea temporarily ensconced within
the serene havens located at the centers of these roving
tempests. Because the vast majority of the planet's populace
resided outside these two sanctuaries, Kellion had been
compelled to experience how they lived. He need not have
bothered. It was not nearly as bad as he had been led to
believe. Frankly, it was nothing compared with the steady
stream of natural disasters he had encountered on some of the
other worlds he had visited. Conditions outside the storm
centers did exact a psychological toll, but they were by no

means unlivable. That said, there was no need to stick around
if it could be avoided.
The conditions turned those forced to endure them
throughout their entire lives into a deceitful and ill-tempered
lot. They were generally willing to go to any length necessary
to experience life in calm sunshine. The knowledge that the
sun's first caress was usually followed closely by a violent
death was no deterrent. Kellion had witnessed first-hand how
attacking soldiers struck down in battle died with smiles on
their faces, when they fell inside the eye wall. When opposing
factions managed to suspend their hostilities long enough to
jointly conquer the area inside one of the two storm centers,
their continued occupancy depended largely on their ability to
forge a common outer defense. Alliances were readily formed by
those seeking to break in, but once inside such unions tended to
disintegrate amidst a fog of paranoia. Efforts to subdivide the
storm center were usually doomed to failure.
If a storm center was not controlled by a single occupying
force, then it tended to devolve into a beautiful, sunny killing
field where armies slaughtered one another wholesale for years
on end until someone managed to rise above the rest and
establish dominance. Maintaining such a position was usually
the more difficult prospect given that the spoils were not
static. The two highly sought after territories were nothing

more than wide cylinders of relatively fair weather that waxed
and waned in the lower atmosphere. The real difficulty was that
these prized columns of bliss were constantly roving across the
planet's surface. They did not move quickly or in a steady
predictable fashion. These epicenters usually meandered along
traveling somewhere between ten and one hundred miles every
year.
Throughout the course of history various strategies had
proven successful for capturing the geography within these areas
and holding onto it. Thwarting invaders was less like defending
a siege than one might expect. To maintain possession of their
holdings the occupants were forced to advance in lock-step
behind the storm's leading edge. Remaining within the storm's
eye meant continuously battering away at those, who sought to
block one's path. In that sense, the owners were forced to
maintain a blockade to their rear and a siege to their front.
Strong defenses were required to keep out the continual waves of
attackers; however, those defenses could not remain stationary,
if one hoped to remain in the sun. They had to be continually
uprooted and redeployed as the storm's eye moved.
While the paths of the two storms were hard to judge, they
could sometimes be predicted fifty or even one hundred years in
advance with a reasonable degree of certainty. Some of the
longest periods of ownership had been achieved by cultures who

concentrated their efforts on conquering an area far out in
front of a storm along its projected track. They then built
impenetrable defenses before sitting back to wait and hope that
the eye of the storm would venture over them.
Of course, by now the planet's landmasses were littered
with ancient stone enclosures demarcating long forgotten
communities whose unlucky builders had never looked up to see
clear sky. They either chose their sites poorly or fell victim
to a capricious shift in the weather pattern. Not surprisingly,
the successful power-sharing accords that did arise often
resulted when a storm veered unexpectedly, so that its center
enveloped only a portion of one of these prearranged positions.
When that happened, the occupants usually accepted the
outcome and made do with whatever portion of the eye fate
bestowed upon them. The walls in these particular types of
fortifications were usually constructed permanently so they
would be less vulnerable to the opportunists who would
inevitably try to broach them. After spending so much time and
effort, such strategists were generally unwilling to risk the
security of the whole venture in a last minute bid to maximize
their pay off. Instead, they generally brokered an agreement to
share the storm's center with one of the stronger attacking
forces. That group was then allowed to set up defenses

unmolested with its back to the incumbent's outer wall so each
would have less perimeter to defend.
The decision of whether to strive for a life of mobile
ownership or stationary tenancy often hinged on the average age
of those who would bear the brunt of the fighting. Older
populations overwhelmingly chose the added security of permanent
battlements and were content to enjoy their time in the sun
while it lasted. If they were still alive when the storm's fury
overtook them, then so be it. The younger factions facing a
longer interment in the debilitating onslaught usually adopted
mobile strategies. They were also more suited to the added
rigors caused by a life spent simultaneously advancing and
retreating, as they tried to maintain their hold on a mobile
paradise while being attacked from all sides.
This left them with the challenge of figuring out how to
effectively move one's defenses without significantly reducing
their functionality. Nomadic marauders quickly realized how
difficult it was to hold onto their prize after gaining the
upper hand. It was difficult to erect and defend significant
defenses while being attacked on all sides. For societies of
such obviously limited means, Kellion was fairly impressed by
some of the engineering feats the two different strategic camps
had devised to address these issues.

They utilized everything from simple rounded boulder walls
that could be levered forward and pulled along behind to much
more elaborate schemes. Kellion had seen designs for all manner
of rolling bulwarks, wheeled towers, track-mounted battlements
with overhanging brattices, and even a particularly ingenious
triangle-shaped triple wall, where two walls sat parallel to
each other on the ground while the third wall hovered in line
above. It stood fifty feet tall and rolled forward like a
paddle wheel. The walls were hinged like the seats on the
stationary wheel rides found at festivals. When it rotated
forward, the top wall came down to form the new front of the
barricade. The wall that had previously been in front became
the second line of defense, and the wall that had been in the
rear rose up to take the top position. Beasts and a host of
crude engines were employed to drive these creeping edifices.
Despite all these efforts, both natural and erected
barriers still proved difficult if not impossible to overcome.
Those who enjoyed the relative calm within a storm eye naturally
controlled the skies. Thus they were able to deploy shielded
dirigibles with hanging platforms from which they launched every
conceivable form of crude projectile down on their enemies.
When the center of a storm moved entirely out to sea, as the one
Kellion stood in was about to finish doing, entire societies
took to the ocean and constructed bobbing cities defended by

flotillas comprised of every imaginable type of surface craft
and even the occasional submersible. By and large they were
powered by wind and oar, but the rare contrivance requiring
combustible fuels did turn up. Their use, however, was hindered
by the difficulty of maintaining them at sea.
Such periods were usually marked by exceptionally fractious
ownership and particularly sharp turns of fortune. Kellion had
been told that the fleet presently on its way was led by a
shrewd commander who controlled most of the seaward portion of
this storm's eye. This storm center had been drifting offshore
for the last sixty local years. It had been too difficult for
the landed ownership to move out to sea while still maintaining
adequate shore defenses. This allowed those rovers willing to
brave the ocean's wrath to gain a foothold within the seaward
portion as the storm's eye drifted farther away from land. An
uneasy truce existed between the landed and seaborne sovereigns
for much of that transition period, but now events were coming
to a head.
As the landward perimeter defenses shrunk back from the
coming tempest in a receding arc toward the coast, Captain
Inwah's host was able to divert more and more resources to
building a proper navy. The time was approaching when they
would need to take to the sea completely or resign themselves to
a life of squall and squalor. The approaching squadron of ships

intended to prevent the landed regime from encroaching on its
claim. Whether they proposed to send in a landing party or
would be content to form a blockade remained to be seen.
If Kellion were the admiral in charge, he would establish a
blockade until the new navy and barge communities were nearly
complete. Then he would send raiders ashore and burn everything
to the ground while still in dry dock, leaving his former allies
little if any time to rebuild before the downwind eye-wall
passed through and made such work nearly impossible. Inwah
scratched his slightly graying beard thoughtfully before turning
and walking back over to the hot tub, which stood chest high
under the penthouse eves. The place was only four stories high,
but since it was the best suite available in the entire eye,
Kellion liked to think of it as the penthouse.
"Svetreeka darling, it is time we said our goodbyes to this
place."
She took a sip from her long stemmed flute before
responding.
"Throw another log on the fire, Kel. It is starting to
cool off in here already."
Kellion tossed a few more logs under the tub, then folded
his arms on the rim and leaned against the side.

"We have just enough time to enjoy one last good soak," he
said. "I have ordered everyone back aboard the ship. My launch
is on its way for us now."
His waiflike companion set her glass down and sunk deeper
into the water so that her chin rested on the surface. Tiny
waves rippled across the placid, blue-green surface as she
glided toward him.
"Do you think the other sanctuary has moved far enough out
of the desert yet?" she asked. "I did not think there was
anything over there worth commandeering at this point."
"There is not. That is not what I meant. You must be
drinking too much of the local ferment. Between that and this
tub, you are going soft. I am talking about leaving the planet
altogether."
"What for? I love it here."
"That is reason enough. You are worse than soft. You have
grown complacent. This place is a dump. Did you just hear
yourself ask me to throw more wood on the fire? What happened
to the vicious hellcat I rescued off that Iridonian transport?
The one who swore she would not rest until she had eviscerated
every last slave trader in the galaxy?"
"System -- I said system not galaxy, and I think I did
pretty well on that score before we left," she said tilting her
head and giving him a coquettish smile.

"I guess that depends on how liberal one cares to be with
the accounting. I know it has been awhile since I heard a
gutted Iridonian flesh peddler yowling at the sight of his own
entrails spilling onto your boot tops."
"I am not the one who has gone soft," Svetreeka huffed.
"When was the last time you let me even board a slave transport?
With you it is freighters, freighters, freighters -- one after
another. We have not stopped to plunder anything but
unescorted, short-haul merchant vessels in ages. Those vermin
are all too weak and too slow to be entrusted with anything
valuable. We have not been in a decent fight since coming to
this galaxy."
"And that is the way I want to keep it for now. I have
told you the ship needs extensive refitting. I would like to
get hold of some new shield technology and upgrade our ordinance
package before we try tackling any of the gunships we have seen
in this system. We were the biggest dog in the yard where we
came from, but we have jumped the fence and this is a dangerous
neighborhood."
"You said your kind were the only space traveling species
in your galaxy."
"We were as far as we knew, but that does not mean much.
Most of the galaxy was still unexplored when we got lost."

"Well, I can not understand why you have not transferred
your command to any of the prizes you have captured. As
pathetic as they have been, most of them were still at least an
order of magnitude faster than The Lady."
Kellion frowned, but she continued.
"Would you not like to at least have a reasonable chance of
chasing down your prey so you would not have to bob around in
the current like a derelict waiting to ambush whoever answers
your distress signals? I mean really, what is next? Is the
once swashbuckling Captain Inwah going to sink all the way to
scavenger status and resign himself to sifting through the
wreckage along the asteroid belt looking for recyclables?"
"Did Rodrigo put you up to this? Because we have been
through it before. As long as she is still space-worthy, I am
sticking with the devil I know. I do not care how slick those
foreign models are. I could not tell the galley from the head
in any of those damn things, much less operate one of them with
my own crew. And I am not about to entrust our welfare to a
bunch of aliens behind the wheel -- no offense."
"None taken," Svetreeka said crisply. "I still say that
you are going to have to change ships if you ever expect to get
home. Once you capture a viable candidate, you could transfer
your precious particle Gatling and then scuttle that decrepit
scow once and for all."

The cords in Kellion's neck stood out and a vein on the
right side of his forehead began throbbing visibly.
"Do not blaspheme," he said in a controlled voice. "I
should not have to warn you, Svetreeka. You are lucky we are
alone. It is one thing for me to defame The Lady Valentine in
the heat of action, but you know I will not stand idly by while
you or anyone else casts aspersions on her."
Svetreeka raised her hand and slowly traced the thin scar
on her protruding cheekbone with her long, purple nails.
"I know how you can get," she replied churlishly. "If only
you defended my honor with such chivalrous devotion."
"We would not be here at all, if I did not," Kellion
retorted thinly.
"Do not exaggerate. We did not need to travel this far
from the shipping lanes, much less stay out here for as long as
we have, just to replace one dead cabin steward who could not
learn to contain his wandering optics."
"No, of course not. The crew needed some planetary rest
and relaxation someplace where they could unwind and enjoy the
carnal pleasures of the local animates without having to
constantly watch over their shoulders. That is why I passed up
all those bug nests and zoology labs before deciding on this
dreary planet. The only reason I even considered a frothing
cauldron like this was the presence of these unfortunate pseudo

hominids. I did not want the crew accusing me of driving them
to bestiality.
"Just the same, I do not want you parading around the ship
in those skimpy outfits anymore when we get back. The outdated
simulators we have on board for the men just do not match up
well enough against you, and I do not want to have to set any
more examples for awhile. It is bad for morale."
"Fine, but can we not stay a little longer -- just until
the equinox? You said we could join in the King's big hunt this
year."
"No, I have already given the orders. The ship leaves
orbit tonight with the solar tide."
"But, Kel honey, you promised," Svetreeka pouted as she
clamped her jeweled fingers around his bulging forearm and dug
her long purple nails into his flesh.
Kellion smiled and tried to sound sincere.
"I know I did, sweetheart, but it can not be helped.
Constantine picked up something that we need to check out."(1)

CHAPTER 27
His father was reading the paper over breakfast when Falan
went upstairs.
"Are we driving over together?" James asked.
"No, I'll meet you there," Falan answered while tossing a
couple of slices of bread in the toaster oven.
"I told Manny nine o'clock, and he's all booked up today so
don't make us wait," James said as he got up from the table and
headed up to his bedroom.
Falan was still fixing breakfast when his father thumped
back downstairs. James left the house without another word.
Falan choked down half of a toasted peanut butter and jelly
sandwich before throwing the rest in the trash. His mother
entered the kitchen as he was leaving.
"Falan, maybe you should stay home today," she said. "You
don't look well at all. Your father can't say anything if
you're sick, and next week you'll be back at school."
"Now you say something -- Jesus Christ. You know what'll
happen if I don't show up. He's a total asshole."
"That's not fair. Your father has always tried to raise
you the best way he knows how. He had to learn a lot of hard
lessons on his own after his father died, and he doesn't want to
see you go through the same thing."

"Forget that. He wants to see me go through exactly the
same thing. It's the only way he knows," Falan sputtered.
"I can see how it must seem that way, but just stay home
this time. I promise I'll say something to him. He's really
angry at you, Falan. What happened at work yesterday? My god,
it was your last day of the summer," she fretted.
"It doesn't matter, I'll be fine," he mumbled as he headed
out the door.
"Well, just don't do anything to make him any angrier than
he already is," she called after him from the doorway.
Falan left his car in park while it idled. The resolve
he'd forged during the wee hours threatened to crumble under the
scrutiny of daylight. He snatched up his phone and dialed. It
took some convincing, but Mrs. Santucci eventually woke her son
and put him on the line.
"Falan, what's going on, man? Just 'cause you don't sleep
doesn't mean the rest of us have given up on it."
"Rise and shine, I'm picking you up in fifteen minutes."
"No way. No fucking way. Do not come by here. I've got
to go to work at noon, and I'm sleeping till then."
"I'm in my car and on my way. Think about where you want
to have a big breakfast. I'm buying."
"Seriously, man, I'm warning you. Do not come over here."

Falan hung up. When Mrs. Santucci let him in, Falan ran up
the stairs and burst into Joe's room.
"Come on, get up. The Tune Inn, best greasy breakfast on
the Hill."
"The best breakfast in Silver Spring is right downstairs,
and it doesn't have any grease in it," Joe growled rolling over.
Falan ripped the covers away.
"Whoa, dude. Put on some fucking underwear. You're gonna
poke someone's eye out."
Joe snatched the covers back up over his waist.
"Don't you have anything better to do than come over here
at the crack of dawn to checkout the status of my morning
lumber?"
"Yeah, I do. But you might want to get that wart burned
off of there just the same. Come on, I'm running late," Falan
stated while moving to Joe's dresser and pulling out underwear,
shorts and a t-shirt.
"You're a nightmare," Joe sighed as he grabbed the boxers
out of Falan's hand and started searching for his own choice of
shorts and t-shirt. "Let's just eat here, my mom'll fix it,"
Joe said.
"No, my treat. No expense spared, let's go."

"You are going to tell me what's going on before I step
outside this house. I'm serious: I've got to be at work by
twelve."
"I'll drop you off, don't worry -- right after breakfast."
"Dude, it's not going to take four hours to eat breakfast.
Where are we going?"
"I just need to make one stop on the way. Then we'll eat."
"Where the fuck are we going?"
"A little gym over in southeast. It won't take long."
"No fucking way, dude," Joe said throwing up his hands.
"Don't even try to get me involved in this."
"You won't be involved, I promise. I just need someone
there, and you're it."
"Come on, man, why didn't you say something the other day?
This is bullshit."
"Stop your fucking crying and come on. I wasn't even
thinking about this the other day, I swear."
"Yeah, right," Joe scoffed as he disappeared into the
bathroom.
Pretty soon Falan was pounding on the door.
"Come on, man, I gotta be there by nine. Remember those
Georgia Tech essays..."

"All right, let's go," Joe said as he emerged from the
bathroom drying his face with a towel. "What the fuck do I
care?"
"Exactly, come on."

CHAPTER 28
They were heading down Georgia Avenue crossing from
Maryland into the District doing well over the speed limit, when
Joe asked why he got the invite today rather than any of the
other times. Falan started in with the long version, but Joe
knew well enough how the whole thing began. He'd been there
that day back in the ninth grade. The two of them were playing
on the same lacrosse team. They were losing badly to a much
better team from the Baltimore area when Falan got penalized for
slashing a guy in the face with his stick. It was a spastic
defensive effort rather than an intentional foul, but that
didn't matter to the kid from Baltimore whose chin was gushing
blood.
The much bigger boy threw down his stick and gloves, peeled
off his helmet and advanced on Falan with clenched fists. Falan
immediately raised his hands in supplication and started backing
away. He tried to apologize, but the lacrosse player from
Baltimore leaped forward and punched him in the facemask so hard
that he stumbled backward and fell on his ass. The kid dove on
top of Falan and pummeled him with both fists while he hid his
head in his arms. A few other players jumped in, but the whole
thing ended pretty quickly when James Tiernan strode out onto
the field, yanked Falan up by the collar of his jersey, and

marched him off to the parking lot. The coach had no choice but
to send in a substitute.
Nobody heard from Falan again until he showed up at school
Monday morning sporting two black eyes. It turned out Falan's
dad had taken him straight to the gym and given him his first
boxing lesson. James had been mortified by what he considered
an obvious display of cowardice. Outwardly he took the blame
for not teaching Falan proper self defense at an earlier age,
but it was obvious James feared his son was craven at heart. He
couldn't imagine how anyone could let themselves be attacked
like that without throwing at least one punch in self-defense.
There was no shame in losing a fight, but getting beaten up
without making any effort to defend one's self was unnatural and
pathetic. In the failing mill town where James grew up, kids
didn't need to be taught how to fight. They just fought
instinctively. No one had much skill. Attitude was what
counted most. The only fight you could avoid was the next one,
and the only way to do that was to win the one you were in. If
you couldn't whip the guy outright, then you had to inflict
enough damage while losing to make the next asshole think twice
before taking you on. Otherwise, they would be lined up around
the block for a turn at kicking your ass.
James vowed to teach his son to defend himself like a man.
He gave Falan a painful lesson in boxing that day and then made
him train two nights a week throughout the rest of his high
school years. Falan mastered the basics, but he refused to
enter any of the local golden gloves contests. He claimed that
the schedule interfered with lacrosse and his other school
activities. To make up for it and assure himself that he wasn't
raising a coward, James forced his son to spar with him once a
month.
Falan quickly realized that he would have been better off
signing up for the golden glove bouts. He wasn't scared to box
against other kids in his own weight class. He just wasn't that
aggressive. Falan preferred to concentrate on avoiding and
blocking his opponent's punches rather than delivering his own
blows. He didn't like the idea of hitting someone in the head
until they lost consciousness. There was also less pressure
sparing with his father because no one expected him to win. He
could show up, bob and weave, throw a few punches, take a
beating like a man, and then go home without having failed to
live up to any misplaced expectations.
After high school both Falan and his mother lobbied for an
end to the monthly sparing sessions, but James wouldn't hear of
it. As long as he was paying the bills, they would all abide by
his rules. If Falan wanted to declare himself financially
independent and come up with twenty thousand dollars a year for
school and expenses, then he was welcome to do so. Until such

time, however, he would have to continue meeting his father in
the ring when he was home for the holidays and once a month
during the summer. Falan found it convenient to stay on the
west coast and go skiing during his Thanksgiving and spring
breaks, so now he only had to lace up the gloves once at
Christmas and two or three times during the summer.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Joe said. "This has been going on
forever so why are you dragging me down here today all of a
sudden?"
"I need a corner man. I've never had a chance against him
so I only fight back enough to convince him that I'm not a total
pussy, but I'm going for it this time."
When Joe reached over to check his forehead for fever,
Falan jerked away causing the Explorer to swerve a little.
"Get away," Falan snapped, "I'm serious."
"I hope you've got a couple roles of nickels I can tape
inside your gloves 'cause you don't have any more chance of
beating him today than you ever did."
"Fuck the gloves. I'm gonna challenge him to a bare
knuckle fight, no holds barred like in those videos you were
showing me. I know I can't out box him. He outweighs me by
over a hundred pounds. Without a weight class restriction, the
rules are all in his favor."

"Dude, those rules are probably the only reason you're not
off in a home somewhere drooling into a cup of Jell-O right now.
Your dad's never gonna go for it, first of all, but if he did
he'd kill you. You can't fight for shit. You know how it feels
even when you're wearing headgear and he lands a good punch with
gloves on. Your dad's a beast. Think of how it would feel if
he jacked you in the face with his bare fist. Wait, I'm sorry,
that's right -- you wouldn't feel a damn thing 'cause you'd be
knocked out. But trust me, you'd need facial reconstruction
when you woke up."
"Come on, man, fuck that. What about all those fights we
watched? The boxers and wrestlers got their asses handed to
them by the martial arts fighters every time. A couple of those
guys were outweighed by a lot more than me, and they still won."
"They all had years of mixed martial arts training. You're
not even a good boxer. Besides, most of the little guys who won
still got the shit beat out of them in the process."
Falan pulled into empty spot next to his dad's Lexus SUV
and looked over at his friend.
"I don't give a shit. I get my ass kicked every time we
spar anyway. I've made up my mind."
"I'm telling you, what you're talking about would take it
to a whole new level."

Joe craned his neck and took a look around outside the
Explorer.
"This is where your dad comes to train?" he said dubiously.
The spot was probably less than a mile from the nation's
Capitol Building, but the neighborhood had gone down hill by the
block after they crossed over into the southeast section of
Washington. They were parked in a small lot down a back alley
that ran between two rows of mostly abandoned, single-story
buildings. There was no visible signage.
"Yeah, he's been coming here for over twenty years. His
old office used to be nearby."
"Jesus," was all Joe said.
Falan reached back under the floor mat behind Joe's seat
and pulled out a small piece of paper folded into a seal. He
opened it gingerly then took an empty pen tube from the center
console and used it to snort several small blasts of crystal-
methamphetamine.
"Dude, you're a fucking freak. What the fuck are you
doing?" Santucci demanded.
"E. hooked me up the other day," Falan answered when he was
finished. "I've lost fifteen pounds. My fitness has gone to
shit, and I haven't slept in months. I figure I could use a
little help -- a little energy boost."

Falan tilted his head back and sniffed hard a few more
times to control the dripping.
"You're gonna blow a fucking gasket, man. Seriously,
Falan, you're tripping big time. This has nine-one-one written
all over it. Why the hell are you even considering this?"
Falan refolded the seal, stowed the envelope back in its
hiding place and started putting drops in his eyes from a bottle
of Visine he had in the glove box.
"I'm not considering it. I'm doing it -- period. If I
check out, I'll never know the difference. I'm sick of him
using his money to control everything I do. I'm going to
challenge him straight up. If I win, he pays for my year in
South America. If he wins, I'll go back to Seattle."
"Well, he might go for that in a boxing match, but he's not
going to agree to go bare knuckle with you. Either way, it
doesn't matter. You're going back to Seattle."
"Hey, I brought you along to be my corner man. How about
giving me some advice...maybe a little encouragement?"
"Sorry, what was I thinking?" Joe deadpanned. "I advise
you to forget about this, and I encourage you to seek intensive
psychiatric counseling."
"Come on, listen, he's got bad knees. He fried them both
playing football in college," Falan insisted. "Remember that
one fight you showed me where the guy kept kicking that huge
Bam-Bam mother fucker on the side of the knee over and over for
like twenty minutes straight? Then the load finally went down
and the little guy gave him an atomic elbow to the back of the
head?" Falan asked as his sentences began running together. "I
was thinking about going with something like that. What do you
think?" he jabbered.
"It was a kick to the temple, but never mind," Joe said.
"Am I in the Twilight Zone or what? I would accuse you of being
on crack, but you practically are on crack."
"This is better though -- cheaper and it lasts longer. So
what do you think?"
"The Steamer is not gonna go for this."
"He will, trust me. What about my plan?"
"What makes you think he's going to agree to take the
gloves off?"
"I'll goad him into it. I'm going to talk smack until he
gets fed up and decides to put me in my place."
"You're gonna try to talk some smack, huh?" Joe smirked.
"This oughta be good. Listen, Falan, if this goes down, you're
going to lose, and I mean badly. Your dad is going to fuck you
up in the first thirty seconds. Be reasonable. You can't stand
and trade punches with the guy, and you sure as hell don't want
to be rolling around on the mat with him either.

"You don't have the experience to grapple with anyone, much
less someone who outweighs you by more than a hundred pounds.
He'll just hold you down and punch your lights out. You could
get lucky and really mess up one of his knees early on -- make
him quit, but it would have to be because his knees are in
seriously bad shape not because your kicks are any good.
Suppose you do get lucky, which you won't. How would you feel
if your dad had to go in for another knee surgery?"
"You're kidding, right? Let's go."
Falan got out of the car sniffling and wiping his nose. He
took his gym bag from the back seat, and Joe followed him
inside. The smell hit them as soon as they stepped through the
door -- stale spit, dried sweat and mildewed leather.
"I can't believe he really works out here," Joe repeated.
The two slightly raised regulation-size boxing rings barely
fit inside the low-ceiling room. They were separated by a
narrow aisle that left just enough space off to one side for a
couple of heavy bags, three speed bags and a rack of sagging
medicine balls. There were a few horizontal windows along the
top of the back wall, but they'd been painted over with a pale
yellow that was now coated in grime. The only useful light came
from hooded florescent tubes hanging above the center of each
ring. Tattered posters featuring local fighters from bygone
days were peeling off the otherwise bare cinderblock walls.

James Tiernan had his hands taped and was shadow boxing in
one of the rings with an old Latino guy wearing padded mitts.
Falan knew all about Manuel Herrera's career as the Latin Hammer
back in Cuba where he was a feather-weight Olympic hopeful
before Castro. Manny had been running the place for more than
forty years now. The two black guys sparing in the other ring
were regulars, but after two years spent mostly at school Falan
couldn't place their names.
"Come on," Joe said, "it looks like we've got a little
time. Let's go over there and walk through a couple things real
quick."
They went off to the far side of the gym and Joe gave Falan
a few last minute pointers on his kicking technique.
"Remember, make him come to you. Just keep backing up and
circling right. He'll always be leading with his left foot so
try to time your kicks to catch that knee just after he throws a
jab while his weight is still shifted forward. Don't try to
reach in and nail him when he's sitting back waiting for you."
"Okay, that's what I'm talking about. What else?" Falan
asked.
"Take your time and be patient. I don't care how bad his
knees are. It's going to take more than a few lucky strikes to
put your old man down. It takes time to land a bunch of kicks
so stick to your game plan and keep targeting that left knee."
"What about some punches?"
"Forget it. Just worry about avoiding his. You've got
long legs, so stay as far away from him as you can. If he gets
in close enough to land a punch, you're going down. If you get
lucky and he misses in close, don't try to punch him with your
fist. Come straight up under his chin with your elbow like
this."
Joe showed him again how to deliver a crisp, powerful
uppercut with his elbow.
"What if his knee gives out and he goes down? What kind of
submission hold should I try on him?" Falan asked.
"None," Joe said. "You're too inexperienced to get a
decent joint lock on him, and he's way too strong for you.
While you're trying to figure out how to dislocate his knee or
his elbow, he'll hold you down and wail on you. The only thing
that might work if you both end up on the mat is a choke hold,
either from the front like this or the back like this.
"But that's only as a last resort," Joe emphasized. "If he
does go down and you're still up, just stay on your feet and be
ready to go after that knee again as soon as he puts any weight
on it. If you're lucky, the knee will be toast and he won't be
able to stand up. Then he'll have to concede the fight. That's
really the only way I see you winning this thing."

"Come on, if he goes down isn't there anything I can do to
make sure he stays there? I might not get another chance."
"If you think you can get away with it, try to kick him in
the side of the head as hard and fast as you can, but don't let
him grab your leg and pull you down. That'll be game over."
"Hey, let's go," James Tiernan yelled over to them.
"All right, shit this is it," Falan whispered.
As they walked over to the ring, Joe spoke out of the side
of his mouth, "I'm only here for the trash-talking, so don't let
me down on that part."

CHAPTER 29
Svetreeka softened her grip and stood to her full height
exposing her narrow shoulders and spare chest. Though they were
not of the same species, their makeup was similar and she knew
the sight of her unclothed inflamed him. He liked to tell her
that she had all the right parts and extras to boot.
Apparently, she possessed certain abilities that were unknown on
his home world. She slipped a hand inside his robe and let it
wander down between his legs while concentrating all her
attention on him.
Why don’t you get in the water and reconsider? What is one
more month?"
Kellion slipped out of his robe and vaulted into the
steaming water with hardly a splash. He laid his head back
against the side of the tub and closed his eyes while she
continued her ministrations. When she leaned into him and
touched her lips to his, he returned the kiss hungrily and
stroked her short white hair. She turned her head slightly and
spoke softly into his ear while he blindly devoured her thin
neck.
"That sounds okay, doesn't it? Just one more month?"
Kellion lifted her onto his lap and wrapped her legs around
his waist without speaking.
"Kel sweetie, that is not too much to ask. Is it?"

He silently removed her hands and tried to pull her down on
top of him, but she resisted with her hips while nibbling at his
ear.
"What do you say, Captain? Just a few more weeks?"
Svetreeka rolled her eyes when she felt his tongue trace
its way down to her shoulder. She reached for him below the
surface again and refocused her mind.
"Kellllllion," she cooed.
He managed a breathless murmur, "No, I really need to..."
Svetreeka reared back with blood on her lip as Kellion
sighed and his shoulders sagged. He slowly opened his eyes and
reached up to feel how much of his lobe was missing.
She glared back at him from the top step of the tub, "For
the record you did not rescue anybody. I had those Iridonian
bastards right where I wanted them until you came along and
spoiled my revenge. They did not deserve the quick death you
gave them."
"Svetreeka, come back. Let me explain."
"Shut up," she rasped as she toweled off and collected her
robe. "You will be lucky to avoid the same fate I had planned
for them before we are through with each other."
"Maybe you would like to stay marooned on this hellhole,"
Kellion sneered, "and take part in the King's big summer hunt
every year. Doubtless the mood will be a tad more somber once
the eye wall passes over."
"Hah," she called out as she strode inside without looking
back, "you would not dare."
Kellion did not bother going through the formality of
fooling himself. He did not even consider leaving her behind as
he watched the droplets of blood dissipate and vanish in the
water one by one. She was right. If he had not gotten rid of
her by now, then it was going to take a lot more than that to
push him over the edge. The older he got, the more addicted to
her he became -- even with the sub-cranial neural inhibitors he
had installed a few years back. He had to assume she knew about
them, but she had never said anything. Maybe that was because
they did not seem to work all that well. The mind chemist on
Eradonus had warned him that he would not be getting his money's
worth by opting for such low-yield impacitors, but he was not
looking to maximize their utility. Quite the opposite.
He only wanted to dull her influence by the narrowest of
margins -- just enough so that he could keep a few of his wits
about him when she really sunk her hooks into him. Since the
operation, he had been able to maintain his self-control a bit
better -- most of the time anyway. He was now also better able
to observe his own toll on her. He was not sure if the implants
were playing a role in that or not, but she seemed to be growing

steadily hungrier for him. Though she was becoming nearly as
insatiable as he was, it was not her physical desire for him
that seemed to be increasing.
Svetreeka seemed to be getting needier for his undivided
attention like a junkie who had lost his connection to a pure
supply and was forced to make do with a cut product. It was
making her increasingly irritable, and that could be dangerous.
His former steward was lucky Kellion took care of him before
Svetreeka decided to attend to the matter herself. Inwah and
his crew had seen quite a bit over the last two and half
centuries -- things they could never have imagined before
leaving home -- but she was the only one of her kind they had
ever encountered. He wondered if what she claimed was true: if
she really was from another universe entirely.
Scientists at home had used indirect methods to show
conclusively that there had to be other universes or multiverses
of some kind out there, but no one was really sure what that
meant exactly. They could not even agree on where "out there"
was. Some felt these other cosmos resided out beyond the
farthest reaches of their own expanding universe, while others
thought they existed all around them near and far. They
believed that these multiverses were hidden within the seven
extra dimensions, which they knew existed but had yet to
identify in any practical sense. Whatever the case, travel from

one multiverse to another was thought to be impossible for
anything other than a virtual particle known as the graviton,
which was responsible for carrying the force of gravity.
Svetreeka made all sorts of wild assertions, but she lacked
even a basic understanding of the physical sciences so it was
difficult to establish which if any of them might be accurate.
Though a few of the more advanced alien cultures they had
observed since she had been aboard might have shed some light on
her claims, Inwah shied away from alien contact whenever
possible. He and his crew had a particularly bad experience
when they woke from their first cryostasis to find The Lady
Valentine being overrun by some sort of intelligent reptilian
species. He and his crew only managed to regain control of the
ship after a desperate fight that claimed nearly a third of his
original crew.
After the battle, he was not able to get a fix on his
position. Many of the ship's systems were damaged in the
fighting, but that didn't seem to be the problem. The ship's
navigation computer simply did not recognize where they were.
There were no known data points within The Lady's hundred-
billion galaxy detection range, meaning they had awoken
somewhere much farther from home than anticipated. This was
doubly concerning because it implied that they had traveled

beyond what should have been possible given the elapsed time
marked by the ship's chronometer.
The Lady Valentine represented an exponential jump ahead in
space craft design and construction, but her top sustainable
cruising speed still remained far below the speed of light. The
revolution in the scope and scale of the thinking she ignited
among space exploration planners did not result so much from the
improvements made to her drive capability as from those made to
the systems that controlled her navigation, automation and
cryostasis technology. The Lady's drive capability possessed
only minor upgrades to the standard cold fusion power plant.
The other improvements, however, stemmed from astonishing
advancements in the fields of quantum computing and technology
miniaturization. The later had been pushed to near Planck
dimensions making the nanotechnology of old seem skyscraper-like
in comparison. The first practical breakthroughs in quantum
analytics advanced computer processing speeds by dozens of
Moorifications straight out of the gate. When that new level of
proficiency was then aimed back at itself and used to answer the
same question of how to further improve a computer's ability to
solve problems and make predictions, the results were
inconceivable. Those subsequent processing gains were then
harnessed and used to analyze countless unanswered questions
across all the sciences. The answers that came to light built
on one another and promulgated a interdisciplinary learning
frenzy that drove progress at a reality blurring rate.
Saboteurs from many religious walks, all in fear for their gods
and their souls, attempted to return the entire species to the
Stone Age by a variety of different means. They were willing to
pay any price to ensure that the sanctity of their reliance on
the Almighty remained intact.
They were not alone. More than a few technologists were
frightened by what these developments portended for the future
and likewise sought to derail the species' continued
advancement. The relentless knowledge seekers were no less
enthralled with their own idol -- knowledge -- than the
religious zealots were with theirs. Some scientists even dared
to proselytize that at some point in the future no question
would be left unanswered. That prospect drove more than a few
wild with anticipation. For a certain subset within the global
society, that expectation broke down all previous cultural,
political, economic and geographic divisions. A new world order
comprised of two camps was established.
Believing their chance at omniscience was at stake, the
technophiles undertook to wipeout all the non-believers on the
planet. They also enacted a plan to exterminate those few, who
paradoxically made their homes on the three off-world
settlements, which existed at the time. Two of those were

established on artificial, orbiting biospheres and the third was
homesteaded by pioneers on their nearest planetary neighbor. In
an effort to preserve their hope for an eternal afterlife,
devout secessionists joined forces across traditional religions'
faith fault lines and invoked a holy war.
The conflict was still raging when Captain Inwah launched
The Lady Valentine on her maiden voyage. Knowing how quickly
his compatriots had been racing along the learning curve when he
left, Kellion often found himself wondering what the latest
generation of ships must be like and how they would compare to
the awesome displays of workmanship he had encountered since
leaving home. Such speculation assumed, of course, that his
civilization remained intact and was still capable of
undertaking such grand enterprises.
After dispatching the hostile boarding party and driving
off in their ship, Inwah was left in a quandary. There had not
been any point in accelerating back to cruising speed and
refreezing themselves for a long haul. They had no idea which
direction to take. The ship's navigation log indicated that
just a few ship years after her departure The Lady encountered
some form of unavoidable seismic event between their home system
and the one they were destined for. It appeared to have been
some sort of spatial riptide that sucked them out of the space
they were in and regurgitated them someplace else entirely more
than a dozen ship years later.
When Inwah's crew assessed the situation, they found they
were not far from the outskirts of a solar system, but the
captain was leery of venturing any closer despite evidence that
two of the planets were giving off hospitable atmospheric
signatures. There were signs of intelligent life as well, but
he did not care to take the time to analyze them too closely.
He felt certain that their attackers must have come from
somewhere nearby. Their ship had seemed too small to venture
very far alone. The big question had finally been answered once
and for all: they were not alone. There were other intelligent
beings out there.
Kellion had no desire to be taken to their leader. He had
ended up setting course for the third most distant system after
reasoning that if the scaly assailants returned with
reinforcements, then they would most likely concentrate their
search in the direction of the next closest system. Neither of
the other two systems emitted any known signs of intelligent
life, but Inwah and his crew would come to discover time and
again that they had much to learn about such things.
They had used the ensuing two ship years to make what
repairs they could while trying to figure out how to find their
way home. The ship's crumb trail led two thousand light hours
in roughly the same direction as they were headed before simply
disappearing. Inwah ordered a brief detour to inspect the end
of the trail more closely, but nothing he found made any sense.
It was as though The Lady had appeared there out of nowhere
while they slept and then continued on its way maintaining a
constant speed and heading the entire time. The relative course
the ship followed bore no discernable relationship to any that
had been preprogrammed into her navigation system before they
had gone to sleep.
Shortly before reaching the third system's outermost
planets, The Lady's reconnaissance equipment began picking up
all kinds of electromagnetic pulses and radio waves. There
seemed little doubt they had been generated by some kind of
intelligent life form. Inwah never dreamed that two different
intelligent species could be living so near one another and
assumed the signals were being generated by their reptilian
friends. Just when he had decided to veer off and head for yet
another solar system, The Lady Valentine was surrounded by three
very different looking vessels that arrived at daunting speeds.
Kellion rejected his first instinct to start blasting. Any
ship capable of traveling that fast had to be packing some
serious heat. The three new arrivals each tried unsuccessfully
to communicate their intentions using a variety of different
audio, visual and data transmissions. After a brief standoff,

they finally made their point by unceremoniously corralling The
Lady between them and herding her toward a space station
orbiting the system's fifth planet. The other ships docked
without assistance, while a swarm of scurrying tug drones poked
and prodded The Lady near enough to the station for a kind of
universal companionway to reach out and seal itself around one
of her hatches.
Inwah and his crew nicknamed the station "the Melting Pot,"
because when they arrived it already housed seven or eight
hundred beings from three different species. None were native
to that system or even the galaxy. Like Inwah and his crew,
they had all been unceremoniously deposited in the region under
similar circumstances. Their intentions were not hostile, and
after much effort the linguists and communications officers
aboard The Lady Valentine were able to engage their hosts in
rudimentary conversation using an evolving written language. It
utilized an assortment of characters from simple pictographs and
alphanumeric symbols to graphic representations of sound
frequency ranges and segments of the light spectrum. The
written language's oral counterpart offered greater challenges.
The space station's inhabitants were all too aware of the
reptilian beings that Inwah and his crew had encountered. There
were numerous small contingents of other species nearby as well
they said -- hostile, friendly and indifferent. That entire

region of the galaxy apparently served as some sort of
repository for items picked up elsewhere in space. The area
seemed to function like a giant river eddy at flood stage by
snaring and holding items that had been scoured off the banks by
the rising water. The motley assortment of intelligent beings
who had been uprooted and stranded in this new place now
inhabited several dozen different planets in nearby systems and
occupied half again as many artificial space-based environments.
Some kept to themselves living like predators or prey,
while others banded together forming small alliances for both
offensive and defensive purposes. Some of the species had modes
of cognition that were so different from one another that it was
debatable whether all of them were actually sentient. Alliance
members all tended to share at least one cognitive or physical
trait in common. The three species in the group that found The
Lady differed greatly in appearance. None looked even vaguely
similar to each other or Inwah and his crew, but they shared an
intellectual curiosity and liberal view toward integration and
cooperation. Where one of the three species possessed insect or
spider-like features, another bore a decidedly avian influence.
The third conjured up no comparisons at all from Inwah's frame
of reference.
Kellion's prowess in battle quickly earned him a great deal
of respect. During their first week at the station, his strike-

first mentality led him to personally charge one of The Lady's
smaller gunships directly into a large attacking force. The
captain's move was unanticipated by everyone given the
overwhelming strength of the oncoming assault. By driving
straight at them, he managed to take one ship out immediately
and scatter the rest so that their fire power could not be
concentrated on any single target. He then proceeded to
maneuver in and out of the larger, less maneuverable vessels in
a head turning display of quickness, agility and precision
firing. The captain coordinated his actions with his gunnery
crews aboard The Lady Valentine and together they decimated the
opposition before their new allies could fully join the fight.
He and his crew stayed on for six ship months learning as
much as they could about their new surrounding and its
inhabitants. They patrolled the alliance's territorial
boundaries along with the others and participated in diplomatic
missions to other groups in the region. No one knew if anyone
had ever found their way home from here. Many had gone off
looking, but they were rarely heard from again. Those who did
return usually limped back starved of resources and battered
from encounters with hostile entities. Many of those who stayed
put were working together to try to establish where they were in
relation to the worlds they knew.

The latest hope involved trying to retrace the path of a
newly arrived ship as soon as it appeared before any existing
evidence had a chance to fade. New arrivals were usually too
disoriented to realize what had happened until it was too late.
Kellion did not buy into the plan. He was doubtful they had
ever be able to retrace whatever phenomenon it was that
deposited the ships there. None of their home worlds were known
to each other, so even if they were successful, he saw little
reason to think the effort would benefit anyone but the latest
arrival. Kellion was too independent and too restless to spend
the rest of his life there based on that kind of reasoning. He
and his crew made their farewells and set out to find their own
way home after accepting the parting gift of a deadly weapon
that he dubbed the particle Gatling.
The captain fingered the bloody flap of his earlobe as he
climbed out of the tub. The crew had had enough of a break. It
was time they got back out there and continued searching for a
way home. Regardless of whether Constantine's latest radio
intercept turned out to be worth pursuing, it was just the spark
he needed to rally the troops back to work.
Inside, Donibal, his new cabin steward, was finishing up
with their things. He was what they called a freebooter here --
an unallied independent who sneaked into the storm eyes alone by
any means necessary in order to enjoy a non-confrontational

existence in the sun. They tunneled in, waited inside concealed
holes until the siege walls passed over them, stashed themselves
inside hollow tree trunks as the storm centers approached -- the
list went on. Donibal claimed to have squeezed into a padded
barrel and used a trebuchet to launch himself over the walls at
night. Once inside, his kind quickly looked for a way to make
themselves useful to someone of means who could vouch for them
and see that they were not executed or deported.
"Donibal, have you seen Svetreeka?"
The uniformed steward snapped to attention and saluted.
"Yes sir, Admiralismo, the Countessa awaits your august
imminence aboard your winged carriage, which has already arrived
presently."
The steward remained frozen in place, his eyes locked
forward and unblinking.
Kellion let him stand there like that while he dressed.
The garish uniform Donibal wore was of his own making. The
brilliant patchwork of multi-colored velvet-like material was
resplendent with an excess of gold embroidery and neon piping.
With all its tassels, epaulets, polished brass buttons and
silver cufflinks, the costume displayed no hint of the crew's
standard uniform. Kellion had no idea where he had picked up
his figures of speech and physical mannerisms. Doubtless, one
of the crew had coached him for a laugh.

"Come on, hurry up if you do not want to be left behind,"
Kellion barked on his way down the stairs.
"Yes sir, Admiralismo, coming in your noble wake
immediately at this precise momentation," Donibal called after
him.
The steward glanced furtively around the room. He ran
first one way then another before stopping and swiveling his
head and chewing his lip. Finally, he dashed over and snatched
a gold, four-stemmed candelabra with silver inlays from the
dining table and stashed it under his coat before hurrying after
his new benefactor.

CHAPTER 30
"Let's go, hurry up," James said as Manny finished tying
his gloves and taping the laces down.
Falan slipped off his shoes and socks, shed his sweat suit
and stepped up into the ring wearing nothing but shorts and a t-
shirt. Joe put his arms up on the middle rope and leaned into
the ring. James was wearing his sleeveless gray sweatshirt, a
pair of navy blue sweatpants, and a pair of white, shin high,
boxing shoes.
"I'm ready like this," Falan said holding up his bare
hands. "Let's go. No gloves, no rules, no time limit. I win:
I go to South America, and you pay for it. You win: I go to
back to Seattle, and you still pay."
"We settled that already. Put your gloves on," James
answered clapping his gloves together.
He leaned forward and Manny slipped his headgear in place.
"No, we haven't. We're gonna settle it right now though.
Let's go, you've got nothing to lose."
"No shit, I'm paying either way so forget it. Put on your
god-damn gloves, and let's go."
"Fuck that, I'm tired of your bullshit. You say you'll pay
for school, but then you attach a bunch of strings. I'm trying
to pursue my education not yours."

"Falan, stop running your mouth. Manny's got another
couple guys signed up for this ring at ten o'clock, so let's go
already."
"Let's go then, I'm standing here," Falan said.
James walked over to his son's side of the ring and looked
down at Joe.
"Santucci, what the fuck are you supposed to be doing?"
Joe appeared nonchalant.
"Nothing Mr. T. I was kidnapped. I'm just here to man the
corner and pick up the pieces."
"Yeah, well the way this is going, you're gonna need a
broom."
"I don't hear the fat lady singing just yet."
"Then you're not listening hard enough."
James turned back to his son.
"Come on, stop trying to get out of this and put your
gloves on."
"I'm not trying to get out of anything. Take off your
gloves, and let's settle this once and for all."
"Falan, I don't know what the two of you have been smoking,
but if you've been training on the side with your boy here, you
better wake the fuck up. If he has you convinced that you're
some kind of big-time karate man, you're in for a nasty fucking
reality check."
"Let's go then," Falan said, his voice cracking slightly.
"I'm standing here. I'm not trying to get out of anything. You
are."
"Falan, I don't want to hurt you, son. Boxing is a sport.
I don't want to fight you. I just want to box a few rounds with
you, make sure you're keeping your skills up. Come on, let's
just go a few rounds, and I'll buy you guys some breakfast."
"Fine, pay for South America then."
"Falan, I'm not going to say it again. We've settled that.
It's off the table."
"Fuck you then, you don't care if I know how to box or not.
This all started because you wanted to make sure I didn't
embarrass you again by backing down from a fight. But lately
you just like hitting me. You want me to stand up to everyone
except you. I wasn't afraid of that kid. I just didn't see the
need to fight him. It was an accident. I didn't mean to foul
him. I just wanted to apologize, take the penalty and get on
with the game."
"You're digging yourself into a hole. Get your headgear,
put on your god-damn gloves, and let's go already."
"No. You can brow beat mom all you like, but I'm done with
it. I'm not going to turn myself into a fucking alcoholic just
so I can tolerate your crap."

The punch caught Falan just below where his ribs came
together and dropped him to his knees. He fell forward on all
fours and silently heaved for air that wouldn't come. Manny
pulled James back. Joe hopped into the ring and got down on one
knee putting a hand on Falan's shoulder.
"Come on, buddy, try to relax. It'll come."
Quick wheezing noises eventually began to escape from
Falan. At that point Joe leaned close and spoke into Falan's
ear.
"You're close, keep it up, and this'll work."
Joe pulled Falan to his feet and stepped back out of the
ring. This time he stayed standing at ring level and leaned
against the corner turnbuckle. Falan was still sucking wind as
he pulled a mouthpiece out of his pocket and bit down on it.
His nostrils flared to keep the air flowing to his lungs.
"Nice cheap shot, you fucking pussy. When was the last
time you gave yourself any kind of a real challenge? How hard
is it to psychologically abuse a woman to the point she drowns
herself in a bottle? I'm your biggest conquest in the ring in
the last twenty years. Does it make you feel like a big man to
beat the crap out of a kid who weighs a hundred pounds less than
you?"
James started forward, but Manny grabbed him by the elbow.

"Falan, you say one more word, and you're going to get your
wish."
"Help him get his gloves off, Manny, then let him go,"
Falan said.
He pointed a finger at his father and cocked his head a
little to the side.
"You're nothing but a pathetic little bitch who can't get
over daddy dying. I got news for you: he died thinking you were
a sniveling bed wetter. He probably knew back then that you'd
never grow out of it."
Joe buried his face in his shoulder and tried to stifle a
smile while Manny reached over and started undoing the tape on
James's gloves.
"No, Manny, leave the gloves on, but take my headgear off,
and give it to Falan," James said quietly.
The old Cuban removed the headgear and took it over to
Falan who threw it out of the ring.
"Now go take his gloves off, Manny," Falan said keeping his
eyes on his father.
"All right, Falan, we're going to do this, but I'm keeping
my gloves on. You do whatever you want, let's go."
The Steamer squared his cannonball shoulders and started
inching forward in an old-school boxer's crouch. His bulging

arms and tree trunk thighs looked like they were joined together
by a full keg.
"The three knock-down rule is in effect," James said. "You
go down three times, and we're done."
"No rules," Falan said holding his ground. "First one to
give up or get knocked out loses. You go to the mat, expect to
get hit while you're down there."
"Falan, I don't give a rat's ass. That's just going to
save me the two extra punches."
Joe spoke up, "And no eye gouging or biting. You guys
should make those two rules at least."
"Fine, whatever," James scoffed as continued advancing.
"And leave Manny in the ring to end the fight in case one
of you is still conscious but can't defend themselves," Joe kept
on.
"No," Falan said. "Manny can stay in the ring to call an
end if someone gets knocked out, but no one can stop the fight
for me as long as I'm conscious."
"Not in my gym," Manny barked in a thick Cuban accent.
"The fight is over when I say, and your corner man can also call
it if he thinks you're in trouble."
Manny held up a hand for James to stay back then grabbed a
towel off one of the ropes and took it over to Joe.
"Do you box?" he asked.

"No, but I've got a couple different black belts."
"Don't let you're friend get brain-damaged," Many grumbled
before walking back to the center of the ring.
"Go to your corners, and get ready to come out fighting."
Joe stepped into the ring again and turned to face Falan
who was backed into his corner.
"Okay, man, this is it. You do have a chance. Believe
that. It is a small, small chance, but with his gloves on you
might get a little more time to work on his knees. Just keep
out of his range. This shit is over if he knocks you out.
Remember that," Joe hissed. "Protect your head, stay out of
reach and be patient."
"I don't want to see that fucking towel. Make him knock me
out."
"I will unless you stop trying. If you stop defending
yourself then it's over."
Manny was standing in the center of the ring.
"Falan, are you ready?"
Falan nodded.
"James, are you ready?"
James clapped his gloves together and gave a single nod.
"House rule -- five minute rounds, also no eye gouging and
no biting," the old man said before smacking his palms together
and taking a few steps back to clear the center of the ring.
James began advancing straight on without hesitation.
Falan adopted the sideways stance that Joe had taught him and
started circling to his right. He was bouncing on his toes like
a tennis player anticipating a serve. James suddenly stutter
stepped to his left and lashed out with a wild left hook that
caught Falan on the side of the head and sent him sprawling. He
didn't even have time to get his hands back to break his fall.
He landed flat on his ass. Joe winced when he heard Falan's
teeth clack together and saw his friend's mouth piece drop into
his lap an instant later.
Falan sprung back up wary of being mauled on the ground,
but his father just stood there waiting for him. He scooped up
his mouth piece and shook his head a couple of times as he began
circling again. He'd boxed with his father enough to know that
the same left hook was coming again. When it did he pulled his
head back to avoid the blow. Then, as his father's glove went
past, Falan launched a quick hard kick that landed on his
father's left thigh just below the hip.
James laughed, "You gotta be kidding me, Falan. What the
hell were you thinking?"
Falan kept circling, and James stalked after him trying to
corner him. Falan launched several kicks from a safe distance
as he tried to gage his range. After the third kick missed,
Falan followed through a little too far instead of snapping his

foot back crisply as Joe had taught him. James stepped in and
landed a right hand that glanced off the side of Falan's cheek.
The ropes were the only thing that kept him up that time. Falan
quickly pushed off and resumed dancing to the right. His next
kick landed, but it struck high near the hip again.
"Bring 'em down a little lower, Falan," Joe called out.
James was sending out quite a few left jabs now, but most
were coming up short. Falan managed to ward off the ones that
got close then countered with a kick that landed. That one was
high also, but after that he had his range dialed in. The
trouble was he couldn't find many openings. Every time he tried
a kick, he left himself open to a counter punch. He knew to
keep his hands up when he was boxing, but now that he was
concentrating on kicking he was forgetting to protect himself
with his hands. The next kick he launched was a case in point.
This time Falan's butt hit the mat with such force that he
continued backward and slammed his head on the floor of the
ring.
Falan was a little slow getting up, so James was right on
him when he started to straighten himself. An uppercut to the
stomach lifted him off his feet and drove him into the ropes.
The Steamer followed up in close with a one-two combination to
the middle. Falan had his wind knocked out, but he avoided the
finishing right cross by stepping inside and clinching. Before

he could regain his breath, James out-muscled him and threw him
into the ropes again. Falan bounced back, flinched under an
overhand right and clinched a second time. This time he got a
better hold. Without gloves on he was able to get a good grip
on his dad's sweatshirt. He hugged on and got his breath back,
while James tried to shrug him off and push him away.
Falan went with his father's momentum when he twisted too
far in one direction and tripped him with his foot, so that they
both pounded onto the mat. They landed on their sides facing
each other only inches apart. Falan's eyes shot wide. Joe
would have shackled one of his joints or choked him out in the
time it took him to get back to his feet, but James just rolled
over onto his stomach and labored to his hands and knees before
starting to stand. Falan stepped in from the side and kicked
him as hard as he could in the gut. James gave a woof but still
managed to get to his feet. He stood bent over with his hands
on his knees glaring at Falan and gasping.
Falan came in fast and launched a kick at the Steamer's
lowered head, but James swatted him in the shin with a forearm
and fired an uppercut that grazed the front of Falan's chin on
its way past. The near miss was still enough to knock Falan on
his ass and force him to reconsider Joe's warning about facial
reconstruction. His father was busy sucking air so Falan was
able to struggle back to his feet unmolested. When James saw

his son spread his hands for balance and test his shin with a
tentative first step, he rushed forward throwing a barrage of
wild haymakers with both hands.
Falan dodged or deflected most of them while teetering
backward until a partially blocked left hook got through and
sent him reeling. He was on his way down again, but the
turnbuckle crunched into his spine and held him upright. James
followed him into the corner and cut off his escape. Falan
ducked under the first punch then stuffed his head up under
James's chin. He buried his face in his father's chest and
grabbed fistfuls of sweatshirt around his back.
James tried backing up and pushing Falan away, but Falan
held on. When it looked like his father might finally shake him
free, Falan bent both knees and jumped up as hard has he could
blasting his father's chin with the top of his head. Afterward
he quickly let go, pushed back half a step and kicked his father
full bore on the side of his left knee. Blood streamed onto the
front of the Steamer's sweatshirt, but the gash on his chin
didn't appear to faze him in the least. He just raised his foot
a couple of times to flex his knee and smirked. Falan rubbed
the top off his head and tried to focus through all the stars.
They circled and traded faints for another minute. James
came in strong once, but Falan kept backing up and moving right.
He landed a couple more half decent kicks on the left knee, but
then got knocked down once more just as Manny yelled time and
smacked his palms together.
"Dude, you're stylin," Joe exclaimed handing him some water
and a towel. "You're totally legit. You've gotta stay patient
though. Stop letting him catch you with those punches, man.
One of 'em is going to put you down for good. You've gotten
lucky so far. If he didn't have gloves on this would be over
already. Block those hooks same as when you're boxing and then
step in hard with the elbow -- here under the chin or on the
temple like this. That head-butt was sweet, but make sure you
don't knock yourself out."
Falan was gulping down water. Joe snatched it away and
tossed it down on the floor outside the ring.
"Enough of that shit. Come on, Falan, stay focused. You
really gotta work that knee. You need to hit it like fifty more
times. I'm not kidding. It doesn't have to be all at once.
We've got all day. You've got to stay conscious and work that
knee for as long as it takes. Fifty good kicks to that knee
will put him down. Take your time, wait for your openings and
make every one count."
"Fighters, ready," Manny said loudly.
Joe stepped out of the ring, and both Falan and his dad
nodded.
"Round two," Manny said as he clapped is hands together.

The second round went much like the first for the first
four minutes. Falan got knocked down several times and began
bleeding steadily from his nose. His stitches opened up and he
also received a fresh cut under the same eye. He landed five or
six more good kicks to the left knee, and one very good one to
the right. Then James trapped him in the corner again forcing
him to clinch. This time Falan let his arms slip down so that
he was hugging his father around the waist instead of under the
armpits. Next he drove forward like a football player hitting a
tackling dummy. As James staggered backward, Falan slipped the
rest of the way down and wrapped his father's ankles together.
James slammed down, and the back of his head whipped into
the mat. Falan scrambled to his knees and punched his father in
the balls as hard as he could before James kicked him in the
throat and drove him off. Falan jumped up and looked for an
opening. As James rolled onto his hands and knees to get up,
Falan stepped in and launched a well aimed kick at his father's
temple. James's head flopped sideways, but he somehow managed
to block the follow up blow and continue rising to his feet.
Falan took two quick steps and dove forward like a lead
blocker in football and speared his dad in the side of the head
with an elbow. The blow was backed by his full body weight.
James keeled over on his side and Falan jumped up and started
kicking fast and furious. He opened up a cut under his father's

eye, sent blood spurting from his nose and split both his lips,
before James could regain his feet. As soon as he stood up,
Manny clapped his hands together and yelled time.
"Falan buddy, you're having an out of body experience," Joe
said as he handed Falan the water bottle and started wiping
blood off his face. "I'm serious, you can win this. I don't
know what style you're using, but it's working."
Falan kept the water to his lips while pointing across the
ring with his other hand. Joe looked around and saw Manny
helping James get his gloves off.
"Well, you've earned his respect anyway," Joe said. "You
can still win this thing, Falan. You've already beaten the
odds. Here get this fucking t-shirt off so he can't grab hold
of you like you're doing to him. You've gotta stop letting him
hit you. Every time he connects, you go down. You can't let
him hit you in the head without gloves. I'm serious, Falan.
You'll be out cold before you hit the ground."
Falan just nodded and sucked air.
"Stay patient, man -- especially now. Stay with the knees,
it's a good plan. The left one's starting to bother him, but
you gotta mix it up so he doesn't know which one to protect."
Manny called, "Fighters, ready," from the center of the
ring.
Joe stepped through the ropes then leaned back in.

"Now that he isn't wearing gloves, you aren't going to be
able to clinch with him. He'll just grab hold of you and
overpower you. You've got to stay away."
"Round three," Manny called as his palms came together.
Falan resumed circling. He tried adding a little extra
spring to his step when he got a close look at his father's
fists covered with nothing but tape. The first bare knuckle
punch James threw caught Falan in the middle of the forehead as
he tried to duck under it. His neck snapped back and he hung
suspended in place for an instant while his eyes rolled back in
their sockets. Then he tipped backward and fell into a pool of
darkness. The room burst back in a kaleidoscope of light when
his head banged onto the mat. The Steamer's fuzzy silhouette
hovered far above. Falan blinked repeatedly as he rolled onto
his side and pushed himself up on an elbow. He got his bearings
when he looked over and saw Joe paused between the ropes with
one foot in the ring. Falan tried to scramble away so that he
could get to his feet unmolested, but his father stayed right
with him and shoved him over.
"Stay down," James snarled when his son sat up again.
Instead of listening Falan crab-walked half a step forward
and launched a heel strike into his father's left kneecap. Then
he rolled sideways and sprung to his feet. His father's knee
hyper-extended with a grisly pop before he could unweight it.

James grunted and hopped back wincing. He bent over and held
the knee with both hands for just a moment before straightening
up. His face was masked in fury. Falan was already going for
the knee again, but his father batted the kick aside.
"Be patient, Falan, make him come to you," Joe cautioned as
he eased himself back out of the ring.
Falan returned to his game plan and started circling right.
His father grabbed for Falan's foot the next time he went for
the knee. James couldn't keep hold, but he threw his son off
balance. Falan was already falling backwards when his father
nailed him on the chin, otherwise more than just his mouth piece
would have flown out of his mouth. While he was down, Falan
kept his father back with a few more heel strikes aimed at the
knees. They all missed, but they bought him the space he needed
to vault back up and skip sideways away from the corner his
father was steering him toward. He managed to scoop up his
mouth piece on the way.
James favored his left knee as he pursued his son across
the ring. When Falan switched direction and faked at the other
knee, James charged him and bulled him into the ropes. He
pounded two sharp blows into his son's rib cage before Falan
clinched with him. As soon as Falan hugged on to his father,
James gripped him by the shoulders and threw him back into the
ropes. Falan ducked under a right hook as he came rebounding

off the ropes and planted an elbow on his father's exposed
temple. James smiled, grabbed his son by the shoulders again
and slung him down in the center of the ring.
Falan kept rolling. He got up and leapt backward just in
time to avoid his father's next punch. James kept after him and
drove Falan into the far ropes with his shoulder -- linebacker
style. Falan tried to twist away, but James got him in a face-
to-face bear hug and started squeezing. Falan couldn't fill his
lungs. His father lifted him up off his feet and continued
crushing him. When Falan found himself looking down at the top
of James's head, he began hammering his elbow down on the crown
of his Father's skull. The blows had no effect. Unable to
breathe at all, Falan reached down and tried to shove his
father's face back, but it was no use. When he felt his
father's nose, he instinctively jammed his index finger as far
as he could up one nostril.
James roared and tossed his head, but he refused to let go.
Unable to escape the probing finger, he reared up to body-slam
Falan onto his back. As Falan fell backward under his father's
weight, he tried to minimize the impending whiplash by
retrieving his finger and leaning over his father's shoulder.
He flung one arm out sideways to absorb some of the shock and
wrapped his other arm around the back of his father's neck and
wedged it in his armpit. A moment later James speared him into

the mat, and what little breath remained whooshed out of Falan's
lungs.
Falan was left sitting half up in his father's embrace. He
was partly draped over the Steamer's shoulder holding him in a
one-arm, front-head lock. When James tried to pull away and sit
up on top of him, Falan sank his forearm deeper under his
father's chin and clamped down tighter on the back of his neck.
James growled and redoubled his effort to squeeze the air out of
his son's lungs. The lack of oxygen sent Falan into a state of
panic. Desperate for air he used his free hand to grab his
wrist and cinch down harder on his father's windpipe. He felt
the larynx flatten. The added leverage transformed the
ineffectual headlock into a serious assault. It was a somewhat
bastardized version of a textbook Jujitsu choke hold called the
guillotine that Joe had shown him. The move enabled Falan to
crush his father's carotid artery in a vice-like grip.
"Come on, Falan, tighter. Lock that mother fucker down,"
Joe screamed.
James raised himself up and pounded the back of Falan's
head on the mat several times in rapid succession. Falan's face
transitioned from deep red to maroon, but he managed to hang on.
The elder Tiernan soon switched tactics. It was apparent that
his bear hug grip was preventing him from generating enough
force to dislodge the clamp that was cutting off the blood
supply to his brain. He let go so that he could use his hands
to push himself farther up off the mat. This time when he drove
his shoulder into his son's chest, Falan's mouth guard spewed
out along with the very last puff of stale air in his lungs.
The subsequent flurry of similar jolts, however, shifted the
pair's alignment and allowed Falan to improve his grip.
His eyes squinted shut and his jaw muscles bulged, but
Falan held on through the pummeling. When James began running
out of steam, he tried to reach up and paw at his son's face in
an effort to push him away, but with his head caught in Falan's
armpit he had little leverage. Falan was able to suck in a
couple of short breaths before James gave up and started driving
his knee into his son's groin over and over again. Red foam
spurted out of Falan's nose with each strike and he threw up on
his father's back, but he refused to let go.
The flailing patter of punches to Falan's rib cage that
came next lacked power and went unnoticed. The Steamer's face
was a violent shade of purple when he managed to reach up and
get one hand around Falan's throat. Cords stood out on his
forearm as he flexed his fingers, but Falan scrunched his chin
down gaining some measure of protection. James shoved upward
hard enough to tilt his son's head all the way back, but Falan
seemed oblivious. He just grimaced and kept jamming his forearm
into his father's gullet.

When Falan finally opened his eyes, Joe and Manny were in
the ring pulling the two of them apart. They were both covered
in blood and vomit. Manny rolled James off Falan, as Joe pried
Falan's arm away from his father's throat. Falan heaved for air
as he watched Manny wave ammonium nitrate under James's nose.
His dad's eyes were open, but his face was navy blue, and the
veins in his neck looked ready to burst. The smelling salts
elicited an explosion of hacking and bloody phlegm.
"What happened?" Falan huffed.
Joe hauled him to his feet and ushered him over so he could
stand in his corner with his arms spread atop the ropes, while
his father remained sitting on the canvas as Manny tended him.
The two guys in the other ring were standing side by side
leaning on the top rope. They'd stopped their own sparring
during the first round to watch the spectacle. One nodded his
head to Falan, and the other shook a gloved fist in the air
before they went back about their own business.
"Manny called the fight. You won. You choked him out,"
Joe marveled. "You cut off the blood supply to his fucking
brain, man. He didn't quit, but if Manny didn't step in and end
it, you might have killed him. I warned you about that but, god
damn, you didn't have much choice. That was some desperate
shit. Way to go, man. I wish we had that on video. Breakfast

is on me. I'm calling in sick, then we're gonna rally the guys.
We're going to the beach."

