park it to life. Her womb is the only one down there capable of bearing what will become an atrocity against nature."

"Say it plain, Eve!" Aset shouted, holding a stunned Damali in her gaze as she addressed Eve. "The embryo is a time bomb. It's ticking as we speak. Your transgression with the chairman so many years ago was only a problem because you and Adam had joined." She spun on Damali. "You and Carlos are the only Neteru pair to grace the planet since our dear sister and her husband. That combination produces a level of energy carried in the blood that the dark realms cannot synthesize. When she had a run-in with the serpent and got bitten, it allowed her to be impregnated with something dark while she carried something from the Light. This cannot happen to you, and you cannot sleep with Carlos again until you destroy Lilith. If Lilith gives birth, your child will be born the Anti-Christ. She and the embryo must be destroyed. She cannot surrogate for you and turn what came from you to the Darkness." Aset flattened her hands against the table. She stared at Damali, her gaze narrowing. "I have given you back your Sankofa. Use it wisely to keep yourself from implantation, henceforth. That can only occur with your intent. In the future, if you He with a male, make it burn bright. Control your births; this is your right as a woman."

Feeling as though her legs would give out, Damali stumbled forward. But a slow, smoldering rage held her up and sent a snap of straight fury through her spine to keep her erect. "She has my child? The fruit of my womb? Our baby?" Damali's voice was a hard whisper. "I need to know."

"A fertilized egg," Aset said as gently as she could.

"It's not yours any longer," Eve said, her voice distant. "You'd never recognize it now that they've snatched it and—"

"My baby!"

"The potential Anti-Christ," Nzinga said cautiously as two queens rounded the table to keep Damali from leaping over it, "now that we're sure of who the intended surrogate will be. You must find her and destroy her quickly. If it embeds in her womb—you have to cut that out and torch it. The chairman may or may not be involved, given Lilith's treachery. But rest assured, he's the only one that can lead you to her, unless you can bait her out of hiding in search of the catalyst."

"My egg?" Damali shrieked, struggling against the hold of the Amazon and Joan. "Oh, I will find that whore, don't worry. I will never allow her to carry what's mine and Carlos's! Ever! I will go into council chambers myself and turn thrones over, looking for that bitch. Know that!" Damali yelled, pointing at Aset as the other queens let her go. She raked her fingers through her locks and began to pace, feeling trapped, caged, and in need of weapons. Tears of rage stung her nostrils, and she sucked in hard, refusing to allow them to fall. "Get me out of here. I've got work to do. Transport me back. Give me my blade. This conversation is over."

"It is the never knowing when or if this past transgression, one that is out of our hands, will rear its ugly head to confront you both. Your beloved is now a child of the Light, as are you, so you must learn to use your Light power a different way than merely by the sword."

"But I'm not still pregnant, am I? Tell me I wasn't carrying twins." Damali's voice had escalated beyond her ability to control it. She looked at Eve dead-on for an answer. She didn't want to hear this yang about patience and strategy. It was time to kick some ass.

"No," Aset said, sitting down heavily. "You will be bound up and healed. It is what fragments of life we were not able to collect back to the Sun that concerns us."

"Where do I go, what do I do?" Damali asked, willing herself not to shriek. "How do I get down there to smoke this bitch?"

"The Isis blades remain ours until you learn to find the power of Netcher within living things and to draw the essence of Light out of them… to bend the Light."

"How?" Damali cried, tears now streaming down her face as Queen Aset stood. "You can't take the Isis blades at a time like this, please. Give me another chance!"

"Do you understand how important it is for you to remain concealed? They cannot know where either of you are. The blades are a beacon. They can taste the sacred metals in the air when they hit the earth's surface. They're not even sure that Carlos is the male Neteru, and they haven't pinpointed him yet. He's vulnerable now, and until he reaches his Neteru apex, the kings of old must shield him. No. You must learn to fight with other skills and other tools," Aset said. Without waiting for Damali to answer, she held up her hand to stop Damali from speaking. "Ask Eve. We understand your pain, but you cannot go into this battle with your heart, only your intellect can prevail over this matter. Tell her, Eve. Explain how you held Cain to your breasts, even while knowing what he was. Tell her, so she can understand and accept the ruling."

Eve hung her head and spoke in a low, calm voice. "Dear queen daughter, by rights, I am the first Neteru, the eldest of the council, the mother of all… but, due to the problem in Paradise, which I would not like to revisit, Aset rules. Her judgment and discipline were more profound, therefore, my title was stripped, albeit not my place in history or among the governing queens." She looked at Damali, her gaze unwavering as she spoke and her voice dropped to a near whisper. "This is very serious. We are so close to the Armageddon, and you two were supposed to be the new Neterus—one male, one female—to sway the balance."

"Tell her!" Aset shouted, making the lights within the table swirl across the top in small tornado-like eddies. "Did we not strip Cleopatra for taking her own life with an asp, when she could have sealed a deal and stemmed the invasion of Egypt by Rome? Suicide sent her to the Darkness, and we lost an important warrior. She allowed her intellect to be eclipsed by her heart. For what? A man? Damali cannot face Lilith like that!"

Damali opened and closed her mouth. Words failed her.

"You will travel to all the lands that your destiny requires; there is a shaman at each place that will find you," Aset said, her tone annoyed and brittle. "Thirteen places to bind yourself up, to collect the fragments of Carlos's scattered Light force. If we didn't have this problem, the process of readying the male Neteru would progress over seventy days, as it has always been. But you have perhaps seven days, at best, to do what must be done."

"Handle your business, baby," Nzinga said, wiping her hands down her face with fatigue. "Stay strong, and stay in the Light."

"Exactly," Aset said with a nod. "Once the male Neteru is gathered and his power has returned on the side of Light, your healing will also be complete. Until he heals, you cannot fully heal. Until he wields the power, you cannot wield the Isis blades. You married him while he was a vampire, and now your power is one." Aset leaned across the table. "You allowed him to take you as a wife, child. That is how they were able to claw away what they should have never even seen or known existed. Some things are beyond our control. What about this do you not understand?"

"There was no ceremony," Damali sputtered, her gaze going from Aset to the others for support. "We never did a dark ritual, we never—"

"In the desert of Australia, on hallowed ground—'flesh of my flesh,' he said, as you willingly allowed him to take your throat, shared his blood, and deconstructed into nothingness with his cells fusing with yours at the vampire vanishing point!"

Aset slammed the table so hard that light sparks flew from it. "After you gave him a heartbeat from your own heart within my Amazon sister's territory! After you loved him without censure in a priest's compound. The keepers of the seal—the Aboriginal shaman—said you loved him with the intent of drawing his life force and seed into you on twenty-thousand-year-old prayer lines!" Aset picked up the small Isis dagger and rammed it into the table. "You had his ring, a blue-ice section of his heart, a white gown, shaman priests all around in spirit as witnesses, and the stars aghast. Oh, yes, there were priests there. It is done. You are his wife in spirit! The rest is an earthly formality, at this point."

Damali covered her mouth, her eyes so wide that she felt the sides burn as though they'd split. "Oh, my God…"

"Correct," Aset said, snatching the blade from the table and flinging it toward Nzinga. "And she wonders why I am beyond words."

"Therefore," Aset said, her voice returning to its previous even calm, "for your own safety, you will not bear the marker, Neteru, until you have restored your own power by your own hand. You will be hidden in plain sight. This way you will also learn from experience to never give it away to anyone, will know its true value, and will guard it the way it should always be guarded. Because he is crippled, you are also crippled, by your untimely decision. It is out of my hands." She looked at Damali with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "You bore fangs for him, my daughter. Even that I cannot make excuses for."

"I bore them, too, for a while," Eve murmured, looking at Damali with pity. "When I came back from the tree…" Eve's voice trailed off with a sad smile. "At least you have the Neteru council as your buffer. I had to stand before a husband and the Most High. That was in the Old Testament days, before the time of mercy. The conversation went very differently, I assure you—so take heart. This is not as bad as it could have been."

Nzinga nodded. "They have not taken this well in the Upper Realms… it will be the second time before a pivotal war, and the only thing that may redeem you is that unlike Eve, when she temporarily lost her mind," Nzinga said, casting a compassionate glance toward the elder queen, "you have a number of good demon kills to your honor. Significant ones, so cling to that as your hope and shield. He also has this as his shield, as well as his protection of many good men and women—like you also have. We will lobby hard, my queen daughter… but in the interim, you must help your own case."

"It is not my goal to punish her," Aset said, now seeming so tired that she could barely speak. "It is my goal to teach her and it is my fervent prayer that we can at some point return her title and blades. But she must do this on her own."

Shame burned Damali's cheeks, and she could not answer the charges as Aset stood and moved away from the table. Instead she focused on acceptance and whatever she had to do to regain favor. "I will make this right. But what lands, where am I to battle what? And there were fourteen missing parts of Ausar, not thirteen. Oh, Queen Mother Aset, please do not walk away with riddles that could take a lifetime to figure out!"

"Only you can find and heal the missing life force within the fourteenth section of him, which can only be healed once his mind is healed and his spirit is healed, and your body is healed and your focus is as pure as a beam of light. If you ever want to conceive with him again while he's flesh and blood, you must incorporate patience and gentleness… wisdom and strength, or you can suffer my fate and simply have an obelisk carved in his memory."

With that Aset turned and began walking and vanished into the violet pyramid that opened, her lions crossing behind her in a lazy, but guarded retreat.

"I will be near," Nzinga said, "as will the others. Call upon us, and we will send markers and signs to guide you."

"Beware the screech owl of the desert. That is one of the shapes Lilith assumes," Eve warned. "Remember in the last days, only the churches of one land had no sins in the eyes of the Most High. Seek that land as your final destination. But you must first collect the scattered Netcher before you do so." She sighed. "I will lobby your cause about the fang issue. I remember those days, but your case is slightly different. Carlos came back, and it was his destiny to be a Guardian… so, perhaps once emotions settle… Take heart. Look toward Philadelphia." Eve left her with a sad smile, shaking her head as she walked into the Light.

"But there are probably twenty cities in the world by that name." Damali tried to rush forward but an energy barrier held her and kept her from rounding the table.

The others had disappeared through the triangle of violet light, only the Amazon hung back, collecting the Isis blades with sadness in her eyes. "Then find the most powerful one. Start there, queen daughter. I will watch your flank."

Suddenly the room transformed into a restaurant. Dazed, Damali glanced at the white linen tablecloths and marble floor, then at the winding river beyond the tall windows. She was up high in a building in some country or city she couldn't place. She could hear movement in the hall beyond, and she glanced at a wall clock, and then ducked behind a table as a security guard passed by.

Unarmed, in a white Ethiopian gown and sandals, if she were discovered in an establishment this early in the morning, she knew she'd go to jail as a nut case for sure. She listened to the footfalls get farther away and made a run for the main hall, hugging the walls, tiptoeing like a thief, and saying a quiet prayer that she wouldn't be discovered. How was she going to get back to the plane in Manila or let the group know she was alive?

Spotting the main staircase she slipped down it, ducked low as she saw another guard cross the expansive marble entrance. She also had to keep an eye out for any surveillance cameras.

Staying out of sight, she peeped around the huge column that ended at the bottom of the first landing of the staircase and saw the shadows on the floor made from what looked like large temple pillars. From the angle where she crouched she could also see what seemed like a city-block-wide cascade of hundreds of white steps that ended with a wide circular boulevard and a mammoth fountain across the street. If she could just get outside.

A stick on her shoulder almost made her jump out of her skin. She looked up quickly expecting to see a guard shoving her with a billy club. Instead it was the old shaman, one of the keepers of the seal. He smiled a toothless grin and placed a finger to his lips, signaling her to remain quiet. He stooped down low and offered her his walking stick, prodding her to hold one end of it. The moment Damali's hand touched it a warm balm of purple light covered her hand and traveled up her arm, slowly coating and eventually rimming her body in violet light. He let go of the stick and clapped and laughed and bent over with mirth, the spectacle seemed to please him so.

Damali had to smile. It was his pure glee as he danced about and waved his arms, creating a ruckus that she was sure would draw the guards. No sooner than that reality accosted her, a guard ran down the steps, brandishing a club.

"Hey, old man! You can't come in here! No homeless on the premises! Now beat it, before we call the cops!"

Another guard hurried onto the scene. "How'd that old bum get in here? You'd better get him out before we get in trouble because the night shift guys overlooked him. I'm not losing my job over this bull."

Damali had made herself very small on the steps, practically hugging the oversized railing, but it became suddenly apparent that the two guards couldn't see her. She was being shielded.

The half-naked shaman laughed harder, his mirth becoming a wild hysteria as he danced away from the security guards and rushed down the steps. Damali stood, stared at the stick, and then the guard. They really couldn't see her… deep.

"Open the front doors for him and get him out of here," one guard shouted, huffing as he chased behind the nimble old man and almost slipping on the highly polished floors as he pursued him.

Clenching the stick, Damali stood and raced in the direction of the door. The first guard that had reached the huge, bolted entrances flipped a series of switches behind a control panel, swearing the entire time about the alarm systems, locks, writing the catastrophe up on the logs, his pension, and why couldn't the homeless just stay out of the place. The shaman danced, wagged a finger at the men, and evaded their pursuit until one of the doors had been opened. Then he gnashed his teeth and pulled at his wiry white hair as though insane.

"Man, he might have AIDS! Don't touch him, just shoo his dirty ass out the door!"

The shaman walked in a wide circle, motioning for Damali to go through the exit, drooling and spitting, making the men back away with disgust. Then he clapped his hands and dashed out the door and down the steps. Damali didn't have to be told twice, she was out.

Brilliant sun hit her face, and the crisp fall air brought tears to her eyes. She didn't know exactly where she was, but it was a cold climate. She glanced around for the old shaman. "Thank you," she yelled into the nothingness, and brought the stick to her chest.

They had taken her Isis blades, stripped her womb, brought her man back fractured and broken, separated her from her team, and only left her with a purple magic stick. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks as she stood on the grounds of the most spectacular temple she'd seen within a city. She stared down the broad white steps toward the grand parkway, trying to place the monuments, trying to get her bearings as her embattled brain struggled to absorb all that had just happened. She glanced back at the eight Roman columns and brass fountains that had tarnished green with age, noting how the entire relief was near a river and waterfall as though a replica of the great temples by the Nile. No wonder the queens had brought her here. But they'd also temporarily stripped her of her title, had taken her blades.

What had she done? Lord, what had she done?


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CHAPTER TEN
   



RESIGNED TO her fate, there was nothing to do but move forward. Damali glanced around, already knowing that the old shaman wasn't coming back. She walked down the white steps, watching the few cars that passed as she reached the curb, straining to read the license plates but was too far away to recognize the state they were from. At just after dawn, most cities were quiet—except New York. She checked that one off as she gazed at the skyline. Definitely not New York. But it had to be on the East Coast. An art museum, but where?

Before her stretched a large boulevard lined with very old trees robed in hues of orange, gold, red, fading green, and withered brown. As she crossed the four-lane circular street, she came to the huge, dry fountain, staring at the larger-than-life bronze figurines and trying to see an inscription. She looked over her shoulder to the building she'd just left, and gaped up at the huge templelike structure that bore no inscription, but on her right a warrior on a horse fought a lion with his javelin drawn in battle. The monument offered no immediate clue. But it made her pause. Armed only with a wooden stick a warrior went against a lion. Damali gripped the stick she held more tightly and walked forward. Answers were all around her; she could feel them just beyond her immediate reach.

For a moment she just stood in front of the fountain, her eyes roving past the life-sized bronze woman entwined with a serpent. She sighed and thought of Eve, and then her own circumstances. "We messed up big time, didn't we, girlfriend?" Damali muttered as she trudged up the massive stone steps, past two huge bronze deer. At the four cardinal points, there were figures seemingly guarded by things of nature. That fleeting awareness also gave her pause. Two deer guarded the woman and serpent… Damali walked to the next cardinal point and saw an elaborately sculpted moose adjacent to a fierce bear guarding a woman with a net. As she rounded the structure there was a pair of moose, and before she could look farther she saw a Native American chief in repose, also guarded by two bison—things of nature.

Damali glanced up to the mounted general on a horse, her eyes scouring the dim inscription… she was in Pennsylvania! Excitement swept through her. A piece of the puzzle was found. At least she knew where she was now. But as suddenly as elation had hit her, so did a sense of impending doom.

If she was in Pennsylvania, then her team was God knew how many miles and a whole day away from her, enroute to Manila. How in the heck was she going to get from here to there, with no money on her, no means of transportation to an airport, no freaking identification, and no coat? She wrapped her arms around herself, instantly feeling the cold.

Soul weary, she leaned against the reclining Indian chief and willed herself not to cry. "This is beyond jacked up," she murmured. The icy metal set her teeth on edge, and she pushed off it with both hands. But the slight movements of the bronze structure before her made her freeze.

A light crackling purple haze crept along the structure, making the reclining figure slowly turn its head, stare at her with vacant eyes, and with the slightest tilt of his chin, a direction was offered.

Damali backed up until her spine collided with the adjacent figure, making her jump away from it, lest it come alive, too. The section of statue that had moved returned to its original pose and became still again. Not waiting to see what would happen next, Damali dashed down the wide steps in a flat-out run, across a small patch of grass, and down the center lane of an empty parking lot. Breathless, she quickly crossed the street and turned back to the giant fountain to see if it was pursuing her. But all was still except the erratic thuds of her heart.

She sucked in huge breaths and looked in the direction the statue had indicated. Benjamin Franklin Parkway? Something vaguely familiar stretched within her mind, but with all that had happened, the context left her wanting. Her eyes darted around, trying to figure out the message. Frustrated, she looked up and shouted, "What?"

No answer came as she slumped against a post and lowered the stick to the ground and leaned on it. She briefly closed her eyes and tried to regain her composure. "I'm sorry, okay? But I can't walk from here to Manila!"

Turning her face to the sky, she raised the stick and shook it. "I need answers! I'll do what you want, will travel and go to whatever lands, but I've gotta know where!"

Then she noticed the flags. The parkway she stood on had every flag of every nation represented down a long, tree-lined boulevard. She glanced down at the stick, and then up at the flags, then toward the trees. Nature. Art had inspired the direction, perhaps nature held the power? It was worth a try.

She touched her hand against a very old oak and pointed the stick toward the flags. "Talk to me," she whispered, her voice calmer.

Again the purple light crept from the end of the stick, but instead of crawling up her arm, it arced and then disappeared. To her total amazement, fourteen flags that blew in the fall breeze lit one by one. Her mind seized upon the order: Ethiopia, Sudan, Egypt, Italy, Algeria, Spain, France, Hungary, Austria, Poland, Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands, and the United Kingdom. Then oddly, the U.S. flag went neon violet, and as suddenly as they had lit, the purple light around each flag faded to a purplish tinge and then normalized.

Damali didn't take her eyes off the flags for a long time. She said the countries over and over, memorizing them like an elementary school rhyme in her head to make the information stick. It was too bizarre that it was nearly the same as their flight pattern with only a modest variation. But how could that be? The people funding their flight and travel had double-crossed them, yet it seemed as though by doing the double-cross and not allowing them direct entry to the main places of worship, they might have been unwittingly aiding the destined path. The circuitous route was possibly the path that she and the teams were supposed to be on without even realizing it.

The strange confluence of events made her banish the possibility of coincidence. Marlene had told her about there being no such thing as coincidence, and even with all that she'd seen to date, it was still a hard thing to fathom. But sure as rain, the Asian nations' flags hadn't lit, nor had world hot spots like India and Pakistan, or the roiling Middle East. Central America, South America, and Canada hadn't fired violet, just like none of the Caribbean or island nations had.

But fourteen countries did show up glowing, with the fifteenth, her own, glowing hottest. Why? What did it all mean? She knew one thing for sure, if she had to gather fourteen scattered pieces of her and Carlos's power, then so be it, she'd go to the ends of the earth to get that back.

She began walking with purpose now, not sure where she was going, but her footfalls landed with more confidence. Then she stopped. The pain was gone, the cramping was gone, and she didn't feel a thick wad of padding between her legs or the horrible warm wetness of blood oozing from her body.

This time when she glanced up at the sky, it wasn't with frustration or rage. "Thank you," she murmured, her eyes scanning the horizon for a sign, which instantly reflected back to her in a flash of gold. Damali squinted, and stared toward the flash that glistened and peeked through the treetops upon a breeze, and then disappeared in the dense autumn foliage. A dome briefly appeared over the multicolored treetops as a breeze again gently moved the leaves, and standing in the full rays of the rose-orange new sunlight was a cross.

She was so close to hallowed ground that she almost ran to it. Judging from the size of the dome that she'd glimpsed, she couldn't have been more than a few blocks away. Crossing the wide street and grassy divides, she walked quickly toward the place that offered sure sanctuary.

Halfway down the double-long block, a whippoorwill's lonely call made her stop. No longer ready to ignore the subtleties around her, she looked about hoping the old shaman might be there to explain how to use the stick to rejoin her team. Instead, her gaze encountered another statue in blackened bronze. His expression was deeply contemplative as he seemingly worked a problem in his mind that was just beyond his reach, one hand under his chin.

She looked at the historical marker on the street and on the facade of the building. "Philly! The Rodin Museum's Thinker—Carlos, oh my God!" It was all now so clear. She remembered Philly, but had been at the other end of town in the Olde City section, battling on the cobblestoned streets and alleys within the darkness. Everything had come full circle. This was a place of dichotomies, just like her and Carlos's life was. Philadelphia was where freedom was founded, the Liberty Bell once rang, yet where slave ships unloaded terrible cargo to be sold in a public square. The Native American guiding her now made perfect sense. His. people had warred to protect their land, hers had been incarcerated within it, and it took bloodshed and marches to restore them with the right to be considered whole, versus three-fifths of a human being.

Damali nodded. She'd found a place where the highest of ideals tried to coexist with the most base of human nature.

She smiled at the discovery, becoming relieved that the pieces of the giant cosmic puzzle were beginning to fall into place, and she rushed up to the huge, sulking figure and tried to reach up to run her hand over his metallic jaw. However, he was too high up on a pedestal to touch. Tears filled her eyes as she remembered what Carlos's steel-packed jaw felt like against her throat. Damali laughed sadly at herself. "That's just how you look, baby, when you're scheming, trying to work your way out of a jam. I miss you so," she whispered, allowing her hand to fall away as she admired the bulging biceps and graceful, thick, sinew-sculpted thigh from afar. "I know you miss the power of who you were. Now I understand."

But as her gaze took in the structure and facade of the building behind the statue, she again became extremely still. Beyond the exterior walls she could see a courtyard with a low fountain pool. The water drew her as she entered the path, her eyes affixed to its glassy surface. But deeply disturbing presences also made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Two sets of stairs led from the pool up toward the columned entrance of the building, and her feet moved up the stone on their own volition, a need to understand propelling her forward. That's when she saw it and began to back away. In relief before the entrance to the museum was an eerie bronze cast scene entitled, The Gates of Hell. For a moment, she couldn't move. Fiendish, twisted figures almost seemed like they were fighting their way out of the metallic encasement from within the building toward her. The irony stabbed into her awareness as her gaze swept to and took in both the statue and what he sat in front of. Yes… it made so much sense. Carlos thinking his way beyond the gates of Hell.

She hurried away from the disturbing art and touched the base of the statue with her newly acquired stick and stood back a bit, waiting, just testing, wondering what all her shaman's wooden gift could do. But nothing had happened.

She sighed and turned. As she began to walk away, water hit her shoulder, making her whirl back around. A single tear rolled down the iron face and splattered on the ground. Fear didn't enter her spirit this time, only a deep sadness. She cupped the place on her shoulder where the tear had landed. The cold, hard face didn't move. She stroked her shoulder once then turned and walked away, determined to find the nearby church. Water. That was the key. The fountains, the tear, the river beside the temple where the Neteru council had just convened. So she would not ignore it.

Her stride was much slower, more measured, as she passed the few blocks of Greek and Roman architecture—inspired buildings and fountains and thought of all the things that had to be going through the minds of those she loved. She was missing, AWOL, and she knew every member of her family on the Manila-bound plane was in a panic. She also knew how deeply conflicted Carlos had to be, not unlike herself.

To be stripped naked of one's power, thrust into an untenable position of weakness, journeying to lands unknown with no way to fight the unthinkable, with Hell on one's heels, was not insignificant. An image of a slave ship flitted through her mind. To learn from the seat of original power followed the thought. Of course her journey had to go through Africa, through what had been the Nubian empire, and then to Europe. Damali nodded as she walked, nearly thinking out loud. She and Carlos had many nations within their DNA… Indian, African, European, many she might never know for sure… Just as her team represented them all.

As above, so below, especially in the end of days. But to love someone more than life itself, and not be able to provide for them, protect them… Carlos had told her once that it was a different thing for a man, their wiring was so different—their perspective, albeit somewhat irrational in her mind, required being able to do those things in order to feel like a man. In that moment as she slowly crossed another street, she realized that the fourteenth scattered piece of him would never be right until his power was right. How could it be?

He'd only loved her as a master of the universe. Now he was busted, penniless, no special abilities that had come to the fore, and was being protected by her squad when he was once the protector… the defender… the alpha and the omega with territory as vast as a king's. He didn't even have his nightclub from before he'd turned, let alone anything else, not that it mattered to her—the point was it mattered to him.

"Oh, baby… you tried to tell me that before," she whispered and shut her eyes tightly.

The visceral truth drummed in her ears and echoed through her soul. Possibly the worst of it for him—and she knew he'd never take her word for it that it was okay with her—he'd been able to make love to her in a way she knew no man could. There would be no words that could mollify him about that. There wouldn't be enough gentle, "It's okay baby," to smooth over the fact that brotherman couldn't drop fang, whisk her away to the vanishing point in a blaze of sensual glory, to make him ever be able to deal. Carlos's pride wouldn't allow for it, and his anger would block him to even trying to suffer that level of humiliation. Anger would also block his learning to fight like a Guardian, find his gifts or any new center of power that he owned. How in the world would they make it as one?

Damali swallowed hard as she stopped before the cathedral, read the sign, and then pushed herself up the steps of St. Peter's Basilica. "Please be open," she murmured, trying the door and finding it locked. She leaned against the large, blue-and-ivory blocks that stood between her and sanctuary and closed her eyes. Why was everything so hard?

He'd been crippled, hobbled, just thoroughly torn apart, and was now on a plane with very nervous Guardians and half a band of warriors from the Covenant. One false move and the plane could erupt into total mayhem.

She slid down the huge double doors until she was a small huddle of humanity on the top step, cradling the stick, and hoping she was still invisible. But as soon as she hit the concrete, she tumbled backward through the entrance, slid, and hid another set of heavy oak doors as though the seemingly impenetrable structures were a fabric drape.

Jumping up quickly, Damali patted her body and then touched the solid wooden doors she'd just passed through. Her heart was racing so hard it made her ears ring. She backed away from the doors and glanced around the darkened, majestic cathedral. She'd fallen past the foyer and was in the middle of the sanctuary itself, the polished floors beneath her sandal-clad feet. Mercy had let her in.

Her gaze went to the high, arched, frescoed ceiling, and then toward the gilded altar surrounded by angelic figures, but her search was for the font of holy water. She crossed herself and found it near the back of the church, and watched with awe as the dry stone bowl bubbled and gurgled, creating an eerie echo as it filled. She waited until only silence reverberated off the walls and the pool became still. Damali touched her fingers to the glassy surface and brought them to her forehead.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… not because I loved, not because I cared, but because I forgot about the pain of those around me as I learned and lacked patience to wait for Your sign. Help me to do better, and not to hurt the people who love me most. I want to go home to be with them, wherever they are." She stood quietly for a long while, simply gazing into the font and trying to calm her spirit. The slight lingering smell of incense was soothing and soon she was able to move away, having made her peace with her circumstances.

Now the issue was how to get out of the church and be reunited with her family. She stared at the rows of votive candles and didn't move as one lit for her on its own.

"You heard me," she whispered, tears of relief washing her cheeks. Her attention went to the heavy doors that creaked open ever so slightly, and within moments she was through them and back out on the top step facing the wide street in bright sunlight.

Surveying the landscape for a direction, she walked down the steps with care and stood by the curb, wondering what sign would light the way next. Oddly, all resistance and defiance had seeped out of her, along with the fear. She was simply bone-weary. It felt as though the defensive, angry energy had collected in her feet and was now dripping from the soles of her sandals with every heavy step she took. It made her footfalls labored, and she walked like she had ten-pound weights on each foot. She could barely move.

With disinterest, she watched a cab drive by. But it stopped, backed up, and a young African man who looked to be in his early twenties, wearing a red, black, and green crocheted skullcap, dressed in a beat-up Army jacket, ragged yellow T-shirt, and dingy brown corduroy pants with black flip-flops on smiled and rolled down his window, hailing her.

"You need a ride, queen?"

Damali shook her head and closed her eyes. She was no longer invisible. What next? "Thanks, brother," she said in a tired voice. "My ends are short, got no cash. Thanks anyway."

"You've got money," he said, his fluorescent-white smile lighting up his dark, handsome face. "I take silver for a sister as fine as you. Come let me give you a ride and talk to me. It's lonely in the morning, yes?"

"Silver?" Damali chuckled. Men were such a trip, and she couldn't deal with some brother from around the way hitting on her right now. "Naw, I'm cool."

"Wit all dat silver in your ears, and gold in your hair, you can't part wit one little earring for a ride to Broad Street? It's only a few blocks."

She became very, very still, and then her hand gently touched her earlobes. When she'd been on the plane, she hadn't had earrings on. She looked at her wrists and almost gasped. Thick kundalini snakes with gleaming precious stones were wrapped around her wrists. She unfastened an earring, and she stared at the sterling Ankh in her palm. She glanced down at her feet and heavy silver ankle bracelets with hieroglyphics etched upon them were weighing down her legs. A large silver toe ring covered her right middle toe. Her gaze went back to the cabbie as she gently patted her head wrap feeling it bulge with hard objects within her hair. Plus, she'd never mentioned where she was headed. Even she didn't know the answer to that. "Broad Street?"

"Yes. That is where you are going, true?"

Damali warily eyed him and shrugged. "How do you know I'm going to Broad Street?"

"What is eleven and five?" he asked, raising an eyebrow with a sly grin.

"Sixteen," she said, coming closer to the cab, curious.

"And one and six?" he asked, chuckling.

"Seven," she whispered.

"And your man's birthday is November fifth, correct?"

She simply stared at the man.

"He is twenty-four, which would make it six. Six plus seven is what? Thirteen," he said with a smile. "And the year of his birth would be nineteen eighty, which is one, plus nine, equals ten, reduces to one, add the eight, makes it nine. And nine is three threes, a triple trinity, a very powerful number. If you want to go home, you have to go to Egypt in Philadelphia, and stand on an axis of the pyramid the Masons built—mass with son, mason, meaning child of Light. His birthday is not far away… you ready for the full lunar eclipse that will last his number—three hours and thirty-three minutes? Nine."

This man's strange babble made her brain feel like oatmeal. The numbers and dates were coming too fast, and he knew things he shouldn't have. She remembered what she'd been promised by the queens, though. Guides and shamans would come.

"What's today's date?" Tension had made her body so rigid that she could barely talk.

"October thirtieth. A three day," he said with flourish. "The month ten reduces to the number one, which represents the Creator as symbolized by the sun. Three is the trinity, forms a triangle, and is the offspring of the union of two. Add it to get four," he said with a wink, "and you have the number four, balance."

Damali thrust her hand into the cab window and offered the earring without a word. The cabbie nodded and chuckled and popped the automatic lock so she could climb into the back of his vehicle. His jabber made her head spin, but his references totally freaked her out. Regardless of all his mystical talk, all she knew was one basic fact: If today was October thirtieth, her team was flying into the night a day ahead of her on Halloween. She closed the door to the cab without protest.

"We go to One Broad Street. That is one axis, north, a point of power. City Hall is the other, south. Invasions from the north have conquered the south, but the greatest power is in the east where Khepre is reborn each morning. What used to be called the John Wanamaker Building is the other side of the triangle. If you look at it from above and draw the invisible lines, you can see the connection." He spoke without turning and then took a small stick out of his jacket pocket and began chewing on it like it were a cigar. "This city, like Washington, D.C., was founded by Masons. All the founding fathers were Masons, and have replicated everything found in the original seat of power. Now that is hidden in plain sight within the seat of authority in the most powerful nation. Open your eyes and go through the door, just like you did at the church, and find Egypt."

"Where are you from?" Damali whispered, her voice hoarse from shock.

"Ethiopia, where else?" he said, chuckling as he drove the short distance. He turned in his seat and handed her a card. "My grandfather is waiting for you. Find him and he will give you back your earring."

The cab had stopped in front of a massive structure that looked as much like a cathedral as it did a strange museum. "Thank you," Damali said quietly, taking the card and carefully studying it before she shoved it into her robe pocket.

The man smiled, lowered his eyes, and bowed slightly in his seat. "It was my honor to courier the Neteru back to her destiny."

 

"You think they're gonna be cool?" Shabazz asked Father Patrick, as the teams filed down the plane's spiral staircase to the cabin's main level. He used his chin to motion toward the closed conference room that held the stunned crew.

"Who can tell?" Father Patrick said, rubbing his face with his hands while each person found an empty seat and flopped into it. "They were told, they now know, and it's up to them to believe us."

"I think the doctors are still going to be a problem," Rider said with an exhausted sigh. "Those boys were on a mission, and they saw Marlene do her thing, which in their minds is probably black magic. They could be thinking that some supernatural dark forces snatched her to save the daywalker."

"As long as they're up there, and we're down here in the cabin, and I don't have to look at those bastards for the moment, I don't care," Carlos said, his eyes on the horizon. "She's been gone a long time. We need to find out where she is."

"Yeah, man," Jose countered, "but it's not like we can just hijack this jawn. We just need to chill and hope that they believed the brothers from the Covenant."

"And if they don't?" Carlos said, looking at Jose for answers. "If they drag us into some kind of military lockup, or worse, then what? How will she find us or we find her?"

"I say we be cool, stay the course, and ride this out. All we can do is hope that the fresh pilots and crew don't trip when we refuel on the ground. If the first crew is happy to be off here with us, and feel like they got potentially set up, human nature being what it is, they are not trying to find themselves in a contamination containment situation. They are going to let the new crew get on, sign on for the leg of the journey they'd agreed to do, and their consciences won't allow them to have us dragged off by nonclerical civilians to possibly infect them." Shabazz's tone was firm, but there was a quality of trying to bring logic within it that made Carlos temporarily relax.

"I think Shabazz is right," Berkfield said. "The looks on their faces when Father Pat told 'em what was up said it all. They want off this plane, they want us on here until they know what any of us are." He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. "Try to get some rest. We've got a long way to go, still."

The younger Guardians and Covenant team slowly nodded their agreement, seeming too weary to further debate the possible variables. One by one, each person began to slowly find a comfortable position in their seats and grudgingly dozed off. They fought sleep as though it were a sign they didn't care, which was far from the case, but the constant adrenaline rushes coupled with a long battle, cuts, bruises, and emotion had begun to wear down even the most battle-seasoned warrior.

Marlene sat with her head in her hands, resisting sleep as she continued her vigil.

"Baby, you have got to relax and rest for a little while. We all prayed as a unit, Father Patrick and his squad anointed where she left, sent up intercession, even had Carlos in the mix… it's time to turn it over." Shabazz stroked her damp brow. "You always tell me, sometimes you have to let go and let God, right?"

Marlene nodded, but didn't look up. She kept her eyes closed and her low murmur blended in with the drone of the plane's engine.

"I'll pick up where you leave off, Mar," Carlos said, making her look up for the first time. "You get a few hours shut-eye like Shabazz said. I promise you, I can't sleep, and if you tell me what to say…"

"Just say what's in your heart," Marlene said, reaching past Shabazz to clasp Carlos's hand when he came near their seats. "Just ask that she come back whole and all right, and that all of us are able to be back as one family, with no one hurt." She looked up at Carlos, a silent understanding passing between them.

"I've been doing that since I've known her," he said in a quiet voice.

"Remember this," Marlene said, squeezing his hand tighter. "The Light doesn't rob. There are things we don't understand, but the tragedies don't come from that side—you've been to where they come from and should know that by now." She held his hand firmly, and looked deeply into his eyes as she spoke, boring her meaning into his understanding. "Do not be angry with our side, it will only slow your learning and new powers… I know you have something latent but very powerful within you—and it isn't evil. If you can set aside the rage, maybe you can bring it forth. We need whatever juice you've got right about through here, brother. Seriously. And so does she."

Carlos nodded as Marlene's hand fell away. "You had a vision, or is it wishful thinking?" he asked, forcing a strained smile.

She saw the fragile hope his bravado contained and stood so they could look eye to eye. She placed one hand on Shabazz's shoulder, the other on Carlos's. "Both," she said after a moment. "It has always been both. I have seen the best in you and wished the best up out of you."

Her comment seemed to satisfy him for the moment and he nodded and then looked away. "You can count on me, Mar. I'm not going to stop praying for her until you wake up and take over. I gotchure back, got hers, too."

Shabazz offered Carlos his fist, and they exchanged a pound. "You family now, bro. Marlene don't turn over a prayer vigil to just any ole body, and she passed four ironclad clerics to give it over to you. That means something real." Shabazz paused as he looked up at Carlos, both men holding respect in their lines of vision. "Thank you for spelling my woman so she doesn't collapse from exhaustion. And thank you for all those times you had our backs. I'm with Father Pat. Fuck it. If you drop fang, you're still one of us, we just have to figure out how to feed your ass so we can all stay cool."

Carlos smiled and withdrew from Marlene's hold. It was the first time since he'd been on the plane that a sense of peace and camaraderie had actually filled him. The feeling was disorienting, and was so strange at a time like this, a time when his worst nightmares were possibly being realized—losing Damali.

He looked at Shabazz and then Marlene. "Get some rest," he said, wondering when this new family had claimed and included him.


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CHAPTER ELEVEN
   



NERVOUS TENSION riddled the teams as they watched the crew and pilots hurry off the plane. All eyes stared beyond the windows, waiting, watching as a small refueling vehicle hooked the nozzle up to the huge jumbo jet in Manila. They sat silently watching the new crew come on board and begin to prep the plane for takeoff. New food and drink inventory was loaded by oblivious airport workers, who also added a fresh stash of blankets and pillows. An airport official walked through the aisle, his expression grim as he checked all passports and identification and then stopped.

"My manifest says there's a Damali Richards on board." He waited.

The team waited.

"She's had a lot of bleeding and is in the ladies' room," Marlene lied. "I have her identification, though." Marlene produced Damali's passport and visa from her bag.

The official looked at it and then toward Father Patrick.

"She should go with us," Father Patrick said, his tone calm but filled with authority. "Unless you want to be responsible for her? I can phone the Vatican—"

"That won't be necessary," the official said, and backed down the aisle.

"Thank you," Father Patrick said, feigning submission. "It is our goal to get her to sanctuary as soon as possible."

No one relaxed until the exterior door of the plane was locked and the aircraft began to turn on the runway and move into a new taxiing position. Silent glances containing hope passed between the seated groups of exhausted warriors. When the crew came out to review safety instructions, shoulders dropped two inches in relief.

They listened to the instructions and the captain's announcements with deaf ears, each knowing that the eight-hour flight to Dubai would take them hurtling into the night. As soon as the suction of taking off pushed them back into their seats, the chilling reality spread like a silent threat that connected people on the plane. Carlos could almost feel the tension in his hands like a static charge, but tried to stay focused on whatever unanswered connection he had to Damali.

The moment the plane stabilized, the cabin crew nervously stood, made weak excuses, and then went up the spiral staircase and barricaded themselves within the conference room.

"You think they're nervous?" Big Mike said without a smile.

"Ya think?" Rider shot back, closing his eyes and leaning back in his seat.

"Whatever," Carlos grumbled, and then looked at Marlene. "We need a strategy to brace for nightfall."

"Why? You feelin' funny?" Shabazz asked. His tone wasn't glib. His expression was stone serious.

"No," Carlos muttered. "I just know that where I came from, they don't do variables. A search party is likely."

Shabazz nodded. "Cool."

"You went to ash and have the coverage of the Light," Father Patrick said, trying to keep panic at bay on the plane.

"Indeed," Imam Asula said. "This aircraft is anointed and covered, as is its crew."

"If you say so," Carlos said, sounding unconvinced. "I just don't like leaving anything to chance."

"Neither do I," Shabazz warned. "With no weapons on board, I ain't feeling right."

"They've got water on board," J.L. offered. "We could dump out the liquor and the clerics could bless it."

"Perish the thought," Rider said quickly. "Use the pop bottles and water bottles, son. Let's not get crazy in here."

"So be it," Imam Asula said. "We can create holy-water flasks so that each one of us has several at his or her disposal."

"Now you're thinking," Carlos said and stood. "We need to rig up something." He walked down the aisle making everyone's eyes follow him. "In the conference room, the arms of the chairs are wood. Stakes. In the medical room, we've got scalpels that could be tied together with medical tape, if it comes down to hand-to-hand." He glanced at Marlene. "You've still got your walking stick, and need to keep that in reach."

"The man is on point," J.L. said, standing. "I bet they have alcohol, which I can rig a wick on using medical gauze, not to mention vodka, if I need to rig Molotov cocktails up in this tip."

"Two bottles of holy water on the ends of a long tether, like Ace bandage, would give me and Big Mike something to hurl… and with Ace bandage, I might be able to rig a slingshot—add a few hypodermics loaded with holy water and dead aim—see where I'm going?" Dan asked as he stood.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Carlos said. "I ain't trying to wait for nightfall to deal with anything that might try to breach this vessel. We need to be strapped enough to deal with an onslaught."

"Hold up," Berkfield said. "I agree and everything, and I'm all for a state of readiness, but what exactly are you laying for? What do you think is coming?"

"I don't know," Carlos said, his gaze drifting toward the window. "That's my issue. I just don't know, but I'm jittery as shit. We'll be flying over the damned Indian Ocean all night long, up in a tin can with a few prayers around it, and I know who definitely wants to be sure I didn't come back. Not to mention, with Damali gone, my greatest worry is they haven't already found her. Because if they have, they'll hold her hostage for the next six years until she goes into phase again. There'll be no negotiation, and girlfriend left outta here without her blades on her, feel me?"

"Yeah, I feel you," Shabazz said.

"Just when I thought we might be able to get some real shut-eye," Rider said, standing to come into the aisle. "But good looking out."

Berkfield held out his arm. "According to Father Patrick, I'm packing a lethal weapon."

The group stared at him.

"You've got needles in the back," he said, motioning to the medical room. "Take some blood out of my arm and lace the edges of blades and whatever projectiles you design with it. If you go hand-to-hand with a demon, a simple scalpel will make 'em laugh at you and rip your throat out, right?"

"No lie," Carlos said with a tense smile. "A scalpel cut ain't nothin' but a love nick."

"Shit," Rider said, running his palms over his jaw. "I vote for long-distance designs, J.L. You got that?"

"Yeah, I got it," J.L. said.

"And what if homeboy has a problem when the sun goes down?" Big Mike said, looking at Carlos. "Not trying to play, just being real."

"No offense taken," Carlos said. "Truth be told, I'm half hoping that I do get back to my old self. That way, at least, I could get off this potential death trap and find Damali."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," Shabazz said in a tired voice. "Like we all know, any of us mighta gotten nicked and the signs just haven't shown yet. With crossing international datelines and whatnot, I don't even know what day it is or how many nights have really passed. Do you?" When no one answered, Shabazz nodded. "The virus could jump out of any one of us once the sun goes down, so we all need to be real clear about that, and keep a personal set of artillery in reach."

"We work while we have light, then," Jose said. "Me and Monk Lin can probably break down a few of these seats to yield some long metal. Everything can't be plastic."

"Once we compile our arsenal, we should take shifts. The fatigue will rob us of strength. It will not be wise to have the entire team in that condition," Monk Lin said with a slight bow.

"Smart man," Carlos said, moving down the aisle toward the medical area. "Jose, break these stirrups off the table. There's metal rods in the gurney, too. In fact, pillage this room first."

 

Juanita knelt by Mrs. Rivera on the ground, her face streaked with tears as the house burned. Neighbors had gathered a block from the home, and good Samaritans tried to comfort the older woman who clutched at Juanita with shaky fingers. Ambulances could be heard in the distance and fire trucks screamed into the street along with news vans.

"El Diablo," Mrs. Rivera cried. "Momma! Oh, Momma!"

"We couldn't get to her," a neighbor said, his clean-cut hair smoldering as ash and debris clung to his jogging suit. "Lady, I tried," he said weeping. "God knows I tried, but the flames."

"It was a gas explosion," another neighbor yelled, pointing at Mrs. Rivera as an ambulance careened to the scene. "Help her! She was blown through the front window. But the grandmother…" The woman turned her face away and sobbed. "They were such a nice family. Thank God in Heaven their daughter was on her way home from work and not home, too."

"Listen to me, child," Mrs. Rivera said, her eyes glassy and disoriented as she pushed away the ambulance paramedics. "You cannot run from the devil. I tried to tell you that you must stand and fight him. Find my son, Carlos. He will make this right and will take care of you." She slapped at the helping hands that tried to roll her onto a gurney. "I saw my son! He is not dead! No, por favor, listen! My child is alive and he has come back to help us."

Juanita brushed the bloodied, thick strands of hair away from Mrs. Rivera's face. Her voice broke with sobs of anguish. "Be still and fight to live, Momma Rivera. Please. All your children are gone, but I will never leave you. Go to the hospital now and don't fight these men."

The older woman closed her eyes, and clutched Juanita's sleeve so tightly that the emergency medical team couldn't pry her fingers loose. "I have a number to give you. All that I owned, all that he left me and Momma go to you—but you must see that my son gets all but ten percent back. He will take care of you, don't rob him." She made Juanita lean in close and she spoke a number in her ear. "Write it down in your hand. Give her a pen. If she does this, then I will go."

"Get her a pen," one of the paramedics said with annoyance.

The panic of the situation and chaos of firefighters battling the blaze beyond them seemed to make the paramedic's nerves fray and snap under the duress of an old woman's unreasonable request. "Miss, do as she asks. Her pressure is dropping and she's going into shock."

Quietly, Mrs. Rivera spoke the numbers to Juanita with slow care. She watched the young woman scribble them in her palm and smiled, finally releasing her hold. "I love you, sweet one. Call the priest. Do not come to the hospital. Sleep in a church tonight. Then go to the bank—Swiss Bank, comprendo?"

"C'mon, man. We've gotta get this lady into the ambulance. She's lost a lot of blood and is delirious." The ambulance team looked at Juanita as they covered Mrs. Rivera's face with a mask. "You can ride with us, but make a decision quick."

Juanita clasped Mrs. Rivera's hand, her eyes going from the injured elderly woman to the burning house a block away as she ran with the team beside the gurney. There was no way in the world she would abandon Carlos's mother. Not while she was on her deathbed, not when everything and everyone dear to her had been lost.

Stricken, Juanita made herself very small as the team checked Mrs. Rivera's vital signs and worked on her, everything moving in slow motion and at the same time a blur.

"Momma, please hold on, Momma Rivera," she murmured as the older woman's eyes rolled back under her lids and her jaw went slack.

"We're losing her!" a paramedic shouted. "Bring out the paddles. Gimme room to work, folks."

Juanita scrunched her body against the wall, and looked away as electric-shock paddles touched Mrs. Rivera's skin. Her body 'arched and lifted off the gurney, and then dropped, but the line on the monitors never moved. From the corner of her eye Juanita saw a strange glow within the eyes of the paramedic standing behind the one working on Mrs. Rivera. It was only a fraction of a second, like a quick flash of yellow lightning. Something was also wrong with his mouth. She watched a mist come up from the center of Mrs. Rivera's chest and hover over her lifeless body. A scream froze in Juanita's throat as she eased toward the door during the commotion. She watched the men work on the woman who should have been her mother-in-law. Her eyes went between the eerie, mesmerizing mist and the chilling flashes she glimpsed in the profile of the men's irises.

"He is not dead," a light female voice whispered so close to her ear that she almost passed out. "He is not dead. Run!"

Instantly, both paramedics looked at her. Their eyes narrowed and elongated fangs ripped through their gums. "One more, and that cleans up his territory," one said.

"You wanna do her before we do her?" the other asked, moving toward Juanita as a scream broke free from her throat and the sound bounced off the metal within the ambulance.

She was on her feet in an instant, and in two steps the beasts were on her. The ambulance swerved and hit a tree. The back door opened, jettisoning Juanita in a roll onto a church lawn.

"What the fuck!" one beast snarled.

"Run!" the ambulance driver shouted. Her voice was shrill as she materialized outside the vehicle and a large male materialized by her side.

Juanita ran and huddled against the locked doors. Her mind couldn't comprehend what her eyes were seeing. A young African-American male with massive body strength drew one of her attackers toward him, ripped out his heart, and allowed the body to combust just inches from him. The woman who had been driving the ambulance pulled out a sawed-off shotgun from someplace she couldn't see, leveled it at the other paramedic, and pulled the trigger, scattering burning embers and ash everywhere.

"I told you Carlos's territory was under siege," the female ambulance driver said, cocking back the barrel. "Those were territory sweepers."

"Yeah, baby, I know," the bulked male said, his focus now on Juanita. "Okay, you've made your point. But she has the digits to get in touch with Carlos. You heard what his momma said. Brother ain't dead."

Juanita covered her head and began screaming as the two things she couldn't describe walked toward her, but stopped just short of the lawn.

"We didn't come to harm you," the woman said, her mouth filled with long, white teeth. "But we do need information."

Papers and pens from the ambulance swirled and flew at Juanita.

"Stop screaming!" the male ordered. "Write the digits down before you sweat that shit away."

Trembling, Juanita looked at them and grabbed the papers and a pen that had landed at her feet. She'd do anything to live. "Please don't kill me," she whispered, her eyes darting between the man and woman, a new scream forming as she watched them normalize into what would appear to be an ordinary man and woman.

"Write and we won't," the woman said in a gentle voice. "Stay inside the church tonight, or at least on the steps if it's locked."

Juanita nodded and quickly complied. "Is he really still alive?" she asked, flinging the paper at them but staying affixed to the door.

"You can see spirits," the male said. "The one that was going toward the Light, we couldn't see her because of that. What did she say?"

Juanita swallowed hard, willing herself not to pass out. "Momma Rivera said, 'He is not dead.' She told me to run."

The male nodded. "My boy, yeah… You go!" He began walking away into the night, chuckling.

"Tell no one about this," the woman warned. "Get in touch with him and seek his shelter. He needs his resources. When you do find him by day, tell him two of his own that were supposed to be Guardians are on the run in his zones." She began walking into the nothingness of the night in the direction the disappearing male had come from. "You're one, too, chica. If you can see Light spirits, they need you. Time to wake up and face your destiny."

 

It was just too quiet. Carlos fidgeted in his seat, unable to sleep. Two men on full guard for two hours, then the shift would change. Whatever. He wasn't about to go to sleep. The most he would allow himself was to close his eyes so the burning itch would stop. It felt like sandpaper was scoring the insides of his lids each time he blinked. He hated being human. The night was supposed to be his, not drug him making him sleepy and possibly sloppy if Hell came to call.

