Þ   briarpig  » fiction  » part2

     (continued from part1)

long time no see «

     Flywheel's reaction to the first set of published stories? Surprisingly muted, like he really didn't care how well things went—at least not right now. Zé surreptitiously turned on Kip's mini cam halfway through the meeting so he could play it for Wil back at camp. Zé neglected to ask Koi's permission first, because he was afraid the answer would be no. Judging by lack of reaction, Koi didn't know what one of Kip's cameras looked like. Excellent.

     Before heading home, as long as he was in SF to see Flywheel, Zé stopped by The Haight to look for another cheap used leather jacket. If he was lucky, he might also see freaks on the street, so he left Kip's new camera running: a funky little device like a praying mantis fucking a glass sculpture. Zé couldn't see any lens.

     Forty bucks and twenty minutes later, Zé hit the street again sporting a black jacket with too many zippers. Too much chrome. What was wrong with black zippers?

     His phone rang: it was Kip, with news he wanted to drag out. "Zé, I got another hit on Finch," Kip said. "But still nothing new on Flywheel—no sign of him before 2001 like you said. I emailed the new Finch photo."

     Kip sounded eager: pretty odd for a guy with the quiet interpersonal energy level of an undertaker. "Are you certain it's her?" Zé asked.

     After pointing Kip at similarity of Finch's face with Morlock's portrait in the paper, Kip volunteered to use his face recognition software to compare them carefully, then broaden a search for Finch elsewhere. Kip's mini cams in Wil's apartment provided a huge dataset for Kip to build a precise model of Finch from all angles.

     The big news was Finch's hands: her bone structure was very unusual—exoticly dextrous and strong. Actually Kip said Finch's hands were fucking weird, but Zé never studied anatomy. Apparently face recognition software worked on hands, too, if you got a good picture. Normally this wouldn't help at all, but Kip said Finch's hands were almost easier to pick out than her face.

     "Yeah, it's her alright," Kip said with barely suppressed energy. "Guess who else is in the picture with her?"

     "Elvis," Zé took a random shot.

     "Hell's Angels," Kip corrected. "Buncha bikers around her leaning in to get their pictures taken like she's their buddy. Three quarter profile—she's laughing and reaching for one guy's shoulder. Well over 90% match on face, teeth, hand structure, even with the sunglasses. She has a bit of tan, which makes sense in context."

     "What context is that?" Zé asked. Little hairs on the back of his neck started to rise. Zé whirled to see if he was being followed, but no one was there.

     "How old did you say Finch was?" Kip evaded.

     Zé dodged a panhandler trying to corner him in a bottleneck on Haight Street. "She can't be more than thirty, Kip," Zé repeated. "I'd even say 25, but she doesn't look a day older now than she did seven years ago."

     "I estimate 23 years old in this image," Kip offered his expert opinion. "About like today actually. She only looks late 20's when showing complex emotions, and then only because she looks sophisticated."

     "Where was it taken?" Zé prompted.

     "Woodstock," Kip replied. "It's consistent with the other pictures in the collection. The bikers with her also appear in a couple other photos, too. It looks genuine."

     "Woodstock?" Zé puzzled. "You lost me. I only know that name from a counter culture music festival."

     "That's right," Kip glowed over the phone. "Guys ran a music festival in the 60's. Woodstock, 1969."

     "Uh," Zé considered his options. "This isn't very funny, Kip. I'm serious about finding old Finch images."

     "I know," Kip replied calmly. "Normally I'd say you owe me big time. But this is fairly interesting. Make sure you record it when you confront her with the Woodstock image I sent. Get her face on camera and I'll let you try out my next prototype before anyone else."

     "I'll keep you posted," Zé mumbled. Kip hung up without saying bye: typical; normally it was offensive.

armed tourists «

     Zé approached the cross street leading to where he parked. A couple tourists blocked his path, both putting on half smiles that go with asking for directions. They were really badly dressed—even comically bad. It must be a joke: no one would dress like that except as part of some inside joke. As Zé got closer, the loud colors looked even more extreme. Some of the fabric looked like plastic, like Dr. Brown's costume at the end of Back to the Future.

     "Excuse me young man," said the shorter of the two: an older woman in a loud red wig. "Can you please tell us how to get back to the 80's?"

     Zé almost did a double take. She clutched a large handbag in front her—a prop which, more than anything else, made her look late middle-aged at first glance. She and her companion looked dressed for a retro 80's party of some kind, but turned up way too loud, into psychodelic territory. Her dark sunglasses hid whether she considered her appearance funny. A wire running from one ear trailed all the way to her handbag, where Zé supposed she stashed her music collection: douchebags of the 80's.

     Before he even realized it was about to happen, Zé had a smart ass reply queued up and running. At the same time, Zé studied her fixed smile: it looked wrong, like Judy Dench trying hard to pass as a dizzy yokel.

     "It's a sharp left turn right after the 90's," Zé quipped. "They mark the 80's on local maps, though, if you want to stop and pick up a guide."

     The man standing next to her clapped his hands, and stepped closer to Zé with a gleeful expression, also obscured by dark sunglasses. He must have been over six feet six inches tall. And he had the longest arms Zé had ever seen. They'd look right on a basketball player around seven feet four inches. Christ, they must reach down to his knees. Now that he looked, Zé saw the guy's arms were heavily muscled, like Alley Oop in newspaper cartoons Zé had not seen since he was a kid. He seemed a thirty-five year old athlete in good shape.

     "You're right, Ma, he is funny," the guy said while laughing. "Let's take him with us. I can pop him under one arm and tote him until we get there."

     Zé turned and looked up at the comedian, who put his tongue between his teeth and giggled while holding both sides of his sunglasses, like his mirth would send them flying if he lost his grip. His hair cut looked a bit like Jack Nicholson's in the 80's—receding hairline and widow's peak—shooting back in a shock of wild rough edges.

     "Don't call me Ma, you twit," the woman snapped. "We can't just carry him off—people would notice."

     "Look," the giant, long-armed Nicholson said while peering around in all directions, "I don't see any cavalry coming. We can take him now. Piece of cake. Save us trouble coming back later."

     Zé tried to back away, or go around, but found himself boxed in when they maintained distance.

     "Try a snatch and that might change instantly," the woman warned. She briskly pulled a small, dark pistol from her purse and pointed it at Zé, who gaped in shock. The giant kept watch in both directions with one hand grasping something at the waistband behind him, under his fluttering shirt. Zé had no trouble guessing what it was.

     "Why did she pick you?" the woman asked with a smile and searching tone. "What can you do? Anything new? Some trick that didn't make it into the record? Show me, I won't tell anyone your secret."

     "You confused me with someone else," Zé said, finding it very hard to take his eyes from her gun. He expected to feel faint, but instead his mind ran double time.

     "Maybe he does it the first time right now," Alley Oop suggested with a chuckle. "Remember the guy in New Orleans? Surprised you pretty good."

     "Yes, obviously," she dismissed. Then to Zé she said, "Get a good look at me. I'm not as easy to recognize as Stretch here. Would you know me without this body suit?"

     "Shit," the tall guy said in disgust. "I hate catch and release. Let's just skip to the good part."

     "Shut up," she snapped without heat, gaze never leaving Zé while she kept her aim. "I have several small moles," she told Zé. "Pick them out. I'll give you a few seconds. You can get it off the camera later too, of course."

     Zé didn't have time to wonder how she knew about Kip's camera. Oddly, her skin was barely wrinkled; whatever she wore under the dress made her look overweight from more than a few feet away. Zé saw a pattern of darker freckles on her skin like a constellation of stars in reverse video. The color of her skin and pale brows said she really was a redhead under that ridiculous wig.

     Then she tossed something very small. Zé flinched but caught it anyway. "Ta," she said over her shoulder, now quickly walking the other way, having snapped a reverse while Zé caught the incoming present.

     Alley Oop walked backward in the redhead's wake, grinning fiercely like this had been extremely funny, sketching the barest salute with one hand while pointing the other empty hand in his direction like a ten year old pretending to wield a handgun.

archipelago «

     Since the redhead never introduced herself, Zé tagged her as Red in his mind; as she and Oop receded from view, Zé made sure a path to his car was clear, then finally glanced at his catch to see what Red tossed him.

     To his surprise, it looked like a gold ring—quite simple in form at first glance until Zé saw intricate, vanishingly tiny detail dominated by threads—or striations—of lines seeming to flow slowly. Maybe it was optical illusion. Along myriad lines, irridescent gleams traced faint rainbow color like a fresnel grating's nacreous sheen.

     Zé slowly raised it closer to his eye, gazing through it's center while rays of dying sunlight cast running glints of color round its inner rim. A flash of déjà vu took hold, recalling a talk he and Ulf had one week ago, to the hour. Zé searched this memory for signs in Ulf's question about Wil.

     "What's wrong with Wil?" Ulf asked Zé with a grumpy sigh, ignoring a garish sunset out the window at Wil's place.

     Zé slowly brought his sight back home from an inner vision of alternate reality where kids in home-made parachutes climbed rope ladders, single file, up to an acre of drifting property in the sunny winter sky supporting a small, crumbling stone tower where the gardner lived.

     "Earth to Zé," Ulf intoned without emotion.

     "Ground control to Major Tom," Zé echoed, blinking. "Nothing's wrong with Wil—same as always. Except for a slight spring in his step. Notice that today?"

     "How do you always recall what I say when you're out past Pluto?" Ulf wondered. "Store and forward?"

     "I subscribe to an answering service for local traffic," Zé said. "It's getting a bit pricey though."

     Ulf closed his eyes and shrugged with eyebrows alone to wipe the slate clean. "I expected something different once we got this project underway," he said.

     "You expected Wil to start treating you like a pal?" Zé asked. "It's not enough that he's willing to work with you, letting us use his place whenever we like?"

     "Yeah, something like that," Ulf nodded. "I don't think Wil likes me. I'm left hanging—I'm being shunned."

     "What part of propeller head geek don't you get?" Zé countered, exhaling fully in a sigh. "Wil says 'good' when you'd sing 'awesome, fabulous!' Wil inflates no grades; he doesn't do social grooming. Absence of flattery is not an insult. You knew Wil was not a suckup. What's the problem?"

     Ulf thought carefully. "Wil never listens to me. Why doesn't he get behind my suggestions?"

     "Have you had any good ideas?" Zé asked. "Or do you expect enthusiasm as your natural right? What makes you think I listen to you either? Because I'm pleasant? You want Wil's support because you respect him more."

     Wil's telephone started ringing. Ulf and Zé exchanged glances: the land line never rang. Zé finally shrugged and answered it. A woman's voice on the line imitated a child's breathy whisper in exaggerated clarity. "Seven days," she said, and then hung up.

     "Now that's weird," Zé grunted. "Prank call. Or maybe Wil has a new stalker."

     "Wil had a stalker before?" Ulf marveled.

     "I need to signal humor more clearly," Zé mused.

     "I just wish Wil would use Twitter," Ulf whined.

     "Twitter is drivel," Zé explained. "What was that tweet you sent this morning? 'Dreamed Columbus personally gave me smallpox vaccination in my sleep; sore arm this morning.' Did I get that right? You want Wil to read that crap?"

     "Well you read it," Ulf smiled.

     "But I like drivel," Zé shrugged. "At least the new and improved drivel, until I wring it dry. I admit, Twitter is only slightly damp. Wil's right: it's a waste of time."

     "But the masses are never wrong," Ulf countered. "No matter how stupid the trend, popularity rules. It's a fount of social gaming. I wish I was a celebrity already. I know it's only a matter of time before we become famous."

     Ulf rubbed his upper arm where it was sore that morning, then rolled up his t-shirt's sleeve. Today Ulf's black shirt with white letters commanded, "FOLLOW MY LEADER." The skin of Ulf's deltoid was red; a round circle of red dots marked the center. It really looked like an injection.

     "I didn't start this project to become famous," Zé mused. "And I don't think Finch is interested. I know Wil isn't. What the hell happened to your arm, Ulf? That's impressive."

     "Maybe I should see a doctor," Ulf considered.

     "He'll just give you the bad news: you have only 45 years left to live," Zé said. "You know, your tweet caught my eye because my arm was sore today, too."

     Ulf gestured economically with a fingertip: let's see.

     As Zé pulled up his shirt sleeve, he suddenly knew what he was going to see. Unsurprisingly, another ring of red dots marked his arm in the same spot as Ulf's arm.

     "I'm going to freak out now," Ulf warned as he slowly started to hyperventilate.

     "Maybe this will be like a purity control sub-plot in the X-files," Zé said hopefully, hungering for novelty.

     Struck by this casual attitude, Ulf told Zé, "Sometimes I don't think you're all here. Don't you worry about anything? What explains your arm matching mine?"

     "But I'm not all here," Zé agreed. "Often I'm somewhere else. I'm sure you noticed. You even went along once—remember when we all went cruising until we found a glowing Chevy Malibu? Then Eli and Dr. Laughs took it for a spin in the sky? Any of this sound familiar?"

     "That was a mass hallucination," Ulf dismissed. "My shrink says I won't relapse if I stay on meds."

     "You have neither shrink nor meds," Zé reminded. "Is that a polite way of saying you refuse to talk about it? I've been meaning to chat about this. You skipped all your training. Do Eli's stories about adventures scare you off? Or are you just in complete denial? Alternate reality phobe?"

     "Games are for pimply teenage geeks," Ulf said. "My son should grow up and get a serious job. I'm only in this for an opportunity to chase upward mobility."

     "I hate 'bigger, better deal' business ethics," Zé warned. "I took you on because you said I could trust you, and we got along together with Wil at BigCo. If you're angling for a better deal, maybe you should leave."

     "But I already had my shots," Ulf joked, flapping his arm like the wing of an injured duck—a sign he was coming unglued: wry jokes meant desperation.

     Zé reached out a hand to take Ulf's wrist, since contact worked better. "I want to show you what I was just doing," he said. "It's not scary like ones Eli asks me to run."

     Ulf flinched away, explaining, "I don't like to be touched. Also—I hate to say this, but I'm trying to be honest—when I first met you, I thought maybe you were gay."

     "Only because you're a complete asshole," Zé snapped, then sighed at his own lapse.

     "I sense hostility," Ulf said.

     "Every guy seems gay to you when he lacks a requisite arrogant dude stance: cocky, belligerent, insensitive, raw, pushy, competitive, suspicious, conniving, distant, closed, selfish, reserved, preening, hostile—" Zé paused for lack of breath. "The list is endless. Anything correlating with considerate behavior seems gay to you, right?"

     "Yes, but then I realized your cultural background was different," Ulf explained. "So I shouldn't use my standards. But I'd still feel better if you acted like a jerk and kept a trailer trash girlfriend around somewhere."

     "How about Wil?" Zé asked.

     "It took me a while to realize he was too smart to act like a regular guy," Ulf explained. "It was only much later I realized he actually was arrogant—just on a scale beyond my meager imagination. Now his insensitivity impresses me. It was just too abstract for me to grasp at first."

     Zé massaged his forehead briefly as if fighting off a tension headache. "I'll try to be a little less considerate if it helps," he suggested with as little irony as possible.

     "Thank you," Ulf said, missing the irony. Then his eyes flew wide as Zé snatched his wrist.

     “Was that better?” Zé asked. The lighting had changed dramatically. It was much darker now compared to just a while ago, and somewhat cooler.

     Ulf’s eyes bugged even wider as he scanned his new environment. He and Zé apparently stood near a cliff’s edge. A near rope bridge arced across a chasm to an island in the sky, actually somewhat higher than themselves, with a castle in medieval style perched atop unsupported landmass, whose base dwindled to a point at the bottom.

     “Are floating castles too cliché? I think they’re cool,” Zé said. “What are all those folks there looking at?”

     Ulf raised his head and slowly pivoted to take in a cluster of similar islands of earth in sky all around, at all angles, each invested with buildings in many styles. Ulf gaped.

     Following gestures made by kids in the distance, Zé looked up at the sun, which was no longer there. A full eclipse of the sun was now underway, explaining remarkable dimness of the daylight. An irridescent crescent ringed the edge of the moon where the sun had just now vanished.

enigma «

     Zé boogied for his car, keeping half an eye out for Red and Alley Oop to reappear.

     Something about the gold ring bothered him. Why not cast it aside? What if—somehow—Red and Oop can track its location?

     Zé guessed it might be precious. But why? It was physically odd—it shouldn't shimmer like that. Red's expression as she threw it said: let's see what you do with this. Was it curse or boon?

     He delayed trying it on until crossing the street to his car. Zé smiled at his fear: what if drivers stopped seeing him once he wore the ring?

     At his car door he tried his right ring finger: no, it was too small... at first. After hitting his knuckle the ring seemed to stretch a bit. Fine lines flowed faster, with extra gleam. Then it fit perfectly.

     What would happen if he tried other fingers? Ignoring this question, Zé started his car quickly, thinking of things to ask Finch.

rewind «

     Unknown to Zé, Finch already gave Wil clues the night previous after Wil's injury in an accident, during a talk with Finch while walking near sundown 24 hours before Zé received the ring. It went like this.

     Ulf stopped Wil as he and Finch were headed over to Vintage Season for coffee before a chat. Ulf blinked and looked uncomfortable before he spoke.

     "Bicycles," Ulf said apologetically, almost wringing his hands. "Stay away from them."

     "Can you be more specific, Cassandra?" Wil joked. "Are you getting an image of an S or a J? Maybe the number 6? Or 9? Old woman with a pipe?"

     "Goodbye, Crow," Finch contributed.

     Ulf shook his head at her. "Haven't seen Minority Report lately," he paused before committing himself to more. "For days now, I dream something every night that comes true. It scares me."

     "Are you reading my mind right now?" Wil gamely imitated a guy with fear of pre-cogs.

     "Fine, be that way," Ulf said, his hands now clean. "I'm off to find a trashy movie. G'night."

     "Where's Eli?" Wil asked.

     "Big date with Ann," Ulf shook his head, then smiled. "I like her sense of humor."

     "Wow, that's big," Wil noted. "I didn't know you were equipped for that."

     Ulf gave a self-deprecatory laugh. "Yes, I know," he shrugged. "That's the other big thing new to me this week: everything's funny."

     "Most things are," Wil granted. Then to Finch, in his Boris Karloff voice, he said, "And the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day."

     "If you only knew," Finch smiled.

     Finch sipped coffee from Vintage Season. (As usual, patrons there eyed Wil curiously since he and Finch were truly, oddly paired—denizens of different social strata.) Wil ambled down the sidewalk next to her in mismatched sneakers, one red and one blue, both hands deep in coat pockets.

     "So what's on your mind?" Wil prompted.

     The way Finch kept looking around as she walked, Wil imagined she was on the lookout for a hopscotch board drawn in chalk by ten year old girls. Finch would then challenge Wil to a grueling hopscotch contest—which she'd win handily of course—and in summarizing the outcome, Finch would warn him not to mess with her: she's the local hopscotch champion and has been since age nine in 1930's Maycomb, Alabama, where father Atticus practiced law and doted on his daughter, Scout. Like this one, Wil often found his unconscious metaphors hard to analyze.

     "Believe in pre-destination?" Finch asked.

     "Philosophy?" Wil asked, eyebrows furled.

     "No, cosmology," Finch corrected. "Clockwork universe: butterfly wings affect history."

     "I'm just a simple country doctor," Wil joked. "I'm an 'eight ball in the corner pocket' kinda guy. But the table top isn't level and bumpers are lame. You call shots but they only come close: screwed by entropy."

     Finch nodded. "Time's like that too," she claimed out of nowhere. "It's non-deterministic."

     Hairs on the back of Wil's neck stood up. "What are we talking about here?" he asked.

     Finch gave Wil a subtle sideways glance, totally obscured by her wrap-around glasses. Wil wondered why partial light loss was okay as twilight approached. He fancied Finch could see in the dark. Maybe Miss Morlock was raised in tunnels underground and had trog vision, as Zé might suggest. Applying habits learned in coding, Wil turned things around—what if assumptions were exactly backward? Maybe she saw better wearing those glasses?

