rned to Albert, but he was suddenly really busy
wiping his gun barrel. Well--about time she learned:
no hero allowances, and I guess no kid allowances,
either.
     "All right," she said, voice quavering. "What do
you want me to do?"
     Arlene stepped close, lowering her voice so I could
barely hear it. "There's nothing you can do. You owe
me, Jill; and before the mission is over, you are going
to pay."
     When Arlene stepped back, Jill's eyes were wide.
The bravado and defiance were gone. She was scared
to death ... of Arlene Sanders.
     The shock treatment seemed to work. Jill focused
on something more important than her own short-
comings. "God, is the mummy all right?"
     While Albert and Jill went to check out our recruit
from the bandage brigade, I did an inventory on the
soldier with the lousy manners.
     Arlene joined me. "Was he a traitor?" she asked of
the inert form at our feet; "or did we just kill a good
guy?"
     "Or worse, A.S. Is this that perfect genetic ex-
periment we've been half-expecting ever since Dei-
mos?"
     "If he's Number Three," she said, "we'll have
to--to give him a name." She kicked the side
of the machine-guy with her boot. "I'll call him a
Clyde."
     "Clyde?" I asked, dumbfounded. "That's worse
than fatty! It's just a name."
     "Clyde, "she declared, with the really irritating tone
of voice she only uses when she makes up her mind
and can't believe anybody would still be arguing.
"But Clyde?" I repeated like a demented parrot.
"Why not Fred or Barney, or Ralph or Norton?" I
suspected that I might be spinning out of control.
"For Clyde Barrow," she explained . . . and I still
didn't get it. "You know," she continued with the
cultural-literacy tone of vice, "Bonnie Parker and
Clyde Barrow--Bonnie and Clyde!"
     "Oh," I said, finally ready to surrender. "Jesus H.,
that's really obscure!"
     At the precise moment that I invoked the name of
the Savior, good old Albert decided to rejoin us,
reinforcing a theory I've had for years that if you call
on the gods, you are rewarded with a plague of
believers. Not that I was thinking of Albert as part
of a plague just then. The plague was out there, be-
yond us, where it belonged--in the heart of Los
Angeles.
     28
I thought you had a Christian upbringing,"
     said Albert, annoyed at Yours Truly for the blas-
phemy.
     "Catholic school," Arlene answered.
"Oh, that explains it," said Albert, which / found a
bit annoying.
     Further discussion seemed a losing proposition. So
I resumed investigation of the Clyde. Which re-
minded of the earlier discussion about nomenclature.
"Hey, Jill," I called out. "We decided to name this
bastard a Clyde."
     "A Clyde?" asked Jill in the same tone of voice I
had said "Jesus H."
     "Yep."
"What a dumb name!" I decided to put her in my
will. Make fun of my religion, will they?
     I went back to my close study of the Clyde. As I'd
noticed before, he appeared fully human, if a bit
large. Frankly, I didn't think he could be a product of
genetic engineering; the results had been too crude up
to this point. Most likely, he'd been recruited by the
aliens.
     I was sorry the man was dead, because I'd like to
kill him again. It made me furious that any human
would cooperate with the subjugation of his own race.
I kicked the corpse.
     Arlene was a good mind reader. "You think he's a
traitor," she said.
     "What else could he be?"
"You already suggested it."
     "What's that?" asked Albert. Jill was all ears, too.
The time had finally come to lay all the cards on the
table.
     "We've been considering the possibility that the
aliens might be able to make perfect human dupli-
cates," I told them.
     "He could be one," said Arlene, pointing at the
man. "Maybe the first example of a successful geneti-
cally engineered human. First example we've seen,
anyway."
     "I don't buy it," I said.
"But what makes you think it's even possible?"
asked Albert, obviously disturbed by the suggestion.
Arlene took a deep breath. "On Deimos we saw
gigantic blocks of human flesh. I'm sure it was raw
material for genetic experiments. Later, Fly and I saw
vats where they were mass producing monsters."