He watched Jose fighting it, too, twitching and turning in what seemed near agony, trying to stay awake but unable to. Dan's head was bobbing up and down so hard that Carlos was sure the young gun would ultimately snap his own neck if the plane hit a turbulence bump. Big Mike was sprawled out, head back, snoring so hard he almost drowned out the plane engines. But he liked how Marlene slept, just like Monk Lin—like cats. Their third eyes open, the other- two closed in a light but steady doze. He knew in an instant those two would be on their feet. Rider was also good, slept like a soldier, practically standing up. All he needed was a ten-gallon cowboy hat to put over his eyes.

Carlos nearly smiled as he looked over at Shabazz. His Guardian brother had made a tent with his fingers, his breaths slow and controlled, asleep but not really. Of them all, he slept most like a vampire—always ready. Marlene slept like that, too. Quiet repose, almost as though she was dead. But he knew sister could bring lightning in an instant. Serene ambush. Very cool, very wise. Unshakable. All of it gave him a new level of respect for Damali's squad and those that had schooled her. If these were her teachers, then his woman was more awesome than he'd come to know.

Lopez's sleep was fitful, just like Jose's, though. That concerned him. Both those guys had a thin line of vamp in their DNA, and their not being able to rest truly made Carlos worry. Asula was stretched out, like Big Mike, but Father Patrick's breathing would hitch, stop as though impacted by sleep apnea, and then resume, making Carlos wonder if the old man's heart would give out one night from it all.

His gaze intermittently roved the cabin, every now and then connecting to J.L.'s bleary-eyed expression, then they'd nod and acknowledge the clean sweep, and start the process all over again. It would have been so much easier if he could just read minds, sense things again, and could get a lock on his baby girl. Carlos gave up the foolish wish. It was what it was. He settled back in his seat and stared out at the gorgeous full moon. She was flossing tonight, strutting herself over the wide Indian Ocean, and had things been different, he might have gone out to dance under her on the wind.

His gaze went to Jose as he arched in his chair. Something was wrong. Carlos trained his eyes on his fellow Guardian brother and listened intently. Jose's breathing wasn't right; it was coming in short, uneven pants. When Jose groaned, Carlos relaxed and shook his head. You thinkin' about that, at a time like this, hombre? he thought, becoming annoyed and not sure why. But when Jose murmured Damali's name, he froze. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair as he fought not to rush Jose and start beating the shit out of him.

True, a man couldn't be held accountable for his dreams, but if they were going to be teammates, some shit was just unacceptable—even in one's sleep. Carlos forced his gaze back out the window. But what could he expect? He'd actually told Jose to step in for him, to be with Damali, should anything happen to him. And Jose had had his back, with Lopez, had collected his ashes and had joined in prayer with Damali for his return. Plus, something had happened to him. He wasn't right. Without his powers he was crippled. He and Jose were now equals. But if homeboy didn't stop dry humping the arm of the chair with his woman's name in his throat, he was fairly certain that he could still rip out his heart.

 

In all his life he never thought she'd come to him like this. It had been a dream, a fantasy, but now that she was so close, Jose held his hand out to Damali. Her eyes were sad as she dabbed at his mouth with a damp finger.

"You've got some sauce from dinner on your chin," she said with a smile.

He leaned against his bike and glanced out the garage door toward the waning sunlight. "You wanna get out of the compound go down to the beach?"

She nodded and kissed the offending stain off his chin, licking it as she drew away, but she stayed so close that he could smell the sweetness of her deepening breaths. "Or, we can go to your room?"

"You sure?" he asked, his hands trailing down her arms and back up again. He watched her nod, her nipples hardening beneath her favorite peach tank top as his hands gently caressed her arms.

"He's been gone a long time, and it's time for me to move on. I miss him, but…"

"I miss him, too," Jose said. "But I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and regret it. I care about you too much, if—"

"Shush," she said, placing her fingers over his lips. "We've both wanted this for a long time."

She covered his mouth with her own, deepening the kiss, her tongue finding his, stroking it until he groaned. She pulled back, and he moved with her until he was crushing his mouth against hers. His hands slid down her back to cup her behind.

She pulled away again. "Tell me you don't want this," she murmured thickly in his ear. "We can always stop."

"No," Jose hissed into her ear. "You know how long I've wanted you."

"Then don't stop," she murmured against his throat, licking a trail down it, then nipping her way back up. Her body moved against him, causing his hips to match the same rhythm as hers. "Let's go to your room."

"Okay," he said, unable to breathe. "We shouldn't let the house see us, though, you think?"

"Why do I care? You're my man, aren't you?"

He stared at her, tears filling his eyes. "I don't know. Am I?"

"Yes, ever since you saved me. Jose, you risked your life for me, went against harpies. How could you not be?"

He kissed her so hard he thought he'd chip one of her teeth. His bedroom was so far away that he wasn't sure if he could walk the distance—desire weighed on him so heavily. The garage was just fine… But he wanted all night with her, no interruptions. Wanted it to be right, so she'd never say no again.

Her palm flattened against his hard length, making him shudder.

"I can't wait, either," she whispered. "I want you now." She looked at him hard and pulled her top over her head, allowing her bare breasts to fill his hands. "Take off your pants."

He couldn't stop touching her even to unzip his pants. "You sure?" he panted, nipping her throat, working at the fastening, stroking her hair, kissing her as he tried to strip the jeans from his body, and cried out when she melted against him like hot wax.

He'd only imagined what she'd feel like against him, but the sensation sent a hard shiver through his body down to his bones. The sudden burn of skin against skin brought tears of pleasure to his eyes. "Take off your pants, baby," he rasped against her throat, his face damp as her skin seared him.

"Remember when Carlos died?" she said, opening her zipper slowly.

He nodded and swallowed hard, she felt so good it was ridiculous. He couldn't even speak. His focus was singular; she had to get her pants down.

"What did the Guardian team ever do with his ashes?"

Jose blinked. She knew what they had done with his ashes. Something wasn't right. He watched her slide down his body to kneel on the cement floor.

"Tell me, baby," she murmured. Then she drew him into her mouth slowly, his eyes rolled back in his head, and everything began to feel right again. "Jose, you know, don't you?"

When she drew her mouth away, his stomach clenched. He looked at her lush mouth, the cold air kissing his ass and his wet, throbbing member. He knew he had to be out of his mind. But something was telling him she wasn't herself. She didn't really want this as much as he did. It took everything in him to reach down and hold her by both arms. She smiled as he held her, staring into her beautiful hypnotic eyes, breathing hard, wanting to cum inside her in that moment more than he wanted to live.

"All you have to do is tell me," she said, her hot breath flowing over his hard shaft.

"Damali, baby, I love you, you know that… but you're scaring me." He sucked in a long, shaky breath, and caressed the side of her face. "I don't want to talk about that right now while I'm loving you. Let's go back to my room and—"

"No," she said, standing suddenly. Her gaze narrowed on him as she folded her arms over her bare breasts. "I'm going to my room. If you decide you want to communicate with me, then knock on my door. You have ten minutes. Otherwise, you can forget it."

He watched her walk away, his pants down around his ankles. Conflict tore at his conscience. How many nights had he been so hot for her that he'd used his hand to relieve the ache? How many nights had he awakened alone in his bedroom just down the hall from her, twisted in his sheets, sweating and dying for her? Now she had come to him, stripped him down, offered her mouth, her body, everything, if he'd just talk about a situation they both knew.

Jose pulled up his jeans with a wince. He was only human… then he remembered, yeah, but girlfriend had also once dropped fangs. What if she had gone dark again? What if that's why she could no longer sense where Carlos was, now that he wasn't a vamp? Then it hit him. They were supposed to be on a plane. Carlos hadn't died. He was alive and sitting a few rows behind him when he'd fallen asleep!

Sudden terror jolted him awake. Jose glanced around hoping he hadn't given himself or his dream away. The erection was killing him. What had been on his mind? Dreaming about Damali, like that, now? All he could do was take deep breaths and try to will the tremors away. He glanced at Carlos, who turned slowly, his eyes glowing silver. Jose froze, the sweat on his brow chilling beneath that gaze.

"We need to talk, man," Jose said quietly.

Carlos nodded. "Yeah, motherfucker. We do."


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CHAPTER TWELVE
   



"THIS IS one of only three like it in the world," the cabbie said as he left Damali on the curb.

Damali marched up the stone steps and peered at the wide, wooden door. She touched it with her hand and glanced around. Nothing happened. Becoming more confident she touched the door again, this time with both her hand and the stick simultaneously. She closed her eyes and walked forward the moment her hands began to tingle, thoroughly expecting to bump her nose.

Giddiness entered her as she realized she'd done it again. Her mind continued to hammer away at the possibilities while her eyes swept the interior. Everything was land-of-the-giants scale. A huge oak reception desk protected the Mason Temple guard that greeted her. The fact that he was calmly sitting behind the desk gave her a start. He smiled as though expecting her, which she definitely wasn't ready for.

He was a merry little man, with a kind, round face, pudgy build, and unkempt fawn-brown hair that was thinning in spots. His gray eyes twinkled as though he knew a secret. Behind him, on the wall, was a massive lithograph of the architectural layout for King Solomon's Temple. Damali stared at the wall and then at the man, so many questions running through her mind that she didn't know where to begin.

"You're very early for the eleven-o'clock tour," he said in the tone of a very well-mannered gentleman. He stood and hitched the pants of his blue uniform over his round belly as she approached the desk. "Or, are you just here for the museum and library?"

They both stared at each other. The outer door was locked; she'd just walked through it like it had been wide open. This guy had to have seen her do it, but he acted as if walking through doors was a normal occurrence. Her heart beat a little faster.

"Just the tour," Damali responded pleasantly, "and perhaps a peek at the library later."

Motioning for her to follow him, he rounded the desk and smiled. Damali's line of vision swept every facet of the rooms they passed. She could feel electric excitement pass through her.

"I'm Druid, you know."

She smiled politely, not sure how to respond. "That's very nice. I'm just in from L.A."

He laughed, his voice creating a joyful echo within the large room. "We go way back, and have suffered much, too. We've heard you've taken one of our own in under your wing." He stopped and gave her a little bow. "So, for that kindness, you receive the grand tour."

Damali smiled and nodded, while her mind scrambled to figure out which team member he was talking about. They'd had a lot of additions. Dan? Berkfield? She hurried behind him, amazed at how fast the chubby little man could walk.

"Did you know that George Washington was a Mason, as well as most, if not all of the founding fathers of this country?" The guide winked at her as he whispered the information like a schoolboy telling a secret. "They have his Masonic apron right here in the museum."

"Yeah, the guy in the cab was telling me," Damali murmured, her eyes darting around the glass cases that lined the room. What else could she say? Each case held emblems, shields, swords, rings, coins, and other artifacts that seemed to go as far back as the Middle Ages. Okay, so who was this guide and how did this building get her to Egypt?

Scanning the room, she noted the fine woods and Italian marbles that supported what appeared to her to be fifty-foot ceilings. Nothing Egyptian leapt out at her and the exterior of the building looked like hand-sculpted granite from Westminster Abbey.

"Right you are." The tour guide chimed in with a proud smile in response to her thoughts, "Actually, fashioned after St. Mark's Cathedral in Venice."

Damali didn't say a word. This old guy had read her mind, something only Marlene and Carlos had ever been able to do. It was unnerving.

Her guide nodded and smiled. "Correct again. It would appear that you are now ready for the real tour, now that you've loosened up a bit."

A hundred questions tripped over themselves in her brain as she followed the blue-uniformed gent into the next room and waited. Her mind was on fire, trying to make critical links between the spectacular show of power and wealth that surrounded her, and her own paltry existence as a disinherited Neteru with a magic stick. The fact that her guide reminded her of a leprechaun made her smirk. Now she knew she had to be losing her mind.

"Ah, I am not one of the wee folks," he said merrily. "Actually it was a coven back then—a good one," he added quickly. "People get semantics all confused and get weird about it, so I detest the word. We learned most of the mystical arts from the Egyptians. They were the true masters." He smiled broadly and clasped his hands. "I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have a master in my midst, dear young queen. Oh, let us resume the tour!"

She almost ran in the other direction. In her mind, coven was synonymous with witches and black magic. He was right; the word coven had nearly stopped her heart. She planned to ask Marlene about this later, if she could ever get to her. For now, Damali held her peace and just allowed the man to babble on as she followed behind him at an appreciable distance.

"Each of the presently alive grand masters are represented in the life-sized portraits of this room," the guide said with a sweep of his hand, "and behind these two-ton brass doors, you will find portraits of our past, and now deceased, grand masters. These eighty-foot, vaulted ceilings have been lowered to fifty-two feet to accommodate the advent of electricity, but later during the tour, we'll see how the original structure was kept intact, and its grandeur preserved by the skillful use of skylighting. These ceiling frescos are gilded in actual twenty-three-karat gold leaf," he added, motioning for her to pass through the doors to stand before an impressive rear staircase.

"These doors have been hung with such exactness, that they open with the push of a finger, and haven't been rehung since they were originally installed well over a hundred years ago." He leaned in toward her. "Did I tell you how impressive the mathematics were that came from Egypt?" He laughed at his own gushing. "Oh, but I don't have to tell you what you already know in your bones."

Losing patience, Damali edged near the strange tour guide. "Really awesome, but I don't see the point. I was told that if I came here—"

"Patience," he said calmly. "Remember these points. If I take you through sections too quickly you'll experience vertigo."

"Vertigo?"

"Yes," he said, his voice becoming mildly strained with annoyance. "Now pay attention. The lights can interrupt one's depth perception."

"I'm sorry," Damali said. "Thank you for taking your time with me. I've just been very worried about my family."

He smiled and bowed slightly. "We understand, and are not offended."

Damali glanced around to see who the we he was referring to might be. But the vast hall appeared empty except for the two of them.

"May I go on?" he asked in a recovered, eloquent tone.

"Yes, thank you. I'd be honored," Damali said, feeling very much like Alice through the looking glass. She was almost sure that she saw a glimpse of something in her peripheral vision. A strange white blur, and then it was gone.

"There are seven lodge halls within this temple that we will see during the tour. We are now going to enter the Oriental Room." Her guide motioned for her to follow him through a wide door and he waved his arms as he made a slow circle, pride clear in his expression. "This room is an exact replica of the many impressive rooms within the Moorish empire's architectural palatial achievement known as the Alhambra."

Damali's line of vision fastened to the magnificent hand-cut mosaics and thick burgundy velvets that covered luxurious ornamental benches. "I'm home. And, I remember when it all fell… Granada, Cordoba, Seville… This was the Hall of Dames, and, parts from the Hall of the Ambassadors…"

"Yes," the tour guide remarked with obvious delight, "I see that we have a historian in our midst."

Damali was speechless as her mind drank in the splendor. It was as though she knew this place from firsthand knowledge and the impact of the rushing impressions made her have to sit down on a long, polished bench. She didn't need the guide to explain that each layer of mosaic work had been reproduced from various sections of the palace and brought together into one spectacular fusion of riches. She knew it.

"See," he said triumphantly, "the vertigo happens when it hits you quickly. Memory is one thing, accessing the Akashic Records for the history of empires is quite another."

"Much respect," Damali said, swaying slightly and then stabilizing herself with the stick.

"The first time you pull down the knowledge can literally be mind blowing."

She nodded and tried to stand.

"Patience," he warned with a warm smile, "we have time. Wait until you see the knights of Templar and the Scottish Room… we have each section of the known world to cover before we go to the most impressive one of all."

Damali shook her head and this time when she attempted to stand, her legs held her weight. "No, sir, I really don't have as much time as you think. I have to go home. Soon." But the Templars… yeah. Maybe there was something here she needed to see.

He sighed and bid her to follow him with a simple wave of his hand. As they approached the enormous staircase again, she was forced to hold on to the rail. Her grip seemed precarious, at best, as the tour guide happily went on about how the forty-ton, five-story, spiral monolith was actually welded together in the building. Her vision blurred again, and that white glimpse haunted her. It floated lazily between the spirals. But it didn't frighten her. A place this old would be replete with ghosts.

"If you look down at the blue rug at the bottom of this impressive masterpiece," the guide lilted, causing her to peer over the rim of the railings despite her better judgment, "you will feel like you are spiraling into the Nile River. The Bailey statue at the bottom of the first landing guards the foyer. She is a masterpiece, and represents the virtue of silence—worth between three to five million," the tour guide added with obvious pride.

"And, the Bohemian stained-glass window, which has a depiction of Moses approaching the Burning Bush, also represents the four cardinal virtues of temperance, fortitude, prudence, and justice, at the bottom. We have other statues of near value, angels, carved by William Rush—brother of the famous Mount Rushmore sculptor, and all the murals that we've passed have been created by Herzog."

"It'll pass, soon," she heard the guide murmur as a thin sheen of cool perspiration beaded on her brow. "Don't look down," he advised.

"I'll be fine," she wheezed while images and information from thousands of years of history poured into her brain. Snapshots like freeze-frame still video flitted in her mind's eye, giving her understanding, making her know why certain wars had been fought, what was at stake, and the battle strategies employed to shift power, realign empires, and redistribute wealth. "I just need to go home."

"Since you are so impatient and determined to push yourself to the limit, if you will follow me, next we shall enter one of our most impressive rooms, the Egyptian Room." He stopped and sighed. "It's a shame you won't let me take the time to show you the other rooms, but I guess you'll see what you must along the way."

The guide paced ahead of her and then waited as she slowly followed, a throbbing headache strumming in her temples. The floating white mist was back, wafting near her. The hair on her arms and neck was standing up. What did this presence want? She could detect curiosity in it. But also deep sadness.

"This room is so architecturally and historically accurate, that Egyptologists can even transcribe the hieroglyphics on these walls," he said, smiling broadly now as he ushered her through the door. "It is so perfect in replication that scholars from around the world come here to study the mystic symbols and designs. It took three years of Mason-brethren study to do the research abroad, followed by twelve years to build and complete the room. Each segment of the hand-carved pieces of furniture is of the highest-quality ebony wood, with twenty-three-karat gold leaf."

Immediately she felt like the only proper thing to do would be to go down on one knee, not due to the involuntary effect of the vertigo, but as a salute or gesture of respect. However, the guide's presence seemed to prevent her from doing that just yet. That was something she needed to do in private. She knew it, although wasn't exactly sure why, but she was prone to follow her gut at this point.

Growing deeply concerned as his gaze fixed just above the Lesser of Three Lights Altar toward the ceiling, she was overcome by a nuance in the odd sensations she was experiencing.

A distant buzzing in her ears began to increase in tempo and volume, making her dizzy. As the tour guide spoke, she half-collapsed, half-sat down on one of the side benches to regain her bearings.

"This is Hathor, above the main grand master's throne. She was considered goddess of wisdom and fertility, often represented with a cow's head and a woman's body. Note the ceiling fresco of twenty-three-karat gold rays emanating from the sun and holding the sacred Ankh fertility symbol out before her. Here she has been depicted—as in only one of the main Egyptian temples—with a woman's face, but cow ears to represent her considerable ability to hear that which is not being said—a foundation trait of wisdom."

It was like looking in a time-distorted mirror. The rounded, heart-shaped face, skin coloring, eyes… coiled hair. Damali's vision momentarily blurred from tears of distant recognition. Indecipherable memories began to slam into her brain in spontaneous flashes, and soon the buzzing sounds evolved into what she perceived to be the low resonance of old men's voices chanting. Unnerved, she stood and slipped outside of the room away from the vibrations, unable to listen to the tour guide and the voices in her head at the same time.

"You should see it all, and then come back to this room," the guide said, offering her his elbow.

She was slow to touch his arm, not sure why, but she wasn't too sure of a lot of things. He seemed to understand her hesitation, however, and took it in gracious stride as they walked in silence. What she'd just experienced defied words or explanation. Yet, she had no vocabulary to quickly pose a question. Too much was running through her mind just now. The silence suited her better.

When they approached the grand foyer, the tour guide described the architectural feat of the skylighting eighty-feet above them, and she watched with tears in her eyes as the man shut off the power to let the sun filter through. Tiny stars in the man-made constellation had been cut into the granite surface, which allowed one to walk among the stars on a Carrara marble floor.

"Concluding our tour," her guide quipped enthusiastically, "is our main entrance, which remains closed by day to the general public. Between five o'clock and five-thirty P.M., we open the doors to Mason brethren and their guests only, and throw the main power switch to ignite approximately fifty-one-hundred lights."

Something in Damali's brain also ignited with the mention of the lights, and she glanced in the guide's direction and made eye contact. His expression seemed to say, not now, but later.

"The interior of the main doors are guarded by two hand-cast, brass Sphinxes, and as you will look up to the center arch, there are symbols of the zodiac, and symbols from all major world religions. But," her guide continued, "we want to draw your attention to the cornerstone of the building, which was laid around the same time as that of City Hall's, and the old John Wanamaker Building, forming a powerful architectural triangulation of spectacular construction. In addition, the cornerstone in this building seals off our Masonic time capsule, buried in a vault under this structure. Unfortunately, some years ago the original one was cracked and damaged when the subway lines were installed under Broad Street."

"And the seal was broken. They put a thirty-one-foot concrete wall in front of it, for the subway, but the original cornerstone seal was broken," Damali murmured, finishing the man's sentence and drawing his undivided attention.

"Absolutely correct!" the blue uniformed man shouted merrily, his voice echoing in the vast marble halls. "In that day, they tried to use X-ray technology to avoid hitting our cornerstone, but, alas, there's nothing like those old artisans. I must implore you to visit our library one day, and most assuredly, our museum—if you have not already availed yourself. Did you know that there are more Masonic symbols hidden within the alcoves of City Hall, than even in this building? After all, the seat of this city was the unparalleled seat of world power for the burgeoning New World—and Philadelphia was the founding city of the newest, soon to be most powerful, nation on the globe, that also hosted the wealthiest, most influential families of the day. It was the new Rome, so to speak. Oh, you must try out our library and see for yourself."

"Thank you, I will try to come back here with my family," Damali said quietly, looking at the refurbished stone and shaking her head. "That was a crime. A true shame what happened. The seal wasn't supposed to be broken, especially not underground near the vents."

"Indeed," her guide quipped, concluding their tour with a glance at his watch. "We invite anyone with interest to visit, tour as many times as you'd like, and to stop by our gift shop on the way out."

"May I just walk through the Egyptian Room one more time?" she asked quietly. She gazed at him with a plea in her expression. "Alone?"

"It's not policy," he said, but smiled and glanced at his watch. "But if you are quick and absorb much before the dayshift changes, I can see no harm."

He motioned for her to follow him, and she had to almost run to keep pace with him. The moment he opened the door for her, he bowed, and then quickly shut it behind her. She didn't look back as she advanced to the highly polished ebony throne, knowing that he was already gone. During the long walk across the room, she stopped at the Lesser of Three Lights Altar and went down on one knee, then pointed the stick in each cardinal direction.

A lonely, disembodied female voice whispered in the room as a cool breeze washed across her shoulder. "I want to go home," it moaned. "Please. Help me."

Damali's head jerked up and she scanned the room as she stood quickly, stopped, and listened. "Who are you?"

"Oh… take me home," the voice wailed. "The portals are open. She'll never trust me."

Damali stood very still, allowing time to catch up to her mind. Everything the guide had shown her was connected. The broken subway seal was a metaphor for the broken portals. Each room, one of the thirteen flags. The Templars were involved, so were the Druids. Now this eerie, ghostly voice that was almost childlike was begging for her help. "How can I help you? What do you want?"

"I want to go into the Light," the voice said, and the wafting white mist that had been following Damali moved across the floor like morning fog. "I'm trapped."

Damali shook her head. She wasn't about to help some unknown entity by releasing it from wherever it was, especially if it wasn't already in the Light. "Can't help you, sis," she said firmly. "Not my job. Got things to do. Don't even know your name."

"If I help you," it whispered, "will you help me?"

Damali tilted her head. She'd taken a short walk on the dark side and knew a negotiation ploy when she heard one. Everything she'd ever experienced in that realm might also be to her benefit. She forced a chuckle. "Maybe," she hedged. "About the only thing I want now is the chairman's head on a silver platter."

"That can be arranged," the mist said, gaining in energy and swirling up to the ceiling. "But he never leaves council chambers."

Damali froze. Okay, this was a ghost, but how did it have intimate knowledge of the vamp empire? Something wasn't right. Her gaze followed the floating vapors. "Then, get me down there to blow the fucking hinges off his doors."

She watched as the vapor formed into a tight ball and ricocheted around the room.

"I don't know the way," the voice murmured, sounding agitated. "Only masters know. You used to be one, you should know." Then it let out a long, lonely moan and the sound of sobs echoed through the large room. "Oh, you're like the others and won't help me!"

Feeling an opportunity about to slip from her grasp, Damali peered up at the ball that was now in the corner of the ceiling. "I've fluxed back to my old self," Damali said, trying to keep contact with the dissolving vapor. "I have basic info, but not the route. I was never taken to chambers."

"Ask Carlos!"

The voice became angry and aggressive. Damali stared at the mist that was growing dark like a gray storm cloud, covering frescos and almost sucking the light out of the room. "Councilman Rivera torched in the sun."

The vapor lightened to a pale gray. "Oh… nooooo… then how can you help me?" More sobs echoed through the chamber. "The only one left hides where I can't go!"

Damali tilted her head. "There's one left?" Terror raced through her veins, making her do a quick calculation. They'd made another one that quickly?

"Yes…"

"Where is he?"

"I can't... I'm no longer a vampire since our fight. I'm just a disembodied—"

For a second Damali was speechless, but she worked with her gut hunch. This was either Dee Dee or Raven.

"I can't help you, if you won't help me." Damali put one hand on her hip. "You're a ghost! Can't you invade his dreams; suck his mind dry? You used to be one of the hottest female vamps in L.A. Find out how to get down to the Vampire Council, and I'll gladly send your pathetic, wailing ass into the Light."

The moment she'd leveled the challenge, the vapors rushed down from the ceiling and began taking shape in the far corner of the room. A svelte, gaseous female body began to form. Damali took a fighter's stance and held the stick in readiness for attack. But she blinked twice as the facial features of the transparent entity filled in. "Raven?"

Raven covered her face. "I want to go home. They opened the portals. I never knew what I was getting into." She looked up at Damali, tears streaming down her face. "Help our mother, Marlene. She was right."

It took Damali a moment to answer. There were no words.

"I messed up my life," Raven wailed, becoming vapors again, her voice reverberating off the walls. "I made hers a living Hell. I cannot rest. I am so tired. There is chaos. They don't know I'm missing, because the leaders are hunting for you."

The voice moved around the room so quickly that Damali almost fell as she moved in a circle, keeping it in front of her.

"What's coming will kill my mother. She'll die trying to protect you. I want to be in the Light when she comes. Tell her I am so sorry!"

"Okay, okay," Damali said quickly as the voice began to fade. "I have to get to Marlene first. But you and I could work together to get what we both want—Marlene alive, you in the Light, and me down at Vamp Chambers to go one-on-one with the chairman."

Raven immediately materialized, but stood back from Damali. "You would do that?"

"I want him, bad, girl." Damali stared at her. "I want Mar safe at all costs."

Raven nodded. Then she glimpsed the slow filter of light streaming through the window. "I cannot come to you on hallowed ground. But I'll lure the master from hiding and dredge his mind." She smiled. "He's new. I was Fallon's best lair companion. I'll know what he likes… what he needs." She gave Damali a wistful glance. "You've been one. You know what they like. Just don't renege on me, or I'll haunt you forever."

"You keep Marlene safe, and get me in front of the chairman, sis, and my word is good."

Raven nodded. "It always was. For what it's worth, I respected that… envied it. I've got a little Amanthra in me, too… but more succubae." She slowly dissolved, leaving Damali rattled. "Go home and wait for me to bring you information soon. I must work while he regenerates."

Raven vanished. Damali held on to the stick so tightly she felt like her hands would bleed. Several emotions crowded into her mind at once. When this was all over, she was moving out. It was settled. Marlene had served her time, had mothered so long till it didn't make sense. It was time for her to be given some peace, and not because death claimed her. The rest of the fellas needed that, too. The young bucks needed to have a life and experience—what she and Carlos once had, the full spectrum of love. Her man needed his powers back and some space to get his head together. Shit, she needed that, too. It was time for a change. Big change. To her way of thinking, the only way any of them would have a life is if she handled her business and addressed a very old debt. The chairman was going down. Lilith's head would roll. Then she was gonna chill. It didn't get any simpler than that. Win or die trying.

Damali let out a hard breath, stretched out her arms, and closed her eyes as she lifted her chin toward the ceiling, resolute. "Aset, I want to go home and to know where I am to be in this world. I open myself as a positive vessel to be used for the good, and only that. Please help me."

"Come child," she heard a female voice say. "Sit and learn."

When she opened her eyes, the face of Hathor was speaking.

Fear rose gooseflesh on her arms, but she advanced up the carpeted steps and sat down on the throne that was modeled after the ones that had once held great queens. The buzzing returned to her ears and the stick in her hand became a scepter that stretched into a golden rod. The head of it became a cobra that swayed to life as purple light enveloped her hand.

A sudden power rush filled her, making her arch her back and perspiration roll down her spine. It was so swift-moving and intense that she cried out, almost unable to bear the sweet heat. In dagger-sharp images she was connected to what Carlos had seen on his throne, a mirror opposite of hers. Worlds collided, armies warred, math and science and technology stretched her mind, languages bombarded her, and chunks of history flooded into her consciousness while scrolls of secrets wrapped in papyrus swam against the spiral of truths. She saw portals opened beneath the ground, lights in major cities going out, leaving a blackened landscape. The moon was eclipsed, a man with silver glowing eyes stretched out his hand toward her, his body rimmed in pulsing silver-lit energy. She called out his name and he came to her with opened arms. Then she was in a subway, running with her team, vermin squeaking and fleeing, tumbling over her feet to escape something horrible. A child wailed, and so did she. Then it all became so still in the bright tunnel.

Two entities approached her, the light behind them so bright that she couldn't make out their faces.

"Daughter," a soft female voice said. "I should have never left you, and won't now."

"My baby girl," a deep, familiar male voice said, holding out his hand. "We watch over you day and night. The Cradle of Humanity awaits you."

The moment they embraced her, she knew who they were. "Mom… Dad?"

"Yes," they said in unison. "Let us take you home. You have learned what you need to know. Let the guides help you make sense of it along the path."

Warmth radiated around her, lifting her closer to the light that cloaked them. A violet pyramid opened just beyond her reach, and her parents let her go. She could feel her body being sucked into the triangular vortex as they dropped their hold on her.

"No! Mommy! Daddy!"

But it was too late. They were gone.

Damali landed hard and cracked her head against a stone step. The thick emotion of parental loss still covered her and hurt as much as, if not more than, bumping her head. The dusty streets, colorful and chaotic, surrounded her and made her head spin. She tried using her stick to help her stand, but it was gone. She peered up at the brilliant blue sky and the dazzling sunlight made her squint. The warm temperature didn't stave off the chills that wracked her body. She shaded her eyes and tried to read the marker on the building, but could not. Yet she knew the language was Amharic. "Addis Ababa." The capital of Ethiopia.

 

Father Patrick nestled deeper into his seat as a fitful sleep claimed him. It had been so long since he'd seen his wife's smiling face, that when she came to him and hugged him, he openly wept.

He touched her soft cheek, remembering how much joy they once shared. Her large hazel eyes drank him in, and he filled his hands with her beautiful auburn hair, lifting it off her shoulders, the silken strands falling between his fingers. He stared at her heart-shaped face, remembering her mouth, the gentle swell of her breasts, and the curves of her petite frame. He knew he had to be dreaming as she kissed his lips gently and her body molded to his, still as svelte as she'd been when they'd first met. She had been so pretty…

"I have missed you so," he whispered against her cheek.

"It has been so horrible here without you."

He stroked her hair, watching the shimmering highlights in it while still allowing his fingers to luxuriate in the silken texture of it. "It cannot be so terrible in Heaven, my angel. I always prayed that you'd go there, no matter how you died. Our son, how is he?"

"Fine," she murmured, and kissed his neck. "But you seem to have been doing well for yourself," she said, pulling back with a gentle smile. "You have a new young man to care after. He's kept you busy."

He nodded and chuckled, kissing her forehead. "Yes, my wayward one, Carlos. He does keep me busy."

She gently brushed his mouth with a kiss, making his body stir in a way it hadn't in years. "Tell me about him. How did you bring him back?"

He sighed. "I didn't," he murmured. "Have you come to finally take me home, darling? Tell me my days are over, and that I can be with you and our son again."

Tears filled his eyes, making her form blur.

She stroked his face. "I'll take you into the Light. But first, tell me, whatever became of Carlos?"

He paused and held her back. "What? I didn't think death was conditional." The hair raised on the back of his neck. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you?"

In that instant she was gone, but he could not wake up.

 

Father Lopez stirred at the muffled cries he heard coming from Father Patrick, but a deep, paralyzing sleep kept him from fully rousing. A young woman ran toward him, naked and dripping wet, her eyes wild and beautiful as she opened her arms.

"Save me," she said.

Juanita's warm, young nakedness filled his arms. How could he forget her? Carlos had used her as a taunt, but he could never forget the sensation of lying with her. She was the only woman he'd ever known, even if it had been a vision, an illusion. She peered up at him.

"The vampires have surrounded my home and I cannot go back. Please let me spend the night with you."

She began crying and he held her more closely, trying to calm her as he stroked her bare back.

"I won't let them harm you. Where are your clothes?"

"I escaped through the bathroom window when I heard them enter the house. I have nothing but you… I am so ashamed." She looked up, tears brimming in her eyes. "The other clerics are all asleep. They won't know that I'm in your bed."

He glanced away. "But… I shouldn't. You can take the bed and I'll guard the door."

Her hand traveled down his chest. "But we've already been lovers."

He stared at her.

"Carlos gave me to you as a gift. I felt it that night and have wanted to be with you ever since. That's why I ran to you. But if you don't want me…" Her wide brown eyes searched his face and tears spilled down her cheeks. "Tell me you don't want me and I'll leave," she whispered, bringing her mouth close to his.

It was against everything he stood for, every vow he'd taken, and everything he'd been trained to do, but he was still a man. His mouth found hers, and the sweetness of her tongue twining with his produced near-delirium. "Don't leave," he murmured against her hair as she pulled away. "I'll protect you with my very life."

She removed his collar. "Did you feel it when he joined us?"

He swallowed hard and nodded.

"It was your first time?"

He nodded again and closed his eyes as her hand slid down his belly.

"I can show you more," she whispered.

"I really… I shouldn't, not here, not in the safe house with my brethren."

"We can go down into Carlos's old lair and be quiet as mice."

He looked around the safe-house living room at his sleeping Covenant brothers.

"Just like they went down there. Do you want me?"

"Yes," he said, closing his eyes as her touch produced a shudder.

"You are so much like Carlos… I loved him once. He was good to me, to us," she whispered. "He never really wanted me, and always loved Damali… so he gave me away to you that night in the illusion. It was a taunt, but also a gift for both of us."

"It was a gift," he said, stroking her cheek. He stared into her eyes, hypnotized by the urgency he saw within them. Just staring into them made him burn. Then every sensation he'd felt that night concentrated in his groin. He couldn't breathe.

"You have a little vampire in you, true?"

He nodded and took her mouth hard, rewarded by her hard rake down his back.

"Since he did so much for you, tell me, what did you do for him? Did you save him?"

"Oh, God…" he murmured as her hand slid beneath his pants and held him tight.

She stiffened, but relaxed when his head dropped to her shoulder. "Tell me, did you save him?"

He was breathing so hard he couldn't get out the words. "No… we… weren't…"

Suddenly a hard shake snapped Father Lopez awake. Men bearing weapons surrounded him.

A huge screech owl exited Father Lopez's chest in an eerie black mist and then materialized and careened across the room, as everyone ducked for cover.

"What did you tell her, man?" Carlos said, his eyes gleaming as he took aim at the creature.

Father Patrick slapped Padre Lopez's face. "Wake up, man. Talk to us! She's visited every man in here who has fallen asleep!"

Marlene brandished her stick as the owl dove at her, deadly talons extended. Shabazz hurled a holy-water bottle at it and sent shards of glass and water spraying against the far side of the cabin. Jose ducked as the owl screamed and flew up the spiral staircase. Dan and Big Mike rushed to the foot of the stairs and took aim with homemade slingshots, missed, and then were forced to take cover behind seats as the angry creature turned on them.

Berkfield threw a blood-tipped scalpel toward Jose, who caught it and flung it at the creature. His aim nicked the edge of the creature's wing, and billowing sulfuric smoke poured out of the wound as the owl dropped to the floor and began to elongate, a knotty spine sending feathers flying. Its beak became a razor's edge, talons lengthened, and a swishing, leathery, spaded tail stretched out of where its tail feathers had been. The creature now sported a six-foot wingspan within the cabin, its tail an instrument of death, and massive hooked talons strong enough to open a man's chest.

Rider hurled a holy-water bottle that splashed the wing, creating more smoke. "She can't fly in here—her wings are too big to get airborne," he hollered. "Open fire!"

Shabazz sent water bombs toward the beast two at a time as it snapped and screeched. Marlene and Berkfield kept its tail busy, stabbing it, drawing black blood, and dueling with the prehensile limb. Dan and Big Mike backed it up toward Rider, Jose, J.L., and Carlos, while the Covenant assaulted the beast from both flanks as it screeched in the wide center aisle from atop seats.

But its measures seemed defensive, not offensive, as though it were looking for something. Its gaze met Carlos's, raked him, then it let out an eerie scream that dropped Big Mike to his knees. Its blazing green eyes swept the airplane cabin again as if still searching for someone.

"She's not here!" Marlene yelled. "He's not here! You killed them!"

As soon as Marlene said that, the twisted creature flapped its wings, and rushed headlong into a row of windows along the wall, and vanished through them. The plane rocked, and then righted itself. The captain was yelling for everyone to take their seats. The terrified crew never came down the steps, but remained locked behind the conference-room doors.

"Sonofabitch!" Rider shouted. He looked at the clerics with disdain. "I thought you said this plane was sealed shut and impervious to a breach?"

The Covenant members shared stricken and confused expressions.

"I don't know how it got in here," Father Patrick said, his gaze sweeping the group. "It was strong enough to withstand a holy water assault."

"Well, a succubus got in here," Shabazz said flatly. "She messed with everybody, fishing for info."

Carlos nodded. "They go for your vulnerable spot, and every man has one." He looked at Jose, no longer furious at him. "She came to you as Damali." When Jose looked away, Carlos looked at Berkfield. "You saw your wife, didn't you?"

Berkfield nodded. "Sure as shit I was sitting in my living room, back home, my kids safe and sound in the house. Yeah, she got me good, but I didn't tell her nothin' because when she started asking about you, I know my wife well enough to know, that's the last thing Marj would wanna know about. But this thing showed me my deepest desire—to be home like none of this ever happened."

"That's exactly how I knew, too," Father Patrick said. "My wife is dead, and while I miss her dearly, I knew she wouldn't condition my entrance into the Light. She wanted me to tell her about Carlos."

"Right, like I'd tell some stray vamp tail from New Orleans about my brother here," Big Mike scoffed. "Never happen."

Rider began picking up weapons.

"Yo, man, every one of us who was asleep has to give it up to the group to be sure there were no leaks," J.L. said, his voice easy as he looked at Rider. "She got me with the images from Brazil."

"Me, too," Dan said. "But I didn't know her well enough to tell her team secrets."

"She came as Tara, all right," Rider said, his tone brittle. "She threatened to leave me for some punk vampire named Yonnie who's supposedly a master vamp sleeping in my damned house and…" Rider kicked a chair as he passed it. "I know it was all an illusion, but that shit still vibrates so real I'm pissed off. Can you believe it? Tara has some vampire in my house? Wait till we get fucking home."

The team stared at Rider.

"Thought that was twenty years ago, brother," Shabazz said evenly. "You need to grip up and get your head right."

Big Mike looked out the window. "If you're telling us something we need to know as a team, man, you know that's some dangerous shit. Even I only did Mardi Gras once—and it ain't nothing to wrap a love jones around. That's a sure way to get fucked up."

Carlos watched the team dynamics in the aircraft unravel. Stunned clerics took a very cautious position, and he could almost feel their muscles go to readiness. But Rider had had his back on the cliffs. His secret wasn't a dangerous one, to his way of thinking. He knew for a fact that Rider hadn't been nicked in a year. This was his boy, and it was time to cover his man and take the weight.

"He's cool," Carlos assured the team. "Every man has a woman he can't forget. Tara was his, so squash it."

"I don't want to fucking discuss it," Rider snapped. "Obviously, what we had was history. All she was talking about was Yonnie and Carlos! Who the hell is Yonnie?"

Marlene studied Rider, her gaze gentle, but her voice was firm. "No judgment. We all have some dark corners in our minds that we don't want anyone, even God, to know about. That's what makes us human. All I'ma say is, you need to let me know if you need something out of my black bag, on any given night."

Carlos just stared at Rider's back. Yonnie…

Jose went to Rider and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Yo, man, it was a succubus. They're supposed to jack with your mind. What did you tell her, man?"

"Nothing," Rider said, shrugging Jose's hand off him as the group continued to stare. "Why do you think I'm so pissed off?"

Shabazz swallowed away a smile. "Yeah, you cool."

"Yonnie made it?" Carlos said carefully, staying out of Rider's swing range. "I really need to understand what she showed you, man."

Both men stared at each other for a moment.

"Who the fuck is Yonnie?" Rider said, slowly approaching Carlos.

"A good brother. He had my back when I was in the empire. I gave him master status while me and Damali had to do the thing in Australia so he could keep my territory cool."

"What?"

Before Carlos could react, Rider hauled off and hit Carlos, knocking spit and blood from his mouth. Carlos went down hard in a seat. Rider was coming over the seat before him with four team members pulling him back.

"You made a master, and let that sonofabitch run loose in my backyard with my woman out there? She's a fourth! You fucking know that, Rivera! I thought we were cool and had an understanding. If he finds her and calls her, she has to go to him! If your territory is disintegrating out there and there are no vamp females left but mine, what the fuck do you think is going to happen?" Veins were standing up in Rider's throat as his team brothers tried to restrain him. He pulled back and shrugged off his stunned Guardian team's hold. "For more than twenty goddamned years I've kept her from whatever master was running the Los Angeles yard. That house is a fucking shrine to that woman—and a succubus waltzes onto a supposedly prayer-guarded plane and throws that bullshit in my face?" He walked away from the team. "I'm done."

"Oh, shit…" Shabazz walked in a circle, raking his locks as his eyes scanned the group.

Stunned expressions stared back at him. Marlene closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

"Over twenty years?" Big Mike said, shaking his head. He looked at Imam Asula who was about to move on Rider. "He's my brother, man. I got him, if there's a problem. Chill."

Father Patrick nodded, and the clerics stood down. Jose, Dan, and J.L. sat down slowly, frozen in shock.

Carlos rubbed his jaw as he stood slowly, amazed when he tasted his own blood. He'd never even seen the punch coming.

"Clearly, he's no longer vamp," Big Mike said, glancing at Carlos and then Shabazz.

"No. Not at all," Shabazz said, shaking his head. "Okay, one problem solved."

Carlos watched the team from a remote place in his mind. Rider, a forty-five-year-old guy had caught him blind and tagged him. Shit. He wasn't sure if he was stunned more from the fact that Rider actually laid hands on him, or from the punch itself.

"Next problem," Shabazz said, looking at Rider, "is how long have you had a relationship with this female vampire?"

Father Patrick cast a nervous glance at his brothers. "Maybe we should all calm down before we try to dissect—"

"To answer your accusation, Rider, if the Covenant hadn't been double-crossed," Carlos said, spitting blood, "there wouldn't have been a breach in the prayer line."

"Tell me about Yonnie," Rider said, breathing hard. "He exists?"

"He does," Carlos said. "But that also means so does Tara. If they're the only two left standing from my old territory, then they're also on the run. But if they're holed up in your safe house, and your lines around the safe house are solid, they can't be gotten to."

"That is not a safe house for vamps! It is a sanctuary for my lady!"

"Let's get back to the part about you seeing her repeatedly over the years—"

"Her grandmother is a shaman and took care of Rider's cleansings," Marlene said with a weary tone. "It's only once a year, anyway. Let it rest. This is a fresh wound and we don't need this in here. If Rider hasn't dropped fang in all these years, then he won't."

Shabazz stared at her in shock. "You know her grandmother? Baby how long you been—"

"Not now, Shabazz!" Marlene stormed past him and went to Rider. "Have faith. Tara needs a master to help her fight against something that we've just experienced. He needs her to get to a lair that hasn't been compromised. He won't violate her. He needs her."

After long, tension-filled seconds, Rider finally nodded.

Marlene kissed Rider's cheek. "If Yonnie was made by Carlos, then he had to have something going on that was cool." She glanced over at Carlos.

"The man is like a brother to me. He got played, like me, back in the day. The other territory masters dogged him. I gave him a chance and a little juice. He knows the teams and anybody that's attached to them are off limits. Vamps do have a code, you know."

Carlos skulked away and flopped down on a nearby seat.

After a while, Shabazz sat down, too. "Bottom line is, the succubus came in here looking for Councilman Rivera and didn't find him—or Damali."

"No, she didn't," Carlos said flatly. "She saw a guy that had similar energy, but then passed me over. I could feel the probe, but she was confused because I'm not a vampire. Not even a fucking second-gen." He looked out the window.

"The question is, how do we kill it, though?" Shabazz said. "We used up a lotta ammo on one invasion."

"You can either set up barriers and prayer circles under where you sleep to keep them out as a defensive measure, or on offense, you have to wait for them to manifest and then behead them. On the astral plane where they suck out your dreams, they're too strong," Marlene said in a weary voice. "The double-cross from the people who anointed this vessel allowed foul intent to make the lines weak. That's why we got breached."

"I hear you, Mar," Shabazz said in a sullen tone. "But fact is, it did materialize, and we did hit it with everything we had, and the bitch walked."

"Didn't behead it," Marlene said quietly. "Every entity has a weakness. Succubae mess with the mind, that's why you have to take their heads."

The group nodded, but Big Mike seemed unsure. "But what's a succuba doing looking for Rivera? I thought the realms didn't deal with each other? And why Rivera?" He glanced at Carlos. "What if it was a strong vamp coming for him, like the Brazilian job? With almost all topside masters gone but one, maybe one of 'em is doing a power grab?"

Carlos nodded. "Mike's got a point. The realms don't mingle. A regular succubus wouldn't have the audacity to try to take a vamp territory, and couldn't hold it if she did. Could've been topside sweepers from level six using the power of female persuasion to locate me for council, just to be sure I was ash," Carlos said, half wishing the creature would have killed him. "They're going through my zones, apparently, trashing everything I had my seal on before rebuilding clean. When I can get to Yonnie, I'll know more. I need to find out what's—"

"That was a whole different lifetime ago," Father Patrick said carefully.

"That might have been a different lifetime ago to you, but my mother and grandmother, and my boy's sister, Juanita, were also under my seal, just like Berkfield was. Don't tell me not to worry or not to talk to my boy, Yonnie. Hell yeah, I hope his ass is strong as shit and remembers who made him!"

The cabin went still at the mention of the other innocent humans dear to Carlos.

"We'll get to Yonnie, man," Shabazz said. "And Tara." He looked at Rider. "Right now, we could use help from several quarters, as long as they've got good hearts."

Big Mike nodded. "Yo, brother, we gonna check on your momma and grandmom as soon as we can figure out how to get back. Any way you can call your boy, like you used to, when we get on the ground at night?"

Carlos shook his head. "I ran North America, South America, and the Caribbean. I'm way out of my old zones. They've probably got a communications block on my transmissions, if I could, and if I were able to open a channel in a hostile zone, we'd all get jacked. I need to get back to L.A., man." He looked at Shabazz, Big Mike, and then Rider. "I need to find Damali, first."

Shabazz let out a breath hard. "It's a messed-up situation, but right now, we have three serious problems that we have to deal with. One, we need to find our Neteru. Two, our plane has been breached, and we could be attacked again. Three, it was a succubus that attacked us, in all likelihood. I heard what Carlos said, but I didn't feel vamp. It took on demon form to fight us, instead of coming as a strong female vamp. But, check it out—succubae can't just materialize as demons, they come in the form of the human body they've inhabited." He glanced at Marlene, who nodded.

Carlos closed his eyes. His worst fears had been realized, and Shabazz had picked up on it. He hadn't wanted to go there with the team to create additional panic, but the cat was out of the bag. "It wasn't sweepers."

Father Patrick nodded and glanced around the silent group. "We just got a visit from level seven."


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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
   



TARA'S BREATH stopped as she stood motionless at the edge of the cabin. It was not from fear, but pure awe, as she watched the majestic creature lope toward her from between the trees. Trees Rider had planted. She lowered her weapon as her pulse quickened. He moved in long, fluid strides toward her.

Of course she recognized him instantly and it was the most spectacular transformation she'd ever witnessed. He'd used his power to take from the realms above theirs to transform into something that he knew would mesmerize her. His form was the wolf. Standing three feet at the shoulders, his coat shimmered pitch-black in the moonlight. His eyes were such a deep dark gold that they were almost bronze. Thick ropes of muscles moved beneath his coat as he silently came closer. He looked at her with longing, threw his head back, and howled.

The sound of his call swept through her as the night sounds around them went still. In a slow, sultry shape-shift, he gave up his wolf form and stood before her. He motioned with his chin toward a fallen elk strewn in the brush nearby.

"I had to eat after the fight," he murmured, coming closer to her and unbuttoning the top onyx stud in his crimson silk shirt. "You should, too, baby."

She stared at him, willing herself not to drool.

"You did good tonight. Fought like a second," he said with appreciation in his voice.

"Thanks, Yonnie," she said, finding it hard to speak. His body was still damp beneath his shirt, making the lightweight fabric cling to his broad chest and every well-defined ripple in his abdomen. His black leather pants clung to his narrow hips and long, lean legs. She looked away. "I was afraid, though," she admitted. "If we had only gotten there sooner."

"We did what we could," Yonnie said, his tone comforting. "I wish we could have gotten there sooner, too. But we did what we could."

He studied her solemn expression under the Halloween moon. She was absolutely gorgeous. She looked like she'd been made from the fabric of the universe to roam free and wild as a huntress of the night. Her hair shone like Stardust was in it, her motions were liquid and effortless, as though she were a stream. Even dead, the color of her skin looked like the sun had kissed it. Her voice a mere murmur, like the whispering night breeze. But her eyes definitely rivaled the moon. Everything about her seemed more natural than supernatural; then again, the fact that she was one of his kind suited him just fine.

He'd chosen to wear the wolfen form for her, knowing how much her people held the creature in esteem. He was glad that his choice had pleased her, because her courage in battle had more than pleased him. He allowed his gaze to scan her again. He loved the way her fawn-colored pants and skin-toned tank gave the illusion that she was nude. She should have been naked right now, her dark eyes smoldering, her thick velvety hair flowing over his pillow. "You smoked that second like a pro," he finally said, wanting her to know how much respect he had for her.

"It was sloppy," she countered, not taking her eyes off him.