     "Did you ever see an instant replay during a broadcast game and imagine new outcomes?" Finch asked. "Things that could have happened, but didn't, at least not that time?"

     "I'm not a big sports fan," Wil said. "But okay, sure. A little fantasy never hurts. So?"

     "What about outside a game? Did you ever try to stop an outcome, back it up and try again?" Finch asked—apparently in all seriousness.

     Wil looked nervous. "You mean, hit the pause button on life, rewind a little, then do it over? Because I want it to happen?" Wil oozed skepticism.

     "Or because you need it to happen," Finch nodded. "Yeah, that's exactly what I meant."

     "Your coffee got spiked with LSD," Wil said.

     "So you never tried it?" Finch persisted. "Never occurred to you? How about this: ever been in a bad, potentially life-threatening accident?"

     Wil's smile grew a touch of lunacy. "You mean besides the car accident that ended my career as a college football star?" he asked in mock sincerity. "Oh my god, I just realized I've never been sick a day in my life. I've never been injured except that time I almost drowned as a kid. Maybe water is my weakness."

     "You're making fun of me," Finch accused.

     "I thought we were riffing Unbreakable now," Wil shrugged. "You started it. But I see no purple in your attire, so you can't be the villain."

     "Accidents?" Finch repeated.

     Wil squinted. "I don't think so. Nothing comes to mind. Just a few close calls. Like that time I was doing 30 miles per hour on a bike and a car turned at a light in front of me because they knew bicycles could not possibly go that fast. Silly twat."

     "Interesting. What happened?" Finch pressed.

     "I turned the bike sideways while braking," Wil recalled. "Then I kinda skidded and hopped on the bike at an angle, until I bounced off the car sideways. It was a miracle I didn't slide under in a skid. True story."

     "Do you remember a vision of sliding under first?" Finch asked. "Before you stayed upright?"

     "What a weird question," Wil stared.

     "You didn't answer," Finch persisted.

     "Don't remember," Wil shook his head. "I was twenty. Long time ago. Where you going with this?"

     "You know where I'm going with this," Finch insisted. "You're not slow."

     "Please don't suggest trial by fire," Wil begged.

     "Wanna see if you can dodge bullets?" Finch asked comically while pretending to draw a sidearm from under her coat. Laughing she added, "A test can't hurt."

     "Time to head back now," Wil announced.

     "Okay," Finch agreed. "But hold on. We need to time this just right. You'll be fine, don't worry. Relax and see your options, but choose quickly."

     The next part happened in slow motion. Finch passed Wil, stepping into the street as a car engine dopplered closer. Two young boys laughing loudly chased a soccer ball into the street where two cyclists in touring gear rocketed down a non-existent bike lane, as cars tried to pass each other in both directions on the narrow street. It was disaster even without Finch. She just made it worse—if possible, reaching a focal point first, before she, boys and bikes collided: bodies flying under wheels and into windshields.

     On the way Wil saw several pauses like a film hitching: bad impacts highlighted by dead freezes, holding briefly before slipping a bit forward again to find new blood like water seeking a low point. Finally Wil froze it—then jerkily reversed direction with great wrenching fast motion reverse, in gasps, followed immediately by forward motion again, with changes due only to Wil's panicked choices.

     Wil lived that brief interval over and over with tiny variations, winding and rewinding in a tree of options branching too rapidly for thought, deadlines getting tighter with less freedom each time, heading toward a point of zero energy where choices vanished and Wil could do nothing. It was like solving a timed puzzle, with restarts shortening his clock.

     By slinging Finch firmly into the boys early, Wil found a lucky way to jump in and grab the first bike's frame so everyone missed the cars, despite dumping both cyclists. Briefly airborne, Wil caught his head on the pavement with a glancing blow.

     Wil laid on his back with trembling hands and aching head, trying to get his eyes to stop leaking like he had major allergies. Police sorted out drivers and cyclists, one of whom pointed at Wil with a loud story he couldn't make out. But Finch put her hand on the chest of the officer headed his way, and as he looked at her in chagrin, she took off her glasses to explain the situation in case it wasn't clear.

     She must have chased down the cyclist too because Wil was ignored by everyone shortly thereafter: no invitations to talk to a camera crew for the 11 o'clock news. When she came back, Finch crouched down and regarded him with a friendly smile and a touch on his shoulder. But her glasses were back.

     "Nice job, by the way," Finch told him.

     "It was nothing," Wil said, but his eyes teared up rapidly. Saying anything about it made blood spattered images race, and his breathing grew ragged.

     "Everyone cries the first time," Finch claimed. "Try not to seize up and it'll get easier."

     Wil felt the bump where he hit his head. Lost a spot of hair. He gave Finch a wan smile.

     "The first cyclist would have died right there," Finch said. "The worst hurt boy would have recovered, but with brain damage. You saved both: congratulations. Beginner's luck."

     Wil looked worried. "I don't want to do that again," he said. "Once is quite enough."

     "You can't always choose," Finch warned. "Be happy you have a choice at all. Almost no one does. You're a freak, you know."

     "Did you do that?" Wil wondered. "Back there? Was that all you? Not sure what I'm asking."

     "No, that was you," Finch corrected. "I just gave you incentive by diving in."

     "It's surreal," Wil said. "I'll think I hallucinated it soon. I see you kept your glasses in the fall."

     "I'm lucky that way," Finch admitted. "I have spares, but price is dear. They aren't what you get off the shelf—never mind right now."

     Finch offered a hand to pull Wil to his feet. "Nice start on your karma, Wil," she told him.

     Wil groaned as he got to his feet, noting Finch's easy athletic grace in the process. He fixed her with a stare and tried to parse that bit.

     "Reputation karma?" Wil asked. "Or some new age bullshit? Don't go metaphysical on me."

     "I'll explain later," Finch said evasively.

smart paper «

     "You feel a little traumatized," Finch guessed after bandaging a raw spot on Wil's scalp back at his place. She gave Wil pain killers and water, then settled into a chair at the computer they use to control various systems installed in Wil's home. Finch brought up UI for Kip's cameras and checked status.

     "Do ya think?" Wil replied with an edge. "Exactly how are you so sure I don't need to visit an emergency room? What if my brain swells and I swallow my tongue? Any burglars while we were gone?"

     "Nope, security looks good," Finch said. "Three reasons actually. First, I have medical training. No, I won't say what kind."

     "Course not," Wil nodded. "Where's the fun in being open and clear? Over-rated in my opinion."

     "Second, I already checked you out with these," Finch said, tapping her glasses with a finger.

     "Bullshit," Wil said without energy.

     "And third, you're already healing quickly," Finch said. "Doctor Falk went over you several days ago and started treatments. Don't you feel good?"

     Wil's mouth hung open a moment. "I don't recall agreeing to any of this," he said. "And why don't I remember? Who's Falk? Dog barber?"

     "I need to have him come back anyway, so I'll introduce you," Finch said. "He's a specialist in my line of work. We do a lot of business, and he's first rate—plus discreet, which is even better."

     Wil shook his head. "Why have him come back?" he asked, but suspected a line of possibility.

     "Bring out that talent of yours of course," Finch said seriously. "It's a uniquely valuable ability."

     "Does this ability have a name?" Wil asked, losing steam when Finch held a finger to her lips.

     "Not one I want recorded," Finch said quietly as her hands danced over the keyboard. "Okay, I turned off the cameras to be sure. I can be slightly more free. It's rare, and slightly different each time. In your language the basic form might be called retry. But it's linked to other talents lacking a retry element."

     "In my language," Wil echoed. "Retry is good?"

     "Retry scares them shitless," Finch corrected. "And yes, that's good. With a bit of training, just sight of you will freak them. We should aim for a Harvey Keitel look—soul patch, nice suit and shoes."

     "No fucking way," Wil blurted.

     "It's great psychological leverage, Wil; think about it," Finch insisted. "A stylish, relentless, heartless, well-dressed agent look is always in fashion and strikes fear in hearts of evil-doers."

     Wil laughed with appreciative head shaking. "Thanks, I needed a little cheering up," he said. "This is going to be stressful, right?"

     "Of course," Finch nodded. "I can show you something to cheer you up though." She grabbed her kit and pulled out her phone and a white card about the same size as instant film snapshots: about three and a half inches by four and a half. Actually, it looked a lot like it was intended to seem instant film stock—just like Finch's phone was intended to be mistaken for a Blackberry, instead of whatever it was.

     "Is it a snapshot of you and Flywheel at the beach?" Wil asked. "Training black clad commandos to assault entrenched positions with beach balls?"

     Finch slotted the card briefly on her device and fiddled rapidly with finger gestures Wil didn't see. Then she pulled it loose and threw the card at him edgewise, like a magician throwing a playing card.

     Touching the knot on his scalp gingerly, Wil looked at the snapshot with one hand. It looked like a print of a Youtube web page—the video playback area covered most of the front side. Why would Finch give him a still image of a Youtube video?

     "Press the play button," Finch encouraged.

     Doubtfully Wil did so, and the video started playing—with sound too. But it was just a piece of paper card stock, wasn't it?

     On the screen, two guys were horsing around while a narrator made introductory comments. The two guys were Zé and Wil. But Wil had never been in such a video. And ... slightly more strange, both Wil and Zé looked different somehow: both younger and older, in some way. No: actually younger, but acting like well-behaved, mature adults. Resolution was fantastic: at least 300 dpi and maybe more.

     Wil felt his face flush a little, and his pulse raced a bit, as he considered what this meant, paying only half attention to the sound track. It was impossible for this card to be doing what it was, and the sensation induced was giving him vertigo.

     "I can put it in different modes if you want," Finch told him. "I figured Youtube is familiar—you can guess what the edge icons do. If you want something multi-touch like an iPhone, just let me know. Let's make the video display multi-touch for starters." Finch reached and made a quick gesture on the card.

     Wil noticed an interesting effect: as his eyes scanned certain elements, they changed appearance slightly—maybe highlighting themselves to show he had them selected by looking at them.

     "Does this thing track where my eyes are focused?" Wil asked, suppressing a sound of dread.

     "Of course," Finch said. "Why wouldn't it?"

     Wil finally read the title of the video, which was enticing: Zé and Wil's Excellent Adventure. "Aw," Wil whined like a teenager. "Why does his name come first in the title? He's the sidekick. And with Wil first it sounds a lot more like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, doesn't it?"

     "Oh, I agree," Finch waved.

     Wil skipped around by touching and dragging the scrollbar indicator and noted the video appeared a few hours long, not just several minutes like Youtube videos. He toggled back and forth with other videos he could see on the side, and they too were hours long. "How many videos are on this thing?" Wil asked in wonder.

     "Just a few thousand probably," Finch said. "My phone has all videos on it."

     "All of them?" Wil echoed. "Just brought the whole world with you on vacation, did you? Say Finch—why didn't you ever show me this before?"

     "Wasn't safe," Finch shrugged. "You like safety? I had two things to worry about. If you talked about it, people you know might believe you. And worse, people I know might believe you."

     "When you say people you know, that's a euphemism for what?" Wil asked.

     "Trippers," Finch replied grudgingly. "Don't ask. Hold on a second. I like this part." In the video, Zé dumped water on Wil and then ran to escape retribution in kind.

     "Trippers," Wil echoed. "I hate to say that reminds me of a theory Zé told me. I have this terrible feeling you're going to confirm his theory."

     "Zé told the theory to Flywheel first," Finch said. "After that, I couldn't figure out how to put things back the way they would have gone. But Zé was going to have Trippers visit anyway, just because fiction he likes to write is an open invitation."

     Hairs on the back of Wil's neck stood up again as he thought about this. "I'm starting to appreciate why you didn't tell me sooner. It's that whole ignorance is bliss thing, isn't it? For example, I'd just as soon not know what I learned today already."

     "Yes," Finch nodded. "I suppose you're wondering exactly when this video was done."

     "Why is it safe for me to see now?" Wil asked.

     "Trippers already have the scent," Finch said. "So we only deny them clarification. As for your friends, imagine telling them, 'I hit my head and afterwards Finch showed me a magic photo.' What will they think? Would you believe that?"

     "I get it," Wil conceded.

     "It's a very old documentary," Finch explained. "When I was a little girl and I was studying 20th century English, I saw this and liked both of you a lot. Your work was still popular among scholars."

     "How old is very old? Generations old? Carbon dating old? Do you mean ancient?" Wil asked. But Finch didn't clarify, unsurprisingly.

     "You have a taboo against accidentally mentioning detail about where and when you're from, don't you?" Wil asked with an edge to his voice.

     Finch rolled her eyes. "Of course: think about it. I can get around my training only by using a metaphor. For example, let's talk about where I'm from as being another, uh, country. With it's own unique customs and long, colorful history."

     "Oh, I see," Wil grinned. "I take it your country's history is terribly interesting. What's the name of your country? Mu? Avalon?"

     "Avalon is as good a name as any," Finch said. "Okay, let's say the general large context is called Avalon, and the narrow place particular to my place of birth is a, uh, city named Thule. Folks of Thule have different ways and beliefs at variance with Avalon generally. Call our philosophy revisionism."

     Wil had caught sight of a fascinating woman talking to Wil in the video, which still played while he and Finch talked. Wil zoomed in on the woman by using a multi-touch gesture. She was entrancing: not just beautiful, but also apparently very intelligent. A typical resting expression was both happy and wry, with a lot of inner life as undercurrent. As Finch talked, Wil kept watching this woman and took pains to get more of her on screen, until Finch's body language began to hint anxiety. Finally Wil pointed at this woman.

     "Who is this?" Wil asked.

     "That's Ivy," Finch said simply. "I'm stunned to see you have this reaction to her on first sight, even though you report it in this video somewhere. Anyway, we have trouble with other countries all the time—for example, Cibola—home of pranksters—and especially Chthon, home to the deletionists."

     "Deletionists," Wil grimaced. "Is that a wikipedia metaphor? Does that mean what I think?"

     "Oh, yes," Finch rolled her eyes. "Trouble galore. They're methodical and dedicated."

     Wil found other videos with higher density in content on Ivy and started bookmarking icons. Finch watched with growing unrest.

     "I can't let you keep that," Finch informed Wil.

     "Now you tell me," Wil muttered.

     "... unless I impose constraints on when you can use it," Finch said. "Thule DRM is quite impressive: you won't be able to get around it."

     "Tell me about Ivy," Wil requested. "Is she who I think she is? I see the way I look at her in videos. And I'm already addicted myself. Is she my wife?"

     "Yes," Finch gave up, but said no more.

     "When do I meet her?" Wil asked eagerly.

     Finch hestitated while thinking about how to put this. Wil studied her expression and slowly lost his smile. Finch raised her hands to make a gesture, like measuring length of a piece of ribbon she wished to have cut and tied a certain way.

     "What happened?" Wil asked. "Where's Ivy?"

     "You would have met her six months ago," Finch said finally, then dried up again.

     "I don't like how this is going," Wil said, corners of his mouth turning down slightly.

     "I'm so sorry," Finch said in a formal tone.

     Wil looked off to the side and started twisting his mouth this way and that, blinking a lot. Eventually Wil asked, "Are you going to tell me why I didn't meet her? Is this about you and Flywheel?"

     "I haven't yet figured out how to get around the preparations they took," Finch said vaguely. "They were very clever in setup and execution. As traps go, it's a real beauty. But it's not hopeless."

     "Is she dead?" Wil asked huskily.

     "Yes, unless we save her," Finch nodded. "But it's not an easy problem. You can help though."

     "These are the guys scared shitless of folks trained to use retry talent?" Wil asked.

     "Yes," Finch smiled. "Yes, they are."

     Wil played video on the card and watched Ivy sadly, with a growing tinge of determination.

     "If you keep watching her, it may drive you mad," Finch warned gently. "So prioritize."

preview «

     That night Ulf dreamed again: Wil played Cole in Twelve Monkeys (with his good memory) sent to find Jeffrey before the army of the twelve monkeys could do something inscrutable (but funny). Only this time the homeless guy haunting Cole was Dr. Laughs, the nutjob both Zé and Wil condescended to like. In the dream, Ulf worried Laughs was a vampire and checked his reflection in a mirror. It was visible but distorted.

memento «

     Wil saw much of Zé and Wil overnight, and a few other segments with Ivy. Finch warned his card only played for him, but he meant to test it. By morning Wil's heartache was worse, not better. Paranoid ideas thrived: can Finch generate images? Was Ivy real?

     He cropped a nice still frame of Ivy so her image made a good portrait when frozen, then stuck the card in his pocket before going for coffee.

     "Call in sick," Finch said at Vintage Season while ordering a double espresso ahead of Wil. "You get blitz training today, and I'll have Falk back here in a couple hours, so don't go anywhere. Promise?"

     "Yes, sir," Wil sniped. "Private Munny reporting for duty, sir. Don't you ever go home?"

     "I'm always home," Finch said ambiguously.

     Wil's cell rang and he answered, "Yeah, Zé?"

     "Going up to see Flywheel today," Zé said. "Want me to find you anything on Haight Street today? I'm gonna get a leather jacket."

     "Film any funny people, will ya?" Wil asked. "Sometimes they have great routines. I'll give you ten bucks for anything really good."

     "Sure," Zé agreed. "How'd it go last night?"

     Wil glanced at Finch who stood close, watching and listening. "Went okay," he said. "I hit my head and then Finch showed me a magic photo."

     "You're bad," Finch said under her breath.

     "Really?" Zé mulled it over. "More like magic or more like science? Finch seems a science chick."

     Ollie gave Wil his usual vanilla latté without asking. "Not sure yet," Wil said. "Science, I think. You're gonna want to see it, but it might be jammed."

     "Hang up now," Finch suggested.

     "I heard that," Zé laughed. "Tell Finch 'up yours.' See you later, man."

     Wil closed his phone and told Finch, "Zé said up yours, but in the nicest possible way."

     Finch rolled her head since her eyes were hidden. "Stay out of trouble; be ready in two hours," Finch said more politely this time, then waved as she walked off briskly, almost jogging.

     Wil ambled past itty bitty café tables into the micro park to find a bench and stare at greenery and the really bright yellow thing in the sky—what was it called again? Then he saw a familiar pair of long, tan, sockless shanks running from nice but worn suit trousers down to good shoes (once elegant but now quite wrecked).

     Dr. Laughs lowered his newspaper and smiled, his white teeth contrasting sharply with a deep tan, giving every impression he spent all day in the sun. He wore the same clean but patchy suit Wil last recalled, but his sandy hair had an oddly immaculate haircut.

     "Doc," Wil smiled warmly. "Why you hiding behind the paper? You look like a comic book spy. Afraid Finch will take a bite out of you?"

     Laughs stuck out a hand to shake, saying, "She doesn't like me much. Just old business. Was last night a Slow Tuesday Night?"

     "Yesterday wasn't Tuesday," Wil knit eyebrows.

     "Figure of speech," Laughs put Wil at ease.

     "Haven't seen you since Zé took us hunting for a radioactive Chevy Malibu," Wil said. "I really liked your rendition of edgy street guy. Took guts to take the Malibu for a spin with Eli like that."

     Doc raised his eyebrows and nodded, then glanced down at himself. "Well it wasn't a big stretch. But that was pretty strange, and I've seen some strange things. Is it Zé's speciality?"

     "Yeah, I guess," Wil's smile gave way to thoughtful rumination. "We told Finch about that one, and she twitched when we mentioned you. 'Dr. Laughs?' she asked and described you. She wanted to know if you'd ever been in my place. What was she on about?"

     Doc pursed his lips. "Professional courtesy demands better, but Finch is always on the job. Zealous, wouldn't you say, Wil?"

     Wil pointed. "Your eyes are more clear than I've ever seen," he said. "And... you don't seem even a bit crazy. You know, I always wondered if it was an act: are you a homeless guy with a heart of gold?"