"In a way," I interrupted, "even the boney and the
fatty are closer to being 'human' than the other
genetic experiments--hell-princes, steam-demons,
pumpkins."
     "And now they've succeeded," said Arlene, looking
down.
     "Hope you're wrong," I said. "It's too much of a
quantum leap, Arlene. Even the clothes are too good!"
"You have an argument there," she admitted.
     "Those stupid red trunks on the boneys were awful."
We looked at the spiffy uniform on the man.
     "He talked like a real person," Jill observed. I
hadn't thought about it before, but everything about
his manner of speaking rang true, even the threaten-
ing tone at the end. If he hadn't been such a total
bastard, I wouldn't have enjoyed killing him so much.
Making a monster was one thing; cobbling together a
first-class butthead was a lot harder, requiring tender
loving care.
     "OK," said Albert. "He looks, walks, talks and
smells like a human being. So maybe he was one."
"Whatever he was, he's good and dead; and that's
what matters right now," I tried to conclude the issue.
The way Arlene kept looking at the man meant that
she couldn't shake the disturbing idea that he was a
synthetic creation. I didn't doubt that they could do
stuff like this in time. My objective was to prevent
them having that time.
     Arlene shuddered, then shook her head hard, as if
dislodging any nasty little critters that might have
snuck in there. "Well, if they did make him, he's only
a staff sergeant. There's a lot of room for progress
before they hit second lieutenant and start downhill
again."
     Albert laughed hard at that. She gave him an
appreciative glance.
     In a way, it was kind of strange to nit-pick over
which was more likely to be true: human traitors or
human duplicates. Either possibility was disturbing.
I let my mind wander over the uncertain terrain
where treason sprouts like an ugly mushroom. If U.S.
armed forces were cooperating with the aliens, were
they under orders from the civilian government? Had
Washington caved in immediately to become a Vichy-
style administration? And what could the aliens offer
human collaborators that the humans would be stu-
pid enough to believe?
     I didn't doubt for one second that the enemy
intended the extermination of the human race as we
knew it. Zombie slaves and a few human specimens
kept around for experimental purposes didn't count
as species survival in my book.
     I must have been carrying worry on my face,
because Albert put his hand on my shoulder and said,
"We needn't concern ourselves over the biggest possi-
ble picture. One battle at a time is how we'll win this
war. First, we destroy the main citadel of alien power
in Los Angeles. Then we'll stop them in New York,
Houston, Mexico City, Paris, London, Rome--ah,
Tokyo. . . ." He trailed off. Already quite a list, wasn't
it?
     "Atlanta," said Jill.
"Orlando," said Arlene. "We must save the good
name of the mouse on both coasts!"
     "You know," I mused, "I wonder how much of the
invasion force Arlene and I destroyed on Deimos."
"Oh, at least half," boasted my buddy; but she
might not be far wrong. We killed a hell of a lot of
monsters on the Martian moons. Each new carcass
meant one less demonic foot soldier on terra firma.
"You know," said Jill, her voice sounding oddly
old, "I could kill every one of those human traitors."
"I'm with you, hon," I agreed; "but you've got to be
careful about blanket statements like that. Some were
threatened, tortured. Hell, some could have been
tricked. They didn't go through what we did on
Deimos! They might have been told that the mass
destruction was caused by human-against-human and
now these superior aliens have come to Earth with a
plan for ultimate peace."
     "I'll bet YOU were a pain in your High School debate
society, Fly Taggart," said long suffering Arlene. "But
you know damn well what she means!"
     "Put it down to my practical side, if you want," I
said. "I like to know the score before I pick a play."
Albert added a note. "Anyone can make a terrible
mistake and still repent before the final hour."
"It's possible," I said.
     "I'm sorry I made that crack about your growing up
Catholic."
     The two atheist females acted suitably disgusted by
our theological love-fest. "The girls don't believe in
redemption of traitors, Albert," I said.
     "I'll pray for anyone," he said; "even traitors."
"Fine," said Arlene. "Pray over their graves."