"No," he murmured, coming closer and caressing her jaw with the pad of his thumb. "We got there late. The old woman was already dead. Your maneuver saved at least one of Carlos's marks. I sent the ambulance with his mother's body in it to the hospital, convinced the medics she died from smoke inhalation. I couldn't do much about the grandmother. But at least she died instantly and didn't suffer. It was better that way. They could have tortured them for information instead."

She stared up at him, her eyes searching his, and he could feel himself teetering on the edge of control. He shouldn't have touched her.

She was practically trembling where she stood. She'd never taken down another vampire in her life. A second? It had been exhilarating and she'd done it with a master at her side, worked in tandem with him, following his lead in an invisible dance. She'd been in hiding, spent most of her immortal life avoiding all confrontation. Her only encounter with another vampire had been when she'd been turned. But Yonnie had shown her another side of her life.

She drew away. "I must feed," she said.

"I know," he murmured, and unbuttoned another onyx stud on his shirt. "After the hunt… the things one's body needs after a battle—"

"Please," she whispered, and tried to back away, but couldn't seem to force herself to do it. "I've never—"

"Felt like this," he whispered. He trapped her gaze with his. "Take off the silver collar."

She shook her head no.

"Take off the collar." He made a small cut in his neck with the edge of his thumbnail, and watched her stare at the thin line of blood that trickled down his throat and pooled in his collarbone. When her fangs lowered, he closed his eyes.

"I'm not going to make love with you tonight, no matter what," she told him.

He nodded, keeping his eyes closed. He heard her unfasten the collar. How odd that she called what he wanted to do making love. He had always thought of it as fucking. "You don't trust me?"

She hesitated so long that he opened his eyes and looked at her. "I don't trust myself."

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to," he said. "But after a battle, you need to feed." He stepped closer. "Please, let me feed you, Tara."

She took the paper that Juanita had given her from her pocket and held it out to Yonnie. "We should get in touch with Carlos."

Yonnie nodded, but his gaze was locked on her throat. "Yeah, we should," he murmured. "As soon as you feed so you'll be strong enough to do it." He hesitated. "We need our combined energy to reach him undetected, since he's obviously out of our zone. You send. I'll mask your call. But you have to feed first."

Against her better judgment, Tara stepped closer to him. She half expected him to snatch her to him, but he didn't. Instead he folded her in and she crumpled the piece of paper in her fist. She held her other fist away from him so that the heavy silver collar wouldn't touch him. Then she leaned in tentatively and gently licked the trickle of blood, crossing his collarbone with her tongue, following the delicious trail up his throat, until she was standing on her tiptoes to reach the open wound.

He drew a sharp hiss of air through his teeth as she lapped at his flesh, and she felt the erotic connection to him quake her torso the moment the sound carried on the wind. She'd never been with a master, never dreamed that one would offer her, a fourth-gen, his throat. And this one was not just handsome and kind, but also had a deep sense of honor. He'd gone on a risky mission to save three humans. He had put aside his own personal safety, to protect Carlos's people—just because it was right. There had been a debt of friendship acknowledged that went deeper than his first lieutenant rank.

Tara stared up into a pair of warm brown eyes, her gaze accepting his rugged cinnamon beauty. Her hands ached to touch his thick, springy twists of hair and she wondered what the kinky texture would feel like, wondered what the fullness of his mouth would feel like against hers. His earthy male scent filled her nostrils. It clung to his glistening, dark skin and wrapped itself around her.

"Take it," he said quietly, no force in his tone. "What I've got will make you stronger."

She nestled in against him. He shuddered when her pelvis slid against the hard length of him. She studied his vein with care, needing just a sip to satisfy her. He leaned down to give her full access to his throat.

Before she could change her mind, his hands slid around her back and yanked her to his body in a tight seal. She was lost. She seized upon his throat, breaking the vein in one swift strike.

He moaned and it made her pull harder. Her skin was on fire, her body throbbing to the rhythm of each hard suckle, forcing her hips to match until they both shivered.

He cupped the back of her head, holding her against his throat, luxuriating in the feel of her thick tresses. No female had ever scored him, taken his jugular like this. His hands spread over her delicate back, holding her closer, wanting to pull her inside him. The paper she held torched in cold, blue flames. She dropped the amulet to the ground as their minds touched.

"You should be a second," he said on a ragged breath, when she lifted her head. "If it's just you and I left to rebuild, you have to know certain things."

"Carlos, the numbers—"

"I've got 'em." Ash fell from her unburned hand. He took her hand and kissed the center of it. "You never commit important things to paper. They can be discovered," he said. "His mother didn't have much to leave him after the government did their thing. Besides, I have an account number." He tapped his temple with one finger.

"He wouldn't want you to steal from—"

"What? Other drug dealers, Mafia, the government?" He dragged his fang along the edge of her shoulder and swept it up her throat. "Let me show you how it's done."

His arms encircled her, one palm flattening against her back, the other against the swell of her buttocks. The strike was so swift that it made colors dance beneath her lids. Knowledge, power, and desire filled her, arching her back, her nails digging into his shoulders.

Her cry fractured the night, and instinct clawed its way up and out of her. She bit him so hard they both stumbled backward. It was all building inside her, almost a painful, overwhelming tide. All she had to do was release her resistance and say yes.

"Be mine," he whispered. "Share my strength, fight with me, side by side as a mate."

Conflict tore at her. She couldn't answer him, nor could she pull away.

"Baby, all you have to do is stop fighting the inevitable."

A slow shudder started in the pit of her womb, and it climbed up her abdomen, ripped through her torso, and entered her lungs. He siphoned it up through her veins, into her throat until tears wet her eyes, the shudder becoming his name in her mind as the orgasm crested. "Yolando!"

His knees buckled and he caught her and took them both to the ground. She'd called him by name. The sound of her voice reverberated through him, a dark echo. He held her in a firm grip, her legs wrapped around him, his hand cupped beneath her head, keeping it from touching the ground. Her long, dark hair spilled across the grass and into a section of the white prayer line. Light danced along the strands of her hair, making it glow. Heat rose and warmed his face. But it wasn't comparable to the heat she'd stoked in him.

She began to cry. He could literally feel the depth of love that she had for the man who'd built her this sanctuary. It flowed through her veins, poisoned her tears with the agony of her decision. Her commitment was so deep for this human that he could almost feel it connected to her soul, actually giving her one of those, its pure essence oozing through her skin into his and coating him with a desire beyond raw lust that he'd never known.

The conflict broke through the steel cage of his conscience; as much as he wanted her at the moment, he didn't want her like this. Vampiric instinct compelled him to simply take her throat; willing or not, she had no defense. Everything vampire within him knew that the pleasure he could give her, even while she wept for the human, would be incomparable to anything she'd ever experienced before. But he also knew that she'd never forgive him… eternity was a long time. With Tara he could do forever, as long as she was his in her heart. Right now, she wasn't. She didn't want this to happen, even though her body did.

Yonnie forced himself up, bracing his weight on his arm as he stared down at her. He'd vowed that he'd never violate a woman against her will; he'd seen his own mother raped and destroyed by men as she tried to hold onto her dignity while her pride was stripped naked on a plantation-barn floor.

"Has he been faithful to you?" Yonnie asked her, the frustration making his arm around Tara's waist tremble. Please, baby, I know what he's done to you. Carlos transferred everything in our line to me! Every tear you've cried, I know of, because you're in my line—we share the connection. Talk to me.

When she only sobbed harder, he pulled out of the intoxicating mind lock with her. She had to say it, tell him it was all right to love her like they both needed it now. The words had to come out of her own mouth. No illusions, no games, no trickery involved. He wanted her straight. Her heart his. No forgery to accept at this point. He kissed her temple. "While he's on the road, rolling with the band, moving country to country, has he ever taken another knowing he had you… an incredible, gorgeous woman waiting for him?" He kissed her throat, scored it, and drew his mouth away, pure fury lacerating him as she clutched her misplaced loyalty. "When he was in Brazil, didn't he take another woman to bed who looked like you?"

The desire to violate her and satisfy himself battled with his urge to just drop her on the grass and leave her. This human, the Guardian named Rider, didn't deserve her. How could a man simply walk away from a woman like this? "Why didn't you just turn him? Make him like you, so you could be with him forever, since you can't seem to leave him? I don't understand. Then you allow him to dog you… why? You don't have to exist like this."

His questions only made her cry a new torrent of tears. His voice was hoarse as he nuzzled her temple. "Baby, why do you allow him to do that to you? Hold his ass accountable," Yonnie said, his voice tender but firm. He kissed her temple hard, unable to draw himself away. "I'll take care of you, baby… I'll give you whatever you want, whatever you need. Just be with me."

"He's done so much for me," she whispered. "I can't leave Rider."

Yonnie dropped her and stood.

"Has he?" Yonnie stared at the cabin. "A house is the least you deserved. Has he sacrificed for you, the way you have for him?" He stared at her hard. She sat up, wiped her face, avoiding his gaze.

"But you sacrificed for him." Yonnie waited. "Too much, I think. Even human blood."

"That's different," she said, still not looking at him.

"How? He's even made you close yourself off from real pleasure. Has you living like a nun." Yonnie spat out the remnants of her blood on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You've even accepted not cuming. He can't take a bite or deliver one to release you—and you died in your damned prime!" He rubbed his palms down his face, so thoroughly outraged at the concept that he could barely stabilize his breathing. "You're emotionally and physically starved," he said, his glare becoming tender as tears ran down her cheeks. "And you make excuses for him because he's human… yet, whenever the urge hits him, he can go for a drink, watch the girls dance the poles, jack off if he has to or take one of them to bed. And you choose to live like that?"

"He's human, and it's different—"

"How? In what way? Don't you have needs? Only his matters because of a cabin? When you met him, you saved his life as much as he saved yours. Fair exchange. Your debt was paid. What do you owe him now, Tara? You think you're not worthy of loving on your own merit alone? Ask yourself: Did he give up his friends, interacting with his own kind, screwing his own kind, anything that makes his life easier to live?"

When she didn't answer him he stared at her until their eyes met. "You gave up everything for him. Everything. After more than twenty years of existing like this, don't you deserve to do more than survive?"

She only swallowed hard and turned her face away from his. Humiliation and defeat caused her shoulders to hunch. Yonnie came to her, knelt, and touched her face. He wanted to claim her. Not as a trophy but as a part of him. He'd never experienced the kind of love she had for this Rider, and if she could ever give a fraction of that to him, his lonely existence would be worth it. Her struggle to remain faithful to a human who hadn't plundered him.

"I envy him," Yonnie whispered. "You tell that bastard that if he ever messes up, you've got someone waiting to give you the world. I can wait. I've got time on my side." Yonnie drew his hand away from her face. "Make sure you also tell him that the only thin thread standing between you and me is your decision, and the fact that my boy Carlos doesn't need dissention in his ranks while he's rebuilding right now."

He stood, turned, and began to walk away.

She scrambled to her feet. A mild current of panic washed through her. "Where are you going?"

He stopped but didn't turn around. He couldn't bear to be alone with her another minute, any more than he had it in him to tell her about the coven brothel that was his destination. It was Halloween, and there were willing witches that he could use to purge her from his mind—for the night, at least. He glanced at Tara over his shoulder.

"I'm going to see what the witches can divine for me," he muttered, walking farther away from her. Why he'd felt it necessary to cover his whereabouts truly disturbed him.

"Where?"

"Don't worry about it."

"But if you get trapped out there, alone," she said quickly, the urgency in her voice making him shudder and know she cared.

"Go in the house!" he yelled, pointing at the front door without looking at her. The sweet sound of her voice was making him crazy. The melody of it laced with concern rippled through him. "Don't argue with me. You've made your decision and I'll take care of me."

She didn't move, and he turned to look at her, eyes blazing solid red.

"I said," he repeated, more gently, "go in the house. I'll be back before dawn."

"Be careful," she murmured, backing into the barrier light.

 

There was nothing to discuss. The team gathered up the remaining weapons. Carlos took up a position by himself in the rear of the cabin, while others fanned out strategically in seats throughout. That suited him just fine. He needed space to think and to nurse his wounded jaw and pride.

They had been rerouted just before midnight, so their flight never touched down in Dubai as originally planned. He thought about the attack and knew he was missing something. Numbers kept jumping into his mind for some reason. So did locations. Strategy and figuring out connections had always been his strong suit, living or dead. He toyed with the logistics, knowing there was a clue within them, becoming agitated that his loss of additional insight and powers of discernment that he would have had if he were still a vampire, blinded him to the root cause of the attack. Daybreak couldn't come fast enough for him, especially now that they were over land. Once they'd neared the Red Sea, all Hell had broken loose on their thirteen-hour flight. There was a connection; thirteen had to be a bad number; he could feel it in his bones.

He glanced up and saw Rider stand up and noted the time. Four A.M. In an hour they'd touch down. It would be dawn. If they could just get to the ground in Addis Ababa without any more drama, that would be enough for him. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was too exhausted to fight.

All of a sudden, he felt a presence standing over him and he opened his eyes.

"Can we talk?" Rider said, looking down at Carlos.

Carlos shrugged. "Yeah, whatever."

Rider sat down next to him. "I'm sorry about the jaw."

"It's cool," Carlos said, and stared out the window.

Rider held out his hand to Carlos.

Carlos turned his head, looked at Rider, then at his outstretched hand. After a few long seconds, he accepted the handshake. His pride still stung. A forty-five-year-old guy had flattened him.

"Listen," Rider said carefully, when he went back to talking to Carlos's profile. "We're all a little touchy right now. Everybody's senses are off, except maybe Marlene's. So we may not be making the best decisions." He rubbed his jaw. "I know while you were a vamp, you had to do what you had to do to survive," Rider finally said through a weary sigh.

"Yeah, I did," Carlos muttered. "You have no idea what kinda shit I had to contend with, man. Having people who could watch my back was imperative."

Rider nodded. "Your boy, Yonnie, is cool… he'll honor your marks?"

"Yeah. He's cool, man," Carlos said, looking at Rider for the first time.

He saw real fear in Rider's eyes.

"Look, man," Rider said. "I've done a lot of shit that I'm sure she knows about, and, by rights, she could…" He glanced away, finding that same vacant space on the horizon that Carlos had been staring at. "We've been together a long time, dude, and she means the world to me."

Carlos nodded. "He won't hurt her. I never rolled like that and neither does he."

Rider looked Carlos in the eyes. "That's not what I was worried about, dude."

For a moment, neither man said a word.

"I'm forty-five, and I'm the only one she's even… you know what I'm saying?"

Carlos nodded, this time understanding fully. Wasn't he plagued by the same fear? That Damali might stay with him because she just didn't know what else the world had to offer her yet. The word "yet" burned in his mind.

The older Guardian drew a shaky breath and let it out slowly.

"If you made him, dude, he's strong," Rider said quietly. "But him being a good guy is what could get under her skin." Rider's voice became distant as he spoke, telling Carlos what haunted his soul in halting sentences. "And he's in my house with my woman who I see maybe once a year." Rider shook his head. "My baby's never taken a throat nick from a master, done a mind lock, or…" His voice trailed off. "I'm human. I'm getting older. I'm not what I used to be when we met."

"She loves you, man. She'll be cool," Carlos said quietly, becoming lost in his own thoughts. His statement was as much for his Guardian brother as it was for himself.

"The two of them together, on the run," Rider said softly. "Relying on each other to survive, under siege. You know what kind of bond that forms." He chuckled sadly and closed his eyes, leaning back in the seat. "Been there. That's how I met her."

Carlos glanced down at his knees. "Yeah."

"But it's even more than that. They're both vampires, first. I'm just a human on the outside looking in."

Carlos rubbed his face with both palms. What else was there to say? That Rider was wrong? That there was nothing to worry about? That Tara wouldn't leave him? He'd been there, too. Teetering on the edge, the not knowing how it would all work out kicking his ass. He had met Damali the same way, while she was on the run so many years ago, and what they had even death couldn't stop.

Compassion filled him. The irony was severe.

Carlos closed his eyes and mind against the painful possibilities. "I know, man. I know."

For what felt like a long time, Carlos and Rider sat quietly side-by-side in the aft section of the plane, unable to sleep, unable to turn the worry off in their minds, exhaustion and defeat a blanket over them.

But the entire team looked up as a nervous crew member crept down the steps, brandishing a large silver cross.

"There's a call from the Vatican for you, Father Patrick," the thin, frightened man said, his blond hair plastered to his scalp as he leaned over the rail and called out.

"The Vatican?" Father Patrick said, standing quickly and hurrying to the steps that led to the conference room. "At this hour?"

"Please, Father," the clerical crewman said, his voice filled with fear. "It's urgent."

All eyes were on the priest as he rushed up the spiral staircase and entered the conference room. A thud followed him, as did the certain click of the door being safely latched behind him by the crew.

Within moments Father Patrick was at the top of the stairs. "Carlos," he said, his voice anxious. "It's for you. Bring Rider."

Both men stood and ran down the wide cabin aisle, the teams tensing for another possible incident.

Carlos entered the conference room and grabbed the phone. Before he put it to his ear, he asked Father Patrick, "Who is it?"

"A woman, but she won't identify herself," Father Patrick said. He glanced at Rider. "I thought that it might be Juanita, but there was something in her voice that troubled me."

Carlos put the phone to his ear. "Yeah. Talk to me."

"Councilman," the unidentified woman said with a rush of relief. "So much has happened. Open a secure lock so I can transfer quickly."

He instantly remembered Tara's voice. It made him aware that he hadn't forgotten everything he'd learned and every imprint he'd carried from his old line. He nearly stared at the phone, but for Rider's sake, didn't. He also didn't repeat the name. "I don't go by that title any longer," he said, hesitating. "And I can't lock with you."

"Tara," Rider whispered, instantly knowing a female vampire was on the line based on Carlos's response and the fact that Father Patrick had said there was a woman on the phone. He also knew it could only be one that he'd trust with Father Patrick's number. "How did she get through Vatican phones? I need to talk to her."

"She didn't," Father Patrick said quickly. "My safe-house number was routed to another safe house that's tracking us, and the Covenant must have put it through using their code to link. Time is short. If she's in L.A., she's ten hours behind us. But once the sun rises here, we will lose the link."

"Are you somewhere safe? It's six P.M. here, but I sense dawn near you… have you fed?" Tara hesitated. Her voice held true concern and honest compassion.

"I'm fine," Carlos said, ignoring all her references to his old way of life. "Where's Yonnie?"

Rider stared at Carlos.

"Safe. Trying to get some answers. I don't have much time, and I can't hold the link much longer. I'm supposed to give you a number. I'm sending it now."

"No," Carlos said, knowing she was trying to send it telepathically. He looked at Father Patrick. "I need to write it down." But the fact that she was now strong enough to send an airborne transmission this far had to mean one thing. Yonnie had elevated her from a fourth-gen to second lieutenant. Elevating a vampire was a very sensual act. Carlos couldn't look at Rider as guilt stabbed at him.

The elder cleric quickly provided the instruments Carlos needed, and he heard Tara's instant gasp. Her horror rattled his skeleton. A councilman needed paper and pen. She swallowed hard, as though crying inside.

"Watch the numbers as you write them. Yonnie did this for you and still stands with you, as do I."

Carlos nodded and jotted down the ten-digit alphanumeric code, then watched several of the numbers reverse and transform on the paper. The nines became sixes. The threes became eights. The sevens melted into fives. He then wrote down the new code, too. The numbers didn't change.

"Ten thousand," she said. "From the account established by Berkfield."

He wrote it down and stared at it.

"That's all they left you."

He stared at the number in disbelief. But then he watched the zeros continually affix themselves behind zeros until a hundred million dollars graced the legal pad.

Carlos let his breath out slowly. He closed his eyes and sat down with a wobbly thud and shoved the paper into the side pocket of his African robe.

"Your family will not forsake you as long as we exist. We love you, and you need resources," she said, her voice filled with panic. "Carlos, it's all gone. The demon wolfen clans overran the L.A. club. Council sweepers have compromised all the lairs. All lower gens have been assassinated. Blood Music had its ownership transferred to council-compromised humans in a hostile takeover on Wall Street, just to keep you from receiving the monies from it. From Yonnie's sensing, all of North America, South America, and your Caribbean lairs and holdings have either been destroyed, transferred to council loyalists, or pillaged by roaming were-demon clans and lower gens from other zones not on the Vampire Council's hit list. But even those have fractured into feudal law. Even the Guardian compound burned to the ground."

Carlos had known that the chairman would go to extreme lengths to blot him and everything he'd built from the face of the earth, but he was still stunned. He was glad he was still sitting down. "Everything, even the Guardian compound?" he asked numbly.

"The compound?" Father Patrick held onto the edge of the table for support.

"What?" Rider said, stepping closer to him.

But Carlos waved him away and listened intently.

"Mr. Councilman, vampires couldn't have acted alone," Tara said, answering Carlos's unspoken question. "Power to breach protection lines had to come from level seven," she said, terror evident in her voice.

Carlos nodded, unable to speak. It had been confirmed. No further guesswork needed. If level seven was on his ass, and could get through compound barriers, then what fucking chance did Damali have out there on her own without even her blade? As soon as he thought it, his mother and grandmother's faces flashed in his mind.

"My mother and—"

"I'm sorry, sir," Tara said, a sob breaking her voice. "We got there only in time to save the girl."

"How?" he said, his voice a low rumble filled with rage.

"A gas line exploded beneath the house."

"Tell me," he said, hot tears stinging his eyes and choking his voice.

"It was fast. Mercifully so, sir."

Carlos nodded and drew in a ragged breath. "Tell Yonnie I said thank you," he whispered. "I'll let you know where to send resource transfers. For this, I need an army."

"Done," she said, the sound of her voice weakening as the gray filter of near-dawn began to peek over the horizon. "We stand ready for your orders."

Carlos reached out to hang up the phone, but Rider grabbed his wrist.

"I need to talk to her."

Carlos thrust the receiver at him and turned away to walk out the door. But a sudden crash against the side of the plane sent the phone sliding across the table, and all men standing to the floor.

"Mayday, Mayday," the captain's voice shouted over the intercom. "We're under attack! Brace for an aerial assault!"

The lights went out, the emergency lights on the floor of the aircraft summarily lit and then went black. The engine sputtered as the plane rocked again. Guardians and Covenant team voices shouted in the cabin mayhem below. Machine-gun fire from the aircraft's turrets echoed within the plane as Rider, Carlos, and Father Patrick struggled to get to their feet and down the spiral steps.

The whoosh of a missile leaving its housing sent the plane into a dangerous list. Battering sounds clamored at the skin of the aircraft generating high-pitched scrabbling screeches like claws going down a blackboard. The sky lit with multiple red and orange target strikes, splattering green and black gook against the windows as the pilots maneuvered the plane into a hard semiroll. The team clung to seats as they were thrown side-to-side, and thrashed to right themselves while futilely grabbing at weapons as the air battle commenced.

Carlos looked on in horror as the swirling black cloud of harpies approached again, passed the bank of side windows, and dove beneath the plane's belly. Their impact slammed into the hull, taking out the landing gear. Their feral grimaces mocked the living inside the plane as their faces pressed to every window, bearing fangs. Smoke was billowing from a fractured wing. Flames had erupted in the other. Something tore at the skin of the plane, opening a vacuum suction through the conference-room wall.

Before anyone could draw a breath, weapons, debris, food carts, and furniture were instantly sucked up through the rip, hurling human-crew bodies into the void as oxygen masks dropped. Guardians linked arms and weighted themselves to teammates and seats that were straining against their anchors, making the Covenant a part of their lifting human chain.

Flashes of light immediately entered the cabin, and suddenly three large entities unfurled massive white wings, staying the suction and sealing the rip with light. The light emanating from them was so bright that the teams could not stare at them. Only Carlos could lift his head to see his reflection in their raised golden shields and glowing, polished broadswords, his eyes blazing silver against the metallic surfaces.

"Fear not," one entity said.

"We guard the dawn," another said.

"An army will be raised," the third said, as the plane began a dangerous spiral to the ground.

The light snapped back, receding like the passing sun and swallowing away the entities that had stepped out of it. But the seal on the aircraft's torn exterior held.

"We're going down!" the captain shouted, his voice laden with hysteria as his words broke up over the intercom and the engines went dead.


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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
   



DAMALI STOOD and brushed herself off and looked around. The emotional pain of seeing and being separated so abruptly from her parents still lingered, but she had to do what she had to do and just suck it up. She'd fallen against the steps of what seemed to be a beautiful wooden house, but upon further inspection of the multilingual signage, she learned it was the Addis Ababa Museum.

Unsure of which way to go, she tried to get her bearings and organize the jumble of experiences in her battered brain. Museums kept popping up—there was a reason. As soon as she thought it, an inner knowing replied: Old history. Draw power from it. Lilith was old history, too.

Feeling steadier, she began walking away from the building, using her senses to guide her.

Unlike the other structures, nothing in this one particularly called out to her or jettisoned her through its doors. She stopped walking. Her sensory awareness was slowly coming back. The sensation that washed through her created as much joy as recognizing an old friend. It gave her energy, made her want to laugh, and she continued along an unknown street with a satisfied smile on her face. Perhaps something was starting to go right in her life. She could only hope that her team had stayed the course and would be on their way to Ethiopia soon.

A certain confidence filled her, even though her stick was gone. If she could manage to barter using the silver in her ears and whatever gold was tucked in her hair under the fabric wrap to eat and hang out at the local holy shrines, she'd last through a few nights until she could search for her team. Meanwhile, if she could only get to a phone… Then it dawned upon her—none of them had a cell phone on them since they'd been in the battle at Sydney. Very strange.

It was as though all normal means of communication and resources had been cut off. But she took heart in the fact that she knew there had to be a reason. She stopped walking. The gifts and the number thirteen slammed into her brain. Yeah. She rattled the abilities off in her mind like a laundry list, taking none of what she'd originally been given for granted.

Five senses. As a Neteru, she had heightened awareness in all areas, and that had been severely damaged. If it was coming back now, the added bonuses might also. All Neterus had bodies designed to take a blow, plus preternatural endurance. They had the ability to withstand a bite in battle and not turn. Immunity. Visions, extrasensory awareness. Excellent battle tactics, gleaned from the Akashic Records of all generals before them. Ability to be a healer… yes, she remembered how she'd helped Marlene in Brazil. And how could she forget the twelfth gift that had almost been her ruination—the ability to lure master vampires to a state of frenzy from her scent.

The Isis blade was a tool, not a gift, when put in context with all the others. She was clear about that now, and knew the queens wouldn't have taken it away if it were. Not with what she was facing. Although she sure wished she still had it on her, regardless. But what was the thirteenth gift she was supposed to be looking for? If she couldn't figure it out as a more seasoned Neteru, then how was she going to help Carlos find it? She was missing a critical piece of the puzzle.

Damali shrugged away her doubt as she began to aimlessly walk down the streets. She refused to allow the question to lacerate her. She tried to get a sense of time and date. Was it October thirty-first, November first? Going through the purple light left her unsure. But one thing she did know for a fact, all this went down and had started seven days before Carlos's birthday—something she hadn't even entered into the equation until the strange cabbie had approached her in the streets of Philly.

There was a link. Dates, numbers, locations all had meaning. She knew that like she knew her name. So what was the deal with being thrust into Ethiopia? Questions swirled in her mind as she walked, and she took pleasure in what she now could tell was the early morning beginnings of a sprawling, dusty city of vibrant colors coming to life. The air was cool, temperate, for what she'd believed Africa to be. As she continued onward the huge market she'd stumbled upon awed her. She people-watched and enjoyed the early vendors creating a clamor of chaotic activity as she strolled past their stands while they set up for business.

The hubbub of activity was fascinating. Incense and vegetables, meats and jewelry, everything was there that one could imagine. She stopped at several jewelry stands, marveling at how the earrings she wore so resembled what many of the shopkeepers offered. Once again, it gave her pause. The old queens had adorned her to be able to barter in a place without cash. Damali smiled.

A table with a tent and an elaborate array of finely carved walking sticks made her stop and gape. One cane reminded her of Marlene's, and in the row of beautiful ebony woods, she saw a very plain stick gnarled in the same spots as the one she'd lost. She reached out to touch it, and a man came from behind his truck bearing boxes, which made her draw back her hand.

"Tenanastellen. Dehna Neh?" he said with a wide smile that broadened the one on Damali's face.

She shook her head and gave him a shy shrug to try to tell him that she didn't understand a word he'd said. She stared at his dark, long, handsome face, judging him to be near forty. He wore a plain, dingy, khaki pants, woven straw sandals, but a brilliant turquoise African-cut shirt with elaborate satin embroidery of the same hue that added magnificent color accents and intensity to his chiseled features. His shoulders were held back straight, his carriage impeccable, and his head held high and proud, but there was a very accessible warmth about his attitude as he came nearer to her.

"Hello, how are you?" he said, restating his greeting. "You are not from here, I can tell."

Damali chuckled. "No, and thank you so much for speaking to me in English. I wish I knew your language, though."

"To say thank you, in Amharic, it is, amesegenallo." He offered a slight bow and then rounded the table. "So beautiful and no one to escort you?"

Damali laughed harder and shook her head no. African men were such a trip, persistent. In an oddly sentimental way, although she was not sure why, he reminded her of the African master when he took her hand, swept the back of it with a respectful kiss, and glanced up.

Maybe it was the regal flourish in which he did it, or the ever-present magnetic sexuality that seemed to just ooze from men from the region. There was an "it" factor that they seemed to possess, and she studied him as he looked up and smiled, asking a mischievous question about her availability with his eyes. She wondered if she'd become so accustomed to battling dark forces that she'd lost her ability to see the basic nature within regular people. Given what she'd experienced, the vendor's slight gesture and his resemblance to something she'd just fought should have sent off alarm bells within her. But she knew this man wasn't anything to fear. It was simply his way, and it tickled her no end to realize that the refinement of approaching females hadn't changed in several thousand years.

"It would take many, many years to teach you our languages," he said with pride. "There are as many as the people, and the script of Ge'ez, the one used in the churches, has two hundred and thirty-one letters. But many of us have learned English in school." He gave her a wink and waved his hand before his table of wares. "So, you have seen something here you like?"

Damali nodded and affixed her gaze to his table as she considered what he'd said. She did the math, the language used in churches… with as many peoples as the languages… and he was fluent in hers, thus they could communicate. But he was also letting her know he'd received some formal education, a point of pride. Damali offered his comment a gracious nod that seemed to please him. She also knew why she'd instantly recognized his language to be Amharic. It was used in the old liturgical services. Yeah… Marlene had told her that.

"I noticed you had a plain one on the table," Damali said, her thoughts leap-frogging as she stared down. "Why is this one so plain, when all the others have designs on them?"

He laughed. "It is often the plain that are the most powerful."

Now she looked at him.

He smiled and nodded. "Thank you for returning it."

She didn't move.

He reached into his pocket and made a fist, chuckling as he slowly withdrew it and opened his hand. She stared down at her silver earring as he held it out to her.

"Now, I have returned what you loaned me." He walked away and began unloading items from his small Toyota pickup truck.

Damali was on his heels. "We need to talk, and I have to ask you a lot of questions."

He wagged his finger at her. "No, you must ask my father. Did my son not give you his address?"

Instant memory snapped back as Damali shoved her hand into the pocket of her robe. "Yes," she said, pleased. "But how do I find him?"

"He is a long way away, in Askum," the man said. "But I have people who can get us there. This is why I must unload my truck so we can go to the north."

"I'll help you," Damali offered, wanting to hurry and get the show on the road.

"No," he said with a deep chuckle. "Be still, then we will go and eat some injera, alicha wat, and shiro, with ambo. No meat in what we eat now, for we are on a pilgrimage, yes. So look about and learn to have patience. Enjoy this place that is called Thirteen Months of Sunshine."

That number associated with the sun as a country slogan made her simply stare at him.

 

Carlos managed to drag himself into a seat, as had all the others, bracing for the sure impact. There was no way to survive a crash from this altitude as mountains whirled by; it was futile. They all knew it. Perhaps that's why no one, except the pilots, was screaming. An eerie calm had befallen the cabin. Everyone's head was tucked down to their knees with their seat belts secured. What was the point, though? Oxygen masks dangled, but no one had reached for them to cover their faces. Whatever the entities had done, breathing within the compromised aircraft was possible. The Light had a very strange sense of putting things right. Let them breathe, then let them crash. Carlos wasn't sure if he was more angry or afraid; perhaps it was a mixture of both.

The sound of rapid descent was creating a horrible whine of impending doom. Then a gunshot made Carlos lift his head and simply look out the window. He could see it in his mind just as clear as day. One of the pilots had opted out of the anxiety of watching oneself crash and burn. The other was already dead—skull cracked from being flung against hard metal during the battle. The copilot's brains added to the gore against the windows. Now was a fine time for his inner vision to be coming back. But what had triggered it? Sure death?

Carlos affixed his gaze to the layers of thick white clouds set within a flawless blue sky. The ground was becoming larger, its green carpet and small dots of buildings now becoming recognizable. But peace filled him. It would soon be over. It just hurt him to know that people he'd come to know and love like family were going to perish, all because they'd tried to cheat fate.

He looked at the teams, each man and one woman, bravely bracing themselves for the end. No one cried out, no one screamed. Marlene's low murmur of prayers had blended in with those of the Covenant. Their faith and acceptance of what was to come was truly amazing to him. Humbling, is what it was. Because all along they had been right. There was another side. A dark side and a light side in dimensions he could have never fathomed while he was simply alive. And he wondered where they would all go; if he'd ever meet up with them again. He wondered if the Light would have mercy on them for trying so desperately to spare his lowly soul and smuggle his resurrected body to a safe haven.

"Whatever you do," Carlos murmured, as he stared at the team, "don't blame them, and especially, don't blame her."

Empathy dulled the fear even more. He'd been tortured already, knew what it felt like to be broken, gutted, his insides twisted, skin shredded, bones shattered, body parts amputated, and to be burned alive. But these people were human, had never experienced the twisted knife of pain to that degree. All he could hope for would be that the plane would explode on impact, that his family wouldn't be left half alive, semiconscious, and torn to butchered bits. "Make it fast," he whispered. "That's the least you can do."

His prayer became more urgent as the treetops came into view.

Carlos stared at the bent backs before him as a wing collided with a cliff side and was shorn off. His head slammed into the seat in front of him and bounced off it, nearly snapping his neck—but he refused to cover his head or his face. He'd stared death down before in the dark, and in the brightness of dawn would do no less.

The horrible turbine sound against the wind seemed to become muted as his hands clutched the arms of his seat. Flickers of fast-moving light darted between the aisles and swirled around each of the people he watched. Maybe he had snapped his neck? All the better. Maybe the strike against his head had him seeing stars and had deafened him? Mercy was measured in increments and during moments when time seemed to have slowed down, it was indeed a blessing.

He watched the dancing white lights, dazed and fascinated, despite his pending death. He had to be hallucinating, that was the only rational answer that came to him as he watched the oblique forms become people he knew but should have never known.

Parents had come to their children. Aged spirits touched faces gently, put loving arms around each passenger, and made their peace. He could hear them all at once as well as individually as they hugged their deathborne children to them.

He saw Marlene become encircled first by what seemed to be a tribe of elderly people that he instantly knew were from the Gullah Islands. Why he knew that, he wasn't sure, but he watched her mother and father gently touch her face, tell her she'd done her job, it was good, she had struggled long and it was time to come home. Rider and Father Patrick, Jose… Big Mike—each of them were touched until every Guardian and member of the Covenant was attended by Light beings that placed their silvery orbs around each person, leaving no space between the seats, the windows… like padded clouds they wrapped around them.

Dan wept and held his grandfather's hand. Jose was sobbing and hugging his grandmother to him tightly. Berkfield laid his head in his mother's lap. Father Patrick stroked his wife's hair as his son hugged his back. Monk Lin was encircled by a bastion of Tibetan brothers, and Imam Asula had elders around him that were so old and wise that Carlos could not make out their faces.

A sense of lonely abandonment made him weep. No one had come for him in the last moments, and he simply covered his face with his hands. Had he been so bad that even his own brother… or his mother… or his grandmom wouldn't come to say goodbye? He hadn't been able to say good-bye, that's all he'd wanted, if he couldn't protect them! And where was his father? Where had he ever been? A gentle breeze blew against his face as the plane jolted again.

Carlos looked up as a male hand touched his hair. "Papi?" He couldn't breathe as he saw his father standing tall and strong and whole beside his mother. She looked so young and was smiling; his grandmother was beside them both.

"I was wrong… I'm proud of you and love you," his father said. "You have suffered so much, now come home. Por favor, Carlos… my most troublesome, but favorite, son."

His father embraced him and a sob tore up and out of his throat as the plane hit the ground hard, bounced, and the tail section broke away.

"We love you," Alejandro said, holding his head firm as another devastating smack waffled the plane's underbelly.

Smoke had begun filling the cabin and the stench of gasoline filled the air as the aircraft skipped against the ground like a pebble skeeting across the surface of a pond. Carlos squinted, refusing to allow the thick black plumes to eclipse the faces he'd loved and missed so dearly. Hands touched him, held him, caressed him, his sister, his cousins, his boys, they had all come. "I want to go home," he croaked, clutching his mother's hand so tightly that her silvery essence oozed between his fingers. "I'm so sorry…"

Water lapped at his feet, a hard rocking collision threw his body forward, and something soft braced his neck and spine as the slam lifted him and set him back down hard, jarring his teeth to near chipping. Then everything went silent and black within the cabin.

He could hear people coughing; the aircraft wasn't moving. He heard someone vomit, someone was sobbing. Carlos quickly felt his torso, his neck, and his legs with his hands. He seemed to be in one piece. His seat belt was mysteriously unfastened. He instantly stood, and covered his nose and mouth against the smoke.

It was blinding, but he could somehow see through it. Gasoline fumes made him bend and hurl as he moved forward, ignoring the chunks of vomit that now covered his sandaled feet. They'd made it. Some of them had. He began calling out names as he blindly rushed forward. Then his sight became like laser, cutting through the smoke in a silver wash. He picked Dan up and flung him over his shoulder, then yanked at Big Mike's uninjured arm, shoving at Shabazz and Rider as he went for the door. "We have to get out of here before she explodes!"

 

Damali looked down at the food with disinterest and tried to summon grace. Her stomach was in jumpy knots. But in order to proceed she'd have to feign patience for her gracious host. Something was so wrong she could barely sit in her seat. She could feel it as her newfound friend prattled on about his homeland.

"You eat it like this," he said, tearing off a piece of the spongy, foam rubber—like bread from the common bowl they shared. "The bread is called injera, and you dip it this way to get the alicha wat up and into your mouth." He extended his hand for her to take a small taste, his eyes holding expected excitement.

Damali leaned forward and took in the mildly spiced concoction of vegetables and forced a smile. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the tasty dish, even though she wasn't ready for the Ethiopian way of sharing a communal bowl. The custom was just a tad too familiar for her liking, and not using utensils to share the dish was somewhat disturbing—she had no idea where this man's hands had been, but at least she'd blessed the food first. Besides, for all her powers, she couldn't tell if this was just an Ethiopian patience endurance test, or if this man was stalling because he was subtlety hitting on her.

She took a swig of sparkling bottled water, which she'd learned was called ambo. "This is very good," she said, truly meaning it, but needing to get going more than she needed to eat. However, she was quickly learning that in African culture, if you wanted to get anything done, one had to employ patience—eat with people, break bread, and pass a quiet vibe test—then you could handle business.

"But you cannot eat like a bird," the man said laughing. "Have some shin. You must be strong for the journey."

Her nerves were about to snap, but she leaned forward and accepted a taste of the spicy lentil and chickpea mush with a smile. It slowly dawned upon her that the sooner she just ate the dag-gone food without picking at it with resistance in her soul, the quicker they'd be on their way. Damali took a deep breath and sighed, and then tore off a large section of bread to begin scarfing down the communal meal.

"That's more like it," he said, clapping his hands in triumph. "Try the messer—it's black lentils, and ye som megeb—that's a medley of vegetable dishes we traditionally serve during fasting."

Damali nodded, mumbling her assent to try whatever, as long as they got going soon. "Tell me about this area, Askum," she said through a gooey mouthful of food. She had to understand what the link was here.

"Ah… Askum…" her guide said. "First, to discuss Askum, we must understand the history of this country."

Damali groaned, but when he gave her a fishy look, she passed the sound off as her enjoyment of the food.

That seemed to mollify him. He perked up, widened his smile, and leaned forward with great pride in his expression.

"Our country is known as the Cradle of Humanity. It all started here, they even have the bones of Lucy in the National Museum for proof. But we do not need the bones to tell us what we know," he quipped, sitting up taller in his chair. He glanced around the outdoor cafe and waved his arm toward the diversely colorful moving throng of people that milled about. "We were the only ones, the only country, that was never colonized."

Just as his long, winding history lesson was about to bore her to tears, she got part of the answer she was searching for. It all started here. In the Cradle of Humanity. The first Eden. Lilith's origin in the garden before she banished herself. And these people had been fighting everything she'd wrought since the beginning of time.

"Tell me about Lilith," Damali said, her eyes never leaving the man's face.

He brought his attention back to Damali and stared at her with a firm gaze. "We are about the size of Texas on your country's map. But we withstood the greatest powers of the eras, and were never conquered to be made slaves. With all we had against us, we used our natural environment—the Simien Mountains, and those to the north, where they call it Eritrea now, but they are the same as us, Ethiopians. All one family, same people, but split by wars and misunderstandings too much to discuss now. However, when we were one, evil could not come down from the Red Sea and take us; we stood our ground. You follow?"

Damali stopped breathing for a second and watched this man's eyes, nodding yes slowly. Although he hadn't answered her question directly, the words, "Red Sea," echoed in her mind like a train-crossing warning. Although she didn't understand it all, she understood enough. She also understood his need to be cagey about delivering the information. Level seven ruled the airwaves and could pick up a message in an instant. She'd been foolish to mention Lilith's name openly and admonished herself to not do that again.

But the fact remained, a tiny country that sat like a spec within the huge continent had withstood an invading power that had ransacked and razed nations ten times its size, but these humble folks with no arms to speak of had never succumbed. And that was possible because for all their diversity, they had all come together to fight as one and take a stand. Yeah, she definitely got it. Her skin itched to get reunited with her team. She almost stood and dragged the man by his arm, but decided that would be rude and too rash.

She leaned forward instead. "How did you do it?" Her voice came out an awed whisper.

"We are God's people," he said with a wave of his hand. "We are part of old Kemet, which stretched to the Nubian Empire." He leaned in close over the food and peered at her. "Askum will show you. We know our ancestors back to five thousand years. Even the queen of Sheba visited King Solomon joining nations, and her son became the first emperor here, this we know for a fact. We had the Nile, water, a source of power and commerce. We predate biblical history of Christ—we were Jews, first, and then we converted… some became Muslims. Fifty-fifty," he said, offhandedly.

Again, the whole issue of water. The clue was said so obtusely that if she hadn't been listening carefully, she would have missed it… just like the Druid told her—listen.

"I got it," Damali said, looking into his eyes without blinking. "I'm home, back in the last frontier of people who were never taken." As she said it, she could feel the earth's energy beneath her feet soaking into her. "They were outgunned, outmanned, but were not conquered—and they came from a complex blend of the Nubian and Kemetian empires."

He smiled and clasped her hands like a pleased schoolteacher. "Be inspired. Have faith and hope. Famines, droughts, wars, disease… plagues, but we never bowed to greater powers. Remember from your teachings that the meek shall inherit the earth. But we are not meek, the word was mistranslated—we believe it is the small, the downtrodden, and we have the original Bible." He stopped as though allowing that last point to sink in. "The original one, the orthodox one, and our people, although small, have held their ground." He drew back and nodded. "Hold yours against that which comes against you."

"Always been my plan," Damali said, her voice strong. "I just need a good blade."

"We will travel by air," he said, dismissing her request for a weapon.

Damali let her breath out slowly. "Do we have to get on a plane?"

"No," he said in a casual tone.

"Good." She let out an audible breath and took a swig of water. Air travel had not been good to her lately.

"It will be by helicopter. My brother works at the airport."

Damali almost choked on her sparkling water.

"That is the only solution. Many of the Ethiopian Christian priests became monks and hermits in order to keep the religion alive during the ongoing attempts at invasion," he said without missing a beat. "We will pass Lake Tana, which sits as a basin beyond the thunderous Tis Isat Falls… we will see this from the air along the way. This is where some of the holy men held up on the many islands—some of them just small rocky places in the lake where they built monasteries." His eyes became sad. "You can only see from the air because many of the islands do not allow women."

Made sense. If they were up against Lilith, any female crossing a threshold would be suspect, and would make identifying her easier.

"That's cool," Damali finally said, hoping they could travel by rickety Jeep instead. Whatever, so long as they got moving.

"It is' my apologies to you, though," he said, seeming to fret about the dilemma.

She really didn't care. A lot of monasteries had strict policies against women setting foot on their grounds. What concerned her more was getting to where they had to go in one piece. She wasn't feeling air travel at all.

"No," he said, actually cutting off her thought. "To go by Jeep is too long a journey to get there before nightfall… and too dangerous, as there are still many unfound land mines along the back roads and in riverbeds. Foreigners aren't even allowed to really enter Askum freely—but that is no matter, we can provide papers to say you are here as my wife… we shall work that out."

His sense of agitation made her wary. Why was this brother intent on getting her into some chopper, and more specifically, why was it necessary that she go to this crazy lake that had monasteries around it? But she could definitely go with his aversion to nightfall and unseen land mines. For now, she'd let some of her questions rest. But he was so suddenly nervous that it was making her edgy, too. She followed his gaze as it traveled toward the horizon.

"You weren't supposed to be a woman," he said quietly, now picking at his discarded bread, then reaching for his water.

"Excuse me?" she said, not offended, but curious as a knot unfurled in her stomach.

"Heaven has imparted a riddle. I was told that the Neteru would first go to the monks, and then to my father in Askum." He studied her hard. "Without violating what is sacred, how can that be?"

Damali smiled, thinking of Carlos. "Have faith."


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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
   



PANIC MADE him forget what he could no longer do. It was impossible to open the plane door alone with Dan slung over his shoulder and the junior Guardian's heavy backpack still strapped to his body creating deadweight. There was no way to judge what was beneath them—ground, a steep drop off the side of a cliff, treetops—they were blinded so badly by smoke and choking on gasoline fumes. Carlos handed off Dan's limp body to Monk Lin, and worked with Imam Asula's raw strength to force open the door. Were it not for Asula, Carlos would have tumbled out of it as the heavy metal creaked open and swung wide.

To his amazement, there was no need to scrabble at the inflatable slide. The flat surface of the ground was only a three-foot drop to safety, as the plane listed to the side, billowing clouds of noxious fumes. No discussion was necessary. Coughing and hacking the polluted air from his lungs, Carlos jumped down, turned, and accepted Dan's body as Asula lowered it to him. Marlene was still clutching her satchel and fighting stick in shock as Shabazz pushed her forward next, and in less than a minute, everyone was out and half jogging, half limping away from the potential inferno.

They all knew the deal. The plane was gonna blow. Father Patrick and the other clerics turned back once. Marlene shook her head no to signify that the pilots were already lost. The team put more than a hundred yards between them and the aircraft, scrambling over the rocky terrain around the rim of the lake, coughing, running while vomiting, trying to find shelter around the bend of a small crag. The moment they rounded the bend came the sound of thunder and the resounding shock wave that knocked them off their feet.

They hit the ground with a simultaneous thud, covered their heads and held stiff and shuddering waiting for airplane parts and fuselage to come back to the ground with fiery conviction. No one moved, no one turned to stare, no one breathed as the sound of heavy objects returning to earth and metal colliding with rocks rang out. The sky rained fire and death for nearly five minutes, and then all became still.

Shabazz was the first to lift his head and peer around. His movements made the others slowly begin to lift their heads, but it was a long while before anyone could speak.

"We've gotta move," Shabazz finally said, his voice a raw whisper.

Father Patrick pushed himself to sit up and crossed himself. His eyes met Padre Lopez's, and then Monk Lin's, and finally settled on Imam Asula. "Heaven help them," he murmured, his gaze toward the plume of black smoke in the distance.

There was no need for him to say more as everyone bowed their heads and said a silent prayer for the crew that was lost. Slowly the teams stood, the unharmed helping the injured, every person still wobbly as they tried to get their balance.

Dan roused to semiconsciousness and rubbed the back of his head, his backpack causing added inertia. He winced as he looked around, tears streaming down his face. Berkfield stood, but then slowly plopped back down, his legs unable to hold him. Jose seemed like he was about to pass out while Big Mike steadied him with one good arm.

Rider touched Big Mike's flaccid biceps. "Can you move it?"

Big Mike shook his head no. "Broke, clean through, I think." Sweat poured off Mike's face and he was shivering.

" 'Bazz, this man's going into shock," Rider said, making Shabazz hustle to Big Mike's side just before the gentle giant went down.

They caught Mike while Carlos steadied Jose. Marlene dropped her satchel and stick and was at their side as they stretched Big Mike out on the ground while she ran her hands over the known wound then his entire body.

Marlene began to examine each team member quickly and efficiently. With the exception of Mike, injuries appeared to be surface wounds and smoke inhalation.

"I'll be all right," Mike protested, as she examined him. "It's just an arm."

"Lie your big, lurchy ass down," Rider said, "and let Mar see what she can do."

The group had gathered in a small, ragged circle. Carlos squatted down and peered at Mike.

"I ain't never been hurt before," Big Mike said. "I hate this shit."

Carlos nodded. "Let her work on it. We need your strength, man. Mar's good. That's what she does."

Marlene glanced at Carlos, thanking him with her eyes. But the team stared at Berkfield as he stood and staggered toward them.

"Maybe I can help?" Berkfield said, glancing around the team. "I worked in the conference room on Carlos's cut."

"Wait," Father Patrick warned. "I've seen the laying on of hands before." He looked at Marlene. "Many times healers take on the wounds, just like what happened on the plane. When you healed Carlos's hand, it was a minor cut, This is a major break, and the pain from it can be staggering. I've seen healers go into shock themselves, and require medical attention."

"I can try to dull the pain in Mike," Marlene said quietly, "but I don't think I can shield his psyche from it all."

"I don't need her to take the pain," Mike said, closing his eyes tightly as agony swept through him. "I'm cool."

"Yeah," Berkfield muttered. "But I do."

The comment made the group look at him. Even Big Mike opened his eyes and squinted at Berkfield.

"Listen, I don't know if this will work, or if I can even do it. But I had an idea… like if we work as a team, Marlene. If you can stop some of the pain so I can lay hands on him, maybe I can help the injury. Like I said, we tried an experiment up in the conference room. I sealed Carlos's cut." Berkfield studied his hands as he spoke. "But it hurt like hell. If I try to heal him and have to pull that from him, Father is right, my ticker could give out." He glanced at the group, and then down at Mike. "I'm a lot older and not as strong as your big, burly ass… so I'm being honest about my limitations—but I'm willing to give it a shot." When Marlene nodded, Berkfield knelt beside Mike.

"No, he don't have to do that for me," Mike said through a pant.

"Yo, man, we family," Jose said, glancing at Berkfield. "Mar took a lot of the agony out of that near-turn I went through. She pulled the poison up and out and kept me going for days until y'all could get to Nuit, right? So, at least let her try, Mike."

"That was a spirit wound, brother," Shabazz said carefully. "Only time I seen a body injury healed was when Damali covered Marlene's chest. We need a Neteru, and this one ain't ready yet."