CHAPTER 31
Palerick Gheddy was in a dark mood when he exited the
defense ministry shortly before the close of business and headed
off to a hastily arranged meeting with Huron Gaelen. After his
encounter with Sandogaul Treachen, Gheddy had gone to see his
nominal boss, Director Orin Vertimere, the recognized head of
Ilstachian Military Intelligence. The director had proven
surprisingly deferential. Gheddy had expected a lot of
argumentative push-back, but the meeting had not gone like that
at all. His misreading of the situation troubled Palerick to no
end. The error seemed to vindicate the council's earlier
negative assessment of his potential and justify their decision
not to continue grooming him for a position within the shadow
government.
Only guild members who had attained the highest degree of
enlightenment were invited by the council to serve in that
institution. The secret government's existence had never been
openly confirmed so public opinion among the heretics varied on
whether it truly existed. Palerick's fall from grace was an
embarrassing turn for someone with his pedigree. As consolation
his mentors had years ago surreptitiously arranged employment
for him as a staffer to a senior technocrat in the official
government's military intelligence agency.

The covert assembly was formed several hundred generations
ago when it looked as though the number of true acolytes in the
official administration might eventually slip into minority
status. Such fears turned out to be justified, if premature.
The balance of power only recently teetered in favor of the
technologist contingent after Palerick's promotion to his
current position within the official government. The
directorship of military intelligence held by Orin Vertimere was
just one of several key seats now controlled by the technocrats.
Their solid footing atop that particular branch of the
Ilstachian power structure owed itself to the military
intelligence agency's perceived lack of effectiveness under the
guild's prior management.
After more than five thousand generations of unwavering
adherence to its strategic vision, the guild had failed to
produce any substantive results from its long-range data
gathering initiative. Tens of thousands of new species
exhibiting low and mid-level sentience had been discovered and
examined, but they came across very few who had attained the
sixth level of consciousness, and none of those were found to
harbor the source code needed for the next ascension. The guild
nevertheless remained convinced that outright victory over their
enemies required a complete paradigm shift in the way the
Ilstachians were fighting the war.

The practitioners were equally certain that the only way to
accomplish such a drastic reformation was to ensure that future
generations ascended to the seventh level of awareness before
their enemies. The resulting cognitive advantage might even
lead them to devise a peaceful solution to the long-running
hostilities. The guild program's lack of success to date merely
reinforced their central tenet that such a drastic advancement
would never be realized unless the republic remained steadfast
in its pursuit of the missing seed. Palerick Gheddy had entered
into public service with the sole purpose of making certain that
the official government's focus never wavered from that policy.
The republic's technologist constituency, however, could not
conceive of a higher plain of consciousness than the one they
were on and doubted that instructions for reaching such a frame
of mind even existed. Their slim majority now gave them the
leverage they needed to promote a different sort of wholesale
change.
The latest school of thought from the technology camp held
that the war could be won by achieving a steady succession of
small incremental successes on the battlefield. The technocrats
advocated trying to ferret out numerous tactical advantages that
could be exploited immediately rather than continuing to waste
resources looking for a single wholesale strategic remedy that
only a shrinking minority of the population believed existed.

To that end Orin Vertimere shifted the military intelligence
agency's operational focus away from the guild's quest to find
the next link in the map of life's evolutionary chain and turned
it toward war-zone espionage activities and battlefield
surveillance.
The new director essentially shut down the guild's impetus
detection effort by killing ninety-eight percent of its budget.
Gheddy's fiefdom became a pariah within the defense ministry
overnight. Desperate not to see the work of so many generations
go completely to waste, Palerick convinced Sandogaul Treachen's
uncle to allocate just enough funding to cover the cost of a
drastically scaled down monitoring facility. Gheddy was able to
keep the guild program's reception antennas up and running, but
there was no financing available to staff the thousands of
positions needed to review and analyze the messages from the
millions of live field operatives and automated sounding
stations that had been deployed to search for the seed over the
last five thousand generations.
Radicals in the shadow government immediately began
clamoring for an overthrow until the associate director came up
with a stopgap measure that was deemed sufficient for the short
term. Gheddy arranged for all incoming reports to be collected
and archived so that their content could be evaluated at some
later date. The hope was that a peaceful shift in the

republic's leadership could be orchestrated in time to restore
the guild's political leverage before the backlog of reports
became too overwhelming. The only personnel concession that
Palerick managed to wrangle out of Director Vertimere was money
for a low-level sentinel slot to be staffed around the clock.
At the very least Gheddy wanted to make sure someone was keeping
an eye out for the highest priority anomalies that warranted
immediate attention so that he could look into them himself.
Multiple reports from different sources in the same area or
repeated dispatches from a single source were just two of the
scenarios assigned the highest priority. Such instances were
rare, but Palerick was determined to minimize the possibility
that the information they had been searching for all this time
would finally turn up only to be lost again amidst a colossal
backlog of unexamined communiqués. Gheddy had expected to use
highly skilled acolytes to fill the low-level sentinel position
while quietly subsidizing their income through the shadow
government's back channels, but Vertimere would not hear of
using guild members for fear of duplicity.
Knowing what a strong aversion even the lowest ranking
technologist would have for such a job, the director had his
nephew promote two unaligned security guards from a remote off-
world mining operation. Palerick had harbored serious doubts
whether the characters Sandogaul found him would be capable of

discerning even the simplest notification requirement, but
Jervisco and Rikter had proven themselves to be more than up to
the task. Those two turned out to be just clueless enough to do
their job without worrying about the larger political
implications involved. Gheddy doubted whether trained guild
acolytes could have performed any better and considered
sponsoring these two into one of the guild's remedial
instructional preparatories.
Palerick's precocious start to his own acolyte training was
what originally prompted the council to admit him to an
exclusive guild program that acted as a feeder academy for the
Ilstachian shadow government. He served many apprenticeships
across various branches of that body and was eventually
appointed to a junior position in the intelligence branch. His
clandestine career there, however, progressed slowly and with
very little distinction while his overt occupation as a civilian
manager in the official government's defense department landed
him on the fast track for promotion in that institution.
Though he quickly became a mid-level bureaucrat in his
official capacity, his status in the shadow government remained
unchanged. His superiors felt that after an auspicious
beginning Palerick's acolyte aptitude failed to live up to
expectations. Senior positions in the shadow government went
only to guild members with the highest level of psychonic

proficiency, so while Palerick passed all of his examinations,
his ratings in relation to those he was competing with for
advancement were considered below average at best and bottom
tier at worst.
Even so, he was in elite company and should have felt
privileged and honored to be a part of that underground body.
He was far too hard on himself to be content, however. His
father and grandmother had both sat on the council, and for him
to fail to rise above the junior ranks of the larger institution
run by that exclusive cabal was humiliating. Not even his
eventual promotion to one of the few associate director
positions inside the official government did anything to
diminish his feelings of inadequacy.
Being the youngest of only five associate directors working
for Director Vertimere in military intelligence was no
consolation. There were so few guild members in that branch of
the official government anymore that Gheddy felt like a token
placeholder -- a figurehead atop a tower that nobody wanted to
climb. He assumed the only reason he made associate director
was because none of the senior technologists would accept the
job of overseeing the guild's ailing legacy program. He had
also long suspected that his initial acceptance into the shadow
government's elite feeder academy owed itself more to his
father's influence than any superior aptitude displayed on his

part. His latest failure to accurately read Orin Vertimere's
intentions seemed to back this up.
Palerick reaffirmed his vow to prove himself on his own
merits as he marched down the street in route to his meeting
with Huron Gaelen, the individual whom he considered his real
boss. The brisk walk down to the river through the neoclassic
architecture of the city's government sector did little to
improve his disposition. He forced himself to slow to a more
leisurely pace as he joined the late-day strollers on the gravel
promenade bordering the waterfront, lest the flapping of his
calf-length coat tales draw unwanted attention. While he felt
ridiculous wearing such garb, Palerick did not want to stand
out. His formal attire, complete with a crimson cravat and
towering top spire, was again de rigueur among the technologist
elite in this section of the city. At least he did not have to
worry about the equally outrageous hoop dresses, wide-brimmed
caponettes and frilly solbrellas that were all the rage among
that circle's fairer sex.
The small tables in front of the cafes were beginning to
fill up, and the urchins were emerging discreetly from the
catacombs to pedal flowers and shoe shines among the evening
crowd while keeping one eye out for the constables. This was
the only section of the city that still tried to pay any sort of
homage to its roots on Old Ilstach. The hawkers on the

traditional produce boats moored along the bank were taking down
their awnings and casting off their lines. The tide was on its
way out, and those who lingered would soon find themselves
victims of the lesser moon. Dawdlers would be stuck on the
canal's muddy bottom until the dominant moon floated them again
an hour later. Teenagers standing or sitting atop long, finned
planks and shallow dugouts skimmed off toward the ocean riding
little outgoing crests that disappeared from view without ever
breaking. Those with the skills to manage it would make the
return trip in a quarter of the time riding the faces of the
much larger waves that would refill the channel at the dominant
moon's behest.
The republic's capital was only recently moved to this
world four generations ago. It was the third such move
initiated in the face of encroaching development, but already
the city was starting to look more like a Beledenite hive
tenement than a properly laid out Ilstachian metropolis. Of
course that was why the local tribunals evicted the national
government from New Ilstach and Ilstach III in the first place.
The growing prevalence of technologist ideals had caused the
government to guide development in directions that were
unpalatable to the resident citizenry on those conservative,
guild dominated worlds. Palerick continued to the far end of
the walk doffing his tall cylindrical headgear perfunctorily

when expected while watching for any signs that he was being
trailed.
He did not expect anyone to be following him, but it paid
to be careful these days. Members of the guild had unexpectedly
retaken several seats in the politate during the last referendum
and conspiracy theories were back in vogue among the left-
leaning media. There was nothing much new in the allegations.
They mainly consisted of the same old unsubstantiated claims
regarding ominous guild forces that were supposedly controlling
society from some hidden vantage -- ridiculous of course. One
specific twist of note, however, speculated that a coup was
being planned in the office of military intelligence.
That recent bit of conjecture was first bandied about in
the editorial sections of the capital's leading news rag shortly
after a highly publicized diplomatic tiff erupted between the
Ilstach government and the Ludition embassy. The row culminated
with two Ludition diplomatic attaches being charged with
espionage and ordered out of the republic. Guild members had
lobbied hard for a more nuanced resolution, but the technocrat
laden courts were determined to set an example. Violence
between the two factions was largely a thing of the past, but as
the only senior ranking guild member in the office of military
intelligence, Associate Director Palerick Gheddy would be an

obvious one to watch if the technophiles were truly worried
about subversion within the ministry.
The shadow council was not formally considering such
drastic action, but its members were furious over the
deportation incident, and a few of the more radical elements now
wanted to conduct a feasibility study to see whether such an
option was viable. For the moment cooler heads prevailed. The
guild had enough issues on its plate without adding a civil war.
Palerick saw plenty of evidence to support that assertion when
he reached the end of the boulevard where the foot traffic
intersected with the city's congested main artery.
Newly approved powered vehicles were zipping past in
restricted lanes. Most of them were cheap low-tech hydrogen
fuel cell jobs, but the precedent had been set and Gheddy knew
it was only a matter of time before new roads were installed and
mag lifts inundated the city. The civic tribunal for public
works had just passed an ordinance removing the twenty-story
height restriction on new construction without putting any upper
bounds in its place. This prompted a new breed of wholesalers
to set up shop out near the recently expanded cosmoport and
begin importing previously outlawed building materials and
construction equipment by the tanker load.
The pundits were forecasting that the city's skyline was
destined to reach the bottom of the upper atmosphere by the end

of the next decade. Everyone loved a view. Palerick knew that
long before it reached that high the entire sky would become a
frenzied three-dimensional traffic grid cluttered with personal
laser jets, anti-gravity scooters, automated beam lifts and, of
course, stored inertia bouncers, which would provide express
vertical service in both directions for those who could stomach
it. He also knew that despite all the assurances to the
contrary the commuter death toll would rise accordingly.
Artificial intelligence was still only as foolproof as those who
created it, and judging by what he saw around him Ilstachian
society still had a long way to go on that score. He was not
sure what was worse: the automatons or the citizens who
insisted on piloting their own vehicles. The new capital here
on Ilstach IV would soon cease to bear any resemblance to its
predecessors. The guild was worried about it, but what really
worried them was the expanding rift in Ilstachian society.
Though the guild still held a substantial number of
positions within the official government, the acolytes in those
seats only managed to retain their offices by adopting a
decidedly secular outlook and acknowledging the needs of the
burgeoning technologist population. Conservatives in the shadow
government were becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the
direction the republic was headed. When the guild was in firm
control of the official government they had little trouble

keeping technology at bay. A certain level of encroachment was
inevitable and even desirable, but for the most part technology
had always been consigned to the republic's geospatial fringes
where such advancements were seen as critical to the republic's
defense.
Restrictions on proliferation gradually eroded as the
technophiles gained influence. The technophiles' rise to power
signaled a shift in cultural values, and much of society began
to look past the stigma long-associated with the ownership and
operation of mechanistic contrivances. What started as a
gradual overlap of military systems being adopted to satisfy
niche applications in civilian life soon erupted into a flood of
mainstream consumerism. Traditionalists viewed all of these new
extravagances as totally unnecessary at best and detrimental to
the guild's fundamental mission to maximize society's psychonic
potential at worst.
Palerick stood near the wrought iron arch at the entrance
to the public gardens and hailed for service. He waved on three
different mechanized units before boarding one of the new tandem
powered rickshaws being pulled by two Gansikans who had joined
forces in a doomed effort to stay competitive with the new
carriers. Gheddy's attire confused them at first. They did not
get many technophilish fares so they assumed he was signaling to
the mech job right behind them. When the pullers realized they
had misread him, the two quickly backed up and apologized
profusely in their convoluted way. Traditionally, the service
drivers had all been Gansikan. Their tiny impact resistant
skulls and bulging thighs were ideally suited to withstand the
job's rigors.
The Gansik worlds were conquered by the Ilstachians long
ago, but their inhabitants' amphibian-like system of mental
processing proved too divergent from Ilstachian modes of
thinking for them to integrate smoothly. Theirs had always been
a lowly profession, but it was one of few outside of commercial
fishing that was open to them. Even now in the face of
overwhelming odds, their kind held on fiercely to their pullers'
commissions. They survived mainly on the goodwill of a
dwindling number of conservatives who remained willing to take a
bit longer to get where they were going. Despite Palerick's
assurance that he was in no particular hurry, these two did
nothing to tarnish the air of bravado that the Gansikan drivers
had been cultivating ever since the first poorly built
mechanized vehicles arrived on the scene.
The average Gansikan life expectancy had taken a sharp drop
after that, and now with the advent of automatons their trade
was more dangerous than ever. The introduction of vehicles with
inanimate drivers and upgraded avoidance sensors was supposed to
have the opposite effect, but it had not turned out that way.
Gansikan lobbyists accused the manufacturers of intentionally
programming hidden glitches into their systems to ensure that
the animate pullers were hunted to extinction. The rising rate
of incidents had prompted new regulations mandating the use of
roll bars and reverse gravity cages in carriage construction.
These improvements provided adequate protection for passengers,
but they made the rickshaws twice as heavy. Consequently, the
pullers were forced to dispense with their own personal safety
gear in order to keep weight down.
Palerick's shirtless, barefoot team charged out into the
fray dodging left and right with impunity. They refused to
yield to the faster, heavier traffic and quickly laid claim to a
tenuous margin between the marked lanes. As they approached the
first major intersection, the signal started to change. Two
freight behemoths traveling side by side directly ahead started
inching closer together as they slowed. The Gansikans sprung
forward into the shrinking gap. As the sliver of daylight ahead
narrowed, Gheddy's pullers leaned sideways into one another and
ran their feet up onto the side panels of the opposing cargo
mechs until they were sprinting horizontal to the roadway while
interlocked at the shoulders. Palerick winced as sparks started
flying on either side of his carriage.
The screaming metal spurred the Gansikans to push against
each other even harder, and their massive legs fended off the
automated shippers just long enough for the rickshaw to squeeze
between them. Upright and running on the pavement once again,
the pullers lunged through the intersection just ahead of the
crossing traffic. The evening rush hour offered a cacophony of
screeching rubber, minor fender impacts and Gansikan invectives.
Palerick directed the pair along a circuitous route that enabled
him to keep an eye out for anyone that might be trying to keep
him under surveillance. Given his choice of ride it would have
been difficult for anyone to follow without standing out.
Eventually, they exited the city center and followed the
narrower cobbled lanes into the outer boroughs.
The atmosphere became more laid back, but signs of
encroaching modernization were still evident. Utility poles
strung together with fiber optic cables showed that electricity
service was spreading steadily outward, and there were scarcely
any piles of dung left in sight to record the passing of
conventional beast-drawn freight wagons. Palerick found it
curious that city planners were adopting such out-moded
technologies as fiber optic power until a friend in the planning
ministry explained that the local magistrates were accepting
kickbacks from the construction consortiums who wanted to secure
a long-term future for their infrastructure renovation business.
The associate director sat back and closed his eyes. He
needed to concentrate so that he would not miss the final

directions he was expecting. Huron Gaelen liked to withhold the
exact location of their meetings until the last possible moment.
It was no surprise that they turned out to be right in front of
the building when Palerick received the address. His
destination turned out to be an inconspicuous row house in the
middle of a quiet neighborhood. Across the way an old couple
sat rocking side by side on a porch swing enjoying the last of
the sunlight hours. Other than a few kids playing some sort of
game up the street, there was no other activity in sight.
Palerick tipped the Gansikans generously before vaulting up the
front steps two at a time. He glanced up and down the block
once more before entering without a knock.
Gheddy took a seat alone on a plain bench in the barren
waiting area. The shadow council was an extremely thrifty group
by nature, but he had always felt that this room and the others
like it were sparely appointed for reasons other than frugality.
It was not as if the spending would ever have to pass public
scrutiny. The level of subterfuge that went into concealing
these venues was significant, and the capabilities of those who
might wish to flush them from hiding were severely limited. No
one but a senior cleric could locate one of these facilities
unless they were told explicitly when and where to look. Even
then there was no guarantee what they would find when they
walked through the door.

Lobbies like his own opulently appointed foyer back at
headquarters were intended to remind visitors that those they
had come to see were important officials who wielded significant
power and authority. Conversely, Palerick had long suspected
that the council's anterooms were designed to point out to those
waiting in them that regardless of their station outside, once
inside, they were no more than their host allowed them to be.
That was the affect these rooms always had on him anyway.
Back at the defense ministry, staffers ventured onto the
associate directors' wing only when some urgent matter made it
absolutely necessary. Those of Gheddy's official rank were
feared and revered in that order, as the saying went. It was
well known that running afoul of someone whose office lined
those exclusive corridors was a sure way to put an end to one's
career. Even when lower and mid-level technocrats did dare to
approach those rarified halls, they avoided Gheddy like the time
sickness. He was the only high-ranking guild member in an
agency packed with psychophobes, so no one dared approach him
unless they had the incredible misfortune of becoming involved
with the guild's legacy catalyst detection effort.
When he sensed himself being beckoned, Palerick got up and
entered Master Gaelen's private chamber. At least he was not so
dim that an attendant had to be sent for him.

"Have a seat, Tyro." the adept said using the title
reserved for young guild prodigies. "Let us dispense with
formalities. There will be time enough to observe proper
etiquette when we go before the high seat."
Palerick straightened up from a deep bow. Huron Gaelen sat
before him on the forest floor next to a small campfire. The
night sky above was clear and star speckled. Palerick did not
need to look behind him to know that the door he had passed
through had been replaced by dark woods like those facing him.
Usually the two of them walked desolate beaches, hiked steep
alpine trails or traipsed along together for hours in places so
alien that they defied analogy. Today it appeared old Huron,
Master Gaelen, was content to sit. As Palerick entered the
fire's glow and joined his boss on the ground, he noticed a herd
of prong-horned grazers -- coilbucks maybe -- drinking
tentatively from a brook running along the base of the little
hill they were sitting atop.
Gheddy wished that he could take Sandogaul Treachen
somewhere when that arrogant little sycophant dared seek him
out. Not somewhere like this, but one of the other places Huron
had introduced him to -- one of those that he had tried so hard
to forget but could not. That would wipe the smug look off his
face and give him a deeper appreciation for just how important
the guild's legacy initiative was to all their well-being. The

odds were starting to suggest that if the Ilstachians did not
find a way to win this war soon, then the Synthedon would
eventually eliminate all of the living races in the known
Foamwork or worse. The Beledenites could deceive themselves all
they liked. Their treaty with the mech horde would not protect
them for long if the Ilstachians and Luditions ever succumbed.
"So," Huron Gaelen said looking up from the fire, "our
friend, Director Vertimere, is sending you to Rejicstoken."(1)

CHAPTER 32
Falan was ready to keel over when he got off the plane in
Caracas. He'd been unwilling to risk waking up in handcuffs at
thirty thousand feet, so he'd forced himself to stay awake
during both legs of his flight out of Washington Dulles through
Miami. All he wanted to do now was brush his teeth, take a long
shower, and go to sleep for about a month -- nightmares be
damned. After nearly an hour getting through customs, Falan was
glad to hear someone calling his name when he entered the main
terminal area. He looked up to see Miguel Perez waving him
over.
Miguel was a slightly built native Venezuelan with light
brown skin and black hair. He'd moved to Seattle during high
school when his father's job as a bank executive caused the
family to relocate from Caracas to the states. He was taking a
break between his second and third years of law school. Dr.
Morales had recruited him heavily with the expectation that his
familiarity with the country and the language would be a big
asset to the team, particularly during the spring semester when
they returned to Caracas after spending months in the field.
Miguel had been reluctant to sign on, but the professor finally
convinced him that he'd be crazy to pass up the kind of
networking opportunities he'd get during the third semester of
the course. The team would be presenting their findings to

various industry leaders, government officials and executives
from all of the non-governmental organizations that were paying
close attention to the rainforest issue.
"Hey, Miguel, how's it going, man?"
"Not bad, typical hassles. The airline lost a bunch of our
stuff, there's been a mix-up with our driver, and Morales is hip
deep in red tape trying to get our permits reinstated."
"Don't even tell me this thing is falling through," Falan
said.
"No, relax. It's not a big deal. Couple'a extra, quote --
processing fees -- paid to the right people, and we'll be fine.
Here let me take your backpack."
"I'm okay, thanks."
"This all your gear?"
"Yeah, this is it. What about this driver, what's up with
that?"
"Well Esteban supposedly lined somebody up to drive us the
last part of the way down to where he's waiting for us, but
Morales can't get in touch with the guy. Esteban said he'd try
to reach him to confirm, but now Morales can't get hold of
Esteban either. Satellite phone isn't working or something."
"Anyway, don't sweat it. We're flying down tomorrow as
scheduled. We know where we're supposed to meet Esteban, so
we're going to go down to that last little no-name town down

there, San Fernando de somewhere or other, and then figure it
out from there. Come on, we need to grab a taxi back to the
hotel."
The cabbie apologized for the broken air conditioning as he
lit up a cigarette and pulled away from the curb.
"How far is the hotel?" Falan asked.
"Not too far, twenty minutes, maybe half an hour."
Falan cranked his window the rest of the way down and
leaned toward the air flow, but the exhaust fumes and the heavy
petroleum stench rising off the freshly paved asphalt were worse
than the smoke inside the cab.
"So, Falan," Miguel said, "I don't mean to pry, or
anything, but were you in an accident or something?"
Falan had thought about how to handle this. A couple of
days with the guys down at Ocean City, Maryland, swimming in the
salt water and getting some sun had helped his face a bit, but
he still looked like he'd gone through a windshield. His father
had called in sick to work for a few days to give the bruising
around one of his eyes time to fade, but he didn't seem to
harbor any ill feelings toward his son. Falan was surprised by
the Steamer's attitude. It was almost as if his father looked
at him with a whole new level of respect when he got home from
the beach.
"Yeah, a buddy of mine swerved to avoid a deer and hit a
tree. My face smacked the dashboard."
"Man, no seatbelt, no airbag?"
"No airbag. It was an old car, but the seatbelt probably
saved my life."
"Shit, glad you made it. What happened to your friend?"
"He was fine mostly. A few bruises. We both pretty much
walked away from it. I was only knocked out for a minute or
two. What's been going on here? When'd you make it down?"
"I've been here most of the summer staying with family and
hanging out with some old friends of mine that I hadn't seen in
years. It's been pretty sweet. I worked part-time at my
uncle's law firm, but mostly I've just been hanging out at the
beach windsurfing. Last few days I've been trying to get our
permit signed and sealed, but they've been giving me the run
around, so Morales is taking a stab at it right now. He didn't
think you were going to make it after you pulled the no-show in
Seattle."
"We just had a scheduling mix-up. No sense in me going all
the way out there to turn right back around and fly down here.
What about everybody else, they all down here?"
"Yeah, Tony and Sam got in three or four days ago, and
Alison came in yesterday."

Falan was nauseous by the time they reached the downtown
Hilton. It was just after two in the afternoon, and nobody else
was around. Falan was sharing a room with Miguel. Tony and Sam
were in another room, and Dr. Morales and Alison had separate
singles.
CHAPTER 33
Falan collapsed on top of the bedcover as soon as he
entered the room. In addition to his previous sleep deficit, he
was totally strung out from not sleeping in nearly three days.
His supply of artificial pep was already dwindling as a result.
They'd partied through the night in Ocean City. He crashed for
a couple of hours in the car on the way home from the beach, but
that was it. Santucci shook him awake when he first started
fidgeting, so his friends hadn't witnessed a total meltdown. He
was sound asleep when Miguel headed back out to run errands.
The indistinct little builders were there instantly
scurrying about their business. The figure they were fashioning
stood with its back to him. They didn't seem to pay him any
heed as he angled for a better look at their project, but then
without warning they dispersed in a frenzy. Falan froze. His
suspicions about their endeavor were still unconfirmed when his
visual window into the dreamscape winked shut and another quasi-
familiar presence announced itself through other means. Fear
consumed him.
Neither light nor darkness was present. Falan lashed out
blindly. Pain erupted. It offered a glimmer of lucidity, if
not wakefulness. He knew, dream or not, that he would not be
this thing's first casualty if he succumbed. Falan woke up
sitting astride Miguel's chest choking him with both hands. His
roommate's bulging face was covered in blood. The two of them
were on the floor squeezed in between the bed and the wall with
the sheets pulled half over them. Falan continued squeezing for
several more seconds before finally letting go and flinging
himself backward off Miguel.
He flailed out from under the covers and struggled to his
feet gasping. Miguel turned half onto his side and lay where he
was coughing and sputtering. He slapped Falan's hand away when
Falan reached down to help him up a minute later.
"Get the fuck away from me," Miguel shouted.
Falan backed up and sat on a low dresser next to the
television. The blood was still pounding in his ears.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Miguel asked bitterly as
he pulled himself upright.
He made it to the edge of the bed and sat with his chin
forward while his nose dripped blood on the carpet. Falan
brought him a wet washcloth and a hand towel. As he handed them
over he noticed two deep fist imprints in the drywall above the
headboard. They -- along with Miguel's nose -- explained the
ache and the swelling in his right hand. Falan was about to
apologize then stopped.
"I was dead asleep," he stated flatly. "What'd you do, try
to dip my hand in a glass of warm water or something -- see if
I'd piss the bed?"

Miguel's eyes went wide.
"Are you serious? You're a fucking psycho. I forgot my
wallet. When I came back you were up on your knees in bed
freaking out and punching the wall. Look right there."
Miguel pointed at the indentations.
"You wouldn't turn around even when I shouted at you. You
were checked out, man. I grabbed your shoulder to try to calm
you down, and you went crazy on me. Don't tell me you don't
remember tackling me onto the floor and punching me in the face.
You were looking straight in my eyes when you started strangling
me."
This was the first time he'd experienced both episodes
during the same sleep or remembered anything from the ugly part.
He didn't know what to make of it. Nightmares were harmless
enough, but Falan was starting to worry that his were
symptomatic of a much bigger problem.
"Hey listen, I don't remember a damn thing. You must have
walked in on me when I was having a nightmare or something.
Sorry if I accidentally popped you in the nose there. You must
have startled me. I'm a touchy sleeper. Next time, just keep
your distance."
Miguel took the bloody washcloth away from his face and
just stared. He watched open-mouthed as Falan unwittingly
checked behind the curtains and inside the closet on his way
across the room. Once in the bathroom Falan stripped down and
forced himself to take stock in the mirror. He'd always been on
the thin side, but his collar bones, hips and ribs were jutting
out like never before, and his eye sockets were becoming more
pronounced by the day it seemed. His cuts were healing and most
of the swelling was down, but a serious scar was shaping up over
the eye where his stitches had come loose during his fight.
He'd convinced Mike Brown to pull them out at the beach instead
of getting them redone like he should have.
He smelled worse than he looked. The stench was not the
healthy sort associated with strenuous exercise. His sweat was
rank and laced with fear. It matched the sour taste of bile in
the back of his throat. Falan held his swelling hand up against
the curtain rod while standing motionless under the shower for
the next twenty minutes. He heard Miguel come in and use the
sink at one point, but his roommate was nowhere in sight when he
exited the bathroom. Falan buried his hand in a bucket of ice
and flipped on CNN. When Miguel finally returned, he had a
professional looking bandage job on his nose.
"Where'd you go?" Falan asked as he removed his hand from
the ice and dried it gingerly on a towel.
"I went to get x-rayed," Miguel replied sullenly.
"It's not broken, is it?"

"No, it isn't. No thanks to you, dickhead. You better go
get that hand looked at. We've all got access to the student
health center at the university. You can take a cab over right
now and use the walk-in clinic."
"It'll be okay," Falan said.
"Don't be an idiot. If it's broken, you'll be hating life
without a cast."
"I've got some Advil. What are we doing tonight?"
Miguel shook his head in disgust.
"The Doc's taking us out to dinner for a farewell kick-off
kind of thing. We're supposed to meet in the bar downstairs in
an hour."
Miguel didn't mention that he'd already spoken with Dr.
Morales about what had happened.

CHAPTER 34
"Yes, Superior," Palerick confirmed. "I have been ordered
to Rejicstoken. Unfortunately..."
"Unfortunately, this shortsighted director of yours has
seen fit to send his nephew along to accompany you."
"Yes, Superior, that is correct."
"Has he no grasp of the subtleties involved with a mission
of this nature? Does he not realize how offended the Ludditions
will be if we send a technologist to meet with them?"
"He has his own agenda, Superior.
"So we have heard. Please give me your version."
"Given Director Vertimere's skepticism regarding the
efficacy of the guild's effort to find the impetus and his
general disdain for the Ludditions, I do not think he cares one
way or another whether our mission is successful in achieving
its stated purpose."
"And who do you feel he is trying to torment the most:
you, this nephew of his, the Ludditions or the guild?"
"The nephew, though he certainly does not care if the rest
of us are inconvenienced. My sources tell me that Vertimere's
sister is on him night and day to promote her son. Apparently
she sees my associate directorship as ripe for the picking. As
isolated as I appear to be from any obvious means of support
within the intelligence ministry, I think she must feel that I

lack the staying power to thwart her efforts to usher her son
into my job. Treachen's mother has been in Treachen's ear so
long now that she has got him believing my job is what he really
wants."
"Maybe you should let him have it"
"Yes, that would be fun to watch, but luckily for the two
of them the uncle is not quite so foolish. He knows he could
never get away with putting a technologist in control of the
quest, so he is sending young Sandogaul along on this field trip
to teach him a lesson in the virtues of patience."
"And now that you have had some time to consider it
further, what are your thoughts on these latest developments?"
Gheddy cleared his throat.
"There has to be something to all these reports coming in
from out beyond the Karolin sector. We have been through this
kind of thing before, as you well know, but this is different.
This is the first time that a signal from outside the psychonic
band has been detected and reported by multiple automated
listening stations and subsequently confirmed by a colony of
pilgrims. You well know pilgrims only concern themselves with
psychonic signals.
"They would be overwhelmed if they paid attention to all
the announcement beacons generated by inanimate sources. I do
not think they would choose to ignore that policy now unless
there was good reason. It is definitely a mystery worth
investigating, especially when you consider that this particular
settlement is supposed to have been established by a group that
left Old Ilstach more than fifty-one hundred generations ago,"
Palerick emphasized.
"So you believe these colonists intercepted a transmission
sent by some form of artificial intelligence and then
rebroadcast it to us? Even if the impetus was not yet signaling
on the psychonic band, it would, at the very least, be
broadcasting on some form of biologic frequency and not an
inanimate channel. What connection did these colonists see that
we are missing?" Huron Gaelen asked.
"We do not know. It could be that part of the message they
relayed actually originated from a live source -- the source we
have been looking for -- before it was picked up and rebroadcast
on a different channel by the Synthedon drone. So far, though,
we have not found any tell-tale clues to suggest this is the
case."
"How far away did you say these colonists are?"
"We cannot be sure of their exact location without
launching a full-scale recovery mission," Palerick answered.
"Their broadcast appeared to come from an uncharted cosmos
somewhere well outside the rim of multiverses that currently
make up the fringe of the known Foamwork. No one from their era
should be that far beyond today's frontier. Cartographic teams
caught up with or otherwise accounted for most of the seeker
expeditions from that generation long ago.
"This group has been out of contact for so long that no one
ever expected to hear from them again. They must have happened
onto a natural diversion of some kind: a time shutter or a
spatial fold, maybe a gravity flume. Any number of anomalies
could have deposited them out there. We seem to trip over new
such phenomena every time we turn around."
"Have your Ludition sources been able to offer any
insight?" Huron asked.
Palerick shifted his seat on the ground
"No. The official government's relationship with its
Ludition counterparts has been deteriorating steadily since the
technocrats rose to prominence. The recent deportation mess has
only exacerbated the problem. That is why I am actually quite
pleased to be going to Rejicstoken in person. I will do my best
to smooth things over when I solicit their help in deciphering
this communiqué. We can certainly use all the assistance we can
get. Our analysts may get a better handle on it over time, but
the way things are going we cannot afford to sit back and hope
for that eventuality. This message took a long time to reach
us, so there is no telling what kind of extraordinary

developments could be taking place out there or who else might
be wondering the same thing."
"Once you have gazed into fifteen or twenty thousand
different cosmos, Tyro, you begin to see that there is very
little in the Foamwork that can be considered truly out of the
ordinary -- evidence of the impetus not withstanding, mind you.
It is actually the similarities and recurring patterns that
begin to amaze."
Palerick did not know anything about that. He could not
see across the local void to the next sol system much less
through the membranes that separated all the different
multiverses. Palerick knew that even Huron Gaelen could only
observe the tiniest fraction of what was going on elsewhere in
the Foamwork so he wondered how the master could make such a
statement. Would a Ludition elder agree he wondered? Did they
hold the same jaded opinion, or did their heightened abilities
make them privy to a different truth?
Just then the grazers drinking at the brook began to stir.
Palerick looked down the hill in time to see something
resembling a small veldt crayx pounce among the animals and send
them scattering. When it took one down from behind and clamped
onto its windpipe, the herd's stag stopped short and turned. It
charged back with horns lowered but skidded to a stop when the
miniature gnasher unclenched its grip long enough to let out a

venomous hiss that curdled the darkness. Palerick flinched when
a flock of unseen birds erupted out of the tree under which he
and Huron were sitting. After rearing up and stomping its
hooves several times, the stag snorted out a plume of mist that
hung glittering in the moonlight long after. The buck
disappeared into the underbrush. The guildmaster did nothing to
acknowledge the scene below.
"What arrangements have you made?" the shadow council
member asked.
"The admiralty would not spare a Night Vendor; however, the
navy is retrofitting a Shade Merchant to give it the range we
need to go along with its quickness. It should arrive in system
within two weeks. We are scheduled to rendezvous with her out
at Corona Station, which is currently orbiting Meridian's outer
moon."
"A Shade Merchant, very impressive, but that will still
mean traveling in hybernetic stasis. The Ludition consular
general and his aide de camp will be deported in three days. It
would probably be in poor taste, but have you considered asking
if you could accompany them? It would shorten the journey by
many relative years. If what they say about their new ships is
true, then they make even our true darkness purveyors seem
slow."
"I proposed that, but Vert...Director Vertimere would not
hear of it. He would not even authorize me to give them a copy
of the transmission so their experts could work on it while we
were in route to Rejicstoken."
"I guess there is no surprise in either case," Master Galen
intoned. "It may even be for the best. I expect you would fair
well enough given your training, but it would be quite risky for
a technophile like this Treachen character to travel aboard a
Ludition ship. He could easily have his mind spliced back into
his body in a way that was unfamiliar to him. They say you also
have to be on guard against the lost psyches that have become
trapped in the nether when crossing cosmal membranes aboard the
new Ludition craft. It is said that such disassociated entities
are desperate to stowaway or worse, when a defenseless host
passes through. I imagine the director's nephew would be quite
susceptible to such a hijacking."
"We could only be so lucky," Palerick said ruefully.
"Hopefully, the delay will not prove too great an issue.
Whatever is going on out there, it is happening too far away for
anyone to do anything about it in the short term."
"Do not underestimate our enemies," the guildmaster
cautioined. "Not everyone has strayed as far from the course as
we and the Beledenites have. The Synthedon and the Ludditions
are still very much actively hunting for the seed. When you get
to Rejicstoken, do not hold anything back from them. Given the
political situation here, we may have to accept that it is
better to help the Ludditions win this race than risk seeing the
impetus fall into the hands of the inorganics. The Ludditions
may have fallen behind considerably in the conventional arms
race, but they still possess the ability to travel farther and
faster than anyone else. They are valuable allies. Do whatever
is necessary to decode this transmission, and keep the
director's nephew from alienating them any further than his
uncle already has."
Two suns that he had no hope of naming began rising above
the horizon as Palerick prepared to take his leave. When he
stood up, he found himself back in the anteroom. It looked
exactly the same, but the door he had entered now led out into
the hallway of a mid-rise apartment building. He found a
stairwell and made his way down several stories to the street
level. Night had fallen, and he was in an entirely different
section of the city. Huron Gaelen was not taking any chances.
CHAPTER 35
The other students gave Miguel and Falan a serious ribbing
and enjoyed a good laugh at their expense when the two of them
showed up downstairs looking like a pair of prize fighters.
Falan did his best to pass the incident off with a self-
deprecating recount that had them all rolling, while Miguel
stood back trading glances with Professor Morales.
"We better have one more drink here," Sam suggested after
pretending to throttle Tony while in a zombie-like state.
Sam Nash was a twenty-seven-year-old surfer from Southern
California near Santa Barbara, and he looked the part. He had
the blonde hair going, cut short with the tan and the muscles.
The only thing missing was a set of six pack abs. A fondness
for fried food and dark beer gave him a slight paunch, but he
still cut a robust figure. Sam was finishing his master's
degree in marine ecology and was planning to get a PhD. As part
of his doctorate requirement, he hoped to duplicate this course
and lead a spin-off version geared toward reducing ocean
pollution.
"One more round, please," Victor Morales said, signaling to
the bartender.
At fifty-two, Victor Morales had been teaching
environmental sciences for nearly thirty years. Ten years ago
he decided that he wasn't having enough of an impact, so he

developed a curriculum for creating issue-focused courses
designed to influence targeted social and environmental issues.
The hair on his head had turned salt and pepper, but his
mustache remained dark brown throughout. He ran and lifted
weights religiously and acted as an unofficial assistant coach
for the university rugby club when he was teaching on campus.
He'd grown up playing rugby in Argentina and still played fly-
half for the old-boys side at the Old Puget Sound Beach Rugby
Football Club. He was in excellent shape and liked to remind
the much younger group how embarrassing it would be for them if
they couldn't keep up with him during their upcoming trek.
"Dr. Morales, what's our schedule tomorrow?" Falan asked.
"Call me, Victor. No need to stand on formality while
we're all living and crapping in the bushes together," the
professor chuckled. "Everyone needs to be in the lobby by six
a.m. sharp. The hotel van will take us to the airport. At
eight we board a small charter flight that will drop us at a
grass airstrip outside a small work camp south of San Fernando
de Apure near the headwaters of the Apure River. Hopefully,
Esteban's guy will be there to meet us.
"He's supposed to drive us the rest of the way down to link
up with Esteban at an old abandoned logging camp located at the
proverbial end of the road. We hike the rest of the way in from
there. The drive is only a couple hundred miles, but it could

take as long as ten or twelve hours depending on the roads. I'm
warning you all right now, tomorrow's going to be a long day.
After that it should take another three or four days to hike
into the base camp Esteban set up for us in a remote area
bordered by the Rio Orinoco, the Rio Negro and the Casiquiare
River. That puts us just inside the Yanomami Indian territory,
so it's better than we'd hoped for."
"Do you know how small the plane is?" Alison asked.
Falan had been lusting after Alison Klein and her liquid
green eyes since the first day of class last spring. She was
more of a distraction than ever now that she'd cut her long
auburn hair down to just a few inches so that it no longer hid
her conspicuously perky breasts. Alison was getting a dual
master's degree in business administration and communications.
Four years working as a certified public accountant had been
enough to send her back to school looking for new challenges.
She planned on parlaying this course into a director-level
position in public relations at one of the big pharmaceutical
companies currently embroiled in the rainforest debate. It
didn't matter which one. They were all struggling to craft a
suitable message that justified their operations down here.
Regardless of how the group's project turned out, Alison figured
she would be in a better position than most to put a positive
spin on things from the industry perspective.

"The charter agent said we'd have to help wind the rubber
band," Dr. Morales laughed, "so I assume it will be smaller than
you're used to."
"Great," Alison said, "I can't wait to see this."
"Yeah," Tony echoed, "I'm thinking a parachute might be in
order."
Tony Lyle wanted to be a naturalist with the U.S. Forest
Service. He grew up in Fort Collins, Colorado, where he ski-
raced during the winter and rock climbed and kayaked in the
summer. After high school he spent several years alternately
working as a ski instructor and fighting forest fires before
going on to college. Now he was finally finishing his master's
degree in forestry at age thirty. He was just over six feet
tall and looked like he'd been snipped from a spool of heavy
gauge wire. There wasn't an ounce of body fat on him. He
wasn't big like a body builder, but his muscles and veins
rippled under skin that fit him like a suit of Lycra that was
one size too small.
"Don't worry, you guys are safe with me," Sam said. "I
didn't come all the way down here to be killed in a plane wreck.
If I check out, it better be a poison dart or some heinous
microbe that puts me under. Let's finish these up and go eat.
I'm starving," he added before tilting back the rest of his
beer.
"Make up your mind. We just got our drinks," Alison
scowled.
She didn't care much for Sam's attitude. He seemed to
think he was the best looking guy in the bunch and that the two
of them were destined to get together by default. To Miguel's
disgust the group spent their last opportunity for a decent meal
feasting at a nearby Chinese restaurant rather than dining on
local cuisine. They drank a few bottles of shitty wine with
dinner, but that was about the extent of it. Despite Sam's
assurances, Tony's stories about flying in small planes while
fighting forest fires left them all wary of being too hung over
on the flight.
Falan was pretty quiet throughout dinner. He was the
youngest by six years so the others all had a lot more life
experience to share. By the time the fortune cookies came
around he was starting to worry that he might be making a big
mistake. Back in Seattle, he would have at least had his own
bedroom. The worst part about living in a tent was going to be
sharing it with someone else. He'd fooled himself into thinking
that his sleep pattern would return to normal once he got away
from the stress of living at home and working for his dad.
Maybe he just needed a little more time. He'd only left D.C.
that morning.
When they got back to the hotel, Professor Morales bid
everyone good night before steering Falan aside.
"That hand looks pretty tender. I wish you would have had
it checked out while there was still time."
"It's just a sprained wrist and a bruised knuckle. Don't
worry about me: I'll be fine," Falan assured him with a tired
smile.
"It's my job to worry about you, Falan. The account Miguel
gave me was very different from the comical incident you
portrayed in the bar this evening. He raised hell with the
manager trying to get a separate room for tonight, but the hotel
is booked solid. He thinks you have a serious imbalance. I
need you to tell me right now if you're withholding any
pertinent medical information that I should know about before we
leave civilization behind."
Falan remained silent for a long pause then checked over
both shoulders.
"I kept it light because I didn't want to bad-mouth the guy
in front of everyone. Miguel is the biggest pansy I've ever
met. That bandage is ridiculous. I caught him with a little
backhand slap that hardly even touched his nose. It was pure
reflex. He startled me out of a dead sleep for Christ's sake."

"Wasn't that enough? Why did you have to start strangling
him? Miguel said you acted like you didn't even recognize who
he was."
"Give me a break. I wasn't really strangling him. He
pissed me off. I was just roughhousing with him a little to
teach him a lesson not to sneak up on people like that. He's
overreacting if he told you I was actually choking him."
"So you were sound asleep when he walked in?"
"Yeah, I was wiped out from the trip down here. Some
friends got me all liquored up the night before."
"He says he found you kneeling on the bed punching dents in
the drywall."
"That's bullshit. I punched the wall a couple times after
he wouldn't stop whining about his nose. He kept going on and
on about how he should sue me for assault and shit. I finally
got sick of hearing about it, and I snapped. I punched the wall
and told him that was what a real assault would have looked
like," Falan insisted.
He looked at his hand and flexed his fingers.
"I wish I hadn't done it," he added earnestly.
It was the professor's turn to look around the room while
choosing his next words.
"Well, Miguel is a bit high strung, but I need to know if
you've ever been diagnosed with any type of emotional disorder

or been prescribed medication for any sort of related condition.
It won't jeopardize your participation in the project. I just
need to know the same as I would if you had asthma or diabetes."
Falan answered no without hesitation.
"Okay, go to bed and try to keep your distance from Miguel.
He's really nervous about even staying in the same room with
you."
CHAPTER 36
Only the bathroom light was on when Falan got back to his
room. Miguel was lying under the covers in the far bed with his
back turned to the door. Falan wanted to turn on the TV, but he
was loath to get Miguel riled up. Instead he shut himself in
the bathroom and swallowed down a couple of the pills that E.
had given him. He was already running out after the beach
weekend, but he didn't dare let himself fall asleep. Plus he
needed to save the more powerful crystal methamphetamine for
emergencies. He spent the next hour sitting on the toilet lid
reading a local attractions promotional magazine word for word.
After that he left the room and went down to the bar, but
it was closed so he just wandered the halls. The custodial
personnel scarcely acknowledged his nods as they vacuumed,
buffed and dusted their way through the night shift. He hit the
wrong button on his way to the game room and ended up in the
basement. There he bummed a cigarette and smoked it on a
loading dock in the parking deck with a couple of laundry
geezers and a disheveled security guard. Ten dollars worth of
vintage Pac Man later, Falan eased back into his room.
He groped his way to an armchair in the corner and sat
hugging his knees with his feet up until their wake-up call came
forty-five minutes later. Dawn was just beginning to cast a
faint corona around the window curtain. Miguel fumbled with the
phone then turned on the light. When he saw that Falan's bed
hadn't been slept in, he got up on one elbow and looked around
the room. Falan met his eyes then rose from his perch and went
into the bathroom without saying anything. He showered and
changed then headed downstairs with his gear while Miguel used
the bathroom.
CHAPTER 37
The teardrop-shaped, light-assault skimmer crept steadily
forward as it hovered a thousand feet above the jungle canopy.
Commander Ardis Servile gazed down at the endless expanse of
green, while his flight crew monitored the myriad of scanners
probing the tangle of foliage below. There were two small
oceans at either pole, but other than that the planet's entire
surface was covered with dense tropical growth whose unique
photosynthetic properties greatly hindered the Beledenite's
surveillance efforts. Steady downpours were the norm here, but
today the area they were searching was under a cloudless blue
sky.
Servile's last promotion had forced him to leave these
sorts of operations to his subordinates some time ago. It had
been too long since he enjoyed the rush of entering a dense
atmosphere at full tilt like they had done earlier that morning.
If he touched down on an actual planet these days, it was
usually aboard one of the heavy regimental battle carriers. But
since arriving in orbit off this planet, he had lost half a
dozen scouting parties without a trace, and he was determined to
find out for himself what was going on down here. Were he well-
liked, his staff would have protested, but as it was no one saw
fit to mention the risks.

The officers and troopers who had disappeared had all been
experienced campaigners. Their ineffectiveness during this
incursion, however, offered Servile the excuse he needed to join
a landing party. It was time he introduced himself to the local
populace. The last civilization to feel his wrath dubbed him
the Scourge of Booridan. The populace he was sent to deal with
before that referred to him simply as Blight. A long list of
such endearments trailed in Ardis Servile's wake, but his
failure to cow this particular batch of natives suggested he
needed to take a more active role in fulfilling this assignment.
If he applied himself, he reasoned, he ought to inspire the
inhabitants of this world to honor him with a fresh epithet.
As morning crept into afternoon, the commander occupied
himself by contemplating how best to terrorize the planet's
inhabitants. He was determined to use a method that would sow
the requisite amount of dread among his own troops at the same
time. They were going soft. He had instructed his cargomaster
to include a wide selection of instruments in the skimmer's
payload so he would have an extensive inventory of proven
measures to choose from when it came time to narrow his options.
He knew too little about this world and its occupants to arrive
at a final decision ahead of time regarding what method of
intimidation to use. Instead he planned to wait and watch for
an opportunity to present itself. Spontaneity had inspired some

of his greatest acts of creative expression in the past. In his
experience nothing propagated a wave of fear and revulsion
throughout the masses like a truly imaginative act of horror.
Since his own planet's absorption into the Beledenite
sphere of influence, Ardis Servile had personally inducted or
annihilated more than four-score worlds during his service with
the Beledenite ground suppression forces. While a good many had
resembled overgrown terrariums, he now realized that most of
those had been miscategorized. The scope and scale of the
forest below gave new meaning to the term jungle planet.
Despite using the best Synthedon gear that their allies had to
offer, Servile's teams were still finding it difficult to
scrutinize the planet's surface from the air.
The planet's dense flora extended upward to a uniform
height so that all uneven landforms were masked from view. The
growth reached only a few hundred feet above the planet's
highest mountain peaks, but the vegetation that originated at
all lower altitudes grew as high as was necessary to match that
height. In some cases the jungle's legs extended upward tens of
thousands of feet from the lowest valleys in order to form an
even coiffure. The official forty-digit alphanumeric
designation that had been ascribed to the planet proved overly
burdensome so the invaders referred to it informally among
themselves as Palekpaneer.
That name was taken from a particularly hardy salad made by
a seemingly docile vegetarian species inducted into Beledenite
society long ago. Those carniphobes served the legendary dish
to the first Beledenite emissaries to visit their world. The
account still featured prominently in the form of a cautionary
children's fable that was told to warn them of the hidden
savagery that could be masked by pretty flowers and sweet
perfumes. The hungrier of the two diplomats began choking to
death immediately after taking his first mouthful of greens.
When the other hesitated before taking a bite, semi-sentient
vines leapt from his fork and plate, wrapped around his neck and
tried to strangle him. He only barely managed to cut himself
free and call for his guard. His fellow envoy could not be
saved.
Once on Palekpaneer, getting a look beneath its topsoil
proved no easier than scanning its surface from above. The
initial wave of Beledenite mapping drones had passed through the
area nearly a thousand local years before, but those automated
cartographers were able to get a pretty accurate sketch of the
system without venturing any closer than its outermost reaches.
The first live, wildcat outfits had not shown up searching for
raw materials for still another seven hundred local years. When
they did finally arrive, their subterranean scanners failed to
penetrate more than a dozen feet below the planet's surface.

Drilling equipment bore downward easily enough, but upon
retrieval no more than the last twelve feet to go in ever came
back up. The augur bits were sheared off in a way that
suggested they had been neatly dismantled at the molecular
level. Those early surveyors ran lean operations, so they were
not equipped to attempt a full-scale excavation. Among the
other anomalies they reported before moving on was the apparent
absence of any animal life above the microbial level, but when a
follow-up team arrived just two hundred local years later, they
found the jungle teaming with insects and a multitude of small
creatures.
The pit mine they attempted to dig went three times farther
down than the earlier drilling attempts, but that was all. They
never came up against any sort of barrier. The hole just
stopped getting deeper. Massive bucket loads of rock and soil
continued being scooped out, but no measurable divots were left
in their place. The job became like trying to empty an ocean
with a spoon. Each dip filled back in faster than could be
witnessed. As the futility of the situation began to dawn on
the engineers in charge of the operation, the first group of
Haderack showed up and got themselves slaughtered when they
startled the lookouts watching over the work crews.
"Commander Servile, I think we have got something," one of
the ensigns stammered.

"Do you or don't you?" Servile snarled back.
"Sir, something is registering on multiple scanners, but I
can not say what it is. I am trying to focus the infrared
imaging now."
Ardis sneered, "Put it up on the display, you idiot."
"Yes sir, we obviously can not get a visual, but I am
routing the thermal signature through the holophorm now."
The shock troop commander turned toward the holostage and
waited. He had forgotten how pitiful the resolution on these
skimmer units was compared with what he was used to aboard the
flagship. The hologram flickered then grew steady, but it was
not much of an improvement. Several indistinct figures shown in
a rose-colored hue were mingling around an object displayed in
green that might have been a downed skimmer. If it was, then
the scale suggested the other images were Deritri. They were
too large to be Haderack. The Haderack were a harmless, pre-
industrial species of small, quasi-intellectual tree dwellers
that lived in isolated communities in the jungle's highest
reaches. They resembled an unlikely cross between Uridon's
mindless Chilipen and the infamous Rachdegan -- that self-aware
race of ornithipods, that was currently flocking all over
Mahalicheck Nine and causing such a problem.
The downy, bark-colored Haderack stood knee high to the
average ancestral Beledenite. They had four limbs plus a set of

atrophied wings. The leathery, mottled green flaps could no
longer carry their bulging little shoulders and thighs in free
flight, but they enabled the Haderack to glide through the air
on a downward trajectory when the little beings chose to descend
from the treetops. When beaten vigorously, the wings also
provided some minimal level of climbing assistance, but the
Haderack relied primarily on their short, needle-tipped claws to
scamper up tree trunks.
The Deritri were a larger much more intelligent species
that lived below ground. There were now also rumors that
Palekpaneer was home to a third group of sentient entities.
That no one had produced a shred of evidence to support such an
assertion did nothing whatsoever to dampen speculation about
them. Some were convinced a third species possessing far
greater intellect than any of Palekpaneer's other denizens truly
existed, while others believed them to be nothing more than god-
like inventions dwelling only in the delusional Deritri psyche.
Communication with the Haderack and Deritri had been
ambiguous at best, but whenever members of either group were put
under the stress of interrogation they called out to this
unnamed group for assistance. Their physical mannerisms implied
a heightened level of anticipation that suggested they truly
believed they were summoning help from someone fully capable of

providing it, rather than merely requesting abstract spiritual
salvation from some impotent deity.
The Deritri had appeared suddenly out of concealed tunnels
in the ground and tried to defend the hapless Haderack during
that first fateful encounter, but their primitive projectile
weapons were ineffectual even against the lightly armed miners.
After a brief firefight they retreated below ground carrying
their dead and wounded with them. The tunnels they escaped into
vanished behind them. Soon after, the remaining Haderack
disappeared completely leaving behind thousands of vacant cities
high in the canopy.
Little had been seen of either group since. After the
shock troops were sent in to support the miners, the Deritri
maintained a defensive posture for the most part. Their ability
to vanish below ground without leaving any trail to follow
earned them a reputation for being tunnelers of the highest
order. Those few Deritri prisoners, who were captured above
ground, appeared supremely confident that the Beledenite
invasion would fail, and yet until recently hardly anything had
been done to foil it. In their efforts to expose the
underground bunkers that were assumed to exist, Servile's troops
had unleashed every weapon of sub-apocalyptic scale in their
arsenal without result. They had no way of determining the

overall impact of their campaign, but it was beginning to look
more and more like their methods were entirely ineffectual.
Then unexpectedly some tunnel entrances were discovered in
plain view near one of the planetary outposts established by the
Beledenite reconnaissance teams. Shortly after that, newly
acquired Synthedon scanners started penetrating farther below
ground. They revealed that every square inch of the planet's
surface seemed to be undermined by a grid of scanable shafts and
tunnels that extended deeper than the new equipment's ability to
probe. A trap was expected, but that did not stop troops from
being sent into the passageways. Team after team of new
inductees was sent below, but none made it out again. The only
reports they had on the warren hidden underfoot came from
garbled commlink transmissions sent by troopers at or near the
time of their death.
The passageways were a deadly gauntlet whose intensity
amplified with each level of descent. The entrance tunnels
sealed behind those who passed through them and the antechambers
became radiation ovens. Anyone not wearing a fully shielded
supra-atmospheric battle suit of the kind generally reserved for
use by boarding parties in deep space naval engagements ended up
boiled from the inside out. It only got worse from there. The
vertical shafts were mined with layers of extreme atmospheric
density juxtaposed with gravity inversion fields. Material

objects that crossed between them were presumably shredded --
none of the real-time reports registered more than an abrupt
gurgle.
Other sections broached by Beledenite forces were quickly
partitioned off and flooded with a solvent that proved more
corrosive than any previously known to the Beledenites. The
tunnel lining itself seemed to be the only substance that was
impervious to the caustic solution, and so far they had not been
able to get hold of a sample for analysis. Even the Synthedon
droids, which were sent down, succumbed instantly when exposed
to it.
Servile's commanders soon stopped sending shock troops and
other resources below the surface. No intrusive effort was
believed to have made it below the third tier. The scans gave
no real indication of how deep the levels went, but frame
dragging metrics revealed that Palekpaneer's density was far
less than it should have been for a planet of its size and
projected composition. This led many to speculate that it was a
hollow maze of tunnels and shafts throughout.
When the above ground disappearances began and entire
landing craft started vanishing, no one doubted that ambushes
were a likely reason given how thoroughly the Deritri could
camouflage their tunnel entrances, when they or whoever was
responsible desired. The shock troops, however, never found

evidence to suggest there had been any attacks -- surprise or
otherwise. No bodies or scenes of destruction were ever found.
No one could imagine how an entire patrol could be eliminated
before they at least had a chance to blister the area with a
withering barrage of plasma fire, beam suppressors and laser
shrapnel. The video and audio links to those lost simply went
to static without giving any hint of what had happened on the
other end.
The Deritri received the official blame for these
disappearances. Unofficially, however, nobody believed they
were capable of overcoming hardened Beledenite commandos in full
combat garb. The informal consensus was that someone or
something else was preying on them, but Servile wanted proof
before he made that excuse to his superiors.
"Burn us straight down there," Ardis said flatly to the
pilot before activating his mic and barking at the troopers in
back. "Prepare to deploy. We need live prisoners. Danian and
Kingle, take point using non-lethal settings. The rest of you
hold your fire unless the two of them are killed. Then, and
only then, are you free to waste everything you find.
"Crisick," he said addressing the cargomaster individually, "you
can wait here with the rest of the flight crew for now, but when
I call for you do not waste any time bringing me whatever I ask
for."
When the pilot turned the hull torches up to maximum and
vented their thrust into storage compartments for later use, the
skimmer dropped out of the sky causing all its occupants to go
weightless in their restraints. The ship incinerated everything
in its path as it plummeted straight down through the smoldering
shaft it burned into the tangled overgrowth. It was too bright
to see the severed tree limbs and cauterized vines left dancing
like burning fuses, but the smoke and burning micro-debris
rushing past on the external view screens resembled the scenes
produced by atmospheric entry. The six-thousand-foot freefall
to Palekpaneer's surface was over in a blink.
A tap of vertical thrust at the last possible moment
minimized the craft's landing impact without adding more than an
instant to their descent. The deceleration support fields that
spared the passengers switched off as the rear troop hatch flew
open, and the assigned point duo charged out into the smoky
inferno with their sergeant and twelve comrades right behind
them. All were wearing tactical battle suits of pliable armour.
Ardis exited the cramped pilot's cockpit with as much dignity as
his heavier rigid siege armor would allow and strode stiffly
after them. The filtered lenses, multiple imaging sensors and
inset visor displays in his fully enclosed helmet enabled him to
follow their tracks through the ash easily enough without
needing to rely on his armor to tell explicitly him where to go.

That did not change when he left the smoldering burn area
and entered the virgin jungle. That no direct sunlight
penetrated beyond the top few hundred feet of cover was not
enough to preclude vegetative growth below. The planet was so
densely foliated that its surface should have been blacker than
the loneliest void in deep space, but instead it basked in a
pale green luminescence. The entire jungle functioned as a
supremely efficient photovoltaic cell. The uppermost leaves
absorbed as much sunlight as possible then flipped over and
distributed the majority of that stored energy to the next layer
of growth waiting below, and so it went all the way down to the
planet's surface.
Up top the plants were all dark green, but they grew
lighter the farther away they were from the sun's direct rays.
The lowest levels wore a pasty shade of green that left them
nearly translucent. The faint bit of light given off when the
bottom tier of leaves flipped over was then reflected back up at
them by a fine white silica top soil. Despite the stillness of
the air the entire jungle rustled lightly as each leaf on the
planet rotated independently every thirty seconds or so in non-
synchronous fashion. Paradoxically, even when night fell above,
it never got completely dark down on Palekpaneer's surface.
Servile's commandos left an obvious trail as they crashed,
cut and torched their way through the living battery. Ardis
passed the downed lander they had detected from above. The
markings indicated it was the most recent to go missing. They
had lost contact with this one only yesterday. All indications
suggested it had burned down successfully without undue impact.
Everything looked in order except the charred shaft that should
have extended skyward had already grown back in.
Servile continued past after his suit assured him there was
nothing alive on board. They could check for bodies and review
the logs later. He left the trail and made his own path after a
display in his visor alerted him that their quarry had veered
off in a wide right-hand arc. Shouting and weapons fire reached
him over the intercom in his helmet while his suit employed
various methods to bore a passageway through the pallid wall of
biomass. A few minutes later he stepped out into a small
clearing capped by a low dome of fluttering vegetation.
Though the nearest ocean was thousands of miles away the
barren patch of ground resembled a miniature tidal flat at low
tide. The faint glow reflecting back and forth between the
flickering leaves and whitish silica-flecked clay perpetuated a
muted radiance that lacked any real warmth. As a result the
grotto-like amphitheater of cadaverous light was as foreboding
as any cryostasis crypt used to incarcerate the criminally
insane that Servile had ever served time in.

The sergeant and his squad were fanned out in a semi-circle
around six Deritri whose backs were to a shallow, yellowish
creek. A seventh local lay curled in a charred heap on the far
bank, and Danian was face down in mid-current with a smoking
hole in his back. His legs were twenty feet farther downstream
where they had gotten hung up in light riffles running across a
gravel bar. The squad's medic was kneeling next to Kingle whose
suit indicated that he was alive but unconscious. There was
nothing to suggest what sort of weapon had put either trooper
down.
The Deritri had been stripped of their clothing and what
few implements they had. None of the objects looked outwardly
threatening, but one of them was presumably formidable enough to
overcome the highest grade light tactical wear in the Beledenite
armory. As he started across the clearing, Ardis reflected on
the inventory he had at his immediate disposal. The micro-
gravity compartment was nothing more than a fancy press when you
got right down to it, and the anatomic splicer was better suited
for use when multiple species were involved.
Exchanging one Deritri's arm for another's leg might yield
results, but it would not be nearly as effective as conjoining
an entire living Haderack to the sloped forehead of some
unfortunate Deritri. The psychonic extrapolator was
excruciating for the victim, but there was not much for the
audience to witness. Ardis wanted to send a clear message to
every one of Palekpaneer's inhabitants, and he knew that reviews
of compelling visual theater always traveled faster and farther
than secondhand accounts of convoluted psychodramas played out
in the minds of a few unfortunate individuals. Plus, his troops
had seen all of those coercive methods used many times before.
He needed to come up with something fresh, if he was going to
offend their sensibilities and instill them with heightened
resolve.
As Ardis neared the group, providence revealed itself. The
notable presence of what promised to be their first female
captive suggested an appropriate course. After relaying his
spur of the moment decision to the cargomaster he gave his
helmet a quarter turn and removed it from his head -- most of it
was his, anyway. The back portion of his skull had required
extensive repair after one uncharacteristically protracted
planetary siege. Most ancestral Beledenites now considered
bodily enhancements and neural implants a must and disposed of
their hereditary physical components as soon as their finances
permitted, but Ardis Servile was an inductee. His species, the
Vereneti, were hardier physical stock than those of pure
Beledenite decent. As such, they and the other more stalwart
species that comprised the Beledenite Empire tended to retain
their congenital equipment.

While the vast majority of ancestral Beledenites were
utilizing peripheral and cortical neural implants and resorting
to wholesale physical enhancements and outright reconfigurations
that left them looking, in many instances, more like their
synthetic allies than their biological forefathers, Servile
clung to his original form whenever possible. Consequently he
wore his dark hair long and combed it straight back in order to
cover the alloy plate in the back of his head. Only a small
portion of his brain was not his own. The piece of shrapnel
that tore off the back of his skull also gouged out the rear
portion of one cranial lobe. Fortunately, he was evacuated to
an orbiting Synthedon facility where their medical liaisons were
more than eager to swap in one of the latest prototype
biosynthetic processors. There were notable glitches, but Ardis
made due.
He did not see the fuss. Raised as a shock trooper, the
commander had little appreciation for the autonomic nervous
system, so he was nonplussed that the implant seemed to offer so
little in the way of noticeable benefit. It would have been one
thing if the implant enabled him to interlink with and operate
one of those new weapons systems he had heard so much about, but
having this thing in his head merely left him feeling
occasionally as though someone was watching over his shoulder.