     Doc cleared his throat. "You look like you need advice today," he side-stepped the question. "So, would you like the usual clarity? Or the new and improved clarity? I always liked you, and we've known each other a while now, so do you think you can call me Lafe? "

     "Lafe?" Wil echoed. "Sure, I guess. Is that where they got Laughs? Did you mind Dr. Laughs?"

     "I don't mind," Lafe chuckled and pointed at a chair. "Please sit down. And yes, call me Lafe."

     "Okay, Lafe," Wil took a big swig of coffee and settled, looking around carefully.

     "A homeless person is quite easy to simulate," Lafe said. "All you need is a tan and good clothes in shoddy condition. I know what you're thinking, Wil."

     "Yeah, what's that?" Wil asked tensely.

     "About a movie," Lafe said. "A post-apocalyptic street person haunts Cole in Twelve Monkeys."

     "You're scaring me, Lafe," Wil smiled.

     "Know how I know that?" Lafe asked.

     "I'm afraid you're going to say I tell you later," Wil said. "And I'd rather not deal with that now."

     Lafe laughed so warmly Wil understood how he got his nickname. "You're rarely joyful," Lafe noted. "But today you're just gloomy. What is it?"

     "Just the blues," Wil said, pulling out the frozen card now mimicking an ordinary polaroid of Ivy. Wil handed it to Lafe saying, "I need to find her."

     Lafe humored Wil right up to seeing the photo, when he froze an instant in surprise before smiling again. Wil could see he was thinking hard, then made up his mind before Wil made a new comment.

     "I always liked her," Lafe said with a rare touch of melancholy. "Did you tell Finch you'd do it?"

     "'Do it'," Wil echoed. "Not yet. I think she assumes I will. Can you tell me this woman's name?"

     Lafe nodded. "Checking up on Finch's story?" Lafe asked. "Good luck with that. Her name's Ivy. Same name Finch gave you?"

     "Yes," Wil confirmed. "She have a last name?"

     "You can't find her trail now," Lafe warned. "Asking questions gets you unwanted attention."

     "Welcome to the spook show?" Wil guessed. "Finch gave me to understand Ivy died six months ago."

     "In one sense," Lafe agreed. "But from another it was just yesterday—No, I wasn't involved, in any way. Think you'd see me if I was? You don't grasp what kind of reputation you'll have."

     "Apparently not," Wil sighed. "So I saw you because you have advice to offer, right? If I drag it out of you, it smells less like a sell job, right?"

     Lafe smiled thinly. "And I thought I was going to have to suggest you trust no one. Okay: commit to nothing, but accept all training offered. Don't try to analyze this, just get ready and stay skeptical. You can't lie for beans so I suggest you say nothing when probed."

     "I miss zany Dr. Laughs," Wil said.

     "He's a funny guy," Lafe granted, then smiled at an idea. "Hey, I had a patient once with short term memory problems. He took a lot of polaroids."

     "Like this one?" Wil smiled, waving Ivy's photo.

     "He wrote on them," Lafe nodded. "On that one you can write, 'She's the one. Marry her,' as a reminder."

     "I was thinking about tattooing clues about her killer all over my body," Wil mused.

     "Another good tactic," Lafe approved, smiling.

eye contact «

     Finch returned a couple hours before noon without Falk—apparently to get Wil slotted and ready.

     "Where's Falk?" Wil asked, watching Finch shutter windows and turn on lights. "Does he have a little black bag? Goes with cinema doctors on house calls."

     After turning off Kip's surveillance cameras, Finch took a chair near Wil's desk and pulled up closer, almost touching Wil's knees. "He'll be here shortly," she replied, pointing at a big satchel she had carried over her shoulder. "That's most of what he needs, but I'm sure he has more in a black bag."

     "You're looking at me funny," Wil noted. Her manner telegraphed unease before chancy outcome.

     "Dr. Falk expects something," Finch said carefully. "If he misses it, he might say no. We never did this before without ... I'm usually closer to subjects: Falk expects me to go without these sunglasses around you."

     Wil had a frisson of fear. "We ran a pool about what's up with your eyes," he tried to smile. "I think Eli's idea scares me the most. Zé loaned him Sturgeon's More Than Human and Eli caught a spinning iris meme."

     "That's interesting," Finch half smiled while reaching up to her glasses. She paused and asked, "Ready?"

     "You're asking my permission?" Wil asked. "Anything to do with Ivy?"

     "Only partly," Finch equivocated. "I need you as you are: I won't change how you feel about Ivy."

     "Except I need a high octane tuneup by Falk," Wil mused. "Okay, go ahead, I'm ready."

     As Finch took off her sunglasses, her eyes looked directly into Wil's: she had the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen—he decided in fascination, leaning closer to make out patterns of gold and dark green suggesting circular motion that must be illusion. Striations of iris muscle did indeed move in a way demanding attention—something is about to happen—and Wil felt her sight boring into his mind where he hoped to gain her favor. Despite blood pressure climbing enough to make him whistle like a teakettle, Wil felt his legs go weak and his tongue tangled, so even if he meant to speak he could not. Most strangely, Wil seemed to be thinking about something else, just out of conscious view, as if a free bolus of mental capacity took off on its own.

     "Try to think normally," Finch said slowly. "Do not construe any past remarks as implicit orders. Nor must you treat future remarks as implicit orders when I'm wearing glasses. Use your own judgment about what's good to analyze and pursue as you always have. Be yourself, whatever you think that is, and not whatever I might want. Don't stare at my eyes constantly, you should have gotten used to them by now."

     Wil looked down and released a long breath he'd been holding. "Oh wow," he said without deliberation. Wil glanced up: Finch was half turned away, looking at him from the corner of one eye. It was stunning.

     "Remember how you normally act around me?" Finch asked. "That's terrific. I like that. But act any way you please as you get to know me. Eye contact as when talking to friends is best. It wouldn't hurt for Falk to see you cast an adoring glance my way, but make sure you stop after he's gone."

     "Do you know how amazing your eyes are?" Wil asked looking at Finch directly.

     "Yes," Finch said sadly. "You should think about Ivy's eyes when you can't see mine. She loves you, and I don't, even though I like you."

     "But she's dead," Wil's eyes started to tear.

     "Don't be sad," Finch said quickly. "Falk's due and you're excited about the future, just like you were this morning before I came back. In fact, please be as you would have been—mostly normal in mind and body—but taking my eyes almost for granted now."

     "That's a tall order," Wil rubbed his face. Then he saw Finch reach up to free her hair from its confines. "Is it really necessary to let your hair down too?"

     "Afraid so," Finch said while arranging her hair. "There's one more thing about Falk. He likes humor, so if you're formal and stiff he'll think you're broken. Don't suppress any impulsive quips you'd normally say out of respect because it has the opposite effect."

     "He'll respect me for being a goof?" Wil asked.

     "No, for being a survivor," Finch corrected. "Which he relates to seeing funny things out of place. Guys with wry perspectives are harder to kill."

     "Oh, well that's comforting," Wil said ironically.

tuneup «

     Falk did indeed carry a little black bag, as if seeking instant identification as medical doctor. Signalling non-combatant status? Catching sight of Finch while entering Wil's apartment, he put up a hand to hide her eyes.

     "Cover yourself, child," Falk chided in friendly tones and approached Wil with calculating eyes.

     Finch donned a new pair of glasses which barely hid her eyes. They looked like normal glasses except they also wrapped around. Something odd caught Wil's eye: the inner surface seemed to light her eyes a bit, as if shining with very low intensity light of their own. But he didn't have time to think about it.

     Falk didn't look old, but he moved with an economy Wil associated with frail elderly people. On the street the doctor would look younger than himself. But Falk's gaze and attention suggested a powerful mind with long experience, for reasons Wil couldn't guess.

     "Wil, this is Dr. Falk," Finch introduced. "Doctor, meet Wil Munny, your latest patient."

     Falk's eyes twinkled. "Wil Munny out of Missouri—the one who killed William Harvey and robbed that train?"

     Wil wanted to sigh—another Unforgiven fan—but went with it anyway. "I ain't like that no more, doc," he said, trying for a pig farmer's accent.

     "Call me Falk," Falk said. "Can I call you Wil? This is a one-name culture, isn't it?"

     "Can you fix my name so it doesn't sound like a verb or personality trait?" Wil asked.

     "Nope," Falk shook his head. "But you'll be able to play the piano again when I'm done, even if you never could before."

     "He hates piano playing jokes," Finch explained as Falk opened his bag and pointed at the satchel on the floor—Finch obligingly picked it up for him.

     "Hop up on this so I can get a better look at you," Falk said. "Take off your shirt too." Wil was glad the table had rounded edges easy on his legs.

     "Don't need my weight?" Wil asked.

     "Weighed you a few days ago," Falk explained. "Looks like you lost ten pounds, that's good. Still going to the gym? Able to lift twice as much, twice as long all of a sudden? Yes, I know perfectly well what my last visit did. If you had any gray hair it would grow in dark now."

     Falk arranged an odd contraption over Wil's head—something like a net of sensors—while glancing at Finch with a look saying: this is what you ordered.

     "Do you still take Blue Cross?" Wil asked.

     "Finch is paying," Falk said with a smile, watching Wil turn to look at Finch with warmth which Wil played up a little more than he felt. Then Wil tried not to startle when Falk found a vein in his arm and inserted the business end of a needle connected to a device Wil couldn't parse, but looked like forty pounds of metal nested in straps to make a harness one could wear on the run. Falk played with an interface on the device while checking a screen he held like a clipboard.

     "Don't care for those new fangled glasses?" Wil guessed after thinking about the clipboard screen, which Finch made no effort to study.

     "Nice IQ," Falk said to Finch while studying columns and graphs. "Got yourself a smart one this time? I can bump everything across the line. But what else did you have in mind? Why the special visit?"

     Finch said something Wil didn't understand. It just didn't come out as words that made sense.

     Falk snorted and explained to Wil. "Finch asks on a scale of one to ten, can I make you a nine or more? Well, how old are you now, Wil?"

     "Forty-five," Wil replied.

     Falk shrugged at Finch. "Eight if you're lucky."

     "Take off ten more years," Finch demanded.

     Falk stared at Finch. "What's happening?" he asked, then looked back at the screen. "Is it here? A bit unusual yes, but these don't really justify ..."

     Finch caught Falk's eye and made a gesture without words Wil found suggestive: two fingers pointed at her eyes, then one finger at her forehead, then a finger circled to suggest reeling a dial backward.

     "No," Falk blurted: he flatly didn't believe it.

     "Yes," Finch countered and looked serious.

     Falk started getting nervous. "And you don't want me to tell anyone," he added. "This is ... our usual deal isn't enough. Not for this. He can really do it?"

     "Yeah, and I'm pot committed," Finch said. "It's going to get out, but not from you—I'll cover whatever you need. How fast can you get his stamina and reflexes up? Starting from right now?"

     "They know you're here already," Falk closed his eyes. He clearly wanted to be elsewhere.

     "Set me up and I'll follow through," Finch nudged. "What factor is limiting? Calibration?"

     Falk nodded. "Start training right after I leave so he gets the raw data needed to link up. Physical parts can catch up. Get him to see and react first."

     "Can he get direct perception?" Finch asked hopefully.

     "Are you out of your mind?" Falk wondered and looked at Wil's charts. "Around corners, maybe. Not much to support it but inference."

     Wil watched this rapid fire exchange in growing fascination. "Can I learn Kung Fu?"

     "Save it, Wil," Finch cut him off. Then to Falk: "He can back out if he screws up. Guessing is okay, but having no clue can get him killed. Just make sure he tells inference from knowing for sure."

     "You're going to make me rush this, aren't you?" Falk accused. "I need at least an hour."

     "I know, everyone's different," Finch granted. "I want it yesterday, but that's hard to swing right now."

     "You won't believe my bill," Falk warned. "And I want half in advance, right now, in hard assets."

     "Add this to the bill," Finch said pointing at the portable device. "How many do you have now? I want them all. Just one more? Shit. I need more."

     "What is it anyway?" Wil asked, wondering what was going into his body through the needle.

     "You read science fiction, right?" Falk asked without taking his eyes from frenzied activity.

     "Yeah, a lot of the good stuff," Wil said.

     "It's a portable feed," Finch asserted. "For nanotech."

     "No shit," Wil said, lip twitching in horror.

     "Saying it's mature tech is understatement," Finch reassured while helping Falk move stuff on demand. "The art is un-fucking-believable."

     "I know you mean to encourage," Wil said. "But if you're still scared with these advantages, it tells me what you face is off-the-scale scary in my view."

     "A realist," Falk approved. "You'll notice a conservation principle always applies: more good food attracts more predators, and bigger ones."

     "Don't scare the noobs," Finch told Falk.

upgrades «

     Despite Falk's feverish activity, Wil finally realized there was nothing he could see in Falk's process. As a programmer, Wil should have expected it: laymen seldom see Wil do anything but type. As he watched Falk, he realized all he could see was nanite coding, or maybe indirect support two or three levels removed. Wil wasn't equipped to grasp anything about his tuneup in any detail. It was all black magic, but it involved Falk thinking a lot, then chasing down details.

     Wil tried asking questions based on metaphors derived from programming, but each time Falk struggled to explain Wil's assumptions were subtly wrong, so those terms could not apply.

     Finch warned, "You're slowing him down, Wil."

     Wil turned to Finch. "Maybe you can help me out," he said. "Is it like programming or not?"

     Finch squinted in thought, then raised one hand in an abortive gesture that stalled out.

     "Never mind," Wil sighed. "How about this: are you downloading any new abilities into me?"

     "You mean like the Matrix?" Finch managed without laughing. "Hoping for combat training?"

     "Well ... yeah," Wil said sheepishly.

     "That's not how your brain works," Falk said. "The Matrix was drivel. Good story though."

     "I think Zé hoped to ask you whether it was us or them that scorched the sky," Wil told Finch.

     Finch snorted. "Is this about my sunglasses somehow?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Fishing for AI apocalypse stories?"

     Falk shot her a look. "How much AI science fiction crap you been reading, Wil?" he asked, shaking his head in fatherly disapproval.

     "A little," Wil said, rubbing one eye. Then he asked casually, "So, when's the singularity?"

     Finch hit Wil's shoulder. "You mean the one in current science fiction?" she asked. "Didn't you think that schedule was awfully optimistic? If it happens, it must be after Thule. I can't say. Shut up."

     "Thule?" Falk echoed, but kept going.

     "Finch's delicate euphemism for where she's from," Wil explained. "A city named Thule with future tense vaguely implied. You from Thule, too?"

     "You don't need to know that, Wil," Finch asserted. "But for sake of conversation, say it's so: Thule is scope inclusive of our home and our ways."

     "We are from Thule!" Wil said in a Coneheads voice from Saturday Night Live. But his smile failed when Finch and Falk just stared. "That's from a TV show, but they say, 'We are from France!' instead. It was funny, but you must have missed it."

     "TV rots your brain," Falk warned.

     "Yeah, an evil plot to destroy the world," Wil agreed. "Is that the next apocalypse? Swarming TV-induced zombies?"

     "Did you have a point?" Finch asked.

     "I want a sense of where tech is going," Wil shrugged, then pointed at Falk's clipboard screen. "Does that have AI in it? Is it sentient?"

     "Sentient tools make demands," Falk shook his head firmly. "Oh, I might see your concern: Wondering if our nanites carry an AI cargo into you?"

     "Yes, I am," Wil nodded. "Should I worry?"

     "No," Falk denied. "Your brain and central nervous system have complex, holistic, interacting behavior we can tune, but you're not getting a digital cable installed with five hundred AI channels."

     "Then what are you doing?" Wil asked. "I can guess. But can you put spin on it for me?"

     "Augmentation, reinforcement, resolution, response time," Falk said. "New holistic behaviors compatible with old ones but with much better switching than old ones. I speak in such coarse terms, however, that I verge upon nonsense."

     "Let Falk work," Finch requested again.

     "But will I notice any changes?" Wil asked.

     "Oh, yes," Finch hinted at understatement. "Even quite strange ones. But it's system behavior, not content. No new memories, for example."

     "Not without exquisitely detailed models of how your mind does memory," Falk corrected. "It might be possible later, after calibration. But it's far simpler to extend working memory so you learn faster."

     "Now you're talking," Wil approved.

     "And you need stronger bones," Finch added. "But that's a slow, gradual program. If you screw up and catch a bullet, you don't want bones to shatter and spall through your viscera."

     "Whoa," Wil said. "I didn't need that image."

implants «

     "When I buy a new phone, it comes with a little user manual telling me how to use it," Wil noted.

     "Hey Falk, did you ever get around to writing a new manual?" Finch joked. "I lost my old one."

     "If I did, no one would read it," Falk feigned chagrin. "Wil, interfaces to new things become clear as they come online. Be patient and ask Finch."

     "Any hotline to call after a system crash?" Wil asked with a nervous smile. "Is this a beta release?"

     Falk winced. "Your standards of care in software are appalling," he said quietly, hands dancing over exotic controls far too fast for Wil to see. "It's unlikely you'll ever see a problem. You may want tuning later to suit a need, but this upgrade should be flawless. However, deployment occurs in ramped stages, so you won't trip reflexes that can't be obeyed. Usually."

     "Also, avoid the epicenter of a nuclear blast," Finch cheerfully advised. "You aren't rated for that."

     "Don't get injured period," Falk corrected. "You'll heal fast but you aren't immune to harm beyond your trick to sidestep problems, if you react fast enough. Finch will go over nano armor we compiled. I suggest you learn not to get shot as fast as possible."

     "Note to self," Wil said facetiously. "Stay out of firefights."

     "When Falk is done, we're going on a field trip," Finch said with a smile. "Our guns can shoot small soft rounds that sting : you'll bloody well learn to dodge. Falk, I'm drawing, so don't freak out. Don't move, Wil."

     Finch suddenly moved so quickly Wil didn't see much until her arm and hand pointed at his forehead wielding a small toy-like weapon like a beautiful, high-end airgun with a lot of small texture in functional details.

     Wil squeaked and suppressed a big flinch. "Christ, Finch!" he yelped.

     "Bad idea," Falk chided. "I'd rather he was calm now. Wil, I need to put you under a few minutes to install some redundant power supplies and a port for nano feed and compiler. Finch?"

     "You mean like surgery?" Wil asked in alarm.

     Finch tipped her glasses down her nose and stared into Wil's eyes while explaining, "It's not going to hurt, Wil. If it does even slightly, it won't distract you or make you suffer. Falk will explain what he wants you to report about sensations you do feel."

     "Except for the port, these pass as surgical bone implants on x-rays to laymen," Falk said, adjusting the line to the needle in Wil's arm. "And if not, Finch can cover by explaining to nosy officials."

     As Wil drooped sleepily onto the table, Finch guided him into a prone position Falk indicated. With her eyes dazzling she told him, "Listen to my voice when your eyes are closed and can't see my eyes."

     "Batteries included," Wil said and went under.

armchair criticism «

     Two hours before Red gave him the ring, Zé sat fidgeting outside Flywheel's office, waiting for his time slot. He spent his short wait supposing the crouching, two-legged science fiction sculpture in the foyer was really a heavily armed futuristic dreadnought biding its time until awakened by masters to defend the perimeter. The shape roughly seemed heavy ostrich legs and body, without any neck or head, all composed of presumably telescoping machine rods like a battle bot vision out of Stephenson's The Diamond Age. Two miniguns depended from the body, along with a pair of skeletal arms, no doubt needed to guide mass in fast heading changes, say when flying through doorways at speed.

     It was extremely well done. Zé intended to ask Koi the artist's name. But it looked like several thousand dollars worth of painstaking labor to make an intricate piece like this, and Zé could not afford that. Maybe a miniature copy could be arranged.

     "I've also read every science fiction story I know of featuring teleportation," Zé said.

     "Well if you like teleportation so much, why do none of your characters teleport?" Koi asked.