Jose's gaze went to Carlos. "No time like the present to learn some new shit, hombre. Our brother here is in agony. See if you can go in with Mar and draw some of the pain, or with Berkfield in a three-way, and draw it to you. Berkfield can't hang by himself. None of the rest of us has the ability like that. Plus, from your old life, you know how to seal a body blow, right?"

"I'm down," Carlos said, stepping forward.

"Your ass is strong as shit," Jose said. "I've seen it myself, and if you can't deal with it, it ain't to be dealt with."

"I don't want Mar on this detail alone, feel me?" Shabazz said, staring at Carlos. He motioned toward Berkfield. "This man could be in jeopardy of a heart attack. If you're down…"

"I said I was," Carlos said evenly, stooping beside Big Mike. He looked up at the others. "Y'all wanna debate it, or do this before this man passes out?"

Marlene clasped Carlos's hand. They each covered Mike's forehead with a palm and sat quietly, her lips moving, her shut eyelids fluttering, Carlos taking deep breaths. Marlene's eyes abruptly opened as Carlos cried out and a loud snap sounded. Two Guardians were at his side.

"Don't break the connection," Shabazz said. "If you pull out now, the injury could transfer."

"Oh, shit…" Carlos said, panting. His head dropped forward, sweat stung his eyes, and his body flashed cold then hot. Pain shot through his arm, up his shoulder, and pierced his brain. He struggled to tuck it beneath the layers of pain he'd remembered from Hell before he blacked out. This was bad, but not the worst he'd felt.

Slowly, calmness started to enter him. He could hear people asking him if he was all right, and could feel Marlene's gentle squeeze. It was almost as though he could mentally see the pain seek him, radiating in a jagged red line toward Marlene's hand, then stop and find his. Memories of the past collided with the present. He knew the art of healing, but then it had been supernatural, not a gift. But the human body worked the same way, nonetheless. Meridians, energy fields, all he had to do was stay focused on the damaged field and draw that energy to him, away from Marlene, away from Big Mike, and trap it until Berkfield could do his thing.

Another searing pulse ran up his arm. He let go of Mike. Pain slammed him to the ground. He was shuddering so hard his teeth chattered. He tried to send his mind elsewhere, think of anything but the broken bones. But his brain worried it like the tongue hunts for a missing tooth, pushing into the soft, tender spots, making him holler.

Marlene didn't let go of his hand, her grip tightening until the grimace on Mike's face was gone. And as slowly as the agony left Mike's face, Carlos could soon feel the pain abating to a dull ache.

"How do you feel, big man?" Rider asked Mike, as Marlene withdrew her hand.

"Way better. Thanks, Ma. You always got da juice," Mike admitted as he stared up at Marlene and looked over to Carlos. "Thanks, man—you cool?"

Rider knelt beside Carlos, who had only nodded with his eyes closed. "That was some cowboy shit, brother. You okay?"

Again, Carlos only nodded and continued to breathe deeply.

"This man went down hard," Shabazz said, stooping beside Rider with concern. "He went above and beyond, and I don't think—"

"I'm holding it," Carlos whispered through his teeth. "Let Berkfield fix that break fast, 'Bazz… this shit hurts like a motherfucker."

Berkfield moved quickly to Mike's side, glancing back toward Carlos once.

Marlene focused on Berkfield, her eyes intense. "Give it your best shot, partner. I don't know if it'll transfer, or how long the pain block will last."

Berkfield nodded, his gaze concentrated along Mike's arm as his palms slid down it. He winced and stopped, then held the place that brought tears to his eyes. But he didn't cry out, just made a face as though uncomfortable. After a moment, they all watched as the bone in Berkfield's upper arm began to move beneath his skin, and they all turned away as a sudden hard snap made them cringe.

Panting, Berkfield kept his hold on Mike's arm; cold sweat leaked down his forehead as shivers consumed him. Then suddenly he let go and vomited. Carlos curled up in a ball and shuddered.

"Test your arm," Berkfield wheezed. "That's the best I can do. I couldn't hold on anymore."

Mike flexed his fist and slowly lifted the tender limb. "Y'all got skillz. Thank you." He sat up with assistance from Shabazz and Rider, and then glanced at Carlos and Berkfield who'd both begun to relax.

Jose looked at Dan. "A head injury ain't no joke, though."

Carlos rolled over on his back and kept his eyes closed.

Berkfield stretched out beside him. "So, what are we now," he chuckled as he slung an arm over his eyes and breathed deeply, "the team's doctors?"

"Hired," Rider said, helping Dan to lie back.

"Seems we are gonna be in the ER a lot, Dr. Berkfield and Dr. Rivera," Marlene said with a smile, though still winded. "This mangy group is always getting themselves busted up."

"This is my cousin, Dori," her guide said as they quickly greeted the man who possessed a wide, infectious smile.

Damali extended her hand and shook Dori's, totally amazed at how the two men shared such a striking likeness. Dori was a little younger than the man who'd introduced him, a head shorter, a bit leaner and browner than her guide, but the family resemblance was undeniable.

Dori assessed her from head to toe and then bowed. "You're the famous one—the singer of truths!"

Damali tried her best to smile. That was all she needed—a fan to recognize her and to alert the media hounds. For once, things needed to be easy, go smoothly, and with no added drama.

"I have all your CDs," Dori said in awe. "I am honored to be your pilot. My cousin, Telek, tells me you are quite nice and have an invitation to our family elder's home in Askum."

"But you know we must be discreet," Telek warned. "Grandfather will—"

"No, no, no. I have told no one," Dori assured him. "This mission I will take to my grave as a secret."

"Thank you for taking us, and for keeping everything cool," Damali said, simply relieved to have finally arrived at the airport. The harrowing drive through Addis Ababa was enough to make her think it was safer to be in the clouds. However, the man's comment about taking the mission to the grave worried her no end.

"My pleasure," Dori said as they began to walk along the tarmac toward the helicopters. "You heard about the terrorists?" He had spoken to his cousin and had not even turned to glimpse Damali.

"No," Telek said, making the small threesome stop progressing toward the craft. "We were at the market, and we ate, but were engrossed in conversation. What has happened now?"

A sinking feeling crept into Damali's abdomen as she listened hard.

"A rocket-propelled missile, it is rumored, hit a passenger plane over Somalia this morning at dawn. But the aircraft returned fire, so it couldn't have been a passenger plane—probably military spies versus rebel forces," Dori said with uncertain authority. "It was smoking badly, went right past the airport in a Mayday landing, swept down, and went boom!" he exclaimed, talking with both hands and waving to show the force of the explosion. "They say it crashed out by Lake Tana. No one knows for certain, but it has made it difficult to get tower clearance."

Before he'd finished his vivid description, Damali knew it was her team. She willed herself not to scream. She needed answers and information. The one thing she'd learned was that things were not always what they seemed. She bit her lips to keep from speaking.

"But I trust that your government connections…" his cousin said, obviously unsure if they'd be allowed to fly today.

Dori smiled. "A chopper can go," he said with flourish and began walking. "I have friends who know me well. It's just the commercial jets that must wait." He walked taller and put more emphasis in his stride. "Let us go see Grandfather."

As Damali entered the helicopter and strapped herself into a seat, the hair remained raised on her arms. Something was so terribly wrong. She'd arrived in this strange land well after dawn. Could it have been possible that she was out of time-sync with her team? Why hadn't she seen a smoking jet cross the clear blue sky? And if that were the case, why wouldn't Telek have seen it—unless he hadn't been here until she'd arrived.

She prayed with all her might that the downed plane wasn't the one that kept flashing through her mind, yanking at the fibers of hair pushing through her skin. Please, God, not them. Please, God, not anybody, for that matter. Damali closed her eyes.

 

With only an hour left before sunrise, Yonnie stared down at the witch's red hair—spread across the pillow, looking like blood—and considered his options. She was all right. Might make a decent lair queen, as lair queens went. But in truth, he just wasn't feeling her. The succubus that he'd tried first had offered so much more of a mental diversion. Crazy hoe wanted to know how to get to council chambers.

He chuckled to himself, remembering how she almost came on herself from just the mental picture of the descent through the caverns he offered while doing her. Succubae were too easy of a conquest, though. Their bites, phantom. However, he had to admit, girlfriend was awesome, knew exactly what a master liked… this chick was just okay. He sighed. The coven was cool, and they had plenty of playthings to sample, but they just weren't what he really wanted tonight. Tara.

He withdrew from the witch's curvaceous body, studying the two punctures in her throat that he hadn't bothered to seal, and glanced at the sated expression on her face.

"Will I turn?" she asked, her eyes filled with excitement. "We never get masters through here, only second- or third-gens." She sighed and closed her eyes. "A master's bite. My sisters will be green with envy."

"It wasn't a turn bite," Yonnie said, materializing his clothes and dressing himself. He glanced at the changing light. It was time to go, and fast.

"What!" She sat up, indignant. "You promised to—"

"I said I'd give you an evening you wouldn't forget in exchange for info on why my territory was being overrun by were-demons." Yonnie looked out the window. This bitch was truly getting on his nerves. He didn't have to explain anything to her. After being denied Tara, he was still in a truly foul mood. "And given the way you were just hollering in here, I'd say I lived up to my end of the bargain."

She stood, snatching up the sheets to cover herself. "You arrogant vampire bastards are all alike."

"Correction," Yonnie replied, bored. "There's nothing like a master—so you need to get with that."

"Why won't you turn me?" she asked, coming to stand in front of him. She thrust her chin up and narrowed her gaze.

He sighed. "I haven't been sanctioned to, that's why, and I don't know if I'd feel like it, anyway."

She folded her arms over her ample, silicon-created breasts. "If you're a master and coming here to get your rocks off, then obviously the lair queens at your disposal aren't worth a damn," she taunted, glowering at him. "And if you have to wait for permission, then some mast—"

He reached out and held her jaw between his forefinger and thumb, stopping her argument while critically studying the now-bulging vein in her neck. It would be so easy to simply rip her throat out, to tear into the paper-thin flesh that was already devoid of color from his earlier bites. "Then I'd have to listen to your bullshit all night long, sis." He let her go and prepared to make a hasty exit before he committed himself to flat-lining her just because she'd gotten on his nerves.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, looking disappointed. "Don't go. It's just that I was hoping."

"You'd have to die. What about this don't you get?" Yonnie shook his head and gazed at the prosthetic fangs in her lovely mouth. True, she'd used them like the pro she was, but damn. This chick had a death wish that wasn't healthy.

"My sisters will come in here and join us in bed, if that's why you're displeased, Master." Tears filled her green eyes and she tried to blink them away without success. "All you had to do was say you needed all of us at your disposal."

He closed his eyes. This had definitely been a bad idea, but her concept had merit. Yonnie glanced at the window. "Five of y'all, and a brother's only got an hour."

"We've got a lair in the basement—concrete, reinforced metal door, and an hour with a real master would—"

"Nah. You crazy? I don't know your asses, and you think I'd allow myself to get set up to get smoked like that? Fuck it, I'm out. The info you gave me was weak, anyway. How you gonna tell me a succubus wreaked all this havoc in my camp and try to let that bullshit stand as info? Shoulda known." He shook his head and smoothed the front of his suit. "I did one in here tonight, and trust me, she wasn't strong enough to do much more than get a good nut. Probably blew your minds and got you all confused. I'm out."

"No. Seriously. My eldest sister, Gabrielle, has been doing the divinations. Let me call her, okay?" she pleaded, hurrying toward the door. "We didn't authorize a succubus to come in here. If one got in and…" Her words trailed off as she stared at him. "Something's not right."

Yonnie waited, feigning disinterest, studying his manicure as a shrill female voice sliced into his senses. Her voice alone was reason enough not to want her in his lair each night, but information was information—so he waited while worry formed a small knot in his stomach. He'd just fucked a succubus, and fucked her good, but girlfriend had gotten the path to council chambers, too.

Within minutes, three of the unoccupied sisters rushed through the door, the eldest one stepping forward with appreciation in her eyes.

"I'm Gabrielle," she said on a sexy breath. "When you picked Susan over the rest of us, we cannot begin to tell you how envious we were. Tell us you're going to make amends and heal this little family riff."

Man… he didn't have time for this shit. Yonnie appraised the three sisters, each owning the same dazzling green eyes and waiflike figures plumped by silicon and a little black magic, but they'd hard-dyed their long hair to unnatural black, blond, and copper, which gave them each a ghostly appearance. The stark contrast of the black thong lingerie made them seem as though they might disappear right before his very eyes. They practically looked like skeletons with tits. He could count each rib bone as Gabrielle sauntered toward him, donning glistening, red, spiked heels, thigh-high black silk stockings, a thong, and push-up bra. Her hipbones jutted out at glaring angles. If he was gonna get his turn-on, he would have preferred a coupla babes with thick thighs and bootylicious behinds and a little color—but hey, he did have almost an hour to kill.

"I don't mind turning you out," he said with unfiltered disdain, "but a man needs to know what's going on in his zones before all that. Feel me?"

Gabrielle leaned against him, stroking him with one palm. "Yeah… I feel you, lover. It's simple. They're opening the gates."

"An unsanctioned succubus got in here, too," Susan said, glancing nervously between Yonnie and her sister.

"That concerns me," Gabrielle said evenly. "Especially since there's a disruption in the gates."

Yonnie stepped back a bit and stared at her hard. Witches had been known to lie almost as well as vampires. They both smiled. Her sisters began to tremble as he exuded a slow seduction trance.

"It's true," she pressed on, glancing at her forlorn sisters. "We're getting all sorts of traffic that we normally don't get, and our regulars from your lower gens haven't been around at all. Someone is obviously hunting your energy trail very hard through your linesmen, Yonnie." She offered him a triumphant smile. "And now you're here? You do the math."

"You do the math," he said, sweeping his nose along her jugular. "I have about forty-five minutes, and there's how many of y'all in the room?" Yonnie glanced past Gabrielle toward her sisters. "Very tacky. Not my style. I could turn one of y'all tonight, if you can tell me who sanctioned the openings… but tomorrow night, I could come back to do this right."

"You've already bitten me," Susan said, coming forward quickly and yanking Gabrielle's arm. "Finish it."

"I'm the eldest—"

"Ladies. Please," Yonnie said, chuckling. "Susan did come with a good attempt," he said, moving toward the redhead and running the pad of his thumb over her mouth and fake fangs. "I guess I could give her a real pair." He watched the eldest sister move back with a scowl as the youngest one filled his arms. But he kept his eye on Gabrielle. That was the smart one, the one who had information, the one who had to live to explain what he needed to know before daylight.

"Can we at least watch you turn her?" Gabrielle whispered with a quaky voice as her hand slid down her abdomen.

Yonnie filled his fist with Susan's hair and jerked her head back to expose her throat, his eyes never leaving the eldest sister's as a moan escaped her lips. "Just talk to me while I do it," he murmured. "Nice and slow—you stop talking, I'll stop in the middle of the turn and flat-line this hoe without blinking."

The blonde and the coppertop were practically holding each other up as Gabrielle swooned against them. Susan had become a panting rag in his arms, waiting for the strike. He took mild pride in the showmanship of it all—if they talked, he'd give them pure theater. He almost laughed out loud as he allowed his fangs to drop to battle length and one of the sisters nearly fainted. Yeah… a brother was packing. "So," he murmured, lowering his mouth to Susan's jugular and adjusting his fangs for realistic turn length.

"Word is on the street," Gabrielle whispered, "that there's a bounty on Rivera's head." She gasped as Yonnie broke Susan's skin and began the slow siphon, their gazes locked while the youngest witch writhed within his arms. "The were-wolfen clans are making a territory grab, and I've heard the Amanthras have unleashed a few of their own to get in on the available assets, just border testers at this point… incubi and succubae are also trying to materialize themselves for the onslaught." She stopped, swallowed hard as her sister went limp, and whispered, "Yolando!"

He lifted his head. "Tell me something I don't know," he said, momentarily glancing at Susan as her nails dug into his arms. "I already know a council bounty is on my brother's head." But he didn't tell her that he didn't know the other legions could cash in on it. That bit of info was worth something. Council had never done a hit that involved the other levels. The chairman had to want Carlos real bad to go there. Unless…

"Don't stop," Susan wheezed, her gaze furtive and weakly going toward Gabrielle. "Tell him what he wants to know!"

"Appreciated," Yonnie said, lowering his mouth to her throat again, teasing her with a nick. "You all were saying?"

"We did a pentagram ritual to level seven," Gabrielle said quickly.

Yonnie bit down hard and closed his eyes, the women's gasps passing through his skeleton as he sucked hard. Yeah… and the Dark Lord said what?

Instantly, he could tell something had gone wrong. The sweet blood in his mouth became acidic, forcing him to pull out and spit. Stunned, he stared at Susan's stricken expression. Screams from her sisters surrounded him. Their screeches intensified as Susan's body temperature heated up. They covered their faces and screamed louder as her flesh began to smolder. He dropped her and stepped back.

"You murderer! Ingrate!" Gabrielle yelled, rushing to Susan's fallen body as she began to quiver and her eyes liquefied.

"What did you do to our sister?" another yelled, going to her knees and crawling beside the slowly charring remains.

Susan was making guttural sounds deep in her throat. Her skin blackened at her throat where she had been bitten and then fanned out to cover her neck, shoulders, and face, running down her arms and torso until she was totally consumed. An internal blaze could be seen through her empty eye sockets.

"No!" the third sister screamed, walking in a circle around the ghastly carnage that was taking place in the center of the floor.

"We will have your head!" Gabrielle shouted, her finger pointing at Yonnie as she sent a black electrical current toward him.

He deflected it with ease, but went to Susan's body. Shoving her sisters away from her as she instantly turned to ash, he tried to reach out to her but couldn't. "I didn't do that!" he shouted, now pacing. "What purpose would torching her serve? Think!"

The three remaining witches huddled together, sobbing.

"Use your skills," Yonnie demanded. "I was in the middle of a legitimate turn, and she flamed. What the fuck?" He wasn't sure if he was more outraged than shaken. Never in all his years had he witnessed anything so foul.

Gabrielle wiped at her eyes hard and went to the dresser on the far side of the room. Extracting a small black velvet bag, she murmured quietly as she dumped stone runes over her sister's ashes. "We'll get to the bottom of this, vampire!"

"You do that, sis. I need to know who's jacking my turns. Blocking a turn, if you've lost council favor, is one thing. Torching them is another. Level six doesn't have that power. This is bullshit!"

The other teary-eyed sisters nodded as Gabrielle looked up, her expression confused.

"But this came from your own council," she said in a barely audible voice. "You're neutered," she said, her voice holding disbelief. "Your turn bite isn't just blocked, it's lethal."

"I'm what?" Yonnie stepped toward her and held both her arms, yanking her forward. Only hours ago he'd elevated Tara, and nothing like this had happened.

"You can't turn anyone. You cannot replenish your territory."

It didn't make sense. Yes, they would assassinate him. Yes, they would keep him from making more of his own, but the torch bite? Never done on six. Maybe they hadn't been lying. Level seven was definitely involved. Panic swept through him as he began to assess all the territorial damage.

He dropped her arms and walked away from her. "I don't understand. That is not our way. Cast the runes again!" Yonnie looked at her hard and then stared at the divination on the floor. "We always replace territory, immediately. You're wrong." The sweepers made sense. Level seven didn't have to come up for a basic vamp dispute. A new master would be made to bump him off. What the fuck did Rivera do?

Gabrielle carefully gathered up the stones while everyone in the room remained silent, waiting for her to get a second opinion. Again, she flung the stones against the pile of ash. "Your own chairman did this," she said in a faraway voice. "You were made by Rivera, and he's purging the entire zone of all he made, of all that could ever be made by his line."

"I know that!" Yonnie shouted. "Tell me about level seven and this damned succubus you claim—"

"You mean Lilith?" Gabrielle said coolly, her eyes studying him as he began to pace.

"That's bullshit," Yonnie whispered. The mention of that name chilled him. He backed up, studied the sky, his focus divided between the facts before him and Tara. "I have to go," he said, sure now that the transmission cover that he'd provided Tara hadn't held.

"We are now sworn enemies of the vampire nations, and level seven," Gabrielle said, picking up each rune stone one by one and kissing away her sister's ashes as she replaced them in the velvet pouch. She clutched it in her soot-covered palm.

"Good," Yonnie said, holding her gaze, "because, now, so am I."

"She's his lover."

Yonnie stared at Gabrielle. "She's the devil's wife? Get serious. Him, you don't fuck with."

"Your chairman."

Again, Yonnie just stared at her for a moment. "Now I know you're crazy."

"Am I?" she asked coolly, looking him dead in the eyes.

It was so treacherous that he couldn't speak. What could Carlos have done to make the chairman risk sure extinction? There had to be more to the puzzle than blowing a shot at the Neteru. "If you're lying, I'll kill your ass. If you're right, I owe you."

Gabrielle cocked her head to the side, wrestling with the proposed alliance.

"Obviously, my chairman hasn't been able to take all my powers back—for some reason. But if he did this hit with her…"

Gabrielle nodded, joining hands with her remaining sisters as the fourth platinum-haired sister entered the room and covered her mouth. "You'll swear allegiance to help us avenge Susan's death?"

"If you'll swear allegiance to help me avenge my councilman, Carlos Rivera's abuse."

The four sisters spoke in unison. "Done."

 

"My transmission was compromised!" Tara yelled as Yonnie entered the basement lair. "Where were you?"

"You got through?" Yonnie spun on her as he sealed the door against approaching daylight.

"Yes, and—"

"Save the drama about where I might have been. Talk to me!"

She stared at him. "Yonnie, what happened?"

"They torched a turn of mine—while she was in my arms, Tara!" He walked a hot path across the concrete floor. "Sonofabitch just—"

"You were actually going to turn an innocent? Get out!" Tara shrieked. "Get out before you—"

He waved his hand and knocked the wind out of her, making her fall to the bed. "Shut up and listen!" He raked his fingers through his hair, his eyes wild. "It was a willing witch, not an innocent. A barter; so these barriers aren't compromised. The only thing keeping us alive is whatever your people laid down here." He walked over to the walls, feeling them for the approaching heat of dawn. "I don't know if they'll hold, though. The Guardian compound had to have a better seal than this hovel, and black lightning struck it and the heat from that caused the brush fire. You saw that with your own eyes."

Tara swallowed hard and stood, going to the walls, testing with Yonnie for heat. "He's so weak," she whispered. "I tried to give him the code, and he had to write it down."

Yonnie froze. "What do you mean he had to write it down'? Stop playing, woman! I had to form an alliance with a weak-assed coven in order to watch our flanks. That's what we're dealing with, and now isn't the time to let some jealousy corrupt your logic. We have a major crisis to—"

"It was him and he had to use pen and paper like a human," she said slowly, succinctly, cutting off Yonnie's question while her even tone stoked his horror. "While you were out getting your swerve on, dawn fractured my ability to hold onto the connection." Tara locked and trapped Yonnie's line of vision within hers. "He was so weak I was ashamed for him."

Yonnie shook his head and backed away from Tara, tears rising in his eyes as he pointed at her. "You He!"

"I wish I were," she said quietly, finding the edge of the bed before she collapsed.

 

"Nothing!" Lilith said, blue-black smoke billowing from beneath her gown as she walked before the council table. "No Neteru! No Rivera! I personally looked in every man's face on that plane, and not one of them even resembled him." She stared at the chairman through red glowing slits. "Do you know what this means?"

"No," he said evenly. "Tell me, darling. Your fangs are showing." Pointed, leathery wings ripped through her shoulder blades casting a twelve-foot shadow over the table as bats above took shelter.

Her scaled, serpentine tail emerged, altering her spine and tearing through her gown to bear a spaded razor that sliced his cheek before he could pull away. As her rage mounted, her shapely legs transformed into gargoyle gray granite, the varicose veins in them thick and corded by stagnant black blood. Her once sexy spike heels became yellowed, clawed talons that now dug into the marble floor. Only her arms, torso, and head remained the sultry female she'd just been, although her lush mouth was brutally distended by a hideous set of jagged, demon fangs.

"I personally intercepted the transmission from his lieutenants! They put a weak Guardian on the phone, and everything he said was garbled—damn their barriers. But it wasn't Rivera." Lilith's voice rumbled in a deep, threatening baritone, her breaths a ragged gasp between each word as fury overtook her reason. "All that's left of him is two last holdout vampires that aren't worth the bother to pursue beyond troublesome Native American shaman barriers. The master Rivera made was so weak he's taken to bedding human witches instead of real vampire lair mates!"

"That's because there aren't any left in his territory, except one, darling. A man has to do what a man has to do, especially if he's about to be exterminated. Have a goblet and relax."

She stormed away from the chairman and pointed at him. "I was so infuriated that I torched that little redheaded bitch while he was turning her. I should have incinerated him, too, and would have, if I didn't think he might still have access to Rivera. He only lives as bait." Her eyes flickered darker. "But that did send him a very serious message to call his maker, ASAP. So we wait."

"I know," the chairman said in an amused tone to stoke her ire. He glanced around unconcerned as the torches in the chamber went out and bats screeched in fear at her thundering. "I've also blocked his turns so he can twist for a century or so without a lair mate. The female is so weak that she barely took the elevation he attempted. I'll dust her when I have time—maybe while he's on top of her, who knows? But do not waste your precious time micromanaging this minor detail; it will be excruciating for both of them when I'm done amusing myself with their panic, that I assure you. I'm a patient man." He smiled. "Why didn't you just abduct and torture the information out of him?"

"Because Rivera would never come out in the open then, once he heard Yolando's howls. Are you insane? You saw how Rivera resisted my harpies! Neteru information about the female was locked inside his mind like one of our best vaults! It's clear those two loser vampires don't know where he is any more than you or I do!"

He allowed Lilith to seethe. He ignored her blinding wrath and concentrated on the tiny questions nagging his mind. Why wasn't he able to torch the two lower-generation vampires, when he'd been able to ash all the others? She didn't need to know that his attempts had failed, or contemplate how two vampires had been able to hide behind a shaman's prayer line… why was a small cabin impervious to his black lightning strikes when the Guardian compound and the Covenant's safe house had so easily burned to the ground? They were missing something crucial. He could feel it in his skin, but he kept chuckling with haughty disdain in his countenance and avoided glancing at the small compartment hidden in the center of the table beneath the fanged crest that only he could open, allowing Lilith's ego to make her twist. Oh, darling, I have such a prize in there.

"Dante, I dredged every man's dreams trying to wrest out Rivera's location. Nothing!" she shouted, oblivious to the chairman's mood shift as she railed on. "They were only able to try to send ten thousand measly dollars to a human that had to write it down. That's all Rivera has left. My harpies ripped open the belly of that aircraft, searching in vain for his coffin, in case he was still one of us! Nothing! And if a Neteru had been on board, we would have known the moment he or she launched into battle."

She swished away, leaving the chairman to seal the deep gash in his face, his black blood splattering the front of his robe and blending into it. "The female Neteru did not come for her Guardians, even when I sent the plane to crash and burn. No male Neteru rose to the challenge to come to their rescue, either. The last remnants of the Covenant were even on that aircraft, and no Neterus came… no Isis blade or disc of Heru was ever raised."

Lilith shuddered and gave Dante her back to consider, knowing she was running out of options. If she didn't find the Neterus quickly, she'd have to destroy the embryo, lest it ever be discovered. Or, worse, turn it over to her husband and try to claim that in her search for the dead Neterus, she'd discovered it. Either way, she refused to concede total defeat. If there was no bounty to be won to take over all the weaker realms, she could not lose favor on level seven. Her mind raced for a back-door solution.

She'd blame it on Dante, if she had to give up the egg. The egg had passed through his chambers, and this had been a Vampire Council matter, originally. But that bitter black pill was something very special that she was saving for when she'd exhausted every measure. To prematurely unveil that it even existed meant potentially tipping her hand, if the Neterus were somehow still alive. Dante was holding something back from her; she could sense it. So she skillfully changed the subject and allowed herself to appear totally spent. He could never know her ultimate aim. Men were foolish. There were no friends in this game.

"Warrior angels made it necessary to back off… but the plane went down. There was no way anyone on board could have survived. Damnable daylight interfered, but they're history." Lilith covered her face with her hands and breathed in deeply, causing her wings, tail, and talons to recede as she regained her composure.

"Hmmm… are you quite sure? The same way I was so sure that Rivera had been burned alive by the sun?" The chairman shook his head. "Very sloppy—or did you say that to me not long ago?"

"I looked them each in the eye before we decimated their aircraft at dawn, and all I saw was frightened humans. No Neterus. The plane went down over a holy region that even I cannot penetrate without my husband's assistance. I'm officially banned from that area, except the Red Sea, by truce," she wailed, suddenly becoming so distraught that she waltzed back to the table and took a shaky sip of clotted blood from the chairman's goblet and set it down hard.

"Perhaps, if warrior angels showed up, they're masked. Did you ever consider that? It has been done before." He studied his goblet and circled the rim of it with his finger.

She stared at him without blinking.

"You seem awfully impatient, my dear. That is not like you. Maybe you should call my father to help you—"

"Don't fuck with me, Dante," she screeched, growing fangs again. "This is a catastrophe!"

"I thought our goal was to kill them, anyway?" He risked another sly smile, baiting her further as he took a slow sip from her abandoned goblet. "Calm yourself. My remaining councilmen are in stasis repose in their vaults, and we must conserve our energy for the future—"

"What future, Dante? If we don't deliver them, there is no bounty," she said flatly, leaning into him. "Our Dark Lord deals in absolutes. I will not suffer his wrath for failing!"

He stood and chuckled. "Or, if I did indeed kill them both, first, then what you mean is, I've won the challenge—and didn't fuck up so badly after all." He caught her hand before she could strike him and caressed her face with his free palm. "Come, come now, dearest Lilith," he whispered, his fangs growing to battle length as his form bulked to shadow hers. He squeezed her wrist until the bones within it snapped and she winced. "Is that any way to treat the possible ruler of the entire dark realm?"


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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
   



CARLOS WATCHED with morbid detachment as each member of the team was attended back to reasonable health. The odd sensation that he and the others were not alone kept him on guard, staring out into the crystal blue water. The vast expanse was dotted by lush land, green with foliage as though Eden. No one, for all the stilted discussion, had made even passing mention of the spirits he'd seen. The angels, their parents—it was such a powerful phenomena—and yet, it hadn't come up as the basic logistics were argued.

Who cared which way they should walk, how they would get back to any modern transportation? They were alive. Didn't they see the angels? A small part of him wondered if he were still losing his mind.

Dan knelt by the edge of the lake. He was babbling something about needing water. Carlos watched dispassionately as Shabazz grasped the junior Guardian's arm and warned him about parasites. True enough, but it still didn't make sense. A jumbo jet had crashed in the mountains, but hadn't immediately exploded. Everyone on the united teams had walked away—surely a divine hand had been the cause. Parasites were the least of their problems.

The moment the thought crossed his mind Carlos squinted. It seemed as though the vaporous mist hovering just over the surface of the still lake was parting. Then out of nowhere, they were there—three old men with scruffy white beards in long white tunics and small, embroidered, flat round hats peered at him from the tiny canoe. They seemed as old, dark, and weathered as the ebony wooden canes they leaned on for support. Their canoe eerily moved forward on its own accord. Carlos waited a full thirty seconds before his teammates even saw them.

"Yo!" Rider shouted, jumping back a few steps. "We've crashed—a little assistance?"

Marlene held Rider's forearm to quiet him and the team waited. The old men's cloudy, bluish-white eyes followed the sound of Rider's voice and the rustle of Marlene's robe.

The eldest among them lifted his cane and pointed toward Carlos. "The voice is not the one we seek. The woman cannot go to the island of knowing. Only one travels with us."

"No can do, brother," Shabazz said, stepping in front of Carlos in a protective stance. "He's one of ours, and we all go down as a team. State your business."

"He must learn things before the apex that only we can show him," the second old man said, his blind eyes traveling to find Shabazz's face as he pointed his stick toward the sun.

"He must learn his true name, then he will guide you home," the third old man said, and then turned to motion toward a far-off island.

Carlos placed a hand on Shabazz's shoulder to indicate he was willing to give the strange request a shot. "It's cool, man. If these old dudes have wisdom, I'm down for whatever." He watched Shabazz rub his chin then stand aside reluctantly. "Hey, they came out during the day," Carlos said with a half smile. "Beats the courier service I used to have."

"You sure, man?" Big Mike asked, grunting as he stood with effort.

Carlos simply nodded and walked forward until the edge of the water dampened his sandaled feet.

 

Grit and dust stung Damali's eyes as she dismounted from the helicopter and reached for Telek's hand. She couldn't get the image of blue water and smoke out of her mind. Panic had covered her skin with a cool sheen of perspiration, and no amount of small talk and platitudes could make her shake it.

Without a word she trudged behind her overly hospitable guides, listening to nothing except the hard yellowish dust crunch beneath her feet. This land was one of contrasts, like so many others she'd seen. Gravel and dust, but also shade-producing trees. In Askum there were white stone monuments and an eerie vacancy all around, but it also gave one the feeling that eyes were everywhere.

"He is not far from here," Telek said proudly as he waved toward the litter of palace ruins and stelae bearing strange inscriptions. He smiled broadly. "You feel the ancestors watching from the many underground tombs, if you stand very still."

Damali glanced around nervously as she picked up her pace. "Yeah, I sorta had the feeling that there was some seriously old energy around here."

"Indeed. My grandfather is so near the St. Mary of Zion Church people always want him to allow them to board there while on pilgrimages. It is one of the holiest shrines, the church, and it is said that the Ark of the Covenant is hidden somewhere here, however grandfather claims that three seers have long since moved it to an island home." Telek chuckled and shrugged as he kept walking. "Who knows? But grandfather is very peculiar and particular about whom he allows in his home. Dirt from his yard, and granite pieces from the huge obelisks in Stele Field, are believed to be mystical." Her guide leaned in closer and offered Damali a jaunty wink. "Local people even swear that the water pumped into his small well actually travels beneath the ground, past the ancestors' resting places, from Queen Sheba's pool."

After a winding path, Telek stepped through a low iron gate into a circular courtyard where a small, one-story, whitewashed brick house stood surrounded by pink-and-red blossoms on prickly vines. He walked around toward the back of it, where a high wall protected it from the north, and the majestic mountains in the distance seemed to stand guard. The high iron gate on the far side of the courtyard led to what seemed to be a centuries-old church or temple that she now knew was the one Telek had mentioned earlier. But the tall, intricately carved granite obelisks that flanked it made Damali stop for a moment and stare. Telek smiled and motioned to a large, leafy tree that she could not name and bade her to sit down beneath it. Dori began to walk away, and only then did Damali summon her voice.

"Our pilot, though…"

"Dori is not an elder. He cannot be here. The children cannot be here. The mothers and fathers do not come to grandfather's compound unless invited." He hugged his cousin and said something to him in the language she would never fully learn, and then took his time to go to a small pump by the house to fill a flat metal pan with water. Balancing the water with care, he set it down before Damali. "I must wash your feet before you enter. We should do this near the door, and you must leave your shoes outside. Grandfather is very particular about the spirits you could walk over on his threshold."

Damali nodded. "Marlene has some of these ways, too," she said, slipping off her sandals. She allowed the earth to warm her feet as she again took Telek's hand. But an inner wave of despair hit her as soon as her soles connected with the bare earth. Tears sprung to her eyes and she shut them as images reeled against her mind and made her temporarily cling to her guide for support.

Women so weary that tears would no longer come to their eyes pressed skeletal-weight infants too weak to suckle to their flat, milk-empty breasts. War and famine, disease and drought so treacherous that it had left babies mere brown skin and loose bones. Damali covered her mouth as Nzinga's voice filled her ears. You had to see this, queen sister. Your suffering pales by comparison. This is whom you raise your Isis for. Always remember the ancestors in your quest.

Damali knelt, the dust and gravel of the outer yard eating into her knees as her hands skimmed it blindly. She touched the surface as though a gentle lover, revering those that had gone before her. "But you never gave up," she whispered, her tears wetting the ground.

"No…" the ground whispered back. Damali lifted her face and turned quickly toward the huge tree above her. "All over the world," the tree murmured in the breeze. "The children are dying. The earth has been desecrated." She picked up a small pebble that suddenly rolled toward her. "Take me," it echoed, "I was here in the beginning and can tell you much." A tiny beetle pushed its way between blades of rough grass. It stopped and stared up at Damali, its beady black eyes unblinking as she looked deeply into them. "Collect seven stones," it murmured. "The flat ones worn smooth by my friends, time and water. They will find you. Just open your hand." Then it parted its hard outer metallic green casing, spread a pair of sheer tawny wings, and flew away.

Telek gazed down at her with a warm smile as she sought his gaze for confirmation. When he nodded she opened her hands and laid them palms up in the grass and waited. The tree shuddered as another breeze disturbed its branches. A small brown bird lit upon a low limb and dropped a smooth, clear quartz rock near her hand and was gone.

An elderly man appeared in the doorway of the house and grinned a full dazzling white smile. His leathery, brown skin sparkled with youth just beneath it, and he motioned to Telek to bring Damali forward. He said several long sentences, and looked at Telek, then gazed at Damali tenderly.

"My grandfather is Ephener, his name means 'to have plenty' He says that his garden likes you. This is good. You may now wash your feet and enter his home. The rest of your stones are on the way."

 

Carlos walked into the water shin-deep, the lake silt making his sandals slippery against the bottom. He was unsure about how to climb into the canoe without tipping it and sending the blind old men splashing into the water, so he studied the problem for a moment until the eldest one leaned over and offered him a hand, bracing his long walking stick against the shoal.

It was amazing, the strength in the old man's grip. Carlos was certain he'd felt a mild current run through him as he clasped the gnarled hand and stepped up into the narrow craft. But it never wavered, nor did the surefooted elders budge. Then he watched with pure awe as the two on his flank each reached out into the air and grabbed at nothingness, as though the air were a blanket to be balled into their elderly fists and they were closing an invisible cloak around them.

He could see his teammates' shocked expressions, could see everything going on along the shore as they panicked and rushed about, hollering behind the slow-moving boat as though it were gone. The two men chuckled and threw open their arms, the one on the left flinging open his left arm at the same time the elder on Carlos's right flung his right arm away from him. A new shore stood before them with a small, white sand bank that gave way to lush, tall green lake grasses. Beyond it loomed a white stone monastery, weathered gray by wind and storms. Moss ate at its mortar, creating velvet down between each centuries' old stone.

The oldest man in the boat calmly stepped into the water, his walking stick guiding him as he simply waved for Carlos to follow. He bowed toward the shore, then toward each cardinal direction, but never actually stood on the shore.

"Before you enter, you must be cleansed by the waters of life," he said, "and reborn to be given a new name."

Carlos gingerly stepped out of the boat into the mystically still water, but unlike the old man, when he stepped down into it, he was waist deep. The old man came to him, bent, and dipped his hand in the water, drizzling it over Carlos's head. He handed off his long stick to one of his brethren, and placed a flat palm on Carlos's back and one on his chest. Before Carlos could protest, a pair of strong arms that belonged to a twenty-year-old man had dunked him backward.

He came up sputtering and coughing to nods and smiles of approval.

"You are Alemayehu," the man who'd dunked him exclaimed. "This is also the name of an Ethiopian prince. Two words made together, just like the two halves of yourself. Alem means 'the world' in Amharic. You have wanted the world. Ayehu means 'I see.' You have also seen many worlds," he said, pointing upward and then down to the ground. He made two fists and pounded them together. "World vision, or the world I see. To balance your energy, this must be connected to the one called beautiful vision—for the world I see. Damali Alemayehu. You are one. Together means beautiful vision for the world I see." He stared at Carlos hard. "You understand, now?"

Carlos nodded even though he didn't quite comprehend. Damali's name registered in his ears, however, and if the old man had mentioned her, she wasn't dead.

Oddly, the side of his neck also burned, and he brought his hand up to cover the pain. Then, as he held his palm against the tender skin, he slowly became aware that something just under his skin was moving along the part of his throat that had sustained the original turn bite. As he brought his hand away, the old men around him smiled.

Carlos peered into his palm and a strange, silvery symbol flickered in it for a moment and then was gone. The image was box-shaped, with a line that zigzagged across his palm from right to left and back again in four distinct but connected bars, ending on a platform of four spikes. The shape eerily reminded him of the kundalini snake, but had harder angles. He stared at his opened palm and then at his newfound guides with a question in his eyes.

"Nkyin kyin ohema nkyinkyin—changing one's self. Playing many roles," the eldest guide murmured. "You now wear the mark of our side, which covers what had been and seals off the Darkness. During your apex, this will become permanent. It is a source of strength, also a source of choice. You can determine the next time you sire, and your intent to do so, or not, will be carried through your seed when this burns bright."

The old man nodded, appearing temporarily satisfied, and took Carlos to shore by his elbow as the others jumped down from the canoe and followed as though they were teenagers. Once they were assembled on the white sand, he turned abruptly and laid a hand on Carlos's shoulder.

"You must raise an army."

Carlos nodded. "No doubt. But our resources—"

"Are many," his elder said, cutting him off. The old man motioned for his stick and waited until it was provided by the brethren that held it. He drew large circles on the ground with Carlos inside it. "Seven days from the beginning of your end, you will go through the first ring of your power. You were born this day."

"November fifth," Carlos said quietly.

"The eleventh month plus the fifth day renders the number seven, the number of heaven—the place where the dead are resurrected, and the abode of Asuar… you will die to the old way completely during the eclipse." The elder rubbed his chin. "The eclipse will last three hours and thirty-three minutes. Three threes is nine, your birth year is also nine. You were born in the year 1980. Add each digit, and you have nine. Nine is a number of completion, because after it, one goes back to one, or the One. This death is not defeat, but a stripping away to give you the Light. Your apex will be rushed, because of circumstances."

Although Carlos was truly confused, he nodded. He wanted to get to the part about Damali's whereabouts, so not interrupting the old man seemed best. But the fact that numbers had been swirling in his head now made sense, as well as his fixation on them.

The elder stepped back and drew another ring around the first one, taking his time to be sure the stick bore down hard into the soft sand. "Normally, leading up to the time of a male Neteru apex, he has seventy days to build what had been stripped away. Let your woman close to you only after you mourn the losses." He sighed and pointed at Carlos's shoes. "They are hard losses, but you come from people that traveled to where the flat pyramids were built. Olmec."

"Mexico?" Carlos simply stared at the man.

He nodded. "Native to the earth, the Indians and Africans there—we were one. But you have many worlds flowing through your veins, even that of the Visigoths… this is why you and the beautiful vision see the world. Your teams will be one, and from all worlds. You must travel to gather your energies from each land. The time is nigh, old wars cannot be fought while preparing for the one war of all."

Although he wasn't completely clear about everything the old man was rapping about, he did know that it was impossible to mount an offensive against the gates of Hell with a splintered team. All bull had to be set aside. As soon as the thought completed, the old man smiled and began drawing another huge circle around the first two in the sand.

"You should have had seven months of preparation for battle," he said calmly. "Seven days, seventy days, plus seven months—seven, seven, seven, a trinity of sevens be upon you." The old man sighed. "Your brief detention in the dark realms, while unfortunate, did teach you much about how that enemy functions. Use it to your advantage."

"Cool," Carlos said, not moving outside of the rings that felt strangely protective. "So, I'll build an army in seven months, seventy-seven days. We lay low till we're ready, then what?"

"You don't have time. First, you must learn to conceal yourself against your enemies. We have temporarily masked you, but you must carry that energy forward yourself." The old man chuckled, made two fists and gathered the air, and closed it in around himself and disappeared. He reappeared ten yards away.

"That was profound, man…" Carlos said, respect and awe in his tone.

"You are a light bender," the old man said, chuckling as he disappeared again. "Do not believe in the illusion of powerlessness cast by the dark side. Grab the particles of light and magnetize them to you… your new eyes can see them."

The other old men laughed and pointed at Carlos's eyes.

"Silver seekers," one said.

"Spirit finders," another murmured.

"My powers will come back?"

The old men smiled. "Only if you believe you have not been left destitute by the Light."

Carlos didn't know how to answer. .

The eldest in the group of three sighed, his tone impatient. "Young people, humph!" He shook his head. "Did you have visions?"

"Yeah… I sorta saw—"

"You see worlds and angels and spirits." He scratched his scraggly beard. "Your eyes changed first. There are more changes." He came close to Carlos, sniffing, and then looked at the others. "Not yet, but soon."

"His hands," one said, making Carlos look down at his palms. "You heal?"

"Well, not exactly, I—"

"Feel the pain of others!" the eldest shouted, making birds fly from the trees and settle down slowly.

Carlos nodded, feeling foolish for even making the old man go there.

"Your mind," he said in a tired voice, "a steel trap of logic. Negotiations. Battle tactics. Soon, you'll be impervious to the demon bite." He finally smiled. "But you have to wait till your birthday, and not slip into some of your old ways."

Carlos looked at the ground.

"We were not always old or wise, but this is critical."

"I hear you," Carlos said, duly chastised.

"Good. Then stop fretting about the endurance or strength that comes soon… like the five senses. For some odd reason, these are blooming last, instead of first, but you did arrive to us from a very circuitous route." He looked at the others. "We never expected our Neteru to come from the realms we do not name. So, one can only assume that his development is unique."

"You mean I'll get my night vision back, and everything else, too?"

They smiled. "A lot of it. Not all of it. But what you do get will be more than adequate."

Carlos wrestled the dangerous question that nagged him out of his mind. He wanted in the worst way to know about Damali, and if it would ever be the same between them again. But this wasn't the time nor place. There were greater concerns. That could wait. But when the old men laughed at him, he simply closed his eyes.

"Thirteen gifts," the eldest man said, chuckling. "All Neterus have these."

"I counted twelve, though… not being funny," Carlos said, his gaze going to the shore. "I'm not being disrespectful, but if we're going into battle—"

"Twelve?" the man said, seeming perplexed. "How did you arrive here?"

"By plane, or plane crash, to be more accurate," Carlos said, now looking at all three of them.

They sighed in unison.

"A plane did not crash on this island, son."

Carlos blinked. "Travel through… I don't know… uh… Y'all did some mystical thing, and we were here."

"Light displacement and dimension distortion," the eldest replied. "I know you miss your old transportation methods, but did you know Neterus can move through time and space?" He belly laughed when Carlos just stared at him. "We in the Light rings invented it. The others only imitate it!" He walked away scratching his head, seeming completely amazed. "Angels do it all the time, son. Spirits to help humanity come to rescue those in peril. Did you bump your head and lose all your senses in the crash? Who saved you, then, anyway? They showed you the thirteenth gift, then."

"Can I try it?" Carlos whispered in complete awe.

"Only if you're ready, and you need to be," the eldest urged, taking Carlos's hands without crossing the circles. He extended Carlos's arms. "Concentrate on the particles and grab them as you ask their permission to be held with your mind. Then pull them around you like a cloak." He smiled. "The dark ones are blind to it, even in the moonlight—but other Light benders can see you within it. We know where we are."

Excitement riddled him as he gazed first at one hand and then the other. Power…

"No!" the old men said in unison. "Defense!"

The eldest among them sighed. "The dark ones take from the Light without permission and abuse it for cheap tricks and to make war and chaos. You must ask permission to conceal yourself for protection, to aid those in need. Raw power is no better than lust. Go down that road, and you will never learn or have what you need!"

Duly chastised, Carlos nodded. "All right. I'm sorry. My bad. Old habits die hard."

Albeit disgruntled, the three teachers sighed and nodded.

"Light," Carlos said quietly, feeling a bit insane to be talking to nothingness, "may I have your permission to proceed?"

"Say it like you mean it," the eldest said firmly, pounding his stick on the ground. "Both in your mind and from your words. Soon you can do it without saying it out loud. But for now, practice. Again!"

Carlos took a deep breath and put emphasis in his voice. "Light," he shouted. "May I have your permission?"

The old men looked at each other.

"It's not in his heart and we are running out of time."

"He has to think of something he wants to get to badly enough to—"

"I got it, I got it," Carlos said. "I'll focus."

The threesome fell silent, but the scowls on their faces made them seem unconvinced. Carlos closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. He could see her eyes. That was all he needed, all that had ever penetrated his facade down to the core.

"Light, please work with me! May I have your permission?"

"Feel the energy tickle your palms and build like lightning tickles the clouds before striking," an excited elderly voice said.

It made Carlos open his eyes. Carlos stared at the eldest man before him, remembering what a lightning strike felt like and concentrated harder. Soon his palms tingled and became hot.

"Now close the cloak!"

Carlos did as he was ordered and felt so light that it was hard to keep his footing. He stumbled forward and opened his arms to hold his balance. "Did I do it? Did I disappear?" He looked around expectantly to the smiling faces that soon broke out into full laughter.

"So clumsy, but yes," one of his teachers admitted.

Another shook his head, laughing. "And this is our warrior? We have troubles."

"Indeed," the eldest said, "but he is what we have." He sighed and pointed to the ground. "The earth has energy. Neteru, a small piece of the Creator, is in all natural things. Ask for permission to be of it. The chameleon can be green, like the leaf, or brown like the tree trunk. You, too, can melt away and conceal yourself until danger passes. When you are stronger, you can conceal an army. Until then, sleep within the circles."

He would have felt better if he'd been given an offensive weapon but accepted the gift of their knowledge with an appreciative bow. "Thank you," Carlos said, truly meaning it. "I will try to learn quickly to protect the Neteru."

Puzzled glances passed between the old men.

"You are the Neteru," the eldest said, scratching his beard. "Explain."

A weird sensation coursed through Carlos, causing mild alarm within him as he tried to carefully choose his words. "She… Damali… is the Neteru."

They tilted their heads and stared at him and then huddled and began talking in hushed, animated tones in a language he couldn't fathom.

"I must understand!" the eldest one finally said, pounding his walking stick in the dirt. "We are to prepare a male Neteru for his apex, and in males it happens in his twenty-fourth year, two plus four is six, his death to life as a man and his beginning as something greater—then follows the concentric rings of trinity sevens!" Thoroughly agitated, he waved his arms about. "You have the silver vision. Your blood casts silver prisms within red, so no demon can turn you if bitten. Your hands will hold Light fire soon… you can walk undetected. The shield of Heru and his sword have your name on it—Alemayehu. No woman was sent to us. Your father-seer was on the shore."

"The Guardian female… the other seer," one of the teachers said, pacing. "But she was past the age of—"

"No. She is a Guardian," the third said.

"Damali is definitely the Neteru," Carlos argued, becoming more worried as they argued. "In my old life," he said carefully, "the entire sixth realm of darkness was looking for girlfriend, and I—"

"The vampires hunted her down?" the eldest man asked, cutting off Carlos's explanation. "We live a cloistered existence here. The things of the other seers are not our concern. Our mission is singular, to wait for the male Neteru!"

"Yeah," Carlos said, now stepping beyond the circle. "Fact. But the Light sent two this time, I guess?" He glanced around, confused. "You all don't talk amongst yourselves?"

The three old men stared at each other, seeming as though they were silently conferring.

"And she…"

"Spiked?" Carlos said, answering the eldest teacher's lingering question. "Yeah. Produced the scent that started a damned civil war underground and topside."