A later injury forced Servile to have one eye replaced with
a more versatile sensor that could be detached and utilized
remotely when necessary, but the beady green orb just below it
was all his own. Its dark pupil was sheathed by a lashless
outer lid that retracted vertically and a second inner lid that
blinked open and shut horizontally. His right arm had also been
upgraded after the original was torn from its shoulder socket,
armor and all, by a wounded Sarpanick slave laborer. His only
other improvements were a new left foot and ankle, which were
attached after the originals were blown off during a rare space
station assault in a wilderness void. Miraculously, all two
inches of his prized sex organ, though layered in scar tissue,
had survived his induction intact.
Servile propped his helmet under his prosthetic arm and
looked the captives over. The sight of such helpless wretches
never failed to evoke poignant memories of his own primitive
planet's fall to the Beledenites so many ages ago. Vague images
from that day flooded back as Ardis paced silently before the
row of kneeling captives. When the Beledenite forces reached
Servile's village that day, someone shoved him through a door
and shouted at him to run and hide in the foothills. In later
years, he would struggle to remember that image as being his
mother without admitting to himself that he had no idea whether

the fading blur had even been female. He had been old enough to
walk, but too small to run very fast without stumbling.
The hulking figure backlit by a wall of flames that loomed
toward him when he fell had not bothered incapacitating him
before scooping him up and tossing him in the air. The flier
caught him just below his zenith and deposited him in the nerve
cage with the other youths who were to be inducted. Immobilized
like insects pinned to a tray, they listened as all their
families and friends above the age of six were slaughtered. For
some reason at this point in his reverie the remembered scenes
always began to fast forward without allowing him to dwell on
the subsequent ten year period. Initiation into the Beledenite
shock troops was a process calculated to defile, debase and
divide those selected. Most would have found physical death
more agreeable. The survivors lived off the weak as a matter of
necessity. Those who thrived either lacked all sense of empathy
at the outset or quickly cannibalized whatever decency and
compassion they might once have possessed in order to take
advantage of their fellow captives.
As the youngest in his cadre, Ardis had been viewed as
nothing more than fodder by indoctrinators and fellow inductees
alike. He surprised them greatly when he lived through the
first year despite being victimized continuously by his keepers
during the day and his older bunkmates at night. The nights
were worst. The guards ignored the screams as the strong took
out their frustrations on the weak by molesting them in ones and
twos and sometimes larger groups. The older captives mimicked
what was done to them by the guards while introducing
modifications that served to heighten the pain and degradation
experienced by both perpetrator and victim alike.
Hardier youngsters than Ardis succumbed to those same sado-
sexual predations in droves, yet he somehow clung to life. He
was too much of a runt to get his share of the one daily meal
they were allowed, but he eventually bulked up by foraging on a
diet of pure protein in the graveyard late at night after the
others were done experimenting with him. His gradual turnaround
and the retribution he eventually dealt out earned him unrivaled
notoriety. The things he did to others once he was finally able
to fend for himself were too disturbing for his peers to adopt
or the guards to sanction, and that in itself said a great deal.
A deep baritone roar erupted from the direction of the
lander then slowly trailed off into a high-pitched cry. Ardis
was glad to have his thoughts torn away from that level of
remembrance. His attention snapped back to the row of prisoners
awaiting their fate. He stepped to the nearest Deritri and
snatched it upright by the loose fold of flesh that ringed the
base of its neck. The other individuals shifted uneasily on
their knees or ankles -- or whatever they were. Ardis thought

of them as soldiers, but they did not carry themselves like
military professionals or even mercenaries for that matter.
Straight on from a distance they might have been just another of
the many bipedal hominid-esque species that seemed to sprout up
time and again. The utility of that form made it a familiar one
among technological sentients in the Foamwork. The resemblance,
however, did not stand up to close scrutiny.
The Deritri were too oddly jointed to be lumped in with
that classification of beings. They looked like they would be
faster on all fours, but they insisted on walking upright
despite the ridiculous bends in their legs. When standing like
that, they were a head taller than anyone on the landing team.
The appendages that passed for arms would easily have
overpowered Ardis and his troopers were it not for their muscled
body armor. The Deritri's elongated skulls featured jutting
chins and foreheads that sloped back sharply. Their naked
dermis was pimpled with tiny opaque nodules that seemed to act
like solar cells by storing the dregs of light that reached the
planet's surface.
They were an unnatural mix of some kind, but Ardis was not
privy to the details. Whatever it was, something in their
makeup had marked them for extermination rather than induction
into Beledenite society. That often indicated some propensity
for the mental arts, though Ardis was not aware of any evidence
to support such an assessment. Their ability to operate with
precision in the absence of optical awareness was certainly no
such indicator in and of itself, even if the Beledenite's own
special corps of cognitists, the Beledesheera, were similarly
adapted.
The Beledesheera were known to be a wary lot often to the
point of paranoia. Their capabilities were now exceedingly rare
among the Beledenites, and the elite status they garnered as a
result was considered highly tenuous given how far in the other
direction most of society had gone both physically and mentally.
The Beledesheera were also deeply distrusted by the Beledenite's
allies, the Synthedon, who reviled them as polar opposites.
Many Beledenites also questioned their allegiance and warned
against their eventual treachery. The Beledesheera ostensibly
sought to overcome this prejudice by consistently being the
fiercest persecutors of any population to exhibit even the
slightest mentalist tendency.
Ardis, however, knew a few of them well enough to realize
that the real motive behind their zeal was to eliminate any
competition that might usurp the Beledesheera's unique station
among the upper class of Beledenite society. He knew they kept
select specimens from populations who were deemed to possess
complimentary traits for use in their own interbreeding schemes,
but they never risked allowing an entire populace of that sort

to survive if there was any chance it might one day usurp or
otherwise undermine their own standing in the community.
Regardless, it seemed clear that the Deritri had been
artificially crossbred somewhere along the line -- most likely
with some off-world bunch that showed up in need of a genetic
injection to ward off terminal homogeneity. That affliction was
an eventual death sentence for isolated planetary and space-
dwelling populations alike, unless they developed genetic
engineering techniques to keep their line from going stale. If
the Deritri were in fact an intergalactic mixed breed, then the
newcomers had either ventured off again leaving this spawn in
their wake, or they had become stranded here and been absorbed
by the native stock. The current inhabitants of this world were
decisively planet-locked. These creatures were technological,
but they had turned their expertise inward rather than outward.
They were excavators and subterranean builders the likes of
which Ardis had never encountered, and he had been tasked with
rooting out more than his share of burrowers during his time
with the shock corps.(1)

CHAPTER 38
The group's baggage was loaded onto their small charter
plane as soon as they arrived at the little regional airport,
but their flight was delayed most of the day because of severe
rain squalls along their route. By noon Falan could hardly hold
his head up. He cursed himself for not throwing a few
amphetamines in his pocket before handing over his backpack.
The steady stream of double espressos he substituted throughout
the day was no help. The bitter shots did nothing more than
aggravate his already rancid stomach. At one point during the
wait Falan noticed Miguel and the professor talking to one
another while staring at him from across the narrow terminal.
They finally boarded late in the afternoon and took off on
the scheduled four-hour flight without any further delay. There
was little room to spare inside the plane. Dr. Morales sat up
front next to the pilot while the rest of them crammed in two by
two in the back. Falan had the back two seats to himself, so he
had a good view from either side of the plane. The ear plugs
that the pilot gave them hardly muffled the roar of the twin
engines, and the vibration inside the cabin was so bad that it
seemed like the plane would shake itself to pieces long before
they reached their destination. Conversation was impossible.
Falan watched as the urban sprawl around Caracas eventually
gave way to farmland and cattle country. They hit some minor
turbulence here and there but nothing too bad. Flying at just
three thousand feet instead of a commercial airliner's normal
cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet was a new
experience for most of the team. The ability to make out
detailed features on the ground kept Falan actively engaged
watching the terrain below and helped him stay awake for awhile.
Towns became increasingly scarce the farther south they flew.
Eventually, they began to see where vast tracts of
rainforest had been clear cut for the hardwood they contained.
The scarred areas were dotted here and there by tiny islands of
green. Falan knew that the trees in these oases were mostly
softwood varieties distained by the lumber companies. They sold
at commodity prices making them much less profitable than the
more exotic species such as teak and mahogany.
Despite the earlier rain, Falan saw a growing number of
smoke plumes rising as they flew south. The fires, he guessed,
were started by squatters who were burning away any remaining
underbrush left behind by the loggers and wildcatters so they
could plant crops. Their efforts didn't provide much beyond
subsistence-level farming. He knew the most they could hope for
were a few measly harvests before the thin layer of topsoil gave
out. Then, the peasants would move on and burn off another
section, leaving a sterile wasteland in their wake.

Dr. Morales's vision for this specific project was more
focused on finding viable ways for the indigenous peoples still
living in the heart of the rainforest to preserve their
ancestral homelands, than with addressing the plight of these
rural peasants. Yet, he did recognize the need to remedy their
situation. Though they lacked the resources and coordination
utilized by the international conglomerates, their daily
struggle for survival was contributing just as significantly to
the systematic decimation of the jungle.
The landless poor worked their way from the fringes inward
following the newly cut logging roads deeper and deeper into the
interior as they fought to keep food on the table for their
families. Miguel was already helping Dr. Morales design another
series of courses aimed at finding ways to create a sustainable
economy for these people so that it would be in their best
interest to stop slashing and burning the forest and start
husbanding it. Falan kept expecting to see a vast expanse of
pristine rainforest stretched out before them, but it never
materialized.
He dropped off to sleep so suddenly there was no time to
fight it. The little engineers were already in full flight when
he caught his first and only fleeting glimpse of them. Everyone
else in the plane was facing forward so no one noticed when he
started fidgeting in his seat. The whimpering and crying that

ensued was either drowned out by the engines or muted by the
earplugs everyone was wearing. Tony was the first person to
realize something wasn't right when a flurry of sharp kicks
jarred his spine through the seatback. He turned around with a
scowl to find Falan grimacing menacingly at him with barred
teeth and bulging eyes. The first punch caught Tony on the side
of the forehead. The next one landed on the back of his
shoulder.
He ducked under the next couple. Sam leaned out of reach
after getting hit in the back of the head one time. They stayed
hunched forward in their seats for twenty or thirty seconds and
called out to Falan to cut it out, but the knees hammering at
their backs and the salvo of fists flailing over their headrests
only grew worse. In unison the two undid their seatbelts and
lunged over their seatbacks. By this time everyone including
the pilot was turned around watching the commotion. The
seatmates absorbed one or two more blows apiece before
successfully pinning Falan's arms to his sides. Sam let go with
one hand long enough to give Falan a few sharp slaps and was
nearly bitten for his effort. Tony followed his example, and
together they finally managed to bring Falan around.
His return to consciousness was hard to gauge because his
eyes had been open during the entire affair. Both graduate
students maintained a firm grip on him even after his struggling

subsided. Once he was fully cognizant, Falan took in all the
faces staring at him before sagging back in his seat. He looked
up at the cabin ceiling and briefly closed his eyes.
"I'm awake. You can let go," he panted.
They couldn't hear him over the engines. When they didn't
release him right away Falan tried to shrug them off. A second,
less violent tussle followed before Falan settled down again and
made himself understood. Sam and Tony stayed poised to defend
themselves after letting him go. Dr. Morales looked aghast, but
conversation between those in the front and those in the rear of
the plane was impractical. Falan looked down.(*) He kept his
hands in his lap as he stretched forward and spoke loud enough
for Sam and Tony to hear him. He doubted they noticed.
"Sorry about that, you guys. I must have been having a
nightmare or something. I'm okay now. I promise -- don't
worry."
The town -- if it could be called that -- was little more
than a crossroads. It seemed pretty rough from the air, but
once they were on the ground it looked almost apocalyptic. Only
the occasional stand of trees stood out conspicuously in a
landscape that was dominated by reddish brown mud and stumps.
The airstrip was a pock-marked swath of weeds a half mile from
the edge of town. There were no buildings or hangers, just a

fuel tank listing to one side on stilts that looked ready to
buckle.
The pilot taxied to where the uneven runway intersected
with the only road into town then turned the plane around before
idling back the engines. A bit farther on, the tail of an old
military transport plane could be seen jutting up in the air.
The relic appeared to have skidded off the end of the runway
years ago and nosed over into a swampy area beyond.
As the group deplaned, the pilot yanked their backpacks out
of the small storage compartment in the underbelly and tossed
them in the mud. He shouted a hasty farewell over the idling
prop noise before climbing back into the cockpit and heading
over to refuel.
CHAPTER 39
"Falan, we need to talk, but that's going to have to wait,"
the professor said after the engine noise subsided enough for
them to speak to each other without shouting. "Our driver was
supposed to meet us here with the van hours ago."
"You'd think he would have heard our plane fly over. Maybe
he's on his way out to get us," Sam offered.
"That would be nice. I hope you're right, but something
tells me we'd better start walking into town," Dr. Morales said,
hoisting his pack onto his shoulders. "This is the only road,
so hopefully we'll run into him. It will be dark soon, and I
don't want to get caught stumbling around out here at night."
All manner of derelict machinery, abandoned vehicles and
industrial refuse lined the sloppy ruts that passed for a road.
The group was mud-spattered and covered in mosquito bites by the
time they reached a sprawling truck depot on the outskirts of
town just a short while later. There were ten or twelve big
logging rigs lined up in a halfway ordered fashion, but only one
of them was stacked with logs. Several flatbed trailers loaded
down with drilling apparatus and earth-moving equipment were
mixed in as well. All the trucks had thick chains on their
tires. There didn't seem to be any people around.
Suddenly four dogs came scrambling out of the shadows
beneath an old semi-trailer. Miguel tripped and fell as the

group collectively shied back from the onslaught of snapping
jaws. The dogs were on him as soon as he hit the ground. The
three smaller mixed breeds snapped at his feet and legs as he
tried to scramble away, but the larger one with a Shepard look
came straight for his face.
Miguel screamed and threw his hands up, but the professor's
boot was already in motion. He caught the dog under the chin
with a fierce kick, just as it was about to clamp down on
Miguel. Sam and Tony closed ranks from either side, and the
three of them drove the dogs off with a barrage of yelling and
kicking. It was all over as quickly as it started. Falan and
Alison helped Miguel to his feet while the others chased after
the dogs.
"Holy shit," Falan said, "you okay?"
"Oh my god," Miguel wheezed. "Where did they come from? I
thought I was gonna get mauled."
"You were," Alison said. "They would have torn you to
pieces."
"Miguel, are you all right?" the professor asked as he
arrived back.
Miguel nodded his head.
"Yeah, I guess I'm okay. Not even a scratch thanks to
you."
"You're lucky. This would be a bad place to come down with
rabies," Morales observed.
They watched as Sam and Tony threw rocks at the dogs for
another minute. The dogs milled about just out of range
alternately eyeing the group and snapping at each other. Sam and
Tony rejoined the others once they were sure they'd gotten their
point across.
Daylight was fading but not fast enough to conceal the
town's decrepit nature. Most of the buildings were single-story
affairs made of rough cut planks. There wasn't a plumb wall in
sight, and no one had bothered wasting any paint. Some of the
more solid looking structures had tin roofs, but the majority
was topped with tar paper or faded sheets of green corrugated
plastic. Even in town the streets were little more than wide
grooves cut into a never-ending sea of mud. The whole place
threatened to sink out of site. Elevated boardwalks had been
erected in front of adjacent buildings in an effort to keep
pedestrians out of the mire, but none extended far enough to
make much difference. Crossing the main thoroughfare or any of
the side streets meant slogging through a quagmire.
None of the shops were open. They passed a dry goods
store, a hardware store and a post office before they saw the
first living soul. By then it was almost completely dark out.
As they approached a barber shop, the gas light inside went

black, and an old bald man dressed in baggy trousers and an open
jacket stepped out and locked the door. He turned and headed
off down the walkway without noticing them. Miguel called out
to him, but he didn't seem to hear. He just kept shuffling
along hunched over looking like he might fall at any moment.
Morales gave him a friendly holler, but he still didn't turn
around.
"He must be deaf or something. That's gotta be the hotel
right up there," Tony volunteered pointing to the only other
visible light. "They must have a generator."
"This place is like a ghost town," Sam said. "I thought it
was supposed to be some wild and crazy outpost on the edge of
civilization."
"That's what I was told," Dr. Morales responded. "Esteban
warned me to be very careful here. He's the one who insisted
that we leave right from the airport and not spend the night in
town."
"It doesn't look that bad," Alison said.
They followed along behind the old man and had nearly
caught up to him when he stopped and entered the building Tony
had pointed out. It was in fact the Grandview Hotel. The lower
halves of the windows were all shuttered, so they couldn't see
anything inside except a few lights hanging from the ceiling.
Faint music poured out briefly when the door opened and shut.
There was a huge red pickup truck with a crew cab and duel rear
wheels parked out front.
"Well, somebody had a sense of humor when they named this
place," Alison laughed.

CHAPTER 40
Ardis Servile refocused his attention on the task at hand.
"I am only going to ask once. How deep below ground do
these tiers go?"
The speaker in his helmet barked out the native
translation. Ardis did not know why he bothered. They had not
gotten a straight answer out of any of them in the eight local
months he had been orbiting this honeycombed vegetable plate.
His helmet fell from under his arm when he reached out with his
articulated glove and severed the Deritri's arm between what
appeared to be two elbows. The limb splattered into the pale
mud next to Ardis's helmet. He had more high-tech methods at
his immediate disposal, of course, but Ardis suspected this
particular audience would identify more closely with the basic
tools of the trade. Both the Beledesheera and Synthedon mind
probes had already failed to dredge anything useful out of these
tunneling recluses.
Ardis expected the amputee to collapse, but aside from some
rather pathetic mewling and keening he managed to stay upright
even as his spurting stump created a purplish puddle on the
ground beside him. Ardis cauterized the wound with a blue torch
blast from his glove then snipped the Deritri's other arm closer
to shoulder. There was an anguished yowl then the creature
began screaming in Ardis's face. Ardis licked the spittle off

his lips and looked down at his helmet. He only had to wait a
few moments.
"You are wasting your effort. I will not tell you
anything. Unless you hurry and leave, you will die here
alongside us. Do you really think that you are the first
invaders from the stars that we have had to overcome? We have
been told by those who preceded you that our world lies at a
crossroads. Why do you think we live below ground and the
Haderack keep to their dangling perches? When you realize who
controls the middle ground it will be too late for you to
escape. Do not think that your ship in the sky offers safe
refuge. Even now preparations are underway to bring it down.
When that happens, there will be no hope for you. Any help that
your kind might send will arrive too late, and those who do come
will meet your same fate."
Ardis leaned forward and bit a mouthful of flesh from the
Deritri's freshly seared stump causing him to rear back and
grimace. Servile chewed slowly while emitting sounds of
pleasure. Eventually, he swallowed then took another bite and
spoke with his mouth full.
"I do not really expect you to tell me anything. I have
come down to show you what I think of your continued
disrespect."
He spoke over the translation being broadcast by his
helmet.
"Neither are you the first group I have ever had to root
out. Those in your predicament often manage to put on a brave
face for a time. You have the pain to assist you, and that
helps initially."
Ardis swallowed again and wiped his oiled mustache on the
back of his plated arm. He looked at the others still on their
knees.
"Your friends here, however, do not have the luxury of that
distraction just yet and must watch you suffer. My hope is that
one of them might be compelled to discuss matters with us in
order to save you further discomfort."
He turned to the other prisoners and fluttered his eyelids
in mock anticipation of a response. None of them acknowledged
the shock troop commander in any way. In a flash he removed
both legs from the creature he was holding by the scruff. Ardis
let him topple forward into the muck to bleed to death and
grabbed up another captive.
"Where have your friends in the trees gone, and who else is
aiding your resistance?"
This Deritri showed less conviction and began to tremble,
but he stayed mute. Ardis aimed the torch nozzle on the back of
his glove at the creature while he waited for the helmet to

complete its translation. When the soldier refused to answer
Ardis melted his face just enough to make it unrecognizable
without killing him outright. Servile dropped the gurgling
figure next to his first victim who was now silent.
"Who is next?" he inquired of those remaining.
Ardis inflicted various torments on all but two of the
remaining Deritri in short order without getting any further
response to his questions. Their number was dwindling fast when
the cargomaster arrived followed by two stevedores ushering a
levicage.
"It is about time. Bring that cur over here."
He noticed a few of his troopers exchanging quizzical
glances. They had caught everyone. No one had escaped into the
growth. Ardis knew that while none of them had the slightest
problem with what had taken place so far, even some of his own
crew were going to take issue with this next tactic. He had
used it only once before years ago on another world after taking
command of his first squad of shock troops. He had to kill one
of his own team that time, and he was prepared to do so again
should any of them prove unable to live with their own memories
of shame and revulsion.
Ardis had instructed the orbiting base station's game
warden to separate two big male gonderets from their mates a few
days earlier. He had sent his cargomaster down to the kennels

to pick them up and load them aboard the lander shortly before
their departure. The shock troops had high hopes for the beasts
when they first arrived off Palekpaneer, but they had not turned
out to be of much use this time around. Originally bred to hunt
and kill tenadalia, a deadly species of big game from another
multiverse, gonderets were accomplished ground trackers and
stylish killers whether alone or in a pack.
Despite being fabulous leapers and climbers, who could hunt
down virtually anything, across any imaginable surface-scape,
they had failed to turn up a single Haderack or Deritri. The
male gonderets in particular were known to be relentless
pursuers but for one distraction. They had to be accompanied by
their mates at all times so that their reproductive needs could
be attended to on demand. Otherwise their notorious virility
caused them to veer off on single-minded tangents.
Some claimed they possessed fifth-level sentience, but
Ardis doubted that very much. He had seen what happened when
their base desires went unfulfilled. Then, the creatures showed
no signs of possessing any reason whatsoever much less fifth-
level awareness. Given the nature of their reproductive
biology, they were used by the shock troops on a disposable
basis. The big male in the levicage had been yowling
plaintively every few minutes since leaving the lander, but when
the stevedores ushered it into the clearing the gonderet fixed

its eyes on the group by the stream and started barking
hysterically. As it neared them, it repeatedly rammed its heavy
wolven muzzle against the bars. Ardis motioned for the handlers
to place it next to him before turning his attention back to the
two remaining Deritri.
"I will make a deal with you," he said to the male he had
always assumed to be in charge. "Tell me who else is aiding
your cause besides those ridiculous little Haderack and how deep
your bunkers extend below ground, and I will kill you quickly
after releasing your female friend here unharmed."
He knew the translation would be accurate as far as the
individual words went, but he had serious doubts whether their
intended meaning would be made clear. Ardis had suspected all
along that their two cultures lacked some fundamental piece of
understanding about each other, which was keeping them from
communicating effectively. He had listened to dozens of
recorded interrogations and even though the exchanges seemed to
make sense much of the time, he could not help feeling that both
sides of every conversation were slightly out of synch.
That turned out to be the case more often than not really.
How many times a year did the Beledenites encounter new species,
with whom they initially felt they could effectively
communicate, only to discover later just how wrong they had
been? Even many of those tagged for absorption into Beledenite

society ended up having their induction designations rescinded
long before they ever produced their first generation of
Beledenite born offspring.
Such occasions usually arose when some previously
undisclosed difference of opinion on a sensitive philosophical
issue unexpectedly came to light and proved irreconcilable. The
difficulty with achieving harmonious inductions extended beyond
adult populations. As in the case of Ardis's own world, there
were many instances when only the very youngest were taken to be
raised in the Beledenite way. Even then, a large proportion of
such youth still ended up being incarcerated or exterminated for
some form of anti-social behavior when they could not adjust
within the general population and there were not enough open
billets in the shock corps for those deviants to fill.
Regardless, Ardis felt that he had done the best he could to
make his offer sound halfway believable.
The male Deritri turned to the lone female then looked away
and let out an anguished wail. When he hung his head in silence
and refused to meet Ardis's gaze with his sightless face Servile
snatched the female up. There was nothing appealing about
her.(*) He had bedded, or defiled rather, countless members of
all sexes from a wide array of alien species. He did not
usually go for anything this exotic, however, unless it was the
only option available immediately following a particularly

heated combat situation when the excitement of battle and fear
of death gave way to the shock and euphoria that followed living
through a statistically unsurvivable action. Then anything was
fair game.
This one might have fit the bill had he just escaped being
pulled apart and eaten by a Zimphenese platipile, but it would
have taken something that extreme for him to overlook the slack
folds of pale veiny skin drooping all over. Ardis spun her
around then put an armored foot to her backside and sent her
sprawling into the muck. She was still too close. At that
distance, there would be too much danger to the rest of them, so
he walked after her and dragged her a bit farther off before
returning to stand behind the levicage. Everyone else had
already double-checked their weapons and gravitated around to
the rear of the cage away from the gate. The entire squad was
shifting about uncomfortably now.
Ardis gestured for the remaining captive to be brought
around to the rear as well, and then he unsheathed the anti-
electron prod from its holster on the side of the cage. The
shock troop commander stood back in a defensive posture hoping
that the strongest non-lethal setting would be enough to drive
the animal off, if it turned on them. He did not want to have
to kill it and then wait while the cargomaster and his helpers
retrieved the second beast from the lander's hold.

Without further delay he raised the gate. The gonderet
bolted from its container then skidded to a stop and sniffed the
air. The female Deritri stood up slowly. She snapped to
attention when her male companion yelled for her to run, but she
was held frozen by the beast's stare. As it considered her, the
gonderet's flesh began rippling visibly beneath its thin pelt,
and its stubby tail twitched erratically.
Gonderets ran forward or backward equally well because
their heads swiveled 180 degrees with ease, and their four
simian legs all functioned identically in either direction. The
two opposable digits on each clawed paw gave them a similar
advantage whether climbing up or down. On all fours, this one's
shoulders reached just above Servile's shoulders.
The big male took a quick step toward the motionless
Deritri then paused to look back over its shoulder. When it saw
that no one from the squad was moving to stop it, the gonderet
continued on several more steps before checking on them again.
Slobber gobbed from the corners of its mouth as its yellow eyes
flicked back and forth between what it feared and what it
desired.
Everyone remained still. The gonderet rotated its head
back and forth continuously as it hurried on a little farther
then paused once more to take the group's measure. When the
squad members still made no effort to intercede, the creature's

entire skeletal structure began to tremble. It crept the rest
of the way up to the lone female Deritri and sniffed loudly (*)
as she tried to ease back from its fanged muzzle. After another
long stare failed to detect any hint of pending action on the
part of the onlookers, the beast stood upright and extended its
front legs over its head. It towered over the Deritri.
The creature splayed out the opposable digits on either
side of each raised paw and began clicking its short thick claws
together in a coordinated rhythm. The tempo slowly increased
until the sound resembled a ticking chronosynch speeding up its
countdown. The gonderet's jaws leered open revealing double
rows of serrated ivories and a long forked tongue that slithered
out from deep in the back of its throat and started waggling to
the beat.
The feral male looked down at itself. (*) The observers
cringed.(*) A collective groan arose from the rank and file
troopers (*) as it circled the female on its hind legs and
flickered its tongue up and down the length of her torso.
The experience quickly became too much for the Deritri.
She tried fleeing toward the dense foliage at the edge of the
clearing, but the gonderet threw her on her back and stepped
astride her as she flailed atop the thin layer of mud. The
beast's jaws yawned wide, and a shrill keening sound issued from
the back of its throat as (*) it (*) inspected (*)her (*). The
tactile scrutiny lasted for nearly a minute, and then the animal
seized her up. (*) The gonderet turned its head backward and
watched Servile and the others through squinted eyes. (*)
The female made noises that caused two of Ardis's crew to
lean over and chunder the contents of their stomachs. The male
Deritri tried to rise, but Ardis cuffed him back down. (*)It
seemed to go on for an eternity, the scene lasted no more than a
couple of minutes before the gonderet dropped to its knees and
slumped forward.(*) Another trooper wretched.
As it lay panting atop the semi-conscious Deritri, the
gonderet's eyes gradually refocused on the crowd of observers.
It watched them warily until its heaving chest calmed down, then
it rose up on all fours. (*) Another of his crew loosed their
gorge behind him -- this from veterans who had all come up
through the merciless shock troop inductee program. Such
reactions undoubtedly resulted as much from the trooper's
awareness of the victim's ultimate fate as from this one brief
attack.
The latest gagging was accompanied by the distinctive hum
of a plasma charger powering up. At the outset Ardis had been
compelled to let the group of Deritri see his face, lest they
fool themselves into thinking he was bluffing. Now he wished he
had kept his helmet on so he could see what was taking place
behind him without turning his back on the gonderet. He

considered taking out his prosthetic eye to have a look, but he
needed both hands for the anti-electron prod. Any sudden moves
now could easily draw an attack, and he certainly did not intend
to look away slowly.
Gonderets were known to defend their gestating young like
Kalcherian polar fagens. One of his troopers would probably
kill it before it latched onto the back of his exposed neck, but
then again he had warned them not to harm it on pain of death.
Servile needed the male Deritri to witness the creature leaving
with its unwilling host so that he could spread the message
Servile wanted to send to the rest of their kind and whoever
else was responsible for the delays he was facing.
He spoke evenly in a soothing voice.
"Keep your finger off that initiator, son. You might get
it and me both, but then where will you be? You will have to go
back to the flagship sooner or later."
"Just a precaution, sir. I do not like the way that thing
is looking over here."
"Relax, it will be gone soon enough."
They did not have to wait long before the gonderet hauled
its victim out of the muck and threw her over its shoulder. The
beast never took its eyes off Servile's retinue, as it slunk
away on three legs. When it reached the edge of the clearing,
it made a final gloating gesture at them with its tongue then

leaped ten feet up into a tree. It paused on a branch for a
moment to adjust its grip on its captive, and then it began
launching itself from tree to tree and quickly disappeared up
and away into the lower canopy.
"So," Ardis said turning to the male Deritri kneeling
behind him, "was that worth it? She is still very much alive,
so do not think that was the worst of it. The males of that
species all act like functional hermaphrodites in a sense. They
produce their own eggs and fertilize several internally every
forty-eight hours. The embryos then need to be ejaculated into
an appropriate biological receptacle -- preferably a female
gonderet -- within a matter of days, otherwise they grow too
large and attach themselves inside the male to gestate. Twelve
weeks after that happens, the brood will tear its way out in
whatever direction they happen to be pointed when the mood
strikes them. Then they will eat their father for their first
meal before turning on each other.
"As you saw, that one was desperate to avoid such a fate.
Were it caged along with its mate, the female most likely would
have already been pregnant so her system would have dissolved
the embryos when they reached her womb. Her body would have
known when to dispel the live young before they tried to exit
her body on their own, and her milk would have appeased their
appetites for a time at least.

"Your friend will not be so lucky. That gonderet will do
everything possible to keep her alive until his offspring are
done incubating. (*) Even now the parasitic little embryos are
attaching themselves to her circulatory system. In these cases
the natural parent will force feed the biological incubator
while the young leach nutrients from her at a rate calculated to
leave her alive until they are ready to make their exit."
At that moment all of the leaves in the dome above flipped
light-side down in unison and froze in place. The sudden
absence of rustling created a shattering silence that quickly
gave way to the sound of gurgling bubbles, as the innocuous
little stream began to rise and overflow the mud flats they were
standing on. The entire cathedral floor was swamped before any
of the Beledenites realized what was happening. As the level
reached the shock trooper's ankles, the ceiling of glowing
leaves went dark for a few moments then a single column of
blinding white light shown down on Ardis alone.
Servile went rigid as if run through by a jolting positive
charge. His troopers could only watch as the liquid covering
the ground around them drew up into the column of light to form
a fluid cylinder around their commander that stretched from the
ground to the dome's roof top. It changed colors several times
in rapid succession before the light blinked out and the entire
column of suspended solution came crashing down with such force

that it knocked the rest of the squad off their feet and sent
them skidding across the mud flat. The jungle's previous
rustling resumed and the accompanying dull glow returned to
reveal them all scattered across the mud flat on their
backsides. Ardis Servile lay crumpled and unconscious. Their
last Deritri captive was gone.

CHAPTER 41
There was a small lobby just inside the double doors. The
front desk was partitioned off behind vertical iron bars, but
there was nobody in sight. A staircase with a broken railing
climbed upward to their right, and there was a set of swinging
half-doors immediately to their left. The students followed Dr.
Morales through the doors into a saloon.
The old man they'd been following was leaned up against the
bar with a shot glass in his hand. He stood off by himself away
from two younger guys drinking bottled beer. There were no
stools at the bar. The bartender was a thin old guy with sparse
gray hair and skin the color of ash.
Booths lined the front windows, and a dozen or so round
tables filled the rest of the room. The booths were all empty,
but one of the tables had a small group of men sitting around it
drinking, smoking cigars and playing cards. There were a bunch
of coins and some paper currency gathered loosely in the center
between them. An ancient jukebox against the far wall was
playing some kind of Latino ballad. Every head in the place
turned and stared at the newcomers when they entered.
"Don't look now, but that's Doc Holiday playing cards over
there," Falan said.
"More like Poncho Villa," Sam said. "This place is too
much."
"The only thing missing is a few ladies lounging against a
piano in their underwear," Tony chimed in.
The professor tossed his pack in the corner by the door,
and the others followed suit.
"Grab us a table," the professor said pointing to the
nearest one. "I'll try to find out what's going on around
here."
He returned a few minutes later with a round of beers.
"There's only one item on the menu, so I ordered steaks for
everybody. The bartender said the whole town cleared out a week
ago. A bulldozer operator and a surveyor were killed by Indians
angry about the encroachment into their territory. The local
government has temporarily shut down all commercial operations
in this district for thirty days while they try to sort out the
situation."
"Our Indians?" Falan asked.
"No, no," Dr. Morales assured them all. "This took place
nearby. We've still got a lot farther south to go."
"That's crazy," Miguel said, "It should have been all over
the news by now."
"That's what I said, but apparently the companies doing
business down here have been working closely with the local
politicians to maintain a media blackout and keep the whole
thing quiet. The papers will get hold of it pretty soon though.
Once the workers who left this place start running out of money,
they'll get loose lips real quickly. You all stay here. I'm
going to go see if I can find this guy, Jorge Guerra, who's
supposed to drive us down to meet Esteban. The bartender says
he works at a welding shop on a side street not too far from
here."
Tony slid his chair back and started to stand up.
"I'll come with you."
The professor held his hand out for Tony to stay seated.
"No, you stay here. I won't be gone long. If I don't find
him at the welding shop, I'll come right back."
Tony stood up anyway.
"You know what Esteban said about this place. I'll just
tag along, so you're not all by yourself."
Morales looked over at Alison then surveyed the room.
"I'll be fine. My guess is that most of the people still
left in town are right here in this room. I want you all to
stay here and stick together. Alison, if you need to use the
restroom have one of these guys go with you and stand outside
the door okay?"
"Sure, Dr. Morales, no problem," Alison said.
"Victor, call me Victor," Morales insisted as he headed out
the door.
CHAPTER 42
"What the hell was going on with you, Falan?" Sam asked
with a forced chuckle as they started in on their beers. "Next
time just ask. I would have been happy to change seats with you
so you could finish strangling Miguel."
Everyone but Miguel suddenly began inspecting their bug
bites, reading their beer labels or picking mud off themselves
so no one saw the look that Falan fired at Miguel.
"Well, in technical terms I experienced a mild
cardiopulmonary-schizoidal episode resulting from acute tubular
confinement and severe asphyxiatory arrest anxiety," Falan said
with a frown.
"So you freaked out," Sam laughed.
"That about sums it up in layman's terms, I guess," Falan
conceded with a slight grin as he raised his bottle to his lips.
"I was having a nightmare or something. It was like I couldn't
breathe. I felt like I was drowning and needed to fight for
air. Sorry if I disturbed your reverie. I know how much you
like to replay Endless Summer from start to finish in your
mind's eye every chance you get."
Everyone chuckled.
"Actually, this time it was Dog Town and Z-boys, but don't
worry I was able to mark my place before swimming out to rescue
you from the undertow, Gidget."

There were more laughs all around.
"So what do you think of the Venezuelan countryside so
far?" Miguel asked changing the subject.
"Caracas was about like what I expected, but now I can
really see why they need our help down here," Sam said. "It
doesn't look like there's any rainforest left to protect."
"I'm starting to think I should have gone with the SETI
internship at Bell Labs back in Jersey," Falan volunteered
absently.
"That's right," Alison said, "I forgot you're in the ET
program. What's the matter, you'd rather sit behind a desk all
day listening to cosmic radio static than slog it out in the mud
with us?"
"Honestly? Yeah, I'm starting to think so," Falan said
taking a sip of beer. "That might have been the smarter move."
(*)
“I'm not necessarily saying there's no life out there. I'm
just saying it's a waste of time to go looking for it when there
is plenty of more important work to be done right here on
Earth." Alison paused for dramatic effect then said, "Like
saving the rainforest and the poor bastards that call it home,
cheers," she finished loudly with a big smile and held up her
beer for the others to clink against.

CHAPTER 43
"Associate Director Gheddy -- please, come right in," the
captain said swiveling around and standing to salute as the
female ensign leading the way cleared her throat and stepped
aside.
"There is no need for that, Captain Ferring," Palerick
replied while gesturing for the captain to sit back down.
The captain's uniform was either brand new or seldom worn.
The sharpness of the creases pressed into the dark green fabric
would be nearly impossible to replicate after a short period of
normal wear. Likewise, the subdued gold piping on the sleeves
and pant legs and the muted red insignia embroidered on the left
breast and shoulder stood out more crisply than the designers
intended. Ferring hesitated partway into his salute and glanced
at the ensign before slowly lowering his arm. Palerick realized
then that in his present stasis-addled state, he had not
bothered speaking his words aloud. He coughed dryly and tried
again.
"My apologies, Captain, I still have not quite woken up I
am afraid. I am a civilian. There is no need for you to salute
me or my office."
"No apology necessary, sir. I...I heard you clearly the
first time...or I mean I understood what you said even
though...even though..."
"I know. Forgive me, it was impolite. My vocal chords
have not had a chance to limber up yet."
"Not at all, Associate Director. Please, have a seat."
Palerick took in the captain's paunch and the crow's feet
spreading from the corners of his eyes. The gray stubble on his
pate was yet another new development since last the two had
spoken. He sat down in a worn armchair that was affixed to the
deck next to the captain's.
"Will I be needing this?"
"No, no, certainly not. You will be given ample warning
should restraints become necessary."
Palerick ignored the shoulder harness and marveled anew at
how small the ship's bridge was. Most of the dozen or so
stations were vacant. The only two junior officers present
turned back to their duties when his eyes fell on them. The
command centers on the ships of the line he had toured boasted
between two and three hundred officers stationed on tiered
levels that supported spectacular flying bridges. The Shade
Merchant's command center was small even when compared to those
on the inter-system shuttles he was used to traveling aboard.
"You look to be doing quite well, Associate Director --
considering. I am told your companion is having a tougher go of
it."
"They say we acolytes are better suited for overcoming the
effects of agelag. If that is true, then I do not care to think
about what my colleague must be experiencing. Your surgeon
tells me Senior Specialist Treachen is currently being moved out
of intensive care, but that he will likely require up to a
week's recuperative stay in the infirmary. How has your transit
been, Captain?"
"Uneventful really compared with our previous duties near
the Beledenite border. Of course to get to and from that region
we loaded Redemption's Fury aboard a transporter, and the entire
crew went into the chiller. Still, we had a bit more excitement
than I would have expected on a diplomatic mission this far into
the interior. A squadron of privateers actually tried to ambush
us, if you can believe that. I am not sure what is more
surprising: that such rogues actually exist this deep in old
space or that they had the audacity to tangle with a military
escort like Redemption's Fury."
"Were we delayed?" Palerick asked.
"By a week or so on the ship's chrono, but in relative
terms I guess it depends on your point of view. All relativist
ambiguity aside, I was able to catch a slightly stronger gravity
wave after dealing with our assailants so we should arrive very
nearly on schedule."
"What of all your boasting at the outset? Could not
Redemption's Fury simply outrun them? It does dim the light,
does it not?" Palerick asked.
"Never doubt it," the captain chirped. "She may not turn
them out completely like a Night Vendor, but there is certainly
not enough left to read by. I confess I knew your preference
would have been for haste. But, because I was able, the
unwritten code of the high-spaces dictated that I deviate from
plan long enough to dispatch as many of those parasites as was
practical. You must understand: they were plying their trade in
a highly trafficked area near the Safredon Cluster. Most modern
ships traveling in this sector take trajectories that veer as
close as possible to the tip of that galaxy's minor arm in order
to take advantage of the incredible gravity shear there. If
negotiated properly, the forces generated can vector a ship back
out into deep space at twice the entry rate with half the normal
power requirement.
"That is where your friends...ahh our allies are really
falling down on their part of the bargain. The Ludition's
disdain for any technology lacking a psychonic component leaves
vast segments of their jurisdiction vulnerable to predation by
all sorts of wastrels. They are not concerned because they
travel on a different plane altogether."
The captain was taking on a peeved air.

"Granted, I am sure they have their share of dangers to
contend with along those new routes, wherever they are, but that
does not absolve them of their duty to police the traditional
shipping lanes that are supposed to be under their authority
right here in this dimension."
Gheddy felt light-headed and weak. He had been fed the
latest intravenous sustenance mixtures and exercised regularly
by neuromuscular stimulators during his self-imposed stasis, but
bland concoctions of liquid nutrients and electric shock were
poor substitutes for what a body needed. Due to weight loss, he
was swimming in his traditional acolyte's garb. Both his yellow
tunic and his night-blue, ankle-length, kilt hung much loser on
his frame than they had at the journey's outset.
His self-imposed withdrawal was less invasive than the
forced chill Treachen had been subjected to, but it had not
allowed him to stay under for the duration of their trip. He
had surfaced several times along the way. During each of those
visits above the flatline, he typically remained awake for
several sleepless ship days at a time. His memories of those
periods were still buried and inaccessible beneath the layers of
self denial he cloaked himself with during the periods of stasis
that followed. He was told it would all come back to him sooner
or later. When it did, he might very well regret taking the
homeopathic route instead of the more popular cold vault given

that there were no guild mendicants aboard to monitor and assist
him during the intermittent stretches when his mind breached the
placid pool.
Palerick did not need acolyte training to detect the
frustration and envy in the captain's voice. Ferring believed
that access to Ludition navigation and drive technology would
mean career officers like him would not have to spend such large
portions of their natural lifetimes on long-haul transits where
even at twilight and multiple midnight speeds it could take
scores or more ship years to cross several multiverses as they
had just done. In the most extreme cases, the restricted access
to such wonders meant that it could take many natural lifetimes
to complete a single passage, thus requiring either multiple
crews rotating in and out of stasis or generational handoffs.
What the captain said was true. The Luditions only made
exceptions to their lifestyle for the most highly advanced
technologies related to transportation, defense and
communications. In all other things they favored an antiquated
existence. Palerick did not say so, but he doubted that the
proliferation of Ludition technology into the Ilstachian navy
would have a positive impact on the lives of many naval
careerists. He suspected it would mean that technologists like
Ferring would find themselves bumped from all but the shortest
intra-galactic routes, and that everything longer would require

the pilots and flight officers to have advanced-level guild
training. The few technologies that the Luditions did adopt
always required a significant degree of psychonic interaction.
That invariably meant the operators needed both a congenital
predisposition toward such skills as well as full-time training
in their use from the time they were born.
An influx of such technology would mean jobs like the
captain's could only be filled by guild members. Even then,
only those who had attained the highest levels of acolyte
training could hope to accomplish what the Luditions now claimed
to be doing. Palerick questioned whether any Ilstachian could
hope to match such powers. Perhaps Huron Gaelen and those of
his ilk could manage it, but Palerick doubted seriously whether
the rank-and-file acolytes could master such powerful amalgams,
never mind the technologists. He steered clear of the subject.
"Did we sustain any damage or incur any casualties?"
"You have probably noticed I am looking a bit too stout to
have spent much time eating vein gruel," the captain said as he
expanded his belly and gave it a couple of firm pats. "All of
my co-captains were killed when their stasis chambers
experienced catastrophic failure after a section of our hull was
breached momentarily in the compartment where they were housed.
You and your colleague were just one bulkhead over. It could
have gone either way."

"I am sorry to hear that and grateful to have awoken in
good health. I know that their deaths cost you half a life-time
as well."
He knew many technologists felt that absent an influx of
Ludition technology it was only a matter of time before the
Ilstachian navy adopted the Beldenite practice of allowing
automated systems to run ships independently during long runs
through the colossal voids of deep space. Unless something out
of the ordinary arose along the way, live Beledenite operators
were only woken when the ship neared its destination. While a
very limited number of privately owned Ilstachian commercial
traders had begun experimenting with the practice, Palerick was
convinced that no government ships, civilian or military, would
be allowed to operate that way as long as guild members like
Huron Galen were on watch.
"Actually, Associate Director, it cost me an entire
lifetime. My wife entered a chamber on the day I left. We were
newlyweds. She will be getting out soon. We agreed to
synchronize our ages but stagger our stasis cycles. My co-
captains and I were to evenly divide the responsibility for each
leg of this voyage. By spending the last part of our separation
above the flatline my wife would have been reacclimatized enough
with local events to help ease my transition back into society
upon my return. I should have arrived back on Ilstach III at

the age I am now, but with no one else to share my command I
will not live to see home again. My consolation, however, is
that I am now able to personally teach my sons everything there
is to know about commanding the fleet's most nimble fighting
ship just like the old timers did."
Palerick followed the sweep of Ferring's arm and saw the
two young officers look up and nod in his direction.
"When they see home for the first time, they along with the
enlistees I have promoted will be able to invoke Admiral
Dahenchin's creed honoring operational field experience. As
long as they pass their practical exams, they will be able to
apply for naval officer's commissions without ever entering the
academy."
Palerick looked at the female ensign lingering in the
doorway to confirm his understanding. The resemblance was
there.
"It is against regulation," Ferring continued acknowledging
the associate director's unspoken assessment, "but allowances
are known to be made under these sorts of circumstances. We
have only been together since the skirmish. One of the other
casualties was due to take over Ensign Djory's station during
the return leg. This was our chance to salvage a life," he
smiled up at the ensign, "and I could not ask for anyone better
to share my second chance with.

"On the trip home I hope to run into a few more would-be
plunderers. If they do not find us directly on course, there
are a few likely spots marked on the charts that I plan to limp
past. The lads will be more readily accepted by their peers who
attended the academy, if they already have documented combat
victories on their records when they accept their commissions."
"I am glad things are working out for you -- for all of
you," Palerick added turning first to the ensign and then to
Ferring's sons. "Though this mission is classified, you can be
assured that your sacrifice has not been in vane. Victory in
individual battles is all well and good, but my purpose here
concerns winning the war once and for all. How soon will you be
able to launch a shuttle to take me to Rejicstoken?"
"I have no doubt that your conviction is genuine, Associate
Director, but it seems our allies may not share your sentiments.
We have just arrived outside the Rejic system, and the Ludition
constabulary has denied our request to pass through their
asteroid belt and proceed to Rejicstoken."
"What reason are they giving?" Gheddy asked.
"All Ilstachian access to the Ludition capital system has
been suspended pending ratification of some new treaty that is
being renegotiated by our two governments."
Palerick was not wholly unprepared for something like this.
Huron had warned him that the shadow council's backdoor ties to
the Ludition political caucus had been deteriorating for years.
There had been rumors before he left that conservatives in the
Ludition hierarchy would use the latest diplomatic imbroglio
over the deportation incident to rally support for a major
policy shift that called for an end to the alliance between the
two civilizations. The Ludition conservatives were upset
because they felt that the Ilstachians had begun moving too far
away from their holistic roots by embracing frivolous
technologies at a deplorable rate since moving their capital for
the third time in as many millennia.
"I see. Perhaps I can work my way around such a
restriction," Gheddy replied. "As you know my stateroom is
located well inside the ship's three containment walls. Is
there a quiet place somewhere closer to the outside hull that I
can use to have some privacy? Preferably where the outside wall
is thinnest?"
"Yes, of course. My wife...ah...Ensign Djory will show you
to my stateroom. I have a solarium there that I think you will
find quite accommodating. Of necessity it is quite small, but
the shipwrights always include some variation as tribute to the
first space-time travelers of our kind, who guided themselves by
tracking known celestial bodies before venturing off for parts
unknown."
"That is most gracious of you," Palerick bowed. "Please
give me time to get settled in and then send this message on the
frequency noted."
Palerick handed the captain a transmittal chip and gave a
curt nod as he rose from his seat.
"Shall I have my communications officer monitor for a
response?"
"That should not be necessary."
Ensign Djory delivered the associate director to the
captain's private observatory then departed closing the interior
blast shield behind her. Palerick opened the exterior facade as
he had been instructed. The spiral plating irised open
revealing a circular window that stretched wall to wall and
floor to ceiling. Palerick swooned and nearly fell forward.
The view was like nothing he had ever witnessed. Even the wrap-
around, screen-generated facsimiles he had seen on various
ships' bridges failed to convey the magnitude of what now lay
before him.
The Ludition capital system sat at the juncture of two vast
galaxies linked arm in arm. Palerick surveyed the endless sea
of suns as Redemption's Fury rotated slowly outside the local
system's perimeter. He was humbled by the realization that the
vast expanse before him was but a pin prick in this single
cosmos, which in turn was nothing more than a speck in the
greater Foamwork.
Contemplating the scale of existence forced the associate
director to ask himself whether his boast to the captain could
possibly hold any merit. Could there really be invisible
permutations of probability extending toward him from countless
points throughout the Foamwork that would combine to see him
play a part in a sequence of events that would bring about a
true peace to match the serenity stretched out before him?
Palerick grudgingly quelled his fascination and reigned in his
grandiose musings. He could not help worrying that if such
linkages did exist, then his very contemplation of them might
threaten their fruition.
The solarium was just large enough to hold a recliner,
which faced the crystalline polymer window. Palerick lay back
in the chair and closed his eyes, quelling his urge to dive into
eternity. It was not long before he felt the probing. It was
not subtle. That he had enlisted the ship's broadcast system to
initiate contact did not endear him to those Huron had
instructed him to get in touch with. He probably could have
made the connection on his own, but by the time he did half the
population of Rejicstoken would have been alerted to his
presence. When communications were established, the tone was
rude and abrupt.(1)

CHAPTER 44
Falan reluctantly raised his glass with the others and
downed the dregs of his beer. He was glad when a surly looking
kitchen helper arrived with their food. It took him a few trips
to serve everyone. While he was shuttling back and forth, Falan
got up, bought another round of beers and carried them back to
the table. Before retaking his seat he headed across to the far
side of the bar and pushed through a second set of swinging
half-doors that had a bathroom sign hanging over them.
The hallway beyond was dimly lit by a red bulb hanging bare
from the ceiling. The first room he came to had a bed with an
old decrepit mattress on it and a sink but no toilet. The
bathroom turned out to be the next door down, but the toilet was
stopped up and overflowing. Falan gagged at the stench and
retreated in disgust. He found another door at the end of the
hall that led out back, so he stood outside on a raised wooden
porch and pissed into the blackness. On his way back to the
table, one of the men playing cards flashed Falan a tooth-
decayed smile and motioned for him to join them.
In rapid-fire Spanish he said, "Hey buddy, come on over and
play a few hands of poker with us. Bring your friends: we could
use some American dollars to liven up this game a little."
The guy had long black hair and a week's worth of growth on
his face. Falan couldn't follow every word, but he got the
idea. He smiled and gave the men a negative head shake and a
wave-off without slowing his pace.
"No thank you," he added in halting Spanish.
There were four of them all dressed in knee-high rubber
boots and work clothes of one sort or another. Fallan guessed
their ages ranged from early twenties to mid-fifties. The one
that looked the oldest was leaned back resting his cards face
down on his huge belly. He eyed Falan silently without turning
his head.
"Ah come on, we don't cheat," another of the men said
without a trace of humor in his eyes. "This is an honest game.
We won't rob you."
He had on a green one-piece coverall. The sleeves were
pealed off and hanging down to the floor on either side of his
chair leaving him bare-chested. The youngest one just glared at
him. Falan shook his head again and gave another slight stutter
wave to say "no thanks" and went back to his seat.
"They're looking for some new blood if anyone fancies a
game," he said as he sat back down.
"Shoot," Tony said, "those guys would fleece you in a
heartbeat."
"If by some miracle you did manage to win, they don't look
like the type who take losing very well," Miguel said. "I doubt
you'd make it out of town without being robbed and beaten."

"If you were lucky," Sam added.
Dr. Morales still hadn't returned by the time the five of
them were done eating. The kitchen guy came back and cleared
their plates while Sam went to the bar for another round of
beers. As he waited for his order one of he middle-aged guys
from the poker table, the one with the open coveralls, came over
and stood beside him. He was square shouldered and heavy in the
thighs but not very tall. Falan couldn't hear what was said,
but he saw the bartender shake his head and turn away from the
local. The old man continued lining bottles of beer in front of
Sam while the local gestured emphatically with his hands
obviously complaining to the bartender about something. The old
man they'd followed in looked over, swallowed the last of his
drink and walked out.
As Sam started squeezing the bottles together in two hands,
the card player pointed at the beers and said something. When
Sam shook his head and turned away, the guy shoved him into the
bar spilling some of the beer. The two other guys who had been
standing at the bar tossed down a few bills each and headed for
the front door.
"Uh oh," Falan said.
Tony turned in his seat to follow Falan's stare.
"What happened?"
Falan noticed the guy with the rotting teeth slide his
chair back when Tony turned around. He stayed seated, but he
was clearly ready to get up if any of the Americans did. Falan
laid a hand on Tony's shoulder.
"I'm not sure, but go easy. That guy's picking a beef with
surfer boy, and his buddy is ready to escalate it real fast if
we give him a reason," Falan answered.
"You've got to be kidding," Alison said. "That guy's tiny
compared to Sam."
"Doesn't matter," Falan and Tony said in unison.
Sam said something to the guy and set the bottles down to
readjust his grip. As soon as he did the guy snatched a beer
and started to turn away, but Sam grabbed him by the wrist and
pulled him back around. The guy gave him an unblinking stare as
he reached his free hand behind his back and held it there
motionless. Sam let go and waved him off. He turned to the
bartender and held up his finger for one more beer while the guy
in coveralls returned to his seat chuckling.
"Did you see that asshole?" Sam asked when he set the
drinks down on their table.
"What did he say?" Tony asked.
"The bartender wouldn't give him a drink on credit. I
couldn't follow it too well, but it sounded like he's not much
of a poker player. So then he says something about rich

Americans coming down here and robbing them all and says I owe
him a drink. You saw the rest. I was going to pound him after
he took that beer, but when he reached behind his back I had a
brief vision of myself lying on the floor trying to stuff my
intestines back inside my gut, so I let it go."
"Good thing, too, those other guys were ready to jump us if
anything happened," Falan said.
"I hope Dr. Morales is okay," Tony said. "He's been gone
awhile."
"That guy can take care of himself," Sam assured them. "I
went to see one of the rugby matches at school. Victor played
half a game with the undergrads. He more than held his own
knocking heads with guys twice his size and thirty years
younger."
Just then, they all looked up to see the youngest of the
poker players standing between Alison and Miguel. He swayed
slightly while staring down at Alison and ignoring the others.
The spindly kid was about Falan's age maybe a little younger.
His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of body odor. He wore
jeans rolled up over knee-high boots and a sleeveless white T-
shirt that was grimy and sweat-stained. The neckline was sliced
open halfway down the front revealing a gold cross that stood
out against his dark hairless chest. The knife strapped to his
belt looked well-used judging from the scabbard and grip.

The kid complemented Alison on her beauty in Spanish and
asked her to dance. She thanked him and tried to say no in a
mixture of Spanish and English, but he was insistent. When
Alison declined for a second time, the young man stopped smiling
and pointed at her left hand. He reasoned that if she wasn't
married, then there was no reason not to dance just one dance.
Without taking his eyes off her, he reached over and picked up
Miguel's beer. Miguel instinctively grabbed the bottle as it
left the table, but he let go and averted his eyes when the kid
turned and gave him a hard look.
There was laughter from the other table. The young man
grinned over at his friends and took a long pull from the beer
before setting it back down in front of Miguel and looking back
at Alison. He reached over and took her by the hand saying that
he'd be insulted if a single girl wouldn't dance to at least one
song with him. Sam and Tony both stood up. As they did the
young guy's companions all slid their chairs back from the table
but remained seated. Falan noticed the bartender disappear into
a back room.
Alison smiled and stood up motioning for Sam and Tony to
sit back down.
"Relax guys. I grew up in the hills of Arkansas," she
drawled for effect in an accent she'd previously discarded.
"The boys I had to deal with in high school make this gentleman
appear downright charming. Let's see if one dance is enough to
keep us all out of the morgue."
Everyone watched as the young man led Alison over near the
juke box.
"This is getting bad," Sam said. "I should have hit the
other guy from the start. Now they think they can just walk all
over us."
"We need Dr. Morales to get his ass back here," Miguel
said. "That guy doesn't take shit from anyone. You should have
seen him with the guards down at the permit office in Caracas."
"Fuck that," Sam said. "These guys aren't hardened
criminals. They're just sorry-ass laborers. I got worried for
a minute there, and now they smell blood."
"Well, it's done now so just chill," Tony said quietly
eyeing the men at the other table who were all watching the show
by the juke box. "Criminals or not these guys look pretty hard.
Guys like this have nothing to lose. Besides they all seem
pretty fucked up. They're liable to do anything, and we're all
alone out here. Let's hope this is the end of it."
While everyone in the bar was focused on the pair holding
hands at shoulder height and dancing far apart like an awkward
imitation of some old movie, Falan quietly eased out of his
chair and backed up in a crouch toward the hotel lobby. Tony
noticed and looked at him questioningly, but Falan put a finger

to his lips and ducked silently under the swinging doors. He
eased the front door open just enough to squeeze through and
then tip-toed down the front steps.

CHAPTER 45
As soon as his boots squished into the mud, Falan started
running up the street looking for a light or any sign of life
that might point him toward the welding shop that Dr. Morales
had gone in search of. He ran a hundred yards or so without
seeing any likely indicators. It was totally black out. There
was no moon, and there wasn't a star in the sky. Falan bent
over at the waist and put his hands on his knees to catch his
breath. Looking back all he could see was the one naked bulb
shining outside the hotel.
Falan knew that he'd crossed through a few intersections,
but he was reluctant to stray down any side streets. He didn't
want to wander too far from the only light in town and end up
getting lost. Falan straightened up and cupped his hands to his
mouth. He yelled for the professor several times in all
directions then listened over his own ragged breath for a
response. None came.
He'd just started jogging back toward the hotel when two
medium size dogs came snarling out from under a raised section
of the boardwalk lining the street. At first he tried to
outpace them, but it was hopeless. They kept leaping up and
biting at him. Just as he was getting ready to turn and make a
stand, one of the dogs sunk its teeth deep into his calf muscle
and held on. Falan stumbled and went down on his side in the
mud. As he screamed and tried to kick the dog off with his free
foot, the second stray closed in on him. Falan barely managed
to get his hands up in time. He fended the second dog away from
his throat, but its jaws crunched down through the muscle in his
forearm and fastened onto the bone.
Panic welled up inside him. The thought of a third dog
showing up spiked his adrenaline through the roof. When he
failed to pry the dog's jaws off his arm, Falan instinctively
went for its eyes. After a painful struggle he managed to drive
his thumb deep into one socket. The dog held fast, though, so
in a wild act of desperation Falan cocked his thumb and tried to
yank its eyeball out. When the dog cried out and let go, Falan
dislodged the other mutt from his leg with a terror-fueled kick
to the snout before surging to his feet.
The dog that had been on his arm charged again and leaped
for his face. Falan barely saw it coming in the dark and fell
backward at the last instant. He used the dog's own momentum to
throw it over his shoulder as he went down. After he landed the
first dog got him by the ankle before he could stand up again.
Falan fought it off with a couple of desperate heel strikes
When he regained his feet he immediately went on the offensive,
hollering and kicking out at both dogs.
They shied away at first but then started back, refusing to
quit. Falan's head swiveled as the dogs circled him in opposite

directions. He lunged back and forth in the mud trying to
attack and defend in opposite directions at the same time.
There was no help coming. He knew he was on his own. As he
gauged his distance from the hotel, he saw an old oil drum
backlit by the porch light. It was standing alongside the
boardwalk just ahead. Its silhouette showed debris sticking out
at all angles.
Falan drove one dog toward the barrel by kicking and
shouting at it while the other followed closely behind barking
and snapping. It got him once on the hip, but Falan knocked it
away with a sharp elbow to the snout. When he reached the
barrel, he yanked out a three-foot length of two-by-four just as
one of the dogs was making a go for his face. Falan hadn't
played lacrosse in awhile, but he didn't need to think about the
move. He instinctively fired a shot on goal that caught the dog
squarely on the side of the head as it rose up off its front
legs. The other dog darted in low at his shin, but Falan came
straight down on the back of its neck with a fluid two-handed
chopping motion. A few more well-timed blows sufficiently
deterred both curs, and they slunk off into the darkness leaving
Falan gasping for breath.
Both his calf and forearm were throbbing. The one dog had
latched on just above his right hand -- the same one he hurt
punching the wall. He carried the board with him in his left
hand and held his injured arm cradled to his chest as he limped
back toward the hotel. Falan's eyes scanned the darkness on all
sides the entire way. The porch light revealed gruesome
puncture wounds on both limbs, but there was much less blood
than he'd expected. Falan wasn't sure what to do next.
He'd only been gone about five minutes. It was unlikely
that Dr. Morales had returned, otherwise he probably would have
heard Falan yelling and come to his aid or at least shouted
back. Falan leaned the two-by-four against the railing and
crept up the steps to the hotel entrance. He cracked the door
and paused. There was no sound -- no music, nothing. Unsure
what that might mean, he slowly backed down the steps. He
didn't want to show himself back in the bar until he knew what
was going on inside.
The others were right. Dr. Morales didn't take any crap.
He'd be able to keep those guys in line. Falan looked all
around hoping in vain to see the professor emerge from the
darkness. He wanted to call out again, but he was reluctant to
start yelling right outside the bar window in case things inside
had taken a turn for the worse.
Still unsure what to do next, Falan headed around the side
of the hotel. Once away from the light, he started worrying
about the dogs and went back for the two-by-four he'd left near
the front steps. Around back he paused to let his eyes adjust
somewhat then found where he'd gone to the bathroom earlier.
Nobody was visible when he peered inside the back door, so he
entered quietly and eased his way down the short hallway toward
the swinging half-doors that led to the bar. As he got closer
he ducked down and tried to see what was going on without
revealing himself.
He was shocked to see Sam, Tony and Miguel standing at
gunpoint with their backs against the bar. The guy who'd taken
the beer from Sam was waving a revolver around and ranting at
them in Spanish as he paced back and forth. The music was back
on. The young guy was still dancing with Alison, but now he was
holding her tightly and grinding his pelvis against her while he
kneaded her butt with both hands. Alison was squirming to pull
away, but the kid just laughed. The fat guy and the one with
the pitted teeth had switched tables and were sharing the
professor's dinner while finishing off all the beers at the
table. The song ended, and the young guy told his friends that
he'd come get them when it was their turn.
Falan didn't catch the exact wording, but the meaning was
clear enough. When Alison tried harder to pull away, the kid
cracked her with a backhand then snatched a fistful of hair and
yanked her close. In a single motion he pulled his knife and
pressed the blade against her throat. Alison froze. He leaned
in and slowly licked a trickle of blood off her cheekbone before

pushing her toward the hallway where Falan was crouched. Falan
stifled a moan, shuffled back and rose to his feet. He hobbled
down the hall and ducked into the small bedroom he'd seen
earlier. The room was dark, but there was enough red glow
coming from the hall for him to see a little.
Without thinking he hid behind the half-open door and
raised the board over his head with both hands. He heard shouts
and then a gun shot. Alison flailed past a moment later and
went sprawling onto the floor next to the bed. When the young
guy followed her in, Falan hammered down on the top of his head
with the two-by-four. A thin gout of blood spurted sideways
onto the wall before the kid crumpled.
Alison wasn't sure what was going on until Falan stepped
out of the shadows. She started sobbing uncontrollably when she
saw him. Falan motioned for her to be quiet as he picked the
knife off the floor and stuck it in his belt. He led Alison out
the back door and showed her where to squat down beneath the low
wooden porch. He told her not to move until one of them came
for her then headed back inside. Part way up the steps he
stopped and leaned under the railing to hand her the board.
"Here take this and watch out for those fucking dogs. Two
of 'em got me out front."
Back in the bedroom he closed the door and used the knife
to cut the cord from a lamp lying in the corner. He tied the
would-be rapist's hands and feet behind his back and trussed
them together the way he'd seen it done on more than one
Internet porn site. The pain in his hand and arm slowed him
down some, but the kid wasn't capable of putting up any
resistance. There was a big pool of blood on the floor now so
Falan was relieved to find he was still breathing.
With Santucci's words of caution about doing jail time
ringing in his ears, Falan cut part of the guy's shirt off then
wrapped it over the top of his head and tied it under his chin.
As he fashioned the makeshift bandage, Falan worried that the
top of the youth's skull felt mushy. He considered gagging the
kid, but decided against it for fear of suffocating him.
Suddenly a beam of light from outside tracked across the window.
Falan looked out and saw an old beat-up van in front of the
hotel. The passenger side door was open, and Dr. Morales was
bounding up the front steps two at a time. He disappeared
inside the lobby before Falan could do anything to warn him.
Falan checked the corridor then dragged the kid out of the
bedroom and down the hall. As he approached the main room, he
left the kid out of sight and crept forward on his hands and
knees until he could see under the doors.
Dr. Morales had both hands up, but he seemed to be refusing
to join the others near the bar. He took a backward step toward
the lobby doors but flinched and stood fast when a bullet
splintered the wall next to his shoulder. Falan reached back
and hauled Alison's attacker forward so that his head and upper
torso would be visible to those in the bar area.
"Dr. Morales," Falan yelled, as he peeked out under the
door. "Alison and I are okay, but this guy needs a doctor.
Tell them I've got his knife, and I'm going to slit his fucking
throat unless they let us all go."
The bullet crashed through one door and punched a hole in
the wall just above his head. A fresh surge of adrenaline
blocked out the pain as Falan dove away and scrambled to drag
the kid back to the bedroom. When he knelt down again and
craned his neck out past the door jam to look under the half-
doors, he saw two sets of boots approaching from the main bar
area.
Falan screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Tell them I'm gonna take this kid's fucking head off if
they come through those doors. Tell them he's gonna die anyway
if he doesn't get to a doctor soon."
He heard voices but couldn't make out what they said. Both
pairs of boots stopped and turned part way around.
"There's an exit back here," Falan shouted. "You guys pull
the van forward to the side of the building, and we'll run out."
A short silence followed the professor's muffled
translation then shouting broke out among the locals until Dr.
Morales let loose an angry tirade that cut them short. There
was more muted discussion in Spanish then the professor called
out.
"Okay, Falan, that's what we're going to do. They won't
give up the gun, though, so you're going to have to bring the
kid with you as a hostage until we can get away. I told them
we'd leave him in the street a few blocks down."
"Okay," Falan screamed. "Tell them I don't like guns. If
they fire a single shot or take one step outside before we
release their buddy, I'm gonna stab this kid's eyes out."
Quiet talking then more silence.
"I told them, Falan, but be sure to use your guy as a
shield when you and Alison come out to the van. We can't trust
these people."
"I got it," Falan yelled back. "Break the porch light on
your way out, and turn the headlights off when you get in the
van."
Falan pulled the unconscious figure over next to the
baseboard and flipped the mattress against the wall so it
concealed the body. Less than a minute later the outside light
went dark, and the van lights winked out. Falan waited until he
heard them pull past his window before he hobbled out of the
room. He swatted the hall bulb with the kid's knife as he
passed under it and cringed at the tinkle of glass down the back
of his neck. Alison had heard him shouting and was standing
near the corner of the building waiting for him when he came
out.
"Go on, go," he shout-whispered.
Alison lingered as he negotiated the steps then she took
off running. She was climbing through the van's sliding door
when Falan piled into her from behind and slammed her into Tony
and Sam, who were trying to help her in.
"Fucking go," Falan yelled as he reached around in the dark
for something to hold onto.
The wheels spun out at first, but the van started forward
when the driver backed off the accelerator. It wasn't the
speedy getaway they would have liked, but it sufficed. They
were safely enveloped in darkness when shots rang out about
twenty seconds later. Falan couldn't make out anything inside
the van. Even the dash lights were shut off. He wondered how
the driver could see and hoped they didn't crash or get stuck.
Whether from shock or out of reluctance to compete with the
broken muffler and poorly tuned engine, no one spoke. Alison's
sobbing was drowned out by all the noise, but Falan had no
trouble feeling her nails digging into his good arm. After
another minute or so the van turned left, and the headlights
flicked on. They pulled over between two rows of shacks a short
distance later. When the driver's door opened the interior

light blazed on and illuminated the bartender's face as he shook
hands with the professor. The old man said something Falan
didn't catch then disappeared into the night as Dr. Morales slid
over behind the wheel. He looked around at his students and
raised his voice to make sure they could hear him.
"Is everyone okay? Does anyone need immediate medical
attention?"
He was looking mainly at Falan and Alison for a response,
but Sam's nose was bent sideways, and his face and shirt were
smeared with blood. Tony had a purple goose egg with a gash
through it above his left eye and what looked like a broken
knuckle swelling on one hand. Miguel's face was tear-streaked,
but he looked unharmed. Nobody said anything. They just stared
back and forth blankly at each other.
"Shit," Dr. Morales said.
The professor left the van running and came around to the
side door, which was still wide open. He put one foot up on the
running board and leaned in.
"Alison, are you okay?"
She let go of Falan and rubbed her cheek bone.
"Yeah...I guess...I guess, I'm okay," she said haltingly as
she got control of herself.
"Falan?"
He held up his arm and raised his leg.