     "Teleportation is disruptive in plots," Zé said. "It's basically far too powerful, overwhelming anything else as trivial, unless a main plot features a teleporting hero, as in Bester's Stars My Destination and A. E. van Vogt's World of Null-A. Also, coming up with a plausible reason why it's possible is daunting."

     "In Star Trek they take transporters for granted on every starship," Koi observed, leaning back comfortably in his antique office chair, which perfectly suited the big walnut desk and office decor copied from some old MGM movie from the 1930's. For once Flywheel's greasepaint mustache and eyebrows didn't look bizarre, expecially when his imitation of Groucho Marx's voice was done softly, and without undue emphasis. Zé almost wished Koi would break out a contract to sign just so they could discuss the sanity clause. (Zé had once been jealous of Chico for getting to say, "There ain't no Sanity Clause!" in A Night at the Opera, in which Groucho's character was named Driftwood instead of Flywheel.)

     Zé cleared his throat and then pointed a finger at Koi. "Yes, but transporters existed just to move stories along, so valuable plot time wasn't wasted matching orbits, docking, and just getting folks wherever they need to be. Used for any other purpose, teleport magic was far too powerful. I wailed any time a transporter solved a plot because it was literally deus ex machina."

     Koi looked thoughtful. "You're saying any powerful advantage needs a limit of some kind, or it ruins a story, because without blockage characters experience no story arc. So audiences are cheated?"

     "That's right," Zé nodded. "A powerful asset needs drastic limits on when it acts, how long it lasts, whether you can count on it, or even grasp how it works. Anything to stop you from trusting it saves your ass—so not only aren't you sure, the odds seem poor. Socially useful stories need several assets cleverly wielded the right way for characters to succeed."

     "Why is that socially useful?" Koi asked playfully.

     "Because life isn't easy," Zé explained. "Problems abound and folks need to learn long trial and error—beset by failure—is the norm and nothing to depress you. It's expected: so keep working your ass off. Even then you aren't guaranteed a happy ending."

     "Why not just indulge a reader's wish for pure childish gratification?" Koi asked. "Isn't that how games work? Aren't your stories just a game?"

     "Actually, easy games aren't any fun," Zé claimed. "For example, a lot of gambling games like poker are boring without real stakes. It's overcoming risk of failure that's fun—figuring out how to do it. Wil and I used to play role-playing games and they have systems to limit how powerful your characters can get."

     "Oh you were into role-playing games," Koi rolled his eyes theatrically, then toyed with his cigar. "So, what's your point? More powerful is better?"

     "No, more power means more problems too, in good games," Zé corrected. "One game I liked—Over the Edge—had a rule system letting you be too powerful only at the cost of very powerful enemies."

     "Oh, ho!" Koi sat up straight. "Now I can relate to that. I see your point, yes. So in your view, it's cheating to use an asset guaranteeing victory without effort. But would you refuse strong assets in real life?"

     "What does real life have to do with anything?" Zé asked. "You want me to teleport?"

     "I'm interested in that thing you do," Koi said without smiling. "One minute we're talking, the next I'm off in some new place with you—sometimes it's a movie—I like golf movies by the way—and we live there a while before coming back. What the hell is that? Does it have a name? VR for virtual reality?"

     "No, that's AR," Zé looked at his nails. "Alternate Reality: big difference, dude."

     Koi shook his head in exasperation. "But it is real?" he demanded. "Are we there, or here? Is it just a dream? A game? Or can it change anything?"

     Zé started looking huffy at the word real but kept listening, despite his irritation. Zé put his fingertips together, then asked in a carefully analytical tone, "Can you express that as a specific use case? Give me an empirical situation as context."

     "Okay!" Koi replied loudly with a big smile, both hands spread wide, acting like he couldn't believe this was necessary. He pointed at the glass wall behind Zé where the office door was closed. "Suppose shock troops with heavy caliber guns run up outside my office and aim their weapons before hosing down this room with a barrage of lethal fire," Koi hypothesized. "Can you use AR—alternate reality—to stop them from killing us? Or is it just wanking? Take your time."

     "Well that's too far for me to touch them," Zé noted wryly. "Are they amenable to games?"

     "No!" Koi shouted. "Answer the fucking question!"

     "I don't think so," Zé sulked. "Maybe it's just mental experience. Transitions back again are always smooth, as if we're doing something else the whole time. And I never brought anything back with me before—not yet. But I keep trying. Someday, though."

     A gorgeous blond Hollywood starlet appeared at the door of Flywheel's office: his secretary. She nudged the door open and asked, "Everything okay, sir?" She favored Zé with a winning smile.

     "It's okay, Carol," Koi smiled at her. "I was just shouting at Mr. Thorn here. You look smashing today, dear, give yourself another raise."

     "Thank you, Mr. Flywheel!" Carol wriggled in glee as if channeling Marilyn Monroe, then left.

     "Holy cow," Zé marveled. "Does she have a James Bond-style, offensively sexist last name?"

     "I think she likes you," Koi said slyly with waggling eyebrows. "Carol gushed over you earlier and asked if you were single. I told her yes."

     "Can we do this later?" Zé asked politely.

     "Youth is wasted on the wrong people," Koi turned his eyes upward and ran through a panoply of varied Groucho expressions heavy in ironic flavor.

     "Probably," Zé agreed. "I need a snappy description of alternate reality as a hook."

     "How do old masters explain teleportation?" Koi suggested. "Follow their approach."

     "Bester was clever, but van Vogt used pure gibberish, which actually has an advantage," Zé looked up in thought, tapping his chin.

     "How does gibberish help?" Koi prompted.

     "It shows a reader which parts need suspension of disbelief," Zé explained. "Then you can expect vague consistency in other parts, once you swallow a basic premise in all its gory unjustified conceit."

     "So how did van Vogt do it?" Koi wondered.

     "Okay, get this," Zé smiled. "In World of Null-A he says an unexplained principle in physics causes teleportation when two objects are made similar to 23 decimal places—causing the lesser to jump instantly to the greater. They had machines called distorters that could force a momentary similarity at the atomic level in some patch of an object or person you wanted teleported."

     "That is pretty outlandish," Koi agreed. "What was special about the hero?"

     "Oh, he had an organic distorter in his brain," Zé said. "So he could do it by thinking. No tools."

     "That sounds too powerful," Koi frowned. "Was there a limitation making it harder?"

     "Absolutely," Zé nodded. "Atomic structure 'drifts' and after about a day you can no longer get a 23 decimal place match any more, because your destination no longer has a valid address in your cache."

     "Nice," Koi appreciated. "That rules out teleportation for inter-planetary travel, and forces the hero to freshen his destination cache. It sounds technical but doesn't mean anything?"

     "Not really," Zé said. "But the premise itself is never the point. It merely creates a novel context you can explore. Assuming you have any ideas."

     "Why don't you have any interest in space opera?" Koi puzzled. "Too fantasy oriented?"

     "You're teasing me, right?" Zé smiled. "Well, space fiction is sterile. I only like it when used as an excuse to explore odd circumstance, but this rarely happens any more. And actually, I like stories about people. I have no science fetish. Instead I like contradictions."

     "Contradictions?" Koi knit his eyebrows.

     "Yeah, people are mountains of contradiction," Zé said. "Strength and weakness come in opposites. For example, when a smart guy in a story turns out to be a romantic idiot, if you squint the right way."

     "I hate when that happens," Koi nodded sagely.

     "It goes on and on," Zé turned up his palms. "A zany guy is also analytical, and a selfish jerk is willing to take the worst hits. Personally, I think doing things backward is funny, due to a universal truth inside."

     "You think others enjoy it, too?" Koi looked askance, eyes twinkling. "My poor investment."

     "Why should I care what anyone thinks?" Zé asked. "Screw 'em if they have no taste."

     "Or if they can't take a joke," Koi mused.

     "It's no joke," Zé assured. "A tendency for people to fuse opposites in one personality seems pervasive in a way startling me at times. Whatever it means, I enjoy people with subtly complex folds in them—more so when a pattern lurks under the surface, implying you didn't account for forces underneath."

     "You read too much into quirks," Koi frowned.

     "I meant to ask you," Zé recalled. "Who's the artist who did the awesome battle droid outside?"

     "You like that, huh?" Koi studied Zé carefully. "It scares a lot of people. Makes them think of a scene in Robocop where an automaton tells a guy to drop his weapon. Gives him fifteen seconds to comply."

     Zé laughed in fond memory. "I loved that scene," he explained. "I like the big 'oops' part of story lines. I'd love to get a small version of that sculpture if possible. Can you put me in touch with the artist?"

     "I can do even better," Koi smiled indulgently. "Finch knows the artist, so I'll have her pick one up and bring it by Wil's place. It's about the size of a basketball. You're in luck: the miniature version of that bot is mobile with remote controls. It's on me: no charge."

     "Totally awesome!" Zé enthused.

     "Did you want the model firing depleted uranium?" Koi asked. "Or does radioactivity bother you?"

     "It's not armed, is it?" Zé continued the joke.

     "Not apparently, no," Koi assured casually.

paintball «

     The last time Wil visited this place, he was one of many engineers from BigCo playing paintball in a team-building exercise, sneaking through a dark maze of partitions in two opposing teams bent on shooting each other for high scores. In the last fifteen years, Wil attended three such events, all very similar to each other in most ways: interesting, chaotic, fun, unsatisfying, exotic, pointless, and curiously lacking in strategy for a game involving folks hunting one another in semi-darkness with submachine gun-like toys.

     Paintball guns fire plastic balls loaded with colored paint, propelled by CO2 under high pressure in small carbon dioxide cartridges. You wear goggles to protect your eyes from paintballs and accidents.

     Today Wil is creeping quickly and silently through the dark all alone, searching for his sole opponent, Finch: a demon incarnate capable of speed and ferocity he never thought possible. She's some kind of future ninja spook with scary speed and acrobatic skills, passing through doorways at a silent run, nailing him in neck, chin, cheek, arms and hands when he looks the wrong way. She doesn't bother aiming at his chest because he's wearing nano armor which would blunt the pain. Wil seldom looks the wrong way now, because he has a rough idea where she is, all the time. He has absolutely no idea how he knows it, though, since he hears and sees nothing consciously giving any clues. Wil is starting to hallucinate a faint, blurry outline wherever she is, as if he can see through the walls.

     But they're not using paintball guns. Both are armed with one of Finch's airgun pistols, which fire tiny bubbles smaller than paintballs, with no color inside, moving much faster than paintballs ... not fast enough to break skin given their plastic flexibility, but really painful anyway. Wil gathers they fire other ammo just by changing settings, for which Wil lacks permission. He speculates they fire anything at all Finch wants them to fire as long as size is small. Obviously they don't use CO2 for propulsion, but Finch was vague about this. Wil guesses a honking nano battery in the grip is tapped for motive power in an unknown fashion, but Wil no longer cares: he just wants to avoid being shot.

     Finch darts into the space Wil just entered, her gun already leveled at his forehead. She pulls the trigger. It's safe to aim at Wil's face because he's wearing wrap-around glasses too—the ones Finch wore earlier today. But Finch never misses, so Wil could do without the glasses. Except Finch's glasses draw a projected trajectory of her aim. These guns don't have laser sights, but the glasses draw a laser sightline anyway in realtime, so you can see where the guns aim. Except when Wil's glasses refuse to work, intermittently, so he can get used to working without them. As Finch's gun clears the door frame, the line is already centered on Wil's forehead and she pulls the trigger.

     Wil already knows he can't dodge the pellet: it's going too fast for him to dodge. Though he's getting faster, it's not nearly enough to avoid Finch's shot. On the other hand, Finch can often dodge Wil's shots even after he has her dead to rights when he fires. She does a freaky bullet-time high-speed shimmy and twist when that's enough. Otherwise she does what Wil is about to do: rewind time far enough to get out of the gun's aim; she's far better at this than Wil. She's just toying with him, keeping the difficulty of this struggle just out of Wil's reach. Since Wil is looking right at her gun when she fires, Wil can see the pellet exit the barrel before he freezes time. Somehow his time resolution is very fine at critical moments. As Wil rewinds, Finch does too at the same time—she's going to do something different when she re-enters, just like Wil. Time runs backward: Finch exits the same way she entered, but in reverse.

     As time goes forward again, Wil fires a continuous burst, laying down a series of pellets fired where Finch is going to be right as she enters. Head shots will be easy for her to avoid, but she won't be able to move her center of gravity nearly as fast. Wil sweeps the line she might fly through horizontally if he left it clear. Somehow Finch caroms off the wall outside and violently changes direction. She rewinds time out there and Wil follows her backward. Her silhouette recedes and Finch takes another turn, heading to Wil's other side. Ten pounds of horn-of-plenty on Wil's back makes it hard to maneuver, but the nano feed is doctor's orders.

     All of Wil's mental reflexes have been getting faster, gradually, since he woke up after Falk's last operation. Wil vividly recalls the first time Finch shot him in the forehead after getting Wil into nano armor vest and head gear. She gave him no warning.

     Finch helped Falk fit Wil's helmet, which was smaller, thinner, lighter, and far more flexible than a normal bike helmet. "It could be much smaller," Finch said. "It's only this big so folks will think it is a bike helmet."

     "Why?" Wil asked. "As camouflage?"

     "Yes," Finch nodded. "I don't want you to take it off. It needs to look plausible worn everywhere, including indoors, no matter where you go. For a week, I don't want to see you with this helmet off."

     "A whole week?" Wil screwed up his face.

     "Even when you sleep," Falk confirmed. "We need data from embedded sensors, as part of your ongoing calibration. It enables better live, dynamic tuning as everything gels. Otherwise calibration takes longer as a stable, global view takes time to crystallize."

     "What about in the shower?" Wil asked.

     "What if a deletionist thinks you're an abomination, and waits for you to take off your helmet before capping you in the shower?" Finch asked.

     "Shit," Wil said. "Does that mean you want me to wear this vest in the shower too?"

     "Please," Finch said politely. "It's totally water repellant and very comfortable. You won't even sweat—it breathes better than any shirt you've ever known. It looks like a fancy sports jersey, doesn't it? The thicker parts over your shoulders protect the joints. But all those tiny scales and joints make it fit and move almost like normal fabric. Do I exaggerate?"

     "Yes, you do," Wil nodded. "What are you, a salesman for Thule nanowear? What if a Chthon deletionist decides to shoot me in the foot?"

     Finch pointed at a pair of midnight blue sneakers with a similar scaled texture. "I also have bullet proof knee guards and jock strap—if you worry about the family jewels. Deletionists rarely aim there though."

     "Do you have any in red?" Wil asked.

     Finch shook her head. "I'm not indulging your weird mixed shoe color kink. I want you to look boring. If you put everything on, it should look like an expensive sports uniform of some kind. You won't look as conspicuous as a medieval knight."

     "Why one week? What happens after a week?" Wil asked. "Can I skip nano armor then?"

     "It's up to you," Finch shrugged. "But you'll be a hell of a lot faster. Right now you're a puppy."

     "What do you mean?" Wil asked querulously.

     Wil didn't see a thing: Finch shot him in the forehead in the blink of an eye. He only saw her arm and hand extending the gun to his head after the pain hit. But she was frozen and Falk was too, in midstep. Then time reversed direction and Finch put her gun away in the reverse of a fast draw, this time in slower motion so he could follow. When time went forward again, Wil tried to dodge this time, but Finch tracked his head faster than he could move, so he fell off the table onto the floor. Finch shot Wil in the thigh, instead.

     "What did you do that for!" Wil shouted.

     "Can't you kids get along?" Falk complained.

     "See that welt on your leg, Wil?" Finch pointed. "You're gonna get more of those, so get used to it. Little pellets sting a lot, don't they?"

     Wil reviewed his memory right after his recovery from surgery. He felt more awake now that Finch had startled him this way. Did he miss anything important earlier? He wasn't really paying attention.

recovery «

     Wil came around in a sitting up position answering Falk's questions—he'd been half awake for a time he no longer recalled. Falk demoed features on absurdly lightweight, soft body armor, showing Wil how to adjust it for comfort and fit. It almost seemed a costly, very strong, high-end sports jersey with moderate padding and many points of smooth articulation. But Falk said it was nano fab dragon skin.

     "Take it easy on your right leg and left arm for two hours," Falk ordered, moving Wil's left shoulder through crazy angles. "How does that feel?"

     "Weird," Wil considered. "Like it should hurt, but I'm reading a report about it. Very abstract. But I can tell it's how it ought to feel."

     "Perfect," Falk assured. "Pain signals are right on target. It's just data: there's no reason to feel agony again, except briefly to announce trouble—like when Finch shoots you later."

     "Great," Wil whined. Taking inventory, Wil felt odd many places, including his right hand. Marks near joints of thumb, index and middle fingers looked like fresh pink scars over punctures now healed.

     Catching his interest Falk said, "That's fairly minor: flex your hand quickly for me. Good. Finch will explain later—I need to finish my checklist."

     "I guess folks in Thule no longer hand-cut and sew people like garments?" Wil suggested.

     "Another media reference?" Falk sighed. He freed one part of the nanotech device recently plugged into Wil's arm. When did the needle come out?

     "City on the Edge of Forever," Wil admitted. "Got a nickname for that nano feed/compiler thingie?"

     "Horn," Falk replied, holding it up so Wil could don the portable feed's harness; ten pounds settled on Wil's back as Falk cinched it firmly. A sleek, flat profile made it look lighter, but it was dense.

     "Is this basic training style hazing?" Wil asked.

     "Keep it slotted here," Falk showed Wil the right end to insert in the port along his collar bone and secured the line after it was seated. "One full day is enough, and breaks are okay, but keep it on."

espionage «

     Wil surprised himself by driving calmly home again after his training exercise in the paintball facility. Coming back outside into broad daylight was a shock. Finch rode shotgun, studying Wil's profile—which yesterday would have made him feel nervous. Now his scale was totally different. He even relaxed a bit.

     "Any chance a bunch of abusive monks in a martial arts monastery raised you?" Wil asked Finch.

     "Did I treat you poorly?" Finch wondered.

     Wil pulled his lip with one hand. He still wore Finch's glasses because she said they were now his. Either the glasses were sharpening odd choices in the street, or Wil's mind was playing games. Maybe both. That would make sense if Falk's therapy was interactive.

     "Ordinarily I would say yes," Wil replied. "If I knew more context, I might say I needed that. You give off a dire pending emergency vibe. Anything you feel like sharing? Should I watch for boogie men?"

     "Ever read Eric Ambler novels?" Finch asked.

     "Is it indirect catechism time?" Wil sighed.

     "Some folks credit him with inventing the modern spy thriller," Finch explained. "I'd like you to try his 1939 A Coffin for Dimitrios because you might relate to the main character—a guy named Latimer finds himself interested in writing a book about a dangerous dead guy he learns about: a shadowy figure named Dimitrios."

     "Let me guess," Wil anticipated. "Latimer's bored and starts researching a colorful assassin named Dimitrios, and it seems like an academic exercise because, after all, Dimitrios is dead."

     "So you read it?" Finch teased. "A colonel in the Turkish Secret Police sets him on the trail of Dimitrios, who turns out to be fascinating, so Latimer digs deeper and deeper into his colorful history."

     Wil groaned. "Until his research attracts enough attention that Dimitrios shows up asking Latimer what the hell he wants," he guessed. "Is this your classic 'dangerous guy isn't dead after all' story?"

     "Ambler novels all have a common theme," Finch nodded. "A fairly ordinary person, bored out of his mind with tedium of every day life, gets involved in a deal that sounds a little exciting, just for sake of variety. So they step outside a safe cocoon on a harmless lark."

     "Maybe not so harmless," Wil mused.

     "No," Finch agreed. "For example, in Ambler's 1959 Passage of Arms, an Indian boy finds a cache of weapons he hopes to sell, to finance a bus line he dreams of running as an entrepreneur. An American gets involved in the transaction to pick up a fee and experience a thrill. By the end of the novel he's trapped in a building sacked by British soldiers who throw a grenade into each room before entering with machine gun fire to mop up. Pushed ahead of the purge, he ends up on the roof."