While we failed to resolve yet another serious
philosophical issue, Jill squatted over the corpse. In a
very short time she'd become hardened to the sight
and smell of carnage. Good. She had a chance to
survive in the new world.
     "Are you all right?" Arlene asked.
"Don't worry about me," Jill said, following my
example and kicking the corpse. "They're just bags of
blood, and we've got the pins. It's no big thing."
No one was joking now. Arlene looked at me with a
worried expression. This was no time to psycho-
analyze a fourteen-year-old who was doing her best to
feel nothing. This sort of cold attitude was par for the
course in an adult, a mood that would be turned off
(hopefully) in peacetime; but hearing it from a kid
was unnerving.
     The words just out of her lips were the cold truth we
created. Do only the youngest soldiers develop the
attitude necessary to win a war? Until this moment, I
wouldn't have thought of Arlene and myself as old-
fashioned sentimentalists; but if the future human
race became cold and machine-like to fight the mon-
sters, then maybe the monsters win, regardless of the
outcome.
     Recreation time was over. Jill went to the
cybermummy and started to lift him; he was really
too heavy for her to do alone, and we got the idea.
Albert helped her, and Arlene and I returned to battle
readiness. The next goal was obvious: find the
safehouse. We couldn't make good time sneaking
through the dark carrying a mummy.
     We were only ninety minutes away. All we ran into
along the way was a pair of zombies, almost a free
ride. I popped them both before Arlene even got off a
shot.
     "You have all the fun," said Albert. "This guy is
starting to weigh!"
     "You don't hear Jill complaining, do you?" asked
Arlene. Jill said nothing. But I could see the sweat
beading on her forehead and her breathing was more
rapid. Arlene noticed, too. "Jill, would you like to
switch with me?" she asked.
     "I'm all right," she said, determined to prove
something to someone.
     Jill managed to hold up her end all the way to the
door of the crappiest looking rattrap in a whole block
of low rent housing. She heaved a sigh of relief as she
finally put down her burden.
     This stretch of hovels didn't seem to have been
bombed by anything but bad economic decisions. The
house was one-story, shapeless as a cardboard box
with a sheet of metal thrown on top pretending to be a
roof. The yard was a narrow stretch of dirt with
garbage piled high. It looked worse than any apart-
ment I'd ever seen and gave the scuzziest motels a run
for the money, if anyone with a dime in his pocket
would be caught dead there.
     The final perfect touch was a monotonous cacopho-
ny of dumb-ass, psychometal "music" blaring
     through the thin walls.
"Let me take it from here," Albert volunteered.
"Be my guest," I said.
     He knocked on a flimsy door covered with streaks
of peeling, yellow paint; I half expected the whole
structure to crash down in a shambles. I figured we'd
wait a long time before any denizens within roused
themselves. Instead, the door opened within a few
seconds.
     It was like stepping back in time to the late twenti-
eth century, when post-punks, headbangers,
     carpetbangers, and other odd flotsam of adolescent
rage had their fifteen minutes.
     There were two young men standing in the door-
way: one was blond, the other was darker, black-
haired, and possibly Hispanic. Rocko and Paco, for
the moment.
     Rocko didn't say anything, staring at us with glazed
eyes, mouth partly open. The only good thing to say
about them was that there was simply no way they
had been taken over by alien invaders! Even monsters
know when to give someone a pass.
     "May we come in?" asked Albert.
"Stoked," said Rocko.
     There seemed no alternative to going inside; there
was no escape rocket in sight. Albert braved the
cavern of terrible noise first, then Arlene, then Jill
with our buddy. There was nothing left but for me to
go inside and witness . . .
     The living room. The place was stuffed with what
looked like the world's largest and bizarrest crank-lab.
There were chemicals of various colors in glass con-
tainers balanced precariously on the ratty furniture. A
large bottle of thick, silver liquid looked like it might
be mercury. I wondered if these guys would blow us
up or poison us.