"We thought that was the beginning of the Armageddon." The eldest looked at the others. "We were told that a sign was to come. But, then…"

Carlos tilted his head and looked out toward the distance. "She fell off your radar, didn't she?"

They nodded. "We thought…"

Carlos rubbed his palms down his face, renewed guilt stabbing him. "Yeah. She did go dark for a moment—but fluxed back."

"Her condition was so tenuous that she was concealed, even to us?"

"Probably," Carlos said quietly, knowing within his heart that she had to be. Any strong Neteru team would have smoked his baby girl if they'd seen her. The Light had held out hope after all.

"She's not just a Guardian," one teacher whispered, his eyes wide.

"Not just his Guardian mate," the other said, leaning on his stick, stunned.

"We got one half of the whole," the eldest murmured and closed his eyes, turning his dark, lined face toward the sun. "She's cloaked. This is more than was even foretold."

"Okay, I know it's deep—but do you know where she is?"

They opened their eyes and stared at Carlos.

"Yes. Of course we do. She is learning battle formations to assist you—we thought. But, she's not your assistant; she's your equal. You're her equal. We thought we were ensuring your Guardian mate's safe passage, but a Neteru was being ferried. That is entirely different." They all looked around nervously as the eldest teacher spoke. "Do you understand what that implies?"

"Not totally, but—"

"Do you know why our land was never conquered?" the eldest shouted, pointing his stick at Carlos. "How people so small with so little could never be defeated?"

All Carlos could do was stare at the man.

"Touch my stick and close your eyes. This was carved from the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden." He chuckled sadly as he looked at it. "I made assumptions, and didn't use my own gifts fully." They shared a smile. "Happens to the best of us. Be gentle with yourself. You are never too old or too wise to learn."

Carlos didn't move. What this teacher implied was beyond profound. "The Tree . . ."he whispered. "Hombre, that's a lot of juice to be pointing at a newbie. Now, I'm no punk, but I know about getting fried, and—"

"Touch the stick," the elder commanded. "We were almost about to make a grave error. Something has hidden her so deeply away that even we could not see her. It has receded her power, taken her Isis to keep her hidden from evil until you are readied as one."

Reluctantly, Carlos stretched out his hand and gingerly touched the wet, sandy end of the long stick that was held before him. Instantly a bright light scored the inside of his lids, causing him to drop the end of the wood and cover his eyes. But the image held as the blinding brightness bored into his skull, carving past his normal sight, searing his brain until the hair on his head stood up with static charge. For a fleeting moment he saw it. Glistening gold, its long lid ajar, spilling forth waves of iridescent light, the sound of metal swords and the clamoring voices of eager angels made him drop to his knees. "You have the Ark of the Covenant here?" Carlos croaked. "They said it was a myth."

The elder withdrew the stick and shoved the tip of it into the sand, stopping the intense vision. "It has always been in Ethiopia, the land of Eden and the first peoples. Its Jerusalem location was a myth. Our fighting sticks, like that of the Mother-Seer; also come from here and hold the power of the Donga. The words from our land are legendary. Know this, our eyes are within the wood."

"He could see it," the second elder said. "He is Neteru."

"He is the one who is supposed to work with the sixth ring!" the eldest said, grasping Carlos's hand and yanking him to his feet. He began drawing circles to create seven layers in all.

"Look," he ordered, not even allowing Carlos to recover. "You sank to the depths of the sixth realm of darkness and must be quickly reinstated to the sixth ring above."

The old man walked back and forth, his robes kissing the sand and using his stick as a pointer. "Ring one is where the ancestors go. Spirits that guide us and help us until we are strong enough for them to leave us after they've crossed over. Ring two is where they prepare for their ascension and lessons, after they have helped others close to the edges of transition. Ring three is where those guides that inspire and impart wisdom reside to make the human existence better—art, music, science, medicine, all. Ring four are carriers of prayers—they bear up the intercessions and answer them… we have ancestors there, too, if we are so blessed. They keep family lines going and merge them to one worldness. Ring five are the keepers of the Akashic Records of all knowledge and they protect the keepers of the seals… they are also responsible for healing, nature, the things we must teach you to fight in a different way… but ring six are where the generals are… the warrior angels that fight the righteous causes and fear not the depths of Hell." He stopped speaking and closed his eyes. "My short description does not begin to explain the power of the rings. More will be revealed as your strength grows."

The old man had broken out into an impassioned sweat, beads of it rolling down his temples as he spoke. "They are strong enough to fly into Hell danger zones, extract the lost, and return them to the Most High's realm, even after death has tried to seal their fate." He stared at Carlos. "Only the sixth-ring warriors can see the Ark. After that ring, only seventh Heaven exists—where the Creator of All resides. You've seen warrior angels."

"Yes," Carlos whispered, tears brimming in his eyes.

"Only those that do not fear even Hell itself, and would walk through it for another soul's salvation can see them. You have done this."

Carlos nodded and swallowed a sob. "For her. Yes."

"You went into Hell for the female Neteru?"

Emotion caught in Carlos's throat as he nodded and tears streamed down his face. "For her and her team… and my brother."

The old man clapped his hands and spun around in a madman's circle. "You were demon once and did this! It is all so clear now!"

"Vampire… a councilman, to be exact," Carlos said, bristling at the memory.

"A dark throne-level demon, recanting power? You chose love over thai?" the old man asked, astonished. "All for her. And you come to us with Guardians and the Covenant brethren as protection to stand in the sun on hallowed ground… the oldest in the world?" He threw his head back and laughed, opening his arms to the sun.

Carlos didn't know how to answer. "Something brought me back, but I burned in daylight and served my sentence." He raked his fingers through his hair. "All I know is three huge hombres with gold shields and blades drawn got me and lifted me up… the same guys that kept the plane from going down hard, I think."

"No," the eldest said. "You cannot have mere Neteru powers—not entering into the big battle with the female Neteru at your side. This hasn't been done since Eden." He shook his head and the others appeared to agree, their indecipherable mother tongue creating a cacophony of chaotic voices on the small beach. "We did not expect this and must confer," he finally said, walking away from Carlos toward the temple with the other teachers quickly following him. "We must hasten your lessons and give you offensive weaponry to address what's headed your way."

 

"You must go to the place where the Blue Nile meets the White Nile," Telek said, repeating his grandfather's words. "He says your power is in the coming together of the Light and the Darkness, represented in the two sides of the Nile… you are a child of the Nile, Kemet—and women are water. Draw from the natural energy of the water that gives life."

The old man took Damali by both hands and stood her in the middle of the dirt floor. He waved to her right side, as though motioning for a missing person.

"Your mate stands there," Telek said, drawing a chuckle from his grandfather. "He says that he will have a new name, and his first name will become your son's last name—it is a good one to keep the family strong."

Damali smiled, but the recent miscarriage made it less than brilliant. She swallowed away her melancholy as she focused on the lesson, remembering what the land had shown her about other people's losses. Then it slowly dawned upon her, if he was forecasting, then Carlos and her whole team were definitely still out there somewhere—alive!

The old man nodded, as though reading her thoughts, and then drew a flat line along each cardinal direction, north, south, east, and west.

"In relationship to where you were born, he says put a member of the Covenant to stand at each direction as your outer ring—the Irishman to the west—as his beliefs reside there. The one from Mexico to the north, he looks to the north for guidance. The monk from Tibet, east. Imam, south, toward here, his motherland." Telek quickly walked around Damali with his grandfather, pointing to the floor etchings as his grandfather gave hasty directions.

"My family, my team—they didn't crash? Where are they?" Damali held her breath as the old man waved away her questions.

"Yes, they crashed, but are not dead," Telek said, dismissing any further details as the short, elderly man glared at them. "The work of angels just off the sacred islands within Lake Tana's mystical shores. Do not break his flow."

The grandfather nodded and grunted, seeming annoyed that he'd been interrupted.

"Between north and west, add two newest male Guardians," Telek said, without looking at Damali's seeking gaze and motioning toward the floor instead. "Between west and south, two old friends—the one who rides the motorcycles and the other one who is tall like a mighty tree."

"Rider and Big Mike?" Damali asked quietly, and was rewarded by the grandfather's avid nod as he clapped his hands with approval.

"Between south and east, your mother-seer and father figure—a couple—are to stand when you fight. Each person in the circle is placed where their strength lies… they are southern directed, and look east for wisdom."

"Makes sense," Damali murmured. "Shabazz is always quoting The Art of War, and all of Marlene's herbs and wisdom come from the southern hemisphere and the motherland, south of where we live."

"Yes!" Telek shouted in harmony with his grandfather's laughter. "You understand! Now, the young Guardian from the east should be next to the monk's line, between east and north," he said, moving around her back to the top of the circle where his grandfather began, "and the other young Guardian with the broken heart should be next to the priest who will also share the same broken heart for the same reason."

"Jose and Father Lopez?"

The men fell quiet but nodded. Slowly the grandfather entered the circle and drew a line and looked deeply into her eyes and then touched her cheek, before walking away to begin jabbering again.

"The priest must keep to the Covenant and his vows; the girl, once your enemy, will have to become your friend. She has seen much, and has done a good deed for your partner. This will be hard." Telek sighed with his grandfather. "A mother, a daughter, and a son will be added to the inner ring, with a very old friend of yours."

The grandfather shook his head, chuckled, and closed his eyes as Telek conveyed the strange riddle.

"A policeman has his wife, the young Asian will have a challenge, your tree trunk will have a small bird to make a permanent nest in his old branches and make him happy. Two young men will be left without a mate until the circle changes again, but their brotherhood will lessen the hardship. The younger of them needs a friend, the older of them needs to be looked up to. Needs respect. An old warrior will want to kill a demon in his home that is his strange ally, and a daughter spirit will come home seeking her mother so that he won't have to. She is not a Guardian, like the others, but will help you as a friend. Two will bear fangs, flanking your man—but do not worry. This is necessary… his old life will help him, and he will elevate them from the pit. Your new number is twenty-one, which is also three. It should take the time of three sevens to build to this number. But it will be rushed, as time is speeding up. Seven days could be seven minutes, seven months, seven days—you see? There are new variables shifting the sands of time. This is also your age now, three sevens. Twenty-one. All still balances. The universe is mathematics, and must balance."

With that the grandfather waved his hands across the floor, glimpsing up at Telek to be sure his message had been made clear.

"Twelve on the outer ring, seven on the inner ring, then you and your equal warrior. When you go into battles, you must fight this way in this formation. Seven months and seventy-seven days until you are ready, or sooner in sevens—but be at home by November fifth, bury your mate's ancestors so they may rest in peace."

The grandfather straightened his back and leaned on the old, plain walking stick that she now knew contained the awesome purple light, and sighed. He seemed to look his ninety-some years of age after his divination, as though the reading had thoroughly spent him. He mopped his moist brow with a shaky, frail hand, nodded, yawned, said a few words, and left the room.

"He is tired and says to feed you and let you rest. We will make some tea and have food, yes?"

"But my team," Damali protested gently. "If he's giving me all this information about them, then they are definitely still alive, right? And if that's the case, I need to get up with them as soon as humanly possible."

Telek smiled. "Yes. They are still alive. And they are on their way. Still so impatient, little one? Did you not learn to flow with the energies around you, yet?"

Damali had to smile. "True. Where are my manners?" Damali opened and closed her mouth, so intrigued that she could barely wait for the lesson to begin.

"In Africa time is of no consequence, as we original people invented this concept called time. But we respect it, do not rush it; she has her own schedule and seasons. There are some things I have yet to show you," Telek said with a wink. "Like how to grab the Light like a blanket to hide yourself, for starters. Then, how to create a Light wand to replace your lost Isis… until you can draw down the Light into the sacred blade and spew it from the tip toward a dark aggressor."


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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
   



"SO NOW what?" Rider sat down hard on the shoreline and stared at the water.

"We wait," Shabazz replied, finding the shade of a tree to shield him.

"Great, Confucius. But shouldn't we be going after our new Guardian brother?" Rider leaned forward with his forearms on his knees.

Shabazz shut his eyes. "We don't know where he is, man."

"Like that's ever stopped us before." Rider issued Shabazz a sideways glance when he didn't respond. "The man vanishes into thin air like a puff of mist with three old wise men like in some biblical passage, and—"

"It wasn't vampires, dude, so chill," Big Mike said, finding a spot near Shabazz to doze. "We wait. If we move out on a rescue and recovery, and he comes back here, we'll pass him."

"Especially if he is in a time-space differential," Monk Lin said quietly as he sat.

Everyone turned and looked at the aging monk.

"Time is an illusion, space is also that," the monk said in a matter-of-fact tone as though he were describing a blade of grass.

"I cannot wrap my head around that right now," Rider admitted, flopping back on the sand. "All I know is we are in a foreign land, got no water that we're particularly ready to drink without boiling it first and dropping in some purification tablets—which you may have noticed, got incinerated on the plane—cholera and yellow fever shots, notwithstanding, along with food, supplies, we got no papers—"

"We've got papers," Dan said, hosting his backpack off and letting it hit the ground with a wobbly thud. "I was scared so shitless, I never took it off."

Rider and Big Mike chuckled.

"Way to go, newbie," Rider said, offering his fist for Dan to pound.

Shabazz glanced at Marlene. "Sis got her black bag and fighting stick, too. Ma don't travel without it, even through a damned crash." He winked at Marlene as she stretched out on the sand. "But girlfriend's Juju is strong, so if they had gone up in flames, whatever."

"All right, cool," Rider fussed good-naturedly. "So, I stand corrected. We've got papers. But has anyone given any thought to the fact that maybe, in a very short while, this area could be flooded by Ethiopian police that will have questions we cannot answer? They might take us in for questioning, putting us miles away from where we're supposed to be. Then what? And, does anybody know if there are lions or anything around here that we should be concerned about, given we don't have a weapon between us? Holy-water bombs ain't gonna fend off a hungry—"

"Jacob Rider," Father Patrick finally scolded. "After the miracles you have just seen, why do you persist in being negative?"

"It's his way," Jose said, chuckling. "You know hombre has to always play devil's advocate and dream up the worst possible scenario. But once he's gone through his battery, he's cool."

"Sort of like my computers," J.L. said, nudging Rider in the side as he plopped down next to him. "The old dude has to run self-check diagnostics before he completely boots up, then he's cool."

"At least someone understands me," Rider said, becoming testy. "I'm not being negative, I'm just being real."

"Words and thoughts have power," Imam Asula said quietly. "Let us focus upon our goal to be reunited with both Damali and Carlos, for now, if we can."

"Let us also not forget to continue our prayers," Father Lopez said, glancing at the others. "It has been our most effective weapon thus far."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you," Rider said, slinging his forearm over his eyes.

 

Damali sat beside Telek, quietly watching the landscape as it passed them in slow-moving still frames of beauty. The open-air Jeep allowed the wind to brush her face, and the dust from the road reminded her that she was alive under an azure, cloudless sky. She'd been told much, but it was all a riddle. Some of it made sense, some of it didn't, but she knew enlightenment was something that would come in time.

She fastened her attention to the small shanty homes that they passed on the hillsides, marveling at the people working, women walking with baskets upon their heads and children strapped to their backs in bright-colored cloths within the rural community. It was as if time had actually stood still, or bypassed this part of the world. People still farmed with hand instruments, but seemed also to possess a profound sense of peace, even in a land devastated by war.

And what was time, really, she wondered. It now seemed to be a manufactured illusion of western culture designed to manipulate people into becoming worker bees trapped within tiny cells that could not appreciate the expanse of time's greatness, rather than something tangible and real. The seasons had her own time, Telek's grandfather had said… rainy season, the dry season, a time to plant, a time to harvest, time with family—invaluable. Time to love, endless. Birth, death, renewal; it was all a circle not judged by time, simply coordinated by it. The beginning of time lived here, as did probably the end of it.

Then, again, what was the end of time, if one considered the infinity of the other realms beyond earth?

Damali clutched the two stones she'd acquired in her palms. In her left hand she held the first one she'd seen on the ground. It was a tiny white stone, worn smooth. Perhaps it was limestone, or something more solid, but it felt like it had once been a part of the great rock formations that had serviced the building of temples, churches, and the monumental obelisks she'd seen. In her right hand she fondled the small quartzlike stone that the sparrow had dropped. What did each mean? What was each for? There were five more days until November 5, and each day a stone would come to her of its own accord, the old man had said, until she possessed seven in all.

The sky, although brightly fired by the sun, offered a warm blanket of sunshine while the breeze gave a mild, balmy fusion to its covering. Balance jumped into her mind as they silently progressed down the bumpy, unpaved road.

Seven rings above mirrored the seven levels below. It was all so well orchestrated, how could one not believe? she mused.

Below, on level one, confused and anxious spirits resided. On the outer ring above, helpful spirits and ancestors with clear purpose and love rested. On level two below, angry, fierce poltergeists screamed and howled and frightened; on ring two above, the ancestors became more focused, gained wisdom and knowledge, and assisted the living in more profound ways. On level three below, jealousy and envy lived in a slithering, vengeful, serpentine world… Carlos had told her that.

Yet, on the third ring of grace, collaboration took place in the arts, sciences, and all manner of creative inspiration that uplifted humankind through beauty, not twisted ugliness. On level five below, raw, primal, murderous aggression lived in the were-demon realms, but above within the fifth ring, the Akashic wisdom and knowledge protectors resided in a place that garnered temperance created from integrated understanding.

Tears made her sniff as she became overwhelmed at the depth of truth within it all. The vampires she'd hunted from the dreaded level six were the shrewdest of all, hardest to kill, fiercest combatants because they possessed all the attributes of the levels of Darkness. It was only fitting that their cosmic match would be warrior angels—huge, strong, bulked entities with glowing silver eyes, those powerful enough to withstand the furnace blasts unafraid, with the ability to manifest, carry messages, and draw a blade, if necessary, to defend a righteous cause. Oddly, both protected their territories with vigilance. The concept gave her pause until she remembered, as above, so below.

It all made so much sense.

 

"And you were saying I had no reason to worry," Rider muttered, standing slowly with the others, his hands raised above his head as Ethiopian police trudged toward them with guns readied.

The officers motioned with their guns and shouted commands that the teams could not understand.

Father Patrick and Father Lopez slowly pointed to their dirty clerical collars and the crosses they wore, producing instant understanding. Guns were lowered, and the head of the militia stepped forward.

"Foreigners are not allowed to roam freely in the North Country," the officer said, agitated. "A plane went down nearby due to terrorists, and we are still experiencing rebel skirmishes. It is dangerous in the region for unescorted missionaries." He shook his head and stepped forward. "You have papers?"

Dan nodded and motioned toward his bag. "Yes, sir. But two of our members were on board the plane that went down," he added, covering quickly as the officer snatched up his backpack. "That's the only reason we're here."

Rider and the others gave Dan an approving glance.

"You should have gone to us—the authorities. Where are you headed?"

All eyes were on Dan and the officer as his fellow officers cocked their machine guns skyward.

"Uh, Sudan?" Dan said, unsure, glancing at his teammates.

Marlene nodded, but didn't speak, knowing a woman's voice was not going to inspire positive action. Shabazz stepped forward slowly with his hands still clasped to the top of his head.

"If you check the papers, we lost a man and a woman in the crash… and we wanted to search for them before we crossed the border."

"Not possible," the officer snapped at Shabazz and began rummaging in Dan's sack. "Travel to Sudan is very dangerous on the roads. There are war zones, you are aware? Also armed bandits along the way, driven by starvation." He clicked his tongue with open annoyance. "Foolish Americans. Look around. Do you not watch the news? Ethiopia, Eritrea, Egypt, and the Red Sea are Sudan's borders, as is Libya, Chad, Zaire, Uganda, Kenya—fighting everywhere, armed militias beyond all major cities." He waved his arms about. "Especially along our border and Eritrea and Sudan's frontier—so we would be irresponsible to just point you to a road and say, 'Go!' No!"

"Thanks for the heads up, brother," Big Mike said, his low, confident voice soothing the agitated official. "Then, can you give us a best way to get back to a safe zone?"

"We will take you to the airport in Addis Ababa, from there you can fly to Khartoum and check back daily to see if your family's remains have been recovered. I will give you a number; however, we cannot have civilians interfering with police matters or creating a possible embassy issue—since you are Americans."

But as the officer continued his inspection of Dan's backpack, glaring at each team member to accurately match a face with a photo, when he took out Damali's passport, his gaze softened as he stared at her picture. "This was the star from the music," he said, awe covering his face and coating his tone as he rushed toward his men. "Look, look, a very important person has been lost over our land. This is tragic!"

"May Allah be with her," Imam Asula said, through the din of African voices.

The officer looked up at Imam Asula. "I am sorry for your loss, brother. I am Muslim, too, and we revere our fallen." He motioned toward his fellow officers. "Some are Christian with us, as well. We will say prayers, but it is doubtful your people have made it, given the severity of the crash." He sighed and put the safety back on his weapon, tossing Dan his backpack. He stared at Marlene. "The woman who has tears—this was your daughter?"

Marlene simply nodded and looked down.

 

"See the waters coming together in your mind," the old teacher said as he instructed Carlos before the rushing grandeur of the Blue Nile Falls. "Use the might of Tis Isat and close the cloak about you as though a coat over your shoulders. Imagine yourself somewhere high and safe, using the energy of a river so mighty that it flows from south to north."

Carlos gazed across the four-hundred-meter expanse of rushing water that dropped into an impressive fifty-meter chasm below. His teacher smiled and nodded. Carlos did the math—four plus five, the number nine, like his birthday came out to. The old boys wasn't no joke when it came to breaking the universe down into mathematics. He summoned courage while looking at the continuous spray of rainbow-hued water that created a mist that hovered above it like a ghost to render its name, Tis Isat, the elders had said—smoke of fire.

Still unsure, he tried to take comfort in the comparison as he readied himself for the first real challenge they'd levied. Indeed he'd been through the fire, now it was time to try illusion in the colored bands of sunlight and rise like smoke above what had once burned him. If water could cast the illusion of being a smoking fire, then he could break through the illusion of time and space and go to where the Blue and White Nile met. Yeah right. God was deep; he was just a spec of dust in comparison. Even to his own mind their logic seemed flawed, especially while watching an extreme force of nature thunder around him.

"Are you sure he should go unescorted… so far?" one of the younger teachers asked, glancing around the small gathering of men.

"We have conferred, yet have not taught him all that we must. He should, perhaps, stay with us for the three cycles of seven," the third teacher offered with uncertainty.

The eldest shook his head. "No. I have had a vision of him at the nexus of the rivers, alone. What he must learn to gain in his arsenal cannot be taught or given, but experienced, then he will own the knowing of it." He sighed. "It is the ancient site of Nubia, the genesis location of our male Neterus—from the water, he will merge his disconnected halves, and then go to the desert, six hours, to see the Al-Ahram, the ancient royal city with great pyramids of Meroe. Learn this history, the peoples of Kush, and of the independent Christian kingdoms. That land, Sudan, was also invaded by tiny countries, conquered because they fought within themselves and could not stand united against invaders… British, French, that spawned wars with Muslims in the name of Christ that created bloodshed and famines and genocides in the millions up to present days—but the connection to Addis Ababa was briefly forged that stopped civil war for a time."

The elder teacher opened both palms and then clasped them, symbolically bringing them into a single fist. "This Neteru must bring together many sides. Indigenous plus Christian and Muslim, Nubian and European—all as one. It starts with quenching your thirst for knowledge at the joining of the two Niles, and then you must forge the desert to seek more knowledge."

"What if I wind up drowning?" Carlos said, growing wary. "My landings haven't been exactly on-point so far… maybe I need to practice a few more times?"

"If you drown, you drown. So be it," the eldest said with a wide smile. "There are no accidents within the universe."

 

Carlos found himself sprawled out on a beach. He jumped up before he even looked around. This was not what the old men had told him about. This place didn't look anything like where he was supposed to be. He froze, and then glanced around slowly, trying not to panic as he recognized where he was.

L.A., Venice Beach. He almost wept from frustration.

"Aw, shit!" He snatched off his crocheted skullcap and threw in to the sand and then clutched his hair. How in the world was he gonna find Damali, the team, or ever sync up with her? His maiden flight in the Light, botched!

He willed himself to take deep breaths and focus. He blotted out the people that were out for a sunny afternoon stroll. Basketball-hoop games thudded in his ears. Laughter, waves, volleyball, all of it made him insane. Dogs ran with joggers; he could hear inline skaters up on the street level. Old men talking trash and playing chess. If the world would just stop spinning for a moment, he'd get off the crazy ride and get back to where he was supposed to be!

"Luck be a lady tonight!" an old man hollered, laughing and standing as he moved a chess piece.

Carlos sighed, picked up his skullcap from the sand, and hit it against his leg before shoving it in his pocket. Beaten, he trudged through the sand. Judging from the sun, it was late afternoon. Maybe his boy, Yonnie, would be around—or most likely they'd both get slaughtered.

"But my queen is going to kick your natural, black ass!" the other contender shouted as he laughed. "Take that, you old Mo Fo. How you like me now? Ain't she purty?"

Carlos had to laugh as he passed the game. It so reminded him of home. Reminded him of his dad and uncles playing cards, before things at home got bad. Maybe that's how he'd messed up and landed on the beach, being so homesick in his heart that no matter what the Neteru teachers had said, he'd ended up here.

Another sigh pushed past his lips as he stopped and watched the game. If he was gonna die, and there were no teachers around, what else was there to do without a cent in his pocket? He had a bank account and number, but no ID on him—so how was he gonna get cash? Right now, he couldn't even bury his mother or grandmother if he wanted to and wasn't sure if he could go to the morgue to even see what the chairman had done. Besides, in what was likely to be his final hours, just listening to these old codgers talk smack gave him some semblance that part of the world was still normal, even if his wasn't. He sure wasn't gonna test his wings again, and possibly end up in Siberia, or some shit.

"See, my brother," the first man teased as a small crowd formed. "You've gotta take risks, is what I'ma show you when I whup your ass."

"You ain't whupping my ass without a fight," the other said, moving a piece and squinting his eyes. "You know me, don't ya? I'm a cat and got nine lives. But like I tol' ya, I can smoke you in seven moves."

Carlos moved in closer to the board, listening harder.

"Aw, hell naw. You ain't gonna do me like that," the first player said. "I got something for ya that you ain't seen befo'. Trust me, gots aces up my sleeve I ain't even used."

Carlos remained very still as the first man picked up his queen and studied her with a smile.

"When I put her down, here, right next to your king, I believe they call it checkmate."

The crowd clapped and passed high-fives and exchanged fist pounds before it slowly disbanded.

"Rematch," the second player demanded. "That wasn't fair!"

"I didn't cheat, just used what I had. You the one with a blind spot that can't see opportunities right before your eyes—so don't be casting no aspersions on me, brother. Besides, what about life is fair any ole way?" The first player looked up at Carlos and winked. "My buddy is a sore loser. Can't stand it when he gets his ass kicked in public." He leaned back as the other player got up from the table and skulked away. "You look like a gamblin' man, young fella… or don't you have time for an old man to show you a trick or two? You play the boards?"

Carlos sat down slowly. "Been known to in the past."

The old man leaned forward. "We ain't talking 'bout the past. If you stay there, I'll kick your young ass for sure."

Carlos chuckled. "Set 'em up."

The old man gathered several pieces and held out his hands. "You better on black or white?"

Carlos's smile broadened. "I used to be better on black… but, I think I'll try white."

"Wise move," the player said, nodding and chuckling. "So, the young buck thinks he's got skills… hmmmm." He blew out his breath and rubbed his hands together.

"Got a few," Carlos said, pushing a pawn forward.

"No. A man needs many," the elderly player said, summarily taking Carlos's pawn.

"Aw'ight," Carlos said, studying the old man more than the chessboard. "Then stop talking yang and school me. Show me whatchu got."

The old man smiled and laughed, then pushed a pawn forward.

This time, Carlos didn't rush his move but sat back.

"You're running out of time," the player said, setting a tiny hourglass on the side of the board. "Any day now, works for me. Unless you're scared?"

Carlos met his eyes. "No, I'm not," he said, moving a piece without looking at the board.

"Good, because I was getting worried." The old man took his knight and shook his head. "Still am, sorta kinda."

"Don't be," Carlos said, and took his bishop.

The old man laughed and scratched his head. "Okay," he said, nodding in appreciation. "So, it's like that?"

"Yeah it is," Carlos said, reaching for the hourglass and flipping it over. "Like you said. Any day."

In a bold move, the old man pushed his black queen forward and waited. "Tempting, ain't she?"

Carlos nodded and the smile left his face. "Thoroughly, but booby trapped."

"Right," the elderly player said, "and I'ma show you how." He moved a knight three hops and then a castle along a short line. "Come for her like that, and I've got your king."

"Game over," Carlos murmured.

"Soooo… maybe you don't go for her like that in a straight line. Pace yourself, but keep moving."

The two men stared at each other.

"The queen you need to protect can protect herself, these days. You need to worry about your king. See all the pieces she has around her?"

Carlos's gaze sought the ocean. "She doesn't need me," he said quietly.

"We talkin' 'bout chess, or a woman?" The old man made a tent in front of his mouth with his fingers.

Carlos stared at his chess partner's ruddy brown face that sprouted hard white whiskers and assessed his raggedy plaid shirt and tattered, blue uniform pants. His semibald scalp gleamed in the sun. Wisdom was coming at him so hard and so fast from so many directions it made his head spin. "Maybe both," Carlos finally said.

"Women are confusing," the old man said with a sly chuckle. "That's why you can't focus. But looky here," he added, removing Carlos's king from the board. "Take out the king, and she's wide open." He did several knock-down moves. "With the king out of position, I could come for the rook, the other knight, the remaining bishop, and march all the way through your fortified defenses to take her down hard." He quickly reset the board. "Do it the other way, and look what happens to the king. Gone in two moves. They both need each other behind the lines."

"Interesting." Carlos rubbed his chin.

"Ain't it just."

"But the king can't move as fast as she can, ya know? Like, he can only go in these little moves, whereas, she can go lateral, vertical, horizontal, and take out everything in her path." He stared at the ocean. "He used to be able to do that, too, but…"

"Different skills. One holds the line; the other does the quick, surgical strikes with motion. A queen has to move fast, cut deep, and be out. The king—"

"Has to hold the shield."

His newfound mentor nodded, his snaggle-toothed grin catching sun rays. "But, uh, I thought you was in a hurry? Ain't you supposed to be somewhere?"

"Yeah," Carlos said, standing. "Thanks for the chess lesson."

"Any time," the old player said brightly. "They didn't tell you 'bout the fourteenth piece you're missing, did they, or you wouldn't be looking so glum."

Carlos sat down again, this time very slowly.

"I didn't think so. They's monks. What do they know?"

The elderly man reached into his pants pocket and then held out his hand, producing a pocketknife for Carlos to inspect. "Lotsa things seem to be one thing, then be somethin' else. But if you looking for her, then, hey, ya needs to be strapped."

Carlos sighed wearily and declined the knife with a glance.

Seeming both amused and perturbed, the old man flipped open the short blade and stared at it. "Impatience is the curse of youth." he said, turning the dull blade to the sun. "But in the right hand, one with a mark of greatness, even this small thing might be of use." He offered it to Carlos again with a sly smile and waited until Carlos finally took it from his outstretched palm.

The moment Carlos held it, the pocketknife extended into a foot-long, golden-handled claw with a three-inch diameter.

"Jesus," Carlos said, turning the clawed weapon from side to side.

"The claw of Heru, to be mo' accurate," the elderly chess player said with a wink. "Put the other hand on the bottom and pull." He sat back and waited until Carlos followed his instructions, and he laughed deeply as Carlos's left hand extended the handle until it disconnected, leaving a thick gold chain between both halves. "Claw on one side, chain in the middle that cannot be broken, and a handle on the other side. I take it you know how to use nunchucks?"

Carlos stared at the weapon, and began to swing the dangling end in a slow circle.

The old man sighed. "You'll need practice. Guess she gonna hafta show you that, too. But, when you need it, you can kick some serious booty if ya swing that sucker right, catch a throat with the chain, bust a skull open with the end, and match fangs for fangs, claws for claws with the sharp end. Like I said, though, ya needs technique and training, but that ain't my department. Alls I know is, put the end back in and put it away until you need it—like ya needs to put your Johnson away until ya need it." He laughed hard and shook his head. "Airport security won't see it, as it comes from a very special place. Just leave it in your pants, got that?"

Carlos couldn't take his eyes off the weapon as he snapped the handle back on and it again became a small, ordinary-looking pocketknife. He put it into his pocket like the old man had told him and stared at the strange individual before him. "Thanks," he said, meaning it with his whole heart. "But I have to find her and need to know about this fourteenth gift. I need to know as much as I can to be able to do what I have to do."

Carlos leaned forward, but the old man held up his hand. "Ain't my place. That's fer her to show you."

"I'm trying to find her now," Carlos said quietly. "Please, man, for real. My head is all jacked up, a lot has gone down, so if you know—"

"See, now, I ain't ask you all of that. That's your personal business. All you had to do was say, 'I'm lost, tryin' to get back on the right path,' then my job is simply to offer directions."

Carlos closed his eyes. "Sir, I'm lost and trying to get back on the right path, honest to God, I am."

 

"From this point, I can go no farther," Telek said, stopping the Jeep by the side of the road. "There is war along the borders."

For a moment, she just stared at him. "Then we came all this way to turn around? Why?"

"No, we came all this way for you to go to the two Niles."

Damali glanced around. "Okaaaay. But if there's war and you can't drive me… a chopper or—"

Telek shook his head no. "Many problems with crossing borders in unauthorized aircrafts, not wise. Not possible. So, I leave you here."

"What!"

He leaned across Damali's lap and unlatched the door with a smile.

"No way! Out here? By myself? Brother, you know that ain't right, after all the good Samaritan stuff we talked… I told you thank you, right? I haven't offended you, have I? We're still cool, right? Oh, Lawd, man, don't just make a sister walk through a war zone!"

"I'm not going to make you walk," Telek said, gathering her tight fists within his palms.

Damali slumped back into her seat with sudden relief. "Bless you. For real."

He gently opened her palms and his gaze at them made her stare at the stones.

"In your left hand, granite from the ancient obelisks, covered by hallowed ground from the holy shrine of St. Mary of Zion—for spiritual strength. Quartz crystal on the right, for vision and healing… clarity of direction. Your feet, this path, washed clean of the past by Queen Sheba's pool." Telek's voice became soft. "It is time to fly, little bird. Take one stone in each hand and make the arc of Light around you to become the sparrow."

Again, she stared at him, mouth agape. Oh, no, he was not going to go cosmic on her, out here, without real practice, and send her flying through a war zone with rocket-propelled grenades, freakin' land mines, and whatnot. Oh hell no. Damali withdrew her arms and folded them over her chest. He could not be serious.

 

When Carlos opened his eyes, he landed with a thud and stood quickly, his heart pounding so hard that he could barely breathe. He immediately felt the temperature shift from fairly cool to hot and dry as he glanced around the bustling modern city that owned tree-lined streets. It took a few moments to get his bearings and sort out the traffic noise from the roaring falls that still echoed in his head.

Yet he was practically giddy when he realized where he was standing—the White Nile Bridge. He did it! The old chess player did it. Somebody did it, but it was all good.

New confidence filled him as he walked along the pedestrian and bikers' path gazing at the water. Just like the old days… well, almost. But the fact was he'd concentrated on a location, folded Light in on itself, and had actually walked through space and time without a passport, even if his first attempt was a little ragged.

Savoring the moment, he leaned on the metal guardrail and stared out at a body of water that had once ferried pharaohs. Excitement made the hairs on his arms stand up with electric charge. He had no idea the guys from the Light could pull off a stunt like this. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he self-corrected it. "No stunt, my bad. But this was awesome," he murmured to no one in particular, but to anyone that might be in spiritual earshot.

A small bird shot past him with stones in its beak, and he laughed. Everybody was always in a rush, he mused, delighting in just being alive. Just like the chess player had given him something serious to ponder, there was something that he was supposed to get or learn where both rivers met, so he looked out at the massive body of water, concentrating on their nexus as hard as he possibly could. Nothing came to him but his own inner voice, which was beginning to wrestle with worry again.

A biker whizzed by and his voice floated behind. Shari el-Nil. Carlos stared after the man who was long gone. He repeated the words. Was it a message, or just a greeting in the land's mother tongue? Carlos sighed, knowing there was only one way to find out.

Carlos walked a bit, sidling up to nonthreatening-looking pedestrian with the intention to try out the new words. The man seemed regular enough, like he could be somebody's pop. But with all the bizarre things that had happened, one couldn't be so sure.

The man sported a pair of worn leather sandals, a green plaid shirt, rough-hewn tan cotton pants, and a small burgundy crocheted cap atop his partially balding head. He had an easy gait that suggested he was in no particular hurry to go wherever he was headed. If the unintelligible phrase was a curse word shot by an overly aggressive biker, then Carlos figured he could apologize in English and plead tourist ignorance. However, if it was a greeting, and the locals were friendly, then the reply would give him two new words in his arsenal within this strange land.

Carlos reached into his pocket and quickly put on his crocheted cap. No need in being culturally incorrect to create a barrier.

"Shari el-Nil," Carlos said as pleasantly as possible to the older man once they were side by side.

The man smiled and began speaking a mile a minute in sentences Carlos could never begin to sort out. But the fact that the man was smiling helped a lot. Obviously it wasn't a bad word.

"Wait, wait," Carlos said, laughing. "I only know Shari el-Nil."

"Oh," the man said, shaking his head. "Foreigner. I see. You look for the neem trees to stroll the Blue Nile Corniche? This is what Shari el-Nil is—a place, like a park—or what you call a parkway, maybe."

Carlos smiled. "Yeah… uh… I guess so."

The man tilted his head, seeming amused. "A friend recommended this, yes?"

"Well, not exactly. I heard it and was trying to pick up the language."

The man laughed and stopped walking. "There are more than one hundred languages here. Not easy to pick up. But Arabic is official, but many know English, too, and French."

"Cool. Thanks."

The older gentleman's expression remained pleasant and curious, as though he wasn't ready to end the early morning discussion. "You are new here, so just say, salam aleikum to greet others, or if they say it to you, you answer, wa aleikum as-salam."

Carlos slapped his forehead and laughed, making the man beside him also laugh harder. "Right! How could I forget something as basic as that—as many brothers from 'round the way say it all the time. Standard!"

"You are also Muslim?" the man asked, his eyes becoming more excited. "You know to tell them in the mosque, ma-atkallam arabi—that you do not speak Arabic, and they will still embrace you as Allah's. No problem."

"No, I… I'm not—"

"You go to the neem trees and think about what you already know and can remember," he said, beginning to walk away, still grinning. "You seem like a man of many languages."

Now he had Carlos's full attention.

"Yo," Carlos said, quickening his pace to catch up with the now spry old man. "Hold up, sir. Please. Why would you say that?"

"You pick up languages so well, like you wanted to go to Shari el-Nil and you listened to the sounds and said it like you were from here." The man cocked his head to the side as confusion wrinkled his brow. "At first glance, I truly couldn't tell you were not from here until I went beyond your vocabulary. Did anyone ever tell you that was a gift?"

"No," Carlos said, truly intrigued. "I'd never thought of it that way."

The older man began walking. "If you follow me, I have to go past there. You should sit, listen to the birds, and think. Maybe there are other things you can do with your life, young man."

Carlos only nodded as he walked quietly beside this newfound friend. Interesting. He was expecting some big power jolt to come surging up from the waters, and instead, this subtle but powerful message had been delivered by an old man wearing baggy pants. This was a new perspective. Nothing like what he'd expected. The Light clearly worked with subtlety, that was for sure. Smooth. They literally let wisdom sneak up on you, seduce you with such silk that if you were unaware, you'd miss it.

Parallels began forming new and open channels in his mind. His old side used cold-blooded power and sheer dark force to draw in prey; this new side was all pro. The Light simply let birds fly by, an old man saunter along, then knocked your head back with an epiphany that was too profound for words.

The quiet revelation almost made Carlos laugh out loud as his kindly guide prattled on about the pharaonic stone carvings and stunning Christian frescoes to be seen within the National Museum. During the easy few-mile walk, Carlos soaked in everything the old man had to say about the great exhibits to witness and the best places to get shai bi-laban, sweet tea with milk, or bi-nana, sweet mint tea, and the stewed white beans, fasooliyya, or fuul, stewed brown beans and tabouleh salad.

One thing Carlos knew for sure, to learn a new culture, one had to learn how the people ate. As above, apparently, so below. There were so many things he had to remember. He just wished his old grasp of languages and knowledge would snap back—that was one thing from his old council seat that would have been a serious benefit, all other issues notwithstanding. But he made his peace with the problem. It was what it was. The Light had shown him some pretty cool new abilities; this old man was making him see parallels that he'd been blind to before. Just like the chess player had reminded him of how to be strategic, but also to take risks. Now if he could just find Damali and get back to the team, many of his immediate worries would be solved.

"Before you go to Meroe, which is a good place for you to see history," Carlos's walking partner said, "be sure to go to the Omdurman Souq." He opened his arms wide and his smile also widened. "That is our largest market, and on Fridays, except during Ramadan," he pointed out with care, "the whirling dervishes dance." He bobbed and swayed and turned around. "It is a sight, if you have ever seen one. They look like great birds and stir the dust high!" The old man danced and pointed to the neem trees above. "Like birds, just like this," he added, spinning and chuckling, and then poof, he was gone.

"Oh, shit!" Carlos jumped backward and almost fell, sending a plume of sparrows airborne. He glanced around quickly and nothing else out of the ordinary was evident. But he remained very still as he double-checked the position of the birds, given that any and everything was fair game to be something other than it appeared to be.

One by one, the birds went back to their branches, flustered and fussing their complaint as they settled down. But one edged near him with its beak filled with stones. At this point, he studied everything so closely that he bordered on righteous paranoia.

"So, I suppose you've got a message for me, since you look like the same chick carrying stones across the bridge a ways back?" Carlos said to the small brown bird, laughing. Oh, yeah, he was over the top. He watched the curious little creature with an overstuffed beak cock its head from side, to side, studying him. Now it was really time to check his sanity. He was talking to birds!

He watched it hop closer toward him, as though begging for food. He laughed and squatted down. "Greedy little thing," he said quietly, amused by its boldness. "You can't eat rocks, and I'm sorry to say that I ain't got nothing but love for ya."

The bird immediately dropped a dusty white pebble and a clear smooth one the size of a lima bean. It chirped a virulent complaint and spread its wings, like it wanted to fight. Carlos burst out laughing and stretched out his palm to see if he could coax it near. "Tough little thing, huh? A bad momma… okay, but I don't have—" Total fascination gripped him as it jumped into his open palm and then flitted away. "Wow… That was so cool."

Before he could stand up, it transformed from the feet up. The surprise knocked him on his butt and he sat on the pavement, sprawled in wonder. "Damali?"

"Yeah—and where have you been?" she said, putting one hand on her hip.

Carlos was on his feet in two seconds. "Boo! Girl! It's you!"

They both laughed as he swept her up and whirled her around. The image of the old man's dance grazed his mind and made tears come to his eyes. She was back, whole, and had shape-shifted, no less! Messages and signs had been all around him. He danced a jig with her like she was a rag doll, laughing and squeezing her harder.

"Oh, my God, D—I was so worried, so much went down. The plane crashed, we all got out, angels came, old seers hijacked me to an island—girl, I have to tell you so much stuff—"

"I know, I know," she said, laughing through the tears. "The Council of Queens kicked my butt, read me hard, sent me into the streets, I was lost—you cool—everybody good? Where is everybody anyway?"

"All right, all right," he said, kissing her face and wiping his with sweaty palms. "I'll fill you in as we walk, you tell me all that happened to you and how you did that awesome bird thing in broad daylight—there's this place up the way where we can get some kebabs and shai bi-laban to get a grub on before we head to Meroe. Cool?"

"Wait," she said, picking up her stones and placing them in her robe pocket while laughing. "Before you even tell me about this new jawn, Meroe—you've been in Khartoum how long, and you know the restaurants and can speak Arabic?"

He threaded his arm around her waist. "Girl, you know I've got mad survival skills. Why you gonna front on me and ask me something like that?" He kissed her temple, making her giggle and shake her head, as he gave her a sly wink. "But, uh, my pockets are a little light right through here, baby. I forgot. You got any money?"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
   



"OH, MAN, what I wouldn't give to check into the Hilton." Rider briefly closed his eyes and rubbed his neck as the teams stood in the long customs line within Khartoum Airport's dense throngs of wayfarers. He glanced at Father Patrick and dropped his voice low enough so that only his teammates could hear him. "Can't you make peace with your people and maybe pull some strings in high places?"

"No," the elder cleric said in a testy tone. "As soon as we go wherever we go, I'm no longer willing to bear this crest," he said, motioning to the knights of Templar insignia on his robe. "I am ashamed of that history. How can I not be, now that I've stood on honest hallowed ground and felt the pulse of truth?" He swallowed hard and looked away, angrily, at the airport crowd. "Reading about it is one thing, feeling it through your bones is another. There is genocide happening here, like it has so many places on so many continents. Almost two million people… But no one with power seems to care to intervene. Again, just like always."

"Dude, I hear you," Rider said, going to the older priest to put a steady hand on his shoulder as the other road-weary members of their group tensed for a potential outburst. "I was just joking about the Hilton," Rider said, making his voice low and calm to invite Father Patrick's to do the same. "Not here, though." Rider's eyes met Father Patrick's and the momentary silence between them drowned out the multinational din around them. "We'll discuss all that later."

Father Patrick reluctantly nodded and looked away as Rider dropped his hand from his shoulder.

"If you want to do the Hilton," Dan said very calmly, "we can do that."

The group looked at him.

"Talk to me," Shabazz said in a quiet tone that contained hope.

"The cash is gone, courtesy of the Ethiopian authorities, for our so-called flight expenses—even though that should have only used a third of the bankroll that was in my backpack," he said with an angry sigh. "But, hey. Road taxes, I suppose."

"It's cool, though," Big Mike offered, his huge shoulders sagging from pure exhaustion. "We're alive and not detained on some bogus formality. So, let's get back to the part about the Hilton, that oasis image I have in my mind of hot water, a bed, and some basic, regulation grub."

Dan reached into the sack and unzipped a compartment, producing an array of gold and platinum credit cards like a card dealer's fan. "Good as cash," he said with triumph in his voice. "The way I see it is, we get through customs, find an AMEX counter in the airport, or whatever, do a cash advance. From here, we call the Hilton and make a reservation and get their shuttle to pick us up. That way, we go in a marked van and don't have to take our chances on the street. Then we check in, and me and J.L. can scout for team clothes—again, using credit to conserve the cash we'll need to help grease local police palms if we get into another jam. We eat, we rest, and then we all get in the same space and try to use our seers to lock in on any locations of the missing."

"You'd better go, boy," Shabazz said with deep appreciation in his voice. "All right." He smiled and offered Dan his fist to pound, which Dan did with admiration in his eyes. "You just stepped up."

"No doubt," Jose murmured with respect. "That was an awesome move back there with the authorities, too."

"Smooth," Big Mike said quietly. "Professional."

Dan smiled, a rosy tinge entering his cheeks. "Thanks, guys. I've been doing a lot of thinking, ya know. Like, the fact that they saw two extra passports and recognized our girl… maybe our man, might be working to our advantage," he added in a conspiratorial, private tone, and speaking in quasi code while the line inched forward.

Marlene nodded and smiled. "Follow your gut, baby. Finish the thought. Just let it flow."

"The media will broadcast her possible death over a holy site—which makes sense, since she was supposed to be on a religious pilgrimage."

Berkfield stepped in closer. "Our man's mug shot is very recognizable, too. It won't be long before they make a link to him and also show him missing and assumed dead."

"That's where I was going," Dan said, struggling to keep the excitement from raising the level of his voice as he began using his hands to talk. "The compound going up will be added to the news—either wildfire or speculation about our man's past. Either way, it will explain her need to find religion, as well as any explosions from our ammo."

J.L. chuckled. "And the reason we had such tight security, all the high-tech gadgets they may find in the charred rubble is because her lover had some nefarious origins." He shook his head. "You're the man."

"We work it," Berkfield whispered, gaining nods from the group. "Cover our tracks."

"The hole in the plane will suggest that most, if not all of us, got sucked out through the pressure-seal breaks. And, if you'll notice, courtesy Father Patrick's people, those two names, his and hers, are the only actual ones on the docs." He dug in his sack again and produced the visas for each person to inspect.

Dan waited until each person had looked at their documents and tucked them away into the folds of their robes, both stunned and satisfied.

"My face isn't recognizable, nor is my name," Dan added, "not like you guys who were in the band. Mar has me on the insurance paperwork as the second businessperson in command. It's a limited liability partnership that lives on even if one of the principals—our girl—goes down. So, I can settle the estate, long distance through faxes, or do it in person as the executor once we get home. The fire may be deemed an act of God, though. Therefore we might be assed out as far as a financial recovery from the loss of our compound. They may not settle the estate, either, for like a year, until the search for her has been legally concluded… just so you know. Which is really best, since we don't want to get caught up in any insurance-fraud backlash when girlfriend resurfaces. But for now, I can still manage the business, or draw on what we had in the banks. We have to have resources while—"

"The entire team stays undercover," Berkfield said, finishing Dan's sentence in a whisper. He glanced at the group that held the same awed expression and then looked at Dan.

"When did you notice the names weren't right?" Father Patrick whispered, making the other clerics come into a tighter huddle. " We didn't do that… our people didn't do that."

The group drew in closer and waited, their focus steady on Dan.

"It had to happen in the air," he whispered with a shrug. "It wasn't like that when we took off in Manila. That's all I know." He glanced around and allowed his line of vision to settle on Marlene. "You know how we've all been a little off… like how our gifts have been rusty, not working, right?"

Marlene nodded. "Yeah, baby. Talk to me."

"Ever since Rivera and Berkfield did their thing on everybody with you… and we sat by that lake, I've been getting my old hunches back, thinking clearer." He looked at Rider, then Jose. "How's your snozes?"

"My sinuses are killing me," Rider said, sharing a look with Jose, who nodded.

"Yeah, my point exactly," Dan said, his eyes wide with wonder. "And Mike began complaining of a headache from all the noise in the airport, the same way J.L. and Shabazz have been jumpy."

"And the way it resonated with me when Rider mentioned the Hilton," Marlene said quietly, looking off into the distance. "Our sensory gifts are slowly coming back." She looked at the four clerics who silently nodded their agreement.

"That's why I'm with Rider," Dan said, shuffling forward with the slow-moving line. "If we get to a place where we can really rest, take a load off, eat to replenish ourselves, get some clean water, maybe what we lost will come back."

"Whew," Rider whispered, letting his breath out hard. "This is deep enough to make even me consider wearing a clerical collar."

 

Damali reached across the small outdoor cafe table and covered Carlos's hand with her own. She watched him toy with a pair of her silver earrings, pushing them around with his forefinger on the rutted surface of the wood as he spoke. He'd told her so much; they had shared so much. Their gifts were so new and there was so much to celebrate. There was also a lot to dread, and her name was Lilith. But as he told her about what happened to his mother and grandmother, suddenly her lungs couldn't hold enough air.

"Baby… I'm so sorry. We have to figure out a way to go back immediately, and—"

"No," he said quietly, his gaze gentle. "I have time to go bury her proper. I'm making my peace with that. It's about patience."