     "I suppose every step of the way it seemed like a reasonable extension of whatever came before," Wil considered. "Did he have any choice?"

     "We often lose choices after we get involved," Finch observed. "If nothing else, we can't choose to unlearn hard lessons bought at dear prices."

     Wil cleared his throat. "You're preaching to the choir. Maybe you can set Eli on this line of inquiry, so he doesn't get himself in too much trouble."

     "All of you are in up to your eyeballs," Finch warned. "You can thank Zé for that, or Flywheel, since having Trippers associate you with him isn't a good move when you write fiction about time travel. A Chthon debriefing is seldom without traumatic impact."

war zone «

     "Why didn't you just whip off your glasses and let Zé have it?" Wil asked. "Tell him not to involve Flywheel in his stories? Was that too easy? Or did you have another reason to join our project?"

     "I tried that," Finch sighed. "Paradox got out of hand: he didn't write the same stories—not enough anyway, and things changed too much. I had to undo it. Flywheel and his stories are entangled now, going forward."

     "So what? Does he invent the flux capacitor, or something?" Wil doubted. "You said time was non-deterministic: change doesn't alter the future. But now you say some changes do. Which is it?"

     "Good question," Finch said. "But hard to answer. You know how light is like waves and particles, both?"

     "Oh, Jesus," Wil slumped. "Quantum theory?"

     "No, just as metaphor," Finch corrected. "More than one plausible theory makes sense, but none is complete. Empirically we find local consistency only. In a local time context, cause and effect is consistent—except for folks like you and me—but frames of reference far apart can see multiple inconsistent outcomes."

     "Riiiight," Wil digested this. "The upshot is ...?"

     "Know about multiple world theory?" Finch asked. "Like parallel universes? Differing variations?"

     "Yes," Wil assured. "Jump to the end for me."

     Finch held up her hands to frame this explanation. The sunset gave her an eerie color, fixing this moment in Wil's mind. Later, after hearing Zé tell his story about Red and Alley Oop, Wil recalled this moment to see if Finch had any idea. Apparently not.

     Finch explained slowly and carefully: "You know two science fiction templates about time: one with a single consistent time line rejecting paradox, and a second template with N totally independent parallel time lines. But in fact, both of these are true in some distribution across observer frames—hard to map—and it changes all the time, like a voting effect among time lines tipping toward a consistent view. Without traveling in time you can only see it by finding two variations of history that can't both be true, and yet they are anyway. Nature abhors a paradox, but it happens anyway—some of the time—and you can't predict when."

     "Gee, so all the operating systems for time suck?" Wil translated. "Is it a free-for-all?"

     Finch sighed. "Things are generally stable on small scales, but in flux on large scales," she said. "It's easy to trip far, but very hard to trip near: it conflicts with local consistency. As you guessed, there's a war. Of sorts. It's not that organized. Can you guess main sides?"

     "Static Chthon vs dynamic Thule?" Wil guessed.

     "Oh, you're good," Finch smiled. "But there's a lot of dynamic camps. Thule is just the best one."

     "Crap, it looks like we're here," Wil pulled up in front of Vintage Season. "I was just going to ask if you're human. What are you?"

     "An agent never tells," Finch teased. "Okay. If you ignore provisos I don't have time to cover, you would say the answer is yes. Unless I'm lying."

     "There's always that," Wil rolled his eyes.

     "It's my lucky day," Finch said suddenly, looking at the park next to Vintage Season. "I've been looking for that scumbag. Wanna see me tree a journalist?"

     Wil trailed in Finch's wake. "You aren't going to hurt him are you?" he asked tentatively.

     "Only his pride," Finch smiled over her shoulder. "A week ago he ripped Miss Morlock a new one. Little prick's been on my list."

     Wil worried until he saw her target: Ron Toss, who once wrote about Wil's last startup—stupidly. Ron wrote a vicious column called Tossing Out the Trash. Toss was sometimes called The Defenestrator, which made him sound bigger than he was.

     Toss saw them coming: he put on a casual sneer. A girl sitting at his table drank coffee, but Finch tipped her sunglasses down to look at the girl and hooked her thumb, saying, "Restroom." Then Finch put her glasses back up to confront Toss.

     "I wondered when you'd show up," Toss smiled with a trace of venom. "A rumor said Morlock had Agent Finch for muscle lately. Morlock should do her own dirty work. Were you two sorority sisters?"

     Finch stood over Toss, who sprawled fearlessly in his chair. Wil was afraid Finch might kick the chair out from under Toss. "Apologize, Ron," she said.

     "Bite me," Toss smirked.

     "Take it easy on him," Wil urged.

     "Who's your sidekick?" Toss turned to Wil. "It looks like Bicycle Boy! Where's your bike?"

     "He's all yours," Wil told Finch, stepping aside.

     Finch took off her sunglasses and Toss looked like he was bitten and wanted to tell Finch, locked on her eyes. "Can you meow like a cat for me?" she asked.

     "Meow," Toss did a passable cat impression. But he looked somewhat puzzled.

     "More like a kitten," Finch suggested. "Plaintive."

     Toss mewed with vigor.

     "Perfect," Finch told him. "Keep doing that after I help you up in this tree. Make sure you stay loud enough to call for help. Don't answer questions, and climb higher when they try to get you down. But don't go so high it isn't safe. Wait until firemen come and get you."

     "Why do I have to do this?" Toss wondered.

     "And we weren't here," Finch added. "You don't remember us. Okay, let's get you up in this tree. I'll give you a leg up."

     Finch put on her sunglasses, then went inside and told Ollie to call the fire department.

     "That was mean," Wil said, smiling.

     "Somebody's gotta do it," Finch said and walked across the street to Wil's apartment. "Maybe Mr. Incredible will come by and shake him down."

trust «

     Wil stopped in the stairwell. "I trust you enough to wear an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on my back," Wil turned and told Finch. "You need to trust me too, or this isn't going to work. What do you say?"

     "The horn's not a nuclear accelerator," Finch smiled. "Just a nano feed with compiler. A geiger counter will assure you nothing is radioactive: no ionizing radiation. What's the problem?"

     "I did sweat that a little," Wil admitted. Then he held out the card Finch gave him, whose frozen image still showed Ivy's face. "Make this work as long as I'm handling it. Let me decide who to show it, and when to use it. I know about risks now."

     Finch sighed, but took the card anyway and rapidly adjusted something. "There you go," she said while handing it back. She crossed her arms.

     "That was too easy," Wil said. He was distracted by how clearly he saw everything: this part of the building was dark after sunset. Either his night vision was now awesome, or his new wrap-around glasses were.

     "I need to let you make mistakes," Finch shrugged, dropping her arms. "Now you know it's your skin, and your friends too. I hope you keep it in mind."

     Wil exhaled deeply, then pulled out his airgun, pointing it down. "If an assassin tries to take me out, should I give him a tiny welt? Does it only shoot pellets?"

     "We went over most of the protocol this afternoon," Finch reminded. "Later I'll give you a gun with more scope. But yeah, this one is adaptable. Sure you're ready? After I show you a lethal mode, don't get confused. Inside I'll take sudden shots at you with pellets to keep you on your toes. If you return fire with something else, I'll be peeved even if we rewind."

     "Yeah, I'm ready. Heck, I'm scared," Wil said.

     "Good," Finch raised an eyebrow. "You should be. Why here on the stairs instead of your apartment?"

     "I think Eli's in there," Wil looked puzzled. "I must have seen him through a window."

     "Very good," Finch nodded. Then she gave him a five minute tour of basic gun settings. Every non-toy mode gave several redundant signs, including a distinct color code in Wil's glasses.

     "Do you care what I tell the others?" Wil asked.

     "I care, but it's up to you," Finch said. "Just bear two things in mind. One: you don't want to sound crazy. And two: you're responsible for their safety."

     "Must I keep these glasses on?" Wil whined.

     "You have to face it sooner or later," Finch said.

     "They'll think I'm a gargoyle," Wil agonized. "God, I'm starved. I need a sandwich."

darts «

     Eli didn't recognize Wil for several seconds and almost asked who he was. It wasn't any single thing, just too many odd details at once.

     "Holy crap," Eli blurted. "What happened to you?"

     Finch went directly to Wil's kitchen after waving to Eli, which seemed unusual for some reason.

     "It's a long story ...," Wil started, then yelped, spastically dodging something. He cast a shocked look at the kitchen, whence a sharp hiss had just issued like an airgun coughing explosively. A tiny object richoceted and bounced around behind Wil.

     Wil gave Eli a strained look, trying to keep an eye on the kitchen, as if he half expected Finch to rush him with a carving knife. "Damn, Finch," Wil muttered.

     "Relax Wil, I'll make you a sandwich," Finch called.

     "Impossible," Wil said to Eli. "Finch never served anyone in her life."

     "Farmboy," Finch called. "Fetch me this pitcher?"

     "Hell no," Wil laughed. "Get it yourself. I don't even own a pitcher ... crazy woman."

     "What have you two been doing?" Eli interrupted. "Are you sick, Wil? You have dots on your skin."

     "I shot him with a pellet gun," Finch explained. "Which explains the glasses too, almost."

     "You're thinner, Wil," Eli said. "Since last night. And you look younger: late 30's, tops. This is freaky."

     Finch exited the kitchen with a thick sandwich wrapped in pastic. She tossed to Wil and—as Wil raised hands to catch—she drew and fired her airgun three times, very quickly, pellets bouncing off Wil's helmet and chest. Wil didn't bother dodging since it didn't hurt.

     Eli watched with his mouth open, tracking Finch carefully in case she went for him too.

     "He's on his way back to 25, actually," Finch told Eli with a smile accompanying this absurdity. "We're just having fun. I have another outfit like Wil's made specially for you, if you want a turn with the airgun."

     Wil already had a big mouthful of turkey and cheese, but complained anyway: "Leave him alone."

     "I think he'd be safer wearing a dragon skin uniform like yours," Finch explained. "If he gets shot."

     "Yeah," Wil nodded. "I didn't think. Sure."

     "Wil, you kinda look like an over-age bicycle cop," Eli judged critically with a leery tone.

     Wil closed his eyes for a count of three, sighing. "Thanks, Eli," he said with false cheer.

     "Yours isn't a stodgy midnight blue," Finch told Eli. "More of a dark red—check it out, it's on Wil's bed." She nodded at the bedroom.

     "Awww," Wil objected. "Why does he get red?"

     "You goofballs," Eli shook his head on the way to the bedroom in obvious interest.

     Tracking Eli's exit, Finch walked directly to Wil's dartboard at one end of the room and grabbed a set of three darts with long sharp points.

     "Oh fuck," Wil blurted, preparing to dodge.

     Finch paused with one dart poised to throw. "Wil, you need to find out how that armor handles sharp objects. If you don't like how this goes, just back it out again, okay? Here's one for your solar plexus."

     Finch's windup and pitch was sudden. It came in like a thunderbolt. Wil's time sense goosed, slowing the dart from 90 mph to a speed he could follow. Her aim was perfect: just under his breastbone.

     The impact was impressive, and it hurt, but the point didn't penetrate. The tip blunted in slow motion.

     "Don't try to catch these, Wil," Finch said. "You're not up to it yet. Use something to block."

     In rapid succession Finch snapped both darts, one for his nose and the other for his crotch.

     Wil already had a good trade edition paperback novel in one hand, gripped very firmly so he wouldn't lose it. Sweeping darts up with the book was surprisingly easy, but the points buried themselves deeply.

     "You know, I'm trying to eat," Wil reminded.

     Eli returned with armor half assembled, asking for help. Finch showed him how it worked.

     Wil's cellphone rang and he fished it out. "You running late, Zé?" he asked. "Find a new jacket?"

     "Yeah," Zé said. "But something really weird happened. I have footage to show you, but I think you owe me ... oh, around a hundred bucks."

     "That weird, huh?" Wil was impressed. "Something weird happened to me, too."

     "Not as weird as this," Zé laughed. "Finch there? I need to see her as soon as possible."

     "She's right here," Wil replied, catching Finch's eye. "I don't think she's going anywhere."

     "I have something interesting," Zé continued. "I want you to look at it and see if you have any ideas. Finch needs to see it too, after I ask some questions. In the meantime, keep your eye out for strangers who stick out like they don't belong, because maybe they don't. Obey gut reactions and keep your distance."

     "Uh, oh," Wil said, imagining ninjas in black, fearing the worst. "Are you okay?"

     "Yeah, just shook up," Zé said. "See ya soon."

     "Bye," Wil hung up. Emergency vehicle lights outside caught his eye, over at Vintage Season.

     "Something's happening next to the coffee shop," Eli said, standing at the window. "Fire engine, but no one's running. Someone have a problem?"

     "Probably just a cat in a tree," Finch said.

     "I don't think so," Eli shot her a look.

     "I have a writing assignment for you," Finch told Eli. "I think it's right up your alley. Since you're interested in Miss Morlock, you should do a little research and see how she affects other people."

     "Tomorrow," Eli pleaded. "Right now I want to shoot Wil. Where's my gun?"

     "Helmet too," Finch insisted, helping Eli manage. "Find out what happens to journalists who investigate Morlock too closely. At the same time, ask about folks who claim to know Morlock personally, as friends."

     Wil studied Finch with a thoughtful gaze, finishing off his sandwich, brushing crumbs around.

     "If you know already, just tell me," Eli proposed.

     "Too easy," Finch shook her head no. "But there's an important rule: describe yourself as neither—do not pose as a journalist or friend of Morlock. Keep a low profile, like you're not on a mission."

     "Gun," Eli held out his hand, flexing fingers.

     "Glasses," Finch held out another pair of nearly clear wrap-around glasses, just like Wil's. "Can't have you putting eyes out."

     "I get a pair of my own?" Eli considered, then turned to Wil. "You know, when I saw you wearing those just now, I thought you'd sold out, like Finch co-opted you somehow. Is that crazy or what?"

     "What," Wil chose, looking aside in thought.

     "See if you can wear them a day or two, and let me know what you think, okay?" Finch requested.

     "Depends on what Ann thinks," Eli shrugged.

     "Hey, how'd your date go last night?" Wil asked, having trouble believing it was only last night.

     Eli gave a cool thumbs up and cheesy grin.

     "I'm sure she'll just love them," Finch said.

     Finch's Blackberry rang. Before she answered, Wil objected, saying, "Don't pretend you actually use that Blackberry for calls. Loosen up."

     "Okay," Finch smiled, then made a Y with her right hand, sticking out pinkie and thumb, then held them up to her mouth and ear. "Hello," she said, then listened a moment. "Are you serious? He wants one of those little bots? He thinks it's a toy, doesn't he?"

     Wil looked a puzzled question at her.

     "I can go get one right now," Finch continued, then looked at Wil with a speculative air. "In fact, I have a use for one now, as a training remote. 'Kay, bye."

     "I'll be right back," Finch told Wil and Eli. "I shouldn't be more than a few minutes. Go ahead and play war games. Wil, don't scare Eli too much."

     "Think I'm scared of him?" Eli was incredulous.

zoetrope «

     As he drove back, Zé called up Red's face and studied it carefully, stopping short of a full bore alternate reality visit. Daydreaming on the road was bad enough without leaving the car completely. But he wanted to talk to her again. If only she hadn't worn sunglasses. She seemed familiar, like someone he had known long ago, but forgotten.

     The sensation was was catnip to Zé, like nostalgia for an age that never existed.

     Extremely fine gold lines gleamed faintly on his right ring finger in the car's dark interior. At the next stoplight Zé reached in a tray by the gear shift and found an old ring shaped like a snake devouring its own tail: an image of Ouroboros in steel; he couldn't find one in silver, so this had to do.

     For comparison Zé put on the snake ring too, and when it touched the gold ring, the two clicked together as if attracted by magnetism. He could pull them apart, but they attracted one another. The gold ring couldn't have any magnetic alloy, could it?

     The double ring was surprisingly comfortable, so he left the snake in place when the light turned green. If Zé had watched long enough in good light, a change would have been visible soon: the snake ring was slowly being eaten where it touched the gold ring, at a steady but miniscule pace.

     Ulf gargled mouthwash then studied himself in the mirror after spitting. He parted his hair again and studied his roots. Sure enough, it was growing in dark again, everywhere. It wasn't his imagination. Can anything at all cause that to happen?

     Ulf bared his teeth in imitation of Jim Carey in The Mask, which he just watched last night, rendering his verdict with a shake of his head: "Smokin'!"

     He used to hate comedies, but now he had an appetite. Jim Carey was hilarious, so why had Ulf always hated him before? So far he refused to admit it might be related to his late outbursts of sarcasm at work—no, actually all the time—because that would hint at some ... neurological basis.

     A trip to the doctor might be in order. But then he'd have to include the dreams as a symptom, too. Ulf could already hear his doctor's voice: We need more tests, but there's nothing to worry about, Mr. Varg, so no need to put affairs in order.

     More than anything else, it was a growing sense of knowing what might happen that scared him: it meant his brain was acting up big time. It felt like having a word on the tip of his tongue. Only instead of a word, it was a glimpse ahead. When he recognized things he foresaw, Ulf knew it was just circuits in his brain firing wrong, making him think it was recognition.

     Ulf grabbed his keys and headed to Wil's.

     For ten minutes Eli and Wil ran around the living room, firing at each other with wild abandon, like Neo and Agent Smith in the subway scene of The Matrix. Or at least, that's what Eli imagined. So far they hadn't broken as many things as you'd expect. Wil had disturbingly fast reflexes, and Eli suspected he was pulling his punches.

     When Eli stopped for water, Wil grabbed a set of three darts and stood six feet away from his dartboard in the main room. Eli watched Wil compose himself, slowly take aim, then let the first dart fly. It was a bullseye, so Eli applauded.

     Wil looked at Eli with a keen expression. "How many times did I throw that dart?" he asked.

     "Just once," Eli tried not to laugh. "Is that your impression of a schizo? Get a grip man."

     "Had to check—watch this," Wil smiled. Then he put the next two darts in the center as well, crowding the bullseye. Eli clapped and hooted.

     "Crap," Wil said in dawning realization. "This isn't going to be fun anymore. I guess I could make it harder. Hey Eli, watch this."

     Wil gathered the darts and crossed the room, getting as far from his dartboard as he could—about twenty feet or so—then with great care, threw the first dart across the room into the bullseye again.

     "Damn, Wil," Eli praised. "Whatever you're doing, it's not fair. And you're being a bit of a show off."

     Wil flushed slightly red. "Sorry, I was studying a skill. Didn't mean to demand attention. How do you like your armor? I think it's bullet proof."

     "It's great: comfortable," Eli grinned. "But it couldn't be bullet proof—it's not strong enough."

     "I'll look into it," Wil promised. "So far I'm only certain it turns a steel dart, and then only when it hits a point right below my breast bone. Not enough data."

     "So you know at least one sheep is black—on at least one side?" Eli joked.

     "Yeah," Wil smiled. "Hey, I have a polaroid I want to show you. It has a Youtube video inside."

     Finch skipped models firing depleted uranium because a little aerosolized dust can haunt you a long time. You get fine tradeoffs in mass, energy, and wind resistance in other forms, too, when all you care about is getting business done. She picked her favorite: good rate of fire, but not a gatling gun to conserve ammo.

     Flywheel chose overkill when he could, but Finch loved the art of using exactly the right amount of force.

     After enabling the bot, Finch ran it through tests before arming it with different magazines and extra spares. It's battery was already full, but she inserted an extra the size of a thimble as a backup—it had energy density less spectacular than models for long lived purposes, but could release it very rapidly without high loss.

     Since Wil needed them, Finch pulled two top grade guns she liked the most: one passed for contemporary, but the other was a match for a piece she pulled on Marco and Tyler some months ago, useful for intimidation when you wanted to signal you weren't fooling around.

     It was conceivable either Eli or Zé might use one in a pinch, if things went pear-shaped, so she grabbed another just in case. Then after a moment of thought, Finch smiled and grabbed a couple more surprises.