     Jill laid the still-wrapped cybermummy on the
ground. Then Albert stepped forward. Without saying
a word, he flashed a hand-signal. I recognized it: light-
drop hand signals, based partly on American Sign
Language, heavily modified.
     Earth, said Albert.
Man, responded Paco.
     Native.
Born.
     I blinked. Albert flashed a thirteen-character com-
bination of letters and numbers, and Rocko re-
sponded with another. I raised my brows ... a hand-
signal "handshake."
     All of a sudden, Rocko's demeanor changed as his
face melted into a different one entirely. He gestured
to Paco, who closed his mouth. Both suddenly looked
fifty IQ points brighter.
     Rocko went to the stereo, a nice, state-of-the art
system out of place in these surroundings, and turned
down the music. "Let's talk," he said, voice still
sounding like a stereotypical carpetbanger.
     Things got too weird for Yours Truly. While Rocko
rapped in a lingo full of terms relating to drugs and
rock'n'roll, he produced several pads and pencils,
enough for each one of us. The real conversation took
place on the pads, while the duo spoke most of the
mind-numbing nonsense, occasionally helped out by
Albert and Jill, who could talk the talk better than
Arlene or I.
     The only part of the conversation I paid attention
to came off the pads.
     Our hosts filled in more details of this Grave New
World. Rocko was actually Captain Jerry Renfrew,
PhD, U.S. Army and head of one of the CBNW
     (chem-bio-nuke warfare) labs. His buddy was Dr.
Xavier Felix, another chemical warfare specialist.
But why did they pretend to be crystal-meth
     dealers?
Innocuous, no threat, explained Felix with a
scribble.
     Civilian DEA, Felix wrote. Pose crank cooker stuck
fake crim recs into Nat Crime Info Cen comptrs.
There was a noise halfway between a scream and a
laugh. It was Jill, and she was jumping up and down.
Out loud she said, "I haven't heard that group since I
was a kid!" The music was still blaring in the back-
ground, even though reduced to a volume that didn't
turn the brain to cottage cheese.
     On paper, Jill wrote: I did that!!!!! Mightve done
your's!
     Too young, challenged Renfrew, erasing her apos-
trophe.
     Judge/book/cover, argued Felix, added a circle slash
around the triplet, the international no-no symbol.
We passed all the notes around to everyone; but
each person got them in more or less random order. It
took me a while to make sense out of the jumble.
When everyone had seen a note, Felix or Renfrew
touched it to a Bunsen burner. The notes were written
on flash paper, and they vanished instantly with a
smokeless flare.
     According to Dr. Felix, the DEA, under alien
control, was still staffed by traitorous humans, even
now. They went hunting for people who could pro-
duce the "zombie-brew" chemical treatment used to
rework humans into zombies.
     They specifically hunted for the more sophisticated
drug-lab chemists. It made sense that Captain Ren-
frew and Felix, both infiltrating from opposite ends,
would come together.
     When Felix's hand needed a rest, the captain jotted
down: lab I headed one of few not overrun. He escaped
with all his notes and some of his equipment, grew his
hair long, and returned to alien territory to infiltrate.
Felix was already undercover, already infiltrating
the alien operation, and that's where it got tricky:
DEA knew Felix was really an agent; but they thought
he was spying on the aliens for DEA--who were
cooperating with the aliens in exchange for the prom-
ise of all drugs off the street.
     In fact, Xavier Felix was a double-double agent,
really working for the Resistance . . . unless he was a
triple-double agent, or a double-double-double agent,
in which case we were all sunk.
     Don't aliens investgt horrible noise? I wrote.
They allowed themselves to laugh out loud. At any
point in the music discussion, a laugh fit like a corpse
in potter's field.
     Evidently, excessive noise was not a problem aliens
cared much about.
     Something was torquing me off. After wrestling
with myself, I finally wrote it. How humans make
zombie brew, help aliens evin infiltrating?!?!
Renfrew stared, absently correcting something on
my note. Don't know what. He looked wounded, in
pain. Delib scrwng up recipe. Neurologic poison slow
kills drives mad. Makes useless.