She stared at him, not knowing what to say.

"I saw her," he murmured. "Saw all of them. They're in a better place, and this was part of the whole equation."

Damali tilted her head, not sure what he meant. Grief was stabbing her in the belly, making her breaths shallow.

"I can see them," he whispered, leaning in closer. "Oh, I will address what happened," he added, releasing her hold on his hand and sitting back in his chair. "Trust me on that. But right now, I'm cool. Like the old dudes said—seven days to get my head right and my spirit right. Seventy days to locate all my gifts and gather an army. Seven months to get those resources strong. Yeah. Always operate from a position of strength, baby. You know that. Problem is, with this axe hanging over our heads… with the egg. We can't let that happen on our watch." He briefly shut his eyes. "D, I'm so sorry, baby."

She nodded. "It wasn't your fault. We both didn't think… Next time, if there's—you know what I'm saying—we'll plan."

"Right. I know you're right." He looked at her. "You sure you feel okay, no aftereffects?"

"No," she said softly, and reached forward to clasp his hand to squeeze it tightly. "I'm good."

"Cool," he said, and then looked down at the table.

However, as she watched him glance away, unshed tears sparkling in his eyes as the muscle in his jaw pulsed, she knew he was anything but cool about any of what had gone down. She withdrew the two stones she had in her pocket and held them in her fist above the table before him. "Granite," she said, setting the small white stone down hard to draw his attention away from his pain. "Your spirit has to be impenetrable on the side of white Light. Now I know what this means." She next placed the clear quartz crystal beside it. "Your mind must be crystal clear—laser sharp." Damali paused to allow the information to sink in. "I'm to collect five more stones for a total of seven for you, and until you're healed, I'm not completely whole, either. We're partners. If you go down, I go down, and vice versa. Comprendo?"

He smiled, although his expression was tense as the tears in his eyes receded and burned away. "We're both in rehab. Gotta relearn the old stuff, plus a bunch of new. I've got your back, and you've got mine—always was that way, girl."

She smiled, tension easing away from her shoulders. "Yeah," she said, covering his hands when he leaned forward. "You can bend light and conceal yourself. I can shape-shift into living natural creatures. Makes me able to hide, or get into small places to hear what I've gotta hear." She paused, struggling with the decision about whether or not to tell him about Raven, and decided not to go there. If he knew she'd try to hit council chambers, they'd be in a huge argument that they didn't need to get into right now.

"We can both travel in the Light bands, just in different ways. Just like these two stones, we just picked up two gifts," she said, covering her dilemma with a tender smile. "Your thirteenth gift and mine. A celebration is in order."

He leaned in closer. "True. That's deep." Carlos sighed. "All right. But what about weapons while we're rollin'?"

Damali lowered her voice. "They said you'd get the shield of Heru and his saber. I'd get a Light wand that would leave a deadlier cut on an enemy than the Isis blades alone. Problem is, they haven't given me my blades back, yet, and you don't have a shield, yet… so, we cope until then with conventional stuff, is my vote."

"I know," Carlos said in a near whisper. "But when, where? How do we get those? That's what's bugging the hell out of me."

Damali shrugged. "I don't know, baby. Somewhere or sometime during this whole collection process, I suppose." She looked off in the distance, thinking. It was all so crazy, yet made perfect sense. He was changing, she was changing, the team was changing. Everything she'd known was in total flux. Food oddly made sense, too. How the old cultures used it to nurture the soul as much as it nurtured the body, this was the first gift they offered, even when they had so very little of it to share.

"Yeah, girl. I know what you mean. Food is important, the gift of offering a meal is like—"

"Carlos," she said quietly, stopping his sentence midstream. "I didn't say that out loud."

They both stared at each other. A current ran through her as he extended his hands across the table and held hers. When she looked into his eyes, she could see his dark irises rimmed with a thin thread of silver, and then it seemed like his irises had filaments of silver breaking them up. She breathed in deeply, and tilted her head. Damn… he smelled good.

He took in a deep breath as he watched her expression. Her hands felt like they were on fire. He had to glance down at them to be sure his weren't. But as he looked up slowly and her stare captured his, he saw a thin golden band of shimmering light just above the surface of her skin. It was as though she was glowing in the sun, and he followed the trail along the edge of her shoulder until her eyes drank him in.

We're back, she thought, gazing at him intently.

I hear you, he thought, not blinking as he continued to look into her eyes.

It's not a vamp lock. She squeezed his hands more tightly. It's like what I used to be able to do in impressions with Marlene, but I actually hear your voice in my head.

Carlos nodded. We haven't been able to do that since…

Yeah. She swallowed hard, fighting against the new emotion.

"When you see spirits," she whispered, "what do you see?"

He hesitated, searching for vocabulary to describe the phenomena. "Light all around them, they actually glow with it, too. They're translucent, clearish, but not. You follow?"

She nodded. "I see in rolling visions. Snap frames of impressions, not actual beings." Damali released his hands and sat back, wiping the sudden moisture from her brow. "You see the present, I see the near future and can pick up the past. I have the third eye working; your sight is coming from your actual eyes." He sat back and stared at her. "When you first came back, your eyes glowed silver. Now I better understand."

"Girl, as always, you are blowing my mind."

She smiled and it gave way to a nervous chuckle. "That's my job, ain't it?"

"I guess it is." He smiled.

"But the people we saw. They were something real, but not. Since you can see in the present, who were they?"

"Third-ring guides. Maybe even fourth-ring Akashic file protectors. Light entities that are strong enough to push through the density of earth's gray zone, manifest, and deliver a message."

Again, she stared only at him before slowly speaking. "We've reconnected our spirits, me and you," she said with reverence. "Then our heads synced up—one mind. The whole of which can see past, present, and future… and you can discern beings of light from the outer first ring, like your mother's spirit, all the way to warrior angels on ring six. Oh, this is wild."

"No," he murmured, clasping her hands within his again. "What's wild is, I get the info, and then you break the code on it. I can call up stuff, can tell you what I've experienced, and you analyze it so on-point that it's scary, woman. It's like I get the knowledge, then you put the wisdom to it."

"Balance," she stated flatly. "As you remember things from your old life, I can put it into context with this new path. But you have to trust me."

"No doubt," he murmured, his voice traveling toward the horizon as his gaze slid away from hers to the sun. "I may be new at this whole Neteru thing, but I know we need weapons… thirteen gifts, notwithstanding, D. We've gotta get strapped."

"No lie," she said, looking toward the sun.

"They told me something about pyramids in the desert and Meroe."

She smiled. "What's in Meroe?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, and returned his gaze to hers. "It's like a three-hour trip, we could make it there and back well before it gets dark."

"By bus for a coupla bucks, right? I know we have this new set of skills, but I don't want to test it and have you wind up one place, me in another."

"I heard that," he said, removing his hands from hers to take a sip of tea. "I thought I was gonna have a heart attack when those old boys made me grab the filament edges, and then pushed me into a Light spiral. No, girl. Lemme work my thing out first before I get all fancy and mess up."

She had to laugh. "Aw, brother. C'mon. You used to whirl in on a black tornado and—"
perfectly welcome to call me Earthie."
	"All right, then. I'll have a busman's holiday. What would you like to do?"
	"That's an easy one to answer. I want to see the proton synchrotron."
	"Not that. Maybe Barren can arrange it after you see him."
	"Well, if I can't see the synchrotron, I don't know what else there is to see. I know the radio telescope is on the other side and I don't suppose there's any novelty in it, anyway...You tell me. What doesn't the average tourist get to see?"
	"A number of things. There are the algae rooms -- not the antiseptic processing plants, which you've seen -- but the farms themselves. However, the smell is pretty strong there and I don't suppose an Earthie -- Earthman -- would find it particularly appetizing. Earthmen have trouble with the food as it is."
	"Does that surprise you? Have you ever tasted Earth-food?"
	"Not really. I probably wouldn't like it, though. It all depends on what you're used to."
	"I suppose so," said the Earthman, sighing. "If you ate a real steak, you'd probably gag at the fat and fiber."
	"We could go to the outskirts where the new corridors are being driven into bedrock, but you'll have to wear special protective garments. There are the factories -- "
	"You make the choice, Selene."
	"I will, if you will tell me something honestly."
	"I can't promise without hearing the question."
	"I said that Earthies that didn't like Earthies tended to stay on the Moon. You didn't correct me. Do you intend to stay on the Moon?"
	The Earthman stared at the toes of his clumsy boots. He said, "Selene, I had trouble getting a visa to the Moon. They said I might be too old for the trip and that if I stayed any length of time I might find it impossible to return to Earth. So I told them I planned to stay on the Moon permanently."
	"You weren't lying?"
	"I wasn't sure at the time. But I think I'll stay here now."
	"I should have thought that they would have been less willing than ever to let you go under those conditions."
	"Why?"
	"Generally, the Earth authorities don't like to send physicists to the Moon on a permanent basis."
	The Earthman's lips twitched. "In that respect, I had no trouble."
	"Well, then, if you're going to be one of us, I think you ought to visit the gymnasium. Earthies often want to but we don't encourage them as a general rule -- though it's not forbidden outright. Immigrants are a different thing."
	"Why?"
	"Well, for one thing, we exercise in the nude or near-nude. Why not?" She sounded aggrieved, as though weary of repeating a defensive position. "The temperature is controlled; the environment is clean. It's just that where people from Earth are expected to be, nudity becomes unsettling. Some Earthies are shocked; some are titillated; and some are both. Well, we're not going to dress in the gymnasium for their sake, and we're not going to cope with them, either; so we keep them out."
	"But immigrants?"
	"They have to get used to it. In the end, they'll be discarding clothes, too. And they'll need the gymnasium even more than the native Lunarites do."
	"I'll be honest with you, Selene. If I encounter female nudity, I'll find it titillating, too. I'm not quite so old that I won't."
	"Well, titillate, then," she said, indifferently, "but to yourself. Agreed?"
	"Do we have to get undressed too?" He looked at her with amused interest.
	"As spectators? No. We could, but we don't have to. You would feel uncomfortable if you did this early in the game and you wouldn't be a particularly inspiring sight to the rest of us -- "
	"You are frank!"
	"Do you think it would be? Be honest. And as for myself, I have no wish to put you under a special strain in your private titillation. So we might both just as well stay clothed."
	"Will there be any objection? I mean to my being there as an Earthie of uninspirational appearance?"
	"Not if I'm with you."
	"Very well, then, Selene. Is it far away?"
	"We are there. Just through here."
	"Ah, then, you were planning to come here all the time."
	"I thought it might be interesting."
	"Why?"
	Selene smiled suddenly. "I just thought."
	The Earthman shook his head. "I'm beginning to think you never just think. Let me guess. If I'm to stay on the Moon, I will need to exercise now and then in order to keep muscles, bones, and all my organs, perhaps, in condition."
	"Quite true. So do all of us, immigrants from Earth in particular. The day will come when the gymnasium will be a daily grind for you."
	They stepped through a door and the Earthman stared in astonishment. "This is the first place I've seen that looks like Earth."
	"In what way?"
	"Why it's big. I didn't imagine you would have such big rooms on the Moon. Desks, office machinery, women at the desks -- "
	"Bare-breasted women," said Selene, gravely.
	"That part isn't Earthlike, I admit."
	"We've got a hold-chute, too, and an elevator for Earthies. There are many levels...But wait."
	She approached a woman at one of the nearer desks, talking in a rapid, low voice while the Earthman stared at everything with amiable curiosity.
	Selene returned. "No trouble. And it turns out we're going to have a melee. A rather good one; I know the teams."
	"This place is very impressive. Really."
	"If you still mean its size, it's not nearly big enough. We have three gymnasiums. This is the largest."
	"I'm somehow pleased that in the Spartan surroundings of the Moon, you can afford to waste so much room on frivolity."
	"Frivolity!" Selene sounded offended. "Why do you think this is frivolity?"
	"Melees? Some sort of game?"
	"You might call it a game. On Earth you can do such things for sports; ten men doing, ten thousand watching. It's not so on the Moon; what's frivolous for you is necessary for us...This way; we'll take the elevator, which means a little waiting perhaps."
	"Didn't mean to get you angry."
	"I'm not really angry but you must be reasonable. You Earthmen have been adapted to Earth-gravity for all the three hundred million years since life crawled onto dry land. Even if you don't exercise, you get by. We've had no time at all to adapt to Moon-gravity."
	"You look different enough."
	"If you're born and reared under Moon-gravity, your bones and muscles are, naturally, slimmer and less massive than an Earthie's would be, but that's superficial. There isn't a bodily function we possess, however subtle -- digestion, rates of hormonal secretions -- that isn't maladjusted to gravity and that doesn't require a deliberate regimen of exercise. If we can arrange exercise in the form of fun and games that does not make it frivolity...Here's the elevator."
	The Earthman hung back in momentary alarm, but Selene said, with residual impatience, as though still seething over the necessity of defense. "I suppose you're going to tell me it looks like a wickerwork basket. Every Earthman who uses it says so. With Moon-gravity, it doesn't have to be any more substantial."
	The elevator moved downward slowly. They were the only ones on board.
	The Earthman said, "I suspect this isn't much used."
	Selene smiled again. "You're right. The hold-chute is much more popular, and much more fun."
	"What is it?"
	"Exactly what the name implies...Here we are. We only had to drop two levels...It's just a vertical tube you can drop through, with handholds. We don't encourage Earthies to use it."
	"Too risky?"
	"Not in itself. You can climb down as though it were a ladder. However, there are always youngsters swinging down at considerable speed and Earthies don't know how to keep out of the way. Collisions are always discomforting. But you'll get to use it in time...In fact, what you'll see now is a kind of large hold-chute designed for recklessness."
	She led him to a circular railing around which a number of individuals were leaning and talking. All were more or less in the nude. Sandals were common and usually a hip-purse was slung over one shoulder. Some wore briefs. One was scooping a greenish-mash out of a container and was eating it.
	The Earthman wrinkled his nose slightly as he passed that one. He said, "The dental problem must be severe on the Moon."
	"It isn't good," Selene agreed. "If we ever get the chance, we'll select for an edentate jaw."
	"Toothlessness?"
	"Maybe not entirely. We might keep the incisors and canines for cosmetic reasons and for occasionally useful tasks. They're easily cleaned, too. But why should we want useless molars? It's just a hangover from an Earthie past."
	"Are you making any progress in that direction?"
	"No," she said, stiffly. "Genetic engineering is illegal. Earth insists."
	She was leaning over the railing. "They call this the Moon's playground," she said.
	The Earthman looked down. It was a large cylindrical opening with pink smooth walls to which metal bars were attached in what seemed a random configuration. Here and there, a bar stretched across a portion of the cylinder, sometimes across its entire width. It was perhaps four or five hundred feet deep and about fifty feet across.
	No one seemed to be paying particular attention either to the playground or to the Earthman. Some had looked at him indifferently as he passed, seeming to weigh his clothed state, his facial appearance, and then had turned away. Some made a casual hand gesture to Selene's direction before turning away, but all turned away. The no-interest signal, however subdued, could not have been more blatant.
	The Earthman turned to the cylindrical opening. There were slim figures at the bottom, foreshortened because they were seen from above. Some wore wisps of clothing in red, some in blue. Two teams, he decided. Clearly the wisps served protective functions, since all wore gloves and sandals, protective bands about knees and elbows. Some wore brief bands about the hips, some about the chests.
	"Oh," he muttered. "Men and women."
	Selene said, "Right! The sexes compete equally but the idea is to prevent the uncontrolled swinging of parts that might hamper the guided fall. There's a sexual difference there which also involves vulnerability to pain. It's not modesty."
	The Earthman said, "I think I've read of this."
	"You may have," said Selene, indifferently. "Not much seems to get out. Not that we have any objection, but the Terrestrial government prefers to keep news of the Moon to a minimum."
	"Why, Selene?"
	"You're an Earthman. You tell me...Our theory here on the Moon is that we embarrass the Earth. Or at least the Earth government."
	On either side of the cylinder now, two individuals were rising rapidly and the patter of light drumbeats was heard in the background. At first, the climbers seemed to be going up a ladder, rung by rung, but their speed increased and by the time they were halfway up, they were striking each hold as they passed, making an ostentatious slapping noise.
	"Couldn't do that on Earth as gracefully," said the Earthman, admiringly. "Or at all," he amended.
	"It's not just low-gravity," said Selene. "Try it, if you think so. This takes endless hours of practice."
	The climbers reached the railing and swung up to a headstand. They performed a simultaneous somersault and began to fall.
	"They can move quickly when they want to," said the Earthman.
	"Umm," said Selene, through the patter of applause. "I suspect that when Earthmen -- I mean the real Earthmen, the ones who have never even visited the Moon -- think of moving around the Moon, they think of the surface and of spacesuits. That's often slow, of course. The mass, with the spacesuit added, is huge, which means high inertia and a small gravity to overcome it."
	"Quite right," said the Earthman. "I've seen the classic motion pictures of the early astronauts that all school children see and the movements are like those underwater, The picture gets imprinted, even when we know better."
	"You'd be surprised how fast we can move on the surface these days, spacesuit and all," said Selene. "And here, underground, without spacesuits, we can move as quickly as on Earth. The slower whip of gravity is made up for by the proper use of muscles."
	"But you can move slowly, too." The Earthman was watching the acrobats. They had gone up with speed and were going down with deliberate slowness. They were floating, slapping the handholds to delay the drop rather than, as before, to accelerate the rise. They reached the ground and two others replaced them. And then two more. And then two more. From each team alternately, pairs competed in virtuosity.
	Each pair went up in unison; each pair rose and fell in a more complicated pattern. One pair kicked off simultaneously to cross the tube in a low parabola, convex upward, each reaching the handhold the other had abandoned, and somehow skimming past each other in mid-air without touching. That evoked louder applause.
	The Earthman said, "I suspect I lack the experience to appreciate the finer points of skill. Are these all native Lunarites?"
	"They have to be," said Selene. "The gymnasium is open to all Lunar citizens and some immigrants are fairly good, considering. For this kind of virtuosity, however, you must depend on babies that are conceived and born here. They have the proper physical adaptation, at least more than native Earthmen have, and they get the proper childhood training. Most of these performers are under eighteen."
	"I imagine it's dangerous, even at Moon-gravity levels."
	"Broken bones aren't very uncommon. I don't think there's been an actual death, but there's been at least one case of broken spine and paralysis. That was a terrible accident; I was actually watching -- Oh, wait now; we're going to have the ad libs now."
	"The what?"
	"Till now, we've had set pieces. The climbs were according to a fixed pattern."
	The percussion beat seemed softer as one climber rose and suddenly launched into mid-air. He caught a transverse bar one-handed, circling it once vertically, and let go.
	The Earthman watched closely. He said, "Amazing. He gets around those bars exactly like a gibbon."
	"A what?" asked Selene.
	"A gibbon. A kind of ape; in fact, the only ape still existing in the wild. They -- " He looked at Selene's expression and said, "I don't mean it as an insult, Selene; they are graceful creatures."
	Selene said, frowning, "I've seen pictures of apes."
	"You probably haven't seen gibbons, in motion...I dare say that Earthies might call Lunarites 'gibbons' and mean it insultingly, about on the level of what you mean by 'Earthie.' But I don't mean it so."
	He leaned both elbows on the railing and watched the movements. It was like dancing in the air. He said, "How do you treat Earth-immigrants here on the Moon, Selene? I mean immigrants who mean to stay here life-long. Since they lack true Lunarite abilities -- "
	"That makes no difference. Immies are citizens. There's no discrimination; no legal discrimination."
	"What does that mean? No legal discrimination?"
	"Well, you said it yourself. There are some things they can't do. There are differences. Their medical problems are different and they've usually had a worse medical history. If they come in middle age, they look -- old."
	The Earthman looked away, embarrassed. "Can they intermarry? I mean, immigrants and Lunarites."
	"Certainly. That is, they can interbreed."
	"Yes, that's what I meant."
	"Of course. No reason why an immigrant can't have some worthwhile genes. Heavens, my father was an immie, though I'm second-generation Lunarite on my mother's side."
	"I suppose your father must have come when he was quite -- Oh, good Lord -- " He froze at the railing, then drew a shuddering sigh. "I thought he was going to miss that bar."
	"Not a chance," said Selene. "That's Marco Fore. He likes to do that, reach out at the last moment. Actually, it's bad form to do that and a real champion doesn't. Still -- My father was twenty-two when he arrived."
	"I suppose that's the way. Still young enough to be adaptable; no emotional complications back on Earth. From the standpoint of the Earthie male, I imagine it must be rather nice to have a sexual attachment with a -- "
	"Sexual attachment!" Selene's amusement seemed to cover a very real sense of shock. "You don't suppose my father had sex with my mother. If my mother heard you say that, she'd set you right in a hurry."
	"But -- "
	"Artificial insemination was what it was for goodness sake. Sex with an Earthman?"
	The Earthman looked solemn. "I thought you said there was no discrimination."
	"That's not discrimination. That's a matter of physical fact. An Earthman can't handle the gravity field properly. However practiced he might be, under the stress of passion, he might revert. I wouldn't risk it. The clumsy fool might snap his arm or leg -- or worse, mine. Gene mixtures are one thing; sex is quite another."
	"I'm sorry...Isn't artificial insemination against the law?"
	She was watching the gymnastics with absorption. "That's Marco Fore again. When he isn't trying to be uselessly spectacular, he really is good; and his sister is almost as good. When they work together it's really a poem of motion. Look at them now. They'll come together and circle the same bar as though they have a single body stretched across. He's a little too flamboyant at times, but you can't fault his muscular control...Yes, artificial insemination is against Earth's law, but it's allowed where medical reasons are involved, and, of course, that's often the case, or said to be."
	All the acrobats had now climbed to the top and were in a great circle just below the railing; all the reds on one side, the blues on the other. All arms on the side of the interior were raised and the applause was loud. Quite a crowd had now gathered at the rail.
	"You ought to have some seating arrangement," said the Earthman.
	"Not at all. This isn't a show. This is exercise. We don't encourage any more spectators than can stand comfortably about the railing. We're supposed to be down there, not up here."
	"You mean you can do that sort of thing, Selene?"
	"After a fashion, of course. Any Lunarite can. I'm not as good as they are. I haven't joined any teams -- There's going to be the melee now, the free-for-all. This is the really dangerous part. All ten are going to be in the air and each side is going to try to send members of the other side into a fall."
	"A real fall."
	"As real as possible."
	"Are there injuries occasionally?"
	"Occasionally. In theory, this sort of thing is frowned upon. That is considered frivolous, and we don't have so large a population that we can afford to incapacitate anyone without real cause. Still, the melee is popular and we can't raise the votes to outlaw it."
	"Which side do you vote on, Selene?"
	Selene blushed. "Oh, never mind. You watch this!"
	The percussion rhythm had suddenly grown thunderous and each of the individuals in the huge well darted outward like an arrow. There was wild confusion in mid-air but when they parted again, each ended firmly on a bar-grip. There was the tension of waiting. One launched; another followed; and the air was filled with flashing bodies again. Over and over it happened.
	Selene said, "The scoring is intricate. There is a point for every launch; a point for every touch; two points for every miss inflicted; ten points for a grounding; various penalties for various kinds of fouling."
	"Who keeps the score?"
	"There are umpires watching who make the preliminary decisions and there are television tapes in case of appeals. Very often even the tapes can't decide."
	There was a sudden excited cry when a girl in blue moved past a boy in red and slapped his flank resoundingly. The boy who received the blow had writhed away, but not successfully, and grabbing at a wall bar with improper balance struck that wall ungracefully with his knee.
	"Where were his eyes?" demanded Selene indignantly. "He didn't see her coming."
	The action grew hotter and the Earthman tired of trying to make sense of the knotted flights. Occasionally, a leaper touched a bar and did not retain his hold. Those were the times when every spectator leaned over the railing as though ready to launch himself into space in sympathy. At one time, Marco Fore was struck in the wrist and someone cried "Foul!"
	Fore missed his handhold and fell. To the Earthman's eyes, the fall, under Moon-gravity, was slow, and Fore's lithe body twisted and turned, reaching for bar after bar, without quite making it. The others waited, as though all maneuvering was suspended during a fall.
	Fore was moving quite rapidly now, though twice he had slowed himself without quite being able to maintain a handhold.
	He was nearly to the ground when a sudden spidery lunge caught a transverse bar with the right leg and he hung suspended and swinging, head downward, about ten feet above the ground. Arms outspread, he paused while the applause rang out and then he had twisted upright and jumped into a rapid climb.
	The Earthman said, "Was he fouled?"
	"If Jean Wong actually grabbed Marco's wrist instead of pushing it, it was a foul. The umpire has ruled a fair block, however, and I don't think Marco will appeal. He fell a lot farther than he had to. He likes these last-minute saves and someday he'll miscalculate and hurt himself...Oh, oh."
	The Earthman looked up in sudden inquiry, but Selene's eyes weren't upon him. She said, "That's someone from the Commissioner's office and he must be looking for you."
	"Why -- "
	"I don't see why he should come here to find anyone else. You're the unusual one."
	"But there's no reason -- " began the Earthman.
	Yet the messenger, who had the build of an Earthman himself or an Earth-immigrant, and who seemed uneasy to be the center of the stares of a couple of dozen slight, nude figures who seemed to tinge their scorn with indifference, came directly toward him.
	"Sir," he began. "Commissioner Gottstein requests that you accompany me -- "


5

	Barren Neville's quarters were somehow harsher than Selene's. His books were on bold display, his computer-outlet was unmasked in one corner, and his large desk was in disarray. His windows were blank.
	Selene entered, folded her arms, and said, "If you live like a slob, Barren, how do you expect to have your thoughts neat?"
	"I'll manage," said Barron, grumpily. "How is it you haven't brought the Earthman with you?"
	"The Commissioner got to him first. The new Commissioner."
	"Gottstein?"
	"That's right. Why weren't you ready sooner?"
	"Because it took time to find out. I won't work blind."
	Selene said, "Well, then, we'll just have to wait."
	Neville bit at a thumbnail and then inspected the result severely. "I don't know whether I ought to like the situation or not...What did you think of him?"
	"I liked him," said Selene, definitely. "He was rather pleasant, considering he was an Earthie. He let me guide him. He was interested. He made no judgments. He didn't patronize...And I didn't go out of my way to avoid insulting him, either."
	"Did he ask any further about the synchrotron?"
	"No, but then he didn't have to."
	"Why not?"
	"I told him you wanted to see him, and I said you were a physicist. So I imagine he'll ask you whatever he wants to ask you when he sees you."
	"Didn't he think it strange that he should be talking to a female tourist guide who just happens to know a physicist?"
	"Why strange? I said you were my sex-partner. There's no accounting for sex attraction and a physicist may well condescend to a lowly tourist guide."
	"Shut up, Selene."
	"Oh -- Look, Barren, it seems to me that if he were spinning some sort of fancy web, if he approached me because he planned to get to you through me, he would have shown some trace of anxiety. The more complicated and silly any plot, the more rickety it is and the more anxious the plotter. I deliberately acted casual. I talked about everything but the synchrotron. I took him to a gymnastics show."
	"And?"
	"And he was interested. Relaxed and interested. Whatever he has on his mind, it isn't involuted."
	"You're sure of that? Yet the Commissioner got to him before I did. You consider that good?"
	"Why should I consider it bad? An open invitation to a meeting of some sort delivered in front of a couple of dozen Lunarites isn't particularly involuted, either."
	Neville leaned back with his hands clasped at the nape of his neck. "Selene, please don't insist on making judgments, when I don't ask you to. It's irritating. The man is not a physicist in the first place. Did he tell you he was?"
	Selene paused to think. "I called him a physicist. He didn't deny it but I don't recall that he actually said he was. And yet -- and yet, I'm sure he is."
	"It's a lie of omission, Selene. He may be a physicist in his own mind, but the fact is that he isn't trained as a physicist and he doesn't work as one. He has had scientific training; I'll grant him that; but he has no scientific job of any kind. He couldn't get one. There isn't a lab on Earth that would give him working room. He happens to be on Fred Hallam's crud-list and he's been top man there for a long time."
	"Are you sure?"
	"Believe me, I checked. Didn't you just criticize me for taking so long...And it sounds so good that it's too good."
	"Why too good? I don't see what you're getting at."
	"Doesn't it seem to you we ought to trust him? After all, he's got a grievance against Earth."
	"You can certainly argue that way, if your facts are right."
	"Oh, my facts are right, at least in the sense that they're what turns up, if you dig for them. But maybe we're supposed to argue that way."
	"Barren, that's disgusting. How can you weave-these conspiracy theories into everything? Ben didn't sound -- "
	"Ben?" said Neville, sardonically.
	"Ben!" repeated Selene, firmly. "Ben didn't sound like a man with a grievance or like a man trying to make me think he sounded like a man with a grievance."
	"No, but he managed to make you think he was someone to be liked. You did say you liked him, didn't you? With emphasis? Maybe that's exactly what he was trying to do."
	"I'm not that easy to fool and you know it."
	"Well, I'll just have to wait till I see him."
	"The hell with you, Barron. I've associated with thousands of Earthies of all kinds. It's my job. And you have no reason whatsoever to speak sarcastically about my judgment. You know you have every reason to trust it."
	"All right. We'll see. Don't get angry. It's just that we'll have to wait now...And as long as we do," he rose lithely to his feet, "guess what I'm thinking?"
	"I don't have to." Selene rose as smoothly, and with an almost invisible motion of her feet slid sideways, well away from him. "But think it by yourself. I'm not in the mood."
	"Are you annoyed because I've impugned your judgment?"
	"I'm annoyed because -- Oh, hell, why don't you keep your room in better condition?" And she left.


6

	"I would like," said Gottstein, "to offer you some Earth-side luxury, Doctor, but, as a matter of principle, I have been allowed to bring none. The good people of the Moon resent the artificial barriers imposed by special treatment for men from Earth. It seems better to soothe their sensibilities by assuming the Lunarite pose as far as possible though I'm afraid my gait will give me away. Their confounded gravity is impossible."
	The Earthman said "I find this so also. I congratulate you on your new post -- "
	"Not yet quite mine, sir."
	"Still, my congratulations. Yet I can't help wondering why you have asked to see me."
	"We were shipmates. We arrived not so long ago on the same vessel."
	The Earthman waited politely.
	Gottstein said, "And my acquaintance with you is a longer one than that. We met -- briefly -- some years ago."
	The Earthman said quietly, "I'm afraid I don't recall -- "
	"I'm not surprised at that. There is no reason for you to remember. I was, for a time, on the staff of Senator Burt, who headed -- still heads, in fact -- the Committee on Technology and the Environment. It was at a time when he was rather anxious to get the goods on Hallam -- Frederick Hallam."
	The Earthman seemed, quite suddenly, to sit a little straighter. "Did you know Hallam?"
	"You're the second person to ask me that since my coming to the Moon. Yes, I did. Not intimately. I've known others who've met him. Oddly enough, their opinion usually coincided with mine. For a person who is apparently idolized by the planet, Hallam inspired little personal liking on the part of those who knew him."
	"Little? None at all, I think," said the Earthman.
	Gottstein ignored the interruption. "It was my job, at the time -- or at least, my assignment from the senator -- to investigate the Electron Pump and see if its establishment and growth were accompanied by undue waste and personal profit-taking. It was a legitimate concern for what was essentially a watch-dog committee, but the senator was, between us, hoping to find something of damage to Hallam. He was anxious to decrease the strangle-hold that man was gaining on the scientific establishment. There, he failed."
	"That much would be obvious. Hallam is stronger than ever right now."
	"There was no graft to speak of; certainly none that could be traced to Hallam. The man is rigidly honest."
	"In that sense, I am sure. Power has its own market value not necessarily measured in credit-bills."
	"But what interested me at the time, though it was something I could not then follow up, was that I did come across someone whose complaint was not against Hallam's power, but against the Electron Pump itself. I was present at the interview, but I did not conduct it. You were the complainant, were you not?"
	The Earthman said, cautiously, "I remember the incident to which you refer, but I still don't remember you."
	"I wondered then how anyone could possibly object to the Electron Pump on scientific grounds. You impressed me sufficiently so that when I saw you on the ship, something stirred; and then, eventually, it came back. I have not referred to the passenger list but let me check my memory. Aren't you Dr. Benjamin Andrew Denison?"
	The Earthman sighed. "Benjamin Allan Denison. Yes. But why does this come up now? The truth is, Commissioner, I don't want to drag up matters of the past. I'm here on the Moon and rather anxious to start again; from the start, if necessary. Damn it, I considered changing my name."
	"That wouldn't have helped. It was your face I recognized. I have no objection to your new life, Dr. Denison. I would not in any way interfere. But I would like to pry a little for reasons that do not directly involve you. I don't remember, quite, your objection to the Electron Pump. Could you tell me?"
	Denison's head bent. The silence lengthened itself and the Commissioner-Appointee did not interrupt. He even stifled a small clearing of the throat.
	Denison said, "Truly, it was nothing. It was a guess I made; a fear about the alteration in the intensity of the strong nuclear field. Nothing!"
	"Nothing?" Gottstein did clear his throat now. "Please don't mind if I strive to understand this. I told you that you interested me at the time. I was unable to follow it up then and I doubt that I could dig the information out of the records now. The whole thing is classified -- the senator did very poorly at the time and he isn't interested in publicity over it. Still, some details come back. You were once a colleague of Hallam's; you were not a physicist."
	"That's right. I was a radiochemist. So was he."
	"Stop me if I remember incorrectly, but your early record was a very good one, right?"
	"There were objective criteria in my favor. I had no illusions about myself. I was a brilliant worker."
	"Amazing how it comes back. Hallam, on the other hand, was not."
	"Not particularly."
	"And yet afterward things did not go well with you. In fact, when we interviewed you -- I think you volunteered to see us -- you were working for a toy manufacturer -- "
	"Cosmetics," said Denison, in a strangled voice. "Male cosmetics. That didn't help gain me a respectful hearing."
	"No, it wouldn't. I'm sorry. You were a salesman."
	"Sales manager. I was still brilliant, I rose to vice-president before breaking off and coming to the Moon."
	"Did Hallam have something to do with that? I mean with you leaving science?"
	"Commissioner," said Denison. "Please! It really doesn't matter any longer. I was there when Hallam first discovered the tungsten conversion and when the chain of events began that led to the Electron Pump. Exactly what would have happened if I had not been there, I can't say. Hallam and I might both have been dead of radiation poisoning a month later or of a nuclear explosion six weeks later. I don't know. But I was there and, partly because of me, Hallam is what he is now; and because of my part in it, I am what I am now. The hell with the details. Does that satisfy you? Because it will have to."
	"I think it satisfies me. You had a personal grudge against Hallam, then?"
	"I certainly had no affection for him, in those days. I have no affection for him now, for that matter."
	"Would you say, then, that your objection to the Electron Pump was inspired by your anxiety to destroy Hallam."
	Denison said, "I object to this cross-examination."
	"Please? Nothing of what I ask is intended to be used against you. This is for my own benefit because I am concerned about the Pump and about a number of things."
	"Well, then, I suppose you might work out some emotional involvement. Because I disliked Hallam I was ready to believe that his popularity and greatness had a false foundation. I thought about the Electron Pump, hoping to find a flaw."
	"And you therefore found one?"
	"No," said Denison forcefully, bringing his fist down on the arm of the chair and moving perceptibly upward from his seat in reaction. "Not 'therefore.' I found a flaw but it was an honest one. Or so it seemed to me. I certainly didn't invent a flaw merely to puncture Hallam."
	"No question of inventing, Doctor," said Gottstein soothingly. "I don't dream of making such an implication. Yet we all know that in trying to determine something on the boundary line of the known, it is necessary to make assumptions. The assumptions can be made over a gray area of uncertainty and one can shade them in one direction or another with perfect honesty, but in accord with -- uh -- the emotions of the moment. You made your assumptions, perhaps, on the anti-Hallam edge of the possible."
	"This is a profitless discussion, sir. At the time, I thought I had a valid point. However, I am not a physicist. I am -- was -- a radiochemist."
	"Hallam was a radiochemist, too, but he is now the most famous physicist in the world."
	"He's still a radiochemist. A quarter-century out of date."
	"Not so, you. You worked hard to become a physicist."
	Denison smoldered. "You really investigated me."
	"I told you; you impressed me. Amazing how it comes back. But now I'll pass on to something a little different. Do you know a physicist named Peter Lamont?"
	Reluctantly -- "I've met him."
	"Would you say he was brilliant, too?"
	"I don't know him well enough to say and I hate to overuse the word."
	"Would you say he knew what he was talking about?"
	"Barring information to the contrary, I would say, yes."
	Carefully, the Commissioner leaned back in his seat. It had a spindly look about it and by Earth standards it would not have supported his weight. He said, "Would you care to say how you came to know Lamont? Was it by reputation only? Did you meet?"
	Denison said, "We had some direct conversations. He was planning to write a history of the Electron Pump; how it started; a full account of all the legendary crap that's grown up around it. I was flattered that Lamont came to me; that he seemed to have found out something about me. Damn it, Commissioner, I was flattered that he knew I was alive. But I couldn't really say much. What would have been the use? I would have gained nothing but some sneers and I am tired of it; tired of brooding; tired of self-pity."
	"Do you know anything about what Lamont has been doing in the last few years?"
	"What is it you're thinking of, Commissioner?" asked Denison, cautiously.
	"About a year ago, maybe a little more, Lamont spoke to Burt. I am not on the senator's staff any longer, but we see each other occasionally. He talked to me about it. He was concerned. He thought Lamont might have made a valid point against the Electron Pump and yet could see no practical way of taking up the matter. I, too, was concerned -- "
	"Concern everywhere," said Denison, sardonically.
	"But now, I wonder. If Lamont talked to you and -- "
	"Stop! Stop right there, Commissioner. I think I see you sidling toward a point and I don't want you to move any further. If you expect me to tell you that Lamont stole my idea, that once again I am being treated badly, you are wrong. Let me tell you as forcefully as I can; I had no valid theory. It was purely a guess. It worried me; I presented it; I was not believed; I was discouraged. Since I had no way of demonstrating its value, I gave up. I did not mention it in my discussion with Lamont; we never went past the early days of the Pump. What he came up with later, however much it may have resembled my guess, was arrived at independently. It seems to be much more solid and to be based on rigid mathematical analysis. I lay claim to no priority; to none."
	"You seem to know about Lamont's theory."
	"It made the rounds in recent months. The fellow can't publish and no one takes him seriously, but it was passed along the grapevine. It even reached me."
	"I see, Doctor. But I take it seriously. To me the warning was second time round, you understand. The report of the first warning -- from you -- had never reached the senator. It had nothing to do with financial irregularities, which were what was then on his mind. The actual head of the investigating panel -- not myself -- considered it -- you will forgive me -- crackpot. I did not. When the matter came up again, I grew disturbed. It was my intention to meet with Lamont, but a number of physicists whom I consulted -- "
	"Including Hallam?"
	"No, I did not see Hallam. A number of those I consulted advised me that Lamont's work was utterly without foundation. Even so, I was considering seeing him when I was asked to take up this position, and here I am, and here you are. So you see why I had to see you. In your opinion is there merit in the theories advanced by yourself and by Dr. Lamont?"
	"You mean is continued use of the Electron Pump going to blow up the Sun, or maybe the entire arm of the Galaxy?"
	"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."
	"How can I tell you? All I have is my own guess, which is just a guess. As for Lamont's theory, I have not studied it in detail; it has not been published. If I saw it, the mathematics might be beyond me...Besides, what's the difference? Lamont won't convince anyone. Hallam has ruined him as earlier he ruined me, and the public generally would find it against their short-term interest to believe him even if he went over Hallam's head, so to speak. They don't want to give up the Pump, and it's a lot easier to refuse to accept Lamont's theory than to try to do something about it."
	"But you're still concerned about it, aren't you?"
	"In the sense that I think we might indeed destroy ourselves and that I wouldn't like to see that happen, of course."
	"So you've come to the Moon, now, to do something that Hallam, your old enemy, would prevent your doing on Earth."
	Denison said, slowly, "You, too, like to make guesses."
	"Do I?" said Gottstein, indifferently. "Perhaps I am brilliant, too. Is my guess correct?"
	"It may be. I haven't given up hope of returning to science. If anything I do were to lift the specter of doom from mankind, either by showing that it does not exist or that it does exist and must be removed, I would be pleased."
	"I see. Dr. Denison, to discuss another point at the moment, my predecessor, the retiring Commissioner, Mr. Montez, tells me that the growing edge of science is here on the Moon. He seems to think a disproportionate quantity of the brains and initiative of mankind is here."
	"He may be right," said Denison. "I don't know."
	"He may be right," agreed Gottstein, thoughtfully, "If so, doesn't it strike you that this may be inconvenient for your purpose. Whatever you do, men may say and think it was accomplished through the Lunar scientific structure. You personally might gain little in the way of recognition, however valuable the results you present...Which, of course, would be unjust."
	"I am tired of the rat-race of credit, Commissioner Gottstein. I want some interest in life, more interest than I can find as vice-president in charge of Ultra-sonic Depilatories. I'll find it in a return to science. If I accomplish something in my own eyes, I will be satisfied."
	"Let us say that that would be insufficient for me. What credit you earn, you should receive; and it should be quite possible for me, as Commissioner, to present the facts to the Terrestrial community in such a way as to preserve for you what is yours. Surely you are human enough to want what is your own."
	"You are kind. And in return?"
	"You are cynical. But justly so. In return I want your help. The retiring Commissioner, Mr. Montez, is not certain as to the lines of scientific research being undertaken on the Moon. Communications between the peoples of Earth and Moon are not perfect, and coordination of the efforts on both worlds is clearly for the benefit of all. It is understandable that there's distrust, I suppose, but if you can do anything to break down that distrust, it will be as valuable to us as your scientific findings might be."
	"Surely, Commissioner, you can't feel that I'm the ideal man to bear witness to the Lunarites as to how fair-meaning and well-disposed the Earth's scientific establishment is."
	"You mustn't confuse one vengeful scientist with the men of the Earth as a whole, Dr. Denison. Let's put it this way. I would appreciate being kept aware of your scientific findings so that I could help you retain your fair share of credit; and in order to understand your findings properly -- I am not a professional scientist myself, remember -- it would be helpful if you were to explain them in the light of the present state of science on the Moon. Is it agreed?"
	Denison said, "You ask a hard thing. Preliminary results, prematurely disclosed, whether through carelessness or over-enthusiasm, can do tremendous harm to a reputation. I would hate to talk about anything to anyone until I was sure of my ground. My earlier experience with the committee on which you served would certainly encourage me to be cautious."
	"I quite understand," said Gottstein, heartily. "I would leave it to you to decide when I might usefully be informed...But I have kept you late and you probably want to sleep."
	Which was a dismissal. Denison left, and Gottstein looked after him thoughtfully.


7

	Denison opened the door by hand. There was a contact that would have opened it automatically, but in the blur of waking, he could not find it.
	The dark-haired man, with a face that was somehow scowling in repose, said, "I'm sorry...Am I early?"
	Denison repeated the last word to give him time to absorb matters. "Early?...No. I...I'm late, I think."
	"I called. We made an appointment -- "
	And now Denison had it. "Yes. You're Dr. Neville."
	"That's right. May I come in?"
	He stepped in as he asked. Denison's room was small, and held a rumpled bed that took up most of the available space. The ventilator was sighing softly.
	Neville said with meaningless courtesy, "Slept well, I hope?"
	Denison looked down at his pajamas and passed his hand over his rumpled hair. "No," he said abruptly. "I had an abominable night. May I be excused long enough to make myself more presentable?"
	"Of course. Would you like to have me prepare breakfast meanwhile? You may be unacquainted with the equipment."
	"It would be a favor," said Denison.
	He emerged some twenty minutes later, washed and shaved, wearing trousers and an undershirt. He said, "I trust I didn't break the shower. It went off and I couldn't turn it on again."
	"The water's rationed. You only get so much. This is the Moon, Doctor. I've taken the liberty of preparing scrambled eggs and hot soup for the two of us."
	"Scrambled -- "
	"We call it that. Earthmen wouldn't, I suppose."
	Denison said, "Oh!" He sat down with something less than enthusiasm and tasted the pasty yellow mixture that clearly was what the other meant by scrambled eggs. He tried not to make a face at the first taste and then manfully swallowed it and dug in for a second forkful.
	"You'll get used to it with time," said Neville, "and it's highly nourishing. I might warn you that the high-protein content and the low gravity will cut your need for food."
	"Just as well," said Denison, clearing his throat.
	Neville said, "Selene tells me that you intend to stay on the Moon."
	Denison said, "That was my intention." He rubbed his eyes. "I've had a terrible night, though. It tests my resolution."
	"How many times did you fall out of bed?"
	"Twice...I take it that the situation is a common one."
	"For men of Earth, an invariable one. Awake, you can make yourself walk with due regard for the Moon's gravity. Asleep, you toss as you would on Earth. But at least falling is not painful at low gravity."
	"The second time, I slept on the floor awhile before waking. Didn't remember falling. What the hell do you do about it?"
	"You mustn't neglect your periodic checks on heartbeat, blood pressure, and so on, just to make sure the gravity change isn't introducing too much of a strain."
	"I've been amply warned of that," said Denison with distaste. "In fact, I have fixed appointments for the next month. And pills."
	"Well," said Neville, as if dismissing a triviality, "within a week you'll probably have no trouble at all...And you'll need proper clothing. Those trousers will never do and that flimsy upper garment serves no purpose."
	"I presume there's some place I can buy clothes."
	"Of course. If you can get her when she's off duty, Selene will be glad to help, I'm sure. She assures me you're a decent sort, Doctor."
	"I'm delighted she thinks so." Denison, having swallowed a spoonful of the soup, looked at it as though he were wondering what to do with the rest. Grimly, he continued the task of downing it.
	"She judged you to be a physicist, but of course she's wrong."
	"I was trained as a radiochemist."
	"You haven't worked at that either for a long time, Doctor. We may be out of it up here, but we're not that far out of it. You're one of Hallam's victims."
	"Are there so many you speak of them as a group?"
	"Why not? The whole Moon is one of Hallam's victims."
	"The Moon?"
	"In a manner of speaking."
	"I don't understand."
	"We have no Electron Pump Stations on the Moon. None have been established because there has been no cooperation from the para-Universe. No samples of tungsten have been accepted."
	"Surely, Dr. Neville, you don't intend to imply that this is Hallam's doing."
	"In a negative way, yes. Why must it be only the para-Universe which can initiate a Pump Station. Why not ourselves?"
	"As far as I know, we lack the knowledge to take the initiative."
	"And we will continue to lack the knowledge if research into the matter is forbidden."
	"Is it forbidden?" Denison asked, with a faint note of surprise.
	"In effect. If none of the work necessary to expand knowledge in that direction finds adequate priorities at the proton synchrotron or at any of the other large equipment -- all controlled by Earth and all under the influence of Hallam -- then the research is effectively forbidden."
	Denison rubbed his eyes. "I suspect I will have to sleep again before long...I beg your pardon. I did not mean to imply you were boring me. But tell me, is the Electron Pump so important to the Moon? Surely the Solar batteries are effective and sufficient."
	"They tie us to the Sun, Doctor. They tie us to the surface."
	"Well -- But why does Hallam take this adverse interest in the matter, do you suppose, Dr. Neville?"
	"You know better than I, if you know him personally, as I do not. He prefers not to make it clear to the public generally that the entire Electron Pump establishment is the product of the para-men, with ourselves merely servants of the masters. And if, on the Moon, we advance to the point where we ourselves know what we are doing, then the birth of the true Electron Pump technology will date from our moment, not from his."
	Denison said, "Why do you tell me all this?"
	"To avoid wasting my time. Ordinarily, we welcome physicists from Earth. We feel cut off here on the Moon, victims of deliberate Terrestrial policy against us, and a physicist-visitor can be helpful, even if only to give us a feeling of lesser isolation. A physicist-immigrant is even more helpful and we like to explain the situation to him and encourage him to work with us. I am sorry that you are not, after all, a physicist."
	Denison said, impatiently, "But I never said I was."
	"And yet you asked to see the synchrotron. Why?"
	"Is that really what's bothering you? My dear sir, let me try to explain. My scientific career was ruined half a lifetime ago. I have decided to see some sort of rehabilitation, some sort of renewed meaning, to my life as far away from Hallam as I could get -- which means here on the Moon. I was trained as a radiochemist, but that has not permanently paralyzed me as far as any other field of endeavor is concerned. Para-physics is the great field of today and I have done my best to self-educate myself there, feeling that this will offer me my best hope for rehabilitation."
	Neville nodded. "I see," he said with clear dubiousness.
	"By the way, since you mentioned the Electron Pump -- Have you heard anything about the theories of Peter Lamont?"
	Neville eyed the other narrowly. "No. I don't think I know the man."
	"Yes, he is not yet famous. And probably never will be; chiefly for the same reason I'll never be. He crossed Hallam...His name came up recently and I've been giving him some thought. It was one way of occupying the sleepless portion of last night." And he yawned.
	Neville said, impatiently, "Yes, Doctor? What of this man? What is his name?"
	"Peter Lamont. He has some interesting thoughts on para-theory. He believes that with continued use of the Pump, the strong nuclear interaction will grow basically more intense in the space of the Solar system and that the Sun will slowly heat up and, at some crucial point, undergo a phase-change that will produce an explosion."
	"Nonsense! Do you know the amount of change produced, on a cosmic scale, of any use of the Pump on a human scale? Even granted that you are only self-educated in physics, you ought have no difficulty in seeing that the Pump can't possibly make any appreciable change in general Universal conditions during the lifetime of the Solar system."
	"Do you think so?"
	"Of course. Don't you?" said Neville.
	"I'm not sure. Lamont's grinding a personal axe. I've met him briefly and he impressed me as an intense and very emotional fellow. Considering what Hallam has done to him, he is probably driven by overwhelming anger."
	Neville frowned. He said, "Are you sure he is on the outs with Hallam?"
	"I'm an expert on the subject."
	"It doesn't occur to you that the initiation of that kind of doubt -- that the Pump is dangerous -- might be used as but another device to keep the Moon from developing Stations of its own?"
	"At the cost of creating universal alarm and despondency? Of course not. That would be cracking walnuts with nuclear explosions. No, I'm sure Lamont is sincere. In fact, in my own bumbling way, I had similar notions once."
	"Because you, too, are driven by hate for Hallam."
	"I'm not Lamont. I imagine I don't react the same way he does. In fact, I had some dim hope I would be able to investigate the matter on the Moon, without Hallam's interference and without Lamont's emotionalism."
	"Here on the Moon?"
	"Here on the Moon. I thought perhaps I might get the use of the synchrotron."
	"And that was your interest in it?"
	Denison nodded.
	Neville said, "You really think you will get the use of the synchrotron? Do you know how far back the requisitions have piled up?"
	"I thought perhaps I might get the cooperation of some of the Lunar scientists."
	Neville laughed and shook his head. "We have almost as little chance as you...However, I'll tell you what we can do. We have established laboratories of our own. We can give you space; we might even have some minor instrumentation for you. How useful our facilities would be to you, I can't say, but you might be able to do something."
	"Do you suppose I would have any means there of making observations useful to para-theory?"
	"It would depend partly on your ingenuity, I suppose. Do you expect to prove the theories of this man, Lamont?"
	"Or disprove them. Perhaps."
	"You'll disprove them, if anything at all. I have no fears about that."
	Denison said, "It's quite clear, isn't it, that I'm not a physicist by training? Why do you so readily offer me working-space?"
	"Because you're from Earth. I told you that we value that, and perhaps your self-education as a physicist will be of additional value. Selene vouches for you, something I attach more importance to than I should, perhaps. And we are fellow-sufferers at the hands of Hallam. If you wish to rehabilitate yourself, we will help you."
	"But pardon me if I am cynical. What do you expect to get out of it?"
	"Your help. There is a certain amount of misunderstanding between the scientists of the Earth and the Moon. You are a man of Earth who has come voluntarily to the Moon and you could act as a bridge between us to the benefit of both. You have already had contact with the new Commissioner and it may be possible that, as you rehabilitate yourself, you will rehabilitate us as well."
	"You mean that if what I do weakens Hallam's influence, that will benefit Lunar science as well."
	"Whatever you do is sure to be useful...But perhaps I ought to leave you to catch up with your sleep. Call on me during the next couple of days and I will see about placing you in a laboratory. And" -- he looked about -- "getting you somewhat more comfortable quarters as well."
	They shook hands and Neville left.