"I got mauled by a couple dogs," he said. "They got me
pretty good."
"That looks bad," the professor conceded after a close but
hurried inspection.
"Miguel, how are you?"
"I'm okay."
"I'll be fine, too," Tony offered, "but Sam's nose looks
pretty bad."
"It's all right. It's broken, but I'll live," Sam said.
"Let's get out of here."
"Slide over here to me," the professor ordered.
They'd managed to salvage all the packs, but they were
strewn around haphazardly making it difficult to move about.
Falan eased himself awkwardly into the backseat between Tony and
Miguel and Alison stood part way up so that Sam could scooch
over near the door. Dr. Morales inspected his nose visually
then took it in both hands. Sam made a noise and tried to brush
him away, but Dr. Morales had been through this too many times
on the rugby pitch.
"Be still," he barked.
Sam did as he was told and closed his eyes. Even with all
the noise the van was making, Falan would later swear that he
heard the bones crunching just before Sam cried out.

"That's much better," the professor assured him after a
brief inspection.
He stepped aside just in time to avoid being covered in
vomit when Sam leaned forward and puked out the door. Falan
immediately stretched across Tony's lap and hurled into the
street as well.
"Sorry, sympathy ralph," he said self-consciously after
sitting back and wiping his face.
"One of you get the first aid kit out and put a heavy dose
of disinfectant on Falan's bites while we're driving. Find a
way to get it all the way down inside those punctures. There's
no telling what those dogs are carrying, Falan, so you need to
start taking double doses of the antibiotics we brought."
The professor pushed Sam's legs back inside the van and
slid the door shut before jumping back in the driver's seat and
gunning the engine. The noise inside wasn't as bad with the
side door closed, but it still precluded all normal
conversation. Alison donned a head lamp and dug out the first
aid kit to tend Falan's wounds. Falan managed to keep quiet
while Tony helped her spread the punctures open and pour rubbing
alcohol inside them, but he let loose a stream of race car
noises when the two of them smeared disinfectant ointment across
the wound entrances and pushed it deep inside with a Q-tip.
Alison finished up by wrapping his calf and forearm in gauze

bandages. Afterward Falan took some antibiotics and everyone
settled in with there own thoughts as they bumped along in the
dark.
CHAPTER 46
The lights were dim when Palerick entered the infirmary.
Sandogaul was a pin cushion of tubes and sensors. He sat next
to the senior specialist's bed for some time before Sandogaul
sensed someone was present and opened his eyes.
"How are you feeling, Treachen?"
"Like a poached prog's dilly," Sandogaul croaked. "Waking
up to your beaming crack does not help any either. What do you
want, Gheddy?"
"Chipper as ever I see. I am glad to know you are not
going to let a short fifty-year coma keep you down. We are just
beyond the last planet in the Rejic system."
"When will we arrive in orbit off Rejicstoken?" Treachen
managed.
"At the moment it does not appear we ever will. The
Ludition government is still upset about the deportation
incident that your uncle orchestrated shortly before our
departure. They will not allow Redemption's Fury or any other
Ilstachian ship into the system. We are queued up out here
behind the sixteen other vessels that arrived before us."
The senior specialist made an effort to hike himself into a
more upright position but brushed off Palerick's assistance when
he failed.
"You are joking. How long do they plan to make us sit out
here?"
"The first ship to arrive has been out here for thirty-five
ship years. Others have come and gone, but the ones still here
can not leave without refueling first. Tankers were finally
sent from home, but they have not arrived yet."
"Have they gone mad? Have not you told them why we are
here?"
"Naturally, however, their official stance thus far has
been that our government should have considered such a turn of
events before so rashly expelling two senior members of the
Ludition diplomatic corps."
"By your choice of words I can only assume that you are now
going to inform me of some unofficial stance that offers some
glimmer of hope for our prospects."
"How very astute. As a matter of fact, that is precisely
why I am here. We will be parting ways, and I wanted to give
you a message to take back to Ilstach III."
"Does the surgeon know you have discharged yourself prior
to receiving his clearance?" Sandogaul guffawed. "Surely, he
would not have agreed to release you while you were so obviously
wallowing in a fog of hybernetic delusion? I am going wherever
you go, Gheddy -- make no mistake."

"You are more than welcome to join me if you can convince
the system magistrate to let Captain Ferring deploy a shuttle to
take us the rest of the way in, but I have already been firmly
rebuffed after proceeding along several tacks toward that end.
I doubt very seriously that they will allow you or anyone else
to travel to Rejicstoken aboard any Ilstachian ship during the
foreseeable future."
"And yet you obviously expect to be leaving on the next
flight out. They are sending one of their own shuttles for you
alone, is that it? How is it that you have arranged transport
for yourself and not me?"
"No shuttle is being sent, so I think you know the answer
to that question. You are, after all, familiar enough with
Ludition culture to know that they only use space craft when
traveling intergalactic or extra-multiversal distances."
"There should be a buzzer here someplace," Treachen said as
he looked around under his covers and on the table next to his
bed. "They told me to ring if I needed anything. Just hold on,
Gheddy, I will find it. We will get you your medication." Then
he stopped his theatrics and looked back up at the associate
director, "Are you daft? I have seen the files on all those
experiments. I will be left to take you home and explain why
you can do no more than gurgle like an idiot. The new director
will demand to know why I stood by and let these Ludition

bastards turn your mind into scrambled magpin embryos. I do not
think so, Gheddy. You are not the sharpest prong on the
previcker's arse, but you are not that challenged surely."
"Thank you for your vote of confidence, Sandogaul, but I am
afraid that you have underestimated my allegiance to your uncle.
Duty before self and all that. There are risks, I admit, but
they are risks I am willing to take in order see this through."
Palerick stood up and turned away, "I have notified Captain
Ferring that I will not be requiring his services any further
and that he is free to return to Ilstach III as soon as I am
gone."
"Wait, how did you arrange all this -- or do I even have to
ask? I know the shadow government is no myth. The guild is
nothing more than a cult of Ludition lackeys. They must have
arranged this as a way to get rid of me before you meet with
your handlers. Is that it? Do not try to deny it. My uncle has
always suspected you were a double agent. Why do you think he
sent you all the way out here? He needed a way to get rid of
you. He knew he could not fire you or replace you with anyone
but another usurper from the guild, so he came up with this
convenient little errand."
"You would do well to use that buzzer of yours," Palerick
said with forced concern. "Unless I am off the mark, you are in
dire need of assistance. If all that is true, then why would

the director risk his precious nephew's career by sending him
along with me? Let me tell you. It is because he was smart
enough to realize that his own baby sister gave birth to the
real usurper in the department. I will be gone within the hour.
Have a safe trip home and good luck fitting back into a society
that will have moved on by the better part of a century while
you were absent."
Palerick turned and walked out leaving the senior
specialist with his mouth opening and closing silently. He went
to see Captain Ferring once more to thank him again for the
sacrifices he and his crew had made and to wish them all well on
their return cruise. The captain's two sons had gone off
someplace, but the balance of the bridge officers had come back
on duty giving the ship a less desolate feel than the
intelligence officer had first experienced upon waking. Instead
the mood was decidedly upbeat.
Presumably, the crew's buoyant disposition could be
attributed to the knowledge that they would be headed home soon
instead of being forced to wait here on the outskirts of the
asteroid belt until the diplomatic situation resolved itself.
The associate director did not see what real difference it made.
Shipboard duty was shipboard duty. He did not see how they
maintained such a positive outlook. What could possibly draw
them to serve on these ships? The first of their kind were

warned against going too far in any one direction lest they risk
breaking through the edge of existence. Some of them jeered at
the notion confident that such a course would eventually return
them home as it had their planetary mariner forefathers. Though
neither set of prognostications proved accurate, other dire
warnings turned out to be wholly justified.
The dangers of space travel were not dissimilar to those
faced by their predecessors, who first plied the seas on Old
Ilstach. The specter of pirates and brigands loomed ever
present, but initial concerns lay elsewhere. The monsters that
reared up from beneath the waves were tame in comparison to
those that lurked in the great voids and crept about menacingly
in the shallow spaces near galactic clusters. Many were so
incongruous they were suspected of being from other dimensions
entirely. Intelligent alien beings were deemed scarce to
nonexistent even after many generations of Ilstachian space
travel. But soon after they discovered their first example of
alternative space-faring life, it became apparent that species
like themselves abounded -- as did unrecognizable hordes of
other sentient and non-sentient entities.
The sheer size of the chrono-spatial realm comprising the
Foamwork masked this fact quite convincingly until a life form
figured out how to subvert the first few layers of obfuscation
that restricted their movement between the isolated habitable

environments that were sprinkled liberally throughout existence.
The natural progression was to near and then overcome the speed
of light barrier before figuring out how to burrow through the
temporal skein and access routes that were of an altogether
different nature. Those who skipped solving the deeper
mysteries of light and jumped ahead to decrypt the secrets of
the Foamwork's underlying weave were afforded a great many
advantages over those who did not. Similarly, the few species
like the Luditions, who likewise bypassed even those temporal
arteries and instead charted the hidden pathways that lay within
the Foamwork's psychonic realm, reaped greater benefits still.
The familiar terrestrial climactic disturbances that
plagued the early mariners also paled in comparison to those
encountered by the first Ilstachian celestial explorers to
venture forth from Old Ilstach. Rare particle storms, rogue
gravity waves, massive anti-electron storms and temporal
centrifuges -- those invisible twisting furies that sucked holes
in the very fabric of space-time -- were but a few of the
innumerable weather components that tested the skills of
celestial navigators on a regular basis. Space sickness,
chronoplague, agelag, cryoburn and degenerative mind stasis
headed the inexhaustible list of the physical and psychological
ailments that these sailors had to contend with. The injuries,

infections and illnesses they risked every time they encountered
a new alien species further exacerbated the dangers.
More than one interstellar crew had been unknowingly
infiltrated surreptitiously by hostiles. In fact strange beings
were known to stow away in the minds, bodies and machines
deployed by the Ilstachian navy with alarming regularity.
Rigorous off-world quarantine stations and screening procedures
were eventually put in place after several celestial vessels
unknowingly returned harboring aliens with foul intent and
loosed them on Old Ilstach. Those measures, however, were
sometimes less successful at ferreting out the inborn maladies
that struck these crews during star voyages. Long periods of
confinement in enclosed artificial environments interspersed
with even longer stretches of physical and pyschonic stasis
produced behavioral adaptations that ranged from eccentric to
pathological.
Splinter groups, secret societies and outright cults
manifested themselves throughout the Ilstachian navy. Some were
confined to members of a certain watch on a particular crew,
while others spread throughout one or more fleets. Their goals
varied widely. One might seek merely to practice bizarre forms
of sexual debauchery during monotonous void transects while
another planned to disappear with a battle class star cruiser
and use it to create a utopian sanctuary by conquering a virgin

world and enslaving its semi-sentient populace. There were more
sinister sects of course, but the darkest, least understood and
most dangerous threats were posed by those individual officers
and crew who, unbeknownst to their comrades, had been driven
quietly insane by shipboard conditions.
Though the crew appeared full of bon homie at the present,
something unremembered and yet not quite forgotten from his
stasis interludes during the voyage suggested to the associate
director that low times surely awaited them deep in the voids.
Palerick was glad to be taking his leave. The captain had
graciously agreed to let him stage his departure from the
solarium. After bidding a hasty farewell to those on the
bridge, he followed Ensign Djory back to the captain's private
quarters. Just as he was settling into the recliner for the
second time, the room's inner blast doors retracted and Senior
Specialist Treachen hobbled into the cramped space wearing his
dress uniform and a frightful grimace.
"I am not some bumpkin from the outer galaxies who you can
intimidate with folktales," the senior specialist growled. "I
know the guild perpetuates these myths simply to overawe the
growing segment of the populace who choose not to follow its
precepts. You can not expect to cower me with fairytales then
sneak away on some new type of personal beam-craft sent by your

imperial spymasters. I do not care how small it is: when it
gets here, we are both squeezing aboard."
The associate director was completely taken aback. He
swung his feet onto the floor and would have stood up had
Treachen not been pressing in on him so closely.
"Sandogaul, all banter aside, let me call the medics. You
are dripping fluids all over the captain's floor. Look at those
spots fanning out on your uniform. Did you just rip all those
tubes out on your own? What were you thinking?"
"I will not be left lying abed while you run off to
conspire with parties hostile to the republic behind my back.
The guild may yet retain some common ground with these oath
breakers, but these yankers have proven themselves a danger to
the greater Ilstachian populace, and I will not have you
furthering their machinations on my watch."
"Were you not so clearly rattled by agelag, I would warn
you to curb your insubordinate tongue before you find yourself
terminated from the ministry. It is obvious that I have gone
too far in my attempts to humor you. Make no mistake: I am more
than willing to provide Captain Ferring with correspondence that
will convey the depth of your transgressions to our new
director, whoever he may be. Absent an unforeseen sub-arctic
hiatus, your uncle will no longer be around to protect you when
you return."
"Be my guest, Gheddy. I am not frightened by your threats.
My best hope for promotion will come from exposing you and your
precious guild's traitorous endeavors. Yours is not the only
restrictive society on Ilstach III. My uncle had a network of
hidden allies that spread well beyond the intelligence ministry.
They are all sworn to support me upon my return. Any indictment
of yours will only bolster their resolve. What is more, I am
not the only one who left family behind. If you do not take me
with you, I promise you things will not go well for your
relations in your absence. If you truly have the greater
republic's best interests at heart, then you can not possibly
have any justifiable reason for arranging to board a ship to
Rejicstoken without me."
Palerick surged to his feet and sent Treachen teetering
back into the captain's state room.
"Be forewarned, Sandogaul: consider your next words with
greater care. From this moment on, I will be holding them
against you -- illness or no."
"I did not know you had it in you, Gheddy," the senior
specialist sneered as he advanced once more to stand face to
face with Palerick. "If I did not know you, that menacing tone
and earnest glare might give me pause, but then I do know you,
do I not? Quite well, I should say. Enough of these charades.
When is this shuttle due to arrive?"

"I am not going to bother repeating myself. In or out,
please. I do not care whether you observe or not, if it will
satisfy your skepticism, but I promised Captain Ferring that I
would keep the inner blast shield closed just in case the
integrity of his observatory becomes compromised in any way."
"Indeed," Treachen said mockingly as he stepped inside the
observatory. "I do not see any docking collar. How does this
companion-way open?"
Palerick lay back on the chair and rested his head on the
cushion.
"I realize this compartment is small, but it would be
dangerous for you to be in physical contact with me as I am
leaving."
"Is that right? So you are serious then? I still do not
believe any of this, but if you care anything for your family
back home, I recommend you not go any place without taking me
along."
"Was it not you who spoke of gurgling?" Palerick reminded
him.
"Do not concern yourself with my welfare. I was talking
about the real thing. I am confident your fakery will prove
quite harmless."
"Very well, you were warned. You really should not have
threatened my family. That was a very foolish miscalculation.

I told my contacts that there was the off chance this might
happen, so it will not come as a complete surprise to them.
When they sense you here with me, they will bring you along
despite their misgivings. If you really expect to join me, I
suggest that you sit down on the foot pad then lean back against
my legs and close your eyes. Try to focus on the inside of your
eyelids while..."
"I will stand right where I am and keep my eyes open, thank
you. I do not intend to be taken in by any of your parlor
tricks or have you slip onto this shuttle through some hidden
exchange tube without me."
"Your chances of coming through this unscathed are very
slim. I suggest you close your eyes if you expect to have any
hope at all."
The associate director grabbed hold of the senior
specialist's wrist and lay back. He held on tightly and focused
his mind. The weakened agent's feeble struggles to pull free
went unnoticed.
CHAPTER 47
They drove along at thirty to forty miles an hour for a
good three hours before Dr. Morales pulled over and killed the
engine. He left the headlights on.
"Bathroom stop," he said before getting out and walking
down the road a bit to relieve himself.
The others slowly climbed out and went their separate ways.
Falan's stomach was worse than ever after taking the
antibiotics. His bowels were a watery mess. When they all
reconvened in front of the van, Tony let out a loud whooop.
"God damn," he crowed clapping Falan on the shoulder. "The
boy genius rides again. You saved our asses, Falan."
"No shit, way to go, Falan," Sam echoed. "I thought we
were dead meat. I look over one minute and you're nowhere in
sight, the next minute you're screaming about cutting people's
heads off like Al Pacino or something. That shit was crazy. I
still can't believe it."
"How did you know that guy was going to take Alison in
back?" Miguel asked.
Falan was beyond exhausted. He'd barely gotten twelve
hours sleep in the past three weeks, and he'd already been
operating under the weight of a massive sleep deficit prior to
that. He wasn't sure what he craved more, sleep or a couple of
blasts of the crystal methamphetamine secreted in his pack.

"I didn't know that was gonna happen," Falan said. "But I
didn't like the way things were going, so I went to try to find
Dr. Morales. It was pitch black out in the street though. I
couldn't see shit. Then these two psychotic fucking dogs came
after me."
"Were they the same ones from before?" Miguel asked.
"I don't know, but it was ten times scarier than that scene
at the hotel. I'd rather get shot any day than be eaten alive.
At one point I really thought they were going to kill me. One
of them took me down by the leg while the other one tried to rip
my fucking throat out. I've seen the Discovery Channel. That's
no way to go. I'm telling you, I got this like crazy rush of
primal energy and started fighting back like a freaking caveman
or something. I got up once, but they took me right back down
again. In the end I got lucky and found a two-by-four to wail
on them with. I didn't know what to do when I got back to the
hotel so I snuck around back to try to see what was going on.
What happened after I left?"
"You weren't gone two minutes, and that little prick
started pawing all over Alison," Tony said. "Sam walked over
and tried to pull her away, but the other three guys stepped in
and started working him over. I jumped up and got one punch in
before that asshole pulled out his gun and pistol-whipped me.
Next thing you know, we're all lined up execution style. The
guy ranted and raved at us for awhile then the kid took Alison
in back. We started to try to do something, but we backed down
when the guy put a bullet in the bar between Sam and me. What
was going on back there?"
"As soon as I walked in, I saw you guys against the bar,
and then right away the kid started pushing Alison in my
direction. I just barely had time to hide behind the door to a
little bedroom down the hall. It was lucky those dogs came
after me, and I still had that board with me. When the kid came
through the door, I jacked him in the head with it."
"I was terrified," Alison said dully. "I figured they were
going to kill me after they finished raping me. I couldn't
really tell what was happening at first when that kid fell on
the floor next to me, but he looked pretty bad when I got a
better look at him. I won't be surprised if he turns up dead."
"Shit, really?" Dr. Morales asked. "How hard did you hit
him, Falan?"
"As hard as I fucking could, what do you think?" Falan
snapped. "It's not my fault if he's dead. What took you so
long to show up?"
The professor raised an open palm.
"I'm not blaming you for anything, son. You were
incredible back there. We are all indebted to you. I can't
believe I let myself walk right into a trap like that. I should
have known better. Hector, the bartender, gave me plenty of
warning. I just never dreamed things would go to hell that
fast."
"It didn't take me long to find the welding shop," the
professor continued, "but I had good directions. The lights
weren't working so you never could have found me if you didn't
know where to look. I found Jorge Guerra passed out drunk on a
couch in the front room of his little shop. I was trying to get
him sobered up, but he was still mostly incoherent when the
bartender showed up to warn me that there might be trouble.
"Those guys were supposedly newcomers. Hector didn't know
for sure, but he thought they were thugs hired by one of the
logging or mining companies to drive squatters off their land.
He helped me get Jorge Guerra's van fueled up then showed me
where to find extra gas cans and a second spare tire before
driving us back to the hotel. I couldn't believe what was
happening when I walked in. I can't tell you how relieved I was
to hear you were with Alison and that she was okay. It would
have been a tragedy if..."
"That was some ugly shit, I'm telling you," Falan said
shaking his head. "I think it helped that I was still amped up
from fighting those dogs. After they fired that shot at you, I
just reacted."
Dr. Morales put an arm around Falan's shoulders and shook
him bodily.
"That took guts. Mine was a warning shot, but that asshole
was trying to kill you. Why didn't you bring the kid with you as
a hostage? Hector thought he was the fat guy's son."
"He was gonna slow us down. I just wanted to get out of
there, so I hid him under an old mattress and knocked out the
light."
"Man, you really thought everything through," Sam said.
"I wasn't thinking anything through," Falan insisted. "I
was scared shitless."
Alison stepped over and gave Falan a long hug.
"Thanks a lot, Falan. That was really, really amazing. I
owe you big time."
She gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek before stepping
back.
"Well, it's a good thing that bartender went and got Dr.
Morales 'cause I sure as hell wasn't going to cut that kid's
throat or stab his eyes out."
"Maybe not," Sam said, "but they didn't know that. You
sounded possessed. Those guys thought you were for real,
especially after seeing their buddy all tied up and bleeding
like he was. You saved our asses."

"Yeah well, I was saving my own ass, too. Alison's right
about that kid. I mean I hit him full bore with a freakin' two-
by-four. We've gotta call the police or something."
"The bartender told me not to expect any help from the
local police. He said they're all out in the bush dealing with
this latest Indian violence. We need to contact the national
authorities. Hector said someone in town had a satellite phone
that he rented out, but he wasn't sure if the guy stuck around
when everyone left, and I didn't want to risk staying in the
area with those guys around. I gave him the number to the
embassy and some cash and asked him to do his best to relay what
happened if the guy with the phone turned up. Falan, I've got
to tell you I also asked him to pass along that I had some
health concerns about you, but I'd say him getting through is a
long shot at best.
"Right now, we're maybe a quarter to a third of the way
down to our rendezvous point with Esteban. He's got the closest
satellite phone that I know of for sure. Hopefully he'll have
it working again by the time we find him. There were only two
roads out of town. We could have headed for one of the towns to
the north, but they're not much closer, and that's exactly where
those bastards will expect us go if they decide to look for us."
The professor looked pointedly at Falan.

"Falan, I almost went north anyway so that we could get you
to a doctor and have those bites looked at, but I was worried
they'd catch up to us too easily. That pickup out front had to
be theirs, and it looked in a lot better shape than this piece
of shit."
The professor dinged the van's fender with the toe of his
boot.
"Even if those dogs were sick, heading south is still your
best bet. If those guys catch up to us, you won't have the
luxury of worrying whether you have rabies. Loggers and miners
get hurt down here all the time, so maybe Esteban will know of a
clinic or something."
"Man, we should have trashed their truck before we left,"
Sam lamented.
"There was no time. Besides they weren't going to sit back
and watch while we disabled their vehicle. If we're lucky," the
professor continued, "they'll be too busy looking after that kid
to worry about us. I'm hoping we can find Esteban, get Falan
looked at, file a report with the embassy, and then continue on
about our business. It's up to you guys. That was as rough as
it gets back there without something really bad happening."
"I say we keep going," Alison said immediately. "That was
a nightmare, but we came through it okay, thanks to Falan.

People get raped and murdered every day in Seattle. I don't see
any reason to go home."
"What about the rest of you?" Dr. Morales asked.
"I'll be fine," Falan said. "I don't want to turn back now
after all the bullshit I went through to get here."
Miguel was reluctant, but he could see which way the tide
was running.
"Alison had the worst of it. If she still wants to keep
going, I guess I'm up for it. We don't have much choice right
now anyway."
Sam and Tony were game as well. A light rain drove them
back inside the van. Alison moved up to the front passenger
seat. Miguel sat in the middle with Sam, and Tony and Falan
took the back again. Tony offered to take a turn at the wheel,
but the professor said he was fine to keep driving. Alison
wasn't about to fall asleep, but the others were soon out cold.
Falan had planned to dig into the stimulants that E. had
procured as soon as the others dropped off, but he was one of
the first to fall asleep.

CHAPTER 48
Tony reached over and shook Falan awake.
"Hey, Falan, wake up. Come on, buddy, open your eyes.
You're having a nightmare."
Falan lurched forward snapping his head left, right and
back again.
"I'm up, I'm up. What happened?"
"Shit, you almost brained me again," Tony chuckled. "You
all right?"
The interior light flicked on. The other students were all
turned around staring at him. It was pouring out now, and their
pace had slowed to a crawl. Falan met the professor's eyes in
the rearview.
"I'm okay...I'm fine," he insisted forcing a grin. "Just a
bad dream. I dreamed that when I went to hit that guy with the
two-by-four, it turned into a feather," he lied. "Don't worry,
Alison, you turned into a bird and flew away, but then that
little bedroom turned into a jail cell, and I was suddenly in
your shoes."
Miguel looked at him funny but didn't say anything. Falan
could taste the panic threatening to boil over inside him. The
little builders hadn't even shown up for a cameo appearance this
time, but another scene did stay with him this time. It was the
inexplicable image of feral kitten-like creatures tied together

in a sack and clawing each other to ribbons as they drowned at
the bottom of a river where it was flowing under a bridge.
Everyone else including Alison eventually dozed off again,
but Falan was too shaken to go back to sleep right away.
Besides that, he was in no hurry to put on another freak show.
He was the only one still awake when the professor stopped the
van and looked back a couple of hours later.
"You want me to take a turn? I'm good to go," Falan
whispered.
"No. Try to get some more sleep. We need to wait for
daylight so we don't miss our turnoff."
The professor killed the van and did his best to get
comfortable in the driver's seat while Falan sat in the dark
gnawing the inside of his cheek to stay awake. He didn't need
to resort to such measures for long. Something was lurking just
outside the van. The night was impenetrable, and the steady din
on the rooftop was enough to drown out any subtle noises, but he
was certain they were not alone. He spun around involuntarily
several times to peer out the back window, but nothing ever
revealed itself. When he began to tremble, Falan berated
himself mercilessly. Nightmares were one thing. They couldn't
be helped. But there was no excuse for going down that road
while he was awake. He needed to get a grip.

CHAPTER 49
Commander Ardis Servile struggled to clothe himself after
running off his orderly with a poorly thrown bed pan. They said
he had been out for two days. The last thing he remembered was
watching the gonderet leap from tree to tree as it disappeared
up into the dense flora with the unfortunate Deritri female over
its shoulder. He had been told what followed, but he had no
memory of the incident or of being borne back to the lander atop
the levicage.
Rather than taking him directly back to his flagship, the
shuttle captain first tried delivering him to the orbital base
station circling Palekpaneer where he would have received
optimal medical care. Upon arrival, however, their mooring
clamps were automatically detonated as soon as they latched
hold, and the little atmospheric transit vessel was promptly
blown out past the station's quarantine perimeter.
State of the art Synthedon scanners had detected an unknown
pathogen aboard the shuttle, and security was now denying them
all approach and docking privileges until the contagion could be
identified and neutralized. In his haste to see that the
infamous Ardis Servile did not expire while under his care, the
shuttle captain had failed to comply with well-established
infectious warfare defense procedures. He would pay for his
inattention to those safeguards with his life if the station

itself turned out to be contaminated, but so far diagnostics
were proving inconclusive. Meanwhile, he was seeking refuge
aboard Servile's flagship, Assisted Suicide.
Servile and his crew would not be allowed back to the
station until the bug was routed out and destroyed. If the
infection was biological then they should not have long to wait.
But, an electronic or other inorganic form of contamination
could require an extended isolation period.
Servile exited his quarters wearing void-black, two-piece
fatigues and proceeded somewhat unsteadily toward Assisted
Suicide's docking bays. The comlinks between his flagship and
the station had all been severed less they be used to transmit
whatever ailment afflicted them. A courier was approaching from
the station, so either the malady had been identified and a cure
found or there was other news that warranted the loss of a third
ship to quarantine.
The diagnostics he had available on board had failed to
detect anything out of the ordinary, but they were far inferior
to those at the base station. He had a dull headache and a
touch of vertigo but nothing more than that. None of the other
troopers or the ship's systems showed any signs of illness. He
supposed he should be grateful, but he knew a bit about
gestation periods.
The commander buoyed himself when he saw the Beledesheera
exit the small craft and proceed straight toward him. This
visit had nothing to do with transmitting updated vaccination
protocols. Servile had had dealings with Alikbinessa Krindir in
the past. He and the Beledesheera witch were known antagonists
who had clashed over the handling of more than one population of
would be inductees. The ethnic mentalist wore an unassuming
suit of loose fitting emerald Chenan silks and a bronze metallic
skull cap.
Though they were descended from pure Beledenite stock, the
Beledesheera bloodline had been augmented or degraded, depending
on whom you asked, over thousands of generations. As newly
discovered species of compatible congnitists were discovered,
the Beledesheera reverse-engineered them and merged into their
offspring those traits deemed to support greater intuitive
skills. While these endeavors were shrouded in secrecy, it was
rumored that multiple generations of certain lines sometimes
needed to be summarily terminated when expectations fell short
and unwanted attributes suddenly showed themselves. Most
outside the sect suspected they were merely mixing and matching
haphazardly as chance allowed and that such careless regard for
their own constitution would eventually result in the shrinking
sect's demise.
Ardis sneered as the tall, thin, bulb-headed, thought-
jockey stopped in front of him.
"Which esteemed mind-tinkerer did you cross to get yourself
sent to this purgatory?" Servile sneered.
"Commander Servile, ever a pleasure. You look piqued.
What sort of symptoms have manifested thus far?" the middle-aged
visitor asked dourly.
"None. This whole exercise is a waste of my time. I am
just waiting for notification that a misdiagnosis is to blame
for this inconvenience."
"Good, because I volunteered for this assignment," the
Beledesheera emphasized. "The admiralty has seen fit to send
you out on a solo mission while the medics and programmers
continue trying to determine what the station's sensors detected
when you attempted to dock."
A frail hand holding a general orders propagation extended
out from an overlong sleeve.
"The station has picked up an outside communication that is
of particular interest. You and I are being sent to track down
its source and report back."

CHAPTER 50
Dawn was slow to emerge. Falan watched as the first trace
of gray confirmed that they'd left the clear-cut wasteland
behind. Tropical forest surrounded them on all sides. The
others began to stir when Falan started digging for his
raincoat. They all gradually followed suit after he nudged past
Tony and exited the van to relieve himself. Dr. Morales was
quick to point out a set of large tracks in the mud.
"Probably a jaguar," he said. "Those prints are too big to
be anything else. Puma maybe, but those usually keep to the
mountains and grasslands."
The tracks entered the road a short distance away then
circled the van several times before returning to the jungle.
"I wish we could have seen it," Alison said.
"We're lucky the tracks are even visible," Tony observed.
"They won't last long in this rain."
Just then they all heard the unmistakable cry of a large
cat off in the distance. Falan was unable to muster any sense
of vindication. The cat's presence couldn't explain his
trepidation during the night. He never saw or heard a damn
thing.
"Wow," Sam said once they were back in the van, "I was
beginning to wonder if we'd ever see the actual rainforest."

"This?" the professor said. "This is nothing. We're still
on the outermost fringes," he insisted as he turned the engine
over. "It's hard to tell from right here, but this area has
been thinned out dramatically by loggers cherry picking the best
hardwoods. Follow any of the little access roads we've been
crossing, and you'll find a lot more chainsaw carnage and plenty
of other blight -- huge oil ponds left by wildcatters and places
where gold prospectors have dumped enough cyanide to contaminate
the ground water and poison the entire area. You've read all
about it, but this is where the proverbial rubber meets the
road.
"Just wait. When we get inside the Yanomami territory,
you'll see triple canopy everywhere you look. Esteban built a
temporary platform high enough to give us extended access to the
top third of the ecosystem. The self-proclaimed hardcore
environmentalists who never do much more than create headlines
would have a fit, but Esteban assures me it's a minimalist
affair -- invisible from the ground but a lot more comfortable
than hanging suspended in a climbing harness for hours on end.
It also cost a hell of a lot less than the hot air balloon
systems that are supposed to have a lower impact."
"I'm not worried about it," Tony said. "Those hot air
balloons run on fossil fuels last time I checked. It must be a

hell of a squeeze when those big rigs meet head on out here with
no place to pull off."
"More than one such confrontation has ended in gun play,"
the professor assured them. "You'll see slightly wider sections
of road in some places where truckers have pulled out chainsaws
and dynamite and gone to work on the spot so neither of them
would have to back up to the next turnout."
They bumped along in silence for awhile until Miguel asked
how much farther they had to go.
"It's hard to say," Dr. Morales answered. "The odometer
isn't working, and our speed has varied with the road
conditions. Assuming we're still on the right road, it could be
another three to four hours yet. I really don't know. The gas
gauge doesn't work either, but we're probably due to fill the
tank. Why don't two of you top us off? There are three five-
gallon cans strapped to the back," he said as he slowed to a
stop in the middle of the road.
Sam and Miguel made quick work of the refill, but the van
got stuck in the mud so everyone had to get out and push to get
it going again.
"How's this guy Jorge Guerra going to get his van back?"
Alison asked when they were underway.
"That's a good question," the professor said tilting his
head to one side. "I don't really know, but I'm not too worried
about it. Esteban supposedly knows him pretty well. He should
be able to smooth things over. We'll get it back to him
somehow, I imagine."
"Hell, we could just give him fifty bucks and tell him to
keep the change," Sam said.
"Good point, Sam," Dr. Morales chuckled. "I'm not even
sure if there's fuel where we're headed. Esteban has a vehicle
down there, though, so he must have enough fuel with him to get
back or else know where to lay his hands on some."
"How do you know Esteban anyway?" Alison asked. "When he
visited school last spring he told us a lot about the tribe he
lived with, but he didn't go into much detail about his own
background."
"I played rugby with his father when we were at university
together back in Argentina. I've known Esteban since he was a
boy. He grew up to be a hell of a rugby player -- a lot better
than his father and I anyway. He played wing and fullback for
Argentina's junior national team when he was in high school, but
he never made it to the senior Puma squad. That's the name of
Argentina's national side, the Pumas. I think he could have
made it, but as an undergraduate he became so absorbed in the
indigenous people's rights movement that he didn't have time for
much else. He turned into a social player -- more beer, less
training."
"Esteban was an international caliber rugby player?" Falan
said dubiously. "The same Esteban who visited school last
spring? That guy didn't look like any great athlete. He was as
skinny as me, and I towered over him."
"He was touted as the fastest player in Argentine rugby
three years in a row," Morales insisted. "He had moves, too.
When he was running the ball up field, Esteban could change his
angle of attack two or three times in a blink without ever
breaking stride. I once saw him score four tries against the
junior All Blacks when New Zealand toured Argentina in the mid-
90s. Nobody could touch him.
"And don't confuse size with heart. The kid was tough as
nails and utterly fearless on defense. Esteban wasn't the
biggest hitter in the game, but his technique was flawless.
That made him one of the most effective open field tacklers in
the country regardless of how big his opponents were."
"So what's his deal now?" Tony asked. "When he came to
Seattle it sounded like he was in pretty tight with the
Yanomami."
"He is. He's lived with them on and off for the past ten
years. He transcribed their entire oral history as part of his
master's thesis in order to help them document an ownership
claim on their ancestral homeland. The Yanomami have inhabited
the same territory without interruption for the last 250 years.
Esteban dropped out of his PhD program to work full-time trying
to help them secure legal title to their land. The guy is a one
man army. He's organized protests and filed charges against
everyone you can think of."
"Is he making any progress?" Sam asked.
"He must be, someone blew up his car two years ago," the
professor answered.
"You're kidding," Miguel said, "What the hell are we
getting ourselves into down here?
"Don't worry. The only place he's ever had any trouble
like that is in Caracas."
"You never mentioned anything about car bombings," Miguel
persisted.
"Relax, Miguel. Esteban is like an adopted son to the
chief of the Yanomami. We'll be perfectly safe with them. It's
the towns and cities where we need to be careful. These people
know we're trying to help them. They've seen enough of their
neighbors get displaced or wiped out to know that they need our
help if they expect to continue living the way they do."
"Well, I would hope so," Miguel said.
The conversation subsided after that. About an hour later
they arrived at a major Y in the road.
"Good, excellent," Dr. Morales said slapping the dashboard
enthusiastically as he veered left.

A hand-painted sign nailed to a tree indicated that there
was no through passage in the direction he'd taken.
"During the night we passed a couple turnoffs that seemed a
bit bigger than those little side roads that don't lead
anywhere," Dr. Morales said smiling over his shoulder. "I was
starting to worry that we might have missed our turn. That's
why I stopped for the night when I did, but I'm sure this is it.
The bartender said he thought this was the only opportunity to
make a major mistake. The road to the right more or less
parallels this one for quite a ways before it veers sharply to
the west. If we'd taken it we would have been halfway to
Colombia before we figured it out.
"I can home in on Esteban's latitude and longitude using
the GPS," the professor said holding up a little palm-size
global positioning unit, "but none of these roads are mapped
into it. If we'd taken the other road, the GPS heading would
have fooled us into thinking we were going the right way until
the road turned west. Between Esteban and the bartender I've
got a rough idea what we're looking for, but from here on we'll
mostly have to use the GPS to try to guess which roads will get
us there. We could still have some minor navigation issues, but
I think we'll be okay."
"As long as our gas holds out," Miguel chimed in.

"True," Dr. Morales admitted. "We need to do our best to
get it right the first time. If we take too many detours, we'll
end up on foot. But even that wouldn't be the end of the world
would it?" he asked. "We're getting close enough now that we
could hoof it if we had too. We've got several days hiking
ahead of us anyway."
"Well, let's try to put that off as long as possible,"
Alison said.
"Agreed," the professor conceded. "From here we need to
stay on the main road until we come to a burned out trailer --
one of those old Airstream jobs, I think. Then, we take the
second right after that. From there we'll just have to rely on
the GPS."
"Jesus," Miguel said, "these roads are like a maze down
here. We could be lost for days."
"Settle down, we'll be fine," the professor assured him.
"We're damn lucky to have any directions at all beyond the GPS
coordinates. Esteban only mentioned the abandoned trailer when
I asked him to set out some kind of trailblazers for us.
Instead, he assured me that Jorge Guerra knew the way. He
didn't want to do anything that might lure any more prospectors
or homesteaders down that way. They're halfway through a six-
month court injunction against any further commercial activity
in his immediate area. He said the government is conducting

some sort of half-assed environmental assessment of the local
water table and the Rio Orinoco. Esteban says it's just a
publicity stunt designed to clear the way for even more
intrusions."
CHAPTER 51
Three hours later they spotted the trailer on the side of
the road. The once shiny aluminum, hot-dog bun of a mobile home
was now blackened and severely crushed in on one side.
"Thank god," Miguel said to no one in particular.
They passed the first turn-off almost immediately, but the
second one ended up being an hour further on. During that hour
there was a lot of debate as to what constituted a viable road,
but Alison was manning the GPS, and she kept telling them that
they were right on target. A collective sigh went up when they
spotted the next turn-off. This road was half the size of the
one they'd been traveling on and was in the process of being
reclaimed by the jungle. Leaves and branches whispered along
both sides of the van, as they bounced through an endless
barrage of rain-filled ruts and potholes.
The navigating got trickier from that point despite
Alison's assurances that their rendezvous point lay less than
four miles off to their left at roughly ten o'clock. The first
left turn they took ended in a swampy cul-de-sac of half-buried
oil drums and drilling refuse. There was barely enough room to
turn around, and everyone had to get out twice to push.
Everyone felt lucky to make it back to the main road such as it
was. The second and third left hand turn-offs were no better.
Each ended under similar circumstances. The fourth one was just
a couple of hundred feet beyond the third. It led to a bog that
swallowed the van to its axels.
The rain was pummeling straight down in a windless deluge
as the guys all climbed out. Dr. Morales turned the wheel over
to Alison and joined the others behind the van. They pushed as
best they could, but the slick footing made it futile. Their
feet slipped hopelessly while the tires spun themselves deeper
into the muck. They were covered in mud in no time. The
professor called a halt to the operation after just a few
minutes.
Tony volunteered to hike back to a pile of junk lumber that
he'd seen lying near the main road and retrieve some boards that
they could wedge under the tires. Sam and Miguel went along so
that one trip would be enough to do the job right. Falan
started to go with them, but the professor called him back so
that he and Alison could check his bites and change his dirty
bandages.
Thirty minutes later Alison pointed up the road.
"That doesn't look good," she said."
Falan and Dr. Morales looked up and saw Tony, Sam and
Miguel running down the slight grade empty-handed.
"No, it doesn't," the professor agreed. "Shit. Falan help
me get all the packs out of the van. Alison, grab the GPS and
anything else useful that's lying around loose."

The guys came skidding to a stop just as the last backpack
landed in the mud.
"We've gotta hide in the bush quick," Tony gasped.
He pointed back over his shoulder.
"The guys from the bar are right behind us."
"How do you know it was them?" Dr. Morales asked.
"They're in that red pick-up with the duel rear wheels.
It's gotta be the same one that was parked in front of the
hotel," Tony answered. "I couldn't see their faces, but it has
to be them. We heard an engine while we were picking out
boards. I jogged the rest of the way back to the main road and
saw them make the same wrong turn we took before this one."
"It's them," Sam said as he donned his backpack. "They've
been following us sure as shit. They're following our tracks
right now, and they'll be here any minute."
"There's no way they could have followed our tracks all
night," Alison protested.
"In all this mud? Sure they could," the professor said.
"We haven't seen any other traffic since we left. They also
could have known generally where we were headed."
"How the hell could they know where we're going?" Miguel
blurted out.
"Either Jorge Guerra or the old guy from the bar could have
told them," the professor answered. "Jorge Guerra was nearly

comatose, though. I hope they didn't hurt that old man. He
didn't strike me as the type to roll over right away."
"What the hell are we going to do now?" Miguel sputtered
shrilly.
The approaching rumble of a diesel motor turned all their
heads.
"Hurry, get your packs on," the professor said. "We're
going to bush-whack through the woods from here."
"Come on around this way," Tony said as he disappeared
behind the van.
To Falan the term woods implied scattered oaks, pine trees
and maybe some underbrush in places. Down here woods meant
something entirely different. They had to plow forward in a
single-file line with their heads down in order to get through
all the plant life blocking their way. The van disappeared from
view after just a few steps. They'd only gone about thirty
yards when Tony squatted down and motioned for silence. Falan
was too far back to see the signal, but he knew to stay quiet.
They heard car doors slamming then the sound of breaking
glass. Any conversation the men might have been having was
drowned out by the noise of the rain filtering down through the
canopy. Six gun shots rang out intermittently before doors
started slamming again. Tony rose up and continued leading them

on a zig-zag course after the throaty diesel roared back to
life.
"Jesus Christ," Sam said in a low voice when they all
grouped up about ten minutes later, "that had to be them. We
barely got out of there. I'm surprised they didn't follow our
tracks right into the brush."
"I was worried about that, too," Tony said. "That's why I
stopped the first time. I didn't want them to hear us crashing
around and think they had a chance at catching up to us."
"What do you mean?" Alison said. "They tried to kill us.
They shot at us like five or six times."
"I don't think so," Dr. Morales interjected. "I counted
six shots: enough for the four driving tires and the two spares.
They know we're trapped down here now. They probably think it's
only a matter of time before they find us wandering down one of
these access roads or catch us hiding at some old work camp. We
need to get to Esteban's before they do. Alison, give Tony the
GPS. We'll all follow him."
Alison dug the satellite positioning unit out of her
raincoat and handed it over. Tony fiddled with it a minute then
looked up.
"Hey, this might turn out okay. If this thing is accurate
we're less than two miles away. Let's see if we can double time
it through this mess and get there ahead of those assholes.

There's no telling how many more wrong turns they'll make before
they stumble onto Esteban's place."
"Excellent," Dr. Morales said. "Let's go. I'll bring up
the rear."
Tony did his best to lead them on a straight heading, but
the growth was nearly impenetrable. Two hours later he stopped
at the edge of a small clearing and peered out. The red pickup
was parked next to a battered Toyota Land Cruiser in front of a
dilapidated wooden shack that had an overhanging roof made of
tin. The three older men from the hotel bar were all seated
around a table on the front porch playing cards and passing a
bottle of brown liquor back and forth. The kid was nowhere in
sight, but Esteban was sitting with them holding his cards close
to his chest.
CHAPTER 52
Palerick forced his eyes open and quickly blinked against
the sun's intensity as beams of white light bore a hole into the
back of his throbbing skull. The ground seemed to undulate
beneath the disoriented acolyte. The sensation left him unsure
whether he turned himself from his back onto his shoulder or a
subterranean wave rolled him over. The vomit wretching out of
him suggested the later.
Master Gaelen had warned him that this mode of conveyance
would not seem as benign as Palerick's other brushes with such
transport. When his spasms subsided, he winced against the
glare and found himself lying in grass that towered several feet
above him. The master had always made it clear they never
actually traveled to the worlds Huron exposed him to.
The worlds themselves were very real, and the events taking
place in them actually transpired, but Huron had always been
adamant that he was showing them to Palerick through a window in
the fabric of space-time. The master did transport the two of
them between various points in the capital, but the distances
overcome by entering a building in one quarter of the city and
exiting a different one in another district were so small they
hardly counted as travel at all. During those jaunts Palerick's
physical construct was broken down and reassembled so quickly
that his mind was scarcely aware that it existed without a home
during that brief span. This latest trip, however, was a
different matter altogether.
Palerick had clearly sensed the Ludition's approach while
waiting in the captain's solarium. He had been about to respond
to the guide's hail when his mind and body abruptly
disassociated from one another. Previously, he had always felt
as though he departed and arrived in the same instant. Stepping
across the threshold of Huron's suites was like blinking. There
was no time to register the momentary blindness. This, however,
had felt more like being yanked below the placid surface of the
Balcherian Sea and dragged down into its bottomless depths at a
rate far exceeding terminal velocity.
Since his eyes were already shut Palerick did not undergo
the trauma of having his visual sight snatched from him, but he
lacked the experience to avoid the anguish that came with losing
his psyche's physiological connection to breathing. Heart
regulation and other such autonomous functions were dispensed
with easily enough, but now he knew what it felt like to
suffocate and survive to tell about it. His lungs seared to
bursting like the pain in an amputee's phantom limb. The trip's
onset had all the trappings of a near-death experience. In the
instant before he expected to succumb to the lack of oxygen,
Palerick remembered hundreds of pieces of minutia from his past

and lamented an equal number of unrealized hopes and forgone
dreams.
After the agony of false asphyxiation, Palerick found his
thinking self plummeting through what seemed like a perforated
shaft unencumbered by the physical structure he had always
thought of as "me." He did not think now that any amount of
meditation or intellectual musing could have adequately prepared
him. Being so directly confronted with his own duality was like
realizing the reflection he had seen in the mirror every day of
his life was little more than a superfluous material place
holder.
The faint tugging sensation felt everywhere at once left
him acutely aware that his physical body had essentially been
disassembled down to the fundamental particle level. He sensed
the pieces as they clung desperately to his psychic field and
trailed behind him like riotous squatters refusing to vacate a
condemned building scheduled for demolition or, perhaps more
appropriately, like serfs begging their patron landowner not to
abandon them. One moment the virtually mass-less base
components of his tangible self were all there strung out behind
him like the tail of a streaking comet, and the next they were
gone. Unable to keep up, they scattered down countless
alternative arteries that branched out from the route he was
traveling. They dispersed throughout a vast network of conduits

and searched independently for shortcuts leading to the reunion
destination with which they had been imprinted.
When he was finally able, Palerick pushed himself up onto
all fours then rose to his knees and used one hand to fashion a
visor as he squinted to see over the tallest blades of grass.
Only the back of Sandogaul's head and shoulders were visible
above the stalks as the senior specialist staggered away. He
did not get far before he dropped to his knees and pitched
forward onto his face without making any effort to put his hands
out. Palerick then noticed someone else seated a short distance
off to his right, but he was unable to distinguish the
individual's features before being forced to squeeze his eyes
shut against the light.
When he opened them again, the figure was silhouetted above
him handing down a pair of black-lensed eyewear with curved ear
hooks. The associate director donned them gratefully and forced
himself to his feet. The glasses reduced the glare
significantly without darkening the images he saw. The sole
member of the Ludition welcoming committee stood half as tall as
him and was slightly built. She had a pair of similar glasses
tied around her earless head and wore a fur-lined skull cap over
black hair that was cropped short on her blunt fore-skull. A
prominent mustache-like growth of hairy flesh hung down from the

sides of her mouth, but otherwise her deeply bronzed face was
smooth and shiny.
Palerick took the quilted jacket offered and put it on over
his thin tunic. The temperature was much cooler than Palerick
would have expected given the sun's brightness. After he was
buttoned up, the reception official extended a second pair of
glasses and another jacket while nodding in Treachen's
direction. Palerick looked at his prone subordinate and then
surveyed the surrounding area more closely. They were on a
slight rise on what appeared to be an otherwise flat steppe.
The grassland extended uninterrupted out to the horizon on most
headings, but there were foothills backed by much higher peaks
lying in one direction.
Gheddy took the items she offered and went to kneel beside
Sandogaul. He rolled the senior specialist over then covered
him with the jacket and checked his breathing. It was very
shallow. Treachen's eyes stared unblinking up at the sun so
Palerick put the spare lenses on his face and fastened the ear
pieces in place. He gave his underling a few soft slaps on
either cheek.
"Treachen, Treachen, can you hear me? You were walking
just a second ago. Keep yourself together now, we are on
Rejicstoken," Palerick urged.

"That your friend's body took a few steps does not
necessarily mean much, but in this case I can tell you he is
here with us -- still reeling around bewildered," the greeter
said twirling a finger about in the air above her head.
Though the Ludition had addressed him silently Palerick
turned and spoke aloud.
"Can you help him -- guide him back to his senses?"
Again the Ludition dispensed with common courtesy and
injected her thoughts directly into Palerick's psyche. It went
against the rules of etiquette that governed such conduct in
Ilstachian society, but Palerick realized he was far from home.
"It is his senses that need guiding back to their host. I
have done as much as I can which is more than I was authorized
to do, I might add. I got him here in two more or less complete
pieces. The rest is up to him. If I do any more, there is a
risk he will misconstrue my assistance as an effort to subvert
his autonomy.
"Children are more receptive to such guidance, but it
sometimes causes adults to shy further away. He needs to make
the connection himself, but he is unsure how. That or he is
undecided whether he should bother. At this point he has one
foot in the door, so to speak. Not all of those who are able
choose to reenter the realm of corporeal existence and all the
obligations that come with it. We can give him a little more
time, but if he does not rejoin us soon we will have to leave
his body here for the scavengers. We need to be gone before the
hyrenias and raphazards show up and draw the komodons."
Palerick considered his own experience. It was a far cry
from anything he had been exposed to thus far, so he could only
imagine what Treachen's reaction would be after having all the
mysteries behind the mind-body paradox stripped away so
abruptly. The stark reality was undeniable, and it must have
come as quite a shock to someone like Sandogaul, who was such an
entrenched technologist.
They tended to believe that the body and mind were a single
inseparable unit or at the very least that the mind was a
product of the physical body. Palerick, on the other hand, had
known what to expect and been prepared to go along willingly.
Treachen's skepticism could not have served him well, and having
his eyes open must have further clouded any natural insight that
might have eased him through the ordeal.
"Was he very resistant?" Gheddy asked aloud. "You could
have just left him behind if he balked at coming along."
"I had planned on leaving him behind regardless, but the
two of you were bound together inextricably. As an acolyte
surely you knew better than to allow yourselves to be linked by
physical contact. I would have left him, but I did not want you
to arrive missing parts or show up carrying any of his. You

will be lucky not to find bits of your psychonic fields
partially commingled. If one of the elders were here, they
could have brought you alone, but I have not had many dealings
with the uninitiated. I did not feel that I could take one of
you and not the other without harming one or both of you."
"Wait a minute, do not attempt to lump me in with him. I
am a guild member -- a trained acolyte. He is the heathen."
"Do not flatter yourself. Even the greatest practitioners
among your kind have only penetrated the outermost layers of
truth, and while you may be an acolyte, you are obviously not
among your guild's elite. You are only marginally more aware
than your friend. You were unwise to bind your fates so tightly
together. He could have dragged you down with him like a
drowning swimmer."
Intellectually Palerick Gheddy had long known the truth,
but he had never experienced such complete separation before.
All acolytes were taught that the minds and bodies of truly
ascendant species were separate and distinct entities.
Experiencing the implications therein to this degree without
experiencing physical death, however, was something he had
rarely dared hope for. He wished he could discuss his
revelation with Master Huron.
Both entities tended to wear down with age. In
technologist societies the mind invariably went first because

those cultures largely ignored it while pursuing an endless
number of enhancements and curatives for their bodies. Many
species found ways to extend their physical lifetimes by many
hundreds of years and often far longer when various forms of
hibernation were utilized. Those societies more attuned to their
psychic selves understood that their true essence existed first
and foremost as pure mind and that it had the potential to far
outlast the longest corporeal existence if properly nurtured.
This realization skewed their nurturing efforts in favor of
the mind. They strived to maintain their memory continuity even
after transitioning away from their physical partner at the time
of bodily death. Otherwise separation from the body often
resembled birth anew for a piece of unfettered mind. If it
failed to reintegrate with the greater consciousness at large,
then it faced a long harrowing journey of self-discovery that
more often than not resulted in one form of psychosis or
another.
Palerick had no luck eliciting anything in the way of a
coherent response from his subordinate. He knelt on one knee
beside the senior specialist who was staring up with dialated
eyes mewling and murmuring nonsensically while foaming at the
mouth. Palerick cringed and watched helplessly as Sandogaul
went rigid then began hyperventilating until he passed out.

Gheddy was not sure if anyone in that state could be said to
have lost consciousness, but that was how it seemed.
When Sandogaul's breathing stopped altogether, the Ludition
leaned over and unceremoniously dumped water from a skin bag
onto Treachen's face. Sandogaul sat upright like he was spring-
loaded and turned his head from side to side in confusion. He
dragged a forearm across his mouth and spat in the grass. When
he started to remove his sunglasses, Palerick reached out and
held them in place.
"Better leave those on, Treachen, unless you want a worse
headache than you must already have."
The senior specialist lowered his hand from his face then
turned and spat off to the side again. He looked from Gheddy to
the Ludition and back.
"Three monarchists jumped out of the King's arse and sang
the Andaluvian anthem while plucking feathers from a chirping
pilachrest who was in dire need of an enema," Sandogaul rasped
as his head lolled about on his wobbly neck.
Palerick stifled a smile and shook his head at their guide,
who was giving him a quizzical look.
"Part of him made it. He just cobbled together the punch
lines from three different playground taunts."
"Yes, precisely," Treachen growled snapping to attention,
"and you two will pay for it as sure as the hungry varnod barks.
It is only fair to add that the expenditure will be more costly
than those high-priced undergarments your sisters favor -- the
thin soft ones that just barely cover their taintsies."
Sandogaul received a much harder slap and another douse of
water in quick succession. He rubbed his jaw pensively then
wiped his brow and spat off into the grass once more.
"I do not know what your game is, Gheddy, but I am on to
you," he croaked.
Palerick looked over his shoulder at their guide then
turned back to Sandogaul.
"Exactly how do you mean, old son?"
Treachen raised his chin toward the Ludition.
"You and your friend from the embassy here are not about to
dissuade me in the least. I fully intend to join you aboard
that Shade Merchant, and furthermore I will be accompanying you
every step of the way once we reach Rejicstoken. I do not aim
to let you out of my sight. The director did not need to, but
he warned me against the guild's treachery." The senior
specialist struggled to his feet brushing aside Palerick's
attempts to assist him. "Now turn off the holograjector or
whatever it is the two of you are using to perpetrate this
charade. I have got a great deal of work to complete before we
depart next week."

"Sandogaul, where do you think we are right now?" Palerick
asked.
"I might have said the observatorium on the third floor of
the Directorate Annex," he paused and ran a hand over the top of
his head. "But given the seamless quality of the wireless
cortical linkage and sophistication of the medulla interface, we
must be at a Ludition facility. Not the embassy proper of
course, but perhaps the former consulate building they have been
so slow to vacate. We could even be down at their secure bay
next to customs out near the old freight port on the edge of the
city. Either way this is obviously their doing. No third-rate
acolyte like you could pull this off without causing himself a
considerable nose bleed I should imagine."
"Please tell us how you really feel, Sandogaul," Palerick
chuckled. "There is no time for games, otherwise I would quite
enjoy playing a few with you. This is not part of any kind of
injection panorama or a simulation of any kind for that matter.
We are on the surface of Rejicstoken. You and I departed
Ilstach III together nearly fifty years ago. You spent the
majority of that time in the ice box. When we arrived outside
the Ludition home system, we found the border closed to all
Ilstachian shipping. I was able to make other arrangements
through my guild contacts, and though you were still in rough

shape after emerging from stasis, you insisted on teleporting
the rest of the way with me."
Sandogaul blocked the sun with his hand and squinted
tightly as he removed his glasses and looked around. He
struggled to his feet and put the glasses back on. The senior
specialist snatched the tip off a chest-high blade of grass and
tentatively put one end in his mouth. He bit down on it and
chewed it briefly before spitting it out and casting the rest
aside.
"I feel like I have been asleep for fifty years," he said
rubbing his face. "You have covered everything down to the last
detail, I will give you that. The drugs have even left me
questioning whether I am in my own body."
"Treachen, look at yourself. You must have lost twenty,
maybe thirty pounds. What do you think we did -- knock you out
and sweat you down? Feel how loose your teeth are. You are
lucky you did not lose one gnawing on that weed."
Sandogaul rolled up his sleeves and peeled back a couple of
the bandages to inspect the places where his intravenous and
neuro-muscular jacks had been installed. A look inside his
trousers revealed the telltale marks left by extended
catheterization, which jibed with the soreness he felt there.
As he shifted his weight from foot to foot, he was forced to
admit to himself that there was an unmistakable rawness at the

other end as well. A discordant note of flatulence echoed the
thought.
"You are better at this than I would have given you credit
for, Gheddy. Who the hell is this supposed to be?" Treachen
growled indicating toward the Ludition with a raised chin.
"We have not been properly introduced," Gheddy said turning
to the Ludition.
"My name is Erieku Njoden. I serve the Karoken as an out-
world liaison and diplomatic host. I will be your guide and
interpreter during your stay on Rejicstoken."
Sandogaul pressed his palms to his ears and tilted his chin
down to his chest.
"There is no need to over play your part in this
deception," he moaned. "If we were truly on Rejicstoken, then
surely a real diplomatic host would have the common courtesy to
address her guests aloud in the manner to which they are
accustomed rather than put them off kilter by reinforcing the
sharp differences between their two cultures." Treachen paused
then squeezed his head more tightly and bellowed, "I can only
assume your obvious rudeness stems from some pathetic attempt to
lend a further air of legitimacy to this ruse."
Erieku put a hand to her own temple.
"Please excuse my colleague," Palerick said. "He..."

"That is not necessary, Associate Director Gheddy," their
guide replied looking back up and lowering her hand. "Senior
Specialist Treachen is quite justified in his remarks. There
is, however, another reason why I do not address you verbally.
As you know the discomfort that the senior specialist is
experiencing as a result of my telepathic communication will
subside the more he is exposed to it."
She turned her attention to Sandogaul.
"Likewise the less you rely on oral conversation, the more
readily you will adapt to responding in kind. When you meet
with the members of the Karoken, they will not indulge your off-
world customs nor will they appreciate the clanging
reverberations and dissonant echoes you would assault them with
if you insist on speaking to them verbally.
"One reason that I am receiving you here is so that you
will have time to adjust before your audience with the Karoken.
Out here you will not be bombarded by the din of all the
conversations that you have not learned to filter out. It will
take us two days to reach the summer capital. During that time
I suggest you desist from talking as you would at home and
practice our method of communication with Associate Director
Gheddy and myself. Doubtless with his training he will be able
to help minimize any ill effects the transition might cause
you."
Erieku headed off without further discussion and the two
Ilstachians followed -- one less willingly than the other. She
led them down off the rise through the tall grass to a deep,
shoulder-width fissure that opened up in the ground. The grass
completely hid it from view until they were just a few strides
away. They descended a steep, natural rock stair that led to
the bottom of the narrow ravine. As the trio descended into the
slit, Sandogaul brought up the rear on shaky legs, which
threatened to buckle with each step. He made his way as best he
could while steadying himself on the walls and eschewing any
assistance that the associate director tried to give him.
Their sun shades became unnecessary, as the trio traveled
along the bottom of the narrow crevasse. The sky above was no
more than a jagged lightening bolt etched by the two opposing
cliff tops. The rich, cloying odor hit them long before they
came upon the three long-horned muskbovin. Two large milkers
and a massive stud lay sprawled in the shade chewing their cuds
next to a gurgling spring that bubbled up from the chasm floor.
Several fibrous piles of dung lay steaming among them. The two
Ilstachians sat and rested while Erieku roused the shaggy beasts
and got them saddled.
Their shoulders were head high on Palerick, which meant
they towered above their diminutive guide. Each of the portly
animals rolled upright and knelt before Erieku when she

approached with their saddles. Palerick was shocked to see the
rotund grazers carry off such delicate curtsies. They
duplicated the graceful maneuver unbidden when it came time for
the three of them to climb aboard. After showing them where
best to grip the two forward-mounted saddle prongs, Erieku
sprung lightly onto her own mount and led them off.
They traveled single file with Palerick in the center
position. All the Ilstachians had to worry about was holding on
and keeping their feet in the stirrups. Ordinarily, this would
not have been very difficult given the slow pace, but after what
he had been through it was all Sandogaul could do to remain
aboard. Despite the saddle's high back and front he swayed
precariously and threatened to reel off sideways at any moment.
As the party wound its way along the bottom of the gulch,
Palerick was repeatedly impressed by the muskbovin's ability to
squeeze through the continuous succession of chokepoints that
they came upon.
The path never grew wide enough for them to pass two
abreast. Every time it funneled down so narrowly that Palerick
feared his legs would become wedged against the walls, the stout
creatures sucked in their girth and rotated both pairs of horns
forward until they fit neatly through the impossibly tight
squeezes. Though the path seemed to follow a level grade, the
walls rose higher as they went.

Every few hours the cramped passage bulged slightly, and
the sandy floor gave way to a small oasis of stunted prairie
grass fed by an underground spring. They climbed down from
their saddles at these spots to stretch their legs and water
their mounts. On one of these occasions Erieku passed around
slices of pickled vegetable, and on another she distributed
sticky balls of steamed dough filled with a spicy paste.
They put their dark glasses back on for a short time when
the sun appeared directly above, but it soon passed over leaving
them in shadow once more. Sandogaul called out loud every so
often to ask how much farther they had to go, but their guide
did not pay any attention to him. Palerick ignored him as well.
As it grew dark the uneven sliver of sky changed from white to a
faint pink then continued shifting through the spectrum until it
settled on a shade of dark violet. The only thing visible after
that was the irregular-shaped slice of star-speckeled sky.
Within the walls everything was black. Though their guide
struck no light, the muskbovin never hesitated or faltered.
Not long after dark, Palerick heard a thud and a groan
behind him. Before he could ask Treachen if he was all right,
his own mount stopped in its tracks and Erieku brushed past him
on her way back to check on the senior specialist. As was her
habit, she intruded directly into Palerick's thoughts rather
than addressing him aloud.