     The last burden was heaviest, but Finch hefted the saddlebags over one shoulder without strain. Heavy coins shifted and clinked inside as she settled it in place. She had two main reasons to fetch it now, only one of which she planned to tell Wil. The secret reason: to defuse criticism and make it harder for them to think, especially Ulf, who dreamed of nothing more than riches. While this wasn't a lot, it was more than enough to serve its purpose.

     Officially, Finch's reason to bring it to Wil was ordinary financial concern. As soon as Wil believed he was getting younger, he was going to ask himself what would happen if he went to work aged only 25, instead of 45. Obviously, he was going to lose his job, unless he convinced his company he was really Wil. And if he did that, all hell would break loose, culturally speaking.

     But the money aspect was just a red herring. Even worse might be Wil's realization there was no point in going to work. Long nurtured habits die hard.

     Ulf stepped through Wil's front door and froze when he found Eli pointing a toy gun at his chest while decked out in this absurd costume complete with streamlined future bike helmet and wrap around glasses.

     "Freeze earthling!" Eli commanded in a voice clearly copied from something he heard in a movie. Eli's big smile slowly faded, as if he had expected a satisfying yelp from his father. (But Eli thought Ulf acted like he half expected it—which was impossible because Ulf never expected anything, making him so fun to tease.)

     Wil waved from the sofa. Ulf groaned when he saw his matching costume; but Wil's was a deep blue in contrast to Eli's very dark red. Still, they looked like refugees from some red versus blue game, like a couple online dorks hell bent on playing laser tag like it had anything to do with the real world.

     "What are you guys doing?" Ulf asked.

     "Watching future home videos on a polaroid photo," Eli joked with glance over his shoulder at Wil.

     "Whatever," Ulf rolled his eyes. Then he looked at the floor to see what had caught his eye.

     "We're watching Zé and Wil's Excellent Adventure," Eli prosecuted his jest even further. "You're not going to believe this, Dad. It's amazing."

     "What are you looking for?" Wil asked Ulf.

     Ulf smiled apologetically. "I thought I saw a gold coin roll across the floor," he explained. Then he smiled, "You didn't rob a payroll train, did you?"

     "Just a glitch in the matrix," Eli smiled gleefully.

     Ulf studied Eli's gun, deciding it was more real than he first thought. "What does that shoot?" he asked Eli.

     "Pellets. You should try it," Eli urged. Then he grinned impishly and suggested, "In fact, I dare you to try facing off with Wil in a fast draw contest."

     "That's not a good idea," Wil told Eli. But Ulf heard an undertone he didn't like: mercy on an old man.

     "Gimme that gun," Ulf held out his hand for Eli's weapon. Eli surrendered it gladly. Ulf glared at Wil, saying, "I've seen Dirty Harry a dozen times."

     "You better empty your bladder first," Eli warned.

     "You insolent snot!" Ulf returned. "I'm saving up my piss to put out a building fire later tonight."

     Eli faltered in surprise. "Your sense of humor is a lot better," he noted. "Are you okay?"

     Entering the brightly lit foyer of Wil's building, Zé glanced at the two rings on his right hand again. He stopped in his tracks, raising his hand close to his eye.

     The Ouroboros ring was half gone. The gold ring nestled inside it where they touched.

     They still separated when Zé pulled on the snake ring, but clicked together magnetically when he let go. He went close to a light and studied the rings and his skin, looking for ... for tiny steel bits of grit he expected to see if the gold ring was wearing the other away.

     Nothing. All was squeaky clean. Whatever happened to the steel ring, there was no sign of it.

     A tiny panic hit him, but he squelched it: No harm, no foul, right? It just meant the ring was a marvel, not just a trinket from a Cracker Jack box.

     Zé bounced up the steps to show Wil before it was gone. He flew up three stairs at at time, reaching Wil's floor without any loss of breath.

     Kip has another picture of Finch, he's sure of it. But match is poor—low confidence because detail is lacking: the image is just too small even though it was taken using a telephoto lens. It shows a woman with dark hair in a snood wearing blue jeans and sunglasses, studying a position on the grassy knoll of Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas in 1963. It's one of many random photos in a large collection related to the Kennedy assassination.

     Her dimensions match Finch's as closely as Kip can measure. It might convince no one but Kip, but he doesn't think blue jeans were common in 1963—not in Texas. This part alone looks wrong. Anachronisms are circumstantial evidence as far as Kip is concerned. His amusing theory to explain Finch's presence at Woodstock in 1969 is plainly nonsense, but he stopped letting preconceptions throttle his theory creation long ago.

     Camera feeds from Wil's place have been very engaging today since Wil and Finch returned after sunset. Eli's right: Wil looks different; Kip might quantify it with software later. Watching Wil outdraw Ulf is a thigh-slapper: When Kip replays it in slow motion, Wil finishes aiming before Ulf even gets his hand close to his gun. Kip wishes Wil fired instead of stopping when Ulf faltered. Ulf's attack of nervous humor afterward isn't nearly as fun, but it's better than nothing.

     Zé enters and nears a camera, looking at Kip through the lens. Kip bumps the sound as Zé says, "Zé to Kip. Testing, one, two, three. Please respond."

     Kip hates when Zé breaks the illusion of anonymous surveillance. Reluctantly Kip flips a switch and says, "Kip to Zé. Proceed with operation Full Disclosure."

     "Just wanted to know if you were there," Zé replies. "I can only try. So, as you were, Colonel Kip."

     Kip snaps off the switch and fumes.

     "Do you always converse with appliances first after you enter?" Wil asked Zé.

     "Special circumstances," Zé turned to Wil, then stared. "You used to be a little older than me."

     "I thought you'd want to talk about my cool toys first," Wil held out his arms. "Nano tech dragon skin."

     This was the tone of voice Wil used to pretend he was joking when he really wasn't.

     "No shit?" Zé raised his eyebrows and went over to check his email. The message from Kip with Finch's picture at Woodstock in 1969 should be there.

     "Yeah, part of my weird story," Wil nodded.

     "Here's part of my weird tale," Zé held out his right hand so Wil could see the gold ring and what remained of the steel Ouroboros ring.

     Wil could see incredibly thin glowing lines flow in the gold ring. His glasses also highlighted the ring with a strange outline, like a warning. Wil leaned in closer to get a good look. Finch's voice sounded tiny in his ear: the glasses or the helmet were wired for voice.

     "Don't touch the ring, Wil," Finch said.

     "Crap, I knew you were bugging me," Wil sighed.

     "I'll be there in two minutes," Finch promised. "Just don't touch it. Basic virus hygiene."

     "Who are you talking to?" Zé asked.

     "Wait, there's a joke in here if I can find it," Wil stood up straight again as Zé brought up his email. "A little bird told me not to touch your ring."

     "Finch?" Zé asked. "Those look like a clear pair of her wrap-around glasses."

     A picture of Finch came up in Zé's email agent, along with a link to a source web page with other Woodstock pictures taken in 1969 during and after the concert. Kip's description was accurate: it was definitely Finch and some of those guys looked like Hells Angels.

     "Yeah, a gift from Finch," Wil confirmed. "If I had to guess, I'd say she can see everything I see."

     "Speak into the flower vase so I can hear you clearly?" Zé asked. "Kip told me about this picture right after I left Flywheel's office. It's Finch at Woodstock."

     "I'll be darned," Wil said. "That actually makes me feel better. But it's not nearly enough confirmation."

     Ulf stood behind Zé looking at Finch's picture. "I was just a kid during Woodstock," Ulf said quietly. "Bring up some of those other images. Maybe it's fake."

     "Isn't that your Ouroboros ring, Zé?" Wil asked. "It's two thirds gone, though. Does that mean ..."

     "Yeah," Zé nodded. "The gold ring is eating it."

payday «

     Finch returned with a heavy load, making two trips from the hallway. First she carried in a model of some kind of low-slung robot standing knee high when she set it down, making Zé cheer like it was Christmas. Ignoring questions, she stepped back out.

     The second load consisted of saddlebags making the floor creak when Finch set them down. How did Finch get all this upstairs? The saddlebags hit the floor heavily like bricks, slumping over with clinking sounds.

     A single bright coin fell out and rolled on its edge across the floor, giving Ulf a case of déja vù. Eli leaned over and caught it as it rolled while Finch went for a camera and controls to turn them off.

     "I know you can hear me, Kip," Finch told the camera. "I need you here—don't make me come get you. You have till morning, then I'll be mad. Yes, it's me in the photo. But tell no one or I shall be put out."

     As Finch shut down the cameras and pulled their wires, Ulf approached the saddlebags and tried to move them, but they didn't budge. Ulf peeked inside and stared.

     Eli showed Wil the big coin he picked up. "It's gold," he said. "Dated 1857. The bag must be full of them."

     "It's a $20 gold piece," Wil said. "They're called double eagles. Worth, oh, a thousand bucks apiece now."

     "I went to heaven," Ulf closed his eyes, smiling.

     "Those bags are filled with gold," Finch smiled. "Over a thousand double eagles—say twelve hundred."

     "You robbed a payroll train?" Wil guessed.

     "No, I robbed guys who robbed the train," Finch said. "I sorted them out, then indemnified Wells Fargo in diamonds: they weigh less."

     "That's what I always say," Zé chimed. "Diamonds are so much easier to transport."

     "I robbed a train before lunch," Ulf claimed. "What's the big deal? I just left my booty home."

     "That's a lot of gold coins," Wil mused.

     Eli had a nervous look. "When you say sorted them out, what do you mean by that?" he asked.

     "Not everyone who does a bad thing is a bad person," Finch explained. "So I had to check."

     "When you sort good and bad people, you put them in different piles," Ulf told Eli with a grin.

     "What year was the robbery?" Zé asked, then pointed at Finch's picture, still on the monitor. "You told Kip you were at Woodstock? In 1969? Really?"

     "Yeah, I had something to do there," Finch confirmed. "I didn't go to Woodstock for the concert specifically, other than making sure it turned out okay."

     "Honey, I need to drop by 1969 and pick up some milk. Do you want me to get you anything?" Ulf asked.

     "Dad, why don't you count the gold in the bags and let Finch talk for a while?" Eli urged. Eli shrugged and joined Wil, who was simply watching, happy to let Zé draw Finch out further—if he could.

     "What needed doing in 1969?" Zé asked.

     "Know how many people attended Woodstock?" Finch asked. "About half a million. Do you know what happens when a riot happens in large crowds?"

     "Don't bad situations require a tight place for crowds to squeeze themselves?" Wil asked doubtfully.

     "Compressive asphyxiation," Finch nodded. "Either by piling up in layers, or getting crushed vertically against walls or rails. With enough pressure, people simply can't breathe. Panic and the wrong direction does it."

     "I thought almost no one died at Woodstock," Zé looked at Wil. "Maybe a couple accidents?"

     "157 people died at Woodstock the first time," Finch said. "They crushed down the hill into the bandstand corner. It was called the Woodstock disaster."

     "I stopped a volcano from erupting before breakfast," Ulf laughed. "All it took was a few icebergs I flew down from the icecap. But do I get credit for things that didn't happen? No, you rest secure in ignorance."

     "Did Falk do something to Ulf?" Wil asked Finch.

     Finch nodded. "When some older patients get their sense of humor fixed, they try to make up for lost time," she said. "Sarcasm is typical."

     "Let's do one story at a time, okay?" Zé begged.

     "What if that's his sense of humor?" Eli worried.

     "Sorry," Wil said. "Did you change the outcome at Woodstock somehow? And more to the point, why didn't Chthon stop you? Hold on a minute, Zé."

     "The riot was widely considered unstoppable," Finch smiled grimly. "The cause was too complex to stop, and if someone did stop it, a riot would be easy to induce on purpose with agents to make history come out correctly, if really necessary."

     "So you not only had to stop the riot, but also the agents who showed up later?" Wil asked.

     "Yeah," Finch said casually. "No one from Thule got anywhere before. It was thought hopeless."

     "I want some of whatever she had," Ulf said.

     "Shut up," Zé told Ulf without heat. "Thule?"

     "I've been told—in the vaguest possible terms—that Finch might be from a place called Thule," Wil explained. "It's like a codename for something she won't talk about. So Thule is a somewhen, not a somewhere. Finch winces when I talk about time travel."

     Finch winced. "If you keep saying that, this talk is going to be frustratingly brief," she threatened.

     Wil spread his hands to say: see what I mean.

     "The opportunities for comedy are endless," Ulf pleaded. "Please, I need to go on a riff."

     "Try to hold it dad," Eli said. "You can save it up and put out a burning audience later."

     "There's something funny bubbling up, though," Ulf said. "Something from ... Saturday Night Live."

     "I already did that one," Wil told him. "So it's stale now. You can take another shot later."

     Zé clapped his hands. "Silence!" he ordered. "How far away is this Thule, approximately?"

     Finch looked at Wil, who shrugged and made a keep going gesture repeatedly with one hand.

     "Way the hell out there?" Zé translated. "Like, we have all the answers, super science type out there?"

     "How am I supposed to figure that out empirically?" Wil asked in chagrin. "What can I test?"

     "You can go for a visit," Zé suggested. But Finch shook her head decisively.

     "Aren't these wild premises to take for granted?" Eli asked Zé. "You haven't even seen the photo yet."

     "You showed him," Finch glared at Wil.

     "Going to pretend you didn't know that already?" Wil accused. "You watched through these glasses."

     "So when is the gold from?" Zé asked again.

     "1870," Finch said. "You won't find any mint marks after that date. There's a lot more."

     "More gold?" Ulf asked, like it was ice cream.

     "We're gonna be in a world of trouble, aren't we?" Zé realized. "First we get told the good news: at least there's lots of gold. Then comes the bad news."

     "Actually there's more good news," Wil said, but that just made Zé look even more worried.

     "I know what it is," Ulf looked up in wonder. "The predators are going to come for us, aren't they? Every eco system has them. Time wolves want to eat us."

     "Every eco system has lots of things," Finch said. "You can find an analog for anything you consider. Khronos giveth and Khronos taketh away."

     "Time travel fatalism from Thule," Ulf sniffed.

grand canal «

     Eli loved the water, whose color under a bright sunlit sky had slightly unreal greenish tones over royal blue. Here in the middle of the canal it was very quiet: the city seemed deserted. In this silence Eli could listen to the breeze and the oar dipping into the water as Zé played gondolier. The smell was very refreshing.

     Zé said the real Venice wasn’t nearly as clean as this one, but a stink didn’t have the right ambiance until you hit places in back canals. Faith to reality blocked themes Zé wanted to explore, so colors were richer, treasures larger, villains trickier, and allies worthy of friendship. So far, only Eli’s past experience in other games supported the hypothesis none of this was real. But Eli suspected this world had a pervasive emotional undertone the same way movies had sound tracks: a subtext of wistful longing. If dreams of youth fled, this is where they would go.

     Eli turned away from the view of the palaces on the canal to study Wil, who sprawled peaceably on the other side of the gondola, napping or meditating to savor this contrast with action to come once they started an opening scenario. Wil wore dragon skin nano armor, but a sort subdued in design and color—washed out tones blending well in many contexts, in a style avoiding fashion of any time period. Wil’s neck, arms, and legs were tanned and sunburned, heavy with muscle. Wil had a short Vandyck beard wallowing in several days stubble and unkempt curly hair of medium length lightened by sun. A flexible helmet, modest and compact, folded over his belt. Wil’s clear wraparound glasses were stowed away in a pouch lined with fine copper wire mesh. Wil opened his eyes.

     Wil smiled and asked, “Ready for Venice 3.0?”

     He seemed about twenty four years old, give or take a year or two—still older than Eli, but only barely, because a scar across Eli’s eyebrow and nose aged him more than the two years since. Eli refused to have the scar fixed, to remind him of his loss. Zé accused Eli of nursing his pain; Wil had no comment. The scar paid dividends: folks checked Eli’s eyes for a spark of anger which waxed and waned according to context.

     “I still want a motorboat chase someday,” Eli said. “Zé owes me a James Bond canal chase.”

     “This is so much better,” Zé countered, then glanced at Eli. Zé drove the gondola onward without effort—he looked as young as Wil, but not as strong. Zé grinned and asked, “If I put a virtual Venice boat chase in the story I’m writing, does that pay off my debt in full?”

     “No!” Eli glared. “But I’ll accept a spectacular foot chase over roof tops and bridges today, provided the firefight is good and Wil doesn’t reduce legions of bad guys to quivering piles of injured flesh all by himself.”

     “Your wish is almost certainly granted,” Zé smiled knowingly. “Wil can’t save you in this one, and vice versa, though it does help to stick together.”

     “How’s the story coming so far?” Wil asked. “Eli said drafts were good. But he wants to revise the scene where Finch trees Ron Toss. Are you almost up to the present? Or still stuck back in my apartment?”

     “I’m about to start the scene where Finch studies my ring the night she brought the gold,” Zé said. “It’s going to be hard to convey just how surprised she was. And after her errors, how can a reader think she finally hit the right idea? Especially given how it sounded?”

     “Your ring still gives me the willies,” Eli said, pointing. It looked almost like it did the first night, just a bit larger and brighter, but its presence weighed on Eli now he had some idea what it was.

     “You went and said its name: now I have to edit your remark,” Zé chided. “I’ll say you said ‘your ring’ instead to keep the name for later. Not everything you heard about it is true. I still seem pretty normal, don’t I?”

     “Yeah, so far,” Eli granted. “Just don’t do anything spooky, like let your eyes glow and speak with a deep echoing voice. Then I’ll avoid thinking about it.”

     “He’s thinking of a Star Trek episode,” Wil told Zé, snapping his fingers. “In a second pilot, Where No Man Has Gone Before, crewman Gary Mitchell gets eerie powers from a visit to the energy barrier at the edge of the galaxy. His eyes get a silver glow.”

     “Those pesky energy barriers,” Zé shook his head at Wil. Zé smiled at Eli and said, “I can’t do any fancy shit like that, Eli. I’m still me, honest. And even if I could, actions speak loudest of all: I’m a good guy.”

     Eli cleared his throat. “Sure, but your games are bigger. And they keep running when you aren’t in them. Where is this place? Can it vanish while we’re inside, taking us wherever ended games go? And what will you be able to do in a few years?”

     Zé paused to think, running his eyes over mansions lining the canals. “You’re safe: these games are very stable,” he assured. “As for me, there’s probably a limit to how much you can learn and still make sense to others. I don’t know the future.”

     “You extrapolate a lot from nothing,” Wil told Eli, then went on to tease Zé. “Besides these games, so far all he’s done is write barely tolerable fiction. Of course, I’m skipping his conquest of the lava men.”

     “Why did you mention editing?” Eli asked. “Are you writing this into your story?”

     “Yes,” Zé nodded. “I have self referential parts since my project was to write stories. So far I haven’t included any written by you guys, but I will. After this scene I can tack on a fragment of yours, Eli. But, why does your tone veer to violent and/or overdone?”

     “Eli thinks subtlety is for wimps,” Wil said.

     “Maybe Hollywood movies ruined my sense of proportion. Next you’ll ask me to stop giving characters my scar,” Eli complained, pointing at his face. “It works: Everyone learns a lesson and gets a scar.”

     They arrived near Piazza San Marco on the seaward side of the plaza; Eli jumped out to tie a line. No human beings were in sight. The plaza was deserted of life except pigeons. Eli hefted his stuff and prepared to hike. The architecture was beautiful.

     “I suppose we have to figure out what happened to everybody,” Eli muttered.

     “Oh crap, what is that?” Wil asked. Eli looked where Wil pointed: on top of the Doge’s Palace, a man-sized creature with antenae waving slowly watched them silently. It looked like a humanoid crustacean—maybe a man-lobster or something.

     “Doesn’t look so tough to me,” Eli judged.

     “Those are just the beginning,” Zé smiled. “Your first run is in hero mode, so be careful where you shoot. There’s a big penalty for destroying things without need, and the place is filled with priceless artifacts.”