8

	Gottstein said, "I suppose that, however annoying this position of yours may have been, you are getting ready to leave it today with a small pang."
	Montez shrugged eloquently. "A very large pang, when I think of the return to full gravity. The difficulty of breathing -- the aching feet -- the perspiration. I'll be a bath of perspiration constantly."
	"It will be my turn someday."
	"Take my advice. Never stay here longer than two months at a time. I don't care what the doctors tell you or what kind of isometric exercises they put you through -- get back to Earth every sixty days and stay at least a week. You've got to keep the feel of it."
	"I'll bear that in mind...Oh, I've been in touch with my friend."
	"Which friend is that?"
	"The man who was on the vessel with me when I came in. I thought I remembered him and I did. A man named Denison; a radiochemist. What I remembered of him was accurate enough."
	"Ah?"
	"I remembered a certain interesting irrationality of his, and tried to probe it. He resisted in quite a shrewd fashion. He sounded rational; so rational, in fact, that I grew suspicious. There's a kind of attractive rationality developed by certain types of crackpots; a kind of defense mechanism."
	"Oh, Lord," said Montez, clearly harassed. "I'm not sure I follow you. If you don't mind, I'm going to sit down for a moment. Between trying to determine whether everything is properly packed and thinking about Earth's gravity, I'm out of breath...What kind of irrationality?"
	"He tried to tell us once that there was danger in the use of the Electron Pumps. He thought it would blow up the Universe."
	"Indeed? And will it?"
	"I hope not. At the time it was dismissed rather brusquely. When scientists work on a subject at the limit of understanding, they grow edgy, you know. I knew a psychiatrist once who called it the 'Who knows?' phenomenon. If nothing you do will give you the knowledge you need, you end by saying, 'Who knows what will happen?' and imagination tells you."
	"Yes, but if physicists go around saying such things, even a few of them -- "
	"But they don't. Not officially. There's such a thing as scientific responsibility and the journals are careful not to print nonsense...Or what they consider nonsense. Actually, you know, the subject's come up again. A physicist named Lamont spoke to Senator Burt, to that self-appointed environmental messiah, Chen, and to a few others. He also insists on the possibility of cosmic explosion. No one believes him but the story spreads in a thin sort of way and gets better with the retelling."
	"And this man here on the Moon believes it."
	Gottstein smiled broadly. "I suspect he does. Hell, in the middle of the night, when I have trouble sleeping -- I keep falling out of bed, by the way -- I believe it myself. He probably hopes to test the theory experimentally, here."
	"Well?"
	"Well, let him. I hinted we would help him."
	Montez shook his head. "That's risky. I don't like the official encouragement of crackpot notions."
	"You know, it's just barely possible they may not be entirely crackpot, but that's not the point. The point is that if we can get him established here on the Moon, we may find out, through him, what's going on here. He's anxious for rehabilitation and I hinted that rehabilitation would come through us if he cooperated...I'll see to it that you are discreetly kept posted. As between friends, you know."
	"Thank you," said Montez. "And good-by."


9

	Neville chafed. "No. I don't like him."
	"Why not? Because he's an Earthie?" Selene brushed a bit of fluff from her right breast, then caught it and looked at it critically. "That's not from my blouse. I tell you the air-recirculation is abominable."
	"This Denison is worthless. He is not a para-physicist. He's a self-educated man in the field, he says, and proves it by coming here with ready-made damn-fool notions."
	"Like what?"
	"He thinks that the Electron Pump is going to explode the Universe."
	"Did he say that?"
	"I know he thinks that...Oh, I know the arguments. I've heard them often enough. But it's not so, that's all."
	"Maybe," said Selene, raising her eyebrows, "you just don't want it to be so."
	"Don't you start," said Neville.
	There was a short pause. Selene said, "Well, what will you do with him?"
	"I'll give him a place to work. He may be worthless as a scientist, but he'll have his uses just the same. He'll be conspicuous enough; the Commissioner has been talking to him already."
	"I know."
	"Well, he has a romantic history as someone with a wrecked career trying to rehabilitate himself."
	"Really?"
	"Really. I'm sure you'll love it. If you ask him about it, he'll tell you. And that's good. If we have a romantic Earthman working on the Moon on a crackpot project, he'll make a perfect object to preoccupy the Commissioner. He'll be misdirection; window-dressing. And it may even be that through him, who knows, we might just possibly get a better idea of what goes on there on Earth...You'd better continue to be friendly with him, Selene."


10

	Selene laughed, and the sound was metallic in Denison's earpiece. Her figure was lost in the spacesuit she wore.
	She said, "Now come, Ben, there's no reason to be afraid. You're an old hand by now -- you've been here a month."
	"Twenty-eight days," mumbled Denison. He felt smothered in his own suit.
	"A month," insisted Selene. "It was well past half-Earth when you came; it is well past half-Earth now." She pointed to the brilliant curve of the Earth in the southern sky.
	"Well, but wait. I'm not as brave out here as I am underground. What if I fall?"
	"What if you do? The gravity is weak by your standards, the slope is gentle, your suit is strong. If you fall, just let yourself slide and roll. It's almost as much fun that way, anyhow."
	Denison looked about doubtfully. The Moon lay beautiful in the cold light of the Earth. It was black and white; a mild and delicate white as compared with the Sunlit views he had seen when he had taken a trip a week before to inspect the Solar batteries that stretched from horizon to horizon along the floor of Mare Imbrium. And the black was somehow softer, too, through lack of the blazing contrast of true day. The stars were supernally bright and the Earth -- the Earth -- was infinitely inviting with its swirls of white on blue, and its peeping glimpse of tan.
	"Well," he said, "do you mind if I hang on to you?"
	"Of course not. And we won't go all the way up. It will be the beginner's slope for you. Just try to keep in time with me. I'll move slowly."
	Her steps were long, slow, and swinging, and he tried to keep in synchronization. The up-sloping ground beneath them was dusty and, with each step he kicked up a fine powder that settled quickly in the airlessness. He matched her stride for stride, but with an effort.
	"Good," said Selene, her arm locked in his, steadying him. "You're very good for an Earthie -- no, I ought to say Immie -- "
	"Thank you."
	"That's not much better, I suppose. Immie for Immigrant is as insulting as Earthie for Earthman. Shall I just say you're simply very good for a man your age."
	"No! That's much worse." Denison was gasping a little and he could feel his forehead moistening.
	Selene said, "Each time you reach the point where you're about to put your foot down, give a little push with your other foot. That will lengthen your stride and make it all the easier. No, no -- watch me."
	Denison paused thankfully and watched Selene, somehow slim and graceful despite the grotesquerie of the suit once she moved, take off into low, loping leaps. She returned and knelt at his feet.
	"Now you take a slow step, Ben, and I'll hit your foot when I want it to shove."
	They tried several times, and Denison said, "That's worse than running on Earth. I better rest."
	"All right. It's just that your muscles aren't used to the proper coordination. It's yourself you're fighting, you know, not gravity...Well, sit down and catch your breath. I won't take you up much farther."
	Denison said, "Will I do any damage to the pack if I lie down on my back?"
	"No; of course not, but it's not a good idea. Not on the bare ground. It's only at 120 degrees absolute; 150 degrees below zero, if you prefer, and the smaller the area of contact the better. I'd sit down."
	"All right." Gingerly, Denison sat down with a grunt. Deliberately, he faced northward, away from the Earth. "Look at those stars!"
	Selene sat facing him, at right angles. He could see her face now and then, dimly through the faceplate, when the Earthlight caught it at the proper angle.
	She said, "Don't you see the stars on Earth?"
	"Not like this. Even when there are no clouds, the air on Earth absorbs some of the light. Temperature differences in the atmosphere make them twinkle, and city lights, even distant city lights, wash them out."
	"Sounds disgusting."
	"Do you like it out here, Selene? On the surface?"
	"I'm not crazy about it really, but I don't mind it too much, now and then. It's part of my job to bring tourists out here, of course."
	"And now you have to do it for me."
	"Can't I convince you it's not the same thing at all, Ben? We've got a set route for the tourists. It's very tame, very uninteresting. You don't think we'd take them out here to the slide, do you? This is for Lunarites -- and Immies. Mostly Immies, actually."
	"It can't be very popular. There's no one here but ourselves."
	"Oh, well. There are particular days for this sort of thing. You should see this place on race days. You wouldn't like it then, though."
	"I'm not sure I like it now. Is gliding a sport for Immies, particularly?"
	"Rather. Lunarites don't like the surface generally."
	"How about Dr. Neville?"
	"You mean, how he feels about the surface?"
	"Yes."
	"Frankly, I don't think he's ever been up here. He's a real city boy. Why do you ask?"
	"Well, when I asked permission to go along on the routine servicing of the Solar batteries, he was perfectly willing to have me go, but he wouldn't go himself. I rather asked him to, I think, so I could have someone answer my questions, if there were any, and his refusal was rather strong."
	"I hope there was someone else to answer your questions."
	"Oh, yes. He was an Immie, too, come to think of it. Maybe that explains Dr. Neville's attitude toward the Electron Pump."
	"What do you mean?"
	"Well -- " Denison leaned back and kicked his legs up alternately, watching them rise and fall slowly with a certain lazy pleasure. "Hey, that's not bad. Look, Selene -- What I mean is that Neville is so intent on developing a Pump Station on the Moon when the Solar batteries are so adequate for the job. We couldn't use Solar batteries on the Earth, where the Sun is never as unfailing, as prolonged, as bright, as radiant in all wave lengths. There's not a single planetary body in the Solar system, no body of any size, that is more suitable for the use of the batteries than the Moon is. Even Mercury is too hot. -- But the use does tie you to the surface, and if you don't like the surface -- "
	Selene rose to her feet suddenly, and said, "All right, Ben, you've rested enough. Up! Up!"
	He struggled to his feet and said, "A Pump Station, however, would mean that no Lunarite would ever have to come out on the surface, if he didn't want to."
	"Uphill we go, Ben. We'll go to that ridge up ahead. See it, where the Earthlight cuts off in a horizontal line?"
	They made their way up the final stretch silently. Denison was aware of the smoother area to their side; a wide swathe of slope from which most of the dust had been brushed.
	"That's too smooth for a beginner to work up," Selene said, answering his thoughts. "Don't get too ambitious or you'll want me to teach you the kangaroo-hop next."
	She made a kangaroo-hop as she spoke, turned about face almost before landing, and said, "Right here. Sit down and I'll adjust -- "
	Denison did, facing downhill. He looked down the slope uncertainly. "Can you really glide on it?"
	"Of course. The gravity is weaker on the Moon than on the Earth, so you press against the ground much less strongly, and that means there is much less friction. Everything is more slippery on the Moon than on the Earth. That's why the floors in our corridors and apartments seemed unfinished to you. Would you like to hear me give my little lecture on the subject? The one I give the tourists?"
	"No, Selene."
	"Besides, we're going to use gliders, of course." She had a small cartridge in her hand. Clamps and a pair of thin tubes were attached to it.
	"What is that?" asked Ben.
	"Just a small liquid-gas reservoir. It will emit a jet of vapor just under your boots. The thin gas layer between boots and ground will reduce friction to virtually zero. You'll move as though you were in clear space."
	Denison said uneasily. "I disapprove. Surely, it's wasteful to use gas in this fashion on the Moon."
	"Oh, now. What gas do you think we use in these gliders? Carbon dioxide? Oxygen? This is waste gas to begin with. It's argon. It comes out of the Moon's soil in ton-lots, formed by the billions of years of breakdown of potassium-40...That's part of my lecture, too, Ben...The argon has only a few specialized uses on the Moon. We could use it for gliding for a million years without exhausting the supply...All right. Your gliders are on. Now wait till I put mine on."
	"How do they work?"
	"It's quite automatic. You just start sliding and that will trip the contact and start the vapor. You've only got a few minutes supply; but that's all you'll need."
	She stood up and helped him to his feet. "Face downhill...Come on, Ben, this is a gentle slope. Look at it. It looks perfectly level."
	"No, it doesn't," said Denison, sulkily. "It looks like a cliff to me."
	"Nonsense. Now listen to me and remember what I told you. Keep your feet about six inches apart and one just a few inches ahead of the other. It doesn't matter which one is ahead. Keep your knees bent. Don't lean into the wind because there isn't any. Don't try to look up or back, but you can look from side to side if you have to. Most of all, when you finally hit level, don't try to stop too soon; you'll be going faster than you think. Just let the glider expire and then friction will bring you to a slow halt."
	"I'll never remember all that."
	"Yes, you will. And I'll be right at your side to help. And if you do fall and I don't catch you, don't try to do anything. Just relax and let yourself tumble or slide. There are no boulders anywhere that you can collide with."
	Denison swallowed and looked ahead. The southward slide was gleaming in Earthlight. Minute unevenness caught more than their share of light, leaving tiny uphill patches in darkness so that there was a vague mottling of the surface. The bulging half-circle of Earth rode the black sky almost directly ahead.
	"Ready?" said Selene. Her gauntleted hand was between his shoulders.
	"Ready," said Denison faintly.
	"Then off you go," she said. She pushed and Denison felt himself begin to move. He moved quite slowly at first. He turned toward her, wobbling, and she said, "Don't worry. I'm right at your side."
	He could feel the ground beneath his feet -- and then he couldn't. The glider had been activated.
	For a moment he felt as though he were standing still. There was no push of air against his body, no feel of anything sliding past his feet. But when he turned toward Selene again, he noticed that the lights and shadows to one side were moving backward at a slowly increasing speed.
	"Keep your eyes on the Earth," Selene's voice said in his ear, "till you build up speed. The faster you go, the more stable you'll be. Keep your knees bent...You're doing very well, Ben."
	"For an Immie," gasped Denison.
	"How does it feel?"
	"Like flying," he said. The pattern of light and dark on either side was moving backward in a blur. He looked briefly to one side, then the other, trying to convert the sensation of a backward flight of the surroundings into one of a forward flight of his own. Then, as soon as he succeeded, he found he had to look forward hastily at the Earth to regain his sense of balance. "I suppose that's not a good comparison to use to you. You have no experience of flying on the Moon."
	"Now I know, though. Flying must be like gliding -- I know what that is."
	She was keeping up with him easily.
	Denison was going fast enough now so that he got the sensation of motion even when he looked ahead. The Moonscape ahead was opening before him and flowing past on either side. He said, "How fast do you get to go in a glide?"
	"A good Moon-race," said Selene, "has been clocked at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour -- on steeper slopes than this one, of course. You'll probably reach a top of thirty-five."
	"It feels a lot faster than that somehow."
	"Well, it isn't. We're leveling off now, Ben, and you haven't fallen. Now just hang on; the glider will die off and you'll feel friction. Don't do anything to help it. Just keep going."
	Selene had barely completed her remarks when Denison felt the beginning of pressure under his boots. There was at once an overwhelming sensation of speed and he clenched his fists hard to keep from throwing his arms up in an almost reflex gesture against the collision that wasn't going to happen. He knew that if he threw up his arms, he would go over backward.
	He narrowed his eyes, held his breath till he thought his lungs would explode, and then Selene said, "Perfect, Ben, perfect. I've never known an Immie to go through his first slide without a fall, so if you do fall, there'll be nothing wrong. No disgrace."
	"I don't intend to fall," whispered Denison. He caught a large, ragged breath, and opened his eyes wide. The Earth was as serene as ever, as uncaring. He was moving more slowly now -- more slowly -- more slowly --
	"Am I standing still now, Selene?" he asked. "I'm not sure."
	"You're standing still. Now don't move. You've got to rest before we make the trip back to town...Damn it, I left it somewhere around here when we came up."
	Denison watched her with disbelief. She had climbed up with him, had glided down with him. Yet he was half-dead with weariness and tension, and she was in the air with long kangaroo-leaps. She seemed a hundred yards away when she said, "Here it is!" and her voice was as loud in his ears as when she was next to him.
	She was back in a moment, with a folded, paunchy sheet of plastic under her arm.
	"Remember," she said, cheerily, "when you asked what it was on our way up and I said we'd be using it before we came down?" She unfolded it and spread it on the dusty surface of the Moon.
	"A Lunar Lounge is its full name," she said, "but we just call it a lounge. We take the adjective for granted here on this world." She inserted a cartridge and tripped a lever.
	It began to fill. Somehow Denison had expected a hissing noise, but of course there was no air to carry sound.
	"Before you question our conservation policies again," said Selene, "this is argon also."
	It blossomed into a mattress on six, stubby legs, "It will hold you," she said. "It makes very little actual contact with the ground and the vacuum all around will conserve its heat."
	"Don't tell me it's hot," said Denison, amazed.
	"The argon is heated as it pours in, but only relatively. It ends up at 270 degrees absolute, almost warm enough to melt ice, and quite warm enough to keep your insulated suit from losing heat faster than you can manufacture it. Go ahead. Lie down."
	Denison did so, with a sensation of enormous luxury.
	"Great!" he said with a long sigh.
	"Mamma Selene thinks of everything," she said.
	She came from behind him now, gliding around him, her feet placed heel to heel as though she were on skates, and then let them fly out from under her, as she came down gracefully on hip and elbow on the ground just beside him.
	Denison whistled. "How did you do that?"
	"Lots of practice! And don't you try it. You'll break your elbow. I warn you though. If I get too cold, I'm going to have to crowd you on the lounge."
	"Safe enough," he said, "with both of us in suits."
	"Ah, there speaks my brave lecher...How do you feel?"
	"All right, I guess. What an experience!"
	"What an experience? You set a record for non-falls. Do you mind if I tell the folks back in town about this?"
	"No. Always like to be appreciated...You're not going to expect me to do this again, are you?"
	"Right now? Of course not. I wouldn't myself. We'll just rest awhile, make sure your heart action is back to normal, and then we'll go back. If you'll reach your legs in my direction, I'll take your gliders off. Next time, I'll show you how to handle the gliders yourself."
	"I'm not sure that there will be a next time."
	"Of course there'll be. Didn't you enjoy it?"
	"A little. In between terror."
	"You'll have less terror next time, and still less the time after, and eventually you'll just experience the enjoyment and I'll make a racer out of you."
	"No, you won't. I'm too old."
	"Not on the Moon. You just look old."
	Denison could feel the ultimate quiet of the Moon soaking into him as he lay there. He was facing the Earth this time. Its steady presence in the sky had, more than anything else, given him the sensation of stability during his recent glide and he felt grateful to it.
	He said, "Do you often come out here, Selene? I mean, by yourself, or just one or two others? You know, when it isn't fiesta time?"
	"Practically never. Unless there are people around, this is too much for me. That I'm doing it now, actually, surprises me."
	"Uh-huh," said Denison, noncommittally.
	"You're not surprised?"
	"Should I be? My feeling is that each person does what he does either because he wants to or he must and in either case that's his business, not mine."
	"Thanks, Ben. I mean it; it's good to hear. One of the nice things about you, Ben, is that for an Immie, you're willing to let us be ourselves. We're underground people, we Lunarites, cave people, corridor people. And what's wrong with that?"
	"Nothing."
	"Not to hear the Earthies talk. And I'm a tourist guide and have to listen to them. There isn't anything they say that I haven't heard a million times, but what I hear most of all" -- and she dropped into the clipped accents of the typical Earthie speaking Planetary Standard " -- 'But, dear, however can all you people live in caves all the time? Doesn't it give you a terrible closed-in feeling? Don't you ever want to see blue sky and trees and ocean and feel wind and smell flowers -- '
	"Oh, I could go on and on, Ben. Then they say, 'But I suppose you don't know what blue sky and sea and trees are like so you don't miss them.' ...As if we don't receive Earth-television and as if we don't have full access to Earth-literature, both optical and auditory -- and olfactory sometimes, too."
	Denison was amused. He said, "What's the official answer to remarks like that?"
	"Nothing much. We just say, 'We're quite used to it, madam.' Or 'sir' if it's a man. Usually it's a woman. The men are too interested in studying our blouses and wondering when we take them off, I suppose. You know what I'd like to tell the idiots?"
	"Please tell me. As long as you have to keep the blouse on, it being inside the suit, at least get that off your chest."
	"Funny, funny word play!...I'd like to tell them, 'Look, madam, why the hell should we be interested in your damned world? We don't want to be hanging on the outside of any planet and waiting to fall off or get blown off. We don't want raw air puffing at us and dirty water falling on us. We don't want your damned germs and your smelly grass and your dull blue sky and your dull white clouds. We can see Earth in our own sky when we want to, and we don't often want to. The Moon is our home and it's what we make it; exactly what we make it. We own it and we build our own ecology, and we don't need you here being sorry for us going our own way. Go back to your own world and let your gravity pull your breasts down to your knees.' That's what I'd say."
	Denison said, "All right. Whenever you get too close to saying that to some Earthie, you come say it to me and you'll feel better."
	"You know what? Every once in a while, some Immie suggests that we build an Earth-park on the Moon; some little spot with Earth-plants brought in as seeds or seedlings; maybe some animals. A touch of home -- that's the usual expression."
	"I take it you're against that."
	"Of course, I'm against it. A touch of whose home? The Moon is our home. An Immie who wants a touch of home had better get back to his home. Immies can be worse than Earthies sometimes."
	"I'll keep that in mind," said Denison.
	"Not you -- so far," said Selene.
	There was silence for a moment and Denison wondered if Selene were going to suggest a return to the caverns. On the one hand, it wouldn't be long before he would feel a fairly strenuous craving to visit a rest-room. On the other, he had never felt so relaxed. He wondered how long the oxygen in his pack would hold out.
	Then Selene said, "Ben, do you mind if I ask you a question?"
	"Not at all. If it's my private life that interests you, I am without secrets. I'm five-foot-nine, weigh twenty-eight pounds on the Moon, had one wife long ago, now divorced, one child, a daughter, grown-up and married, attended University of -- "
	"No, Ben. I'm serious. Can I ask about your work?"
	"Of course you can, Selene. I don't know how much I can explain to you, though."
	"Well -- You know that Barron and I -- "
	"Yes, I know," said Denison, brusquely.
	"We talk together. He tells me things sometimes. He said you think the Electron Pump might make the Universe explode."
	"Our section of the Universe. It might convert a part of our Galactic arm into a quasar."
	"Really? Do you really think so?"
	Denison said, "When I came to the Moon, I wasn't sure. Now I am. I am personally convinced that this will happen."
	"When do you think it will happen?"
	"That I can't say exactly. Maybe a few years from now. Maybe a few decades."
	There was a short silence between them. Then Selene said, in a subdued voice, "Barron doesn't think so."
	"I know he doesn't. I'm not trying to convert him. You don't beat refusal to believe in a frontal attack. That's Lamont's mistake."
	"Who's Lamont?"
	"I'm sorry, Selene. I'm talking to myself."
	"No, Ben. Please tell me. I'm interested. Please."
	Denison turned to one side, facing her. "All right," he said. "I have no objection to telling you. Lamont, a physicist back on Earth, tried in his way to alert the world to the dangers of the Pump. He failed. Earthmen want the Pump; they want the free energy; they want it enough to refuse to believe they can't have it."
	"But why should they want it, if it means death?"
	"All they have to do is refuse to believe it means death. The easiest way to solve a problem is to deny it exists. Your friend, Dr. Neville, does the same thing. He dislikes the surface, so he forces himself to believe that Solar batteries are no good -- even though to any impartial observer they would seem the perfect energy source for the Moon. He wants the Pump so he can stay underground, so he refuses to believe that there can be any danger from it."
	Selene said, "I don't think Barron would refuse to believe something for which valid evidence existed. Do you really have the evidence?"
	"I think I do. It's most amazing really, Selene. The whole thing depends on certain subtle factors of quark-quark interactions. Do you know what that means?"
	"You don't have to explain. I've talked so much to Barron about all sorts of things that I might be able to follow."
	"Well, I thought I would need the Lunar proton synchrotron for the purpose. It's twenty-five miles across, has superconducting magnets, and can dispose of energies of 20,000 Bev and more. It turns out, though, that you people have something you call a Pionizer, which fits into a moderately sized room and does all the work of the synchrotron. The Moon is to be congratulated on a most amazing advance."
	"Thank you," said Selene, complacently. "I mean on behalf of the Moon."
	"Well, then, my Pionizer results can show the rate of increase of intensity of strong nuclear interaction; and the increase is what Lamont says it is and not what the orthodox theory would have it be."
	"And have you shown it to Barron?"
	"No, I haven't. And if I do, I expect Neville to reject it. He'll say the results are marginal. He'll say I've made an error. He'll say that I haven't taken all factors into account. He'll say I've used inadequate controls...What he'll really be saying is that he wants the Electron Pump and won't give it up."
	"You mean there's no way out."
	"Of course there is, but not the direct way. Not Lamont's way."
	"What's that?"
	"Lamont's solution is to force abandonment of the Pump, but you can't just move backward. You can't push the chicken back into the egg, wine back into the grape, the boy back into the womb. If you want the baby to let go of your watch, you don't just try to explain that he ought to do it -- you offer him something he would rather have."
	"And what's that?"
	"Ah, that's where I'm not so sure. I do have an idea, a simple idea -- perhaps too simple to work -- based on the quite obvious fact that the number two is ridiculous and can't exist."
	There was a silence that lasted for a minute or so and then Selene, her voice as absorbed as his, said, "Let me guess your meaning."
	"I don't know that I have any," said Denison.
	"Let me guess, anyway. It could make sense to suppose that our own Universe is the only one that can exist or does exist, because it is the only one we live in and directly experience. Once, however, evidence arises that there is a second Universe as well, the one we call the para-Universe, then it becomes absolutely ridiculous to suppose that there are two and only two Universes. If a second Universe can exist, then an infinite number can. Between one and the infinite in cases such as these, there are no sensible numbers. Not only two, but any finite number, is ridiculous and can't exist."
	Denison said, "That's exactly my reas -- " And silence fell again.
	Denison heaved himself into a sitting position and looked down on the suit-encased girl. He said, "I think we had better go back to town."
	She said, "I was just guessing."
	He said, "No, you weren't. Whatever it was, it wasn't just guessing."


11

	Barron Neville stared at her, quite speechless for a while. She looked calmly back at him. Her window panorama had been changed again. One of them now showed the Earth, a little more than half full.
	Finally, he said, "Why?"
	She said, "It was an accident, really, I saw the point and I was too enthusiastic not to speak. I should have told you days ago but I was afraid your reaction would be exactly what it is."
	"So he knows. You fool!"
	She frowned. "What does he know? Only what he would have guessed sooner or later -- that I'm not really a tourist guide -- that I'm your Intuitionist. An Intuitionist who knows no mathematics, for heaven's sake. So what if he knows that? What does it matter if I have intuition? How many times have you told me that my intuition has no value till it is backed by mathematical rigor and experimental observation? How many times have you told me that the most compelling intuition could be wrong? Well, then, what value will he place on mere Intuitionism?"
	Neville grew white, but Selene couldn't tell whether that was out of anger or apprehension. He said, "You're different. Hasn't your intuition always proved right? When you were sure of it?"
	"Ah, but he doesn't know that, does he?"
	"He'll guess it. He'll see Gottstein."
	"What will he tell Gottstein? He still has no idea of what we're really after."
	"Doesn't he?"
	"No." She had stood up, walked away. Now she turned to him and shouted, "No! It's cheap of you to imply that I would betray you and the rest. If you don't accept my integrity then accept my common sense. There's no point in telling them. What's the use of it to them, or to us, if we're all going to be destroyed?"
	"Oh, please, Selene!" Neville waved his hand in disgust. "Not that."
	"No. You listen. He talked to me and described his work. You hide me like a secret weapon. You tell me that I'm more valuable than any instrument or any ordinary scientist. You play your games of conspiracy, insisting that everyone must continue to think me a tourist guide and nothing more so that my great talents will always be available to the Lunarites. To you. And what do you accomplish?"
	"We have you, haven't we? How long do you suppose you would have remained free, if they -- "
	"You keep saying things like that. But who's been imprisoned? Who's been stopped? Where is the evidence of the great conspiracy you see all around you? The Earth-men keep you and your team from their large instruments much more because you goad them into it than out of any malice on their part. And that's done us good, rather than harm, since it's forced us to invent other instruments that are more subtle."
	"Based on your theoretical insight, Selene."
	Selene smiled. "I know. Ben was very complimentary about them."
	"You and your Ben. What the hell do you want with that miserable Earthie?"
	"He's an Immigrant. And what I want is information. Do you give me any? You're so damned afraid I'll be caught, you don't dare let me be seen talking to any physicist; only you, and you're my -- For that reason only, probably."
	"Now, Selene." He tried to manage a soothing tone, but there was far too much impatience to it.
	"No, I don't care about that really. You've told me I have this one task and I've tried to concentrate on it and sometimes I think I have it, mathematics or not. I can visualize it; the kind of thing that must be done -- and then it slips away. But what's the use of it, when the Pump will destroy us all anyway...Haven't I told you I distrusted the exchange of field intensities?"
	Neville said, "I'll ask you again. Are you ready to tell me that the Pump will destroy us? Never mind might, never mind 'could'; never mind anything but 'will.' "
	Selene shook her head angrily. "I can't. It's so marginal. I can't say it will. But isn't a simple 'might' sufficient in such a case?"
	"Oh, Lord."
	"Don't turn up your eyes. Don't sneer! You've never tested the matter. I told you how it might be tested."
	"You were never this worried about it till you started listening to this Earthie of yours."
	"He's an Immigrant. Aren't you going to test it?"
	"No! I told you your suggestions were impractical. You're not an experimentalist, and what looks good in your mind doesn't necessarily work in the real world of instruments, of randomness, and of uncertainty."
	"The so-called real world of your laboratory." Her face was flushed and angry and she held her clenched fists at chin-level. "You waste so much time trying to get a vacuum good enough -- There's a vacuum up there, up there on the surface where I'm pointing, with temperatures that, at times, are halfway down toward absolute zero. Why don't you try experiments on the surface?"
	"It would have been useless."
	"How do you know? You just won't try. Ben Denison tried. He took the trouble to devise a system he could use on the surface and he set it up when he went to inspect the Solar batteries. He wanted you to come and you wouldn't. Do you remember? It was a very simple thing, something even I could describe to you now that it's been described to me. He ran it at day-temperatures and again at night-temperatures and that was enough to guide him to a new line of research with the Pionizer."
	"How simple you make it sound."
	"How simple it is. Once he found out I was an Intuitionist, he talked to me as you never did. He explained his reasons for thinking that the strengthening of the strong nuclear interaction is indeed accumulating catastrophically in the neighborhood of Earth. It will only be a few years before the Sun explodes and sends the strengthening, in ripples -- "
	"No, no, no, no" shouted Neville. "I've seen his results and I'm not impressed."
	"You've seen them?"
	"Yes, of course. Do you suppose I let him work in our laboratories without making sure I know what he's doing? I've seen his results and they're worth nothing. He deals with tiny deviations that are well within the experimental error. If he wants to believe that those deviations have significance and if you want to believe them, go ahead. But no amount of belief will make them have that significance if, in fact, they don't."
	"What do you want to believe, Barron?"
	"I want the truth."
	"But haven't you decided in advance what the truth must be by your own gospel? You want the Pump Station of the Moon, don't you, so that you need have nothing to do with the surface; and anything that might prevent that is not the truth -- by definition."
	"I won't argue with you. I want the Pump Station, and even more -- I want the other. One's no good without the other. Are you sure you haven't -- "
	"I haven't."
	"Will you?"
	Selene whirled on him again, her feet tapping rapidly on the ground in such a way as to keep her bobbing in the air to the tune of an angry clatter.
	"I won't tell him anything," she said, "but I must have more information. You have no information for me, but he may have; or he may get it with the experiments you won't do. I've got to talk to him and find out what he is going to find out. If you get between him and me, you'll never have what you want. And you needn't fear his getting it before I do. He's too used to Earth thinking; he won't make that last step. I will."
	"All right. And don't forget the difference between Earth and Moon, either. This is your world; you have no other. This man, Denison, this Ben, this Immigrant, having come from Earth to the Moon, can, if he chooses, return from Moon to Earth. You can never go to the Earth; never. You are a Lunarite forever."
	"A Moon-maiden," said Selene, derisively.
	"No maiden," said Neville. "Though you may have to wait a long while before I confirm the matter once again."
	She seemed unmoved at that.
	He said, "And about this big danger of explosion. If the risk involved in changing the basic constants of a Universe is so great, why haven't the para-men, who are so far advanced beyond us in technology, stopped Pumping?"
	And he left.
	She faced the closed door with bunched jaw muscles. Then she said, "Because conditions are different for them and for us, you incredible jerk." But she was speaking to herself; he was gone.
	She kicked the lever that let down her bed, threw herself into it and seethed. How much closer was she now to the real object for which Barren and those others had now been aiming for years?
	No closer.
	Energy! Everyone searched for energy! The magic word! The cornucopia! The one key to universal plenty!...And yet energy wasn't all.
	If one found energy, one could find the other, too. If one found the key to energy, the key to the other would be obvious. She knew the key to the other would be obvious if she could but grasp some subtle point that would appear obvious the moment it was grasped. (Good heavens, she had been so infected by Barren's chronic suspicion that even in her thoughts she was calling it "the other.")
	No Earthman would get that subtle point because no Earthman had reason to look for it.
	Ben Denison would find it for her, then, without finding it for himself.
	Except that -- If the Universe was to be destroyed, what did anything matter?


12

	Denison tried to beat down his self-consciousness. Time and again, he made a groping motion as though to hitch upward the pants he wasn't wearing. He wore only sandals and the barest of briefs, which were uncomfortably tight And, of course, he carried the blanket.
	Selene, who was similarly accoutered, laughed. "Now, Ben, there's nothing wrong with your bare body, barring a certain flabbiness. It's perfectly in fashion here. In fact, take off your briefs if they're binding you."
	"No!" muttered Denison. He shifted the blanket so that it draped over his abdomen and she snatched it from him.
	She said, "Now give me that thing. What kind of a Lunarite will you make if you bring your Earth puritanism here? You know that prudery is only the other side of prurience. The words are even on the same page in the dictionary."
	"I have to get used to it, Selene."
	"You might start by looking at me once in awhile, without having your glance slide off me as though I were coated with oil. You look at other women quite efficiently, I notice."
	"If I look at you -- "
	"Then you'll seem too interested and you'll be embarrassed. But if you look hard, you'll get used to it, and you'll stop noticing. Look, I'll stand still and you stare. I'll take off my briefs."
	Denison groaned, "Selene, there are people all around and you're making intolerable fun of me. Please keep walking and let me get used to the situation."
	"All right, but I hope you notice the people who pass us don't look at us."
	"They don't look at you. They look at me all right. They've probably never seen so old-looking and ill-shaped a person."
	"They probably haven't," agreed Selene, cheerfully, "but they'll just have to get used to it."
	Denison walked on in misery, conscious of every gray hair on his chest and of every quiver of his paunch. It was only when the passageway thinned out and the people passing them were fewer in number that he began to feel a certain relief.
	He looked about him curiously now, not as aware of Selene's conical breasts as he had been, nor of her smooth thighs. The corridor seemed endless.
	"How far have we come?" he asked.
	"Are you tired?" Selene was contrite. "We could have taken a scooter. I forget you're from Earth."
	"I should hope you do. Isn't that the ideal for an immigrant? I'm not the least bit tired. Hardly the least bit tired at any rate. What I am is a little cold."
	"Purely your imagination, Ben," said Selene, firmly. "You just think you ought to feel cold because so much of you is bare. Put it out of your head."
	"Easy to say," he sighed. "I'm walking well, I hope."
	"Very well. I'll have you kangarooing yet."
	"And participating in glider races down the surface slopes. Remember, I'm moderately advanced in years. But really, how far have we come?"
	"Two miles, I should judge."
	"Good Lord! How many miles of corridors are there altogether?"
	"I'm afraid I don't know. The residential corridors make up comparatively little of the total. There are the mining corridors, the geological ones, the industrial, the mycological...I'm sure there must be several hundred miles altogether."
	"Do you have maps?"
	"Of course there are maps. We can't work blind."
	"I mean you, personally."
	"Well, no, not with me, but I don't need maps for this area; it's quite familiar to me. I used to wander about here as a child. These are old corridors. Most of the new corridors -- and we average two or three miles of new corridors a year, I think -- are in the north. I couldn't work my way through them, without a map, for untold sums. Maybe not even with a map."
	"Where are we heading?"
	"I promised you an unusual sight -- no, not me, so don't say it -- and you'll have it. It's the Moon's most unusual mine and it's completely off the ordinary tourist trails."
	"Don't tell me you've got diamonds on the Moon?"
	"Better than that."
	The corridor walls were unfinished here -- gray rock, dimly but adequately lit by patches of electroluminescence. The temperature was comfortable and at a steady mildness, with ventilation so gently effective there was no sensation of wind. It was hard to tell here that a couple of hundred feet above was a surface subjected to alternate frying and freezing as the Sun came and went on its grand biweekly swing from horizon to horizon and then underneath and back.
	"Is all this airtight?" asked Denison, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was not far below the bottom of an ocean of vacuum that extended upward through all infinity.
	"Oh, yes. Those walls are impervious. They're all booby-trapped, too. If the air pressure drops as much as ten per cent in any section of the corridors there is such a hooting and howling from sirens as you have never heard and such a flashing of arrows and blazing of signs directing you to safety as you have never seen."
	"How often does this happen?"
	"Not often. I don't think anyone has been killed through air-lack for at least five years." Then, with sudden defensiveness, "You have natural catastrophes on Earth. A big quake or a tidal wave can kill thousands."
	"No argument, Selene." He threw up his hands. "I surrender."
	"All right," she said. "I didn't mean to get excited...Do you hear that?"
	She stopped, in an attitude of listening.
	Denison listened, too, and shook his head. Suddenly, he looked around. "It's so quiet. Where is everybody? Are you sure we're not lost?"
	"This isn't a natural cavern with unknown passageways. You have those on Earth, haven't you? I've seen photographs."
	"Yes, most of them are limestone caves, formed by water. That certainly can't be the case of the Moon, can it?"
	"So we can't be lost," said Selene, smiling. "If we're alone, put it down to superstition."
	"To what?" Denison looked startled and his face creased in an expression of disbelief.
	"Don't do that," she said. "You get all lined. That's right. Smooth out. You look much better than you did when you first arrived, you know. That's low gravity and exercise."
	"And trying to keep up with nude young ladies who have an uncommon amount of off-time and an uncommon lack of better things to do than to go on busmen's holidays."
	"Now you're treating me like a tourist guide again, and I'm not nude."
	"At that, even nudity is less frightening than Intuitionism...But what's this about superstition?"
	"Not really superstition, I suppose, but most of the people of the city tend to stay away from this part of the corridor-complex."
	"But why?"
	"Because of what I'm going to show you." They were walking again. "Hear it now?"
	She stopped and Denison listened anxiously. He said, "You mean that small tapping sound? Tap -- tap -- Is that what you mean?"
	She ran ahead in slow, loping strides with the slow-motion movement of the Lunarite in unhurried flight. He followed her, attempting to ape the gait.
	"Here -- here -- "
	Denison's eye followed Selene's eagerly pointing finger. "Good Lord," he said. "Where's it coming from?"
	There was a drip of what was clearly water. A slow dripping, with each drip striking a small ceramic trough that led into the rock wall.
	"From the rocks. We do have water on the Moon, you know. Most of it we can bake out of gypsum; enough for our purposes, since we conserve it pretty well."
	"I know. I know. I've never yet been able to manage one complete shower. How you people manage to stay clean I don't know."
	"I told you. First, wet yourself. Then turn off the water and smear just a little detergent on you. You rub it -- Oh, Ben, I'm not going through it yet again. And there's nothing on the Moon to get you all that dirty anyway...But that's not what we're talking about. In one or two places there are actually water deposits, usually as ice near the surface in a mountain shadow. If we locate it, it drips out. This one has been dripping since the corridor was first driven through, and that was eight years ago."
	"But why the superstition?"
	"Well, obviously, water is the great material resource on which the Moon depends. We drink it, wash with it, grow our food with it, make our oxygen with it, keep everything going with it. Free water can't help but get a lot of respect. Once this drip was discovered, plans to extend the tunnels in this direction were abandoned till it stopped. The corridor walls were even left unfinished."
	"That sounds like superstition right there."
	"Well -- a kind of awe, maybe. It wasn't expected to last for more than a few months; such drips never do. Well, after this one had passed its first anniversary, it began to seem eternal. In fact, that's what it's called: 'The Eternal.' You'll even find it marked that way on the maps. Naturally people have come to attach importance to it; a feeling that if it stops it will mean some sort of bad fortune."
	Denison laughed.
	Selene said, warmly, "No one really believes it, but everyone part-believes it. You see, it's not really eternal and it must stop some time. As a matter of fact, the rate of drip is only about a third of what it was when it was first discovered, so that it is slowly drying. I imagine people feel that if it happened to stop when they were actually here, they would share in the bad fortune. At least, that's the rational way of explaining their reluctance to come here."
	"I take it that you don't believe this."
	"Whether I believe it or not isn't the point. You see I'm quite certain that it won't stop sharply enough for anyone to be able to take the blame. It will just drip slower and slower and slower and no one will ever be able to pinpoint the exact time when it stopped. So why worry?"
	"I agree with you."
	"I do, however," she said, making the transition smoothly, "have other worries, and I'd like to discuss them with you while we're alone." She spread out the blanket and sat on it, cross-legged.
	"Which is why you really brought me here?" He dropped to hip and elbow, facing her.
	She said, "See, you can look at me easily now. You're getting used to me...And, really, there were surely times on Earth when near nudity wasn't something to be exclaimed over."
	"Times and places," agreed Denison, "but not since the passing of the Crisis. In my lifetime -- "
	"Well, on the Moon, do as the Lunarites do is a good enough guide for behavior."
	"Are you going to tell me why you really brought me here? Or shall I suspect you of planning seduction?"
	"I could carry through seduction quite comfortably at home, thank you. This is different. The surface would have been best, but getting ready to go out on the surface would have attracted a great deal of attention. Coming here didn't, and this place is the only spot in town where we can be reasonably safe from interruption." She hesitated.
	"Well?" said Denison.
	"Barren is angry. Very angry, in fact."
	"I'm not surprised. I warned you he would be if you told him that I knew you were an Intuitionist. Why did you feel it so necessary to tell him?"
	"Because it is difficult to keep things for long from my -- companion. Probably, though, he doesn't consider me that any longer."
	"I'm sorry."
	"Oh, it was turning sour anyway. It's lasted long enough. What bothers me more -- much more -- is that he violently refuses to accept your interpretation of the Pionizer experiments you ran after the surface observations."
	"I told you the way it would be."
	"He said he had seen your results."
	"He glanced at them and grunted."
	"It's rather disillusioning. Does everyone just believe what he wants to?"
	"As long as possible. Sometimes longer."
	"What about you?"
	"You mean, am I human? Certainly. I don't believe I'm really old. I believe I'm quite attractive. I believe you seek out my company because you think I'm charming -- even when you insist on turning the conversation to physics."
	"No! I mean it!"
	"Well, I suspect Neville told you that the data I had gathered were not significant beyond the margin of error, which makes them doubtful, and that's true enough...And yet I prefer to believe they have the meaning I expected them to have to begin with."
	"Just because you want to believe that?"
	"Not just because. Look at it this way. Suppose there is no harm in the Pump, but that I insist on thinking there is harm. In that case, I will turn out to be a fool and my scientific reputation will be badly damaged. But I am a fool in the eyes of the people who count, and I have no scientific reputation."
	"Why is that, Ben? You've hinted around the tale several times. Can't you tell me the whole story?"
	"You'd be surprised how little there is to tell. At the age of twenty-five I was still such a child that I had to amuse myself by insulting a fool for no reason other than that he was a fool. Since his folly was not his fault, I was the greater fool to do it. My insult drove him to heights he couldn't possibly have scaled otherwise -- "
	"You're talking of Hallam?"
	"Yes, of course. And as he rose, I fell. And eventually, it dropped me to -- the Moon."
	"Is that so bad?"
	"No, I rather think it's good. So let's say he did me a favor, long-way round...And let's get back to what I'm talking about. I've just explained that if I believe the Pump to be harmful and am wrong, I lose nothing. On the other hand, if I believe the Pump to be harmless and am wrong, I will be helping to destroy the world. To be sure, I've lived most of my life already and I suppose I can argue myself into believing that I have no great cause to love humanity. However, only a few people have hurt me, and if I hurt everyone in return that is unconscionable usury.
	"Then, too, if you'd rather have a less noble reason, Selene, consider my daughter. Just before I left for the Moon, she had applied for permission to have a child. She'll probably get it and before long I'll be -- if you don't mind my saying so -- a grandfather. Somehow I'd like to see my grandchild have a normal life expectancy. So I prefer to believe the Pump is dangerous and to act on that belief."
	Selene said, intensely, "But here's my point. Is the Pump dangerous or is it not? I mean, the truth, and not what anyone wants to believe."
	"I should ask you that. You're the Intuitionist. What does your intuition say?"
	"But that's what bothers me, Ben. I can't make it really certain either way. I tend to feel the Pump is harmful, but maybe that's because I want to believe that."
	"All right. Maybe you do. Why?"
	Selene smiled ruefully and shrugged her shoulders. "It would be fun for Barron to be wrong. When he thinks he's certain, he's so vituperatively certain."
	"I know. You want to see his face when he's forced to back down. I'm well aware of how intense such a desire can be. For instance, if the Pump were dangerous and I could prove it, I might conceivably be hailed as the savior of humanity, and yet I swear that I'd be more interested in the look on Hallam's face. I'm not proud of that feeling so I suspect that what I'll do is insist on an equal share of the credit with Lamont, who deserves it after all, and confine my pleasure to watching Lamont's face when he watches Hallam's face. The pettishness will then be one place removed...But I'm beginning to speak nonsense...Selene?"
	"Yes, Ben?"
	"When did you find out you were an Intuitionist?"
	"I don't quite know."
	"You took physics in college, I imagine."
	"Oh, yes. Some math, too, but I was never good at that. Come to think of it, I wasn't particularly good in physics, either. I used to guess the answers when I was desperate; you know, guess what I was supposed to do to get the right answers. Very often, it worked and then I would be asked to explain why I had done what I did and I couldn't do that very well. They suspected me of cheating but could never prove it."
	"They didn't suspect Intuitionism?"
	"I don't think so. But then, I didn't either. Until -- well, one of my first sex-mates was a physicist. In fact, he was the father of my child, assuming he really supplied the sperm-sample. He had a physics problem and he told me about it when we were lying in bed afterward, just to have something to talk about, I suppose. And I said, 'You know what it sounds like to me?' and told him. He tried it just for the fun of it, he said, and it worked. In fact, that was the first step to the Pionizer, which you said was much better than the proton synchrotron."
	"You mean that was your idea?" Denison put his finger under the dripping water and paused as he was about to put it in his mouth. "Is this water safe?"
	"It's perfectly sterile," said Selene, "and it goes into the general reservoir for treatment. It's saturated with sulfates, carbonates, and a few other items, however. You won't like the taste."
	Denison rubbed his finger on his briefs. "You invented the Pionizer?"
	"Not invented. I had the original concept. It took lots of development, mostly by Barren."
	Denison shook his head. "You know, Selene, you're an amazing phenomenon. You should be under observation by the molecular biologists."
	"Should I? That's not my idea of a thrill."
	"About half a century ago, there came the climax to the big trend toward genetic engineering -- "
	"I know. It flopped and was thrown out of court. It's illegal now -- that whole type of study -- insofar as research can be made illegal. I know people who've done work on it just the same."
	"I dare say. On Intuitionism?"
	"No. I don't think so."
	"Ah. But that's my point. At the height of the push for genetic engineering, there was this attempt to stimulate Intuitionism. Almost all the great scientists had intuitive ability, of course, and there was the feeling that this was the single great key to creativity. One could argue that superior capacity for intuition was the product of a particular gene combination and there were all sorts of speculations as to which gene combination that was."
	"I suspect that there are many possible types that would satisfy."
	"And I suspect that if you are consulting your intuition here, you are correct. But there were also those who insisted that one gene, or one small related group of genes, was of particular importance to the combination so that you might speak of an Intuition Gene...Then the whole thing collapsed."
	"As I said."
	"But before it collapsed," Denison went on, "there had been attempts to alter genes to increase the intensity of Intuitionism and there were those who insisted that some success had been achieved. The altered genes entered the gene pool, I'm positive, and if you happened to inherit -- Were any of your grandparents involved in the program?"
	"Not as far as I know," said Selene, "but I can't rule it out. One of them might have been, for all I can say...If you don't mind, I'm not going to investigate the matter. I don't want to know."
	"Perhaps not. The whole field grew fearfully unpopular with the general public and anyone who can be considered the product of genetic engineering would not exactly be greeted gladly...Intuitionism, they said, for instance, was inseparable from certain undesirable characteristics."
	"Well, thank you."
	"They said. To possess intuition is to inspire a certain envy and enmity in others. Even as gentle and saint-like an Intuitionist as Michael Faraday aroused the envy and hatred of Humphry Davy. Who's to say that it doesn't take a certain flaw in character to be capable of arousing envy. And in your case -- "
	Selene said, "Surely, I don't rouse your envy and hatred?"
	"I don't think so. What about Neville, though?"
	Selene was silent.
	Denison said, "By the time you got to Neville, you were well-known as an Intuitionist, I suppose."
	"Not well known, I would say. Some physicists suspected it, I'm sure. However, they don't like to give up credit here any more than on Earth, and I suppose they convinced themselves, more or less, that whatever I had said to them was just a meaningless guess. But Barron knew, of course."
	"I see." Denison paused.
	Selene's lips twitched. "Somehow I get the feeling that you want to say: 'Oh, that's why he bothers with you.' "
	"No, of course not, Selene. You're quite attractive enough to be desired for your own sake."
	"I think so, too, but every little bit helps and Barron was bound to be interested in my Intuitionism. Why shouldn't he be? Only he insisted I keep my job as tourist guide. He said I was an important natural resource of the Moon and he didn't want Earth monopolizing me the way they monopolized the synchrotron."
	"An odd thought. But perhaps it was that the fewer who knew of your Intuitionism, the fewer would suspect your contribution to what would otherwise be put to his sole credit."
	"Now you sound like Barron himself!"
	"Do I? And is it possible he gets rather annoyed with you when your Intuitionism is working particularly well."
	Selene shrugged. "Barron is a suspicious man. We all have our faults."
	"Is it wise to be alone with me, then?"
	Selene said, sharply, "Now don't get hurt because I defend him. He doesn't really suspect the possibility of sexual misbehavior between us. You're from Earth. In fact, I might as well tell you he encourages our companionship. He thinks I can learn from you."
	"And have you?" asked Denison, coldly.
	"I have...Yet though that may be his chief reason for encouraging our friendship, it isn't mine."
	"What's yours?"
	"As you well know," said Selene, "and as you want to hear me say, I enjoy your company. Otherwise, I could get what I want in considerably less time."
	"All right, Selene. Friends?"
	"Friends! Absolutely."
	"What have you learned from me, then? May I know?"
	"That would take awhile to explain. You know that the reason we can't set up a Pump Station anywhere we want to is that we can't locate the para-Universe, even though they can locate us. That might be because they are much more intelligent or much more technologically advanced than we are -- "
	"Not necessarily the same thing," muttered Denison.
	"I know. That's why I put in the 'or.' But it might also be that we are neither particularly stupid nor particularly backward. It might be something as simple as the fact that they offer the harder target. If the strong nuclear interaction is stronger in the para-Universe, they'd be bound to have much smaller Suns and, very likely, much smaller planets. Their individual world would be harder to locate than ours would be.
	"Or then again," she went on, "suppose it's the electromagnetic field they detect. The electromagnetic field of a planet is much larger than the planet itself and is much easier to locate. And that would mean that while they can detect the Earth, they can't detect the Moon, which has no electromagnetic field to speak of. That's why, perhaps, we've failed to set up a Pump Station on the Moon. And, if their small planets lack a significant electromagnetic field, we can't locate them."
	Denison said, "It's an attractive thought."
	"Next, consider the inter-Universal exchange in properties that serves to weaken their strong nuclear interaction, cooling their Suns, while strengthening ours, heating and exploding our Suns. What might that imply? Suppose they can collect energy one-way without our help but only at ruinously low efficiencies. Under ordinary circumstances that would therefore be utterly impractical. They would need us to help direct concentrated energy in their direction by supplying tungsten-186 to them and accepting plutonium-186 in return. But suppose our Galactic arm implodes into a quasar. That would produce an energy concentration in the neighborhood of the Solar system enormously greater than now exists and one that might persist for over a million years.
	"Once that quasar forms, even a ruinously low efficiency becomes sufficient. It wouldn't matter to them, therefore, whether we are destroyed or not. In fact, we might argue that it would be safer for them if we did explode. Until we do, we might end the Pump for any of a variety of reasons and they would be helpless to start it again. After the explosion, they are home free; no one could interfere...And that's why people who say, 'If the Pump is dangerous, why don't those terribly clever para-men stop it?' don't know what they're talking about."
	"Did Neville give you that argument?"
	"Yes, he did."
	"But the para-Sun would keep cooling down, wouldn't it?"
	"What does that matter?" said Selene, impatiently. "With the Pump, they wouldn't be dependent on their Sun for anything."
	Denison took a deep breath. "You can't possibly know this, Selene, but there was a rumor on Earth that Lamont received a message from the para-men to the effect that the Pump was dangerous, but that they couldn't stop it. No one took it seriously, of course, but suppose it's true. Suppose Lamont did receive such a message. Might it be that some of the para-men were humanitarian enough to wish not to destroy a world with cooperating intelligences upon it, and were prevented by the opposition of an oh-so-practical majority?"
	Selene nodded. "I suppose that's possible...All this I knew, or rather, intuited, before you came on the scene. But then you said that nothing between one and the infinite made any sense. Remember?"
	"Of course."
	"All right. The differences between our Universe and the para-Universe lie so obviously in the strong nuclear interaction that so far it's all that's been studied. But there is more than one interaction; there are four. In addition to the strong nuclear, there is the electromagnetic, the weak nuclear, and the gravitational, with intensity ratios of 130:1:10^-10:10^-42. But if four, why not an infinite number, with all the others too weak to be detectable or to influence our Universe in any way."
	Denison said, "If an interaction is too weak to be detectable or to exert influence in any way, then by any operational definition, it doesn't exist."
	"In this Universe," said Selene, with a snap. "Who knows what does or does not exist in the para-Universe? With an infinite number of possible interactions, each of which can vary infinitely in intensity compared to any one of them taken as standard, the number of different possible Universes that can exist is infinite."
	"Possibly the infinity of the continuum; aleph-one, rather than aleph-null."
	Selene frowned. "What does that mean?"
	"It's not important. Go on."
	Selene said, "Instead, then, of trying to work with the one para-Universe that has impinged itself on us and which may not suit our needs at all, why don't we instead try to work out which Universe, out of all the infinite possibilities, best suits us, and is most easily located. Let us design a Universe, for after all whatever we design must exist, and search for it."
	Denison smiled. "Selene, I've thought of exactly the same thing. And while there's no law that states I can't be completely wrong, it's very unlikely that anyone as brilliant as myself can be completely wrong when anyone as brilliant as yourself comes to exactly the same conclusion independently...Do you know what?"
	"What?" asked Selene.
	"I'm beginning to like your damned Moon food. Or getting used to it, anyway. Let's go back home and eat, and then we can start working out our plans...And you know what else?"
	"What?"
	"As long as we'll be working together, how about one kiss -- as experimentalist to intuitionist."
	Selene considered. She said, "We've both of us kissed and been kissed a good many times, I suppose. How about doing it as man to woman?"
	"I think I can manage that. But what do I do so as not to be clumsy about it? What are the Moon-rules for kissing?"
	"Follow instinct," said Selene, casually.
	Carefully, Denison placed his arms behind his back and leaned toward Selene. Then, after a while, he placed his arms behind her back.