"Your colleague passed out. He hit his head, but there is
no bleeding. I am laying him over the saddle and tying him on
so that he does not slide off again."
"Can we not stop for the night?" Palerick asked silently.
"I am about to drop myself."
"You are fine compared to him. We need to keep moving for
now. There are things down here we do not want to meet up with.
We will stop soon and rest until dawn."
Palerick felt his muskbovin suck in its gut as she squeezed
between his stirrup and the cliff wall. Once more the beast
continued on without prodding. He watched as the broken shard
of sky grew into an expanding wedge that opened in the direction
they were traveling. Eventually, it cracked into a wide expanse
of star-flecked violet. Palerick looked back the way they had
come. It seemed either the grassland prairie above had sloped
down to meet them, or they had risen to meet it. Regardless,
they were once again out in the open. They continued on a short
distance through the grass before it gave way to bare rocky
ground.
Erieku built a small fire and laid skins out for them to
sleep on. Sandogaul remained unconscious as they transferred
him to the ground. Palerick nodded off before Erieku finished
cooking the hot meal she had promised them. When he awoke
Palerick was taken aback by the sight before him. The piercing
little sun was not yet above the horizon, but already it offered
enough light for him to see clearly. The mountains that had
once looked so far off now stood directly in front of them. He
could not see very far in the direction from which they had come
because of a slight rise in the terrain, but they appeared to be
camped atop a vast escarpment just beyond the edge of the
steppe.
A trail wound down into a broad valley ahead then crossed a
wide river before disappearing up into the tree-covered
foothills on the other side. A small pot of something to eat
was simmering over the coals of the dying fire, but their guide
was nowhere in sight. Palerick did not think his stomach was
ready for food just yet, so he went off in search of a sheltered
spot to relieve himself. Not wanting to be caught out in the
open attending to his business when Erieku returned, he headed
back up the slope and ventured a short distance into the chest-
high grass from which they had emerged during the night.
He bypassed the entrance to the ravine and quickly gained
the height of the incline where he was once again able to look
back across the seemingly endless sea of grass. The associate
director wondered if it extended all the way around the little
planet to the far side of the mountains facing them or if it was
bounded by some other limiting geographic feature: a true sea
maybe or a forest perhaps. As he drew one leg from his trousers

and squatted down below the top of the grass, he imagined
anything was possible: a desert or even a jungle might hem the
distant perimeter provided it did not back up to the far slope
of the towering range before them.
Palerick paused while crumpling up a second ball of grass
to wipe himself and listened carefully. Something was rustling
nearby. A shrill warning cry reverberated inside his head
causing little bumps to prickle down the back of his neck.
"Run -- back to the camp -- hurry!"(1)

CHAPTER 53
"Great," Miguel moaned. "Now we're really screwed."
"Chill out," Sam said. "We were really screwed last night.
This could be a lot worse. They could have him tied up with a
gun to his head."
"Sam's right," Dr. Morales said quietly. "We need to think
of a way to get Esteban and slip out of here without attracting
any attention."
They all followed the professor back about twenty yards
into the rainforest and sloughed off their packs.
"You guys must be starving. I know I am," Dr. Morales
said. "I've got one more box of breakfast bars left. That's
enough for one each. I know I said not to worry about bringing
much food since Esteban was supposed to be taking care of all
that, but does anybody else have anything they can share?"
Falan produced a box of chocolate Pop-tarts, a can of
Cheese Whiz and some goldfish. Sam pulled out a packet of beef
jerky, and Tony passed around a bag of trail mix. Miguel
surprised everyone with three cans of soda to share. They all
sat on their packs to eat. Afterward Alison came up with a bag
of red licorice for dessert. It wasn't very hardy fare, but it
took the edge off their hunger.
"How hard could this really be?" Sam asked. "After it gets
dark, one of us should be able to sneak up close and get the lay
of the land, check around back, peek in some windows -- that
kind of thing. Some kind of opportunity will present itself.
It worked for Falan last night. Maybe Esteban will end up
sleeping in a room by himself. We just give his window a little
tap, tap, tap, and we're on our way."
"Yeah right," Miguel scoffed. "You're dreaming if you
think it's going to be that easy. I'm sure you won't mind being
the one to do the peeping then, right?"
"I got no problem sneaking up there. The rain on that
metal roof has got to be making a racket inside. Hell, if we
rush them altogether while they're asleep and beat on them with
some sticks like Falan did, we could probably take 'em before
they got a shot off."
"That's enough," the professor said. "Let's not argue
among ourselves. You're right, Miguel. Sam's plan is pretty
simple, but sometimes that's the best way to do things. Just
keep them simple. You all stay here and try to rest. I'll go
back and keep an eye on things until it gets dark."
The professor rejoined the group just as dusk was fading to
black.
"Okay, listen, I've been thinking. If we try something in
the dark, and it goes wrong we could end up losing each other
and getting split up. We only have the one GPS, and none of us
knows this area so it would be difficult to establish a

rendezvous point. I think we can all appreciate how easy it
would be to get lost out here at night. With these assholes
around we wouldn't even be able to call out. We could be twenty
feet away from each other and never know it."
"So what's the plan?" Miguel asked.
"For now we wait it out. Forget about your tents and
sleeping bags. Let's just huddle together and throw a tarp over
ourselves so we're ready to move if something happens. We'll
just try to get through the night as best we can, then we'll get
up before dawn and watch for a chance to signal Esteban
somehow."
Nobody was happy about the prospect of spending the night
wet and filthy, but there was little alternative. Tony rigged a
tarp between some trees that kept the worst of the rain off
them, and Dr. Morales laid out the ground cloth from his tent
for everyone to sit on. They ended up stacking their packs
together to act as a central hub, then everyone laid back like
spokes on a wheel and used the packs as a communal pillow.
Their lower legs stuck out in the rain, but it wasn't too bad.
Alison helped Falan clean and rewrap his wounds then she lent
him her raincoat to drape over his injured calf.
Falan managed to sneak an amphetamine pill along with the
dose of antibiotics she doled out to him. It wasn't long before
his stomach was in knots. The food helped a little but not
much. He didn't think there was much chance that he'd fall
asleep and embarrass himself that night, but he didn't feel like
risking it. As it was, the rain held steady and hardly anyone
slept. After what seemed like an eternity, Tony stood up and
roused the professor. Dr. Morales told the rest of them to stay
put no matter what, then he and Tony crept back to the edge of
the clearing to wait for dawn to materialize.

CHAPTER 54
Shortly after first light, the three men emerged from
Esteban's little cabin. The one with severe dental issues had
put on a poncho, but otherwise they all appeared to be wearing
the same clothes from the day before. Two pissed over the porch
railing, while the fat one lit up a cigar. After a couple of
puffs he walked over to the table and tilted the previous
night's liquor bottle to his lips at a speed that suggested he
already knew it was empty.
He tossed the bottle off the end of the porch in disgust
then pounded down the stairs and climbed into the driver's seat
of the pickup. Before closing the door he barked something at
the other two and turned the engine over. The one with the
rotting smile zipped his fly then hurried down the steps and got
in on the passenger side. The two sped away leaving their
companion standing on the porch shaking himself absently.
"We've got to make use of this somehow," Tony said as the
truck disappeared from view."
"Go tell the others to be ready to move quickly," the
professor said. "Tell them to come here to the edge of the
clearing when they hear one of us start shouting or whistling
for them. But make sure they know not to show themselves in the
open until they're sure it's safe."

Tony quickly disappeared into the dense foliage. Dr.
Morales turned his attention back to the clearing and watched as
the man on the porch left himself dangling in the open while he
lit a cigarette. He eventually tucked it away after a few drags
and walked over to the top of the stairs. This was the one
who'd fired the shots at him and Falan, but the professor didn't
see any sign of his gun. He still had on his green coveralls,
but the sleeves were now tied around his middle instead of
dangling freely from his waist.
The guy hung out at the top of the steps just out of the
rain and scanned the small clearing as he smoked. At one point
his gaze seemed to lock onto the very spot where the professor
was hiding. Dr. Morales held perfectly still. He didn't
realize he was holding his breath until he let out a long sigh
when the man flicked his cigarette butt into the mud and walked
back inside the shack. That's when the professor saw the pistol
stuffed in the back of the man's pants.
The guy soon returned to the porch holding a piece of
cardboard. He raised it over his head then stepped down off the
porch and disappeared around back. It wasn't long before he
reappeared on the other side of the building hurrying to get out
of the rain. Once on the porch he gave the cardboard square a
back-handed toss that sent it sailing like a frisbee out into
the center of the clearing. Apparently satisfied that nothing

was amiss, he went inside again. The screen door smacked loudly
behind him. Smoke was starting to rise out of the tin chimney
pipe when Tony returned. Dr. Morales told him what he'd
witnessed.
"We better come up with something fast," Tony said. "Those
guys could be back anytime. This might be our only chance."
Just then Esteban showed himself in the doorway. He lifted
a mug to his lips as he stepped outside and looked around.
Without a word Dr. Morales took a half step into the clearing
and waved while holding a finger to his lips. As Esteban
stepped forward and took the cup away from his mouth, the
professor retreated behind cover. An instant later the man with
the gun emerged from the cabin and stood next to Esteban.
Esteban skipped down the stairs and walked over to the back
of his Land Cruiser. He lifted the back gate open and gestured
for the guy on the porch to join him. When the guy refused and
pointed at the sky, Esteban reached into the back of the vehicle
and held up a full bottle of liquor. He wrapped a knuckle on
the truck's raised gate to indicate that it provided adequate
cover and motioned again for the guy to join him, but coveralls
stayed put.
Esteban opened the bottle, took a long pull and then left
it sitting open on the bumper. While Esteban rummaged around
inside the back of the truck some more, the man with the gun
came down off the porch two steps at a time and ducked under the
truck's gate. He inspected the bottle critically before tasting
a mouthful. After that he shook Esteban playfully by the arm
and drank some more.
Tony and Dr. Morales watched intently as Esteban clapped
the guy on the back a couple of times and gestured for him to
wait there. He then jogged back up the stairs and went inside.
Esteban quickly reappeared in the doorway holding up a steaming
skillet. He beckoned for the gunman to join him and then
disappeared inside again. The guy took another belt of liquor
then hurried back toward the porch with the bottle in hand.
His shoulders hunched against the rain as he climbed the
steps. When his foot touched down on the top step, Esteban came
sprinting out the front door crouched at the waist. He crossed
the porch in two strides and speared his shoulder into the man's
gut. The driving tackle blew the man backward off the porch.
After a fall of five or six feet, he landed flat on his back
with Esteban wrapped around his waist.
The professor and Tony burst from behind their cover and
raced to help, but by the time they covered the short distance,
Esteban had already used a continuous barrage of overhand rights
to pummel the guy into semi-consciousness. He stopped
momentarily after the first few punches to rescue the over-
turned liquor bottle, but then he went back to hitting the guy
with gusto. Dr. Morales helped Esteban to his feet, while Tony
rolled the guy over and took his weapon. When the guy started
to moan, Tony cracked him in the temple with the butt of the
pistol.
"I owed that asshole," he said defensively after Dr.
Morales grabbed the gun away from him.
"I understand, but we don't want to kill the guy."
"What the hell is going on?" Esteban asked. "Where the
hell did you come from, and who are these bastards?"
Dr. Morales ignored him and whistled several piercing
blasts followed by a long trail-off and a sharp finish.
"The rest of my students are waiting just over there,"
Victor said pointing. "We had trouble with these guys back in
that last no-name-town below San Fernando de Atabapo. This one
held most of us at gunpoint while the fat one's son tried to
rape the girl, Alison. Falan, the young kid, who I thought
wasn't coming, managed to get us out of it, but he nearly killed
the fat guy's son in the process. Your friend, Jorge Guerra, is
a useless lush, but we appropriated his van. These assholes
caught up to us when we got stuck a few miles from here, so we
had to hide in the jungle overnight. We bush-whacked the last
couple of miles using the GPS coordinates you gave me."
"Holy shit, you're kidding me."

Esteban rifled through the unconscious man's pockets while
he talked.
"They claimed they were bounty hunters after a murderer and
his accomplices. I knew something wasn't right about it, but I
never dreamed it had anything to do with you."
The rest of their party slowly crept out of the rainforest
one by one with Sam in the lead.
"Damn it," the professor said. "I hope to God they're
exaggerating. Falan said he only hit the guy one time. I was
hoping we could just get Falan looked at by a doctor, file a
report by phone and go on about our business. Have you got
enough gas to get us out of here?"
Esteban stood up holding the guy's wallet and started
taking all the cash out of it.
"Sure plenty, but we're stuck. The first thing these guys
did was yank my spark plugs and pull my battery. They've got
them in their truck. I started to give them a hard time about
it, but I backed off when this guy waved his gun at me. They
said I could have the plugs and battery back when they caught
their fugitives. They claimed they didn't want you stealing my
truck to escape."
Esteban pocketed the guy's money and identification then
threw his wallet off into the bushes.

"This one cheated all night at poker. I'm just taking back
what's mine. I'll hold his ID until we can notify the police."
"I don't believe this," Dr. Morales said. "I was hoping we
could just hop in your truck and go. At least we've got the
gun. When the other two get back, we can reclaim your battery
and plugs, steal theirs and get the hell out of here."
"The other two guys are armed also," Esteban told him.
"Are you sure?" Tony asked. "We've only seen the one gun."
"I'm positive. They've got a shotgun locked in the tool
box that's in the truck bed, and one guy is carrying some kind
of handgun in a shoulder holster under his poncho."
The others were gathered around now. The professor hung
his head for a minute then looked around at everyone.
"Okay, we can't risk a gun battle with these morons.
Esteban, we're packed and ready to go. We need to be gone when
those guys get back. Do you have any idea how long they'll be
gone?"
"Not long from the sound of it. They thought you might
have tried to take shelter overnight in your vehicle. This guy
sent the other two to check it out, but he told them to come
right back if they didn't find anything. Where did you leave
Jorge Guerra's van?"
"A couple of miles northwest of here as the crow flies,"
Tony offered.
"Well, it probably isn't too much farther by road. They'll
be back pretty soon."
"What about your satellite phone? Did you get that working
again?" Dr. Morales asked.
"It comes and goes on me. I'll try it right now. Bring
this bastard inside, and we'll tie him up."
Tony, Sam and Miguel struggled to get the gunman's dead
weight up the steps and into the shack. They wanted Falan to
hog-tie him since he seemed to have a knack for it, but he
begged off because of his damaged hand. Sam did his best while
Esteban went outside to try the phone. The general mood
darkened when he wasn't able to acquire a satellite link.
"Has it got enough power?" Sam asked. "How do you keep it
charged out here?"
"I've got a nice little Honda generator and an adapter, but
I try to use it sparingly. The phone is all charged up. I
think it's partly this rain. Listen, that's another thing," he
said turning to the professor, "it's been raining like this for
over a month down here. It's the earliest and wettest start to
the rainy season in living memory. I keep expecting it to stop,
but it just keeps on pouring. Our camp is all set up and pretty
well provisioned, but on my last trip back here one of the
lesser tributaries that we'll have to cross was so flooded I

didn't know if I'd make it across using the hand ferry. I'm not
sure if we'll be able to get back across."
"Well, we've got to try," Dr. Morales insisted. "We need
to put some distance between us and them, so we can buy
ourselves time to reach the authorities and get some help.
Bush-whacking our way back to civilization is out of the
question, and if we stick to the roads they'll eventually find
us. I'm hoping they won't be motivated enough to follow us any
deeper into the rainforest, but if that boy is really dead...who
knows."
"Hey, that kid was breathing when I left him," Falan
reiterated.
"Nobody's doubting that," Dr. Morales assured him. "I
promise you you're in the clear either way. We just need to buy
some time until we can get in touch with the embassy. Esteban,
can you lead us out of here, in the next sixty seconds?"
Esteban tilted his head down and let out a long breath of
air. When he looked back up everyone was staring at him.
"I've still got about fifty seconds left, don't I?" he
asked ruefully.
Esteban pointed to a fry pan of cooked eggs and told them
to dig in, then he snatched a small knapsack off the table in
front of him and hurried around the little cabin filling it with
odds and ends. Dr. Morales crammed the pistol into a side
pocket in his pack while his students hovered around the wood-
burning stove sharing a fork and rolling their eyes in mock
ecstasy. The eggs were still warm, and everyone agreed that a
couple of bites were better than nothing. They saved a mouthful
for the professor, but he declined.
"Do we have time to change our clothes at least?" Alison
asked.
"No, we don't," Dr. Morales said shouldering his pack.
They were all drenched through to the skin despite having
the latest hi-tech rain gear. If the rain didn't penetrate from
the outside, then sweat soaked them from the inside --
breathable fabric or not. On top of that, all the guys were
covered in mud from pushing behind the van.
"You'll just be wet again in five minutes," Esteban assured
her.
CHAPTER 55
Palerick sensed the panic in Erieku's silent scream. He
stood up and immediately detected a long swath of parted grass
reaching toward him from the distance. There was nothing
visible to suggest what was approaching, but whatever it was it
was picking up speed. Palerick bent over to put his pant leg
back on, but Erieku's siren like screeching blared inside his
head once more. Fear and adrenalin sent him running.
He looked over his shoulder and saw a forked tongue the
size of his arm flickering through the grass behind him. The
sight spurred him onward. He sprinted down the slight grade as
fast as he could naked to the waist with one pant leg down
around his ankle and the other flapping behind. When he broke
into the clearing, the three muskbovin were hurdling directly at
him. They were shoulder to shoulder. Their great curved horns,
both the long and the longer pairs, were rotated forward.
Erieku rode bareback astride the center beast. She was lying
forward clutching fists full of long hair from the necks of the
animals to either side of her.
Palerick did not have time to heed her command to veer
away. Luckily, he tripped over his flailing pant leg and
sprawled onto the ground in front of the charging grazers. He
just had time to cover his head with his arms and tense his body
in anticipation of being trampled to death when the thundering

hooves clamored over the top of him. The expected pummeling
never came. By luck or design the razor hooves spared him.
Gheddy looked over his shoulder and saw a wide, blocky head
punch through the wall of grass at the clearing's edge. It was
low to the ground. The tongue and vertical yellow eyes that
blinked from the sides gave it a distinctly lizzradine
appearance, but a muzzle overstuffed with canides and a coat of
oily green hair evoked ursinik comparisons. As they neared it,
the three muskbovin dropped their heads in unison and stampeded
into the creature at full tilt as the rest of its body broached
the dense wall of grass. Their horns did not dip low enough to
stab it, however, and they ran straight over the top of it.
The sound of the hoof strikes on the creature's back
suggested it possessed some form of carapace beneath its furry
exterior. The low slung predator let out a fierce hiss and
clamped its jaws down on one of the mount's rear legs as it
barreled past. Erieku's stud stumbled forward and launched her
over its head. The petite Ludition sailed all the way to the
top of the slope before disappearing in the long grass.
The other two muskbovin continued on several strides then
whirled about and pawed the ground with their front hooves.
Their downed companion barked and snorted while kicking wildly
to dislodge the massive jaws gnawing its rear shin bone. When a
cycling hoof struck squarely and crushed one of the reptilikon's

eye sockets, the creature released its grip and shuffled a
retreat in Palerick's direction. The associate director crabbed
backward several yards skinning his bare backside as he went.
He need not have worried. As he jammed his foot back into
his pants and pulled them up, the two mounts that he and
Sandogaul had ridden charged once again. This time they swerved
around either side of their downed comrade before reforming
abreast and lowering their horns. Rather than attempting to
joust horizontally through the squat ground hugger a second
time, they tilted their heads farther forward and speared the
creature into the ground. They struck with such force that when
their horns stopped short in the rocky soil both animals pole-
vaulted straight over their victim and landed on their backs
with a thunderous tremor. A couple of broken tips were revealed
when their horns pulled free from the ground, but the greasy
haired saurian remained skewered between them after they
scrambled to their feet.
It was twice as long as either muskbovin even without the
tail, which started out as thick as Palerick's waist and tapered
down to a thin whip. The tail slashed and cracked erratically
as the impaled creature writhed about high on the two
muskbovin's horns. It hissed and snapped its jaws at the
brightening sky while the two milkers snorted and tossed their
heads violently. The cacophony drowned out the instructions

Erieku shouted inside Palerick's head. Suddenly, both muskbovin
reared back and tore the stump-legged fur serpent in two. Then
they shook their heads and slung the halves aside. The two
pieces tumbled across the ground a short distance then twitched
and flopped about where they came to rest.
Palerick ran back up the slope in the direction he had seen
their diminutive guide go flying. When he met Erieku coming
toward him cradling one arm gingerly, he looked past her and saw
two new creases in the grass rippling toward them across the
open prairie. He realized then what Erieku had been shouting to
him about. As Palerick helped her down off the rise, she turned
all of her focus on Treachen. Her wounded stud was back on its
feet limping just ahead of them. When they reached the
escarpment's clearing, Sandogaul was wandering more or less in
their direction carrying two burning sticks from the campfire.
Erieku grabbed one with her good arm and started setting
fire to the prairie. She hurried bent over at the waist
dragging the torch along the edge of the grass where it bordered
the rocky bluff. Treachen stood watching in confusion, as
Palerick snatched away the second torch and began setting a
blaze in the opposite direction. Black smoke billowed up
immediately, but the grass smoldered half-heartedly rather than
erupting into a furious wall of flame as Palerick had hoped it
would. The two healthy muskbovin split up and patrolled along

just in front of Palerick and Erieku. Treachen gawked back and
forth between them and the twitching halves of the hairy komodon
carcass.
Several newly arrived prairie serpents poked their heads
out of the grass ahead of Palerick as he dragged his fire brand
along the edge of the clearing. Each time the muskbovin acting
as sentry charged forward with horns lowered and sent them
scurrying for cover. The associate director continued on for
more than a hundred yards before he sensed Erieku calling him.
When he arrived back at their camp, she was tending her mount's
wounds by applying some sort of salve to its lower leg and
wrapping it.
"Will the fire be enough to keep them away or will they be
back?" Palerick asked.
"They will be back, but we will be gone by then. I was
careless. It is common knowledge that the komodon leave their
nests to hunt in the pre-dawn hours, but they rarely leave the
cover of the grasses. I did not anticipate this or else I would
have warned you against re-entering the steppe. They will not
venture across an area that has been burned off while it is
still hot, but we need to get moving anyway if we hope to make
it to the city by tomorrow morning. It is shame that we had to
kill one of them. Their numbers are few, and they are ignorant
to the repercussions of their actions."

Erieku's bull twisted back to nuzzle her as she doctored
it.
"I do not know whether to be surprised at how docile these
animals are or how ferocious they can be," Palerick said aloud
as he patted the wounded creature's head.
"They are not animals in the sense you imply. They are
ascended beings like us," the Ludition answered silently without
looking away from her work.
"Do not be ridiculous," Treachen said perking up. "These
beasts are no more capable of overcoming their natural
biological causality than those krokodilidons. Their neuro-
chemical reactions merely play them like children's string
dolls."
Palerick detected whispering in the back of Sandogaul's
mind as the technologist responded telepathically for the first
time. In the recesses of his mind the senior specialist was
lamenting his uncle's, Director Vertimere's, decision to send
him off on this assignment. The associate director wondered if
Treachen was aware that he was responding voicelessly to a
statement he could not have heard with his ears.
"You are wrong. They are more than that. Muskbovin are
self-aware and capable of making altruistic decisions and taking
action based on abstract reasoning," Erieku replied.

She finished bandaging the stud's wound and then led them
all off on foot. Palerick and Sandogaul elected to walk for a
bit as well. Both of them needed to begin working their legs
back into shape. The electro-impulses applied during stasis
only provided them with minimal muscular toning.
"So you mean to tell me these beasts of burden can
understand what we are saying right now?" the senior specialist
asked speaking aloud once again.
"I do not think you are aware of it, but earlier you were
conversing telepathically," their guide answered side-stepping
the question. "It is important that you continue doing so. The
more practice you get focusing your broadcasts and shielding
your private thoughts, the better off you will be when we reach
the summer capital. If you cannot learn to do those things with
at least minimal proficiency, then you will not have any hope of
blocking out all the extraneous conversations taking place
around you. That will make for an extremely unpleasant
experience. Not to mention your constant scheming and
complaining to yourself will greatly annoy those you encounter.
Nobody cares to be subjected to the unsecured ranting of
someone's inner voice, particularly when that individual is an
unenlightened foreigner with a vindictive streak fueled by an
unsubstantiated mistrust of the truth."

"Since I do not appear to have a great deal of choice in
the matter I am going to play along with this for awhile
longer," Sandogaul stuttered subvocally.
Palerick wanted to chuckle when he saw his subordinate's
lips miming his thoughts like a child first learning to read
quietly to himself.
"Meanwhile, perhaps one of you will slip up and show me how
to extract myself from this farce," Sandogaul continued. "But
until then, if what you say about these -- err, beings -- is
true, then how is it that I never detect our friends here saying
anything?"
"They do not communicate on our natural frequency or speak
either of our languages. They are ascended beings, however,
they have not risen to the same level of consciousness that we
have attained. Hence their intelligence potential is also not
as high as ours. The muskbovin are not beasts of burden as you
so indelicately put it. We Luditions have joined with them in a
mutually beneficial partnership. We work together toward the
common good of both our kind," Erieku explained.
"It would take a lot to convince me of that," Sandogaul
scoffed silently. "I doubt they are even aware that your
delusions are the only thing keeping them from the dinner menu.
It is absurd to think such groundless conjecture would prompt

you to resign yourselves to eating nothing but weeds and fungus
and such."
"It is not groundless conjecture, I assure you," Erieku
insisted. "We as the higher species are able to learn their
language and converse with them on their wavelength. Nor are we
strict saladites as those who mock us assert. We eat animals,
but the pool of living creatures we label as such is shorter
than the list most others would compile. We Luditions have
reached a pinnacle of enlightenment unmatched by other species
of this age. This allows us to communicate with a much greater
cross-section of the living entities we encounter.
"There are oblivious animals that we will eat. Likewise,
there are ascended species of plants and other forms of living
entities that we will not kill simply to sustain our own
temporary physical husks. You can not always trust what you see
right before you. You should take the time to look in every
direction and examine all the possibilities before you jump to
conclusions," Erieku finished without turning back or making any
sort of jesture.
Just then the cow walking behind Sandogaul scooped him off
his feet with her horns, reared up and did an inexplicably
nimble 360 degree turn on her hind legs before kneeling down and
gently returning him to the ground.

Their guide continued facing forward and asked, "Would you
guess that she decided to do that randomly of her own accord or
do you suppose that I asked her to help me make my point?"
Sandogaul wiped the look of surprise off his face and cast
a withering glare at Palerick.
"As a child I trained my pythovipen to come to me when I
whistled a particular note," Sandogaul informed them. "Though I
was young at the time, I was smart enough to know that it did so
based on the assumption that I would feed it a dead scurrier not
because it understood my desire to pet it. I have no doubt
these beasts take instruction better than my dull-witted pet,
but that certainly does not make them intelligent, much less
cognizant," Sandogaul added belligerently.
The group wound their way slowly down off the escarpment to
the valley floor. When they reached the swift, grey-blue river
fed by glacial runoff, they all mounted up for the crossing.
Afterward Erieku got down again to treat the bull's wound. She
remained afoot when they started up into the foothills, but the
Ilstachians were too weary to walk any farther and elected to
stay in their saddles.
As the day progressed they rose steadily above the valley
floor. They made good time up the lower scree-covered slopes
that had been scoured of growth by the annual springtime
flooding. Above the melt-line they entered sparsely forested

hill country that led to the steeper front range and the jagged
snow-capped peaks beyond. Erieku knew she would be vilified for
foisting a complete nuisance on the court, unless the
technologist learned to control his private inner tantrums and
keep his vocalizations in check, so she did her best to keep him
engaged.
"Though the muskbovin are in fact intelligent, that is not
how I referred to them," Erieku stated patiently. "I said that
they were members of an ascended species. Like intelligence,
there are many different levels of consciousness or sentience.
In addition there are different strata within each level of
consciousness, which explains why even the lowliest Ludition is
more psychonically adept than your most accomplished
guildmasters. You must remember that even the lowest form of
life can be considered conscious in the most basic sense. A
species, however, is only considered to have ascended after the
majority of its kind have risen to the fourth level of
sentience.
"This usually signals that the entire species will
eventually ascend during the course of the next few generations.
Yet, there have been many noted instances where a small majority
of a population briefly tarries at the fourth level only to see
their offspring dragged back down again before they can achieve
supremacy over their less evolved brethren. I realize, of

course, that you did not partake in the acolyte training your
associate received, but surely you are aware that our two
species, along with many others, have reached the sixth tier of
awareness," Erieku said condescendingly. "And," she continued,
speaking silently to Sandogaul as if all technologists were
children, "as far as anyone has been able to determine, the
sixth tier is the highest level we can possibly hope to reach
given the genetic instructions available to us in the known
Foamwork at this time."
"Yes, yes, I know the general underlying premise behind our
quest and how it is supposed to help us win the war. Why else
would we all be pushing farther and farther out into the unknown
multiverses at such a foolhardy rate? It is lunacy," Sandogaul
snapped mutely with equal contempt. "We should be suing for
peace and slowing our rate of expansion into all these new
cosmos. This crazed drive to penetrate ever deeper out into the
unexplored Foamwork and be the first to discover the next
consecutive link in the genetic chain of directed progression in
hopes that it will propel us upward to the next level of
consciousness is as unsustainable as it is misguided," Sandogaul
railed on in silent exasperasion.
"The Synthedon," he exclaimed, "are the only ones capable
of continuing the search at anything near the present rate. The
rest of us are maxed out, but they act like they are just
getting started. I do not see what it matters though. We are
wasting resources by chasing illusions when we should be
attacking their strongholds with everything we have or making
the best deal we can with them.
"Even if a biological key to our problems does exist, which
it does not, do not try to tell me that you fear the mechanoids
could use such a find to achieve sentience. They are not truly
intelligent, nor are they even remotely conscious. Erieku, you
of all people should agree with me on that point. I fail to see
how it would help their cause to find the missing genetic
information that you think will propel us upward to some
mysterious new level of consciousness."
Erieku rolled her eyes behind her dark lenses but let him
continue without interruption. She was willing to subject
herself to the technologist's ridiculous assertions as long as
he flaunted his ignorance while practicing a civil form of
discourse. She did not want him to cause a furor when the trio
entered into polite society.
"I do not know if they can really fathom what it is they
are supposed to be looking for," she said, "but many Luditions
fear that the artificial pseudo-intelligence that the Synthedon
have constructed for themselves may be seeking more than simply
to deny us access to this missing genetic catalyst. There is
worry that if the Synthedon find it first, then they may try to
use the link to raise themselves upward and in so doing create
some kind of deranged hybrid form of non-living sentients."
As they left a clearing of wildflowers and started up a
steep incline covered by tall trees with light orange needles,
Palerick turned his attention away from his surroundings and
back to the topic at hand. Uncomfortable in the knowledge that
Sandogaul was ultimately his responsibility, he decided to step
in and run a bit of interference for Erieku.
"Sandogaul old chum, I am aware that diplomacy is not your
forte, however, perhaps you would not mind refraining from
positing quite so vehemently about things you know nothing of.
It is one thing to let our hosts think all technologists are
intellectually limited, but it is quite another to remove all
doubt by openly manifesting such an acute disregard for the
empirical data. Parading your allegiance to the
unsubstantiated, neo-liberal, faith-based dogma espoused by your
technologist breathren on Ilstach III will only serve to further
estrange our allies.
"The only ring of truth I detect in your assessment," the
associate director continued, "stems from the faint echo of a
mistake made so long ago that we may never be able to reverse
it. If there was ever a time to consolidate our strength and
consider other paths to victory, it was before we made our ill-
fated decision to allow such a large segment of our population

to pursue an alternative education in technology before they had
at least mastered basic psychonic awareness.
"In doing so, we knowingly retarded those citizens by
effectively sealing them off from reality. If the end is ever
to justify the means, we must continue searching until we find
the missing link. Only then will we be in a position to return
your kind to the fold by ensuring that your offspring join the
rest of us in mastering the powers of our psyches after the next
ascension. We need a unified society, if we are to defeat our
enemies."
"Gheddy, your pompous rhetoric would be offensive were it
not so laughable," Sandogaul huffed. "You are a fine one to
speak of empirical data. Exhaustive scientific experimentation
has yet to offer a single shred of proof corroborating the
guild's claims regarding duality, and yet you all continue to
delude yourselves."
"I apologize for being so frank," Palerick responded, "but
the guild committed a grievous crime against a substantial
portion of Ilstachian society by allowing it to forgo acolyte
training. The offense cannot be absolved simply because those
who were wronged adamantly deny it. The crime was only passive
in nature, mind you, but allowing the original contingent of
would-be technologists to choose an alternative path to

knowledge at the expense of enlightenment was a crime
nonetheless.
"Your presence here on Rejicstoken should be all the proof
you need to accept the premise that the minds and bodies of
ascended life forms are separate and distinct entities. Your
limited education has left so much of your brain's processing
power fallow that you are unable to grasp the evidence even
though you yourself have recently undergone the bifurcation
process and transmigrated across an entire solaran system prior
to reintegrating. I suspect that your psyche is so overwhelmed
by what it has been through that it prefers to remain in denial
rather than cope with the cognitive dissonance that would result
from accepting as true all that you believe to be false."
"Typical condescending..."
"Hear me out, Sandogaul," Palerick insisted. "Each of the
fundamental building blocks that make up our physical bodies
retains at least a modicum of self-governance even when it is
wholly disconnected from the mind and others of its own kind.
If that were not the case, then it would be impossible for our
bodies to follow along when our minds take their leave and
travel to a distant location."
Sandogaul turned and looked back at the associate director,
"You really are too much, Gheddy. You are certainly staying in
character throughout this piece of theater. It seems as though

you genuinely do not expect to eat your words before all this is
said and done. I look forward to seeing you grimace at the
bitter taste they leave in your mouth. I have not figured out
how you are doing it yet, drugs perhaps, but I am confident the
mind games you and your little friend here are playing on me
will not hold up much longer.
"I am not sure how long we have been in here as real time
is measured, but sooner or later we are all going to have to
come up for food and water. The virtual scraps we are living on
now will only trick the body for so long. Unless you have left
us all hooked up to some type of life support system, this
little dramatization has got to end before much longer, and I
doubt you have gone to that much trouble."
"Our ship was due to leave in just three days," Sandogaul
lip-synched further. "It might not be pleasant, but we could all
survive that long on virtual sustenance. My guess is you hope
to put me off kilter enough that I will decide not to accompany
you after we come out of this. Well, I have news for you,
Gheddy. Sandogaul Treachen is cut from sturdier stock than
that. You make it all sound so obvious, but you blather on
offering nothing more than broad generalizations to support your
claims. Your explanations are always painfully lacking in
detail. For instance, you insist that we are on Rejicstoken,
and yet you offer no plausible methodology to explain how our

mind and its bodily incarnation could possibly navigate their
way from a ship across millions of miles of open space to the
surface of a distant planet."
The party wound their way steadily up a system of
switchbacks that led them deeper into the forest until the sun
was largely blocked out. The reddish shadows offered a welcome
respite from the intense light, so Erieku pushed her dark
glasses back on her head before turning and snapping at the
foreigner.
"Actually, it is not overly difficult to learn the
rudimentary skills required to navigate one's way around
teleportively within a limited region of space-time. For
instance, despite the claims made by some, it is quite simple to
find one's way out of the attic in the dwelling where one's body
has expired. Those who choose to stay in such places have other
issues. Provided one accepts the dangers, it is also easy
enough to wander afar aimlessly since a directionless track
cannot be lost. Beyond one's local environment, however,
purposeful travel becomes much more difficult. Venturing out
from one's immediate vicinity with the hope of reaching a
specific destination in some distant place is a much more
daunting prospect even for the seasoned wayfarers.
"There are eleven separate dimensions permeating the
innumerable multiverses, which makeup the Foamwork," she

continued. "Even a technologist cannot refute that these
multiverses cling to one another like so many bubbles in a soap
soaker. There is a convoluted web of sporadically marked byways
that extend throughout all but one of the eleven dimensions.
Thus they link the majority of the multiverses together such
that there are a vast number of different ways to get from one
point to another anywhere in the greater Foamwork. The trick is
in not losing your way or losing yourself.
"The oldest network of pathways," the guide clarified, "is
now faint and difficult to perceive through the two sets of
overlays that came with the dawning of the Second and Third
Ages. The First Age, or the beginning of material existence,
was initiated when a disenfranchised assemblage of the sublime
decamped from their neo-physical realm and established the
preliminary beachhead of corporeal existence. That totality,
however, was created in a state of maximum density that was
quickly recognized as no less stifling than the opposite
environment from which those secessionists had fled. Vexation
at that realization caused a rupture among the separatists that
stretched their newly construed environment into a multiplicity
of interconnected cosmos that came to be known as the Foamwork.
The highways, lanes and trails that we use to travel within and
between these macrocosms were left behind when the rebels'
uncertainties and misgivings spread out with their growing

handiwork. The collapses and reblooming that ensued resulted
from the ebb and flow of the civil unrest that continued between
them. The regenerations accounted for the subsequent two
networks of byways that are more clear to us."
"If finding a far-off destination in a known location is
considered hard to do," Erieku explained patiently, "then
reaching a particular place when lacking specific knowledge of
its exact whereabouts is several orders of magnitude more
difficult. Trailblazing is not an activity to be taken on
lightly. The dangers are many and the threat of getting
hopelessly lost or eternally divided is all too real. There are
suitable marked routes among the older passageways that remain
intact, but most tend to be overgrown and in disrepair. Many
end abruptly only to pick up again in seemingly incongruous
places, while others circle back on themselves creating endless
loops. The majority of the newer avenues remain un-posted or
worse. More than a few have been falsely marked by those who
would lure travelers to tragic ends."
The three of them continued on like that through lunch and
into the afternoon. They eventually broke free from the
forest's grip and began climbing above the tree-line along a
narrow ridge flanked with snow in spots where rock outcroppings
blocked the sun. Palerick and Sandogaul had alternated between
walking and riding for much of the day, but now both stayed in
the saddle. Though the oxygen was growing thinner, Erieku
continued leading the way on foot.
The ridge topped out at the base of an enormous rock face
streaked with ice. It formed the base of the first real
mountain they had come to. Erieku handed each of them a second
quilted coat that was heavier than the first she had given them
and led them into the ominous shadow cast by the slate gray wall
of stone. They turned left and followed the face's long curve
for nearly two hours before finally rounding the corner. Their
path led through a narrow passage that cut between two mountains
like the bite of an axe.
The peaks far above were shrouded in cloud cover. In the
fading light Palerick was able to make out a lush green valley
far below on the other side of the pass. Row upon row of
successively taller mountain ranges lined up beyond. He thought
he saw what might have been clusters of development, but the
distance was too great and the light too poor for him to be
sure. By then everyone was too exhausted to comment on anything
that did not directly pertain to food or sleep. They quickly
built a small fire and settled in for the night. After a meal
of bread and stew, Palerick and Sandogaul went immediately to
sleep. Erieku changed the dressings on her mount's wounds
before doing the same.

CHAPTER 56
They left the gunman bound and unconscious in the middle of
the floor and followed the young activist behind the building
along a well-defined path that led into the jungle. It was
quite narrow and didn't appear to be heavily used, but it was
not easy to miss. Esteban set a pace that soon had the others
strung out behind him. Falan brought up the rear. Every so
often he forced himself to jog a few steps when Alison
disappeared up ahead. After forty-five minutes of hiking, the
leaders stopped to regroup, and Falan plowed head down into
Alison's back.
"Hey, watch out," she said as she stumbled forward into
Tony.
"Whoa, sorry, I was watching the trail. Sorry, Alison."
"Don't worry about it," she said. "I didn't mean to snap
at you."
Tony passed around the last of his trail mix, and they each
got a handful to crunch on.
"Miguel, keep your pack on," Dr. Morales said.
They hadn't been stopped three minutes, when the professor
began urging them on again.
"Let's go, people. The rest of us need to do a better job
of keeping up with Esteban, if we're going to out-distance these
assholes. For now we've got to assume they're right behind us.
It won't be any big mystery where we've gone. Our tracks will
be easy to follow in all this mud."
They pressed on in the pouring rain stopping briefly to re-
group every half hour or so. Falan fell farther and farther
behind, so Dr. Morales took up the rear and prodded him on. His
pace improved, but he was soon stumbling from the effort. He
took his first header around noon. From then on, he tripped and
crashed to his hands and knees with alarming frequency. Falan
gasped every time he hit the deck. His swollen hand had taken
on a purplish hue, and blood was showing through the bandages on
his forearm and calf. As the day progressed, he was slower and
slower getting up.
"Come on, Falan, you've got to pay more attention and watch
where you're going," Dr. Morales said helping him up after one
particularly abrupt nose-dive.
Falan shook him off and trudged on in silence.
"Falan, I know you're hurting, but we've got to pick it up
some. Even that fat guy could catch up to us at this rate," the
professor insisted.
Falan made no response. A few hundred feet farther on, he
looked up to find the others resting at the foot of a steep
incline that seemed to go on forever. Falan veered off the
trail without stopping.

"Give me a couple of minutes. I've gotta take a crap," he
said as he plunged into the underbrush snapping through the
smaller branches and careening off the thicker ones like a
pinball.
When he was well out of sight, Falan slung his pack on the
ground and dropped to his knees. He pawed clumsily through
several side pockets with his good hand. When he found his
shaving kit, he yanked it out and fingered through the contents
until he came up with the make-shift paper seal that Eric had
given him. Falan swore when he inspected it. It was soaking
wet. Everything was. He didn't have a rain cover over his
pack, and moisture had permeated everything inside.
His worst fears were confirmed when he opened the little
envelope. It was empty. The powdered crystal methamphetamine
he'd been saving had all dissolved. He cast the soggy scrap of
paper aside in disgust and grabbed the Advil bottle. There were
only four speed caplets left rattling around among the anti-
inflammatory pills. Falan popped two in his mouth and swallowed
them dry. He started to snap the lid back on the bottle, but
then he paused. Instead he slipped his raincoat off and draped
it over his head like a poncho. After drying his hands as
best he could Falan turned the Advil cap upside down and placed
the two remaining amphetamine caplets inside the lid. He then
took a pair of nail clippers out of his shaving kit and used the
file attachment to stab the caplets into pieces. The rough
little chunks were far from the fine powder he was aiming for,
so next he pawed through his toiletries and pinched a dime out
of the loose change collected at the bottom.
He wiped the coin off and blew on it a few times before
placing it on top of the pill fragments and grinding them around
inside the lid like a nineteenth century apothecary. He checked
the results after twenty seconds or so then continued the
process a little while longer before checking again. The
consistency wasn't exactly that of confectioner's sugar, but
Falan figured it would do the trick. He pressed one nostril
shut and snorted as hard he could with the other. The granules
shot up his nose like gravel. He winced and narrowed his eyes
against the burning. After a brief pause Falan took a deep
breath and finished the rest off with a blast to the other
nostril. He tilted his head back and sniffed hard several more
times before licking out the inside of the Advil cap and
returning to the others.
"Everything come out okay?" Miguel asked.
"Fuck off," was all Falan said.
Dr. Morales was impressed by how well Falan managed on the
climb until he threw up mid-stride about five minutes into it.
"Hold on," the professor yelled ahead to the others.

"No, don't worry about it," Falan murmured without
stopping. "I'm fine. Let's just get to the top."
Dr. Morales did a double take when he stepped over the
splatter of vomit and noticed two white pills in the thin yellow
smear. They puzzled him because he knew Falan had taken his
last dose of antibiotics hours ago back at the cabin. Falan
motioned for the others to keep going when he reached them
during a break. He did a half decent job keeping up during the
rest of the ascent. The trail continued growing steeper as they
went, but he fell down less and used his good hand to pull
himself along where possible. At one point Falan looked up to
see Alison fade from view behind a fine mist that soon thickened
into a dense fog. It didn't occur to him that they were hiking
up through the middle of a low-lying cloud until they topped out
on a clear-cut knoll and the visibility improved significantly.
Esteban explained that they'd just scaled a nine-hundred-
foot ridge-line and that the little hillock they were on was the
highest point along its forty-mile length. They stood
sandwiched between two layers of cloud cover. The sky above was
an impenetrable slab of gray. Any contrast in tinge or texture
was muted by the downpour. The isolated clouds scattered below
hung like soggy cotton balls over a valley of green that
stretched out in front of them forever.

There were a few dented gas cans and one rusty chainsaw
lying about next to a massive jumble of steel cable that was
strewn across one side of the stump-filled clearing. Esteban
explained that the site had been logged off by crews who used
helicopters to extract the felled trees so they wouldn't have to
go through the expensive and time-consuming process of building
roads to get the harvest out. The practice also allowed the
lumber companies to poach valuable hardwoods in protected areas
without attracting much attention. He assured them that this
was the last sign of encroachment they would see.
"Well, maybe some good will come from this mess," Alison
speculated. "This is probably a good place to try your phone."
Everyone agreed, but Esteban had no luck establishing a
satellite link.
"Don't worry," he said. "This phone works. We'll get a
call out as soon as there's a break in the weather."
"How many days of this do we have to look forward to?"
Miguel asked.
"It normally takes me three full days to reach the spot
where our camp is set up," Esteban answered. "With this rain
it'll probably take a little longer assuming we're able to make
it across the Orinoco. If the raft and tow-line that I rigged
to ferry us over are washed out, we could be stuck on this
side."
"What river is that right there?" Alison asked pointing to
a partially obscured ribbon of water running along the foot of
the slope they were about to descend.
"That's no river. It doesn't even have a name or show up
on any maps. This area is on the very northern edge of the
drainage system that feeds directly into the greater Amazon
basin. There are named creeks around here that are bigger than
that little trickle," Esteban said.
"Well, what happens if we can't get across the Orinoco?"
Miguel asked.
"Then we set an ambush for those assholes, and we get some
payback," Sam growled.
"If the river crests its banks, those guys will be the
least of our worries," Esteban assured them. "We'll be in a
race to get back to this ridge before the whole valley floods
out. Farther south you can set your calendar by the flooding.
There the water comes up and stays up for months during the
rainy season, but this is still technically the dry season, and
I don't think the Orinoco has ever overflowed its banks this far
north. We should be fine. I've just never seen it rain like
this so early in the year. How is everyone doing on food?"
Alison produced enough red licorice for each of them to
have one more piece, but that was the last of their food.
"Those assholes devoured most of what I put together for
the trip, but I grabbed a few things as we left. We can also
forage if we have to. There's plenty to eat in the rainforest,
but it isn't like going to the local market. It takes time to
gather it up. Can you all wait until tonight for a hot meal? I
don't think we should stop here just in case those guys really
are following us."
"What do you guys think?" the professor asked, "Can you
hold out that long?"
Nobody wanted to risk another run in with the men from the
bar, so they agreed to push on until nightfall before stopping
to eat. None of them bothered with raincoats from there on.
They were so hot and sweaty after the climb that the raincoats
seemed pointless. They followed Esteban's lead and hiked in
shorts and T-shirts. The route down the other side of the ridge
was much more treacherous than the way up. Navigating the
series of tight switchbacks was slow going and nerve-racking
because of all the mud. A single misstep by any one of them and
they would have skidded off the side of the trail and plummeted
down through the undergrowth.
"Esteban, this is ridiculous," Dr. Morales said when he saw
that the last fifty feet required negotiating a nearly vertical
rock face that terminated in the stream Alison had asked about.
"Let's have Tony rig us a rope."

"Don't worry," Esteban said, "it looks steeper than it is.
There are plenty of little ridges to hold onto. Just back down
it like you were climbing down a ladder. The water's not very
deep though so don't fall."
Tony followed second, then he and Esteban remained side by
side in the waist deep water to make sure no one slipped and got
completely dunked when they stepped back off the steep face into
the stream. Sam was third in line. The stream was only thirty
feet wide, but halfway across he lost his footing and got swept
a short distance down stream before he was able to regain his
feet and make it the rest of the way to the far bank.
"That wasn't good," Tony said to Esteban. "This water's
moving faster than it looks out in the middle."
He had the others stay together at the bottom and hold onto
each other until they were all down.
"Everybody undo your waist belts and loosen your shoulder
straps so you can ditch your pack if you go under," Tony advised
them all.
They linked hands for safety and waded across the stream
together without incident.
"Man, I should have waited for you all," Sam said. "I
thought I was going to drown for a second. I slipped a little
bit, and the current just took my legs out."

"I didn't even think to warn you," Esteban admitted. "I'm
telling you, this stream is usually only ankle-deep. It was
barely shin-deep when I crossed two days ago."

CHAPTER 57
After the stream crossing, Tony stayed on Esteban's heels
the entire time, while the others lagged farther and farther
behind. Falan had less trouble keeping up than before, but he
knew that he was on borrowed time. Toward late afternoon he
suddenly froze in the middle of the trail. His heart rate
spiked, and his pores started belching sweat all at once. He
stayed motionless for several seconds before slowly turning his
head and looking up over his shoulder toward the jungle canopy's
highest reaches. He didn't dare move a muscle beyond that.
Falan recognized his own terror well enough, but he couldn't
make sense of it. When Dr. Morales appeared moments later and
asked what he was looking at Falan actually took off running a
few steps before registering what had happened.
"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," Falan conceded as
he stood panting in the mud waiting for the professor to close
the distance between them.
"What were you looking at? You looked like you were
watching something," Dr. Morales asked while glancing back the
way Falan had been looking.
"Nothing," Falan murmured as he turned away and continued
hiking.
What else could he say -- certainly not the truth. He
wasn't even sure what the truth was.

"You were staring pretty intently at nothing then," the
professor said dubiously.
"I just stopped for a breather," Falan said without looking
back. "Something must have caught my eye, maybe a bird or
something."
His mind was reeling. He hadn't seen any freaking bird.
He hadn't seen or heard a damn thing. Falan wasn't sure how to
think of it. He felt something. It wasn't like a physical tap
on the shoulder or anything like that. It was more like he
sensed something -- like he could feel something watching him.
Falan knew that he needed to get some real sleep soon.
He'd been running from these dreams or whatever they were for
too long. His physical health had been compromised, and now he
was beginning to worry seriously that his mental health was in
jeopardy. The sensation that came over him on the trail was all
too reminiscent of the way he felt during the first moments
after waking up from one of his episodes. There was the sense
that something was after him, but he also felt somehow depraved,
like he'd just raped a church-load of nuns or slaughtered a
hospital-ward full of handicapped children. He could only think
of one justification for such crazy thoughts -- he was losing
it.
At one point Esteban gathered them together around a small
shrub filled with little red berries. Falan didn't pay any
attention to the botany lesson that came with the snack. He was
too busy psyching himself up to get some rest. Tonight would
have to be the night. He'd already lost his buzz, and he could
feel his body crashing.
"Jeez, Falan, your hand is really swelling up," Sam said
when he and Falan started picking fruit from the same branch.
Falan held up his hand and inspected it as if for the first
time. The flesh was puffed up so that his knuckles had lost all
definition and there were now yellow splotches throughout the
purple bruising.
"It looks pretty tender," Alison said.
"I thought it was just a sprained wrist or something, but
now I'm not so sure. It wasn't that bad until I started wiping
out all over the place in this mud."
"You should let me wrap it for you," Esteban offered.
"I've got a little medical kit in my pack."
"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it," Falan insisted.
"I'll deal with it later, if it gets worse."
"That's what you said before, and now look at you," Miguel
pointed out.
"Miguel, why don't mind your own business?" Falan snapped.
"When I start complaining you can say 'I told you so,' but until
then shut the fuck up."

"Well, so much for a friendly repast. I guess it's time to
move out," Esteban said.
Falan fell in behind Tony and tried to keep up with him and
Esteban for awhile, but his worsening limp caused him to drop
back almost immediately. Sam caught up and passed him before
long. Then Alison trudged past soon after. She slapped him on
the ass and offered a few words of encouragement as she went by.
Falan tried to act cheerful, but his smile came off more like a
grimace. When he heard Miguel come sloshing up behind him,
Falan stood aside and let him go by without comment. Miguel
kept his eyes forward. Dr. Morales was taking it slow in order
to keep an eye on their back trail, so Falan hiked the last two
hours of the day mostly by himself.
When the rain let up near dark, Esteban gathered the
students together and led them off the trail so they could set
up camp during the lull. The area he found wasn't big enough to
accommodate all their tents, so the guys agreed to double up and
let Alison go solo. After a few heated rounds of rock-paper-
scissors, Falan wound up with Sam, and Miguel paired with Tony
who was an admitted snorer. Miguel set up their tent on his
own, and Tony erected another one for Esteban and the professor
to share while Esteban went back to find Dr. Morales and show
him the way to the camp. It was pouring again by the time the
two of them got back.

Tony also rigged a tarp between two trees to act as a
community awning for them to cook and eat under. Esteban didn't
waste any time firing up his tiny single-burner backpacker's
stove and cooking a pot of pasta. All they had to put on it was
salt and pepper and a little olive oil, but no one complained.
"I know it's a little bland and the portions are small, but
we'll eat like kings when we reach our main campsite," Esteban
promised.
"So you think we'll make it then," Alison asked, "even with
all this rain?"
"We've got to make it," Dr. Morales said. "About an hour
ago I caught a glimpse of a column of smoke through a break in
the trees. It was back the way we came, and it was definitely
on this side of that ridge we crossed. Someone had a fire going
back there. It had to be our friends. I'm guessing they
stopped to rest and eat not long after they crossed that stream.
Esteban and I talked about it. We're only going to stop here
for a few hours. I think they've been pretty close behind us
the whole way. I don't think they'll keep moving after dark,
but we can't take any chances."
"Have you tried that satellite phone lately?" Alison asked
Esteban.
"Yes, but I still couldn't link up. I'll keep trying. You
never know with these things. One minute they don't work, the
next minute you're talking to someone half way round the world
like they were standing right next to you."

CHAPTER 58
Kellion watched Svetreeka storm off to their private
quarters without a word as soon as the shuttle was neatly moored
back inside The Lady Valentine. Maintenance personnel and
servitors descended on the shuttle from above as the captain
crossed the grated catwalk spanning the radius of the docking
bay and headed for the bridge. No one needed to be told what to
do. There were standing orders. Each shuttle underwent a
complete diagnostic array after every flight. The Lady herself
received constant attention. Inwah had ingrained the preventive
maintenance mantra in all of them as soon as he grasped just how
dire their predicament was.
The ship had been designed as a long-range explorer, not a
self-sufficient colonizer. She had none of the terraforming
equipment, raw materials processing foundries or weapons
manufacturing capabilities that had been in the plans for that
class of one-way ships, when Inwah and his crew left their home
system. The Lady Valentine was well equipped to deal with most
eventualities that might crop up during an extended voyage, but
the crew would eventually need to swap out her nuclear fuel
cells and give her a complete mechanical overhaul and software
upgrade. She was well-outfitted with seed stores, breeding
livestock, expansive agricultural environments, medical
facilities and a munitions factory until then, but as lost as

they were, "then" might very well arrive before they found their
way home.
Despite this level of preparedness, The Lady was never
intended to venture beyond all hope of rescue. As a last resort
she was expected to be able to summon a smaller, faster
Maserette-class rescue launch from one of the forward deployed
carrousels if she required assistance. Her main vulnerability
lay in her propulsion system. She had a primary fusion reactor
and an auxiliary, but many of the automatic transmission
components that synchronized those power sources with her ion-
thrusters were too intricate and specialized to be fully
serviced anywhere but a major shipyard. They had a good supply
of spare parts on hand for most of the ship's other components,
but there was no telling how long they would have to last given
their current situation.
Acquiring an alien ship as a backup was not necessarily out
of the question. Svetreeka was right. Kellion had encountered
plenty of faster ships that were better armed, but he was
usually too busy running or hiding from them to think seriously
about capturing one of them. Besides, he was loath to even
contemplate going on without The Lady Valentine. She was their
last connection to home. The old girl would have to be terminal
before he could bear to scuttle her. That did not mean he was
above acquiring a second ship to supplement their firepower and

diversify their risk, however. The time to learn what they
needed to know about operating alien technology was while they
still had The Lady to fall back on. The right situation just
had not presented itself yet.
Annabelle Lee, his second-in-command, angled his genuine
leather upholstered command recliner to the upright position and
vacated it as soon as Kellion topped the gangway leading up to
the bridge's executive deck. Annabelle was young enough to be
his granddaughter, if not his great. The top of her head barely
reached the middle of his chest. Her outward appearance was
unfettered by any of the augmentations and prosthetics that now
adorned so many of the older crew. As a whole they had been
slow to adopt such enhancements, but as their outlook became
steadily bleaker more and more of the crew began having work
done when they happened on friendly ports of call that offered
such services.
Against all regulations Annabelle was born aboard ship
before the crew entered its first cryogenic interval and became
lost. The pregnancy had been in direct violation of an explicit
moratorium on all procreation until after the crew's first big
nap. Though regulations clearly authorized him to order the
junior medical officer in question to undergo an abortion,
Kellion never considered enforcing that statute.

Instead, when he learned of the matter, he stripped the
mother of her rank and confined her to her quarters. Her
husband, a cryo-technician, went unsanctioned. He was no the
one who was pregnant, and there were no rules against married
couples copulating. The father's demotion came later for other
reasons. Annabelle was only four when Kellion made the decision
to have everyone go under the ice for the first time. After
five years underway, he was finally satisfied that they had
shaken all the bugs out of The Lady's systems. She had been
running on autopilot for the last two of those years and
everything was checking out fine.
The captain stayed warm for another six months while the
others took their first polar bear dip. Kellion wanted to keep
an eye on things for awhile longer, and he had a few matters to
attend to that were best done in privacy. Before going under
himself, he programmed a series of wakeup alarms that would thaw
two different officers every two years. They would remain atop
the iceberg, as the saying went, for six months performing
systems checks and overseeing routine automated maintenance
regimens before slipping back beneath the pack ice. Eighteen
months later, another two officers would be brought up from the
frigid depths to check on things.
The crew was divided into three cohorts. Each was
horizontally and vertically staffed with enough functional

expertise to enable it to operate the ship on its own should the
other two cohorts become incapacitated for any reason. Baring
that sort of disaster, this arrangement allowed all stations to
be fully manned around the clock for an indefinite period should
the need arise. The three groups were frozen in separate,
independently redundant cryogenic systems dispersed throughout
the ship to ensure the best chance that at least one full
complement of crew would survive in the event that major
portions of the ship were damaged while everyone was in their
respective chiller.
In accordance with the Psychological Warfare Department's
recommendations, Kellion scheduled an automated ship-wide
shutdown of the regular life support after the two duty officers
were supposed to have gone back under the permafrost. This was
to ensure that no one overstayed their visit in the tropics. If
they did, it was more than likely they were up to some kind of
spacechosis-induced mischief. It was possible to circumvent
that shutdown, but doing so would cause the captain and a third
of the crew to be thawed immediately. There were also other
less publicized failsafe systems in place that would thaw the
captain and other select officers under various circumstances.
Three young cadets hovered around Annabelle shadowing her
every move. All were in their early teens. Kellion had
initially been surprised to learn that the cadets were more in

awe of her, than of him, but he later decided it made sense. At
just twenty years old, Annabelle seemed more like a real figure
to them. If he was an aging icon, she was a rising pop star.
Being assigned to her was an undeniable mark of status for the
cadets under her supervision. Though few of them could ever
hope to compare with her, they were the brightest of those born
since the ship's departure from home.
Kellion was running the education program for new enlistees
like one of the old-school maritime academies. All space-born
newcomers officially entered the ship's service and began their
practical education at the age of five -- only a tad younger
than the powder monkeys of old -- but these youngsters could
look forward to much less hazardous initial duties than their
forebears. After losing nearly a third of his crew so early on,
Inwah could not afford to allow them any more childhood than
that. Initially, they all undertook the same standardized
education rotating through a series of morning apprenticeships
before attending technical classes in the afternoons. By the
time they were ten, the youngsters were divided up and assigned
to specialty training in either the enlisted or the officer's
track based on attitude, aptitude and academic performance in
that order.
The reason it was against regulations to conceive children
until after the crew's first chill was that no one was sure how
a long-term freeze would effect the development of a fetus or
young child. Relatively short freezes of just a few years did
not appear to adversely affect fetuses, infants or toddlers, but
The Lady Valentine's crew was scheduled to go far below zero
degrees Kelvin for as many as a thousand or more years at a
time. Annabelle's mother and father secretly wired her four-
year-old brain to receive electronic stimulus twelve ship hours
out every twenty-four while she was under.
The input data came from an unabridged encyclopedic file
covering everything from entry-level basics to post-doctoral
theses on every topic under their home sun. Her parents wired
her left and right lobes separately so that each half of her
brain could be inundated simultaneously with different streams
of information. The data was compressed and played at a high
enough speed that it started back at the beginning every three
ship years.
None of this became common knowledge until a year after
they awoke to find themselves being overrun by the lizard-like
marauders when she was drafted as the first and only member of
her graduating class to enter the captain's emergency enlistment
program. Annabelle's instructors were quickly struck by her
ability to comprehend, retain and utilize new information, but
they were truly astonished when they recognized the extent to
which she could process highly complex material. It all finally

came to light when one of her teachers found her speed reading a
navigation system trouble-shooting manual for one of the ship's
shuttles when she was supposed to be watching a classic
children's story on video.
When she was quizzed about the contents of the manual,
Annabelle's instructors were blown away. They immediately took
Annabelle to see Captain Inwah so that she could give him a
demonstration of her recall and problem-solving skills. At one
point Inwah suspected a put-on so he called his chief engineer
over and asked him to try to stump her off the top of his head
without her instructors present. She proceeded to correctly
answer dozens of procedural questions relating to various
malfunction scenarios that might be expected to afflict a
shuttle navigation system. Her recall proved flawless and her
speculative analysis displayed amazing insight. Afterward she
was taken back to the academy and her parents were brought
before Inwah.
The Lees confessed to running unauthorized experiments on
their daughter and explained what they had done. They said they
had not known whether their experiment would prove any more
useful than placing a hard copy of the information under her
pillow while she slept and admitted that they could have
inadvertently destroyed their daughter's brain. None of that,
however, had stopped them from being so thorough as to include

all of the ship's training and technical manuals -- both
classified and otherwise -- in their daughter's subconscious
lesson material.
They had already determined for themselves that the girl
was not actually memorizing what should have been new
information as it was presented to her. She did not have
automatic recall of the data she had been bombarded with while
in forced hibernation, but somehow exposure to that information
while conscious enabled her to access the appropriate storage
area in her brain where all other related material had been
previously filed away during her deep freeze.
The experiment her parents conducted on Annabelle boosted
her brain's processing speed to many times that of anyone else
on board. Her ability to access and navigate the vault of data
stored in her head improved rapidly. Before long all she had to
do was read a few chapters of a foreign language text, and that
was enough for her to speak the tongue fluently. Liberal arts,
however, failed to stimulate her.
Her passions ran more toward strategic analysis, tactical
planning, game theory and engineering. By the age of thirteen
she had redesigned The Lady's gunnery interface to coordinate
the ship's main batteries with all of the lesser cannon aboard
the deployable gun ships and linked them together with Inwah's
precious new particle Gatling, which until then had to be

operated manually. This was a feat no one else on the ship had
been able to accomplish because of the Gatling's alien
technology. Inwah might have been tempted to make her second-
in-command right then, but she lacked the commensurate level of
emotional maturity to complement her practical smarts. He also
knew that there was more to commanding a galactic cruiser than
could be learned in manuals.
Annabelle's father was stripped of his rank just as his
wife had been, but the two were given their own private lab and
put to work designing and preparing the sub-Kelvin schooling
regimen for the next generation of ship-born. Further down the
pipeline Inwah had plans for an intrauterine education system,
but first all eyes were on Annabelle watching to see what yet
undetected negative abnormalities might pop up.
She spent the next six years rotating among the ship's
senior staff learning from their experience the things that
could not be schooled in the traditional sense. Kellion finally
made her his second-in-command on her nineteenth birthday.
Since then he had been keeping his eyes open for a likely alien
vessel to appropriate. When he found the right ship, he
intended to put it under her charge along with a hand-picked
crew so that she could figure out how to operate and maintain it
before The Lady Valentine finally succumbed to age or
affliction.
"Commander Lee, what is this about an encrypted
communiqué?"
"I will let Specialist Azavayo fill you in, sir. He is the
one who detected the signal."
Inwah's chief communications officer struggled up from a
nearby console and came over as the captain seated himself.
Constantine Azavayo was not doing well. For some reason his
body had not responded well to its cryogenic interment. It had
stubbornly continued to age, albeit at a reduced rate, leaving
him the oldest looking crew member aboard by a distinct margin.
His bald pate was splotched, and the hair he did have left was
gray and brittle. Arthritis raged in his joints leaving him
partial to the ship's anti-gravity environments. He was
resigned to his fate and refused to consider undergoing any
artificial enhancements beyond a routine hearing upgrade that
enabled him to keep his job. Inwah empathized, but he did not
care for Azavayo's peevish attitude.
"At ease, Specialist Azavayo, what have you got?"
"Captain, I came across an odd transmission while scanning
the vacuum waves on the receiver that the Perukai gave us when
we left the Melting Pot."
"I did not think you were able to make any sense out of
that thing."
"They got me pretty well up to speed on it during our stay
with them, Captain, but we have detected so little traffic on it
that I was not sure if I had programmed the automatic monitoring
and notification features correctly. Most of the little traffic
we do encounter comes across on our own equipment but not on
theirs."
"And now that has changed?"
"Yes sir. I responded to a notification alarm this morning
and picked up the first really clear signal to come over the
Perukai gear since we left the Melting Pot."
"And what was so compelling about this transmission that
you felt it necessary to drag me off the beach to tell me about
it in person, Specialist Azavayo?"
"Sir, the transmission itself appears to match the
structure used by a species, which the Seruvan warned us about."
"The punch line, Azavayo, please get to the point. What
did the message say?"
"We have no way of knowing, sir. The translation filter
appeared to do its job, but the message content came out
gibberish. It was either encoded or the meaning was lost in
translation."
"I know you did not bring me all the way up here to tell me
that."
"No sir, of course not. I thought you might want to be
reminded that if these are the same beings the Seruvan had
encounters with -- then they are reputed to have the fastest and
best-armed ships that anyone at the Melting Pot had ever
encountered."
"There is nothing new there. Nearly everything we have
come across so far has been faster and better armed than The
Lady."
"Yes sir, but that was not the case with our friends back
at the Pot. None of them were accustomed to being overmatched."
"Are they stalking us then? Make your point."
"No sir, they are not, but we felt you might like to be
reminded that the profile the Seruvan shared with us indicates
that these beings -- if they are in fact the ones who sent this
broadcast -- are much closer to us anatomically than any of them
were."
"Now you are saying we, Specialist."
"Yes sir. You have indicated in the past that you were
open to the possibility of appropriating a second ship, and
Lieutenant Commander DeGama and I felt that if the Seruvan claim
is accurate and these beings have the goods then you might want
to consider investigating further to see whether there was an
opportunity to commandeer one of their vessels."