     The captain bent over me and read along. He
flipped his own sheet over and added: we're only hot
chems. Others druggies cooks FDA that kind of crap.
Everyone else seemed satisfied, so I dropped it. I
was the only one, I guess, who spotted the Clue of the
Horrible Admission: even if they were screwing up
the brew so the zombies died or went mad--weren't
they still turning humans into zombies in the first
place?
     How did they live with that?
We showed them more about the cybermummy.
     They had the reaction of any scientist with a new toy.
If there were a solution, they were going to bust
humps finding it.
     They took us into the basement, where the music
from upstairs was merely loud, not ear-splitting. I was
surprised a house in Riverside had one, especially this
piece of crap. Then it hit me like a bony's fist: they
probably dug it themselves. Whatever the case, we
were in the hands of impressive dudes.
     "You can talk quietly down here without fear of
surveillance," Felix whispered.
     "Hooray," said Arlene, but kept her voice low.
"Amen," said Albert.
     We left Felix and Renfrew and went downstairs,
where we rested a moment. I was so tired I felt like the
marrow in my bones had turned to dust; or maybe I
was having trouble breathing down there. Without
intending to, I dozed off on a thick leather couch.
When I came to, the others were unwrapping the
mummy. It was embarrassing to have passed out like
that.
     "You okay, Fly?" Arlene asked over her shoulder.
"Yeah, must have been tireder than I thought," I
said. "Sorry about that."
     "No problemo," said Arlene, yawning. "I'll take the
next nap. You up to joining us?"
     I nodded and moved in for a closer look.
The cyberdude was the same as before, still a young
black man turned into a computer-age pin cushion.
Earlier, we removed enough bandages to see his face.
We uncovered his head and saw it was completely
shaved, the smooth dome covered in little metal
knobs and dials.
     As Albert and Arlene continued unwrapping, Jill
took a step back. The man wasn't wearing anything
but the quickly unwinding bandages. As they started
unwrapping below the waist, our fourteen-year-old
hellion got embarrassed. Oceans of gore she could
take without batting an eyelash, but a nude young
man was enough to make her blush.
     I was deeply amused and grateful I woke up in time
for the entertainment--Jill's reaction, I mean, not the
guy. The more nonchalant she tried to be, the more
fun I had watching. She actually turned fire-engine
red, her normally pale cheeks matching her hair.
I noticed Arlene noticing me noticing Jill. Ah,
women!
     "It's nothing to get worked up about," she told Jill.
"Maybe Jill should leave the room," suggested
Albert.
     "That's her decision," said Arlene.
"I don't want to go back upstairs with the . . .
chems," she said. "At least we can talk down here."
"Don't let them tease you, hon," Arlene said.
"Most everything you're told about sex when you're
growing up is a lie anyway."
     "You mean what they're told in school?" Albert
asked slyly.
     "I was thinking of the lies they hear at home," said
Arlene, instantly regretting the reference. We didn't
want Jill constantly fixating on the slaughter of Mom
and Dad.
     But the more serious tone affected Jill positively.
She went back to the table and helped finish the
unwrapping. She didn't look south more than about
five or six times. Seven, tops. Being a professional, I
was trained to notice details like eye movements.
"What time is it?" Arlene asked, yawning again.
She definitely deserved some sack time.
     "Ask Fly," said Jill, "he's got the cl-cl-clock."
"Why didn't they have our conference down here,
where we could talk, instead of using the pads?" asked
Arlene,
     I shrugged. "Aliens might think it was weird if
'customers' come over and the cooks disappear down
into the basement with them."
     "Won't they think it just as strange if the customers
disappear alone?"
     "Well, let's hope not."
I turned to Jill. "Earlier, you said you might be able
to communicate with him on a computer, through
one of those jacks. What's the next step?"
     She went back to examining the body with the
proper detachment. "Can you do it?" I asked.
"Yes and no."
     "Care to explain?"
"Yes I can connect, if you get me the cables I need.