13

	"And then I actually kissed him back," said Selene, thoughtfully.
	"Oh, did you?" said Barren Neville, harshly. "Well, that's valor beyond the call of duty."
	"I don't know. It wasn't that bad. In fact," (and she smiled) "he was rather touching about it. He was afraid he would be clumsy and began by putting his arms behind his back so that he wouldn't crush me, I suppose."
	"Spare me the details."
	"Why, what the hell do you care?" she fired up, suddenly. "You're Mister Platonic, aren't you?"
	"Do you want it differently? Now?"
	"You needn't perform to order."
	"But you had better. When do you expect to give us what we need?"
	"As soon as I can," she said, tonelessly.
	"Without his knowing?"
	"He's interested only in energy."
	"And in saving the world," mocked Neville. "And in being a hero. And in showing everybody. And in kissing you."
	"He admits to all that. What do you admit to?"
	"Impatience," said Neville, angrily. "Lots of impatience."


14

	"I am glad," said Denison, deliberately, "that the daytime is over." He held out his right arm and stared at it, encased in its protective layers. "The Lunar Sun is one thing I can't get used to and don't want to get used to. Even this suit seems a natural thing to me in comparison."
	"What's wrong with the Sun?" asked Selene.
	"Don't tell me you like it, Selene!"
	"No, of course not. I hate it. But then I never see it. You're an -- You're used to the Sun."
	"Not the way it is here on the Moon. It shines out of a black sky here. It dazzles the stars away, instead of muffling them. It is hot, hard, and dangerous. It is an enemy, and while it's in the sky, I can't help but feel that none of our attempts at reducing field intensity will succeed."
	"That's superstition, Ben," said Selene, with a distant edge of exasperation. "The Sun has nothing to do with it. We were in the crater shadow anyway and it was just like night. Stars and all."
	"Not quite," said Denison. "Anytime we looked northward, Selene, we could see that stretch of Sunlight glittering; I hated to look northward, yet the direction dragged at my eyes. Every time I looked at it I could feel the hard ultraviolet springing at my viewplate."
	"That's imagination. In the first place there's no ultraviolet to speak of in reflected light; in the second, your suit protects you against radiation."
	"Not against heat. Not very much."
	"But it's night now."
	"Yes," said Denison with satisfaction, "and this I like." He looked about with a continuing wonder. Earth was in the sky, of course, in its accustomed place; a fat crescent, now, bellying to the southwestward. The constellation Orion was above it, a hunter rising up out of the brilliant curved chair of Earth. The horizon glittered in the dim crescent-Earth light.
	"It's beautiful," he said. Then: "Selene, is the Pionizer showing anything?"
	Selene, who was looking at the skies' with no comment, stepped toward the maze of equipment that, over the past three alternations of day and night, had been assembled there in the shadow of the crater.
	"Not yet," she said, "but that's good news really. The field intensity is holding at just over fifty."
	"Not low enough," said Denison.
	Selene said, "It can be lowered further. I'm sure that all the parameters are suitable."
	"The magnetic field, too?"
	"I'm not sure about the magnetic field."
	"If we strengthen that, the whole thing becomes unstable."
	"It shouldn't. I know it shouldn't."
	"Selene, I trust your intuition against everything but the facts. It does get unstable. We've tried it."
	"I know, Ben. But not quite with this geometry. It's been holding to fifty-two a phenomenally long time. Surely, if we begin to hold it there for hours instead of minutes, we ought to be able to strengthen the magnetic field tenfold for a period of minutes instead of seconds...Let's try."
	"Not yet," said Denison.
	Selene hesitated, then stepped back, turning away. She said, "You still don't miss Earth, do you, Ben?"
	"No. It's rather odd, but I don't. I would have thought it inevitable that I miss blue sky, green earth, flowing water -- all the cliche adjective-noun combinations peculiar to Earth. I miss none of them. I don't even dream about them."
	Selene said, "This sort of thing does happen sometime. At least, there are Immies who say they experience no homesickness. They're in the minority, of course, and no one has ever been able to decide what this minority has in common. Guesses run all the way from serious emotional deficiency, no capacity to feel anything; to serious emotional excess, a fear to admit homesickness lest it lead to breakdown."
	"In my case, I think it's plain enough. Life on Earth was not very enjoyable for two decades and more, while here I work at last in a field I have made my own. And I have your help...More than that, Selene, I have your company."
	"You are kind," said Selene, gravely, "to place company and help in the relationship you do. You don't seem to need much help. Do you pretend to seek it for the sake of my company?"
	Denison laughed softly. "I'm not sure which answer would flatter you more."
	"Try the truth."
	"The truth is not so easy to determine when I value each so much." He turned back to the Pionizer. "The field intensity still holds, Selene."
	Selene's faceplate glinted in the Earthlight. She said, "Barren says that non-homesickness is natural and the sign of a healthy mind. He says that though the human body was adapted to Earth's surface and requires adjustment to the Moon, the human brain was not and does not. The human brain is so different, qualitatively, from all other brains that it can be considered a new phenomenon. It has had no time to be really fixed to Earth's surface and can, without adjustment, fit other environments. He says that enclosure in the caverns of the Moon may actually suit it best of all, for that is but a larger version of its enclosure in the cavern of the skull."
	"Do you believe that?" asked Denison, amused.
	"When Barron talks, he can make things sound very plausible."
	"I think it can be made equally plausible to claim that the comfort to be found in the caverns of the Moon is the result of the fulfillment of the return-to-the-womb fantasy. In fact," he added, thoughtfully, "considering the controlled temperature and pressure, the nature and digestibility of the food, I could make a good case for considering the Lunar colony -- I beg your pardon, Selene -- the Lunar city a deliberate reconstruction of the fetal environment."
	Selene said, "I don't think Barren would agree with you for a minute."
	"I'm sure he wouldn't," said Denison. He looked at the Earth-crescent, watching the distant cloud banks on edge. He fell into silence, absorbed in the view, and even though Selene moved back to the Pionizer, he remained in place.
	He watched Earth in its nest of stars and looked toward the serrated horizon where, every once in a while, it seemed to him he saw a puff of smoke where a small meteorite might be landing.
	He had pointed out a similar phenomenon, with some concern, to Selene during the previous Lunar night. She had been unconcerned.
	She said, "The Earth does shift slightly in the sky because of the Moon's libration and every once in a while a shaft of Earth-light tops a small rise and falls on a bit of soil beyond. It comes into view like a tiny puff of rising dust. It's common. We pay no attention."
	Denison had said, "But it could be a meteorite sometimes. Don't meteorites ever strike?"
	"Of course they do. You're probably hit by several every time you're out. Your suit protects you."
	"I don't mean micro-dust particles. I mean sizable meteorites that would really kick up the dust. Meteorites that could kill you."
	"Well, they fall, too, but they are few and the Moon is large. No one has been hit yet."
	And as Denison watched the sky and thought of that, he saw what, in the midst of his momentary preoccupation, he took to be a meteorite. Light streaking through the sky could, however, be a meteorite only on Earth with its atmosphere and not on the airless Moon.
	The light in the sky was man-made and Denison had not yet sorted out his impressions when it became, quite clearly, a small rocket-vessel sinking rapidly to a landing beside him.
	A single suited figure emerged, while a pilot remained within, barely seen as a dark splotch against the highlights.
	Denison waited. The etiquette of the spacesuit required the newcomer joining any group to announce himself first.
	"Commissioner Gottstein here," the new voice said, "as you can probably tell from my wobble."
	"Ben Denison here," said Denison.
	"Yes. I thought as much."
	"Have you come here looking for me?"
	"Certainly."
	"In a space-skipper? You might -- "
	"I might," said Gottstein, "have used Outlet P-4, which is less than a thousand yards from here. Yes, indeed. But I wasn't looking only for you."
	"Well, I won't ask for the meaning of what you say."
	"There's no reason for me to be coy. Surely you have not expected me to be uninterested in the fact that you have been carrying on experiments on the Lunar surface."
	"It's been no secret and anyone might be interested."
	"Yet no one seems to know the details of the experiments. Except, of course, that in some way you are working on matters concerning the Electron Pump."
	"It's a reasonable assumption."
	"Is it? It seemed to me that experiments of such a nature, to have any value at all, would require a rather enormous setup. This is not of my own knowledge, you understand. I consulted those who would know. And, it is quite obvious, you are not working on such a setup. It occurred to me, therefore, that you might not be the proper focus of my interest. While my attention was drawn to you, others might be undertaking more important tasks."
	"Why should I be used as distraction?"
	"I don't know. If I knew, I would be less concerned."
	"So I have been under observation."
	Gottstein chuckled. "That, yes. Since you have arrived. But while you have been working here on the surface, we have observed this entire region for miles in every direction. Oddly enough, it would seem that you, Dr. Denison, and your companion, are the only ones on the Lunar surface for any but the most routine of purposes."
	"Why is that odd?"
	"Because it means that you really think you're doing something with your gimcrack contraption, whatever it is. I can't believe that you are incompetent, so I think it would be worth listening to you if you tell me what you are doing."
	"I am experimenting in para-physics, Commissioner, precisely as rumor has it. To which I can add that so far my experiments have been only partly successful."
	"Your companion is, I imagine, Selene Lindstrom L., a tourist guide."
	"Yes."
	"An unusual choice as an assistant."
	"She is intelligent, eager, interested, and extremely attractive."
	"And willing to work with an Earthman?"
	"And quite willing to work with an Immigrant who will be a Lunar citizen as soon as he qualifies for that status."
	Selene was approaching now. Her voice rang in their ears. "Good day, Commissioner. I would have liked not to overhear, and intrude on a private conversation, but, in a spacesuit, overhearing is inevitable anywhere within the horizon."
	Gottstein turned. "Hello, Miss Lindstrom. I did not expect to talk in secrecy. Are you interested in para-physics?"
	"Oh, yes."
	"You are not disheartened by the failures of the experiment."
	"They are not entirely failures," she said. "They are less a failure than Dr. Denison thinks at present."
	"What?" Denison turned sharply on his heel, nearly overbalancing himself and sending out a spurt of dust.
	All three were facing the Pionizer now, and above it, just about five feet above it, light shone like a fat star.
	Selene said, "I raised the intensity of the magnetic field, and the nuclear field remained stable in being -- then eased further and further and -- "
	"Leaked!" Denison said. "Damn it. I didn't see it happen."
	Selene said, "I'm sorry, Ben. First you were lost in your own thoughts, then the Commissioner arrived, and I couldn't resist the chance of trying on my own."
	Gottstein said, "But just what is it that I see there?"
	Denison said, "Energy being spontaneously given off by matter leaking from another Universe into ours."
	And even as he said that the light blinked out and many yards away, a farther, dimmer star came into simultaneous being.
	Denison lunged toward the Pionizer, but Selene, all Lunar grace, propelled herself across the surface more efficiently and was there first. She killed the field structure and the distant star went out.
	She said, "The leak-point isn't stable, you see."
	"Not on a small scale," said Denison, "but considering that a shift of a light-year is as theoretically possible as a shift of a hundred yards, one of a hundred yards only is miraculous stability."
	"Not miraculous enough," said Selene, flatly.
	Gottstein interrupted. "Let me guess what you're talking about. You mean that the matter can leak through here, or there, or anywhere in our Universe -- at random."
	"Not quite at random, Commissioner," said Denison. "The probability of leakage drops with distance from the Pionizer, and rather sharply I should say. The sharpness depends on a variety of factors and I think we've tightened the situation remarkably. Even so, a flip of a few hundred yards is quite probable and, as a matter of fact, you saw it happen."
	"And it might have shifted to somewhere within the city or within our own helmets, perhaps."
	Denison said, impatiently, "No, no. The leak, at least by the techniques we use, is heavily dependent on the density of matter already present in this Universe. The chances are virtually nil that the leak-position would shift from a place of essential vacuum to one where an atmosphere even a hundredth as dense as that within the city or within our helmets would exist. It would be impractical to expect to arrange the leak anywhere but into a vacuum in the first place, which is why we had to make the attempt up here on the surface."
	"Then this is not like the Electron Pump?"
	"Not at all," said Denison. "In the Electron Pump there is a two-way transfer of matter, here a one-way leak. Nor are the Universes involved the same."
	Gottstein said, "I wonder if you would have dinner with me this evening, Dr. Denison?"
	Denison hesitated. "Myself only?"
	Gottstein attempted a bow in the direction of Selene but could accomplish only a grotesque parody of it in his spacesuit. "I would be charmed to have Miss Lindstrom's company on another occasion, but on this one I must speak with you alone, Dr. Denison."
	"Oh, go ahead," said Selene, crisply, as Denison still hesitated. "I have a heavy schedule tomorrow anyway and you'll need time to worry about the leak-point instability."
	Denison said, uncertainly, "Well, then -- Selene, will you let me know when your next free day is?"
	"I always do, don't I? And we'll be in touch before then anyway...Why don't you two go on? I'll take care of the equipment."


15

	Barren Neville shifted from foot to foot in the fashion made necessary by the restricted quarters and by the Moon's gravity. In a larger room under a world's stronger pull, he would have walked hastily up and back. Here, he tilted from side to side, in a repetitive back-and-forth glide.
	"Then you're positive it works. Right, Selene? You're positive?"
	"I'm positive," said Selene. "I've told you five times by actual count."
	Neville didn't seem to be listening. He said in a low, rapid voice, "It doesn't matter that Gottstein was there, then? He didn't try to stop the experiment?"
	"No. Of course not."
	"There was no indication that he would try to exert authority -- "
	"Now, Barron, what kind of authority could he exert? Will Earth send a police force? Besides -- oh, you know they can't stop us."
	Neville stopped moving, stood motionless for a while. "They don't know? They still don't know?"
	"Of course they don't. Ben was looking at the stars and then Gottstein came. So I tried for the field-leak, got it, and I had already gotten the other. Ben's setup -- "
	"Don't call it his setup. It was your idea, wasn't it?"
	Selene shook her head. "I made vague suggestions. The details were Ben's."
	"But you can reproduce it now. For Luna's sake, we don't have to go to the Earthie for it, do we?"
	"I think I can reproduce enough of it now so that our people can fill it in."
	"All right, then. Let's get started."
	"Not yet. Oh, damn it, Barron, not yet."
	"Why not yet?"
	"We need the energy, too."
	"But we have that."
	"Not quite. The leak-point is unstable; pretty badly unstable."
	"But that can be fixed up. You said so."
	"I said I thought it could."
	"That's good enough for me."
	"Just the same, it would be better to have Ben work out the details and stabilize it."
	There was a silence between them. Neville's thin face slowly twisted into something approaching hostility. "You don't think I can do it? Is that it?"
	Selene said, "Will you come out on the surface with me and work on it?"
	There was another silence. Neville said, unsteadily, "I don't appreciate your sarcasm. And I don't want to have to wait long."
	"I can't command the laws of nature. But I think it won't be long...Now if you don't mind, I need my sleep. I've got my tourists tomorrow."
	For a moment, Neville seemed on the point of gesturing to his own bed-alcove as though offering hospitality, but the gesture, if that was what it was, did not really come to birth and Selene made no sign of understanding or even anticipating. She nodded wearily, and left.


16

	"I had hoped, to be frank," said Gottstein, smiling over what passed for dessert -- a sticky, sweet concoction -- "that we would have seen each other more often."
	Denison said, "It is kind of you to take such an interest in my work. If the leak-instability can be corrected, I think my achievement -- and that of Miss Lindstrom -- will have been a most significant one."
	"You speak carefully, like a scientist...I won't insult you by offering the Lunar equivalent of a liqueur; that is the one approximation to Earth's cuisine I have simply made up my mind not to tolerate. Can you tell me, in lay language, what makes the achievement significant?"
	"I can try," said Denison, cautiously. "Suppose we start with the para-Universe. It has a more intense strong nuclear interaction than our Universe has so that relatively small masses of protons in the para-Universe can undergo the fusion reaction capable of supporting a star. Masses equivalent to our stars would explode violently in the para-Universe which has many more, but much smaller, stars than ours does.
	"Suppose, now, that we had a much less intense strong nuclear interaction than that which prevails in our Universe. In that case, huge masses of protons would have so little tendency to fuse that a very large mass of hydrogen would be needed to support a star. Such an anti-para-Universe -- one that was the opposite of the para-Universe, in other words -- would consist of considerably fewer but of far larger stars than our Universe does. In fact, if the strong nuclear interaction were made sufficiently weak, a Universe would exist which consisted of a single star containing all the mass in that Universe. It would be a very dense star, but relatively non-reactive and giving off no more radiation than our single Sun does, perhaps."
	Gottstein said, "Am I wrong, or isn't that the situation that prevailed in our own Universe before the time of the big bang -- one vast body containing all the universal mass."
	"Yes," said Denison, "as a matter of fact, the anti-para-Universe I am picturing consists of what some call a cosmic egg; or 'cosmeg' for short. A cosmeg-Universe is what we need if we are to probe for one-way leakage. The para-Universe we are now using with its tiny stars is virtually empty space. You can probe and probe and touch nothing."
	"The para-men reached us, however."
	"Yes, possibly by following magnetic fields. There is some reason to think that there are no planetary magnetic fields of significance in the para-Universe, which deprives us of the advantage they have. On the other hand, if we probe the cosmeg-Universe, we cannot fail. The cosmeg is, itself, the entire Universe, and wherever we probe we strike matter."
	"But how do you probe for it?"
	Denison hesitated. "That is the part I find difficult to explain. Pions are the mediating particles of the strong nuclear interaction. The intensity of the interaction depends on the mass of the pions and that mass can, under certain specialized conditions, be altered. The Lunar physicists have developed an instrument they call the Pionizer, which can be made to do just such a thing. Once the pion's mass is decreased, or increased for that matter, it is, effectively, part of another Universe; it becomes a gateway, a crossing point. If it is decreased sufficiently, it can be made part of a cosmeg-Universe and that's what we want."
	Gottstein said, "And you can suck in matter from the -- the -- cosmeg-Universe?"
	"That part is easy. Once the gateway forms, the influx is spontaneous. The matter enters with its own laws and is stable when it arrives. Gradually the laws of our own Universe soak in, the strong interaction grows stronger, and the matter fuses and begins to give off enormous energy."
	"But if it is super-dense, why doesn't it just expand in a puff of smoke?"
	"That, too, would yield energy, but that depends on the electromagnetic field and in this particular case the strong interaction takes precedence, because we control the electromagnetic field. It would take quite a time to explain that."
	"Well, then, the globe of light that I saw on the surface was cosmeg material fusing?"
	"Yes, Commissioner."
	"And that energy can be harnessed for useful purposes?"
	"Certainly. And in any quantity. What you saw was the arrival in our Universe of micromicrogram masses of cosmeg. There's nothing, in theory, to prevent our bringing it over in ton-lots."
	"Well, then, this can be used to replace the Electron Pump."
	Denison shook his head. "No. The use of cosmeg energy also alters the properties of the Universes in question. The strong interaction gradually grows more intense in the cosmeg-Universe and less intense in ours as the laws of nature cross over. That means that the cosmeg slowly undergoes fusion at a greater rate and gradually warms up. Eventually -- "
	"Eventually," said Gottstein, crossing his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, "it explodes in a big bang."
	"That's my feeling."
	"Do you suppose that's what happened to our own Universe ten billion years ago?"
	"Perhaps. Cosmogonists have wondered why the original cosmic egg exploded at some one point in time and not at another. One solution was to imagine an oscillating Universe in which the cosmic egg was formed and then at once exploded. The oscillating Universe has been eliminated as a possibility and the conclusion is that the cosmic egg had to exist for some long period of time and then went through a crisis of instability which arose for some unknown reason."
	"But which may have been the result of the tapping of its energy across the Universes."
	"Possibly, but not necessarily by some intelligence. Perhaps there are occasional spontaneous leaks."
	"And when the big bang takes place," said Gottstein, "can we still extract energy from the cosmeg-Universe?"
	"I'm not sure, but surely that is not an immediate worry. The leakage of our strong-interaction field into the cosmeg-Universe must very likely continue for millions of years before pushing it past the critical point. And there must be other cosmeg-Universes; an infinite number, perhaps.
	"What about the change in our own Universe?"
	"The strong interaction weakens. Slowly, very slowly, our Sun cools off."
	"Can we use cosmeg energy to make up for that?"
	"That would not be necessary, Commissioner," said Denison, earnestly. "While the strong interaction here in our Universe weakens as a result of the cosmeg pump, it strengthens through the action of the ordinary Electron Pump. If we adjust the energy productions of the two then, though the laws of nature change in the cosmeg-Universe and in the para-Universe, they do not change in ours. We are a highway but not the terminus in either direction.
	"Nor need we be disturbed on behalf of the terminuses. The para-men on their side may have adjusted themselves to the cooling off of their Sun which may be pretty cool to begin with. As for the cosmeg-Universe, there is no reason to suspect life can exist there. Indeed, it is by inducing the conditions required for the big bang that we may be setting up a new land of Universe that will eventually grow hospitable to life."
	For a while, Gottstein said nothing. His plump face, in repose, seemed emotionless. He nodded to himself as though following the line of his own thoughts.
	Finally, he said, "You know, Denison, I think this is what will set the world on its ear. Any difficulty in persuading the scientific leadership that the Electron Pump is destroying the world should now disappear."
	Denison said, "The emotional reluctance to accept that no longer exists. It will be possible to present the problem and the solution at the same time."
	"When would you be willing to prepare a paper to this effect if I guarantee speedy publication?"
	"Can you guarantee that?"
	"In a government-published pamphlet, if no other way."
	"I would prefer to try to neutralize the leak-instability before reporting."
	"Of course."
	"And I think it would be wise," said Denison, "to arrange to have Dr. Peter Lamont as co-author. He can make the mathematics rigorous; something I cannot do. Besides, it was through his work that I took the course I have followed. One more point, Commissioner -- "
	"Yes."
	"I would suggest that the Lunar physicists be involved. One of their number, Dr. Barren Neville, might well be a third author."
	"But why? Aren't you introducing unnecessary complications now?"
	"It was their Pionizer that made everything possible."
	"There can be appropriate mention of that...But did Dr. Barren actually work on the project with you?"
	"Not directly."
	"Then why involve him?"
	Denison looked down and brushed his hand thoughtfully over the weave of his pants leg. He said, "It would be the diplomatic thing to do. We would need to set up the cosmeg pump on the Moon."
	"Why not on Earth?"
	"In the first place, we need a vacuum. This is a one-way transfer and not a two-way as in the case of the Electron Pump, and the conditions necessary to make it practical are different in the two cases. The surface of the Moon has its vacuum ready-made in vast quantities; while to prepare one on Earth would involve an enormous effort."
	"Yet it could be done, couldn't it?"
	"Secondly," said Denison, "if we have two vast energy sources from opposite directions with our own Universe between, there would be something like a short circuit if the two outlets were too close together. Separation by a quarter-million miles of vacuum, with the Electron Pump operating only on Earth and the cosmeg pump operating only on the Moon, would be ideal -- in fact, necessary. And if we are to operate on the Moon, it would be wise, even decent, to take the sensibilities of the Lunar physicists into account. We ought to give them a share."
	Gottstein smiled. "Is this the advice of Miss Lindstrom?"
	"I'm sure it would be, but the suggestion is reasonable enough to have occurred to me independently."
	Gottstein rose, stretched, and then jumped in place two or three times in the eerily slow fashion imposed by Lunar gravity. He flexed his knees each time. He sat down again and said, "Ever try that, Dr. Denison?"
	Denison shook his head.
	"It's supposed to help the circulation in the lower extremities. I do it whenever I feel my legs may be going to sleep. I'll be heading back for a short visit to Earth before long and I'm trying to keep from getting too used to Lunar gravity...Shall we talk of Miss Lindstrom, Dr. Denison?"
	Denison said in a quite changed tone, "What about her?"
	"She is a tourist guide."
	"Yes. You said so earlier."
	"As I also said, she is an odd assistant for a physicist."
	"Actually, I'm an amateur physicist only, and I suppose she is an amateur assistant."
	Gottstein was no longer smiling. "Don't play games, Doctor. I have taken the trouble to find out what I can about her. Her record is quite revealing, or would have been if it had occurred to anyone to look at it before this. I believe she is an Intuitionist."
	Denison said, "Many of us are. I have no doubt you are an Intuitionist yourself, after a fashion. I certainly know that I am, after a fashion."
	"There is a difference, Doctor. You are an accomplished scientist and I, I hope, am an accomplished administrator...Yet while Miss Lindstrom is enough of an Intuitionist to be useful to you in advanced theoretical physics, she is, in actual fact, a tourist guide."
	Denison hesitated. "She has little formal training, Commissioner. Her Intuitionism is at an unusually high level but it is under little conscious control."
	"Is she the result of the one-time genetic engineering program?"
	"I don't know. I wouldn't be surprised if that were so, however."
	"Do you trust her?"
	"In what way? She has helped me."
	"Do you know that she is the wife of Dr. Barron Neville?"
	"There is an emotional connection; not a legal one, I believe."
	"None of the connections are what we would call legal here on the Moon. The same Neville you want to invite as third author of the paper you are to write?"
	"Yes."
	"Is that merely a coincidence?"
	"No. Neville was interested in my arrival and I believe he asked Selene to help me in my work."
	"Did she tell you this?"
	"She said he was interested in me. That was natural enough, I suppose."
	"Does it occur to you, Dr. Denison, that she may be working in her own interests and in those of Dr. Neville?"
	"In what way would their interests differ from ours? She has helped me without reservation."
	Gottstein shifted position and moved his shoulders as though he were going through muscle-pulling exercises. He said, "Dr. Neville must know that a woman so close to himself is an Intuitionist. Wouldn't he use her? Why would she remain a tourist guide, if not to mask her abilities -- for a purpose."
	"I understand Dr. Neville frequently reasons in this fashion. I find it difficult to suspect unnecessary conspiracies."
	"How do you know they are unnecessary...When my space-skipper was hovering over the Moon's surface just before the ball of radiation formed over your equipment, I was looking down at you. You were not at the Pionizer."
	Denison thought back. "No, I wasn't. I was looking at the stars; rather a tendency of mine on the surface."
	"What was Miss Lindstrom doing?"
	"I didn't see. She said she strengthened the magnetic field and the leak finally broke through."
	"Is it customary for her to manipulate the equipment without you?"
	"No. But I can understand the impulse."
	"And would there have been some sort of an ejection?"
	"I don't understand you."
	"I'm not sure I understand myself. There was a dim sparkle in the Earthlight, as though something was flying through the air. I don't know what."
	"I don't either," said Denison.
	"You can't think of anything that might naturally have to do with the experiment that -- "
	"No."
	"Then what was Miss Lindstrom doing?"
	"I still don't know."
	For a moment, the silence was heavy between them. Then the Commissioner said, "As I see it then, you will try to correct the leak-instability and will be thinking about the preparation of a paper. I will get matters into motion at the other end and on my shortly forthcoming visit to Earth will make arrangements to have the paper published and will alert the government."
	It was a clear dismissal. Denison rose and the Commissioner said easily, "And think about Dr. Neville and Miss Lindstrom."


17

	It was a heavier star of radiation, a fatter one, a brighter one. Denison could feel its warmth on his faceplate, and backed away. There was a distinct x-ray component in the radiation and though this shielding should take care of that there was no point in placing it under a strain.
	"I guess we can't question it," he muttered. "The leak-point is stable."
	"I'm sure of it," said Selene, flatly.
	"Then let's turn it off and go back to the city."
	They moved slowly and Denison felt oddly dispirited. There was no uncertainty any more; no excitement. From this point on, there was no chance of failure. The government was interested; more and more, it would be out of his own hands.
	He said, "I suppose I can begin the paper now."
	"I suppose so," said Selene, carefully.
	"Have you talked to Barren again?"
	"Yes, I have."
	"Any difference in his attitude?"
	"None at all. He will not participate. Ben -- "
	"Yes?"
	"I really don't think it's any use talking to him. He will not cooperate in any project with the Earth government."
	"But you've explained the situation?"
	"Completely."
	"And he still won't."
	"He's asked to see Gottstein, and the Commissioner agreed to an interview after he returns from his Earth visit. We'll have to wait till then. Maybe Gottstein can have some effect on him, but I doubt it."
	Denison shrugged, a useless maneuver inside his space-suit. "I don't understand him."
	"I do," said Selene, softly.
	Denison did not respond directly. He shoved the Pionizer and its attendant apparatus into its rocky shelter and said, "Ready?"
	"Ready."
	They slipped into the surface entrance at Outlet P-4 in silence and Denison climbed down the entry ladder. Selene dropped past him, braking in quick holds at individual rungs. Denison had learned to do that, but he was dispirited and climbed down in a kind of rebellious refusal to accept acclimation.
	They removed their suits in the staging areas, placed them in their lockers. Denison said, "Would you join me for lunch, Selene?"
	Selene said uneasily, "You seem upset. Is something wrong?"
	"Reaction, I think. Lunch?"
	"Yes, of course."
	They ate in Selene's quarters. She insisted, saying, "I want to talk to you and I can't do it properly in the cafeteria."
	And when Denison was chewing slowly at something that had a faint resemblance to peanut-flavored veal, she said, "Ben, you haven't said a word, and you've been like this for a week."
	"No, I haven't," said Denison, frowning.
	"Yes, you have." She looked into his eyes with concern. "I'm not sure how good my intuition is outside physics, but I suppose there's something you don't want to tell me."
	Denison shrugged. "They're making a fuss about all this back on Earth. Gottstein has been pulling at strings as tough as cables in advance of his trip back. Dr. Lamont is being lionized, and they want me to come back once the paper is written."
	"Back to Earth?"
	"Yes. It seems I'm a hero, too."
	"You should be."
	"Complete rehabilitation," said Denison, thoughtfully, "is what they offer. It's clear I can get a position in any suitable university or government agency on Earth."
	"Isn't that what you wanted?"
	"It's what I imagine Lamont wants, and would enjoy, and will certainly get. But I don't want it."
	Selene said, "What do you want then?"
	"I want to stay on the Moon."
	"Why?"
	"Because it's the cutting edge of humanity and I want to be part of that cutting edge. I want to work at the establishment of cosmeg pumps and that will be only here on the Moon. I want to work on para-theory with the kind of instruments you can dream up and handle, Selene...I want to be with you, Selene. But will you stay with me?"
	"I am as interested in para-theory as you are."
	Denison said, "But won't Neville pull you off the job now?"
	"Barren pull me off?" She said, tightly, "Are you trying to insult me, Ben?"
	"Not at all."
	"Well, then, do I misunderstand you? Are you suggesting that I'm working with you because Barron ordered me to?"
	"Didn't he?"
	"Yes, he did. But that's not why I'm here. I choose to be here. He may think he can order me about but he can only do so when his orders coincide with my will, as in your case they did. I resent his thinking he can order me otherwise, and I resent your thinking it, too."
	"You two are sex-partners."
	"We have been, yes, but what has that to do with it? By that argument, I can order him about as easily as he me."
	"Then you can work with me, Selene?"
	"Certainly," she said, coldly. "If I choose to."
	"But do you choose to?"
	"As of now, yes."
	And Denison smiled. "The chance that you might not choose to, or even might not be able to, is, I think, what has really been worrying me this past week. I dreaded the end of the project if it meant the end of you. I'm sorry, Selene, I don't mean to plague you with a sentimental attachment of an old Earthie -- "
	"Well, there's nothing old Earthie about your mind, Ben. There are other attachments than sexual. I like being with you."
	There was a pause and Denison's smile faded, then returned, perhaps a touch more mechanically. "I'm glad for my mind."
	Denison looked away, shook his head slightly, then turned back. She watched him carefully, almost anxiously.
	Denison said, "Selene, there's more than energy involved in the cross-Universe leaks. I suspect you've been thinking about that."
	The silence stretched out now, painfully, and finally Selene said, "Oh, that -- "
	For a while the two stared at each other -- Denison embarrassed, Selene almost furtive.


18

	Gottstein said, "I haven't got my Moon-legs quite yet, but this isn't anything compared to what it cost me to get my Earth-legs. Denison, you had better not dream of returning. You'll never make it."
	"I have no intention of returning, Commissioner," said Denison.
	"In a way, it's too bad. You could be emperor by acclamation. As for Hallam -- "
	Denison said, wistfully, "I would have liked to see his face, but that's a small ambition."
	"Lamont, of course, is receiving the lion's share. He's on the spot."
	"I don't mind that. He deserves a good deal...Do you think Neville will really join us?"
	"No question. He's on his way at this moment...Listen," Gottstein's voice dropped one conspiratorial note in pitch. "Before he comes, would you like a bar of chocolate?"
	"What?"
	"A bar of chocolate. With almonds. One. I have some."
	Denison's face, from initial confusion, suddenly lit with comprehension. "Real chocolate?"
	"Yes."
	"Certain -- " His face hardened. "No, Commissioner."
	"No?"
	"No! If I taste real chocolate then, for the few minutes it's in my mouth, I'm going to miss Earth; I'm going to miss everything about it. I can't afford that. I don't want it...Don't even show it to me. Don't let me smell it or see it."
	The Commissioner looked discomfited. "You're right." He made an obvious attempt to change the subject. "The excitement on Earth is overwhelming. Of course, we made a considerable effort to save Hallam's face. He'll continue to hold some position of importance, but he'll have little real say."
	"He's getting more consideration than he gave others," said Denison, resignedly.
	"It's not for his sake. You can't smash a personal image that has been built to a level of such importance; it would reflect on science itself. The good name of science is more important than Hallam either way."
	"I disapprove of that in principle," said Denison, warmly. "Science must take what blows it deserves."
	"A time and place for -- There's Dr. Neville."
	Gottstein composed his face. Denison shifted his chair to face the entrance.
	Barron Neville entered solemnly. Somehow there was less than ever of the Lunar delicacy about his figure. He greeted the two curtly, sat down, and crossed his legs. He was clearly waiting for Gottstein to speak first.
	The Commissioner said, "I am glad to see you, Dr. Neville, Dr. Denison tells me that you refused to append your name to what I am sure will be a classic paper on the cosmeg pump."
	"No need to do so," said Neville. "What happens on Earth is of no interest to me."
	"You are aware of the cosmeg pump experiments? Of its implications?"
	"All of them. I know the situation as well as you two do."
	"Then I will proceed without preliminaries. I have returned from Earth, Dr. Neville, and it is quite settled as to what will be the course of future procedure. Large cosmeg pump stations will be set up on three different places on the Lunar surface in such a way that one will always be in the night-shadow. Half the time, two will be. Those in the night-shadow will be constantly generating energy, most of which will simply radiate into space. The purpose will be not so much to use the energy for practical purposes, as to counteract the changes in field intensities introduced by the Electron Pump."
	Denison interrupted. "For some years, we will have to overbalance the Electron Pump to restore our section of the Universe to the point at which it was before the pump began operation."
	Neville nodded. "Will Luna City have the use of any of it?"
	"If necessary. We feel the Solar batteries will probably supply what you need, but there is no objection to supplementation."
	"That is kind of you," said Neville, not bothering to mask the sarcasm. "And who will build and run the cosmeg pump stations?"
	"Lunar workers, we hope," said Gottstein.
	"Lunar workers, you know," said Neville. "Earth workers would be too clumsy to work effectively on the Moon."
	"We recognize that," said Gottstein, "We trust the men of the Moon will cooperate."
	"And who will decide how much energy to generate, how much to apply for any local purpose, how much to radiate away? Who decides policy?"
	Gottstein said, "The government would have to. It's a matter of planetary decision."
	Neville said, "You see, then, it will be Moonmen who do the work; Earthmen who run the show."
	Gottstein said, calmly, "No. All of us work who work best; all of us administer who can best weigh the total problem."
	"I hear the words," said Neville, "but it boils down anyway to us working and you deciding...No, Commissioner. The answer is no."
	"You mean you won't build the cosmeg pump stations?"
	"We'll build them, Commissioner, but they'll be ours. We'll decide how much energy to put out and what use to make of it."
	"That would scarcely be efficient. You would have to deal constantly with the Earth government since the cosmeg pump energy will have to balance the Electron Pump energy."
	"I dare say it will, more or less, but we have other things in mind. You might as well know now. Energy is not the only conserved phenomenon that becomes limitless once universes are crossed."
	Denison interrupted. "There are a number of conservation laws. We realize that."
	"I'm glad you do," said Neville, turning a hostile glare in his direction. "They include those of linear momentum and angular momentum. As long as any object responds to the gravitational field in which it is immersed, and to that only, it is in free fall and can retain its mass. In order to move in any other way than free fall, it must accelerate in a non-gravitational way and for that to happen, part of itself must undergo an opposite change."
	"As in a rocketship," said Denison, "which must eject mass in one direction in order that the rest might accelerate in the opposite direction."
	"I'm sure you understand, Dr. Denison," said Neville, "but I explain for the Commissioner's sake. The loss of mass can be minimized if its velocity is increased enormously, since momentum is equal to mass multiplied by velocity. Nevertheless, however great the velocity, some mass must be thrown away. If the mass which must be accelerated is enormous in the first place, then the mass which must be discarded is also enormous. If the Moon, for instance -- "
	"The Moon!" said Gottstein, explosively.
	"Yes, the Moon," said Neville, calmly. "If the Moon were to be driven out of its orbit and sent out of the Solar system, the conservation of momentum would make it a colossal undertaking, and probably a thoroughly impractical one. If, however, momentum could be transferred to the cosmeg in another Universe, the Moon could accelerate at any convenient rate without loss of mass at all. It would be like poling a barge upstream, to give you a picture I obtained from some Earth-book I once read."
	"But why? I mean why should you want to move the Moon?"
	"I should think that would be obvious. Why do we need the suffocating presence of the Earth? We have the energy we need; we have a comfortable world through which we have room to expand for the next few centuries, at least. Why not go our own way? In any case, we will. I have come to tell you that you cannot stop us and to urge you to make no attempt to interfere. We shall transfer momentum and we shall pull out. We of the Moon know precisely how to go about building cosmeg pump stations. We will use what energy we need for ourselves and produce excess in order to neutralize the changes your own power stations are producing."
	Denison said, sardonically, "It sounds kind of you to produce excess for our sake, but it isn't for our sake, of course. If our Electron Pumps explode the Sun, that will happen long before you can move out of even the inner Solar system and you will vaporize wherever you are."
	"Perhaps," said Neville, "but in any case we will produce an excess, so that won't happen."
	"But you can't do that," said Gottstein, excitedly. "You can't move out. If you get out too far, the cosmeg pump will no longer neutralize the Electron Pump, eh, Denison?"
	Denison shrugged. "Once they are as far off as Saturn, more or less, there may be trouble, if I may trust a mental calculation I have just made. It will, however, be many years before they recede to such a distance and by that time, we will surely have constructed space stations in what was once the orbit of the Moon and place cosmeg pumps on them. Actually, we don't need the Moon. It can leave -- except that it won't."
	Neville smiled briefly. "What makes you think we won't? We can't be stopped. There is no way Earthmen can impose their will on us."
	"You won't leave, because there's no sense to doing so. Why drag the entire Moon away? To build up respectable accelerations will take years where the Moon-mass is concerned. You'll creep. Build starships instead; miles-long ships that are cosmeg-powered and have independent ecologies. With a cosmeg momentum-drive, you can then do wonders. If it takes twenty years to build the ships, they will nevertheless accelerate at a rate that will enable them to overtake the Moon's place within a year even if the Moon starts accelerating today. The ships will be able to change course in a tiny fraction of the time the Moon will."
	"And the unbalanced cosmeg pumps? What will that do to the Universe?"
	"The energy required by a ship, or even by a number, will be far less than that required by a planet and will be distributed throughout large sections of the Universe. It will be millions of years before any significant change takes place. That is well worth the maneuverability you gain. The Moon will move so slowly it might as well be left in space."
	Neville said, scornfully, "We're in no hurry to get anywhere -- except away from Earth."
	Denison said, "There are advantages in having Earth as a neighbor. You have the influx of the Immigrants. You have cultural intercourse. You have a planetary world of two billion people just over the horizon. Do you want to give all that up?"
	"Gladly."
	"Is that true of the people of the Moon generally? Or just of you? There's something intense about you, Neville. You won't go out on the surface. Other Lunarites do. They don't like it particularly, but they do. The interior of the Moon isn't their womb, as it is in your case. It isn't their prison, as it is yours. There is a neurotic factor in you that is absent in most Lunarities, or at least considerably weaker. If you take the Moon away from Earth, you make it into a prison for all. It will become a one-world prison from which no man -- and not you only -- can emerge, not even to the extent of seeing another inhabited world in the sky. Perhaps that is what you want."
	"I want independence; a free world; a world untouched by the outside."
	"You can build ships, any number. You can move outward at near-light velocities without difficulty, once you transfer momentum to the cosmeg. You can explore the entire Universe in a single lifetime. Wouldn't you like to get on such a ship?"
	"No," said Neville, with clear distaste.
	"Wouldn't you? Or is it couldn't? Is it that you must take the Moon with you wherever you go. Why must all the others accept your need?"
	"Because that's the way it's going to be," said Neville.
	Denison's voice remained level but his cheeks reddened. "Who gave you the right to say that? There are many citizens of Luna City who may not feel as you do."
	"That is none of your concern."
	"That is precisely my concern. I am an Immigrant who will qualify for citizenship soon. I do not wish to have my choice made for me by someone who cannot emerge on the surface and who wants his personal prison made into a prison for all. I have left Earth forever, but only to come to the Moon, only to remain a quarter-million miles from the home-planet. I have not contracted to be taken forever away for an unlimited distance."
	"Then return to Earth," said Neville, indifferently. "There is still time."
	"And what of the other citizens of Luna? The other Immigrants?"
	"The decision is made."
	"It is not made...Selene!"
	Selene entered, her face solemn, her eyes a little defiant. Neville's legs uncrossed. Both shoes came down flat upon the ground.
	Neville said, "How long have you been waiting in the next room, Selene?"
	"Since before you arrived, Barron," she said.
	Neville looked from Selene to Denison and back again. "You two -- " he began, finger pointing from one to the other and back.
	"I don't know what you mean by 'you two,' " said Selene, "but Ben found out about the momentum quite a while ago."
	"It wasn't Selene's fault," said Denison. "The Commissioner spotted something flying at a time when no one could possibly have known he would be observing. It seemed to me that Selene might be testing something I was not thinking of and transfer of momentum eventually occurred to me. After that -- "
	"Well, then, you knew," said Neville. "It doesn't matter."
	"It does, Barron," said Selene. "I talked about it with Ben. I found that I didn't always have to accept what you said. Perhaps I can't ever go to Earth. Perhaps I don't even want to. But I found I liked it in the sky where I could see it if I wanted to, I didn't want an empty sky. Then I talked to others of the Group. Not everybody wants to leave. Most people would rather build the ships and let those go who wish to go while allowing those to remain behind who wish to remain."
	Neville's breath was coming hard. "You talked about it. Who gave you the right to -- "
	"I took the right, Barron. Besides, it doesn't matter any more. You'll be outvoted."
	"Because of -- " Neville rose to his feet and took a menacing step toward Denison.
	The Commissioner said, "Please don't get emotional, Dr. Neville. You may be of Luna, but I don't think you can man-handle both of us."
	"All three," said Selene, "and I'm of Luna, too. I did it, Barron; not they."
	Then Denison said, "Look, Neville -- For all Earth cares, the Moon can go. Earth can build its space stations. It's the citizens of Luna City who care. Selene cares and I care and the rest. You are not being debarred from space, from escape, from freedom. In twenty years at the outside, all who want to go will go, including you if you can bring yourself to leave the womb. And those who want to stay will stay."
	Slowly, Neville seated himself again. There was the look of defeat on his face.


19

	In Selene's apartment, every window now had a view of the Earth. She said, "The vote did go against him, you know, Ben. Quite heavily."
	"I doubt that he'll give up, though. If there's friction with Earth during the building of the stations, public opinion on the Moon may swing back."
	"There needn't be friction."
	"No, there needn't. In any case, there are no happy endings in history, only crisis points that pass. We've passed this one safely, I think, and we'll be sorry about the others as they come and as they can be foreseen. Once the starships are built, the tension will surely subside considerably."
	"We'll live to see that, I'm sure."
	"You will, Selene."
	"You, too, Ben. Don't overdramatize your age. You're only forty-eight."
	"Would you go on one of the starships, Selene?"
	"No. I'd be too old and I still wouldn't want to lose Earth in the sky. My son might go...Ben."
	"Yes, Selene."
	"I have applied for a second son. The application has been accepted. Would you contribute?"
	Denison's eyes lifted and looked straight into hers. She did not look away.
	He said, "Artificial insemination?"
	She said, "Of course...The gene combination should be interesting."
	Denison's eyes dropped. "I would be flattered, Selene."
	Selene said, defensively, "That's just good sense, Ben. It's important to have good gene combinations. There's nothing wrong with some natural genetic engineering."
	"None at all."
	"It doesn't mean that I don't want it for other reasons, too...Because I like you."
	Denison nodded and remained silent.
	Selene said, almost angrily, "Well, there's more to love than sex."
	Denison said, "I agree to that. At least, I love you even with sex subtracted."
	And Selene said, "And for that matter, there's more to sex than acrobatics."
	Denison said, "I agree to that, too."
	And Selene said, "And besides -- Oh, damn it, you could try to learn."
	Denison said softly, "If you would try to teach."
	Hesitantly, he moved toward her. She did not move away.
	He stopped hesitating.