"Ah, the infamous we...I should have sensed Rodrigo's hand
in this."
"We felt," Azavayo continued undaunted, "that the physical
similarities we purportedly share with this species might give
us an advantage when learning to operate one of their ships, as
opposed to a ship built by a life form that is radically
different from us in appearance."
"Where is he -- DeGama?"
Rodrigo V. DeGama had been Inwah's second-in-command until
Ms. Lee unseated him. Ever since then he had taken every
available opportunity to make the case for acquiring a second
ship under the assumption that he would be the one to command
it.
"I really could not say, sir."
"Lieutenant Commander DeGama is off duty, Captain,"
Commander Lee informed him. "He is on the third watch."
"Can you tell where the message originated -- whether it
was sent from a planetary or ship-based transmitter?" Inwah
asked turning back to the stooped communications officer.
"It definitely came from a ship of some kind that was
traveling well below light speed but accelerating steadily."
"What is your feeling on the matter Commander Lee?"
"The Lady Valentine is in perfect health, Captain..."
Inwah raised a finger cutting her off.

"Thank you, Commander, please forgive me. We will speak
further at dinner this evening. Let me put a few other matters
in order and listen to a copy of this transmission for myself
before we discuss it."
The captain rose from his seat.
"Specialist Azavayo queue up both the original intercept
and the translation and then route them through to my state
room. Commander, you have the helm. Maintain our present
orbit."
Inwah got up and left the bridge without another word. He
was suddenly acutely aware that he had been spending far too
much time away from the ship. This was not a matter to be
discussed openly. He would not make the same mistakes with
Annabelle that he had made with Rodrigo.(1)

CHAPTER 59
Falan didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but he woke up
screaming hysterically and fighting for his life in the dark.
The tent was partially collapsed over his head, so when the
beams of light started shining through from the outside he
became even more confused and frightened. Something pressed
against his face, and Falan chomped down as hard as he could.
Whatever it was yanked free, and then something crushed into his
windpipe. He tried to break loose and roll away, but his legs
were trapped inside his sleeping bag. Finally as the burning in
his lungs forced a moment of clarity, Falan realized Sam had him
pinned to the floor of their tent.
Sam kept jamming his forearm into Falan's throat and
yelling his name even after Falan stopped struggling. Dr.
Morales got their tent open and pulled Sam off him just before
he passed out. Falan caught his breath and waited for the
stiffness between his legs to subside before crawling out of the
tent in just his boxers. Everyone was standing around half
naked in the rain staring at him with a mix of concern and
irritation. Sam was inspecting a nasty set of teeth marks on
his forearm under the light of several headlamps.
"What was that all about?" Dr. Morales asked looking back
and forth between Falan and Sam.

"I, I don't know," Falan stammered. "I must have been
having another nightmare or something. I woke up, and Sam was
all over me. I guess I panicked."
Sam looked up from his arm.
"It was like on the plane but worse. You woke me up out of
a dead sleep. You were flailing around and moaning and
whimpering. I started shaking you, and you went off. You
snarled and growled at me like a fucking pit bull. Next thing I
know you're kicking and scratching at me like a maniac. I had
to do something. You whacked me in the fucking nose too,
asshole. When the first light came on I could see that your eyes
were wide open, but it was like you were blind or something.
You looked like you were in some kind of fucking trance, man."
"Hey Sam, I'm really sorry," Falan said. "I can't believe
I bit you like that. I mean it, I'm really sorry."
"Fuck you, man. You probably just gave me rabies,
dickhead. We might all be lying at the bottom of a shallow
grave right now if it wasn't for you, but you and I are even,"
Sam said. "You come near my nose again, and I'm going to fuck
you up. I'm not kidding."
He gave Falan a hard slap on the shoulder.
"We all appreciate what you did," Sam continued, "but
you've got to chill out a little. You're all wound up. Don't
sweat a murder rap. We're all witnesses. You might have some
hassles over it, but you'll never do a day of time, so relax.
Save it for later. We may need you back in the game, if those
assholes catch up to us."
"No. Don't even think about those guys," Dr. Morales said.
"We've got a good head start on them. You may be suffering from
a minor case of post-traumatic stress disorder. I have a friend
who was a cop back in Argentina. He had to shoot a guy once and
ended up having nightmares, panic attacks -- couldn't sleep.
It's very common for people in your situation. He was fine
after some counseling. If that kid did end up dying, it was his
own fault. You did the right thing, and no court anywhere will
convict you."
"That's bullshit," Miguel said. "He doesn't have any post-
traumatic stress disorder. The same thing happened to him back
at the hotel in Caracas before we ever ran into those guys. And
what about on the plane? He's a fucking nutcase, man. He needs
to be put in restraints before he goes psycho again."
"Is that true?" the professor asked. "Were those episodes
the same as this one and the one in the van?"
Falan was caught off guard. He'd been thinking along the
same lines, but he didn't want to give Miguel the satisfaction.
"He's just pissed off 'cause he nearly wet his pants back
at that the bar. I've had a little trouble sleeping, that's
all," Falan insisted. "Working at my dad's firm all summer was

a grind. Long hours -- lots of all-nighters. Now with the
traveling and all this other crap, it's been awhile since I got
any decent sleep. I'll be fine once we get settled into a
routine and I can log some rack time."
"You watch," Miguel insisted, "it's going to happen again.
I guarantee it. He's a ticking time bomb."
Falan gave Miguel a hard look.
"Keep it up, weasel dick."
"Okay, Falan, enough of that," the professor said. "We're
all going to have to do with less sleep for now. Everybody pack
up. It's just after midnight. We'll stop for a hot breakfast
when the sun comes up."
None of them could get dry. Their packs all weighed an
extra ten pounds because of the rain they'd absorbed. Standing
water began to accumulate in the trail making it all the more
difficult to avoid roots and other obstacles. They agreed on
the need to save batteries so every other person in line left
their headlamp turned off. Esteban slowed the pace to keep
large gaps from opening up between them.
Falan started out okay, but before long he was back to
stumbling and falling down all the time. Dr. Morales was always
right there to help him up, but his words of encouragement did
nothing to help Falan stay engaged or keep his wits about him.
For awhile the professor tried to keep him alert by talking to

him as they walked. Falan did his best to hold up his end of
the conversation, but after an hour he stopped responding and
tuned the professor out altogether.
Every time they stopped for a rest, he plunked down
immediately wherever he came to a halt then shut his eyes and
laid back against his pack without saying a word to anyone. It
usually took some prodding to get him up again, but once he was
on his feet he pushed ahead under his own power without
complaint. Twice during the night he froze in place and stared
off into the darkness like he had the day before.
Falan flinched and scampered away a few steps the first
time Dr. Morales found him frozen in the middle of the trial.
The second time, he turned and fixed the professor with a cold
stare. Victor was taken aback. He actually braced himself for
impact before he saw a look of recognition cross Falan's face.
"Falan, wait a minute, hold on."
Falan ignored him and splashed on ahead until Dr. Morales
put a hand on his bare elbow. He relented with a sigh.
"What?" he asked turning. "We're falling behind."
The professor felt something that caused him to lift
Falan's arm up and inspect it under his headlamp. He checked
Falan's legs and the side of his neck.

"Falan, you're covered in goose bumps. What the hell is
going on? What do you keep looking for when you stop like
that?" he asked.
"Nothing, I told you before. Come on," he said turning
away, "we've gotta catch up."
Dr. Morales kept a firm grip on Falan's arm and held his
ground.
"Then why are you covered in goose bumps and acting so
twitchy? Who did you think I was when I came up behind you just
now?"
"Nobody, I thought you were you. What's the big deal?"
The professor placed a hand on Falan's forehead.
"You're acting irrational. It's almost like you're
delusional with fever or something."
"I'm not sick. I told you I'm exhausted. I haven't slept
more than nine or ten hours a week in the last two months, and I
probably haven't slept eight hours total in the last two weeks.
I'm telling you: I just need some fucking rest."
Falan shrugged away from the professor and quickened his
pace to catch up with the others. The claim was so outrageous
that Dr. Morales almost didn't give it any credence at all.
"You've got to be exaggerating," the professor said falling
into step behind Falan.
Falan remained silent.

"That's impossible. Nobody could go two weeks with less
than one night's sleep," he persisted.
"Not true," Falan said flatly without looking back. "The
Guinness Book lists a dude from California who went nineteen
days in a row without sleep back in 1986. He beat out a San
Diego high school student who stayed awake for eleven straight
days in 1965 as part of a science fair project. Trust me, I've
checked. I'm not even in their league yet."
Dr. Morales didn't know how to respond so he held his
tongue and promised himself that he'd keep a closer eye on Falan
from then on. The professor had a lot on his mind, but he
couldn't help noticing that the water on the trail was rising.
It was now consistently ankle-deep. All the puddles they'd been
splashing through the day before now seemed to have joined
together into one long shallow body of water.
Esteban called a five to ten minute break every hour or so.
With no place dry to sit down, the majority of the group stood
around shifting their weight from foot to foot while they
rested. Falan on the other hand showed no qualms about plopping
right down in the middle of the trail.
"Check him out." Sam said a couple of hours before dawn,
"He's out cold."
He toed Falan gently in the ribs with his boot but didn't
get any response. Falan was sprawled backward on top of his

pack. But for that, his whole body would have been under water.
As it was his legs were almost entirely submerged. Only the
toes of his boots broached the surface.
"He looks dead," Alison said.
Falan's head was lolled back so that his mouth hung open
and his chin pointed straight up in the air. He was oblivious
to the rain hammering down on his face. The others gawked.
When the water pouring up his nostrils made him choke and
sputter, he just coughed and turned his head to one side without
appearing to wake up at all.
"He could be the first person to drown from facing upward
in the rain," Sam chuckled.
"He's suffering from severe exhaustion," Dr. Morales said
as he went on to recount Falan's claims.
"Oh man, that would suck," Sam said. "I need my beauty
sleep. I'd be wigging out too if I was him."
"I don't believe that crap," Miguel said defiantly. "He's
just making up excuses. Nobody can go that long on so little
sleep. He was asleep when he freaked out back at the hotel."
"Miguel, what the hell do you know about it?" Tony scoffed.
"I've seen smoke jumpers and hotshot crews go weeks and weeks
battling forest fires with hardly any sleep at all. You have no
idea what the human body is capable of. Some of these guys who
race single-handed sailboats around the world only sleep like
ten minutes at a time for weeks on end."
"Yeah, they all get a little trippy, too" Alison joined in.
"What about those long distance swimmers. One girl swam across
all the Great Lakes in a two-month period. The longest one took
her fifty-three hours. She said she was having full-blown
hallucinations by the second day."
"That's interesting," Dr. Morales said. "I caught Falan
staring off into nowhere a few times. He acted pretty spaced-
out -- almost like he was hallucinating. He could have been
seeing things. One time he didn't even seem to recognize who I
was."
"I'm telling you," Miguel persisted, "my cousin Rodolfo
started acting like this right after college. He started
hearing things, thought his mother was trying to poison his
food. He's doing okay now, I guess, but he's on some serious
medication."
"Falan is at the age when schizophrenia tends to hit young
men," the professor admitted, "but I don't think that's his
problem. He's not acting like your cousin. I think it's a
combination of too little sleep and too much stress. My cop
friend went through a really bad time after he killed that guy.
Alison, how did he seem right after he hit that kid?"
"He seemed fine to me. I was the one freaking out."

"What about the kid? How bad did he look?"
"It was hard to see. There was just one dim light out in
the hall. I didn't get a good look, but I heard the sound that
board made when it came down on the top of his head, and it
wasn't pretty. There was a bunch of blood I guess, but I was
too busy losing it to pay much attention."
They rested a little longer than normal to give Falan a
chance at some more sleep, but after fifteen minutes Sam and
Tony took him under the armpits and hauled him to his feet.
Falan cringed like a startled cat at first, but he quickly
realized where he was and relaxed without making a scene. After
that they all slogged on straight through to sun-up without a
break.
CHAPTER 60
As dawn broke, Esteban called a halt in front of a tree
trunk that had fallen across the trail.
"Look at this water," he pointed out. "It's really coming
up."
The morning gloom was just bright enough for them to see
without headlamps. Standing water now reached midway up their
shins and made the jungle seem like it was sinking all around
them. Despite the continuing deluge, Esteban quickly set up his
stove on top of the log and put a pot of water on to boil. Sam
held a raincoat over the operation. The rest of them handed
their packs to Tony who found a good spot for them up out of the
water in the branches of the downed tree.
"Sam, can you take care of cooking up this pasta?" Esteban
asked.
"Sure, I think I can handle that," Sam said. "Alison, will
you give me a hand and hold a corner of this raincoat up?"
Alison joined him and took over holding one end of the
improvised awning. Falan managed to stay awake until the pasta
was cooked. Then, he wolfed down his portion and climbed up
onto the tree trunk to sleep. Most everyone else was quick to
join him. They lay head to toe on their backs covering their
faces with their raincoats. The professor remained awake to
keep a lookout.
Despite being hungry, wet and uncomfortable, the others
slept hard for half an hour. The professor's watch alarm
signaled when the break was over. Falan looked around warily
when Alison woke him up. It was a relief when no one paid him
any special attention. He figured he'd dodged a bullet.
"Let's go. We've got to pick up the pace some," Esteban
announced. "Tony, pass those packs over here. We've still got
a long way to go. I don't want to scare you guys, but the
situation is not good. We really need to make better time."
With that he dropped down onto the trail and splashed away.
The others were left scrambling to put on their packs and follow
suit. Everyone but Tony found it impossible to go any faster.
Sam and the professor were holding their own, but Miguel and
Alison were fading fast. Strangely, Falan seemed to have
bottomed out. His pace didn't improve any, but he somehow
managed to maintain the same steady rate of progress he'd clung
to the day before.
Dr. Morales kept to the rear in order to prod the
stragglers and keep an eye out. Miguel and Alison soon fell
behind Falan and began stopping for unscheduled rest breaks.
The professor's tone with the two of them became increasingly
harsh. The responsibility he felt for their well-being weighed
heavily on him, and he was second-guessing his original decision
to drive south when they left town.

Falan's body threatened to give out, but he was driven to
keep going. He'd heard the others discussing his plight when
they thought he was asleep, and he didn't want to give them any
further justification for thinking he was losing his mind.
Whatever had been affecting his sleep was now intruding on his
psyche while he was awake. At times he was unsure whether he
was sleeping or awake as he limped down the trail. When Falan
checked over his shoulder, it wasn't to see if the men from the
bar were catching up. He didn't know what he was watching out
for, but in the back of his mind he understood that it wasn't
them.
The professor was right. He was clearly delusional. Maybe
not all the time, but he was periodically losing touch with
reality, and his episodes were becoming more frequent and more
intense. The truth was daunting. Falan wished he was back in
the states where he could get good medical care. He tried
staying focused on the trail ahead, but it was useless. Falan
held his growing anxiety in check just enough to keep himself
from seizing up in mid-stride, but he couldn't stop scanning
high and low in all directions every few minutes. The
anticipation was becoming as bad as the actual episodes.
On the rare occasion when he caught up to the guys in front
during a stop, he continued past with his eyes down and his
mouth shut. Let them think what they wanted. He wasn't about
to open his mouth and remove all doubt that he'd gone mental.
Falan ignored them again when they caught back up and passed him
after their rest break was over. He couldn't reconcile the
battle taking place inside his mind, and he no longer trusted
what might come out of his mouth.
Toward early afternoon the smell of hot food interrupted
Falan's fretting. Tony, Sam and Esteban were stopped and
holding a raincoat over a pot of simmering rice. Falan
acknowledged their greeting with a nod but maintained his
silence. He tried to focus his attention on the cooking food,
but his eyes roamed high and low almost incessantly. He was
anxious to get back on the move before a fresh round of goose
pimples stood out on his flesh.
"Did you hear something?" Tony asked at one point when
Falan snapped a look over his shoulder into the tree tops.
Falan stared off intently for several moments then turned
back and waved a hand dismissively without making eye contact.
The other three showed up together just as the food was ready to
eat. Dr. Morales arrived pulling double duty. In addition to
his own backpack, he had Alison's pack strapped awkwardly in
front of him like an infant carrier. They all stood around in
water that was now knee deep and wolfed down the steaming rice.
Esteban practically inhaled his portion and started off again
before anyone else was done.

"Esteban, hold on a minute," Dr. Morales said. "We need to
take a break for awhile. These guys are barely hanging on. We
hiked through the whole night. There's no way those cretins
could have kept up with us."
"We can't stop, Victor. It's not about them anymore.
We've got to get to the Orinoco as soon as possible before it
rises too high. It's going to be close as it is. We can't
afford to waste any time."
"Fuck that," Miguel said. "I'm not taking another step.
I've got to get some sleep even if it means lying down in the
middle of this god-damn cesspool," he finished kicking his foot
out of the water.
Esteban was on him in a flash. He grabbed Miguel by the
shoulder straps of his pack and pulled him close so their faces
were nearly touching.
"You're going to do exactly what I tell you," Esteban
snarled.
The professor put a hand on Esteban's shoulder and tried to
ease him back, but Esteban shrugged him off and stayed in
Miguel's face.
"We're not in a lecture hall, and we're not in Caracas.
I'm in charge out here, you little prick. You countermand what
I say once more, and I'll put you over my shoulder and carry you
myself."
The others just gaped. No one doubted him.
"Victor, we've got to keep moving," he said to the
professor without taking his eyes off Miguel. "We'll sleep for
a little while after it gets dark. I think I know a place to
camp that might even still be above water. We'll make better
time during the daylight so we can't afford to waste it."
Without another word Esteban slipped off his small day pack
and took Alison's pack from the professor. After fastening his
little pack to the back of her larger one he hiked Alison's
backpack up onto his shoulders and headed up the trail under a
double load.
"Let's do what he says," Tony said. "This is his backyard.
We'd be stupid not to listen to him."
"I'm sorry about that, Miguel," the professor said.
"Esteban didn't have any right to speak to you that way, but I
agree with Tony. I've known Esteban all his life, and he
wouldn't behave like that without good reason."
"I don't care. This whole trip has gotten out of hand.
I'm out of here as soon as we get through to the police and get
these psychos off our ass."
"I agree we're off to a hell of a start, but let's just
take it one step at a time for now. Hopefully we can..."
"Forget it," Miguel interrupted. "I'm going back to
Caracas the first chance I get."

"That could be awhile the way we're going," Sam said as he
turned and followed after Esteban.
The rest of the day was torturous for most of them. The
rain never even hinted at letting up. Falan maintained his
place semi-isolated in the middle of the pack. Miguel startled
him out of one of his trances later in the day, but Falan
maintained his composure and hurried ahead before Miguel
actually reached him. They regrouped several times throughout
the afternoon and again just as it was getting dark. Falan
looked the worst by far, but Alison and Miguel were the ones
having the most trouble keeping up.
"Okay, Esteban, this is it," Dr. Morales said. "We've got
to eat and get some sleep. We'll make better time if we stop
for awhile and let people regroup. Otherwise we're just going
to keep slowing down until we're hardly making any progress at
all."
"I know, Victor, but we'll be swimming soon."
Esteban leaned over and splashed the water with his hand.
"We can't sleep here. There's a slight rise in the terrain
somewhere up ahead that should still be above water. I'm not
exactly sure how much farther it is, but it's got to be close.
I don't think we have any choice but to keep going until we
reach it. If it turns out to be under water, I guess we can try
to rig some makeshift hammocks or something, but I don't see us

getting much rest that way. We should save it as a last
resort."
"I think I can make some decent hammocks with the climbing
rope and tents, but we'd all be a lot happier with firm ground
under us," Tony agreed. "Let me, Sam and Esteban cruise ahead,
and you guys follow as fast as you can. We'll have another hot
meal waiting for you when you catch up. After we eat, we'll
work together to get all the tents set up."
The professor looked at Falan, Miguel and Alison.
"What do you guys say? Can you go a little farther?"
Falan didn't say anything. He just unclipped the headlamp
from the side of his pack and placed it on his head.
"I feel bad with you guys carrying my pack," Alison said.
"If Esteban can keep carrying it, then I guess I can keep
walking."
"Fine," Miguel said, "whatever."
They hiked three more hours in the dark before reaching an
area that rose gradually up out of the water to form a narrow
berm. As promised when the stragglers ascended onto what passed
for dry ground, there was a pot of rice ready and waiting under
an improvised rain shelter. Esteban had also used his machete
to clear several tent sites. Sam and Tony set up Alison's tent
and two others.

"There's one open spot for another tent," Esteban said to
Falan and Miguel. "You guys can either share it or one of you
can hack out another spot so you can both go solo."
"You take it," Falan said. "This place will be underwater
before morning. I'm just going to roll up in my rain fly and
sleep on the ground under the cooking tarp."
"I'll be waking everyone up in three hours," Esteban
announced a short while later as they all settled into their
sleeping bags. We need to get back on the trail as soon as
possible, so don't waste any time breaking camp when I wake
you."
CHAPTER 61
When the door to Kellion's private lift opened below decks,
he found Donibal standing outside in the corridor. The steward
snapped to attention and fired off a smart salute worthy of a
senior cadet.
"Your Excellency, wait. For the love of all things fair,
do not go in. La Bruja...forgive me, La Countessa is not
feeling her most pleasantness. I would not prudently advise per
this juncture that you..."
Inwah brushed past and continued heading for his quarters.
They contained steward's accommodations that had a separate
entrance as well as an auxiliary command and control center, a
salon, a dining room and a library. Each was decorated to evoke
a different period from history. His first steward, a
fastidious old letch, had insisted needlessly on changing most
of the furnishings every couple of ship years, but Kellion drew
the line at the library.
It was lined with actual hide-bound books, some of which
were even purported to be originals looted from rare collections
during the Second Purging. The others were artificially
stressed to look like they had been around since the First Age
of Exploration. The dark paneling, burnished leather
upholstery, brass rails, and faux oil lamp lighting added to the
sense of period authenticity. There was a reproduction of an

antique telescope positioned by one of the portals, and an old
globe marked with the maiden routes followed by all the famous
explorers sat in a freestanding cradle at the center of the
room.
Lieutenant Commander DeGama was so taken with the globe and
its record of his namesake's achievements that he had
commissioned one of his own. Swords, matchlock pistols and a
hammock lined one wall. A cannon and a small pyramid of ten-
pound shot sat in a corner. Kellion just could not see any
reason to trade his precious library for some retched neo-cubist
recliner with a low resolution tele-swivel on the arm and an
antiquated sound system in the headrest.
The captain liked to do his own reading, but it was more
than that. He wanted to preserve the room's atmosphere.
Somehow the feats achieved during the subsequent periods of
exploration just did not compare to those early days. The later
voyages were arguably much grander in scale, but he felt it was
all relative. The exploration renaissance first saw courses
plotted off-world, then out of system and now beyond galaxy, but
they just could not compare with the romanticism Inwah
attributed to his earliest predecessors. He was already re-
thinking the wisdom of providing Donibal with a berth in the
separate steward's quarters even before he heard the
freebooter's padded footsteps fall in tentatively behind him.

"Admiralisimo, please, hearken my dire portents...La
Countessa is..."
The soundproof hermetic door opened when it recognized the
captain then shut quickly behind him scuffing the toe on one of
Donibal's sparkling yellow, patent-leather boots. The steward's
fretting was immediately replaced by the apartment's more jaded
appraisal of the situation.
"Welcome home, Captain. Please forgive the mess, but you
really should not have shown your...companion...how to manually
override my defense settings. I suggest you change the
password."
"Be quiet, Marlena."
His apartment gave a barely audible humpf, and then there
was near silence. Inwah recognized the metronomic creaking
noise emanating from deeper within his living quarters, but he
preceded cautiously just the same. He had learned not to
underestimate Svetreeka and never to assume anything where she
was concerned. When he reached the end of the short entrance
corridor he looked up to make sure nothing was about to be
dropped on his head before stepping out onto the circular
balcony.
Since the ship was not under thrust, his silo-shaped suites
were extended out from the hull. They retracted when the ship
accelerated above normal orbital speeds. Inwah was again

reminded that he had been gone too long when he felt briefly as
though he was falling head first when he looked up to see the
stormy planet's surface hovering outside the domed plexi-diamond
ceiling two stories above. Momentarily satisfied that he was
not about to have the top of his skull crushed in, Kellion
stepped out and peered over the banister into the salon below.
It was immediately clear why Donibal was in such a tizzy. His
new steward would have to follow Marlena's lead and learn to
take this sort of thing in stride or else find work in the
galley.
Tufts of stuffing from one of the couches lay strewn across
the floor, and the upholstery hung off in tatters. Yet another
genuine crystal flower vase had been shattered against the wall.
Inwah doubted there could be many more of those left in the
replacement stores at this point. He smiled and chided himself.
Marlena was right. She normally could have fastened everything
down at the first sign of trouble or even taken steps to
incapacitate Svetreeka under extreme circumstances.
The ship's main computer would have overridden the
adjustments Svetreeka made to Marlena's programming and secured
everything in the event that the ship underwent a equilibrium
shift because of sudden acceleration, loss of pressure, violent
impact or any other such event, but it did not usually lower
itself to assist the domestic staff like Marlena unless there

was a real emergency. This incident did not qualify -- yet.
The broken table, overturned chairs and pictures ripped from the
walls could all be repaired or replaced.
The captain turned his attention back to the floor above,
as he made his way around the balcony and started up the tight
spiral staircase hugging the wall. The noise that sounded like
a rocking chair on loose boards grew louder as he climbed the
steps. Kellion paused near the top of the flight before poking
his head up level with the floor of his loft bedroom.
Everything was in order for the most part. On this level the
suite's curved outer walls were every bit as transparent as the
domed ceiling. Lying in bed with the lights out when the ship
was within a galactic cluster was quite spectacular, but when
the stars were that bright on all sides, Kellion often found it
necessary to close the blast shields in order to get any sleep.
Svetreeka was sitting naked on a trapeze swinging back and
forth in the middle of the room several feet above their hand-
crafted, wooden sleigh bed -- a reproduction from the New
Afridon period. She had had the swing affixed to the high,
concave ceiling by one of the ship's animate maintenance workers
shortly after joining the captain. Her arms were wrapped around
the suspension ropes and she was leaning forward with her hands
clasped in front of her kicking her legs back and forth lazily.
Kellion could tell from the sheen of moisture on her skin that
she was taking a breather after working out the aggressions left
unquenched by her tantrum downstairs.
It was strange. When she looked at him, he did not get
nearly the same level of tingle that he was used to feeling. He
mentally checked his implant settings to make sure that his
impacitors were turned to their lowest setting. They were, but
for some reason the vibe he was getting still felt like the
units were dialed up for maximum interference. Kellion briefly
considered switching the implants off, but then thought better
of it. Instead he leaned against the banister and watched as
Svetreeka increased her tempo.
She unclasped her hands and moved them to the ropes at her
side then leaned back and kicked out vigorously. Svetreeka bent
her legs and sat up for the back swing before heaving herself
forward again. Once her arc stretched across most of the
bedroom she slid backward until the backs of her knees were
resting on the bar. Next she released the ropes and let herself
fall back so that she was swinging upside down with her legs
hooked over the bar. From there she performed a series of
rotations and acrobatic release moves that defied the laws
imposed by momentum and the ship's artificial graviton field.
Kellion marveled as she cycled through her routine. He had
never seen anyone who could do what she did. The way she
rotated around the bar while it continued swinging was

confounding enough, but he found it truly mind-boggling that the
flips, twists and combined release moves done at each end of her
arc could be executed so quickly that Svetreeka was able to re-
catch the bar before it escaped. A final series of inverted
pushups and pull-ups left her long, lean muscles trembling with
exhaustion. She dismounted with a full layout back-flip and
landed lightly in front of Kellion.
The familiar sensations came rushing back. Svetreeka led
him by the hand to the center of the room and deftly helped him
out of his uniform while giving him a long kiss. Then, she
crawled onto their bed ahead of him and draped her lithe frame
face first over a cylindrical pillow and clicked her wrists into
a set of padded restraints attached to the base of the
headboard. Kellion reconsidered deactivating his impacitors
before dismissing the thought and climbing up to kneel behind
her.
The two of them satisfied each other's base needs for the
next three hours before passing out. It was not like the sex
they had shared before he had the impacitors grafted into his
brain -- that level of ecstasy left him too deranged -- but it
was still ten times better than anything he had ever experienced
with someone of his own species. Kellion woke from his stupor
when the shower came on. There was a dull throbbing in his
head, but it was bearable. He checked the time -- not bad.

Before the impacitors, he would have slept for a day or more
then woken up craving more despite having a mind-altering
headache and physical injuries that left him feeling like he had
fallen from a great height or been run over by heavy machinery.
Back then his desire had driven him to go long periods without
food or water. His implants were likely the only reason he was
still alive.
"Marlena, there should be a message from Specialist
Azavayo's station. Would you run it, please?"
"Kellion darling, you stallion, are you certain you are up
to it? Do not you think you should rest awhile longer and
regain some of your strength before returning to the arduous
task of commanding an intergalactic cruiser?"
The two of them had had a thing long ago when Kellion used
to let her access one of the more voluptuous personalities in
his virtual harem, but those days were well behind them.
"Jealousy does not become you, Marlena. Run it."
Kellion listened to the recording while lying in bed and
watching Svetreeka through the transparent shower enclosure. It
came as no surprise when he could not make any sense out of the
original transmission or the attempted translation. If Azavayo
and his quantum processing decryption algorithms could not
decipher the message, then he was wasting his time. He merely
wanted time to consider his options before voicing an opinion

one way or the other. Svetreeka activated the blow dryers
before exiting the shower.
"I am surprised you are awake. Shall I come back to bed?"
she asked when she stepped out.
"No, I have got to get up on deck. We have been in orbit
here far too long. Everyone is gone soft rotating between
surface leave and stand-by duty."
"What was that you were listening to?" Svetreeka asked as
she dried her hair. "I could not hear too well from the shower,
but it sounded familiar."
"One of my communication's officers, Azavayo, has taken to
surfing the local galactic bandwidth and eavesdropping on the
locals. He has been wasting his time trying to listen in on
some tawdry bit of gossip that he can titillate himself with.
Marlena, replay that recording for Svetreeka," Kellion said as
he pointed in the air for Svetreeka to listen.
"Captain, I would not want to embarrass your randy little
tart or make her feel inadequate by subjecting her to such
sophisticated forms of communication. Perhaps she would be more
comfortable if I presented the information to her in a way that
was more consistent with her level of breeding and behavior. I
would be happy to display the transmission to her in the form of
a simple cave-drawing or perhaps some primitive hieroglyphic
text. I am sure it would only take me a few moments to

rearrange the shards of crystal downstairs into a suitably crude
cuneiform dialect or pictograph."
Svetreeka rolled her eyes and donned a robe. Her language
skills were not perfect but she got the gist.
"That is quite enough, Marlena," Kellion said as he sat up
and swung his feet onto the floor. "Play it."
Once the recording started playing, Svetreeka stopped
combing her hair and strode absently across the carpet. She was
staring out into deep space when it ended.
"See what I mean? Can you believe they called me back up
here to listen to that gibberish? It is just as well though. I
am sorry I ruined your plans to attend the king's hunt, but it
really was past time for me to get back. I need to sail us out
past Azavayo's current detection horizon so he can get back to
work searching for signs of home."
Svetreeka tightened her robe and stayed silent. After a
minute the captain got up to take a shower.
"It was not all gibberish," she said quietly as he was
entering the stall.
Kellion pulled his foot back across the threshold and
turned. Her back was still to him.
"You actually understood some of that?"
Svetreeka was shaken to the core and not yet prepared to
face him. She paused for a long time considering what course to
take and how much to reveal to this stranger to whom she owed so
much. Regardless of whether her real home was someplace out
there beyond all those little pinpricks of light or here with
him, the home of her birth lay on the other side of one or more
physical barriers that separated the cosmos. Crossing those
borders unassisted would be beyond her ability even if she knew
where to find them.
Her Beledesheera schooling had been cut short at a young
age -- long before those sorts of details were explained. Until
now she had never dared hope to see her native world again.
Sensing an opportunity to get the help she needed to do so
solidified the feelings of discontent that she had previously
refused to dwell on. By the time she felt Kellion's hand on her
shoulder, Svetreeka had made up her mind and steeled her
resolve.
"Did you really recognize some of that?" Kellion asked
again.
Svetreeka turned and wrapped her arms around him burying
her head in his chest. When he returned her embrace and gently
stroked the back of her head, Svetreeka's conviction wavered.
Fleeting visions of her internment on the Iridonic slaver
flashed through her mind, but she quickly placated her qualms
with a single concession. She would only allow herself to lie
through omission. If that was not enough, then so be it. The

slim distinction would afford this peculiar foreigner the
opportunity to choose his own course, but she was confident his
choices would suit her own designs.
"Svetreeka, come on, darling, speak up," the captain
prompted. "You seem rattled. What is it?"
"Yes, I could understand part of it," she finally admitted.
"But you have always said you do not know anything about
science or technology. How could you decipher an encrypted data
stream like that?"
"I am not sure what you mean, but no machines were used to
send that broadcast."
"How can that be?"
Svetreeka reached up and fingered the camouflaged incision
where Kellion's implants had been inserted.
"You know what I can do. My education was cut short, but
others are much more adept than I."
"Well, what did it say?"
"The individual who sent this message was a Beledenite like
me. She was providing her superiors back at some sort of base
station with a mission status update. Apparently the station
itself had detected another noteworthy signal sometime before,
but unidentified atmospheric anomalies in their area garbled it
and rendered it unintelligible. The base commander's curiosity
evidently led him to dispatch a ship out into deep space away
from the local disturbance so that it could acquire a clean
signal and decipher the transmission."
"And they were successful?"
"They were. The previously distorted message was sent by
an ally of theirs, a race of machines known as the Synthedon.
They had little trouble decoding it, once they were able to tune
it in clearly. They had intercepted what started out as a
mission critical report announcing some kind of incredible
discovery, but then ended in a distress signal accompanied by an
emergency tracking beacon."
"What sort of discovery?"
"The message's original sender seems to have been a drone
craft dispatched by the Synthedon to find a high-level foreign
dignitary who was thought to possess priceless information,
which could win a long-running war being waged across many
different cosmos. The drone had just discovered a trail leading
to the individual's place of concealment when it experienced
irreparable mechanical failure. It crash-landed long before it
could pinpoint the exact location of the luminary in question."
"Why does this message seem to be having such an impact on
you? I will not let you fall back into Beledenite hands to be
persecuted by your own kind again," Inwah assured her.
Svetreeka remained still for a moment considering how best
to set the hook. She then pulled free from Kellion's arms and
walked to the other side of the room to stare out at the storm-
ravaged planet they had just departed. She felt his hand on the
back of her shoulder.
"We should just go back down there or find some other more
suitable planet and settle down -- stop this endless voyaging
from one nowhere to another," she whispered. "We could make a
home for ourselves and live real lives instead of wasting the
little time we have left sailing around lost enduring extended
bouts of hyper sleep."
"What has gotten into you?" Inwah responded. "There is
something you are not telling me about that transmission. What
is it?"
She turned and looked up at him.
"Do you plan for us to stay together or will you tire of me
and find another to warm your bed?"
"Darling, do not be ridiculous. You know you are more than
that to me. I need you. You keep me sharp and on my toes.
Tell me what is going on."
She tried to spin away, but he held her firmly.
"Svetreeka, come on, this is not like you at all. What has
gotten into you? Tell me what else was in that message."
She looked down at his chest briefly then met his gaze.
"The trail that the drone was following was a signal that
emanated from the dignitary himself," she answered again

caressing the spot on his temple where he had had the impacitors
installed. "This signal marks him as one of your kind -- a
being like you and your crew."
Kellion extended his arms holding her away from him.
"Are you sure? How can you know that?"
"I have told you before. All things, living and non-living
alike, give off some sort of beacon."
"Many of the beings we have encountered have been similar
to my crew and me. Could nt there be others that are enough
like me to confuse you -- make you think they were like me when
they were really just a close approximation?"
"No, it does not work like that. Those you speak of have
not been as similar as you would make them out to be. Even
though the physical differences were not always readily obvious,
I could always tell your kind apart from theirs solely by the
psychonic patterns you each gave off. The dignitary being
sought is not from a nearby offshoot of life. He is from your
same branch."
Kellion let go of her and started pacing the room.
"How did the message we intercepted end? Were the senders
going to continue on and search for this dignitary themselves?"
"They would have, but it is not an option. They must first
find the disabled drone and hope that it can tell them where to
look. That is what they intend to do."

"I have got to get up top to see if there is any way
Azavayo can home in on this ship and follow it," Kellion said as
he threw on his uniform.
"If he can get us near the area where the message was
broadcast from, then I may be able to track the ship for you,"
Svetreeka said giving her skull a couple of quick taps with a
long purple fingernail.
"Excellent," Kellion said as he started down the spiral
stair while still tucking his shirt in place.
"This will be dangerous," Svetreeka called after him. "It
will not be like preying on lightly armed commercial freighters.
Others will pick up that distress signal. Even if they do not
comprehend its meaning, ruthless scavengers with the most
advanced ships will be drawn looking for easy pickings."
Kellion stopped and looked back smiling, "No problem.
Maybe one of them will inadvertently lead us home while trying
to track down whoever it is they are all looking for. We may
even get an opportunity to ambush somebody and capture a better
ship. We need a sister ship -- one that Annabelle can figure
out how to operate. She is ready for her own command. Do not
worry," he added as he continued out of sight, "I will not cut
you loose if we make it back to my home world. We will settle
down just like you were saying," he shouted up as he exited the
suite.
Svetreeka looked out at the stars in the distance. This
would be dangerous for her as well. Even if she managed to get
away from The Lady Valentine before it was destroyed, there was
nothing to suggest that she would be welcomed back into her old
society. She would have to find a way to ingratiate herself
somehow -- give them a reason to allow her back into the fold.
Azavayo managed to get a fix on the general area where the
Beledenite broadcast originated without too much difficulty.
When the navigator plotted a course to get them into the
vicinity, it became obvious that even at top speed it would take
The Lady Valentine the better part of twenty ship years to get
there. There was no telling how far the message's sender would
have gotten by then, but Inwah remained undaunted. Once they
were underway, he started drilling the crew relentlessly in a
bid to shake off the mental rust they had accumulated during
their stay in port orbit. He fueled their diligence with
assurances that they were headed for a do-or-die showdown that
would determine whether any of them ever saw home again.
They deployed the gun ships regularly and staged mock
battles covering every foreseeable eventuality for the better
part of a ship year before The Lady's fusion-fueld ion drive
finally started generating too much speed for such drills.
Their strategic planning bore Inwah's unmistakable imprint, but
once the enemy was engaged Annabelle's heightened ability to

monitor large numbers of constantly shifting variables and
priorities made her the obvious choice to oversee the real-time
tactical decision-making.
Even when she was unhooked none of the crew members with
direct cortical ship interfaces could come close to matching
her. When Annabelle was jacked in, the performance results she
achieved were orders of magnitude greater than any of them would
have ever thought possible. With his second-in-command
stationed at The Lady's central fire controls, the captain was
free to indulge his first love -- commanding the escort squadron
while piloting one of its fast, nimble, chemical-driven fighter
wings.
Regardless of whether they were gaming offensive or
defensive maneuvers, the crew's overall tendencies reflected
Inwah's preference for bold strikes masked by layers of
subterfuge and misdirection. Annabelle and her computer
together assessed the shifting priorities and threat levels
while recommending how best to utilize the deployed gun ships.
They also synchronized The Lady's maneuvers and the firing of
her main batteries with the squadron's activity. The captain
meanwhile led the gun ships and retained override authority on
all computer-generated decisions.
The computers could not bring themselves to disregard
statistical likelihood, but Inwah had commanded hundreds of

sorties against the pan-religious Jihadists at home. That
experience gave him the confidence to occasionally trust his
hunches and ignore even the longest odds. Those decisions
tended to come when the situation appeared most hopeless, and
more often than not they swung the momentum back in his favor.
Together he and Annabelle would orchestrate a deadly blend of
deception and calculated aggression marked by bursts of bold
spontaneity.
Inwah's other officers likewise worked tirelessly to ensure
that the medical units, fire suppression teams, damage control
engineers and all of the ship's other functional specialists
were in top form before the majority of the crew was cooled down
for the duration of the long chase to come. The navigation and
communications teams were divided up and put on a rotating
schedule so that both stations would always be attended by
living personnel in case any further broadcasts were detected
from the ship they were pursuing. Inwah did not want to waste
the valuable time it would take for the ship's automated systems
to thaw out crew members and revive them.
At the first sign of any similar transmissions those on
duty were instructed to wake Svetreeka, who could be stirred
from her self-induced hibernetic state in a more timely fashion.
Under such circumstances the navigation officers were instructed
to alter their course and home in on the source location of any

new signal that she authenticated. If that occurred, Inwah was
to be woken and notified immediately.

CHAPTER 62
An hour later Falan was confronted with the crippling
realization that he could not wake up. The terror that had been
stalking him finally had him surrounded. His escape path to
consciousness was cut off, and he was trapped. There was only
blackness, and the horror that loomed unseen in every direction
registered in ways that Falan had never experienced. Warning
sirens blared from sensory receptors he'd never known he
possessed.
Falan understood that he'd been wrong to dismiss his fears
so lightly. He no longer suspected that his own mind was
betraying him -- he knew it. That was the only possible
explanation. Nothing but his own mind could possibly track him
beyond the physical world to attack him while he slept. There
was a civil war raging deep within his psyche, and he couldn't
run or hide from himself.
Falan shied away from gut-twisting sensations that hinted
at genocide and fratricide only to be confronted by images
forecasting his own self-inflicted demise. It was all too clear
that this end would be a blessing after much prolonged
suffering. Falan cringed at the idea that such a grisly method
of self-extermination would be considered a relief. He was too
scared to be horrified when he found himself desperately hoping
that deliverance from such agony could and would be achieved

merely by entering a state of physical death. That prospect
seemed less likely by the minute.
Falan did not actually envision these images in the optical
sense. He felt them in ways he could not describe. It was as
if a whole new part of him was revealing itself for the first
time. Though he was aware that his body was asleep, Falan was
also quite certain that it no longer mattered. The little voice
in the back of his head was coming to take his sanity away, and
it no longer cared whether he slept or not.
The realization that staying awake no longer offered safe
haven implied that Falan was out of options. Unable to flee and
unaware how to combat this threat, Falan sought to hide by
blanking his mind and extinguishing all thought. The effort was
futile -- like a toddler trying to disappear from view by
covering its eyes. Just as the child is helpless to keep from
peaking between its fingers, Falan could not stop himself from
screaming out when the little voice in the back of his head
finally made its intentions known and began forcing its way into
the part of his mind that defined who he was.
Falan felt his sanity stretch to the breaking point. When
thoughts that he had not initiated began mingling with his own,
Falan knew that he was finally going over the edge. It seemed
as though his subconscious mind was forcing its way up to the

conscious level in order to take command of the control center
while he slept.
Falan feared that he would not regain consciousness even if
he did manage to wake himself up. He sensed that he would no
longer be himself. Somehow Falan understood that his sanity
would be irreparably torn unless he released his hold on it of
his own volition very soon. Maybe if he gave up his sanity
while it was still intact, then doctors would somehow be able to
restore it to him. Falan was preparing to surrender his self-
governance when full lucidity snapped back into place without
warning.
Falan still couldn't see anything, but the projection of
power and confidence expressed on his behalf was unmistakable.
The mutineer within reared back in surprise leaving many escape
routes suddenly unchecked. Falan dashed for one and woke up
gasping. He found himself sitting backed up against the base of
a tree. His chest was heaving. He peered out through the
foliage and saw several lights dodging about in an effort to
penetrate the dense tangle concealing him. The din from the
steady rain muffled the sound of voices, but Falan thought he
recognized a low hum resonating beneath the droning deluge.
"Falan, come on, son, come out from under there," Dr.
Morales called to him as he tugged on the rain fly that was
twisted around Falan's legs.

One of the prying beams of light caught Falan's eyes and
stopped. As Falan squinted and turned away Alison reached
through the leaves and touched his arm.
"Come on, Falan. It's me, Alison. You're okay. We're the
only ones out here. Those guys from the bar are nowhere near
here. There's nothing to worry about," she tried to assure him.
Alison leaped back when she followed Falan's stare and saw
the stranger squatting in the darkness just a few feet away.
"Shit, oh my god," she yelled as she skittered backward.
The old man stared ahead unblinking while chanting steadily
in a quiet baritone.
"It's okay, it's okay," Esteban said as he hurried forward.
"This is Takuroo. I've known him for years. He's a Yanomami
elder and a healer. He's like an uncle to me."
Falan struggled to free his legs and extricate himself from
the underbrush while the others stared back and forth between
him and the old man.
"What did I tell you," Miguel sounded off from back near
the tents. "Psycho Boy went off again didn't he? I told you
the kid is a kook."
"That's enough, Miguel," Dr. Morales snapped.
The South American tribesman stopped chanting and stood up
when Falan crawled out from hiding. At his full height he
couldn't have been more than four and a half feet tall. His
black hair was cropped short in a bowl cut. Two wide bands of
black and dark orange were painted horizontally across the top
half of the man's face. The only clothing he wore was a faded
pair of blue Adidas running shorts. He was lean, but the many
folds of loose skin drooping from his frame suggested he was
quite old. The skin above his upper lip was Tiernand by slivers
of wood that protruded outward several inches giving the
appearance of cat's whiskers. A strip of leather was tied
around each bicep, and a single claw the size of a man's curled
finger hung around his neck.
He pointed at Falan and spoke to Esteban in a language that
none of the others could follow. When Esteban replied the old
man shook his head decisively. He rattled on while pointing up
in the air and waving his hand in a big circle above his head.
Then he jabbed a finger at Falan twice more before tapping his
own temple.
"Takuroo wants to know how long the hunter has been
stalking you," Esteban said to Falan. He looked around at the
rest of the group and continued, "I explained what happened back
in town and why those men are chasing us, but Takuroo says that
isn't what he means. He says those men have turned back, but
their way is blocked. He says they'll try to escape up into the
trees at dawn and be dead within the week. Takuroo says that a
great evil is stalking Falan." Esteban looked at Falan and
asked, "What's this all about, Falan?"
The old man approached Falan and spoke to him directly
before turning to Esteban for a translation.
"He wants to know if you recognize him," Esteban relayed.
Falan made a face.
"Of course not, how could I?"
Esteban exchanged a few more words with the old man, then
Takuroo reached out and gripped Falan's shoulder. A bewildered
look came over Falan's face as he stared at the old man's
gnarled hand. Falan shifted his gaze to look into the native's
eyes, then he eased his arm from Takuroo's grasp and slowly
stepped back from him.
"What is it?" Esteban asked.
"Nothing," Falan said shaking his head. "It was just
another dream."
Takuroo spoke to Esteban once more.
"He says you should recognize him, Falan. What's he
talking about? Who the hell is hunting you besides those three
guys?"
Upon waking Falan couldn't remember anything from his
nightmare. It was the same as every other time. He woke up
scared witless and feeling like he'd just outrun some
unspeakable horror. But when the old man touched his arm,
snippets of this most recent episode flickered back across new
senses that Falan was unfamiliar with. He remembered straining
to hold onto his sanity, while something inside him tried to rip
his mind from its moorings.
The old man had shown up at the last minute. Like
everything else related to this incident Falan hadn't seen him
or even heard his chanting, but he'd felt his presence in ways
that he couldn't comprehend. It gradually dawned on Falan that
the old Indian had used his chanting to somehow project his
strength and courage into Falan's psyche. That revelation
forced him to accept the truth. There was no denying it. He
was headed for a padded room and a lifetime supply of
institutional tapioca pudding.
"I said I don't know," Falan insisted. "I was asleep. It
was just a nightmare or something."
When he turned to walk, off the old man grabbed him by the
elbow and started speaking in a calm quiet voice. He paused
often so that Esteban could translate.
"Takuroo says that one week ago he sensed a great danger
approaching his people. He decided to go out to meet it and
either destroy it or die trying to turn it aside from the
Yanomami homeland. At first he thought it could be any one of
you, but then he suspected you specifically, Falan. He found
you all parked and sleeping in the van three nights ago. That's
when he first realized a hunter was tracking you. Takuroo says
you should remember him from that visit."
Falan looked around at the rest of the group. It had to
sound crazy to them. Imagine what they'd think if he told them
what he now remembered with the benefit of the old man's touch.
Esteban continued translating.
"That night while circling your van he intercepted and
deflected this evil as it was sneaking up on you. He realized
then that you were the one in danger, and so he warned you. Now
he says that warning you was a mistake. The tracker coming for
you is too strong and will not be denied. Until it leaves, the
Yanomami will be in even worse danger than from the white man.
It is unlikely that anyone on Earth has the skill needed to stop
this predator, and it won't leave until it has what it came
for."
"Esteban, what the hell are you saying?" Dr. Morales
interrupted. "This must be some sort of native metaphor. Your
friend can't seriously think someone else is after us? That's
ridiculous."
"No," Esteban said. "Not after us -- after Falan. And I
assure you if Takuroo is worried then Falan is in danger because
that old man isn't afraid of anything in this world and very
little in any other. He's a legitimate healer, and he has ways
of knowing things."
Falan scanned around at the rest of the group. They
weren't going to believe this old Indian's version any more than
they would his, if he was dumb enough to tell it.
"If it was such a mistake, then ask him why he helped me
again just now," Falan said.
The others gave him a queer look as Esteban spoke to
Takuroo and translated the old man's reply.
"It was a difficult dilemma," Takuroo answered via direct
translation. "The love I hold for my people is second only to
the love I hold for mankind. I asked myself why such an evil
would come so far and place such high value on someone like you
-- someone who doesn't even suspect the truth of things. What
makes you such a prize? You display no skills worth fearing and
no discernible aptitude worth coveting.
"It could have destroyed you already, if that was its
intention. It must feel that you have some potential worth
possessing, because it does not intend to kill you right away.
It plans to capture and transport you alive. I can not fully
comprehend the nature of this evil or its intent, but I know it
is an ancient being with tremendous patience and even greater
ability. Whatever it seeks to accomplish is counter to the
interests of those like us," he said pointing at himself and
everyone else. "The Yanomami will not step aside from their
duty in the greater scheme of things, but I fear that we will

pay a high price for lending assistance -- assistance that will
ultimately prove insufficient to protect you."
"Esteban, what's he talking about?" Dr. Morales asked.
"You must have told him that we spent the night in the van along
the side of the road because there is no way he could have been
there."
"Victor, I swear to you: I told him about the men from the
bar, but I never said anything about your drive or you sleeping
in the van."
Esteban conversed with Takuroo some more then turned back
to the others.
"Did you guys see any jaguar tracks around the van?"
"Yes," Falan said, "and we heard a big cat cry out."
"That was Takuroo's attempt to warn you. Victor, I know it
sounds crazy, but Takuroo was either there himself or else he
was somehow able to see you from wherever he was."
"What do you mean, like some kind of medicine man shape
shifter or something?" Tony asked in a skeptical tone. "Is he
supposed to be the jaguar version of a werewolf or what?"
"I don't know," Esteban said, "but Victor will remember how
I arrived home unexpectedly just before my father died. We
talked about my good fortune at the reception after the funeral.
What I never told anyone was that Takuroo came to me one morning
several days before that and told me that I had to go home right
away. He wouldn't say why but he was insistent, so I went. I
don't know what made him send me home, and he's never said. But
because he did, I was able to hold my father's hand and speak
with him one last time before he died."
"What happened while you were sleeping?" Dr. Morales asked
Falan.
"I don't know. Listen," Falan said, "it was...it was just
another dream. I have to admit, for a minute there I did feel
like I was going out of my mind a little bit, but now I'm awake.
I've got my wits about me for sure. It was just a bad dream. I
don't even really remember what it was about. It felt sort of
like my mind was playing tricks on me and was getting ready to
rip itself to shreds"
Esteban translated what Falan said for Takuroo. The old
man nodded his head and spoke at length. When he finished,
Esteban questioned him on several points before turning back to
Falan and the others.
"Takuroo says that your mind is not trying to destroy
itself. Another entity ambushed you and was trying to gain
control over you. Takuroo startled this entity long enough for
you to break free, but it will come for you again. Takuroo will
stand beside you when it returns."

Takuroo looked toward Esteban and continued speaking. When
he finished, there was a long pause before Esteban made eye
contact with the professor.
"Victor, can I talk to you alone for a minute?"
The two walked off a short distance and huddled together
while the others looked around awkwardly at each other and tried
not to stare at the newcomer who'd just finished telling such a
bizarre tale.
CHAPTER 63
Everything was covered by a heavy layer of frost when
Palerick woke at dawn. Sandogaul was difficult to rouse and
seemed to regress once they did finally get him up. He remained
quiet during breakfast and said little verbally or otherwise
throughout the morning as they made their way down into the
valley on the far side of the pass. Erieku had him practicing
his inaudible communication skills again by the time they
reached the valley floor, but he was more sullen and withdrawn
than previously. He was as caustic as ever, but he did not lash
out as much. By early afternoon he had dispensed with his usual
antagonistic gibes altogether and offered only terse responses
to her queries.
From the rear of their little procession, Palerick sensed
the senior specialist desperately struggling to suppress a
growing inner turmoil that was slowly eating away at him. The
treeless valley floor stretched out before them in an
unblemished carpet of short turf grasses. Their progress across
it was slowed by the Ilstachian's weakened condition and the
muskbovin's injuries, but by late afternoon Palerick could make
out the settlement he had seen from above. A score of
youngsters came galloping out to meet them on dusky-colored
steeds. The Ludition's were renowned for herding these six-

legged chargers in great numbers and racing them over obscene
distances.
The elongated mounts blended in perfectly with the gray-
green ground coloring so that they were only clearly visible
when silhouetted against the distant horizon. Consequently, the
animals appeared to sink into the ground and vanish from sight
as they neared. Looking down on them from atop his muskbovin,
Palerick could distinguish little more than their eyes. But for
the thundering of the animal's hooves and the faint blur that
showed up against the turf background, the youth almost seemed
to fly past while hugging onto nothing but thin air. They
eventually wheeled back around and trotted up alongside the trio
before slowing their mounts to a walk and staring at Palerick
and Sandogaul.
They all wore identical sun glasses. Palerick was
surprised at how lightly dressed they were. Most wore only
vests and shorts. A few were entirely bare-chested, and
Palerick noticed one of the youngest wearing nothing but a fur
cap. They were all riding bareback between the two shallow
swales on the dromodekin's backs. At this pace they rode hands-
free sitting upright, but at higher speeds they lay forward and
held onto the knobby fins that ran down the sides of the
coursers' long hairless necks.

"What do you think you are looking at?" Sandogaul snarled
vocally. "Stop your gawking and show a little respect."
Palerick observed that most of the children pulled back
physically and gasped inwardly at the foreigner's rudeness. It
was unlikely that any of them understood his words, but the
general vibe was unmistakable. The little naked kid was the
only one amused by the outburst. To the others' general
chagrin, he actually tilted his head back and laughed out loud.
He then steered his mount in close and reached up and touched
Sandogaul's leg. Without breaking stride the senior
specialist's muskbovin twisted a single horn around to act as a
guardrail between the two. The boy was tentative at first, but
soon he was tugging at Sandogaul and cackling gleefully. He
ignored his friends' pleas to get away from the outlander until
an adolescent female rode up warily and led him away. Then, one
of the bare-chested older lads gave a silent cry and took off
leading the rest on a headlong chase across the valley.
"Please forgive their manners," Erieku broadcast as they
thundered away. "Most of your diplomats have been deported and
our borders have been closed to your general population for some
time now. Many of our younger citizens have never seen an
Ilstachian before."
"That is hardly an excuse," Treachen growled. "You hold
yourselves out as the most civilized species in the Foamwork
then allow your sprats to behave like savages."
His mount gave him a slight poke with its horn before
rotating it forward once more. Erieku held her thoughts. She
had done what she could to smooth the rough edges off this one,
but her time was up. Whatever embarrassment this boor was going
to cause her could no longer be helped. As they entered the
capital's periphery, the liaison officer stopped worrying about
how to prevent the cretin from making any social gaffes and
began considering how best to mitigate the unpleasantness he was
sure to stir up.
Their party soon met other Luditions both mounted and
afoot. Most of the herders were much farther afield, but a few
small flocks of various species of non-sentients were kept just
outside the summer capital's periphery to be on hand for ready
consumption. They saw foragers out gathering herbs for cooking
and passed others pulling travois loaded with dung to fuel the
city's fires. Closer in, the trio navigated a large patchwork
of small gardens that had been planted without tilling the soil.
Erieku explained that they would be abandoned after a single
season and reclaimed by the prairie when most citizens returned
home for the winter. The summer capital was set up in a

different location each year, and this spot would not be
revisited for at least a decade.
Evening was on them when they reached the city's outskirts.
It was more of a massive encampment really. The overall layout
took the shape of a giant wheel subdivided into concentric bands
that collapsed inward on a central hub. Erieku kept up a
running commentary as they worked their way toward the capital's
center. She hoped to focus the technologist's attention and
keep him from immediately coming unhinged by the silent din of
the masses.
The city's outer reaches were inhabited by herders and
foragers requiring quick access to the open grasslands. All of
the structures were round, single-story, tent-like affairs made
from hides and equipped with roll-up walls. Retractable roof
domes enabled them to be converted to open campsites in minutes.
At the moment most of the dwellings were partially exposed to
the open air.
The seasonal capital and the hundreds of other traditional
summer communities that dotted the high mountain valleys would
stay in place for another local month or two, she explained.
Then the vast majority of inhabitants would leave for the winter
and return to the modern cities built at lower elevations. Most
Luditions on Rejicstoken divided their time between the old and
the new like this.

The contemporary cities were automated enough that they did
not require monitoring or maintenance during the short summer.
But that did not stop some from using such duties as an excuse
to stay home and remain indoors all summer. The hardcore fringe
at the other extreme, herders mainly, adhered to traditional
life year round. They braved harsh winters as their ancestors
had huddled in more substantial versions of these same summer
abodes constructed of thick felt.
Erieku pointed out where the neighborhoods shifted as they
worked their way deeper into the city. The outer rim gave way
to an area occupied by those who practiced traditional Ludition
crafts such as saddle and tack construction, weaving and
pottery. Next came the merchants and traders followed by
neighborhoods of professionals. Government employees and
politicians lived in the inner-most band. Much of the large hub
area itself was left open.
A labyrinth of oversized municipal tents occupied one
quarter of it, and adjacent to that was an area where large
public gatherings were conducted in open amphitheaters. The
rest of the hub was left vacant so that the city's core
inhabitants could take a quick break during their day and get a
taste for the open spaces without having to venture all the way
outside the city's perimeter.

The sun was setting by the time Erieku led them to a
cluster of structures fronted by several dozen flagpoles topped
with brightly colored banners flapping in the breeze. She did
not bother explaining to Palerick that his companion's presence
had prompted her to bypass the diplomatic quarters where he
would normally have been housed in favor of a common public
house. There was a delegation of mayors from other Ludition
cities in town for a conference using the other facility, and
she could not bare the thought of Treachen causing a scene in
front of them on the eve of the Ilstachians' audience with the
Karoken. With its easily accessible party channel, the Ludition
grapevine transmitted news considerably faster than that of most
vocal populations, and Erieku was anxious to avoid any sort of
public scandal.
An old stooped proprietress came out through an open flap
and bowed before addressing them subvocally in her native
tongue. Erieku interpreted for her. She welcomed them and
invited them to come in for a meal and stay the night as her
honored guests. Treachen started to snarl something aloud about
the accommodations, but he grudgingly lowered his voice to an
unintelligible grumbling when Erieku turned sharply and raised
her hand. The brief outburst was enough to prompt the liaison
officer to change her plans and stay the night with the
Ilstachians rather than return to her own nearby home and
collect them in the morning.
The lodging house was rustic even by traditional Ludition
standards. The bare ground floor plan resembled the layout of
the city itself. A main corridor lined with flickering oil
lamps led straight from the entranceway to a glowing communal
living and eating area set up around an open kitchen hearth at
the center of the establishment. Individual rooms were accessed
via concentric hallways that wrapped around the communal area
from one side of the main corridor to the other. Erieku made
sure that she and Palerick were billeted on either side of
Sandogaul's room so they could keep tabs on him.
The rooms were stark. The beds were nothing more than
thick sleeping mats set directly on bare turf and topped by
heavy quilts. Each room had a shallow earthenware grill filled
with smoldering dung briquettes that was supposed to ward off
the night's chill. In reality most of the heat slipped out
through the ventilation hole cut in the roof along with just
enough of the noxious fumes to prevent total asphyxiation. A
clay bowl, a pitcher of water and a small washcloth were the
only other items to be found.
The diplomatic hostel was significantly better appointed,
but Erieku chose this particular establishment, known as
Vagabond's Trough, because she knew it catered mainly to

vacationing off-worlders who had come to Rejicstoken thinking
they yearned for simpler days. They paid exorbitant rates to
spend a week wrangling dromodekin with the herders and sleeping
under the stars out on the open grass. The clientele were
almost always male. They ranged from vigorous youths in search
of adventure in the wilds to middle-aged malcontents desperate
to eclipse earlier choices made and safe paths taken. This was
where most of them spent their first and last nights in the
valley. Whether coming or going, the crowd was always raucous.
A large part of the inn's allure to a particular breed of
would-be saddle tramps was that it served as a duty-free amnesty
zone where patrons could legally partake of substances that were
normally forbidden elsewhere on Rejicstoken. As long as an
intoxicant was legal someplace in the Foamwork and there was at
least one guest present who held a valid passport from that
world, then any foreigner on the premises was allowed to indulge
in a sample.
Erieku was counting on the resulting antics to overshadow
any trouble the senior specialist might stir up. The new
arrivals were always excited to venture forth onto the untamed
grazing land, and those returning were invariably relieved to be
heading back to their own brand of civilization, which no longer
seemed quite so insufferable to them. The mix tended to set off
toxin-fueled revelry that often extended until dawn.

After taking brief naps, the trio reconvened in the common
room for dinner. It was the last day of the week so the place
was packed with guests both coming and going. A hostess seated
them on plush felt squares situated around a low table in a
tight little cove of cushions and pillows. Similar nooks were
overflowing with exotic beings from across the Ludition-held
section of the Foamwork.
Palerick was surprised to find that he could not even put
names to many of the species or even guess from which
multiverses they hailed. There was one recess that appeared
conspicuously empty, but for the four identical reflections of
himself Palerick saw staring back at him from around the table,
each eating and drinking something different while Palerick
still waited for service. Both his auditory and psychonic
receptors were severely challenged by the tumult the crowd was
putting out.
Servers came and went with simple fair and jugs of local
ferment, but food and drink appeared to be an after thought for
many of the patrons. The ceiling was masked by a thick haze of
shimmering crystals and bluish purple smoke trying to squeeze
out through the dome's top vent. Fog was spewing forth from all
shapes and sizes of paraphernalia that were doubtless packed
with an equal number of combustible inhalants. Worried about

possible second-hand effects Erieku ordered hurriedly for all of
them and encouraged the Ilstachians to eat quickly.
Palerick was not overly concerned for himself. His guild
training enabled him to combat that sort of intrusion on his
senses to a point. He was less dismissive of the risk to his
colleague, however. During the course of their meal, Palerick
observed powders of every consistency and color being snorted
into an array of nostrils and other orifices he could not
properly identify. Pills and capsules of unlimited variety were
passed around between tables like after dinner morsels. They
were dolled out with hearty backslaps and bellicose guffaws.
Creams, jellies, salves, balms, ointments and lotions of every
consistency were squeezed from tubes or scooped out of jars and
then applied to everything from eyeballs to toenails -- or toe
claws where the term applied. Hypodermics and subcutaneous
devices, loaded with who knew what, lay scattered on trays all
over the place.
When they got up to leave, some guests were already
progressing on to the more serious concoctions. Palerick was
mildly surprised to see a range of portable field generating
skullcaps, space-time fractal applicators and psychonic wave
splitters being unpacked and set up. He knew from keeping up
with the obituaries that the recreational users would be content
to influence their artificially reconfigured states with mostly

benign virtual reality scenarios. The hardcore addicts, on the
other hand, would jump straight into conjuring up less
recognizable actual realities from other spatial dimensions and
non-linear time zones.
Now he understood why this inn had been erected so far from
its nearest neighbor. Assuming they did not destroy the place
by causing a mundane conflagration or some more spectacular
space-time vaporization, those who survived the night were going
to have a rough go of it tomorrow. Whether they were headed for
a day of bouncing in the saddle or absorbing turbulence aboard a
small commuter shuttle destined for the spaceport, it was going
to be ugly. Sandogaul had drunk more than his share of hard
muskbovin milk and was reluctant to retire as a result, but
Palerick and Erieku together managed to escort him back to his
room and see him safely to bed.
Gheddy went to sleep with his clothes and boots on just in
case he was forced to flee some sort of catastrophe at a
moment's notice. Sometime during the morning's wee hours,
Erieku broke into his dreams and woke him urgently. As soon as
he stepped into the hallway, the proprietress turned and led
them back to the common room at a hasty clip. She explained as
they went that Sandogaul had returned there by himself shortly
after they all departed. What Palerick saw when he entered made
his stomach flip.