     “Can I peek inside without getting killed?” Eli asked, walking backwards toward the Doge’s Palace.

     “Sure,” Zé nodded. “I’ll see you when you’re ready for a break. Good luck figuring out the rules.”

     “I’ll be right there,” Wil told Eli. “I just want a word with Zé. Keep your weapons handy.”

     The two watched Eli head the way. “He’s grown up a lot,” Wil said. “Do I have long here before something comes up? Should I relax?”

     Zé smiled and his eyes silvered over just like Gary Mitchell in Star Trek. He replied in a space-filling voice, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

     “I heard that!” Eli shouted back playfully.

     Zé’s eyes returned to normal. “So many things are happening. But take time off. Don’t worry.”

     (edited by Eli)

     "It's my lucky day," Finch grinned savagely, looking at the park next to Vintage Season. "I've been looking for this scumbag. It's payback time."

     Wil followed Finch curiously. "You aren't going to ... hurt him are you?" he asked hesitantly.

     "Not as much as he deserves," Finch smiled over her shoulder. "A week ago he ripped Miss Morlock a new one. Now I can return the favor. Need a soundtrack? Tell your glasses to play Wrath of Miss Morlock."

     "Play Wrath of Miss Morlock?" Wil echoed. To his surprise a song started playing on his glasses. It sounded like The Crystal Method ... it was Trip Like I Do, but re-edited and ramped up a little; the lame girl's voice was missing. Now it just delivered driving base.

     ... (several paragraphs elided) ...

     Finch turned Ron around and grabbed his belt at the small of his back. Picking Ron up effortlessly, Finch spun in a circle, swinging Ron around like a track and field athlete winding up to throw a discus. At the height of his third orbit, Finch released Toss's belt, lofting Ron up into the tree where he scrabbled for purchase like a kitten.

     "Okay, now you're scaring me," Wil said.

title «

     Eli left the Doge’s Palace and headed back.

     “I see Eli prefers pale green nano armor,” Zé said quietly. “Dark red gives him bad memories?”

     “I think so,” Wil nodded. “Don’t even mention it unless you want him to rant. Well, time to go.”

     “What are you calling the story?” Eli asked Zé while approaching. “Find a title for it yet?”

     “Just candidates,” Zé shook his head. “It depends on nuances you mean to convey in titles. For example, science fiction tends to short titles.”

     “How about Nornfall?” Wil suggested.

     Zé rolled his eyes. “That sounds like a collaboration between Niven and Pournelle. Like you expect folks to say it in a movie trailer guy’s voice.”

     “You like Larry Niven?” Eli asked.

     “Sure, I read everything he writes,” Zé shrugged. “But half his collaborations are weak. I barely finished a couple recent novels.”

     “Zé reads everybody,” Wil told Eli. “If he loves one story, he reads the author’s entire oeuvre.”

     “How about Herbert’s Dune?” Eli asked.

     “Didn’t like that one,” Zé wrinkled his nose.

     “I have a good title for you,” Eli grinned. “You should call it Zé and Wil Get Pwned.”

     “Ouch,” Wil raised his eyebrows.

     “Or maybe Finch Does Silicon Valley,” Eli said.

     “Whoa,” Zé held up a hand. “I don’t need that kind of trouble. Try something real, okay?”

     “How about a 70’s or 80’s style cutesy title?” Wil asked. “I can just crank ’em out: Time Jukebox, Thule Attacks, Morlock Crossing, Cibola vs. Thule, or Future Vintages.”

     “Those are all horrible,” Zé looked queasy.

     “I like Bite My Shiny Metal Ass,” Eli urged. “You like funny fiction, don’t you?”

     “No, but it was funny when Meg said that,” Zé granted. “I can barely stomach comedy, except as comic relief in thrillers. In the Line of Fire for example—Clint Eastwood says, ‘I know things about pigeons, Lily.’ Some humor, but not too much.”

     “Well, if you won’t use my title, can I at least name a character?” Eli asked.

     “Who did you have in mind?” Zé asked.

     “Are you using the red-haired woman’s real name?” Eli asked. “The one who gave you your ring?”

     “Ah,” Zé shook his head. “No, she asked me not to use her name. What’s your idea?”

     “Ishtar,” Eli said. “You can shorten it to Ish.”

     Zé pursed his lips. “Hmm. Okay, that works. Yeah, that’s a good choice actually. Good job.”

     Eli glowed with a warm smile, making Wil nostalgic for old days when Eli always did this.

ishtar «

     Zé froze the video's playback when Red pulled the gun on him because chatter was getting loud. He looked at Finch: she stood with her arms crossed, nursing a sour but thoughtful expression.

     "Everyone shut up a second!" Zé took the floor. "There's more, but first I want to ask Finch: who is this? Another expat from Thule?"

     Finch seemed to toy with an idea of lying, but Wil and Zé studied her very closely. She finally sighed.

     "That's Ishtar," Finch said. "She's an independent. From Cibola originally, speaking loosely."

     "What's Cibola?" Eli asked Wil.

     "Pranksters," Wil said. "Or, I suppose agents with less than black and white purposes. She looks like a wildcard to me. Have you met her before, Finch?"

     "We dance in the same venues," Finch gnawed at her lip to convey a reluctant stance.

     "A nightclub called the 21st century?" Ulf asked.

     Finch looked at Ulf. "If you keep distracting me, I'm going to put you out," she warned lightly.

     "Let's finish my video before bickering," Zé suggested, then restarted the action.

     "Why did she pick you?" Ishtar asked with a smile and searching tone. "What can you do? Anything new? Some trick that didn't make it into the record? Show me, I won't tell anyone your secret."

     Wil shot a look at Finch, but she wasn't catching his eye right now. Maybe this was her usual shtick. Except Ishtar thinks Finch picked Zé for something. Maybe it's a paradox—did she pick him last time? The really big guy with Ishtar made Wil nervous. Should he assume retry is a rare talent? Suddenly Wil realized he was going to be in a really serious fight, sooner or later.

     Then Ishtar tossed something very small. Zé flinched but caught it anyway. "Ta," she said over her shoulder, now quickly walking the other way, having snapped a reverse while Zé caught the incoming present.

     "What did we get ourselves into?" Eli asked.

     "Another fine mess," Ulf sighed.

     "Let's call the big guy Jack," Zé suggested. "I don't suppose you know Alley Oop from comics, Eli?"

     Finch spoke as Eli shook his head. "Call him Fang if you want," she smiled. "That's not his name—I don't keep track."

     "A Phyllis Diller dig?" Wil asked. "That's catty. Ishtar isn't that old. It's just a goofy outfit."

     Zé held up his right hand to show Finch his gold ring, just now finishing off the Ouroboros ring. "Ishtar gave me this," he said. "I put another ring next to it, and now it's gone—consumed by this gold ring."

     "Maybe it was hungry," Finch smiled.

     "That has frightening ramifications," Zé mused.

     "You're in no danger," Finch dismissed with one hand. "Ish always gives you something. Sometimes a ring, like this one. They need more raw material."

     "I'm missing something very basic," Zé shook his head like a mosquito flew in his ear.

     "Nanotech?" Wil asked. "From Cibola?"

     "Nanotech," Finch nodded. "From somewhere. Ish gets her hands on all kinds of things."

     "Ish gave Zé a magic gold ring?" Eli asked.

     "Must. Mock. Ring ... references," Ulf said tightly with a growing smile. "I think Finch should throw it in a hot fire and see if a fiery inscription appears."

     Finch smiled. "Not that kind of ring," she said.

     "What do you mean she always gives me something?" Zé asked. "I never saw Ish before ... I think. When are the other times Ish gives me something?"

     Wil put his hands together and snarled his fingers in a wriggling ball. "Pretzel space time continuum."

     "We're gonna send you off to Mount Doom, where it was forged, to destroy it," Ulf told Zé with a manic smile. "You and your little furry halfling friends."

     "You're losing it, aren't you?" Finch asked Ulf.

     "Poor Zé is becoming a ringwraith," Ulf crooned. "Only Gandalf can save you now."

     Finch grabbed Ulf's arm and steered him toward Wil's sofa, taking off her glasses to say, "Take a nap now and dream about what's going to happen. When you wake up you'll have a better grip and control yourself."

     She had her glasses back in place before turning back. Eli, Wil, and Zé all stared. Ulf curled blissfully in in a ball on Wil's sofa, already fast asleep.

     "God damn," Eli said slowly.

     Wil put a hand on Eli's arm. "I've seen this," Wil said. "Ulf's fine. Seemed a good move to me."

     "K, did you ever use that flashy thingie on me?" Zé asked Finch with a smile.

     "No," Finch replied deadpan, then smiled.

     "We were about to address my incredulity over nanotech," Zé reminded. "But now I've had a few more seconds to digest that ... and I still have this intense need to call bullshit. How is that a simple hypothesis?"

     "What happened to your other ring?" Finch asked. "Hold on a second. I think I have an even better snack for your ring. I started compiling it when I saw you had it a while ago. Most of them know standard ring feed protocols."

     Finch raised a finger to say just a moment and headed for Wil's bedroom. Zé instantly turned to Wil and made a T with both hands to say timeout. Wil squinted then nodded.

     Wil and Z stood on a hill overhanging Ocean Beach, above the place where Z once lived. Their view down the beach was impeded only by light fog because here it was early afternoon, instead of evening like in Wil’s apartment. Z studied a remarkable diagram someone had drawn on the beach below them: a large scale artwork in sand depicting a geometric swirl. At this moment it suggested a ravenous time portal.

     “Crank time rate up as far as you can,” Wil urged. “I can match any speed you can do yourself.”

     “Done,” Z said with a faraway look as fog grew close, making the beach a mere ghost. Distant sound dampened to nothing. “I think I can do five or ten to one.”

     “So, what did you want?” Wil asked. “I’m lost too.”

     “A private word,” Z said. “Today Flywheel asked me how alternate reality is useful. I guess he doesn’t get the aspect of training for the unexpected. Later I realized it also gave me a private channel. Can Finch bug you here?”

     “Only you can tell me that,” Wil shrugged. “How cut off are we? Maybe I can think of a test later.”

     Wil winked suggestively and made a gesture with one hand carefully out of his own line of sight: a sole pinky finger extended. Oh, Z thought, if Finch is bugging us, we can’t describe a test. But Wil intends to cue me with his pinky later. Okay.

     “How well does she have you bugged?” Z asked.

     Wil turned and showed the mini horn in the harness on his back, and the line plugged into the port at his collar bone. Wil explained, “I’m given to understand this is loading me to the gills with nanites, or something they’re building. Finch brought Dr. Falk from Thule to work on me this afternoon. But I can’t verify any of this, except I’m getting abilities impossible to cause by suggestion alone. I may contain billions of bugs, but I’m turning into James Bond from the future, or something.”

     “Holy crap,” Z said. “Why would you let her fuck with you like that? Does it have anything to do with ... oh my god.”

     Wil nodded. “Yeah, it’s Ivy from the video in Finch’s magic polaroid,” he said. “You figured out who she is?”

     “You always look on the verge of tears when she appears in the video,” Z shrugged. “It would be hard to miss. And yeah, she’s your type, all the way. But this is your life.”

     Wil started crying. “If the video is true, Ivy was my life,” he said. “But Finch said she was killed six months ago, and I can help stop it from happening.” Wil braced himself and wiped his eyes under the glasses before continuing. “I’m going to find out if she’s real, and get her back if she is.”

     Z looked skeptical. “You mean, all you need to do is stage a time travel paradox rescue mission?” Z asked. “So, what makes you special forces material? They need coders?”

     “I have an ability even weirder than your alternate reality mojo,” Wil said. “It’s tactically very useful. I can back up time a short distance and try again. Finch treats me like a secret weapon of spectacular value, like she won the lottery.”

     “I think you hit your head pretty hard,” Z shook his head politely. “Did you suddenly forget how con games work? Once the mark starts counting his big score, he forgets how far his ass is hanging out. Are you falling for something so simple?”

     Wil glanced upward and gestured with both hands at the same time: pinky finger on the right, left index finger wagging back and forth to say no. He looked back down at Z and said, “I guess I just have to trust her. What about your ring? Going to trust you can wear it safely? Without becoming a ringwraith?”

     “We don’t have much time,” Z warned. “Finch just gave me another ring—I told her thanks. Wasn’t that just Ulf joking? How can a real ring make someone a ringwraith?”

     “Mites,” Wil said. “I think that’s where your snake ring went. I’ve been thinking about this nanotech thing. The horns used by Finch and Falk are kind of bulky. What if you spent a few millenia shrinking further? What’s an ultimate user interface?”

     “You think the ring makes nanites?” Z frowned. “Like a beneficial virus population? A ring-sized factory? There’s a limit to miniaturization, you know. Full stop after atoms.”

     “Time to go,” Wil said. Then he absently bumped the tip of his pinky against his palm as if thinking. “I’ll give you a sign if I want another timeout.”

     Finch went into Wil's bedroom and came back with another horn, hefting it like it weighed nothing, instead of something like forty pounds. After a small sleight of hand, she extracted a ring from the bowels of a side compartment. She held it up. It looked like a very fine-grained mosaic of many elements: metals of different colors and small grains of minerals.

     "Thanks," Zé said as she handed him the new ring. As he put it on next to the gold ring, the two of them clicked together magnetically.

     "Cool," Wil blurted a little too loudly, like he'd been day dreaming. Finch looked at him carefully.

     "Reminds me of a kid's book called The Hungry Thing," Eli said. "Or maybe If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. Is this ring ... alive? Like an AI, maybe?"

     Finch pursed her lips. "Not alive exactly. Yes, you'd say artificial intelligence was involved. Otherwise it wouldn't be very useful. But it's not like you're going to have a conversation with it. You didn't try asking it questions, did you Zé?"

     "I plead the fifth," Zé said primly. "So what is this snack ring? Just a lot of raw element stock?"

     "No, it also has a huge battery inside," Finch explained. "Rings usually need more juice. And diagnostic machinery; but so far the data I'm getting doesn't make sense. The nanites look mostly harmless."

     "Nanites?" Zé echoed with a crawling lip. "Like bugs? Microscopic machines? On my skin?"

     "Don't freak out," Wil said gently. "I haven't seen any bad effects so far. It's really high tech."

     "So if this is gray goo that eats my brain, I get my money back?" Zé asked reasonably.

     "Something like that," Finch agreed. "But your policy is extremely complex to explain. But you have fuller coverage against accidents now than you can imagine. At the very worst, I'll just have to start over."

     "Make any sense to you?" Zé asked Wil.

     "Yes," Wil nodded. "We're in the middle of a hairy time loop and Finch is the ringmaster."

     "You're kidding," Eli was getting overloaded.

     "No, that's pretty close," Finch said. "But instead of circus metaphors, you might try freaky N-dimensional trains on Möbius track metaphors instead."

     "That's okay," Zé held up a hand. "So what happened to the other ring? Nanites? Where are they?"

     Finch consulted data, like she was reading it off the air itself. "They are staying home."

     "Home is me?" Zé prompted. "Invasive tech is creepy. Am I a science experiment?"

     Finch approached and studied the two closely coupled rings. "That's not possible," she said.

     Wil's glasses changed the color of the outline surrounding Zé's gold ring: it was now red and blinking. That's not a good sign. Hey, hey, look out.

     Finch blurted something not in English. Then she looked up sheepishly and translated in a valley girl accent: "OMG!"

     "I'm freaking out now," Zé warned.

     "Does it feel hot?" Finch asked. "Any change in temperature? Anything strange?"

     "Nope," Zé shook his head. "Which god?"

     "Khronos, of course," Finch smiled as Zé made a victory gesture to say: yes.

     "It's drained the battery," Finch explained. "That should have taken a day. None of the rings do this. The protocol doesn't even support that. Makes me think the snack ring is faulty. Which also makes no sense. The diagnostics might be lying to me."

     "Like the gold ring is smarter than your diagnostics?" Eli guessed. "A lot smarter?"

     "Maybe," Finch pointed a finger at Eli. "But not smarter than this horn."

     Finch fetched the horn of plenty but stopped to think before doing anything rash. "I have several more, and this horn was yours, Zé. It looks like this ring is your resource now; I meant to hook it up to the horn later, but I'm missing something."

     "You don't know exactly what the gold ring is?" Wil asked. "Is it a standard type?"

     "Really powerful ones are post Thule tech," Finch admitted. "Great tools, but we don't understand them completely. This might be one of those. Created by one of the major rings. But why would Ishtar give you something priceless? Does she expect to get it back again? Oh, crap—Ish is screwing with me. We now have motive for opportunistic Trippers to descend."

     "Major rings?" Wil prompted and Zé nodded. "What's a major ring? Like a Tolkien great ring?"

     "Yeah," Finch nodded and started fiddling with the horn to get a complex attachment she strapped to Zé's wrist before touching the feed ring. Apparently she made up her mind to try her next plan. "Something like that. The one you're wearing could only have been made by one of the Norns. But it seems unlikely Ishtar could get her hands on a minor ring."

     Wil looked really interested. "Norns?" he asked.

     "I'm sorry, you're going to have to wear this," Finch told Zé. Then she helped him get the harness adjusted to ride the horn on his back. "There are three Norns—that we know about—dating from after Thule, during what you might call ... uh ..."

     "A singularity?" Wil guessed. "A Norn is a ring?"

     "Yes, Norns are rings," Finch shrugged with a smile. "We don't know if there was a singularity: we can't go there. Thule only infers the three Norns come from there. Circumstantial evidence is intricate, filled with baroque, unlikely tales as bizarre as any convoluted historical event you name."

     "Is this ring one of the Norns?" Zé asked.

     Finch laughed like Zé said something too absurd to bother explaining. "No, it must be one of the minor rings, created slowly by the Norns. Minor rings are very rare. If Ish gave you one, she likes you a lot. Which I already knew, but still."

     "Ishtar likes you," Eli elbowed Zé. "Get her number?"

     "Shut up," Zé said. "Is Ish a stalker?"

     "Hey Zé, last night when I watched the video, you said something about Norns," Wil recalled. "You were studying a myth about legendary rings of power called Norns. You were searching for one and making a movie about it, structured like it was a holy grail. But it was just a story."

     "Okay," Finch declared, now finished. The horn was now hooked up to both feed ring and gold ring by a large coupling on the biggest line the horn had. "Now we have an ocean of resources and top end diagnostics. Uh, let's say Ishtar is a big fan. She's your first tripper every time so far. And she pulled a gun on you."

     "The gun part wasn't friendly," Zé objected.

     "Are you kidding?" Finch countered. "Men are very predictable. She went straight to the top of all your priority queues, maxing them out. Ish had your complete and undivided attention. Now your hind brain and default network are having conniptions."

     "So," Zé tried to process this. "It's like a reverse caveman metaphor? Woman from the future hits me over my head and drags me away by my hair?"

     "You catch on pretty quick," Finch granted.

     "Am I the only one finding this far-fetched?" Eli asked. "Time traveling babe falls for the first bumpkin she sees? Maybe she just wants something. Don't they have gold-diggers in the future, too? You need to worry about manipulation."

     "Wow, that never occurred to me," Wil turned sarcasm up to maximum. "Maybe others have ulterior motives."

     "You're being a prick," Eli observed.

     "Ish is rich beyond your comprehesion," Finch informed. "And she's good, which is why she's still alive. There's little chance of understanding her game. But plays against me are more than just counting coup, so I need to crank up the security. The only possible meaning of this ring is: we're in deep shit. Come here, Wil, I want to show you this bot. Time to start your schooling in tele-operated automatons."

     "You're kidding, right?" Zé asked. "I didn't ask Flywheel to send me a battle droid for real."

tik-tok «

     Wil had trouble switching back and forth between his own view and Tok's. Finch said eventually he could see both at once, one with each eye, and his brain would cope. It was hard to believe now. Tok was studded with sensors, so Wil could pan his view—and jump around with random access—without needing any physical movement on Tok's part.

     Even harder was controlling Tok's movement. It was easy to slave Tok to Wil's movements. Apparently Wil's internal mites yielded enough positional data to use as a cue for Tok's own gestures. So Wil could reach out an arm and close his fingers to get Tok to grab a paperback novel off his end table. But this was using training wheels, for noobs only. Eventually Wil could move Tok just by thinking, with proprioceptive feedback mediated by new mite signalling networks in Wil's mind.

     Something about this bothered Wil. Oh yeah, it was an idea from Vinge's A Fire Upon the Deep, in which transcendent artificial intelligence tele-operated human populations, running them like puppets. Zé talked Wil into reading it merely by saying the story featured a self booting evil, an idea very effectively dramatized in Vinge's tale. (But Zé claimed the basic idea wasn't totally new: the idea of distributed intelligence goes back at least as far as 1957 in Fred Hoyle's The Black Cloud.)

     If Wil could run Tok, in principle what stopped Finch from running Wil? Only one thing stopped him from considering this a real risk: all she had to do was take off her glasses and give him orders. That seemed nearly as bad. So there didn't seem any point in worrying about the same risk again, in a form taking more of Finch's attention.

     A new idea distracted Wil for a moment: social pressure seemed a less exact form of the same kind of control over individuals. Was this a part of normal people that repulsed Wil so much? That they so readily acted as slave devices for poorly articulated collective desire? Suddenly human groups didn't seem as different from ant colonies as they once did. It even gave folks pleasure to be useful as a puppet, as if popularity was a dopamine reward for being a good tool.

     Zé and Eli were a peanut gallery of two, making witty remarks about Wil's failed attempts to follow instructions. Somehow Eli managed to make Wil's first efforts sound like a moral failure due to insufficient video game training.

     "Later we'll try running an obstacle course," Finch said. "I should get another bot and do mock wars, but there's nowhere we can do this without drawing attention."

     "How about at night on a golf course?" Eli suggested. Tok's intricate machinery had Eli salivating. He loved the nearly magical way Tok's legs and arms fluidly extended, retracted, and rotated with a grace superior to organic tissues. Also, the two gun arms looked like minature gattling guns, which didn't hurt the cool design flavor at all. If it was higher than Eli's knee, it might be frightening. But at this size it looked cute.

     "We're not going anywhere," Finch countered. "Ish has us set up as a target, so we're not going out in open fields. Wil, be a good boy and tell Eli how dumb that idea is."

     "Do it yourself," Wil chirped. "I have better things to do than jump to your every whim."

     Finch shook her head at Eli and smiled.

     Zé slapped his forehead, then turned to Eli. "She gets off when he's rude to her! I finally get it."

     "Does that explain anything?" Eli asked.

     "Women are complex," Zé replied. "You'll understand when you get older—after Ann breaks you in."

     Wil turned around and gave Zé a high five.

     "Oh, eat me," Eli returned. Then to Finch: "Why are we a target? What's new since this afternoon?"

     "Earlier I knew conservative police want to vanish you guys," Finch explained. "Now I also know treasure hunters want Zé's ring. Or they will once they find out. And they have much better imaginations. If it was me, I'd backtrack the location of the ring to here. So we're under surveillance already. But it's not close because I already have the neighborhood sewn up."

     "What stops them from coming in and taking the ring?" Zé asked. "You and what army?"

     Finch looked at Wil with a slight smile.

     "She doesn't need an army," Wil explained. "Finch is really scary. You only have half an idea so far."

     "What stops them from nuking us?" Eli asked. "Or something similar on a smaller scale? You know: boom."

     "Chthon doesn't do that because it changes history too much," Finch explained. "As for small timers, the word has already gone out: I can be killed, but not in every timeline. Another me gets word through channels, so I come in earlier and respond with extreme prejudice. So 'boom' is not rational."

     "That's complicated," Eli scrunched up his face.

     "Soon they'll be scared of Wil, too," Finch added.

     "But I wonder if it's partly your fault," Wil said.

honeypot «

     "What do you mean?" Finch asked.

     "Wil, don't say anything rash now," Zé urged.

     "I know stories Zé tells—or will tell—give your scent to trippers," Wil said carefully. "We're suspected of being part of your business. But how does it further your goals to join us here and wave a flag, showing you set up shop here?"

     "Honeypot," Zé blurted. "Hunting the hunters."

     "You figured it out," Finch congratulated.

     "Gonna erase our memories now?" Eli asked.

     "No," Finch shook her head. "If you hadn't figured it out yourselves, I'd have told you. But this is better because now you might believe it. Having you be clueless when big stuff goes down is awkward."

     "I'm wearing bullet proof armor, aren't I?" Eli asked. "Which means I need it for some reason."

     "You're one of the cleverest bunches I ever worked with," Finch smiled. "The only thing I don't understand is why someone hasn't rushed us already. Waiting doesn't help, and Wil is getting stronger every hour."

yahtzee «

     Wil's glasses drew an outline around Zé's horn, the ring, and the line connecting them. Finch inhaled sharply.

     "Should it be doing this?" Zé asked, looking down at the ring and the connecting line.

     Finch walked rapidly to Zé and bent to examine the horn closely when suddenly the horn emitted a piercing warble that made Wil's skin crawl. Finch jumped backwards into the air, getting a good three feet off the ground, screaming "Yahtzee!" or something similar with an extra glottal sound.

     As Finch landed the warble stopped. Her face relaxed from a rictus of tense anticipation. Then she stared at the horn with a blank expression.

     "Maybe that's Thule for Holy fuck!" Eli guessed. "Is that the sound it makes right before it explodes?"

     Finch smiled. "Yeah. Usually that sound is only heard in recordings. Everyone else who heard it live is now dead: the plasma cloud doesn't leave much behind."

     "What does it mean?" Zé asked. "Is it the ring?"

     "I'm thinking," Finch said, approaching the horn closely. "All diagnostics are offline. The ring subverted it. This looks like an invasive protocol rewrite at the physical layer."

     The ring grew brighter while they watched.

     "Is it eating the horn?" Zé asked nervously.

     Finch had a look of dawning wonder, like she suddenly found a fairytale she heard as a child was in fact true. Wil didn't think this was an act, but it was hard to rule out.

     "Yes, I think so," Finch said half-heartedly.

     "That's it, I'm taking it off," Zé reached for the ring.

     "No!" Finch shouted and grabbed Zé, taking off her glasses. "Don't take off the ring. Keep it on. It will happen as soon as you take it off. You're safe with it on."

     Finch put her glasses back on.

     "Jesus," said Eli, who got a dose from an angle.

     "What happens if he takes the ring off?" Wil asked.

     "The attack," Finch said. "As long as he has it on, they don't know what it might do."

     "It's not a minor ring, is it?" Wil prompted.

     "No," Finch confirmed. "It's one of the three. Zé, this is very important: did Ishtar see you put on the ring?"

     "No, I don't think so," Zé said blankly, still seeing her eyes, not quite believing what it was like.

     "Why would that matter?" Wil asked.

     "The Norns are really fucking picky," Finch explained. "He shouldn't have been able to put it on: it couldn't have decided that quickly. Ishtar doesn't think he's wearing it—just that he's holding the ring. That bitch. I'm impressed."

     "She played you good?" Eli wondered.

     Finch nodded. "It's diabolical. She gave us a resource no one can hold at first under concerted attack by many parties. But I think we can surprise her. Maybe we can."

     "I don't want it," Zé emoted. "Why not give it to Wil?"

     Finch shook her head sharply. "No, no. Even if the ring allowed him to wear it, no one with Wil's particular talent will be tolerated by interested factors. We might be nuked, even if it causes all kinds of bad outcomes."

     "What next?" Wil tried to keep her moving.

     "Flywheel," Finch said, running to her kit.

max headroom «

     As Finch removed a round dinner plate sized piece of equipment, Zé studied his ring in puzzlement. "Why doesn't it seem to do anything? Where's the interface?" he asked.

     Finch laughed and found a spot to work.

     "Uh, I think you're the interface," Wil guessed. "You just haven't been calibrated, or whatever it does."

     "I need to take this off," Zé said but did nothing.

     Finch slapped the top of the device and stood up. Flywheel's translucent head appeared in three dimensional form over the table, a foot over the round plate, floating in mid air, rendered in exaggerated detail. From a monochrome green, Flywheel's image took on normal color, then moved in an almost life-like manner. Flywheel stared at them.

     "You put me on holo?" Flywheel was shocked, greasepaint mustache and eyebrows amplifying emotions severalfold.

     "Emergency," Finch said. "Maximum security, right now: move it! Tell me when you're locked down."

     "Okay," Flywheel said. "Done. What's the problem?"

     "Activate everyone," Finch ordered. "Right now."

     "Why?" Flywheel knit eyebrows in doubt.

     "Zé has a Norn," Finch said. "Here and now."

     "Impossible," Flywheel said. "If your joke is done, I need to finish what I was doing."

     "I'm not joking," Finch interrupted. "Activate everyone now or I'll come find you. You know I can. Ishtar gave Zé the ring after he left your office."

     "Oooh," Flywheel said. "That's clever. Okay, the call is going out ... now. Where'd she get one? Which one?"

     Finch shrugged. "Which one is unaccounted for? There's only one it could be: It has to be Urd."

     "Correct pronunciation is Urð," Flywheel said pedantically. "Why are you so sure? What did you do with it?"

     "Urd is simpler to say," Finch said. "Zé is wearing it on his finger. A couple hours now. He's wearing it."

     Flywheel stared blankly. "Really?" he asked lamely.

     "Yeah," Finch insisted. "Surprise."

     "Hi, Mr. Flywheel," Eli laughed and waved. He held up a hand and spread his fingers only in the middle, like Mr. Spock in Star Trek. "Live long and prosper. Yahtzee."

     "You're teaching them to swear?" Flywheel marveled.

     "Hey, Flywheel," Zé greeted, waving the hand with the ring. "I'm going to need more funding. A lot more."

     "He reminds me of Max Headroom from the 80's," Wil said to Eli. "Don't you think?"

     "Before I was born, dude," Eli shook his head.

     "What's that strapped to Urd?" Flywheel asked. "Tell me that's not a horn feed. Please?"

enchantment under the sea «

     At first Ulf dreamed he was having an out of body experience, watching the others from a vantage point somewhere in Wil's living room, as if he was sitting on the sofa. Lights had been dimmed. A mirrored disco ball cast meandering glints of light spinning slowly around the room as Zé and Finch danced beneath: Zé in a white tux constrasting nicely with Finch's all black, with an old-fashioned top hat perched on her head. Zé danced just like Crispin Glover playing George McFly, but Finch favored a go-go style with arms pumping up and down alternately. When Zé smiled, one tooth gleamed Like Tony Curtis as the good guy in some old movie about a great race; Finch was his opponent and she meant to win—right after this dance anyway. A tornado approached.

     Or it sounded like one: loud rumbling white noise with scattered almost human piercing cries. The ceiling of Wil's apartment came off, lifted by the hand of a giant woman about sixty feet tall, with faerie wings rising from her shoulders. She had red hair and Ulf knew immediately it was Ishtar somehow. Ishtar smiled beautifully, but her eye sockets glowed a strange color that somehow wasn't purple, as if another previously unknown color had come into play, changing everything according to some dire dream logic. As the ceiling peeled aside, the sky above Ishtar was lit by a full moon casting faint rays of light as it spun slowly to accompany human-sized winged beings who flew in circles above, crying out like birds.

     Finch drew a weapon immediately but held her fire during a brief parley Ulf couldn't hear, until a winged creature swooped near; then a beam of light undulated organically from Finch's gun, bursting the creature into flaming shards with a wretched scream. Ishtar leaned in to collect Zé but Finch reached him first, dragging him through a revolving fireplace in Wil's apartment.

     Eli and Wil kept busy taking out flying creatures with their guns. Towering over the scene, Ishtar finally took note of Ulf on the sofa and smiled while asking, "What am I going to do with you, Mr. Varg? I suppose Mr. Ketch can carry you back to my workshop."

     Ulf's dream did a jump cut to a black and white country scene where Professor Marvel's horse-drawn carnival wagon stopped on an embankment next to a wooden bridge. With no one in sight, Ulf entered the wagon but found no one home. On the table rested two crystal balls. Gilded letters floated in the air above each, bringing the only color to this totally grayscale environment.

     "Your Fate," read the letters above one. The other crystal ball said simply, "Tomorrow." Ulf's heart surged when he saw the latter: he had long dreamed of being able to afford this application. Tomorrow. And now here it was, free for him to use. Ulf looked around a moment, wondering if Professor Marvel might come home soon.

     As Ulf sat, Tomorrow began to glow, revealing scenes in technicolor. The first scene was Wil's apartment: Wil sat at his desk working. Ulf groaned—how was this any different than any other day? But then Wil's living room was raked by automatic gunfire. Meg took the brunt of the first long bursts, as if attackers didn't know Meg was just a half-assed robotics project Zé had been nursing since forever. Bits of wire and circuit boards flew.

     Where was Eli? Ulf touched the crystal ball's surface and gave it a twitch with one finger, because obviously this was a multi-touch user interface. Other scenes skimmed by in a slowing crawl just like an iPhone, until it stopped on Eli in a newspaper office, where he had been doing research for a story on Miss Morlock. But he was running through a cube farm in a crouch, pursued by agents with guns looking for him. This looked like a job for Morpheus, but no one delivered a cell phone to Eli for guidance.

eyes behind «

     After watching Flywheel's disembodied head talk to Finch a brief time, Wil noticed he could see through Koi's holographic image—it was slightly transparent. But how did it work? Wil couldn't think of any way to make an image float a foot over that device on the table. And how was Flywheel getting his view of Wil's living room? When Koi looked at Wil, the feeling of eye contact was perfect. So, where was Koi getting his image feed? Sensors in the base? Or somewhere else? They could be anywhere. Tok was studded with them, so Wil could pan Tok's view merely by wanting it to happen. Suddenly Wil had an idea: did his helmet have sensors in the back of his head?

     Wil tried panning his own view without moving. Slowly it started to work, until suddenly Wil looked directly behind without turning—but he was still looking forward, too. The resolution of his rearward view degraded unless he focused. Wil doffed his glasses to see if a view behind was drawn on one of the lenses. But images on the inward side of his glasses cleared instantly. Wil lost some of his rearward view, but not all: he still had partial vision every way he considered. Was he just hallucinating? By turning his head sharply, Wil compared what he perceived with what he actually saw by eyes alone. It gibed with close agreement—interesting. Finch noticed Wil's behavior.

     "Eyes behind?" Finch turned and asked, smiling.

     "Yeah," Wil nodded. "Am I getting a feed from sensors in my helmet? To mites in my brain? Or something?"

     "Sure," Finch nodded. "Feeds from all over, not just helmets. Mites decoding forward sight can map rear views from reflections: you now have 20/10 vision."

     "Can you talk shop later?" Flywheel lamented.

     "I have no privacy at all, do I?" Wil realized.

     Finch wrinkled her nose and shook her head no.

     "That's gonna be a problem," Wil sighed.

     "Let's save the world now and worry about your privacy later, shall we?" Flywheel pleaded.

     "Are we saving the world?" Eli sounded jazzed.

     "From my point of view, yes," Flywheel replied.

     When Eli rolled his eyes Finch explained, "Koi needs practice weighing things the way you do."

     "No I don't," Flywheel objected. "If the horn had blown up, I'd be just as cooked in the long run."

     "So, why didn't the horn blow up?" Zé asked.

     "It should have," Finch considered. "It's supposed to defend itself from subversion. Apparently your ring found a way for that failsafe to malfunction."

     "You keep saying 'find a way' when talking about Urd," Zé nodded at the ring on his finger, which now looked several times brighter than when Ishtar gave it to him late this afternoon. Whatever it was doing to the horn gave subtle signs of high activity. It was a bit warm.

     "Think of yourself as incredibly lucky," Flywheel said. "According to legend, when a Norn first chooses a new host, he or she can't be injured for days, due to what seems insane turns of luck. For example, if Finch would be so good as to aim her gun at your foot and ..."

     "Not on your life," Finch interrupted loudly, holding a hand up to Flywheel's face. "I'm not an idiot."

     "We really should test the theory it's Urd better," Flywheel wheedled. "What's the worst that could happen? You're not afraid of a little ring, are you?"

     "Yes I am, absolutely," Finch countered. "If I was lucky, my gun would simply break, and I'm fond of my gun. At worst, if there's no possible way to fail my gun, Urd might decide to hit me in the head with a boulder-sized meteorite—which could conceivably occur—before I finish aiming my gun. And in my case, since I can dodge, something more drastic can happen. So I repeat: No thank you."

     "Why not give Urd back to Ishtar?" Eli suggested.

     "I love that plan," Flywheel approved.

     "No," Finch shook her head, smiling. "We're going to keep it. This is way too good to pass up. Besides, Zé would never forgive me. You want it, don't you Zé?"

     Zé tried unsuccessfully to suppress a wry smile. "When you say host, what does that mean? After a few days grace period exemption from injury, then what?"

     "You might not get several days," Finch considered. "No one was dumb enough to strap a horn to one before, that I know about. I think it usually takes time to get enough resources in hand to finish construction."

     "Of ... what?" Zé prompted while studying Finch carefully. They stared at one another.

     "The other rings," Finch said finally. "Eight minor rings, in a network inside you."

     "Fuck me," Wil said in awe.

     "You make it sound like a bad thing," Koi joked.

     "What are they for?" Zé asked. "Is that where minor rings originate? Spawned by Norns?"

     "Yeah," Finch tossed her head with a slight attitude. "According to lore anyway. I don't know what they do, but they might act like distributed processors. Each is powerful all by itself, afterward, when the host finally dies. A nuke would do it, if you decided to sit still for it."

     "Hold on," Zé pressed fingers to his temples, breathing rapidly. "I have too many avenues to follow here. Let's start with this scary word: host. Will I be me?"

     "What a good question," Flywheel admired.

     Finch nodded and wagged her index finger. "I know exactly what you're asking," she said with a twisted smile. "Apparently whoever made those rings designed them to augment the wearer. However, Abraham Lincoln once said: Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."

     "I start to get how you feel about Ishtar," Zé said.

     "You have no idea," Flywheel disagreed. "It's like playing chess with a legendary fiend. She is a legend in ... what are we calling home now?"

     "Thule," Finch sighed. "You give her too much credit. She's not the devil. Just a top notch player."

     Flywheel caught Wil's eye and silently mouthed one word clearly: jealous. Wil snickered.

     "I take it folks who wear Norns are hard to kill?" Zé asked. Finch and Flywheel exchanged glances.

     "Very," Finch confirmed. "If you get past the early phase, that is, when everyone's after you. But I rate your odds high since you have Wil on your side. And me, of course."

     "What's that about?" Flywheel asked Finch.

     "I know something you don't know," Finch taunted.

     "I need to get out of this business," Flywheel said.

     "Who's checked in so far?" Finch asked. "I need someone with a talent for improvisation."

     "Hey, I need some nano armor, too," Zé said.

     "How about Aleph or Izzard?" Flywheel offered.

     "Aleph!" Finch snapped her fingers. "Send that girl over. She's just what Ishtar needs. And someone good with a gun to train Wil while Zé and I start a shell game. Is Mick still close by here?"

     "He's already on the way," Flywheel smiled.

     "You may have already won!" Ulf said loudly from the sofa, tossing in his sleep.

     "Maybe you won a clearing house sweepstakes," Eli told Wil with a smile. "Dad channeled Ed McMahon."

     "Armor," Zé told Finch, drawing slowly closer.

     Finch pointed to Wil's bedroom. "Pale green in your size. Have Eli show you how to get dressed."

     "How heavy is this ring going to get?" Zé turned back and asked. "Is it packing matter tight?"

     "Not much heavier," Finch shrugged. "But you'll gain about ten pounds inside you, mostly in your bones. You won't be able to pass an airline security scan."

     "But by then they won't be able to tell you no," Flywheel said enigmatically.

     (continued in part3)