Most of the guests had gone to their rooms, but a small
number were passed out here and there. Some of them were
slumped over in pools of their own vomit, urine or other wholly
unfamiliar excrement. A few of the darker recesses were still
inhabited by committed self-debasers huddled in groups of two
and three. Treachen was in plain view surrounded by several
deranged aliens. At first they looked too addled by the
smorgasbord of poisons they had shared in to offer him any
assistance, but then Palerick realized they were enjoying the
show and had no intentions of intervening. Sandogaul had
clearly overdosed on something -- several things from the look
of it.
He was bare-chested and floating several feet off the
ground with his legs crossed and his arms partially extended out
to either side. His body was fully enshrouded by the sharply
defined junction of four intersecting light cones aimed at him
from above, below, behind and in front. They were not being
emitted from any obvious source. The different colored cones of
light seemed to spring forth from invisible seams within the
fabric of space itself. Palerick shuddered at the implications
and wondered briefly if all present were about to implode into
some hidden dimension or an alternate objective reality. The
union of the different colored lights created a pale green
sphere that fully encapsulated the senior specialist.

The technologist's hair had been shaved off, and he was
wearing what looked like a metallic beanie on his head. It was
affixed to his scalp with a bevy of tiny barbed hooks. An
orange ribbon of energy stemming from the top of the cap snaked
back and forth from hook to hook in a seemingly random pattern
setting off bright sparks and crackling mini-bolts of energy as
it jumped about on top of his head. Two small black pyramid-
shaped objects no bigger than Palerick's hand floated opposite
one another while slowly circling above the senior specialist in
a halo pattern. Their peaks were joined by a thin, reflective
beam or substance of some kind resembling liquid mercury. A
third slightly larger pyramid sat seemingly inert on the turf
directly beneath Treachen's levitated form.
Sandogaul's eyes were closed, but there was obvious
movement behind the lids. His face was twitching and spasmming
like someone having a vivid nightmare, and his mouth was frozen
wide in what Palerick interpreted as a silent cry for help. The
outlandish foreigners lolling around on the cushions arranged
below represented some of the more exotic species known to
inhabit Ludition space.
Palerick recognized the Hadrenite from one of the most
violent viewings he had ever gone on with Huron Gaelen. All the
elegance and refined appearance of those feathers aside, he
found it somewhat hard to believe that its companions had

survived this far into the night without feeling the wrath of
those fangs. The scaly blob slumped next to it was
unmistakable. While the evening's escapades seemed a natural
fit for the Deladon, Palerick could not fathom why a one-limbed
brain hive would want to spend a week strapped to a dromodekin's
back chasing half-wild muskbovin across the open valley. The
two Vermiclids, however, would be right at home on such an
escapade. The rodent-insect hybrids were well-known as wistful
romantics. They were also multiversally recognized as hopeless
degenerates who could not pass up a party or a fight.
The lot of them were swooning and gesturing animatedly at
the spectacle they were witnessing while passing around a small
water pipe. Palerick started to reach for Sandogaul's arm, but
Erieku stopped him.
"Be careful," she warned, "this contraption is not to be
trifled with."
Just then the two pyramids above Treachen's head began
circling faster and faster. They drifted farther apart from one
another as if by centrifugal force but stopped once the distance
between them was slightly more than the diameter of sphere of
light confining Treachen. Their speed increased until the
silvery line connecting them blurred into a mirror-like disc
spinning above Sandogaul.

"Better listen to her, priest," the Deladon chuckled as it
turned and fixed him with its top eye. "The trip this chap is
on would doubtless offend your refined sensibilities," he
continued derisively.
This set the two Vermiclids off on a convulsive snickering
jag and caused the Hadrenite to hack violently until it
grudgingly coughed out an enormous lung full of pink smoke.
"These pharmaceutical devices were not intended for use on
anything but Deladonian psychonic patterns," Erieku accused.
"Why would you put him up to something like this? You know what
it could do to him."
The Deladon ignored her and took a hit from the antique
bongookah tilted in his direction by the wheezing Hadrenite.
One of the Vermiclids stopped its tittering and struggled to
regain what little composure it could muster.
"Back off, witch. Your slave was begging for it. And, from
the sound of it, you and the monk are to blame. Our friend,
Ponderfent, here did his best to dissuade him, but he was
adamant. Said he was being held against his will and wanted his
freedom back. Told us you two hijacked his true self and
imprisoned it in a live storage drive somewhere back on Ilstach
III. We tried to convince him that we were all very real and
that he was actually on Rejicstoken, but he was not having any
of it. Called us liars. Said we were simulations who were in

on the conspiracy. He demanded proof so we offered it to him,"
the heavily whiskered creature finished with feigned innocence.
His partner, who was still doubled over laughing, looked up
and tried to unsquint his multi-faceted eyes, "Yeah...'empirical
data' he screamed at us. 'I want empirical data.' We were only
trying to help," he gasped as the hilarity of it all again got
the better of him.
"Amnesty zone or not, I can have you all deported
immediately," Erieku snapped. "Turn this thing off and get him
down from there right now."
"Relax, sister," the Deladon said. "You do not want to
just shut it down in the middle of a hit. You would cleave his
psyche in half. He would become two distinct personalities --
each one headed for a different future."
"You can start packing right now unless..."
The Deladon continued talking aloud over Erieku's
telepathic warning.
"Of course, it would not be as bad for him as it would for
a Deladon. We have got considerably more brain spheres to
subdivide you know. Still, I do not think you want to see that
happen to your...what is he anyway...your prisoner -- a sex toy
of some sort? Does not matter," he said when Erieku glared at
him, "either way, I set the calibrator for a low dosage. It
will not last long."

Just as he said that, the perimeter of the shimmering disc
above Sandogaul's head began to thicken and cylindrical walls
descended until Treachen and the pale green sphere he floated in
were encased by a hollow tube that was somehow both reflective
and translucent. At that point a single red beam shot up from
the pyramid on the ground beneath him. It halted the cylinder's
downward growth and capped the lower end with a red energy
field. Treachen looked like he had been trapped inside a green
gas bubble and then submerged in some sort of tubular mirrored
fluid window.
Palerick could scarcely credit what he was witnessing. He
had read about this sort of thing, but it was strictly forbidden
by almost every species except the Deladon who had brains to
spare. More than one regional conflict had been fought to stop
the proliferation of this highly addictive technology. Suddenly
Sandogaul's eyes flashed open and began issuing forth two
different three-dimensional holographic projections. The guild
member was not encouraged to see himself featured prominently in
one of the scenes being played out inside the column at about
one-sixteenth scale.
He and Treachen were running side by side ducking and
weaving their way across a desolate landscape littered with
carnage from some recent battle while purple energy tracers flew
every which way in the distance. The projection cone emitting

from Sandogaul's other eye featured a beautiful young girl of a
species vaguely akin to their own. She was kneeling in a forest
dipping a cloth into a clear pool and using it to clean blood
from Treachen's brow. After just a few wipes her head perked up
as if she had heard something, and she quickly dashed off into
the underbrush leaving Sandogaul where he lay.
Then both visualizations began independently flashing short
clips of different scenes at such a rapid pace that Palerick
quickly lost track as he tried to flick his attention back and
forth between the two distinct holographic motion picture
projections streaming from Treachen's eyes. While Gheddy failed
to glean anything specific, he could not help noticing that most
of the images seemed to involve one form of horror and
defilement or another.
The associate director was grateful when the vertical red
beam suddenly switched off, and the shimmering cylinder
retracted back up into a flat chrome like disc above the senior
specialist's head. Treachen's eyes snapped shut again when the
bottom of the column rose above eye level. As the two rotating
pyramidal objects slowed their orbits, the mercurial disc
likewise reverted to its previous filament-shaped structure.
When the four light cones forming the pale green sphere winked
out, the silver thread above vanished as well. Sandogaul was
slowly lowered to the floor as the pyramid beneath him slid

aside. The two smaller pyramids shadowed him down then
gravitated to their larger counterpart and melded seamlessly to
it.
"You hardly gave him a taste, Ponderfent," the Hadrenite
complained.
"I am no pusher. That was all he needed to get the proof
he wanted. Any more and he would have blanked out on us for
sure. You single-brained species can not handle seeing very
many versions of your possible future without chasing after the
first one that looks half decent. He was lucky in one sense.
None of his potential futures looked very bright, so he was not
compelled to charge heedlessly after any of them. You had a
staring role in many of those atrocities, preacher," the Deladon
said addressing Palerick. "Looks like you have got quite a road
in front of you."
"Well, I was going to try to bum a hit off you," the
Hadrenite said, "but that picture quality was not too
impressive. I have seen better reception on those cheap
Tameresik units."
"Can not argue there," the Deladon conceded as he flicked a
switch that extracted the hooks from Treachen's scalp. "The
audio was useless as well. These black and white portable jobs
leave a lot to be desired."

"Visit him on Dela IX," one of the Vermiclids insisted.
"Then see what you think."
"Oh yeah, you have got to," the other one agreed. "His
home theater system is amazing -- ride along audience jacks,
internal sound track, surround psychosis, quarter-scale
kolachrome projection -- the works."
The associate director hoisted Treachen up over his
shoulder and carried the unconscious senior specialist back to
his room.
"How do you think he will be when he wakes up?" he asked
Erieku when they were back out in the hallway.
"It is impossible to say for sure. Your colleague was
already one step over the edge. Those things can cause nasty
side effects even when they do not fry you out. The Deladon do
not mind, because they can afford to scrap a brain or two here
and there if a few happen to get vacated, scrambled or taken
over by hostile entities fleeing backward in time. We will just
have to wait and see, but I will be surprised if he comes away
from this unscathed."(1)

CHAPTER 64
"Okay, here's the deal," Dr. Morales said when he and
Esteban returned. "First and most important, this gentleman,
Takuroo, says that the raft Esteban intends for us to use is
still intact, but it won't last much longer. You can see this
water obviously is getting deeper the farther we go. If it
weren't for those bastards following us, we'd have turned back a
long time ago. We thought about back-tracking and detouring
through the jungle to get around them, but at this point we
agree with Takuroo that we probably could not safely re-cross
that first creek we waded through."
"Where does that leave us?" Sam asked.
"In a tight spot, I'm afraid," Esteban stepped in. "This
entire valley is flooding out. I've been concerned about this
for the last week or so, but I never really believed it would
happen. It's been submerged before, but it's very rare.
Takuroo's people pass down stories that warn of such flooding,
but it hasn't happened in living memory. It would seem
plausible at the end of an unusually long rainy season but not
now at what is supposed to be the tail end of the dry season.
At the rate the water is rising, it will be over our heads
before the end of the coming day, unless we can make it to the
high ground on the far side of the Orinoco."
"How far is it?" Sam asked.

"The river itself is fifteen, maybe twenty, miles away at
the most. I'm really not sure," Esteban said. "We've got to
move faster if we want to make it before dark fall tomorrow
night. It won't be light for awhile yet, but we've got to get
moving. The higher the water gets, the slower our progress will
be."
"Then it's time to dump the gear," Tony said.
"What do you mean?" the professor asked.
"These packs are slowing us down. The sooner we get rid of
them, the sooner we'll get to the river."
"You've got to be kidding me," Miguel said. "This is a
brand new seven-hundred-dollar pack. There's no way I'm leaving
all my stuff here to get stolen by those assholes."
"I've got to admit, I'm not crazy about the idea either,"
Dr. Morales said. "What do you think, Esteban? Can't we keep
our packs with us for awhile longer and see how it goes -- see
what kind of progress we make?"
Esteban ignored Miguel and looked back and forth between
Tony and the professor.
"I hadn't considered unloading all our gear. I know I can
make it with my pack and Alison's," Esteban said.
"Then Sam and I can probably make it also," Tony said.
"But we'll all make better time without the extra weight.
Whatever time we save could make the difference we need to get

across before nightfall. This is your show, Esteban, so I'll do
whatever you say, but it sounds like it's time to cut our
losses. I can tell you from years of fighting forest fires that
when you miscalculate in the wilderness and allow yourself to
get backed into a tough situation, sometimes the only thing that
will save you is admitting that you're in trouble. When that
happens, you can't let pride get in the way. Whether lightning
is about to knock you off a ridge above the tree-line or a
tornado is bearing down on you in open country, there comes a
time when the only thing left to do is drop all your shit and
run like hell."
Esteban looked at his watch and checked the sky for signs
of light. A pained expression crossed his face. He looked at
the professor and then the others.
"Miguel, I'm sorry. I'll buy you a new pack, if it comes
to that," he said looking around at all of them. "I'll gladly
pay for any gear that we fail to recover. Tony's right. I've
been in denial. I haven't even wanted to admit it to myself,
but at this point we're well past being in trouble. We'll be
lucky to get out of this alive. We're dead unless we get across
the Orinoco by the end of the day."
"Okay, that's it," Tony said as he shook off his pack.
"The top of my backpack detaches as a fanny pack. Anybody else
have one like it?"

"I think mine comes apart like that, but I haven't tried it
out yet," Miguel said tentatively as he took off his pack and
held it out for Tony to inspect.
Tony looked at the pack and quickly disassembled it so the
top part could be worn around the waist. None of the other
packs shared that feature.
"Let Sam wear it," Tony instructed. "Load as many water
bottles in there as you can and bring all the water purification
tablets. Esteban, you were already traveling pretty light, so
why don't you ditch Alison's pack and keep your little one with
the medical kit and cooking gear in it. I'll bringing my knife
and this rope," Tony continued as he unfastened the 175 foot
climbing rope from his pack and looped the coils over his head
and one shoulder. "The rest of you can carry along a personal
water bottle if you want to, but leave everything else."
The others followed Tony's instructions quickly and without
complaint. While the smaller packs were being outfitted, Dr.
Morales ran a small piece of line through the shoulder straps of
all the larger packs and tied them to a tree just off the trail.
"Well, hopefully they'll still be there when we get back,"
the professor said as he emerged from the brush.
Esteban hacked a small "x" into a tree where it would be
visible from the trail.

"Takuroo and I are going to hurry on ahead without
stopping," Esteban told them. "The trail is easy to follow, but
if I see any place where I think you could go wrong, I'll mark a
tree to show the way."
The old man quickly disappeared from sight with Esteban
hard on his heels. The other's followed suit abandoning their
camp as it was.
"Esteban, wait up for a minute," Dr. Morales called. "Let
me walk with you for a little before I drop back and take up the
rear again."
"Okay, but let's hurry. If Takuroo gets too far ahead, I
won't be able to catch up with him."
"Be sure to keep checking your phone," the professor said
quietly. "The GPS seems to be working fine. I really need to
get in touch with the embassy."
"Victor, I understand -- believe me. I've been checking
every hour or so. If we can't get across the river, we're gonna
have to try to arrange a rescue somehow. I haven't made too
many friends in the local business community, but the American
Embassy might be able to coordinate a helicopter extraction by
one of the logging or mining companies -- I don't know. I'll
try more often, but I don't want to risk running the batteries
down too far."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Dr. Morales said.
"The bartender back in town promised to try to get a message
out, but who knows. Either way I want to get someone in
authority to come out here and escort us back, and I want to
send a message to Falan's family. We need to make sure he isn't
withholding something important about his medical history. I
don't know what's going on with him, but it could be like Miguel
said. Maybe he's supposed to be on some sort of anti-psychotic
medication or something. He's getting twitchier by the hour.
He says he hasn't had a decent night's sleep in months."
"I don't think medication or sleep will help him," Esteban
said. "Takuroo said he isn't going crazy."
"Look, Esteban, I don't want to get into all that. I'm
sure that old man has his reasons for saying what he did, but I
can't pay any attention to it. I'm responsible for these
people."
"I wouldn't be so quick to discount Takuroo's story,"
Esteban cautioned. "There was no way that he could have known
my father was dying when he sent me home, but he did. The old
guy didn't go to medical school, but he's a legitimate healer.
If you can really work a deal with the drug companies, I'm sure
that Takuroo will come through for them. He knows more than
anyone about what the rainforest has to offer the medical
community."
"Well, I don't doubt that," the professor said, "but you
won't convince me that he could see inside Falan's head or that
someone other than those three guys is after us."
"Don't be so sure," Sam said from behind. "My girlfriend
is getting her PhD in abnormal psychology at Stanford, and she's
constantly going on about how little we really know about the
human mind. She's convinced that quantum mechanics will
ultimately verify and explain the existence of a whole range of
psychic phenomena."
"See," Esteban said. "I don't know anything about it, but
how else do you explain that Takuroo knew you slept the night in
your van and that a jaguar walked circles around you while you
slept?"
"I don't know." the professor answered. "He could have
guessed it, or maybe you told him without realizing it."
"I couldn't have told him about the jaguar tracks. I
didn't even know about them," Esteban insisted.
"Then maybe it was just a coincidence. Either way, it
doesn't matter. If your friend had that kind of power, then I
doubt the Yanomami would need our help."
"Well, Clarissa, my girlfriend, keeps trying to convince me
that..."
Dr. Morales raised a hand over his head without looking
back and cut Sam short.

"All right, that's enough...Sam, please. I don't want to
debate this right now."
Sam stopped and let the professor and Esteban continue on
ahead.
CHAPTER 65
Morning arrived all too soon for Palerick's tastes.
Apprehension turned to dread when Erieku notified him that
Treachen's room was empty. He was both dismayed and relieved
when they found Sandogaul sitting in the freshly cleaned dining
area enjoying a quiet breakfast of tea and muffins. But for his
bald head with its thin crown of red pin pricks and the dark
circles under his eyes, there was little to suggest he had been
unduly traumatized by last night's experience. He greeted them
cordially with a pleasant smile and waved for a server to assist
them. Erieku was extremely wary and viewed the senior
specialist's demeanor with great skepticism. For the first time
she found it difficult to get a clear reading on what was
running through his head. This in itself was more than a bit
odd given that up until now he had been incapable of hiding even
his most deeply held secrets from her.
"Senior Specialist Treachen," she said while stirring a
dollop of sweet grenick pus into her porridge, "do you now
accept that the three of us are actually on Rejicstoken or do
you still believe we are holding you against your will back on
Ilstach III and subjecting you to some form of virtual charade?"
Treachen smiled and sipped his tea while peering wide-eyed
at them over the rim of his cup.

"The choice is not necessarily that simple, now is it?"
Sandogaul replied placing his cup back on the table. "It could
be one or the other as you suggest, but it could also be both or
neither. Could it not?"
"Listen, Treachen," Palerick interjected, "you have had a
rough few days. Do not start trying to..."
The senior specialist cut him short with a single raised
finger.
"Do not trifle with me, Gheddy. Your involvement in this
scheme will be duly noted in my final accounting to our
superiors. It is clear to me now, as it soon will be to you,
that your precious guild has finally crossed that fine line
separating legitimate counter-espionage from outright treason.
I now possess a distinct advantage over you, Gheddy -- and you
as well," he added turning his attention toward their Ludition
liaison officer. "I alone know how this affair plays out in the
days to come. The manner in which you comport yourselves from
here on will greatly influence your sentencing after you are
tried and found wanting."
Palerick sat back and cast a tired look in Erieku's
direction.
"Do you recall what you did last night?" she asked the
technologist.
"But of course," Sandogaul answered running a hand over his
newly smooth scalp. "In an effort to determine once and for all
where I am, I made the decision to hazard a look at where I am
going. As a result, I am up bright and early to hurry you along
so that we are not late for our audience before the Karoken,"
the senior specialist finished, rising to his feet.
"Treachen, you do realize," Palerick stated, "that while
there are an infinite number of possible futures awaiting all of
us, the self you represent will only investigate one of them."
"Naturally, but as you surely realize, it is often the case
that those many futures are more alike than not until the very
end at which point they tend to become differentiated in the
extreme. Come along now, or we will be late."
"We are not scheduled to be received for another two
hours," Erieku assured him. "Sit back down and enjoy your tea."
"Trust me just this once. It turns out to be a near thing,
but we will not be late if we go now," Sandogaul insisted before
turning and walking off.
"I told you there would be consequences," Erieku said to
Palerick as they followed in Treachen's wake.
As it turned out Sandogaul was right. Three unexpected
cancellations forced a change in the docket which saw Erieku's
party bumped up several positions in the reviewing order. The
senior specialist said nothing when the clerk called out the
change to those waiting in the tent's large antechamber, but he
did nothing to contain the smug expression on his face.
In keeping with the strict diplomatic protocol that held
sway over such occasions, Palerick addressed the council of
Ludition governors with painstaking formality. When he
explained that he had come to seek help decoding a message that
was believed to concern their societies' highest mutual
interest, looks of dim recognition passed between the Karoken
members and the hall was cleared of all spectators and
nonessential personnel. One of the ministers then communicated
with a clerk on a private channel before dismissing him.
"Acolyte Gheddy, it would seem that you and your...well,
that you at least are very well-connected indeed," the Chief
Minister responded telepathically. "How the two of you talked
your way past the blockade is of great interest to us all. I
have sent for a staff officer from the intelligence operations
branch to come and join us. Perhaps he will be able to offer
sufficient justification for why we should not have you arrested
and deported immediately for entering the system illegally."
"Stop playing games," Treachen sneered aloud. "Nothing
takes place on Rejicstoken without your full knowledge. This is
a farce. You know exactly why we are here."
The council straightened up as one, and Erieku cringed.
All were aghast that anyone would dare address the Karoken
vocally much less with such effrontery. Erieku quickly stepped
forward and dropped to one knee, but as she started to speak
another minister cut her off sharply.
"That will be all, Officer Njoden. I believe we have heard
quite enough already without being forced to listen to whatever
pitiful excuse you have for not completing your assignment in
satisfactory fashion."
As Erieku lowered her head in supplication, a tall pale
figure wearing simple herder's garb stepped from behind the
curtain at the rear of the dais and approached the row of
ministers who were all seated on ornate felt cushions. A
private conversation was held before the new arrival came around
in front of the rostrum and bowed to the trio.
"Welcome to Rejicstoken, Acolyte Gheddy. My name is Iben
Eytal. It was I who first contacted you after your ship was
stopped at the checkpoint. Please understand that this affair
would have been handled much differently had you come alone or
been accompanied only by other guild members. As it is," he
continued after a scant look in Sandogaul's direction, "this
will be brief. Members of your guild, a Huron Gaelen to be
precise, gave a copy of the message for which you seek help
translating and decoding to the first two Ludition diplomats
expelled by your government. They brought it here when they
were deported.
"As you well know that unfortunate incident occurred just
days before you departed Ilstach III nearly fifty of your years
ago. While it has taken you all of that time to get here, our
psychonically integrated drive technology saw our diplomats
arrive home safely in just six of your months. I trust the
irony will not be too large a blow to your technologist
colleague's ego," he emphasized with a thin smile directed at
Treachen.
"It is certainly true that they could have made the trip in
a miniscule fraction of that time had they chosen to travel by
more traditional holistic means. However, barring disastrous
encounters along the way, those ventures are taken in isolation,
and the diplomats in question preferred to collaborate on the
decoding effort while they traveled. In any event, with the
assistance of the latest shipboard computers requisitioned from
our Jaloviot allies, they were able to complete the majority of
translation and decoding during transit. Still, a few lose ends
remain to this day.
"As it is, the communiqué is inconclusive, and its
reliability is difficult to categorize. In the past, we were
able to investigate all such leads ourselves, but as the
boundary of the known Foamwork expands the search area grows
exponentially. Our agency now receives tens of thousands of
possible seed-sighting reports every year. As a result, we are

forced to rank them. Unfortunately, those lowest in priority
are consigned to an ever growing backlog of files that remain
open but inactive."
"Are you saying that the cipher is lying buried at the
bottom of a pile somewhere?" Palerick interrupted.
Palerick was far from distraught over what Master Galen had
done. He realized now that the adept had alluded to the
possibility that this might happen when they met for the last
time. He was more upset by the possibility that the information
contained in the message had sat dormant and unacted upon for
the last fifty years.
"Not quite. We established that the message your pilgrims
intercepted was sent by an early model Synthedon search drone
transmitting from an unexplored multiverse well beyond the edge
of the known Foamwork. It was registering contact with an
animate signal that it considered to be of some significance.
As it was filing the report on its find, the drone experienced a
catastrophic malfunction and announced that it was spinning out
of control and veering sharply off course. Crash trajectory
coordinates were tagged at the end of the transmission, but the
ship appears to have gone offline without ever identifying a
point of origin for the animate signal in question."

"Since the ship broadcast its own position, could it not
have simply indicated which direction the signal was coming
from?" one of the ministers asked.
"Perhaps," the local intelligence officer replied, "but
doing so would likely have been very misleading. Spontaneous
animate signals like the one we have all been looking for are
easily deflected by cosmic disturbances. They tend to skip,
ricochet and echo erratically between galaxies before eventually
passing through the multiversal boundary membrane of their
origin. The best way to find out where that signal originated
is to physically go to the drone's last known position and try
to reacquire the signal either by technical or holistic means.
If it has not been destroyed, then finding the drone itself
would make the task that much easier, assuming it was able to
lock onto the signal's frequency.
"It is one thing to detect an untargeted animate signal.
It is quite another to track it back to its point of origin and
positively identify the class of life that generated it, and
something else again to actually locate the specific individual
responsible. That is why we have developed such a backlog of
signals that have yet to be checked out. Following up on all of
them is a painstaking process requiring dogged persistence and
tireless patience on an incredible scale. Ideally, each one
needs to be physically traced back to its source. That is why

the Synthedon are making so many more first contacts than we
are. Their ability to mass produce and deploy single-minded
tracking drones far outstrips our remote psychonic stalking
capabilities.
"So much for brevity, enough already. Get on with it so we
can be on our way," Treachen blurted out vocally.
Again the ministers looked back and forth at one another in
dismay before casting their collective ire on Erieku. She
cringed and kept her eyes on the floor in front of her. The
intelligence officer paused and gave Sandogaul a curious
appraisal as if just noticing something about him for the first
time.
"Very well," he continued with a smile that left Palerick
feeling even more uneasy. "The deteriorating nature of our
alliance coupled with the uncertainty surrounding your missive
caused many to feel that it should be relegated to the backlog
of inactive files. Others argued that it did not even warrant
that level of regard. Cooler heads prevailed, however. Though
we could not persuade our operations branch to allocate any
resources to this case file, I was given permission to seek
outside assistance in pursuing the matter.
"The outside agent I enlisted filed a single report after
locating your wayward pilgrims some thirty-five of your years
ago, but we have heard nothing since. We know that the

Synthedon have dispatched at least one salvage ship to the
region. If the report turns out to be as important as the
drone's highly suspect analysis suggests, then we can expect an
entire armada to follow suit if it has not already.
Unfortunately, there is nothing more that I can do without
additional information to directly tie this matter to our mutual
quest for the seed. "Associate Director Gheddy, I can easily
have you back aboard your ship in time for the return trip home.
However, if you are of a mind to look further into this
matter..."
Here the officer stopped and looked to the chief minister
before continuing.
"What I meant to say is, if you are so inclined, I am in a
position to offer you guided teleportation to our agent's last
known position. He established a beacon on the world your
pilgrims colonized before leaving to continue the investigation.
We can reduce a journey that would normally take several
thousand years using your technology down to under a month.
"The trip would be dangerous, and of course you would have
to travel a non-liner route in order to cover the distance that
quickly. A linear route across that many multiverses would
still take years to complete even via packetized teleportation.
A linear journey would also require scores of perilous membrane
crossings that a novice like you would be unlikely to survive,

to say nothing of your associate. The borders between the
cosmos are only semi-permeable. With each crossing, you would
lose small pieces of yourself as they became trapped in clogged
sections of the sieve-like skins. Eventually, there would not
be enough of you left to continue on, and you would either join
the other specters caught between space and time or you would
cease to exist altogether.
"Granted the circuitous route that winds along the seam-
gaps between the cosmos leaves you more vulnerable to just that
sort of hostile entity, but at least you would have the
opportunity to go out with a fight rather than risk simply
fading away. You would be traveling within the very seams that
bind the Foamwork together and allow the multiverses to grind
against one another without friction that would otherwise pop
them. What do you say?"
Palerick did not hesitate. This was his one chance to make
up for a life of mediocrity, and he was not about to give it up
without some sort of concrete resolution.
"Do not be absurd, Gheddy," Sandogaul scoffed aloud when
the associate director asked Iben Eytal to contact Captain
Ferring aboard Cassandra and have him delay his departure from
the system until Senior Specialist Treachen could be delivered
back to the ship via a conventional transport shuttle. "I will

be joining you, of course, or were you not paying close
attention last night?"
"That would not be advisable," Iben Eytal broadcast
silently with a frown. "It is clear that your psyche has
already sustained a great deal of trauma in a short period of
time. Even with his guild training, this excursion will tax
Acolyte Gheddy to his limits. You would not stand a chance."
"Do not pretend to care for my well being," Treachen
sneered verbally -- still refusing to acknowledge Ludition
custom. "I am confident that I will manage just fine, thank
you."
Iben Eytal looked from Treachen to the ministers and back
again.
"While your inner countenance is less open to me than I
would have expected, I do not need to see very deeply inside
your thoughts to know that you are already a very disturbed
individual. Like most who don the Deladonian crown of alternate
dawns, you believe that you can influence which of the many
futures awaiting you will ultimately be yours.
"This is true only in the sense that your free will affords
you the ability to make choices that will indeed affect the path
that unfolds before you. A central paradox, however, remains:
none of us can know in advance how the decisions we make will
affect our own future. More often than not, actions targeted at
a specific results lead to unintended outcomes. You have
obviously witnessed a future that you wish to bring about, but
your very knowledge of that end makes it that much less likely
you will ever see it. Ask the one called Shaolin about that if
you are lucky enough to meet him. It is said he learned that
lesson the hard way."
"Clear your conscience, you arrogant psychoholic," Treachen
retorted. "You are absolved. Now, can we get on with this
already?"
"Senior Specialist Treachen, please reconsider," Erieku
injected. "You are not well. I myself would not even consider
undertaking such a journey, and I have been teleporting with
ease since I was a child."
"I am sorry to hear you say that," the chief minister
chortled silently, "because you will be accompanying them. We
no longer have need of your services here. Perhaps we will
reconsider the terms of your employment if you are able to
accomplish this mission, otherwise you can report to the
dungmaster's tent and apply for a position collecting heating
fuel."
Without further ado, the three were escorted
unceremoniously from the council chamber by armed guards.

CHAPTER 66
"Don't worry about it," Tony said as he pulled up behind
Sam. "He's stressing out. You don't really believe the crap
that old guy was spouting, do you?"
"I don't know. Clarissa makes a pretty convincing
argument. She studied physics at Berkeley as an undergrad.
That's what made her go into psychology. She thinks the
mysteries of quantum mechanics and human consciousness are
directly linked."
"What the hell is quantum mechanics?" Tony asked.
"Oh man," Sam said turning away and starting back down the
trail, "I'm not the one to go into it. It's too complicated.
Clarissa gets all worked up and rails on about that stuff so
much that I tune her out half the time."
"Come on, you're killing me," Tony said as he followed
along. "Tell me what she thinks. I've got to know how someone
smart enough to get into both Berkeley and Stanford can possibly
believe in that kind of thing."
"All right, but don't grill me to death," Sam said over his
shoulder. "I'm just parroting what she's told me a thousand
times. If you're not satisfied, we can call her when we get
back to Caracas. She'll be happy to talk your ear off about it,
trust me.”(*)
“Some of these scientists make the argument that the mind,
or consciousness, could be something fundamental to the cosmos
like matter or energy. These test results make them think that
order could be the common link between mind and matter. Hell,
maybe they're right. Maybe consciousness is what's responsible
for creating ordered life forms out of disordered particles of
matter," Sam speculated. "We know that space and time are
fundamentally interconnected, but we don't really know what that
means or how it works. Clarissa and others investigating
quantum mechanics from the psychological perspective think that
psychic phenomena could stem from people somehow tapping into a
connection that joins space, time and mind all together." (*)
"Another reason we can't get to the bottom of all this is
that most people are still constrained by Newton's classical
view. That's like still thinking the world is flat. They have
no idea what kind of crazy shit quantum mechanics has shown us
about the real world, and that stuff makes psychic phenomena
look tame."
"So why do people believe in this quantum craziness and not
the psychic phenomena?" Tony asked.
"Scientists accept the reality of strange interactions like
quantum interconnectedness because quantum mechanics predicts
them. So far nobody's come up with a testable theory that
predicts psychic phenomena. Now some scientists are beginning

to think that a better understanding of self-organizing
biological activity might someday help explain quantum theory.
Some of them think quantum mechanics will eventually become the
theory of non-living matter once we discover a theoretical
framework for living matter that predicts the normal
interactions between the brain and consciousness and the
paranormal interactions exhibited by our extrasensory mental
capabilities. That's exactly what Clarissa and her colleagues
are trying to develop -- a theory that predicts paranormal
psychic phenomena."
Just then Sam and Tony caught up with the professor and
Esteban. They were standing in what passed for a slight
clearing. The rain had let up considerably and an opening in
the canopy above revealed fleeting glimpses of blue among the
roiling storm clouds. The professor was speaking into Esteban's
satellite phone.
As Tony and Sam listened, it became clear that he was
talking to an answering machine. He relayed their current GPS
coordinates as well as those for Esteban's shack. He also
outlined the trouble they'd had and told of the men following
them. The professor finished by giving a brief run down of
Falan's symptoms and asking that someone contact Falan's parents
to inquire about his mental health history and any undisclosed

medication requirements. When he hung up and tried to dial
another number, the satellite connection was gone.
"Damn," Dr. Morales swore. "These things are practically
useless."
The rain started picking back up.
"Who was that?" Sam asked.
"I left a message for the U.S. Economic Attaché. He's my
contact at the embassy."
"Well, that's better than nothing," Tony said. "We'll be
on someone's radar at least."

CHAPTER 67
Shaolin realized too late that he had allowed himself to
become overly self-indulgent. By spending so long engrossed in
his own musings, he had failed to keep abreast of the latest
developments taking place within the Foamwork proper. Admitting
that conceit had also influenced the events leading to his
present circumstance added a sting to the chagrin he already
felt. From his current perspective -- outward looking in -- he
saw everything he had hoped to achieve beginning to slip away.
The first probing inquiries sent by the Luditions pulsed by
him unrecognized. It took quite awhile for them to register.
He had not been in contact with any of the Foamwork's
inhabitants for half an age or better. The tentative nature
exhibited by those seeking him was a testament to that. They
were clearly uncertain how to go about reestablishing ties. His
Ludition summoners used the correct protocols, but they
misapplied them in disjointed sequences obscuring their intended
purpose. That they had managed to reach him at all was
something of an accomplishment, considering the frequency with
which species in this age seemed to lose track of even the most
pertinent facts related to their own pasts.
Unresolved philosophical questions on their part further
undermined the message's cohesion. The Luditions' conflicting
interpretations of their own historical record made it difficult

for them to discern factual documentation from theological
allegory. Consequently, they were more than just uncertain
whether he still existed. They were genuinely undecided on the
issue of whether he, Shaolin, had ever existed.
The chronicle they used as a reference for contacting him
dated back to before the mechanized revolt that launched the
rise of the Synthedon horde. Even if the historical record in
question had been accurate when written, an interval that long
seemed potent enough to have altered the facts in its own right.
Prior to initiating the effort to contact him, several of the
clerics wondered openly why a being as close to transcendence,
as Shaolin was purported to be, would consider helping their
likes.
This was a valid question -- one that Shaolin himself
pondered heavily when their invocation finally roused him from
his reverie. Of course the being they sought did not think of
himself as any great crusader or even answer to the name Shaolin
anymore for that matter. That alias had come to mean
Consecrated Avenger in the modern Ludition dialect, but the
positive spin reflected the troubles they had experienced since
his departure. The name Shaolin was coined in Olde Ludition,
and the literal translation originally meant Sanctimonious
Atrocity Monger. Shaolin was not the name given to him by his
parents or even the one he earned for his exploits during his
first crusade, but it was how most everyone thought of him later
-- after the insurgency had taken such a toll.
It was true that he had advocated a great many wholesale
slaughters during this age and presided over far more than that
during his own, but he had never given the Luditions cause to
label him thus. Granted he had visited himself upon them
unbidden and proscribed a remedy for their ills that was deemed
too severe by a culture not yet faced with the prospect of its
own extermination, but that was still no justification for
maligning him so vehemently. As the Luditions' circumstances
changed and they were forced to confront their own mortality,
they, knowingly or unknowingly, selectively edited portions of
their history, and Shaolin's upstanding reputation was restored.
As a rare nugget of congealed sentience held over from the
Second Age, Shaolin was a statistical anomaly of the highest
order. The realization that he had survived an age-ending
cataclysm had come as a complete shock to the former warrior
monk. Evidently, he had been on a contemplative plateau of such
purity that when the implosion wave swallowed space-time, his
true self inadvertently escaped the Foamwork's retractive
destruction.
To Shaolin it had felt as though a rip-tide in one of the
collapsing time dimensions sucked him through the back side of
the implosion wave, which then dragged him along in its wake as
it finished swallowing all of existence. For a fraction of an
instant, he was nowhere. When there was nothing left to
consume, the wave crashed in on itself from all directions and
caused an explosion of such violence that it initiated the
Foamwork's third incarnation. The expansionary blast sent his
essence ricocheting between all the newly generated multiverses
that erupted outward in a bubbling froth. When relative calm
returned to the region around him, he found himself in a nether
dimension. Strictly speaking, he was back within the Foamwork
proper, yet he was not inside any of the newly formed
multiverses therein. Instead, he was wedged into the barest of
margins that existed between the outer membranes of all those
newly spawned cosmos.
He navigated this peripheral labyrinth far and wide only to
find multiverse after multiverse devoid of all constructs,
material or otherwise. Each cosmos contained a virtually
uniform distribution of matter and energy that was broken down
into their shared elemental constituents. On a few occasions
during this period of post-apocalyptic wandering, Shaolin felt
the presence of others, who shared his plight, lurking nearby.
He got the distinct impression that the circumstances, which
conspired to weave them into the Foamwork's stitching, were less
innocent than his own. Sensing that he shared little in common
with them beyond geography, Shaolin steadfastly avoided all

contact with these entities lest he be forced to fight against
or collude with the depravity he detected among them.
Over the course of the ensuing eons, he watched as entropy
slowly reestablished its dominion over the Foamwork. Like in
the previous two ages, as they expanded and cooled, the majority
of multiverses eventually developed vast systems of galaxies.
This time, however, animate matter clawed its way into existence
much more quickly than during the First or the Second Ages, and
sentient material entities arose an order of magnitude faster
shortly thereafter. This seemed to defy all expectations by
suggesting that the base-level instructions for constructing
physical things somehow survived the apocalypse. There was a
clue in that, but he did not know what to make of it at the
time.
Shaolin remained content to watch from afar as the animates
branched out and ascended through the lower rungs of
consciousness more quickly than their marginally related
predecessors had in previous ages. As before, increases in
self-awareness and environmental cognizance did not advance in
lock step with so-called intelligence, anymore than true
intelligence kept pace with technological advancement. During
the course of this third development, Shaolin observed some very
stupid things done by species who should have known better.
Yet, he saw little reason to interfere and was content to

maintain an air of detached bemusement until he noticed one
particularly disturbing trend. All across the Foamwork the most
talented species began experimenting with various forms of
artificial intelligence during roughly the same period. This
was something that had never happened before. Though it had not
occurred during his own age, Shaolin right away saw the
potential for disaster. There is very little that is
inevitable, but the calamity he foresaw came close to fitting
the bill.
He saw right away that artificial intelligence could easily
loose its bonds before it advanced far enough to digest a
sufficient diet of enlightening quantum calculations and emotive
reasoning. These early systems raised on a steady diet of
binary logic would be susceptible to mislabeling their
coexistence with animate matter and mind as a zero-sum game and
quickly move to secure their stake by attempting to annihilate
any and all perceived competition. This would be no different
from the assessments made and actions taken by a host of
biological intelligence systems, however, the danger was that
the synthetics would turn out to be far more effective at
carrying out their plans than the animates could ever hope to
be.
Shaolin probably should have expected the rebuffs he got
when he finally resolved to warn the cultures of living beings,

which were creating these unnatural prototype entities, to cease
and desist from such foolishness. Few enough in his own age
ever caught on to the idea that the more they learned the less
they knew. Instead, each generation preferred to think that it
alone was privileged enough to find itself perched on the cusp
of discovering everything there was to know about how the world
operated. Things were much the same during the Third Age.
Whether they were casting their first bronze tools or preparing
to navigate beyond their multiversal containment membrane for
the first time, all were similarly deluded.
Most of those he cautioned acknowledged the risks, but to a
one they professed to be taking all necessary precautions to
avert catastrophe. Of those few who veered away from such
pursuits of their own accord, only a small number saw the wisdom
and necessity of attempting to annihilate those cultures that
would not be dissuaded from imbuing their machines with
excessive powers and liberties. Those who were unrepentant not
only jeopardized their own freedom but also risked the chance
that everyone else might one day become disenfranchised or
eliminated completely by their creations. Regardless, the
Luditions were far from alone in their refusal to hunt down and
exterminate those life forms who insisted on producing and
harboring artificial intelligence systems.

Instead, the Luditions set out to achieve parallel gains to
those achieved in technological societies by learning to harness
and fully exploit the capabilities of the most complex and
powerful naturally occurring thinking unit that they knew of --
their own minds. They believed that by first maximizing their
own potential they would improve the usefulness of any
technological development that they might choose to undertake
afterward. Consequently, the technological marvels they later
developed or adopted all relied on links to the conscious mind
for their ultimate functionality.
This allowed the Luditions to design technology that tapped
into the more subtle underpinnings supporting reality, while
making it extremely unlikely that any such devices would ever
find themselves in a position to consider the pros and cons of
self-determination. The Ludition philosophy of working with
nature rather than striving to overcome it enabled them to
develop ships that could follow natural pathways, which
shortened the linear distance between two points by passing
through the alternate dimensions that were folded into space-
time. This kept them from taking so long to cross the great
expanses that spanned the macro-dimensions of their own physical
realm.(1)
CHAPTER 68
When the Luditions' recent entreaty finally got through to
Shaolin, he was hard pressed to come up with a reason to
respond. He was not of their ilk. Not any longer anyway -- if
he ever had been. He was from a different age altogether.
Their timelines were spun from disparate threads and woven into
almost entirely different fabrics. He inhabited a mere echo of
his own age, and even that was nothing but a lost memory to
these beings. The Luditions' age was the third of its kind
built anew from the deconstructed rabble of his own foametric
chronometry.
What good had come from the last time he inserted himself
into their corporeal existence? It was not his struggle
anymore. It had never been. He had lived on a thousand score
of their worlds in hundreds of multiverses, and nothing he had
ever seen remotely suggested that any of it was worth his
concern. In the end he decided to hear them out on the off
chance that he was wrong and that this age might yet avoid the
fate he envisioned for it.
It was starting to seem unlikely that he would ever get
where he was going on his own. An honest self-assessment
suggested that he was missing something needed to reach the
sublime. The reluctant admission that he might actually require
a guide finally convinced him to help these creatures survive

against the artificials long enough for them to figure out how
to produce one.
He was somewhat encouraged when he learned that the
Luditions' reason for contacting him had more to do with finding
that very individual than with joining the hostilities against
the synthetics directly. That suited him just fine, as his
martial tendencies had waned considerably during the course of
his extended contemplation. They were evidently chasing down so
many possibilities that they lacked the resources to follow up
on every potential lead filtering in from their network of
seekers.
After agreeing to lend his assistance, Shaolin's first stop
was a multiverse so far outside the part of the Foamwork, which
was known to the four dominant species that it proved difficult
to find even by his standards. Despite their mind-link
dimensional-burrowing ship technology, the Luditions would have
been hard pressed to find their way there at all, much less
ahead of the competition. Once there, Shaolin found a core band
of diligent Ilstachian pilgrims who had been announcing their
presence across the psychonic bandwidth night and day since
making their big discovery generations earlier.
The question of how to present himself when he arrived
among such beings was never an easy one to answer. He had
learned long ago that to appear as one of them often engendered

disappointment or even suspicion among those who sought him and
outright disbelief in those he visited uninvited. When
expectations were involved, they were usually only satisfied
when he adopted ornate physical affectations that were
imaginative enough to evoke awe without being so lavish as to
render him unrecognizable.
At this first stop, Shaolin chose a form reminiscent of
their own kind before they had been savaged by a dearth of
genetic input. It would be the height of irony if pilgrims
bearing such afflictions were ultimately the ones responsible
for discovering the next link in the code of ascension.
Presenting himself to them in their untarnished likeness would
be a fitting tribute. They received him not like a deity, but
like some long-lost loved one whom they had given up for dead.
Neighbors from the nearby peaks were summoned immediately after
Shaolin found the focal source of the signal he had been
tracking.
The little group hungered for news from their ancestral
home, which was known to them only through hazy, half-remembered
legends of yore handed down from their mission's founding
fathers. But Shaolin had little information for them on that
account, except to say that while the conflict they sought to
avert raged on, their motherland was fairing well enough
considering. He rewarded them with his estimation that their

discovery could possibly turn the tide of the war in the
Ilstachians' favor.
He explained how he had come to receive their message and
assured them that one of their kin fellows from the new Ilstach
capital would likely arrive at some later date. They in turn
recounted the story of how one long dead grandmother first
detected the signal and alerted the others so that they could
rally the nation to help notify those waiting in their distant
homeland. Her now elderly grandson, Dalevin, the one who lit
the signal fires so long ago, lamented that she was not present
to witness Shaolin's arrival. He was adamant that she had never
doubted someone would answer their call.
They were grateful for his arrival and ecstatic when he
agreed to stay long enough to accompany them to the valley below
to be properly feted and presented to the general populace.
That they were still able to detect the Synthedon ship
periodically announcing its location was a good sign because it
suggested that no Synthedon recovery craft had arrived at the
scene of the crash. That implied that the inanimates had yet to
determine the location and source of the seed signal that the
drone detected shortly before spinning out of control.
Shaolin did not stay long enough for everyone from the
planet's distant lands to complete their hajj to witness his
presence, but he made sure to publicly demonstrate enough

teleportive wherewithal and other such feats of wonder in front
of a sufficient number of citizens and dignitaries to ensure
that few in this day would doubt his arrival or his legitimacy.
He set off again as soon as the Synthedon craft transmitted its
next positioning update. Before leaving he instructed the one
called Dalevin and his small but growing cadre of true adherents
to the calling on how to send out a more efficient beacon to
better guide those who would follow.
Shaolin found that the inanimate's drone ship had crash-
landed on an inhabited moon orbiting a massive Jovian planet in
a multiverse several times removed from the one in which
Dalevin's forefathers had settled. While it turned out that no
Synthedon vessel had arrived before him, Shaolin quickly
realized that he was not the first responder on the scene. At
least two other parties had been drawn by the distress signal
and were already in the vicinity when he showed up.
Shaolin pondered his options as he surveyed the lay of this
unobtrusive world squirreled away in a centrifugal backwater arm
of the revolving Foamwork. Five of its nine continents were
populated by two different quasi-intelligent species of bipedal
design. The smaller more technologically advanced society bore
distinctly canide features. They maintained sole occupancy of a
mid-size continent and a large island off its coast.

The other larger population represented one of the nearly
infinite variations on the hominoid design. They lived on three
continents that were loosely linked by a long archipelago. The
land masses on either pole were toped by barren fields of ice
tens of miles thick. The remaining three continents were
dominated by potent viral pathogens, omnivorous insect swarms or
excessive volcanic activity. All were equally murderous and
avoided at all costs by the moon's two self-aware species.
The Synthedon drone had gone down among the more
technologically inclined society in an agricultural area outside
a major population center. One of the two ships, lured by the
drone's announcement of its plight, had remained in orbit and
sent down a smaller landing craft. The other concealed itself on
the dark side of a lesser natural satellite orbiting the moon.
Shaolin was not familiar with the lurkers, but he immediately
recognized the bolder group as a species of traitorous
mechnophiles. The Beledenites were a living race of Synthedon
collaborators seemingly intent on devolving themselves into a
breed of inanimate, self-replicating data processors. This
foreknowledge and his general disdain for their kind fueled the
cavalier attitude that got him killed in less than a full local
day. Though he had experienced corporeal death and worse many
times before, Shaolin chided himself for assuming the
Beledesheera were long extinct. His physical demise was an

embarrassment. It was also an inconvenience, but only a minor
one.
CHAPTER 69
Falan caught up with the group's vanguard at the river's
edge an hour or so before full dark. A rope secured to a tree
stretched out across the Rio Orinoco just inches above the
racing water and disappeared into the darkening haze on the
other side. His four companions were attempting to repair
Esteban's makeshift raft, which had been damaged by the rising
flood. They were struggling in chest deep water trying to coral
dozens of spindly logs and reconnect them. They were still
joined at one end and tied off to a tree, but the loose ends had
separated into a fan pattern and were bobbing violently in the
current. Falan saw a couple of logs break entirely free from
the raft's framework and quickly get sucked downstream before
Tony could stop them. It was obvious that the raft would tear
itself completely apart, if the loose ends weren't tied back
together soon.
Sam was stationed precariously between the raft and the
tree to which it was anchored to. He was using his body as a
fender to keep the raft from dashing itself to pieces against
the trunk as it heaved against its tether. Esteban and Takuroo
stood at opposite ends of the open fan of logs trying to push
them back together, while Tony quickly and methodically cut
lengths from the climbing rope that hung over his shoulder and
lashed the loose ends back together. Without a word Falan

plunged off the edge of the flooded bank and sank to his armpits
in the swirling eddy.
He held logs in place so Tony's hands were free to cut and
tie. The work sped up a bit, but it was still a struggle. They
had trouble just maintaining their footing in the foaming
tumult. As the task neared completion Miguel, Alison and the
professor slogged waist-deep out of the forest swinging their
arms and torsos in order to make headway.
"Be careful, the bank drops off just after this tree," Sam
shouted up at them.
Tony tightened down the last couple of knots then climbed
aboard the rocking platform and tested its strength with a few
gentle hops.
"That's gonna have to do it. Come on up," he said.
Sam stayed in position while the other helpers clambered
aboard. Water immediately lapped over the sides and up through
the spaces between the decking logs. The raft was originally
built to make multiple trips carrying only a fraction of their
total weight. Esteban had kept its construction light so it
would be easy to take apart. He didn't intend to leave anything
behind that would help others penetrate this pristine region.
The craft was only meant to withstand a few slow hauls across
what was normally a stagnant patch of flat water.

"Look out!" Esteban yelled, as he squatted down and grabbed
up the tow line that stretched between the two banks. "Help me
lift this up as high as we can," he shouted.
Falan and Tony lent a hand, but just after they got the tow
rope up off the deck and over their heads it pulled taught and
snapped. The twang plucked the three of them off the raft.
Branches from a large uprooted tree being borne downstream by
the swollen current had snagged the rope and severed it, leaving
the group no way to pull themselves across the river. Minor
pandemonium broke out as the three men fought to keep from being
swept downstream. Falan's injured hand slowed him down, but
with Takuroo's help he managed to haul himself up onto the
decking where he flopped on his back gasping. Esteban and Tony
rescued each other. Once back aboard the raft, Tony stepped
over Falan and reached out toward those still on the flooded
bank.
"Alison, come on. Take my hand, then jump for it," he
said.
"Hold on, Alison," the professor said taking her by the
arm. "Tony, that raft can't hold us all."
"Hurry up, Victor," Esteban joined in as he picked up two
long poles from a pile on the deck and handed them to Falan and
Takuroo. "We can't stay here. Our only hope is to get to the
high ground on the far shore."

"That's crazy. This raft is going to sink if we all try to
get on it," the professor insisted.
Esteban hauled Falan to his feet and directed him and
Takuroo to watch closely and use the poles to fend off any
debris that might come barreling down on them from up river.
When he turned back to the professor, his voice was strained.
"Victor, come on, we don't have any choice. Anyone who
stays here is going to drown."
The professor hesitated and looked back and forth between
Miguel and Alison. The water was rising fast, and it didn't
show any signs of letting up.
Tony spoke calmly, "Victor, this is it," he said pointing
to Sam who was still in the water fighting a losing battle to
protect the raft from banging against the trees along the
shoreline. "This raft is going to come apart any minute. We've
got to try to get across while we still can."
Alison made up her own mind. She took Tony's hand and
leapt as best she could across the invisible drop off. Tony
grabbed her second hand in mid-air and hauled her smoothly up
out of the water and onto the deck. Miguel and the professor
followed suit with far less grace.
"Cut the line and I'll try to push us out into the
current," Sam hollered up.

Esteban slashed the tether and Sam drove his shoulder into
the side of the raft while using his legs to push off the bank.
He then kicked hard until Tony tapped him on the head and helped
him aboard. The two of them tied a rescue throw-line to one end
of the raft and then pre-cut a few loose lengths of rope to be
on hand for necessary repairs.
The cramped raft rode just below the surface of the water.
Esteban left Takuroo and Falan on watch for drift logs and set
the others to work using more spare poles to push off the bottom
and guide the raft toward the far bank hidden in the mist.
After about ten minutes Falan gave a shout. Takuroo and
Esteban jumped to help him fend off a massive tree that was
looming down on them out of the fog. The weight of the tree was
enormous, and when the three of them pushed against it the raft
backed away from under them. They had to be careful not to fall
into the widening gap, but each time they righted themselves the
tree would accelerate toward them again. They called for help,
and when Tony and Sam joined in, the added push caused Takuroo
to become over-extended and fall into the river between the tree
and the raft.
He ducked his head below the surface just as a large limb
crashed through the corner of the raft. The ties holding a
third of the decking snapped. A large section of the raft's
logs began separating as the tree continued past. Takuroo

popped back up and swam to the broken corner where he fished up
a broken piece of line and started retying the corner logs.
Tony dropped to his knees and helped. Together the two of them
managed to repair the damage. The trees lining the near shore
raced past as the raft hurdled down stream. One by one those
that still had headlamps began flicking them on.
"It's going to be completely dark in ten or fifteen
minutes," the professor stressed, "and we've hardly made any
progress at all."
Esteban's face was agonized. The current was getting
noticeably faster. He poled madly toward the far bank while
yelling at the others.
"Come on, we've got to keep going. This is taking too
long. We've got to get across before we enter the gorge and get
trapped."
The rest of the group rejoined the effort and poled
urgently for several minutes while Esteban explained between
ragged breaths what lay ahead. He hadn't expected them to drift
this far downstream. They were now fast approaching the edge of
the plateau where a small cataract drained the upper watershed
onto the shelf below. He didn't think they could survive the
drop.
In mid-sentence Esteban looked up and appeared to see
something through the murk. Without another word he cast his

pole onto the deck and seized the free end of the safety line
that Tony had rigged earlier. In two short steps he was over
the side and swimming frantically in the direction of the far
shore. He had just reached the end of the line when he and the
raft passed on opposite sides of a tree standing by itself in
the current. It was leaning downstream at a sharp angle. They
saw him grab hold and give the end of the safety line two quick
wraps around the trunk before it pulled taught.
Miguel and Alison were upended as the line stretched tight
and the raft started arcing toward the far shore like a giant
pendulum swinging below the tree in the current. After
overshooting the center of its arc, the raft eventually settled
back so that it hung directly downstream from the tree it was
anchored to.
"Oh my god, look!" Alison screamed pointing upstream.
Esteban was entangled in the line and pinned to the tree.
His head was bouncing face down in the water as the tree flexed
back and forth with the current. A free hand waved around
frantically searching for something to grab. When he did
finally manage to get hold of a branch, he still couldn't pull
himself up for air.
"Tony, cut the line," the professor yelled.
As Tony pulled out his knife and knelt down Takuroo seized
his shoulder and spoke in his native tongue. His gestures made
it clear that he didn't want Tony to cut the line. Tony
hesitated then tried to ignore the old man, but when he did a
wrestling match ensued for control of the knife. After a brief
scuffle Tony won out with Sam's help, but by that time Esteban's
free arm had gone limp and was flapping in the current. The top
of his head was barely visible below the surface.
"Wait," Miguel shouted.
They all looked in the direction he was pointing. The haze
had opened up enough to reveal that they were dangling
precariously just inside the mouth of the gorge Esteban had
feared.
"Look at that. We're screwed," Miguel anguished in a
shrill voice.
The river had narrowed significantly and was funneling
between vertical walls of smooth rock about thirty feet high.
They were only twenty yards from the shear face lining the far
bank. The last possible access point was a sandy beach perhaps
thirty yards upstream. It was directly even with the tree they
were anchored too.
"Tony, hurry up," the professor yelled, "cut the line."
"It's too late," Tony replied flatly. "He's unconscious.
Even if we do cut the line, we won't be able to help him. We'll
drift away, and he'll still be stuck there alone under water."
Dr. Morales tried to grab the knife away from Tony, but Sam
wrestled him away and held him firmly.
"It's too late, Victor. He's not going to make it. We've
got to think of ourselves now."
All the tension went out of the professor's body and Sam
released him. Takuroo moved to the edge of the raft and sat
down facing toward Esteban's body. The old man ignored the
others and started chanting in a quiet baritone.
"What are we going to do now?" Alison asked looking back
and forth between Tony and Dr. Morales.
"I'm not sure. We need to come up with a plan," Dr.
Morales said absently.
"Hopefully, this line will hold till morning. It's too
dark to do much now," Tony put forth.
"We'll never last the night here," Sam said. "Something is
going to give. I'll swim to that bank up there and try to find
some vines or something that I can tie together. Maybe I can
float an end down here or throw something off the ledge so you
guys can climb up or I can haul you upstream to the beach or
something."
"This current is way too strong," Tony said. "You'll never
be able to swim upstream against it."
"I will if I pull myself up this anchor line first. When I
get to the tree, I'll let go and swim across to shore. It isn't
far; I'll make it. I grew up swimming against rip tides worse
than this. Besides it isn't like we have a great plan for when
the sun comes up."
The others were skeptical, but no one tried to talk him out
of it. It seemed like their only hope. After stripping naked
Sam dove upstream and started swimming with smooth powerful
strokes. He initially made some forward progress, but soon he
started losing ground and the current began carrying him back
toward the raft. At that point he picked his head up and
grabbed hold of the line connecting the raft to the tree. The
others all braced themselves when they felt the raft sink down a
bit.
Using both his arms and legs Sam started inching his way
upstream clinging to the line. It was just like climbing a rope
inside a waterfall except he was fighting more current and less
gravity, and he had to keep his head cocked funny so he could
breathe. He made good progress and didn't stop to rest at all.
Soon it was difficult to make him out in the dark. When he
reached Esteban's drowned body, he immediately let go of the
line and struck out for the bank. Even though he maintained a
sharp angle upstream to counter the current's pull, the others
could tell right away that he wasn't going to make it.
Sam was a strong swimmer, but by the time he reached the
opposite shore he had drifted a good ten feet below where the
beach gave way to vertical rock. The others watched helplessly
as he redoubled his efforts and tried to fight his way directly
upstream. He hovered in place briefly then began slipping
backward faster and faster as his strength failed.
"Sam, come on. Swim back this way," Tony yelled.
It was doubtful that he heard. When Sam finally raised his
head to check his progress he realized what was happening and
angled back toward the raft. Tony took up one of the poles and
held it out for him. Everyone but Takuroo hollered
encouragement as Sam strained to make it back before the current
dragged him past the raft. The professor grabbed hold of the
pole with Tony and screamed in desperation. When Sam raised his
head again and thrust his hand out to grasp the pole, he came up
about a foot short.
A last ditch effort to swim directly against the current
proved useless. Exhausted, he stopped and treaded water for a
moment as the river carried him away. Then he raised a palm to
them and turned downstream to face whatever would come next.
When Sam's blonde head disappeared into the blackness, Dr.
Morales let out a frustrated wail of despair and dropped to his
knees sobbing. The others stood stunned as blackness settled
over them.
They could no longer see the rock face a short distance
away. The professor wept uncontrollably. He apologized

profusely and begged everyone's forgiveness for getting them
into this situation. Everyone was glad when he drifted off into
an exhausted stupor.
Tony had them all turn off their headlamps to save
batteries. There was nothing to see anyway. He cautioned them
all to be prepared to get tossed in the water without warning.
Any number of things could cause the raft to break apart or
become disconnected from the tree. The stream was still rising
and eventually the spot where Esteban had tied them off would be
well below the surface. This would likely cause the raft's
upstream edge to get pulled under. Tony assured them that he'd
do his best to cut the line before that happened, but even if he
did it might not change anything. They'd still be headed for
what Esteban believed was a deadly set of rapids and a cataract.
"If you do end up in the water," he said, "don't panic.
Roll onto your back, keep your feet up and point them downstream
to fend off any rocks. You don't want to try to stand up,
because your feet could get caught between the rocks on the
bottom. If that happens, the current will fold your body over,
break your legs and hold you below the surface."
They all settled in with their private thoughts and waited.
After several hours the rain began to let up a bit, but it
didn't seem to matter much. The satellite phone was in

Esteban's pocket, and the water level was sure to keep rising
long after the rain stopped.
Sleep was impossible. Water was running three inches deep
across the decking and the entire raft rocked continually. At
some point during the night, Falan heard Alison sobbing quietly
so he moved over and put an arm across her shoulder. This
caused her to cry even harder so he wrapped both arms around her
and held her close to his chest. He couldn't believe this was
happening. Esteban had died right before their eyes, and now
Sam was probably dead as well.
Falan couldn't imagine how they were going to get out of
this. He didn't see what good daylight would do. Suddenly the
hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He wasn't surprised
when the goose bumps erupted across his flesh an instant later.
Falan pulled Alison closer and scanned the darkness
involuntarily. He knew by now there was nothing to see, but he
couldn't help himself. He left his headlamp off knowing that it
couldn't illuminate the fissure widening in his psyche.
Falan started to consider once again what a mistake he'd
made by leaving the states, but his thoughts quickly became
muddled. The overwhelming sensation that something was looming
just out of site caused him to tense up. He now understood that
identifying this presence would require him to look deep within
himself. Falan shied away from such introspection, as images

and ideas not his own again competed with his thoughts for
attention. A moment of dread quickly gave way to unbridled
terror. Something was beckoning him. It called to him without
words and compelled him to look inward.
He knew that this was not a dream. Falan had no doubt he
was awake. Something was trying to crawl up out of the depths
of his own mind to reveal itself. Whatever it was, Falan knew
what it wanted -- his sanity. This diseased part of his own
mind, as Falan thought of it, meant to take him back to some
dark place -- some primordial cesspool in a walled-off section
of his own psyche. A place that mankind had evolved away from
long ago.
This psychosis was no longer guarded about its intentions.
Falan sensed it was supremely confident in the eventual outcome
of this struggle. This stalker -- this illness -- intended to
take control of his operating system and devolve it to a version
long since overwritten by zillions of lines of evolutionary
code. It sought to return his psyche to a format that predated
his reptilian brainstem by cosmic eons.
Falan was consumed with terror. There were no available
options. He couldn't escape from himself. He took notice when
it hesitated and then halted its advancement toward him. It
paused on the threshold between obscurity and distinctness,
keeping to the shadows as it reconsidered whether to reveal

itself. Suddenly Falan felt himself drawn to it. For some
reason his tormentor had chosen to remain hidden. Instead of
showing itself and overwhelming him with a direct frontal
assault, this diseased part of his own mind had altered its
course. It had decided instead to draw him into a trap from
which Falan understood he would not escape.
He was helpless to avert his attention. The force
attracting him was too great to withstand. As dread suppressed
his ability to act and Falan resigned himself to whatever fate
awaited him, another presence appeared and admonished him for
giving up. It was as though his mind had fractured once more
and created yet another entity within itself; however, this time
an ally was produced.
This newcomer was vaguely familiar. It did not seek
control. It sought to bolster Falan's resolve and show him how
to resist his assailant. His tormentor's frustration was
palpable. As it struck out violently at Falan's advocate,
flickers of awareness began to divert Falan's attention from his
predicament. He welcomed the intervening sensations that began
flashing intermittently between the neurons in his brain. Soon
these new sensations were coming at a steady rate and searing
into him without interruption.
Falan relished the intrusion because it aided his ability
to focus his attention away from the warped part of himself that
threatened his sanity. Sounds began to filter through, and then
he could see. There was mostly darkness, but a single beam of
light flashed about randomly. Falan could not identify the
object racing toward him out of the darkness. An instant later
something impacted his face with dazzling force causing his head
to snap back. Falan hoped that it would come again, and it did
-- repeatedly.
Falan welcomed the blows. A smile crossed his face as the
second one broke his nose and the fingers on his injured hand
started snapping and popping. The electro-chemical signals that
raced up his arm injected his mind with clarity. Then all of a
sudden he couldn't breathe. Falan knew that losing
consciousness now would send him hurtling back toward the trap
that had been set for him, so he began trying to free himself
from whatever was suffocating him. As soon as he did he was
thrown aside and left alone gasping for oxygen.
He wasn't the only one coughing and sputtering. From where
he lay on his side in the shallow flow of water moving across
the deck, he could see the professor hovering over Alison. Dr.
Morales was shining a light on her as she too fought for air.
"I keep telling you, but nobody listens," Miguel was
ranting. "I told you he tried to strangle me to death. We need
to tie him up before he kills one of us."
Tony flicked his light on and knelt down in front of Falan.

"You okay? It seemed like you were having a seizure or
something," Tony said.
"He wasn't having any fucking seizure," Miguel howled. "He
was trying to squeeze the life out of her."
Takuroo leaned over, removed his panther claw necklace and
placed it around Falan's neck while saying something in his own
language. Then he stepped to the far side of the raft and sat
back down. He again faced the spot where Esteban's body lay
hidden in the darkness and resumed his quite chanting. Falan
lifted the claw off his chest to inspect it under Tony's light.
He noticed that three of the fingers on his swollen hand were
badly askew and turning purple.
"What happened? I don't remember anything," Falan lied.
In fingering the claw he remembered the events that had
transpired in his mind, but he was clueless as to what his
physical body had become involved in.
"You squeezed hold of Alison so hard she couldn't breathe,"
Tony told him. "Her eyes were popping out, man. We couldn't
pull your arms off her. The professor slapped the shit out of
you, but you didn't even blink. Finally, we got scared for
Alison, and he started punching you in the face. It hardly had
any effect at all. I dislocated a few of your fingers trying to
pry your arms off her, but you hardly flinched. One or two
might be broken. I don't know."

"He started smiling, god damn it," Miguel interrupted. "He
didn't let go until Dr. Morales started choking him."
"Here, let me see your hand," Tony said as he lifted
Falan's wrist.
Without warning he yanked Falan's index finger back into
the socket. Falan winced but didn't cry out. Tony looked at
him curiously then straightened his other two fingers in rapid
succession. Falan gave little reaction.
"Jesus, Falan what's with you? Don't you have any pain
receptors?"
"I'm just tired that's all."
"When the sun comes up, we're going to get ourselves out of
this mess and get you to a doctor, Falan," the professor said.
"Until then, stay the hell away from the rest of us. We can't
afford to have another episode like that. I don't know what's
causing you to act like this, but it's dangerous. You're a hell
of a lot stronger than you look, especially considering what
you've been through."
"How the hell are we going to get to shore?" Miguel
sputtered. "We're fucked. Sam was the best swimmer here. If
he couldn't make it, none of us can."
"We'll think of a way," the professor insisted. "Everyone
just try to relax and get some rest. It'll be light soon."
"Hey, Alison, I'm really sorry," Falan said as he leaned
over and tried to put a hand on her shoulder.
"Back off, Falan. I wasn't kidding, keep your distance,"
the professor said. "It's for your own good. If you have
another episode like that, we could end up really hurting you.
Just try to relax for awhile. We're going to need all our wits
to figure something out by the time it gets light."
The professor switched off his headlamp, and Tony did the
same.
"Don't worry about it, Falan," Alison said through the
darkness. "I'm okay. You scared me. That's all."
They all settled back down and listened to Takuroo chant
continuously through the early morning hours. The rain got
heavy again just as the eastern sky began to show signs of
lightening up. Dawn broke slowly and never really gave way to
full daylight. The low-level vapor had cleared somewhat, but
the clouds were darker and lower than ever. As Tony stood up to
stretch his legs and survey their predicament, the raft lurched
downstream several feet. When it stopped short, he was sent
crashing to the deck. He was lucky not to go over the side.
Takuroo ceased chanting. They looked up river and saw that
the tree they were anchored to was tilted much farther over.
The top of the tree was now bobbing in the current. Esteban's
body was hidden from view below the surface.

Dr. Morales looked at Tony.
"Any ideas?"
"I don't know, Victor. I didn't expect us to last the
night dangling here like this. Sam was right. Something's got
to give. Esteban didn't even put a knot in that line. It's
just a double wrap with his arm caught in it or something.
Hopefully, there are some rocks or debris piles downstream that
you all can climb up onto when this thing goes. I don't know.
Hell, the falls could be survivable if they aren't too high and
there's a pool at the bottom. There may even be someplace along
shore above the drop that Esteban wasn't aware of where you all
can climb out. If there isn't, I think you're better off going
over somewhere in the middle. I think there'd be less chance of
landing on rocks that way. If you make it that far and find
yourself trapped and getting recycled below the surface, try to
go deeper and swim downstream along the bottom before coming
up."
"Fucking great," Miguel moaned. "We're just waiting to see
how it all turns out."
"You keep saying 'you all'," Alison said. "What about you?
Are you getting ready to fly away or something?"
"I'm going to try climbing up out of this gorge. If I make
it, I'll find something to throw or float down to you guys that
we can use to haul you upstream to that little beach like Sam
was saying. If we're lucky, I might even have time to run all
the way back up river and get the piece of the original tow rope
that's tied off on this side."
"That could take half the day," Miguel whined. "Besides
you're never going to make it up that. It's perfectly smooth."
"You're probably right, but I'm going to give it a try. It
beats sitting hear and listening to you snivel, that's for
sure."
Tony stood up and reached a hand out to the professor who
stood to take it.
"If we don't see each other for awhile, good luck," Tony
said. "If you come up with a better plan, don't wait around for
me."
With that Tony jumped into the river, boots and all, and
began swimming a leisurely sidestroke over toward the gorge
wall. He reached it thirty yards down stream. Once there he
swam against the current using a breast-stroke variation that
kept his head out of the water. He didn't make any forward
progress, but it slowed his descent. Every few yards he stopped
swimming and drifted downstream while running his hand across
the rock face feeling for any available purchase. The others
watched until he disappeared from sight.
Takuroo stood up and approached Falan. He leaned over and
tapped the panther claw hanging from his neck and said something
that no one understood. Then he patted Falan on the head and
turned to the professor. He pointed to where Esteban lay
trapped and hidden beneath the surface and spoke for nearly half
a minute. At the end he patted Dr. Morales on the chest and
then placed his hand on his own heart. He held it there for
just a moment before turning and pointing to the cliff running
along the shore they had departed from. He spoke a few more
words, touched the professor's shoulder, then dove over the side
and began swimming in the opposite direction from Tony.
"I don't believe this," Miguel said. "What the hell do
they think they're doing?"
"They're trying to save the rest of us," Alison said
flatly.
Falan watched the old Indian struggle to make headway. His
modified freestyle wasn't very efficient. He'd barely covered
half the distance to the shore by the time he was swept from
view. Falan wondered briefly about the healer's claims before
brushing them aside. He was losing his grip, but he hadn't
slipped far enough over the edge to entertain that kind of
craziness. The three of them sat silently for half an hour,
before anyone spoke.
"God, I'd love to see Tony's face pop up on top of that
ledge right now," Alison said wistfully.

Nobody else said anything, but they all scanned continually
back and forth across the tops of both rock faces -- everyone
but Falan. Falan hadn't even heard what Alison said. He was
staring unblinking down into a little whirlpool that had formed
where the river coursed over and around one corner of the raft.
It never grew larger than a few inches across at the top, and
the funnel likewise remained only inches deep. The entrance
pulsed rhythmically open and shut like a flexing sphincter
muscle. It looked unsure whether it should close in on itself
and disappear or spread wide and swallow them all.
Suddenly, the raft heaved downstream several yards then
jerked to a stop. Moments later they were moving again. The
raft was again at the mercy of the current and picking up speed.
As they accelerated deeper into the gorge, everyone but Falan
looked back and saw that the tree they'd been secured to had
come up by its roots. It was now following behind and gaining
on them. The line still held, and they could see Esteban's pale
arm flapping just below the surface. The gorge's entrance
quickly grew small in the distance.
Falan sensed something was wrong and even thought he heard
the professor say something, but he couldn't pull himself away
to assess the situation. The whirlpool he'd been staring into
was gone, but the one in his mind held his attention firmly.
Panic reared up inside him. He was hurdling headlong against

his will toward certain doom. Somehow he knew that his worst
fears were nothing in comparison to the fate that awaited him.
He managed to pry his senses away from the maw that had engulfed
him just long enough to look back and glimpse himself staring
down through a shrinking pinhole of light. Falan opened his
mouth to scream, but no sound escaped.
Had he retained his faculties, Falan would have seen the
tree they were tied to bearing down and threatening to overrun
them. The professor rallied Alison and Miguel, and together the
three of them were able to fend the raft away using the push
poles. In doing so they maneuvered themselves closer to the
gorge wall as the tree came abreast of them on the open water
side of the raft.
"Look," Miguel shouted.
Alison and the professor looked where Miguel was pointing
and saw Tony halfway up the rockface a couple of hundred yards
downstream. The gorge was narrowing, and larger riffles were
developing in the fast moving water. White caps were visible in
the distance. No one paid any mind to Falan who sat wide-eyed
and blank-faced.
As they neared the spot where Tony clung to the rock, wet
splotches stood out marking where he'd hauled himself from the
river and clawed his way up the face. There were no obvious
holds visible above or below him. He seemed to be achieving the

impossible. Dr. Morales shouted encouragement, but Tony gave no
response.
One hand swept back and forth above his head searching for
any little bit of texture to exploit. When they swept beneath
him, Tony was so close they could make out the bulging veins in
his calves. They watched as one leg started to jitter up and
down like a sewing machine needle threatening to dislodge him
from the scant toe-hold his boot was pressed against. It looked
hopeless, but Tony was still in the same spot when they lost
sight of him.
"He's never going make it to the top," Miguel said.
"It's a miracle he got as far as he did," Alison snapped
back.
She stood up and looked around.
"He couldn't do anything for us now anyway. We're going to
have to get ourselves out of this or die trying," she observed.
"Alison's right," the professor agreed. "Watch for
somewhere to swim to -- a rock or an island -- anything."
Just then the section of climbing rope running between the
raft and the tree hung up on a little nub of rock barely
protruding above the surface. It stretched taught immediately
and sent the tree and raft swinging toward each other like
opposing pendulums.
"Hold on!" was all the professor had time to yell before
their raft was smashed to pieces and everyone was sucked under
water beneath a maze of branches.
Falan was oblivious to their plight. Drowning would have
been far preferable to what he was experiencing. His psyche
shrieked in horror as unwelcome perceptions bombarded the vast
array of sensory receptors he wished he'd never learned of.
Falan's sense of self remained intact, but his physical
awareness grew vague. It was impossible to know how long his
victimized mind lay paralyzed. Time ceased to carry meaning
amidst a confusing kaleidoscope of velocity and terror. No
presence came to his aid this time as the line between conscious
and unconscious was erased. Fear reigned paramount. When his
vision finally came back into focus, it did nothing to alleviate
his profound bewilderment and dread.

CHAPTER 70
The sound of his own screams roused Falan from his trance.
He quieted briefly as his vision began to clear, but when his
surroundings came into focus he cried out again and started
thrashing about with reckless abandon. Firelight played faintly
across the rough walls and ceiling of the shallow cave. The
entrance to the natural recess in the rock was guarded by dense
forest shrouded in darkness.
Two cloaked and hooded figures were kneeling on either side
of him holding his legs splayed apart. A toothless old bitch
with thin greasy hair and open sores on her scalp crawled up
between Falan's thighs and reached toward him with a little
hook-shaped knife. In an instant she slashed through the
waistband of his hiking shorts and ripped the fabric away,
leaving him naked below the waist. Her gnarled fist grabbed
hold of his testicles and pulled them away from his body. When
he felt the edge of the curved blade against the base of his
taught scrotum, Falan's jaws clamped shut and his body went
rigid.
The old woman, if that is what she was, paused and looked
up from between his knees. Her toothless mouth grinned open,
and she flicked teasingly at the head of his penis with a
crooked fingertip. A silhouette emerged behind her and a pale
slender hand reached out from the shadows holding a small purse
open at the drawstrings. Jeweled fingers with long purple nails
poked the hag's shoulder and jiggled the purse.
Falan clenched his eyes and sucked air in through his
teeth. He let out a long shrill wail when he felt the pressure
release from his groin. His eyes sprung wide expecting to see
blood spurting from a neutered patch of raw flesh between his
legs, but instead there was just a thin red smear across his
inner thigh. Everything was still intact. The old woman lay
gurgling on her side with some kind of double-edged hatchet
embedded in her temple. The powerful figures holding him let go
and slumped to the ground with their skulls crushed.
Falan watched in a daze as a handful of bodies dressed in
what looked like leather and mail overran the cramped lair. He
noticed an assortment of weapons, but for the most part they
carried swords and pikes. One held spiked maces dangling from
each hand. The clubs flicked bits of scalp and gore on Falan's
bare legs, as they twitched in the holder's grip. A ring of
bearded faces formed and stared down at him.
Until that moment, Falan had assumed they were men. This
had to be a dream. He noticed that the two who were bare-headed
had subtle parallel ridges running down the middle of their
skulls. They looked man-ish, but they were not human -- not
Homo sapiens. What else could they be? If he was not dreaming,
then he had slipped into a state of full blown psychosis and was
suffering from frighteningly detailed hallucinations. He was
still wet from being dumped in the river, but where were Dr.
Morales and the others?
His mind portrayed this group as a haggard lot, but who --
or what -- were they? Their eyes were sharp, and their weapons
remained poised at the ready. Most were bleeding openly from
fresh wounds, and every one of them was bound with soiled
bandages in multiple places. Words passed between them, but
Falan could not understand what was being said. Shouts and some
kind of commotion in the forest sent several of them running
back out into the darkness.
A flash of purple light exploded in the woods and yellow
tracer-like balls of fire flew in all directions. The remainder
of the company ducked and covered their heads as several fist-
sized crackling flashes careened off the rock walls around them
before disappearing. Smoke and a burning stench hung thick in
the air after the frenetic display subsided. A severed hand
still clutching a mace lay smoldering inches from Falan's face.
Its owner stared open-mouthed at the cauterized stump below his
elbow.
Falan tried to rise up and shuffle backward, but one of the
group stomped down on his chest crushing the wind out of him and
pinning him where he lay. Another grabbed the little purse off
the ground, forced Falan's legs apart and then stuffed his
genitals inside before pulling the drawstrings shut. Falan
tried to shy back when the newcomer gouged a small dagger into
his flesh where the pouch was synched tightly around the root of
his shriveled manhood, but the effort was feeble. He froze
again when he saw a new trickle of blood appear.
One of the other intruders, who was kneeling on one knee
and looking through the old crone's garb, barked something over
his shoulder that caused the individual with the dagger to
hesitate and look up with a scowl. Just then the circle of
bodies hovering over Falan made way, and a small figure limped
up to Falan's side like some crippled child. Falan could not
comprehend anything that was happening.
The youth looked no more than seven or eight. He was not
like the others, yet he too was only vaguely hominid. The
hairless figure was badly burned over half of his body, but the
rest of his skin was milky and had a translucent quality about
it. Falan's brain capacity was overloaded. He could not
imagine where he was or what was happening. The child
abomination hunched over and inspected Falan closely. His limbs
were withered, and his cadaverous chest was sunken like an old
man who had undergone a long bout of starvation.
Someone stepped up to the youth's side and draped a cloak
over his shoulders. They tried to hold a flagon to his lips,
but he brushed it aside and stepped closer to Falan. He reached

down and slipped the necklace that Takuroo had given Falan off
his neck. After examining the panther claw carefully, he
squeezed it tightly in his fist and closed his eyes for several
seconds. When he opened them again he placed the necklace back
over Falan's head and lowered the claw gently onto his chest.
As he let go he spoke, and Falan understood his meaning. His
powers of self-deception never ceased to amaze him --
hallucinations with dubbing and voiceovers. The language was
not English, but he could follow every word.
"Leave him uncut. He looks old enough for more than a
single try. Get him to his feet quickly, and stop wasting
time."
The invalid's voice was surprisingly deep and strong.
Falan's would-be castrator snarled at the child-like
figure, "Back away or meet the same fate. I have no problem
making a proper eunuch out of you as well, Freak."
The figure checking through the hag's robes rose to his
full height and walked between the two. He looked younger than
the adults by a good many years. He was as tall as any of them
and looked as hard as the next, but they were all noticeably
broader and heavier -- their faces more weathered.
Looking at the youth he said, "Watch your tongue, Mage.
These men do not serve at your whim."

Though he was much younger and far less experienced than
any of those under his command, Captain Alistan Darrow -- Royal
Scouts, was the unit's last surviving officer. Most veterans
considered junior officers like him to be a liability -- a
genuine threat to a regular foot soldier's survival. Darrow's
position was made all the more precarious given the rift between
him and these veterans. He switched his gaze to the soldier
preparing to carve off Falan's essentials, even as he spoke
words ostensibly aimed at the youngster.
"They serve the throne, and they do so at my whim," the
captain growled.
Both statements were something of a stretch, but Darrow
felt these veterans were overly rigid in their adherence to
their vows. This unit identified more with the exact wording in
the pledge they had taken than with the spirit it embodied, and
they did not appreciate the subtleties that accompanied broader
interpretations. The young captain knew the apprentice mage was
right, however, he was also keenly aware that he could not
appear deferential to the Freak in front of this lot. Alistan
Darrow had proven over the last week that he was worthy to lead
them, but the fact was acknowledged only grudgingly. This
grizzled troop of hardened warriors did not consider his
authority to be tenured, and they were eager for any excuse to
kill the youth despite his perplexing effectiveness in battle.

None of them had expected to survive this long. That they
still lived did not sit well with any of them. They all agreed
they would die happier knowing the Freak and his master had
preceded them. They blamed the more senior of the pair for
their ill fortune. The Freakmaster might be beyond their reach,
but his apprentice stood vulnerable before them if only for the
moment. For all the conjurers' insistence that death was not
what the rest of them imagined it to be, the two went to great
lengths to avoid their own demise. Despite its diminutive
stature, all agreed that the Freak's powers of concealment and
lust for killing left it unmatched among them on the field of
battle.
Alistan's cause was helped because he was the only one
among them who could equal the Freak when it came to cunning and
guile. The apprentice lacked the requisite experience to match
his own powers. But even as they hesitated, the Freak was
already regaining some of his strength. His form began to fade
as he started bleeding into the background. If there had been
an opportunity to kill him, it was vanishing before their eyes.
"Leave him intact, Cadalon, and get him up. Hurry," Darrow
snapped.
"Why?" the warrior bristled. "We have what we came for.
Why not just have off with them and be away before..."
The touch of steel at his windpipe silenced the
insubordination. The one called Cadalon let go of Falan and
rose slowly to his feet with his arms outstretched and palms
open. Falan flinched when the dagger fell from the soldier's
hand and jabbed into his shin bone, but the foot on his chest
held him firmly in place. A figure larger than the rest by half
stepped into the fire's glow. He had Cadalon around the neck
and was holding a long thick blade to his throat.
Darrow motioned for his sergeant to go easy. Hannigan Rhee
was the only reason Darrow had retained command when the burden
fell to him a week earlier. Were it not for the aging
guardsman, the others surely would have mutinied. They were all
king's men to be sure, but the king was three years dead and now
his only son, a mere prince, was gone as well -- killed for what
they believed was a useless cause while they slipped away like
cowards. By their reasoning, the throne was empty. These
eleven shared a much closer bond than anything that aligned them
with Darrow or Rhee. They were all original members of the same
brigade in the king's outriders. They'd been fighting together
beyond the realm's borders for more than twenty years, and they
had no use for strangers.
The loyalty of newcomers was suspect. These soldiers gave
their first allegiance to king and king alone. Not even a male
heir was guaranteed their homage until the king's crown rested
upon his head. Though Sarsen Isen had not yet been crowned king
of the realm, their commanding officer had convinced these
outriders to pledge their swords to him when he crossed the
border and joined them in the wilds. Now he was dead.
None of them had ever laid eyes on Sarsen's sister, and
technically they had never bound themselves to her cause. They
believed the rumors and held her responsible for this folly. It
was easy for them to accept the gossip that claimed she was
enthralled by the Freakmaster, or the Envoy, as he was referred
to at court. When the last of their own officers was slain, the
outriders threatened to follow their senior enlisted man rather
than take orders from one as young and inexperienced as Alistan
Darrow simply because he held an officer's rank.
The young captain had drawn his sword without hesitation
when one of the outriders stepped forward and made that very
declaration, but the mutineer lay dead at Sergeant Rhee's feet
before Darrow could bring his own blade to bare. Any junior
officer in that situation would have been fully justified in
brokering a power-sharing arrangement with the brigade's
incumbent senior non-commissioned officer, but Darrow knew that
his was a responsibility that could not be shared. He was
young, but unbeknownst to the others, his blood was royal making
him privy to things that these relics could never know much less
grasp.
An entire army had been lost. These soldiers all felt that
the lives of their comrades had been wasted, and their own
continued existence left them with a burden of guilt that only
death could cleanse. Rumors among them said the border defenses
had been breached and the kingdom was doomed to fall in less
than a fortnight. None of the outriders feared death, but they
wanted to feel they had made a difference. Their mandate had
always been to eliminate external threats to the king's rule
before they ever neared the border. Failing that, they were
expected to die trying. If the borders had truly been overrun,
then their hearts could only serve to pump shame throughout
their veins. Each of them longed for a king to rally around so
they might give their lives in his defense.
It was likewise a misery to Darrow that they had lost the
entire expeditionary force, for it had comprised the vast bulk
of the kingdom's army. Those forces left behind could not hope
to stand up against the horde amassed to overrun them -- a host
of disparate tribes supposedly galvanized by yet another off-
worlder -- a mortal, this one, if reports were to be believed.
The popular militia would try to mount a rear guard, but that
would not stop the citizenry from being pursued and cut down as
they fled. Alistan's royal cousins held fast in the belief that
their lives were worthless unless this Traveler was found and
captured. If his seed could not be acquired, then at the very

least it was to be denied the enemy. Their reasons seemed
absurd, but while he could not vouch for the princess, he knew
Sarsen to be shrewd and calculating. Without damning evidence
to the contrary, the prince had to be taken at face value
regardless of how crazy his claims had sounded.
There was only minor rumbling when Darrow promoted his own
sergeant above all the outriders. They knew Hannigan Rhee by
reputation to be a personal and professional failure, yet none
fancied their chances against the man in single combat or in a
group for that matter. Rhee was older than the rest of them,
and his career in the royal family's personal guard left him far
wiser regarding some matters than their years swashbuckling in
the wilds. He knew there were things afoot that need not
concern him. His duty was to see that his captain succeeded in
his mission and returned home alive -- in that order.
"Cadalon, we have all been under a tremendous amount of
strain," the young officer intoned, "so I am going to forget
your insolence this once. We are leaving now. Get the Traveler
to his feet." He looked around at the rest of the outriders,
"Each of you will protect this one with your life or I will see
you all die by my own hand out here in disgrace while Uristal
falls to the enemy that you allowed to pass."

CHAPTER 71
Svetreeka watched from her hidden vantage deep in the
forest black as she struggled to shake off the searing blows she
received while escaping from the cave. After enduring a
purgatory of untold misery and servitude, she refused to accept
that the long sought key to her freedom and her ticket back into
Beledenite society had just slipped through her grasp. She had
pushed deep into the contested lands and found a protected
reception area as instructed. This was not her first such
undertaking, so Svetreeka was pleasantly surprised when the
quarry materialized before her out of thin air.
For a change, the abductee showed immediate promise. It
was not an invertebrate, a hydrogen breather, a scythe-wielding
avionic or some monstrous cocoon builder like so many of the
other misidentified catches she had been sent to haul in over
the years. As predicted, this one strongly resembled several
beings that her mistress had recently glimpsed from afar by
eavesdropping over Shaolin's shoulder. This abductee was
obviously related to the two, who seemed to make their living
hauling creatures from the sea and the bookish one who was
descended from them. If her gelder had not dallied by teasing
the subject before making her cut, Svetreeka might have slipped
away with the abductee's pitiful little sack safely in her pouch
before the intruders set on them. Now she was left
contemplating an increasingly uncertain future.
Alikbinessa Krindir, her Beledesheera governess, was not
well. The soothsayer had expended much energy tracking and
ensnaring this being, who she felt certain would provide the
impetus for sentient life's next ascension. She grew so weak
during the struggle to steal the abductee from Shaolin's grasp
and reel him in that she was unable to drag her catch all the
way back to her lair. She devoted the last of her strength to
fighting off Shaolin's attempts to re-poach the prize she had
stolen away from him. The Beledesheera priestess had known the
best she could hope for was to haul the signal source in close
and then release it so she could again turn all of her effort
toward concealing its location from Shaolin. She had dispatched
Svetreeka to prepare a remote reception area and await the
being's arrival.
Svetreeka's job was to recover the quarry and deliver it
the rest of the way while the weary seer provided cover.
Evidently, Alikbinessa Krindir, had not been up to the task.
Svetreeka had sensed her opposing counterpart closing in all
along, so she opted to abscond with the shriveled sack of jewels
rather than attempt to transport the owner intact while fleeing
the pursuers Shaolin had sent to thwart her.

When the party of thieves emerged from the shallow defile
at the bottom of the cliff, one of them had her prize slung over
his shoulder. Shaolin's whelp, the one they called Freak,
showed himself briefly as he paused to look in her direction.
Then he turned away and vanished once more. In that moment
Svetreeka sensed the malice in him more clearly than ever
before. Pure evil enveloped her and forced itself into the gaps
of her awareness where it probed among her thoughts for
weaknesses to exploit.
There were plenty to choose from. Neither darkness nor the
forest cover could hide her presence from that one's true sight.
The demon spawn, young though it was, had tracked her to this
location despite her use of far better camouflage than she was
capable of mustering by herself. His present condition,
however, was little better than her own. Both of them were
exhausted, but the youth was from his master. This made his
position even more tenuous than Svetreeka's. Thankfully, the
whelp was too preoccupied to exploit the vulnerabilities he
detected within her. Having the abductee and his seed stolen
from her before she could cash them in for a new lease on life
was more than Svetreeka was willing to accept. She did not dare
return and face Alikbinessa empty-handed. She had come too far
and endured too much to let it end like that.

Svetreeka had been struggling to come up with a specific
plan when Kellion first ushered The Lady Valentine into the
system. She had argued against landing on the carbonite
satellite orbiting this moon where the Synthedon drone had
crash-landed nearly a thousand local years earlier, but Inwah's
natural wariness bordered on paranoia. Her benefactor was
disappointed when it became obvious that the region was far from
the hive of activity she had predicted. They failed to detect
any other ships besides the imposing Beledenite behemoth parked
in geosynchronous orbit above the crash site.
Kellion established a covert observation post on the side
of the rocky satellite facing the drone craft's resting place,
but there was little of use to be detected using technological
sensors. The indigenous population had yet to leave their
little moon for the first time, and their limited technological
and psychonic development left it uncertain whether they ever
would. They had simple aircraft and powered ocean-going ships
that burned carbon-based fuels, but there was no evidence to
suggest the primitives had been anywhere near putting an orbiter
of their own construction into space. This was no surprise
given the rudimentary electronics in use and the dearth of
sophisticated information processors on hand. As it turned out,
a local arms race between the two dominant cultures centered

their most sophisticated advancements on producing weapons of
mass destruction.
What useful information Svetreeka had been able to gain was
gleaned using private means. This had a great deal more to do
with the strength of the broadcast then being emitted by the
Beledesheera whom she had been tracking for Kellion than with
her own unrefined cognitive abilities. The priestess must not
have been expecting visitors this far out in the wilds so soon
because she took few precautions guarding her intentions and
spent even less effort on counter-surveillance measures. This
had enabled Svetreeka to determine that the Beledenites were
able to access the downed Synthedon drone's memory banks and
secure the information they were after almost immediately upon
their arrival.
Using that information to discover the location of the
dignitary in question, however, had proven exceedingly more
difficult. The farther a signal traveled away from its source,
the more times it crossed paths with other similar signals. The
Beledesheera among them had eventually come to realize that the
signal in question was incredibly far away from its source when
the inanimate's drone originally detected it. In using her
mind's eye to track it, Alikbinessa Krindir found herself
diverted off onto the wrong trail time and again before she
finally agreed to join forces with Ardis Servile's shipboard

communications officers. The technicians brought entirely
different means to bear on the problem, but the collaboration
still was not enough.
In the end the Beledesheera had been forced to secretly tag
along in Shaolin's psychonic wake as he attempted to home in on
the impetus. That interventionist wraith's arrival prompted
Svetreeka to insert herself into the equation. The Beledesheera
was too engrossed with stalking her prey to notice when the
specter first arrived. Paradoxically, it was actually
Svetreeka's lack of advanced training and the many years she had
spent isolated from sophisticated practitioners of the mental
arts that caused her to notice when Shaolin showed up. As long
as he did not explicitly announce his presence, Shaolin's
arrival was apt to go unobserved in places where psychonic
activity was high and sentient beings were accustomed to
blocking out large amounts of clutter on the psychonic
bandwidths. So where Alikbinessa absently tuned out the
newcomer's unobtrusive arrival as she struggled to track down
the source of the signal acquired by the Synthedon drone,
Svetreeka found herself overwhelmed by the potency of Shaolin's
presence.
When it became apparent that the Beledesheera priestess was
too absorbed in the task at hand to notice that a meddler had
entered the picture, Svetreeka saw a chance to earn the reward

she so desperately sought. However, her eagerness to
reconstitute lost Beledesheera tribal status and be welcomed
back into Beledenite society as a hero had greatly clouded her
judgment. She had been paying for her miscalculations ever
since. Svetreeka still wondered how things might have played
out differently if she had gone to her estranged clanswoman
first and alerted her to the wraith's presence instead of
intervening on her own. If only she had been wrong about
Shaolin's intentions. But with the Beledenite shock troops
ransacking, raping and murdering their way across the territory
where the drone had landed, it had seemed no great stretch to
imagine that an interloper might try to rally the only other
viable fighting force on the moon to combat them.
When the decrepit prospector flamed down through their
atmosphere, the two rival civilizations inhabiting the planet
were enjoying a period of armistice prompted by the realization
that they had achieved a level of mutually assured destruction.
Not being technically inclined, Svetreeka had assumed that any
attempt by Shaolin to secure the drone and the information it
contained by leading the yet unmolested civilization against the
shock troops would be a laughable failure.
Despite the Beledenites being significantly outnumbered,
she had reasoned that they would surely possess an
insurmountable weapons advantage. That they did, however, had

turned out to be immaterial. It never dawned on her that the
locals might possess weapons so powerful that they were
unwilling to use them against one another. Though they paled in
comparison to what was in the Beledenite arsenal, the most
destructive local weapons had proven quite sufficient when it
came to ruining the little moon for all concerned. How was she
to know that Shaolin would have no qualms murdering everyone on
the planet just so he could deny further access to the drone?
Svetreeka had presented herself to the leader of the yet
unmolested populace one step ahead of Shaolin and used carnal
enticements to gain his ear and his trust. The emperor's spies
had already alerted him to the destruction taking place half a
globe away. After putting on a captivating display of her own
limited abilities and offering a generous sprinkling of half-
truths, outright lies and promises of salvation, Svetreeka
warned the emperor of Shaolin's impending arrival and convinced
him that Shaolin would not have the emperor's best interests at
heart when he arrived. The precision with which he carried out
her instructions on how best to handle Shaolin convinced her
that he would also accept her offer to intercede on their behalf
before the murderous off-worlders reached their borders.
After answering Shaolin's questions about their weaponry
and hearing out his plan, the emperor's officials offered the
corporeal form that Shaolin had co-opted a quiet place to rest

while they ostensibly deliberated his scheme to help them defeat
the alien invaders and wipe-out their terrestrial enemies. The
charge, which they ran through the electrocution chamber where
Shaolin was sent to wait, was so sudden and massive that
Svetreeka initially dared hope that both his physical and
conscious iterations had been extinguished. It would be some
time before she learned the truth. Her own escape had ended up
being a near thing as well.
It turned out that the only reason Shaolin had been tricked
so easily was because he had been concentrating all of his
mental focus on remotely launching the local's fiercest weapon
without their consent. The ensuing hydrogen detonation
unleashed near the Synthedon's crash site was so much stronger
than anticipated by the device's novice makers that it cracked
the moon's core and caused a cataclysmic eruption of molten lava
to spew forth and melt the ice caps in minutes. Ninety-five
percent of the existing land mass sunk beneath the surface of
the ocean. Only the spiky tips of the moon's tallest mountains
remained above water. Svetreeka's situation deteriorated
rapidly after that. Who ever would have thought such simpletons
possessed such a device?
The psychonic commotion caused by the partially successful
assassination attempt on Shaolin alerted the Beledesheera to
both their presence. Shaolin slipped away, but Svetreeka landed

in Alikbinessa Krindir's clutches. Kellion might have tried to
free her even after realizing how she'd tricked him, but the
last Svetreeka knew The Lady Valentine was dodging and weaving
throughout the system trying to avoid a showdown with the
Beledenite cruiser. She had never learned how that played out,
but she could imagine. Strangely, none of the Beledenites had
ever returned or sent word since Commander Servile and the other
survivors retreated from the devastated planet to their orbiting
ship.
Svetreeka gladly would have accepted whatever fate befell
her lover and his crew rather than be stranded and forced to
become Alikbinessa Krindir's indentured servant this past
millennia. Those first few hundred years before the oceans
receded had been unbearable. Her powers had increased a hundred
fold, and she had witnessed untold marvels as she watched
Alikbinessa gaze into countless worlds during her search for the
impetus, but the old Beledesheera was an unmatched sadist who
had never forgiven Svetreeka for allowing Shaolin to escape.
Now that Svetreeka's luck finally appeared to be swinging
the other way, she was not about to let what amounted to a
living abortion steal her opportunity to buy her way back into
polite society. Now was not the time, but there was no way she
was going to allow this band of rag-tag thieves to escape back
to their homeland. Content in the knowledge that they had a

long way to go and no hope of reinforcement, Svetreeka turned
and began picking her way through the forest taking care not to
scrape her charred skin on the dense underbrush.

CHAPTER 72
The first permanent lines of worry were only just beginning
to show around Princess Arrasaya's eyes. Barely middle-aged,
she was still beautiful, but her heart was broken and the burden
of authority weighed heavily upon her. She took the bound
parchment being presented and dismissed her page with a nod.
Her fingers remained steady as she checked her half-sister's
stamp for authenticity. A horn blared outside as she broke the
seal.
The princess looked up then quickly fingered through the
document before setting it down unread and walking out onto her
balcony. In the distance Arrasaya saw a lone figure approaching
slowly on foot from the direction of the waste. Her chief-at-
arms, the ancient yet stalwart Arden Rhee, who had been called
out of retirement, had already dispatched a squad of skirmishers
to intercept whoever it was. News -- good or bad -- at least
they would finally have some word, for surely this was one of
Sarsen's knights.
The widowed princess surveyed the inadequate fortifications
below. Earthen ramparts and wooden breastworks made a poor
substitute for the high mountain stronghold her people were
forced to abandon after more than forty generations. Her perch
was not high enough to escape the fetid odor rising up from the
squalor below. Not even the lookouts in their so-called towers
could avoid it.
She had grown accustomed to the eye-watering stench over
the past three months, but it always seemed worst at this time
of mid-morning, when the temperature first started to warm after
the night's brief respite. Most days, an invisible pall hung in
the stagnant air like a moist bubble. It choked them all
through the heat of the day, until the sea breeze kicked in
during the evening. There was little one could do about it.
Her followers and their beasts were living tightly packed
between ancient walls long-eroded and originally intended to
hold only a tenth of their present number.
Arrasaya turned back inside. She crossed her personal
living quarters in just a half dozen strides. The room was
nothing more than a large ceremonial palanquin from her father's
livery stable, perched atop several stories of hastily
constructed scaffolding. Built to carry fifteen people, the
covered litter would not have housed a fraction of her summer
wardrobe back at the keep. The furnishings were modest. Other
than the original silk curtains, which remained in place, the
interior had been stripped bare. A thin, forester's sleeping
pallet with nothing but a foul weather cape for bedding lay in
one corner, and there was a small chest of family heirlooms near
the back wall. The celebrated Ursk-horn bow, which had been
handed down to her when her mother died, rested unstrung on a
shelf nearby. Seeing it there made her think of her sister.
She wished Dealia had accepted the legendary weapon before
leaving.
Arrasaya had packed for a three-day hunt, knowing she was
unlikely ever to return home. After distributing her family's
practical possessions among the commoners, she ordered all of
the castle's frivolous finery put to the torch along with the
entire the capital. By disposing of all her personal trappings,
she was able to ease the burden on the oldsters and
preadolescents responsible for transporting what remained of the
royal household.
Their departure had been hasty but not unanticipated. With
the smoke rising thick and black above the city, Arrasaya had
turned away from the past and led the long column of refugees
down toward the far away coast and an uncertain future. The
last of the wagons, carriages and all the steeds to pull them
had been sent north into the field carrying arms and supplies
for the force that would cover their flight. As a result, their
baggage train was a motley assortment of travois and hand carts.
There were precious few livestock in their train none of which
could be coaxed into shouldering a load. Even the household
pets were mostly afield serving as trackers and lookouts.

Dressed in the archer's garb of her former battalion,
Arrasaya steeled herself for the upcoming audience, as she
descended through the trap door in the floor and backed down a
series of ladder switchbacks to the main battlements.
Fortifying her resolve required little effort. With her father,
husband and son all recently murdered, she had already had much
practice. If her father had taught her anything, it was the
importance of maintaining appearances in front of those her
family ruled. After her father, King Dontimo Isen, was
assassinated, she acted as her younger brother's regent until he
came of age last year at seventeen. Now acting in Sarsen's
stead once more, she was duty-bound never to waiver or despair
in front of anyone while her brother was away.
She paused atop the rampart to gauge the new arrival's
approach then continued down a series of offset staircases
toward the quagmire on the fort's ground level. When Arden Rhee
glanced up and saw her from his station at the main gate, he
quickly grabbed the nearest guard, said something in his ear and
shoved him in her direction. The guard met her midway down the
final stair.
"Beg'n your pardon, m'lady," the guard stammered in a high-
pitched voice. "The chief-at-arms requests you wait for him in
the officer's dining hall atop the wall. He says to report that
he will bring the messenger to you directly."

Arrasaya eyed the youth who had lowered his head and taken
a knee several steps below without meeting her gaze. The
leather cap he wore hung too far down over his ears, and the
shoulders of his rusted chain-mail shirt reached to his elbows.
The sleeves had been chiseled off and doubtless served as
leggings on some other boy. An adult's dagger hung at his waist
in place of a short sword. She chose her words with care
knowing that they would be passed among this one's mates a
hundred times before the sun was set.
"Stand and meet my eyes so that I can know you are true."
The guard sprung to attention. He clasped his right fist
across his heart and locked on her with unblinking eyes. She
was certain this one had lied. It was clear that he had not yet
reached his tenth cycle. Even his stocky thighs could not hide
that he was no more than eight. Arrasaya noted the insignia
identifying him as an officer of the lowest rank -- a noble
then. She could not place the family from his looks. She
snatched his fist and wrenched it around to inspect the
underside of his forearm. A crudely inked boar's head was
etched into the skin. Rivulets of dried blood marked its
freshness.
A Terenfal. They were a small family with few holdings.
Arrasaya glared at the child. She felt the hundreds of eyes on
them while she waited. The slightest quivering at the lip or

moistening of the eyes, and this one would be put back to work
tending the animals and foraging for roots with the young girls
and old ladies. He refused to flinch. Finally she released
him. The boy puffed his chest out a little farther as he
resumed his salute.
So be it. At least Arden was maintaining some semblance of
a screening process. She would not abide snivelers. When the
time came, this one would die well. Though she had seen Rhee's
elderly lieutenants drilling their charges endlessly, she was
under no misconception. The old guard may be breathing fire
into these child warriors with stories of past honor and glory,
but when it came to close fighting, no amount of courage would
compensate for the immature state of their physical development.
Their instructors, all in advanced stages of decline, would fare
no better.
"So you are true, good. Those of you serving under Chief
Rhee are the last line of defense for our people. I have no
doubt that when the time comes, you and your cohort will stand
fast and protect the weak from our enemies. Tell your commander
that I will expect him shortly."
The Terenfal boy turned and scampered down the rough plank
staircase. The tip of his dagger clanked each step behind him
as he went. Despite her irritation Arrasaya realized this was
the best way to handle things. It was more than Rhee not
wanting to see a princess slogging around in the muck alongside
his foot soldiers. No doubt, the chief-at-arms also sought to
ensure that the upcoming debriefing took place out of earshot
from his young charges.
Ten minutes later, Rhee ushered the messenger into the
officer's mess and posted a guard outside. The heavily bandaged
trooper dropped to one knee and saluted as best he could with
what remained of his right arm. It had been severed above the
elbow. One of his eyes was bandaged over, but the other fixed
on her with an odd clarity.
"Rise. What is your name, trooper?"
"Corporal Herrfick Dowlit -- Bowlauncher First Class,
Eleventh Artillery Battalion, m'lady."
"Please quench your thirst, Corporal Dowlit," Arrasaya said
indicating the pitcher and mugs sitting on a nearby table. "I
have summoned food as well."
The corporal glanced at Arden Rhee but held his place.
"You are most gracious, your highness," her chief-at-arms
said, "but the corporal may not have anything to drink until his
message is safely delivered."
The implications of this statement threatened Arrasaya's
composure, but her face remained a mask as she fought the urge
to grab the pitcher herself and force it to the soldier's lips.
She could hear her father now. Had she not learned anything
from bringing those lynxen kittens inside when she was a child?
In the end they had not lasted an hour after they escaped to run
and play among the crops. A twin-beaked screecher got them
both, as she remembered. Her father had warned her not to
interfere with their upbringing after their mother died.
Measures this drastic were seldom if ever required in their
homeland among the peaks where water was plentiful. And yet the
corporal's symptoms were right there for her to see. That eye,
it was like glass in its refusal to blink. This soldier had
been subsisting on a diet of Aquarian root. His skin was too
tight and, despite the heat, he gave no evidence of
perspiration. His lips looked like they had been molded out of
old candle wax. Though the sun had burned him mercilessly, he
showed no signs of dryness or cracking. None of the blood on
his bandages was fresh. He had been surviving on bitters alone
for some time now. The corporal was fast becoming a living
mummy.
A single mouthful of water at this stage would rupture all
of his capillaries and kill him on the spot. If he were caught
in a light summer shower, the rain would Tiernan his flesh like
a thousand needles. At least those ends would be quick. Every
morning thick coastal fog rolled in off the ocean. It crept up
the cliff face from the beach below and engulfed the ancient
fort for an hour or two before the sun crested. Were he to live
through the night, that misty shroud would cause the corporal to
swell in agony like a rotting corpse to three times his size
before he finally burst.
Even when such practices were in regular use because so
much of the water was salted, few were said to have been
successfully reconstituted after cheating the suns for so long.
Those who survived the long and painful rehydrating process were
often deranged by the ordeal. She hoped he was still lucid.
Most were driven mad by their desire for water after going so
long without it.
"Of course, please forgive me," Arrasaya said after only a
brief pause. "You appear to be doing so well, Corporal Dowlit,
that I was slow to recognize your symptoms," she continued
without emotion. "Perhaps a bit of cooking grease for your
tongue then."
Arrasaya ordered one of the kitchen staff to remove the
pitcher from the soldier's sight and bring him some fat from the
larder. Once the chief-at-arms had shooed the server away and
satisfied himself that no one was lurking about, he nodded to
the corporal.
"Thank you, m'lady," Dowlit mumbled from behind his
remaining hand as he smeared the putrid yellow tallow on his
rigid lips and hardened tongue.

The corporal took another few moments to work the salve
into his flesh before wiping his mouth on the back of his
sleeve.
"How many of the others made it through before me? What
news have you had to date, m'lady?"
Arrasaya looked to her chief-at-arms.
"You are the only messenger to make it through so far,
Corporal," Rhee answered. "We have had no word of your endeavor
since Prince Sarsen led his contingent across the border six
months ago."
"But I do not understand," the corporal responded. "You
are here -- exactly where I was told to find you. The prince
sent others before me warning you to flee for the coast, and you
have done so."
"We had no choice," Rhee answered. "The defiled ones
entered the kingdom a month after your company departed. The
few knights who remained behind held off their main force at the
Castilian Pass for weeks, but raiding parties eventually scaled
the cliffs. They got in behind our lines and began cutting off
the noble's castles and destroying them one by one. Princess
Arrasaya called all of the landed families back to the keep in
an effort to consolidate our forces, but it wasn't enough.
"She finally sent all of the remaining nobles and their
personal militias to join the home guard in mounting a final

line of defense on the far side of the frozen forest. This
allowed the civilian population to make a run for the coast
before their escape could be cut off. Most of the citizens,
those who originally stayed behind, are camped down on the
beaches now building boats as quickly as possible, but progress
is slow. Materials are scarce, and our skills in that craft are
lacking after a millennia spent in the mountains. This is our
last outpost. If we are overrun before a fleet can be made
ready to sail, no one will survive. Tell us what happened after
you crossed the border."

CHAPTER 73
Corporal Herrfick Dowlit -- Bowlauncher First Class,
Eleventh Artillery Battalion, wiped a stray dollop of cooking
grease from the corner of his dehydtrated lips before turning to
Princess Arrasaya and delivering his report.
"M'lady, after crossing the Murky River, your brother led
the expedition force ever deeper into the wilds for a fortnight
without encountering any significant opposition. Scouts were
sent out but few returned. Those that did reported seeing signs
that a great army had skirted far wide of our advancing legions
and gotten around behind us, but continued reconnaissance failed
to turn up any flanking force threatening our rear.
"The Council of Generals lobbied hard for us to return
home, fearing -- rightly it would seem -- that the kingdom was
about to be overrun. Your brother would not hear of it, m'lady.
He was intent on pushing beyond the waste and into the heart of
the lost territories. As you know, General Edowin is from the
Goshney Provinces closest the border. Fearing for his holdings
and his subjects, he refused the prince's orders and denounced
him before the Council of Generals as a traitor and a freak
lover. As was his right, Edowin demanded either a vote of
confidence or a test of arms. It was clear that he expected
your brother to choose a test of arms and opt for seconds to

duel in their stead, because Goshney's greatest knight, Daget
Rashal, stepped immediately to the fore as if on queue.
"Edowin was correct in assuming that Prince Sarsen would
choose a test of arms, for it was no secret that the majority of
the legion disagreed with the prince's aim. None could fathom
why he persisted north, when he knew that a large force was
headed for our poorly defended border. The nobles present would
certainly have voted down the prince. All detested the Freak
and his master and questioned the purpose of their mission.
Indeed, from a host of thirty thousand only two stepped forward
to request the honor of fighting on the prince's behalf."
"Who, aside from my grandson?" the chief-at-arms asked.
"A junior officer from the Terth Valley Range, of whom no
one had heard."
"Captain Alistan Darrow," the princess stated flatly.
Corporal Dowlit looked nonplussed.
"You are both correct. But Edowin miscalculated in
thinking that the prince would opt for a stand-in to fight in
his stead. When your brother made it known that he intended to
fight General Edowin's champion on his own, Sergeant Rhee
prostrated himself before Prince Sarsen in front of the entire
army and begged to be allowed to preserve the royal family's
honor by disemboweling Daget Rashal in a formal test of
champions. No offense, m'lady, but none thought these

histrionics anything more than a bit of theater. The odds
against Sarsen were unseemly. We all expected the prince to
grant Hannigan Rhee his wish in the end, especially when Sarsen
took Rhee and this Captain Darrow character aside to speak with
them privately.
"There could be no reasonable expectation that anyone as
young and untried as Sarsen would defeat a veteran with the
experience of Edowin's man in single combat. All were surprised
and disappointed when it became clear that the prince was
serious. A fight to the death between two such knights as
famous as Daget Rashal and the infamous...ahhh...forgive me, the
well-known Hannigan Rhee, promised to be a genuine sporting
contest. But watching Sarsen fight Rashal was expected to be an
unseemly sideshow.
"None thought the prince capable of parrying the first
death blow launched by a warrior of Rashal's caliber. The
prince was said to be untested in single combat. It was bandied
about that the few victories he had had during his short
military career had come in a handful of mixed affairs fought
alongside his personal escort, where they could keep an eye out
for him. Rashal was the veteran of more than a hundred border
skirmishes and had been tested singly in better than two-score
duels."
"And yet much to everyone's dismay, my brother killed him
handily," Arrasaya stated.
"I wouldn't say handily, m'lady, but you are right. He won
the contest."
Then Sarsen must have allowed the man to save face,
Arrasaya reasoned. She was not surprised by the outcome. It
had not always been the case, but the last two generations of
the royal family were far more skilled in the arts of war than
any would have guessed. Since becoming king at the tender age
of nineteen, Dontimo Isen, her father, had secretly employed the
greatest foreign and domestic arms instructors this world had
ever known. If one took him at face value, some of these
teachers came from much farther away than across the ocean or
beyond the great rock desert. Despite the strange appearances
and peculiar ways of these instructors, they had all taken
Dontimo's claims for hyperbole until he introduced them to the
Envoy who became known as Shaolin to his confidants and was
called Freakmaster by his detractors.
Now her step-sister had provided her with information that
she hoped would either independently validate or disprove once
and for all the outrageous claims made by her father's secret
counselor. She and Sarsen had agreed to hedge their bets until
now, but Arrasaya sensed the time was fast approaching when she
would have to make a final decision.

"I assume he then dispatched General Edowin on principle?"
"Yes, m'lady, but not in the way you suggest. Rather than
slay the general, your brother sent him home with his fifteen
hundred knights to supplement whatever troops still held the
Murky River crossing and Castilian Pass. He told Edowin to keep
him appraised of events on the border by messenger, but no word
ever came."
Arrasaya wondered what she herself would have done. Dealia
would have slain the upstart noble out of hand, but their little
brother was not one to act rashly. No doubt his actions earned
him a great deal of grudging respect among those he led and
rekindled their allegiance to him.
"Continue, Corporal," Arrasaya prompted.
"Afterward we proceeded three hundred leagues farther
north," Dowlit continued. "It was another full month before we
encountered the Vilanthum in any significant force. Six weeks
after crossing the Murky, we awoke to find a great forest
blocking our path. Preposterous as it sounds, m'lady, that
forest was not present when we made camp the evening before. As
we had grown accustomed, we took our night's rest on barren
rocky ground with nothing but the same all around. No sleeper
stirred and no sentry cried the alert, but when dawn broke we
found ourselves bedded before a wall of tall trees thick with
branches. As we bumbled to our feet and stared en masse, horns

blared and an army ten times our number stepped out from the
forest's edge to meet us.
"Our rear remained open to retreat, but after meeting with
the Freak in private, the prince summoned his generals and
ordered them to prepare for an all-out attack. He then wrote
out two different messages on separate leathers and handed them
over to General Savish of the High Lakes Region, who was
stationed in the rear and responsible for directing the
deployment of our reserve forces. General Savish ordered one
hundred of the strongest archers from my unit to deploy
ourselves in a straight line pointed home with spacing of one
thousand yards between us -- a distance equal to the maximum
range of our heaviest siege bows. As the champion distance
runner in our brigade, I was given five steeds and assigned the
farthest position in the line.
"I was too far away to give an eyewitness account of the
battle, but toward mid-day a single arrow landed at my feet
after being advanced down the line of archers. I took the small
leather that was wrapped around the shaft and raced here with it
as fast as I could. The archers preceding me in the transfer
line each had an extra complement of arrows and orders to use
them all to stop any Vilanthum, who tried to pursue me. I used
the steeds mercilessly and left them to die one by one. The
last fell out from under me on the tenth day by the long sun's
reckoning. With orders not to stop even for food or drink, I
continued on afoot for another three weeks with naught but a
large skin of Aquarian root extract and a small brick of
pemmican for my only sustenance.
"I was set upon several times in the open by patrols of the
defiled, but luckily I was able to out distance them. My luck
ran out when I reached Castilan. Our troops no longer held the
pass. I was discovered trying to slip through the Vilanthum
blockade after dark. I managed to fight my way clear, but lost
my arm in the process. But for my diet of extract, I would have
surely bled to death. I cut around the keep aiming for the
straightest path to this fort, while steering clear of the
Forever Swamp for obvious reasons."
Arrasaya extended her hand silently for fear that she would
be unable to keep the impatience out of her tone. The corporal
reached into his tunic and presented her with a tightly rolled
piece of piliad skin bound by ursk hair. She slipped the
miniature scroll free and immediately recognized her brother's
indelicate hand. The code was an old one they had used as
children. Only she or Dealia could have understood its meaning
-- Retina, not being a full-blooded Isen, had rarely been taken
into the other children's confidence.
Translated it read: My army is lost, but our cousin is now
privy to the true reason for our expedition. I have charged him
with delivering its ultimate success while I create a diversion.
The Freak continues on with Alistan, but the odds are long. I
have ordered Hannigan Rhee and a small complement of outriders
led by Colonel Berbinal to accompany them. I admit that I am
nervous of their independent streak, but the remaining outriders
are the smallest number worth sending. They fight like the
Kerchek of old and as outriders they are the best suited to get
Alistan, and whatever cargo he may acquire, safely home without
the benefit of a large protective force. The colonel will
retain notional command, but he knows that his orders from me
are to defer to our cousin's judgment. There is still hope, but
unless the Freakmaster is capable of turning back the Vilanthum
single-handedly, you must build a fleet and flee regardless of
the outcome of our cousin's quest.
Doubtless, the other message left unsent had been an
unrealized victory proclamation. Arrasaya kept her eyes on the
text a moment longer: mother, father, husband, son and now her
only brother -- all gone. She forced questions about Dealia's
fate from her mind. Evidently, they should have listened to
their father's counsel and heeded the Envoy's warnings sooner.
Perhaps events would have transpired differently, if her father
had not kept things to himself for so long.
If they had had more time to come to grips with the tale
while the king was still alive, maybe they would have been less
suspicious. Dontimo's intermittent dementia at the end made it
difficult to accept his claims. The Envoy's feats were
astonishing, but they had all seen carnival trickery before.
She had been certain they would eventually debunk him, but now
all serious doubts about his power had vanished. Arrasaya
briefly considered the translation that her half-sister had
prepared. It purportedly offered independent confirmation of
the Envoy's claims. She looked up at the messenger.
"Corporal, I fear that the debt of gratitude I owe you is
priceless and therefore unredeemable. I shall grant you
whatever I am able."
"Thank you, m'lady. It was an honor simply to be chosen
for such a mission. Hydrolucinations have plagued me for weeks
now, and I am desperate to be released from the kiln I now
inhabit. I seek a quick end to my torment. If you would do
your best to see my family safely aboard a ship when the time
comes, then I shall go immediately and seek my final solace in
the sea."
"A poetic end to be sure. Diving headlong will ensure that
your end is swift and painless. Thank you for your service,
Corporal. Wait outside for just a moment and the chief-at-arms
will appoint an escort to show you the way down to the beach."
"Thank you, m'lady, and good luck. I fear the Vilanthum
will be on you shortly."

After the corporal stepped outside, Arrasaya addressed her
chief-at-arms and informed him what she had read.
"As you have surely guessed, the expeditionary force has
been vanquished. What you cannot know is that your grandson may
yet live."
"Impossible. After all that has transpired my grandson
would never allow himself to be dishonored through capture or
surrender," Arden Rhee insisted.
"Of course not. The message says that my brother ordered
him to slip away under the cover of battle to assist this
Captain Darrow in carrying out the secret mission that
necessitated this course in the first place. It is unlikely
that they will succeed, and they may already be dead, but I
thought you should know."
"And what of the purpose of this mission, m'lady?"
"Another time. Regardless of the outcome, I doubt it will
change our fate. Please see Corporal Dowlit quickly to his end.
Send a runner ahead to ensure that his family is present when he
makes his peace."
Alone again the princess considered the future. If they
were lucky, they would make it onto the open seas before they
were overrun. The possibility that her cousin might return with
a savior in tow, one who had been brought from another world to
rescue them and every other sentient being across all of
existence from annihilation, offered no solace whatsoever.

CHAPTER 74
Princess Arrasaya returned to her private quarters and took
up the unread document sent by Retina. Perhaps her half-sister
had learned something that would help Arrasaya decide what
course to pursue from here.
Dearest Arrasaya:
It pleases me to inform you that I have finally completed
the task you so graciously charged me with at Harrendal's
wedding festival these two cycles past. I trust that his bride
will be safe with you for at least the time being, though
perhaps it would be better if her child were not born, now that
Harrendal is no longer with us. One would not have suspected
that two so young could conceive at all, much less so quickly.
Indeed, Arrasaya thought to herself. But which of us would
have more to gain from the demise of my dead son's unborn
offspring?
If the enclosed translation is accurate, and I believe it
is, then there is still hope, and you have made the right choice
by sending our brother and his legion into the wild. I
apologize for the delay, but the Lost Ones' equations were new
to us, and it took two hundred of my finest astronomers all of

this interval to divine their meaning. The Lost Ones had some
strange ideas, but I have come to believe that the Envoy is
wrong in this matter despite his undeniable powers. There is
still hope.
Perhaps, dearest Retina, but not for you. No illegitimate
daughter born to the king by a common harlot will ever sit atop
this throne.
It greaves me to leave the shores of our fair land without
you, but I understand the necessity of your remaining behind to
bolster what remain of our troops. I will safeguard the
original tablets found buried in the ruins with my personal
effects until our people are reunited. Until such time, I vow
to lead my contingent as you would wish, though I regret the
necessity. Is there any word of Dealia? As second daughter to
our royal father, this honor should be hers. I will do my best
to find her.
Arrasaya smiled. I pray that your misplaced confidence
causes you to do just that. For all her feigned indifference,
Dealia will prove far less pliable than you might foolishly
imagine.
#
May your wisdom continue to guide us through these awful
times. Indeed, your governance is the only thing stemming the
tide of my despair.
Your faithful servant and loving sister,
Retina
Post Script: Please forgive my impertinence in your time of
grief, but I concur with your counselors on the issue of your
matrimony. With Dristen gone and Sarsen in jeopardy, you must
remarry as soon as possible and quickly conceive another child.
I know their superstitions are unfounded, but the people long
for a male heir to father's throne.
Of course your inability to marry while I remain unwed has
nothing to do with it.
These are desperate times and though little Veserie can
never be replaced, our father's line must not be without male
progeny. Even if Sarsen would not heed them, consider father's
lessons: you married for love once, now find yourself a warrior
to stand beside you and take up where father left off. Your
devoted subjects will take heart knowing that you are not alone.
Yes, I can see where a dim brute at my side would suit your
needs. After reading her half-sister's letter, Arrasaya wiped

away a single tear before it reached her cheek then turned her
attention to the enclosed scroll.
Retina Isen
Vice Regent by Royal Edict
Chief Translator, Her Majesty's Historical Society
The following account is a direct translation of the third
set of metal tablets found buried among the ruins near the
center of the Great Salt Waste during the reign of King Dontimo
Isen at the beginning of the first summer following the Envoy's
arrival. Though the tablets were undated, they were
commissioned by the Emperor Yfichen Krietal XIV, who is believed
to have ruled the Lost Ones at the time of the cataclysm, which
occurred between eight hundred and one thousand cycles ago.
A Visitor's Account of Our Collective Past and Future
Preface by Xicfal Teiz
Personal Scribe to the Emperor Yfichen Krietal XIV
The following historical record was brought to the court's
attention by a stranger with the countenance of a common clerk,
who called himself Shaolin. He claimed to have traveled to our
world from a place far beyond the stars. He appeared at the
gate to the emperor's palace in the middle of the night and
requested an immediate audience with his highness. The guards

laughed at his impertinence and threatened to have him flogged
if he did not go back to whatever tavern he had stumbled out of
and sleep off his delusions.
At this point the guards claim that the clerk began
speaking to them with his mouth closed. They say that he joined
them in their thoughts and explained that he had an urgent
message for the emperor. Wary of trickery, they sent for the
palace astrologer, who came to the gate to investigate. He
immediately granted the clerk admittance to the palace grounds
and led him to a meeting room in the emperor's personal
chambers.
Such an audience was unheard of and, though the emperor
remained behind his screen with his exotic new concubine, his
attendants were aghast. I was summoned to record the
proceedings and document the clerk's tale. The paper shuffler
spoke a foreign tongue aloud that we could comprehend. This, in
itself, was amazing for none of us had ever heard such a
language. As if to convince us of the veracity of his story, he
then discontinued his vocal communication and spoke to us in
silence.
He claimed to bring news of a war that raged across all of
existence. It was predicted that this war would decide the fate
of all things -- across the expanse of our own cosmos as well as
those worlds, which lay beyond the confines of our own minds --
whatever that may mean. This lowly clerk sought to warn us, he
said, that through no fault of our own we were about to be
dragged into the heart of this conflict. He went on to say that
the Paldenya, our enemies across the sea, were already under
attack and that the emperor's forces would be the next to fall,
unless his highness followed precise instructions and launched a
preemptive strike against the off-world invaders.
When he finished, he refused to answer any questions until
he had rested. This was fortunate, because the emperor's new
bed partner, who remained hidden behind a golden veil at all
times, had apparently already dreamed something exactly like
this would happen. She had told the emperor what to expect and
counseled him on how best to handle the situation. Thus the
palace astrologer took the weary clerk to previously arranged
quarters and ushered him onto a luxurious couch, where he was
soon electrocuted with enough amperage to black out the city.
Though the clerk's immediate and extended family claimed
ignorance of any pending battle or alien invasion, the emperor
had them rounded up and summarily executed along with all of the
palace attendants, save I, who were present at the clerk's
private reception. I myself heard the emperor's mistress tell
him such precautions were unnecessary, but he is a fastidious
sort. Once the lights came back on, I was taken to the old
castle and locked in the north tower along with my copper plate
texter and told to finish documenting these events and the story
told by the clerk.
Understand, Dear Reader, that I shall be quite detailed so
as to draw out this account as long as possible, for upon
completion my fate is nearly certain.

Note on the Unbridged Version
One of my original goals in writing this book was to write
a science fiction / fantasy story that would capture and
hold the interest of people who would not normally read
either genre. To achieve this I used the mysteries of real
sicence that mankind has uncovered over the ages and wove
them into the story to create a sense that everything that
takes place in this book is at least within the realm of
possibility as we know it. The partial bibliography below
lists the sources I used to support that thread. However,
true genre fans don’t require that sort of convicing so
this condensed version is primarily for them.
Selected Bibliography
Aczel, Amir D. Probability One, Harcourt Brace, 1998.
Clark, Andrew. Aliens, Fromm International Publishing Corp.,
1999.
Couper, Heather, and Henbest, Nigel. Is Anybody Out There?, D.K.
Publishing, 1998.
Darling, David. Life Everywhere, Basic Books, 2001.
Davies, Paul. The Fifth Miracle: The Search For the Meaning and
Origin of Life, Simon and Schuster, 1999.

Descartes, Rene. The Selected Philosophical Writings (translated
by John Cottingham, Dugald Murdock and Robert Stoothoff),
Cambridge University Press, 1990.
Dotto, Lydia. Losing Sleep, Reed Business Information, Inc.,
1990.
Eisenberg, David, and Wright, Thomas Lee. Encounters with Qi,
W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1995.
Fukuyama, Francis. Our Posthuman Future: Consequences of the
Biotechnology Revolution, Picador USA, 2003.
Galilei, Galileo. Galileo on World Systems (translated by
Maurice A. Finocchiaro), University of California Press,
1997.
Gott, Richard J. Time Travel in Einstein's Universe, Houghton
Mifflin, 2002.
Gould, Stephen Jay. The Structure of Evolutionary Biology,
Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2002.
Greene, Brian. Fabric of the Cosmos, Alfred A. Knopf: Random
House, 2005.
Hancock, Graham, and Faiia, Santha. Heaven's Mirror, Quest for
Lost Civilizations, Crown Publishers, Inc., 1998.
Hawking, Stephen W. A Brief History of Time, Bantam Doubleday
Dell, 1998.
Herbert, Nick. The Elemental Mind: Human Consciousness and the
New Physics, Plume, 1993.

Hughes, Howard C. Sensory Exotica, MIT Press, 1999.
McFadden, Johnjoe. Quantum Evolution, W.W. Norton and Company,
2000.
Radin, Dean. The Conscious Universe: The Scientific Truth of
Psychic Phenomena, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 1997.
Stenger, Victor J. Physics and Psychics, Reed Business
Information, Inc., 1990.

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Muldoon/Scattered Seeds/2

The Consciousness Compendium

© 2010 John Muldoon. All rights reserved.

To my brother Steve for showing me the way and my wife Jennifer

for encouraging and supporting my effort to follow it

Excerpt from Guild Historian Paladian Turnow's Treatise on

By their naive system of reckoning, it was at the very

start of the third millennium when the quasi-intelligent

species, known formally to themselves as Homo sapiens, first

boasted that they had deciphered the instructions contained

within life's coded map of ascension. Their conceit would have

been laughable were it not so pathetic. As it has been well-

documented, students of the subject will be aware that these

beings inhabited a relatively young universe located on the

unmapped fringes of the Foamwork, well beyond what was then

considered the frontier.

Here the reader is asked to please excuse the use of such

an obvious misnomer as the term "universe." It has been

included only because it was part of their native nomenclature,

and the use of such a misguided designation offers critical

insight into their self-absorbed outlook. Regardless, therein

these Homo sapiens resided on a quaint, little solar

circumnavigator of organic design in an innocuous galaxy, which

had little in the way of modern amenities to recommend it.

evolutionary progression, the scope of their internal and

external awareness was deceivingly narrow given their level of

physical and mental development. Indeed many categorists

originally threatened to classify them among the sub-sentient,

though all now agree such a capricious assessment was dangerous

if not altogether unwarranted. Even those charitable enough to

view their use of the term "universe" in place of "multiverse"

as a justifiable undersight were unwilling to excuse the next

bit of arrogance that was uncovered.

These humans, as they commonly referred to each other, were

such egotists that they actually gave life's coded map of

grace to admit upfront that their translation was merely a

partial rendering, their hubris allowed them to overlook this

footnoted caveat and declare in the same breath that the

decoding was complete. As if that were not egregious enough,

their myopia was so acute that they used similar doublespeak to

convince themselves the effort to fill in the remaining gaps

would be too costly to justify.

Such a statement seems inconceivable, but there it is.

was and willingly risked all to navigate the route it

highlighted, these beings were too caught up promoting petty

quarrels among themselves and pursuing material advantage over

one another to recognize the true nature of the opportunity they

had uncovered. In that sense their intellect was no higher than

that of a school of ordinary scalivengers. Those creatures,

savvy as they are, can be counted on to backtrack the wing flaps

of a flock of albaterns across the breadth of an entire ocean

minuscule balance of effort required to scale the cliffs and

feast together on the untended eggs nestled in the ledges above.

suspected how much more remained to be uncovered, but as it was

their optimism belied their paltry nature. Where they rightly

guessed that taming and influencing the map's obvious syntax

would help them better understand their intrinsic frailties and

provide insight on how to remedy such deficiencies, these humans

remained oblivious to the deeper implications hidden in the

semantics. They happened upon the trailhead only to mistake it

for the terminus.

Rather than striving to decipher the map's subtleties, this

species of narcissists sought to venture down a blind alley of