One has to have a male Free-L-19, the other a male
Free-L-20, both with a two-fiber mass-serial connec-
tor at the other end."
     I sure hoped somebody else knew what the hell that
meant. "Where do you think we can get all that?"
"Try upstairs; if they don't have any, try Radio
Shack or CompUSA."
     After writing down the kind of jacks required, I
took the list upstairs and showed it to the chem guys.
They didn't have what we needed, but the captain
produced an Auto Club map and pointed out the
nearest Radio Shack.
     Kind of reassuring that L.A. still had its priorities.
Back in the basement, I asked who wanted to go.
And the result was predictable: "I'll go," said Jill.
"Anyone but Jill," I said. "Maybe I should--"
"Why can't I go?"
     "I know there's not much to do in Riverside except
shop," I admitted, "even before the demons came.
But we've been through this already, Jill. We're still in
the you're-not-expendable period."
     "I'll go," said Albert.
"Fine," I said. "Now Arlene can get some sack--"
"I'll go with him, Fly," said Arlene.
     "But you were yawning only a moment before!"
"I'm not tired now," she said, real perky.
     I did what anyone in my position would do. I
shrugged. If Arlene had surrender papers for me, I
would have signed them on the spot.
     29
Lately, I thought I was overdoing quotations
from the Book. I'd never had so vivid a recollection
for the Word until the world changed. I'd found time
to read the scriptures once more in the new era, and
now the words stayed with me, perhaps because the
altered world made the tales of the Book seem more
vivid.
     The original Mormons were condemned not only
for taking multiple wives, a behavior that might have
been cause for sympathy instead of resentment. What
upset other Americans of the nineteenth century was
the claim that God would reveal a whole new history
to newly chosen saints. The concept of Latter Day
Saints was more offensive to the Christian majority of
that time than any personal behavior or economic
consequences.
     My favorite Bible passage was John 21:25, the end
of the Gospel According to Saint John, and it should
have been the perfect shield against such prejudice;
but most Christians pay little attention to the Word:
And there are also many other things which Jesus
did, the which, if they should be written every
one, I suppose that even the world itself could
not contain the books that should be written.
Amen.
     They liked those words just fine in theory; practice
was something else again. The portions where the
Book of Mormon disagrees with established Christian
practices didn't help either. People got really upset
when they were told they were not merely wrong, but
diabolically wrong, on the subject of baptism.
Hell. Arlene and I were about to go back into hell.
We were trying to save living babies from burning in
the hell on Earth. She was a good friend and comrade.
I liked her a lot and hoped I would not witness her
death. But since becoming bold about her sinful
interest in me, she was making me uncomfortable. I
would find her a lot easier to deal with if I weren't
tempted by her.
     Or if she would consent to. . . Jesus! Give me
strength! Am I really ready to contemplate holy union?
I grimaced; it was a very big step, a life commitment,
and I was too chicken to think about it yet. I didn't
feel much older than Jill!
     My soul was troubled because I did desire Arlene. A
verse from Nephi kept running through my mind, like
a public service announcement:
     O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in
thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm
of flesh; for I know that cursed is he that
     putteth his faith in the arm of flesh. Yea, cursed
is he that putteth his trust in man or maketh
flesh his arm.
     "A buck for your thoughts," Arlene said, standing
very close to me. We were taking our first rest stop in
an alley. Lately, I was coming to feel safer in alleys
than in open spaces.
     "I was remembering a passage from the Book."
"You want to share it with me?" she asked. I looked
deep into her bloodshot eyes, the prettiest sight in the
world, and there was no mockery or sarcasm. I wasn't
about to tell her how hard I was trying to resist
temptation and that right now I spelled sin beginning
with a scarlet letter A.
     But there was an earlier passage from the Second
Book of Nephi that spoke directly to any warrior's
heart. I quoted it instead:
     "O Lord, wilt thou make way for mine escape
before mine enemies! Wilt thou make my path
     straight before me! Wilt thou not place a stum-
bling block in my way--but that thou wouldst
clear my way before me, a hedge not up my
     way, but the ways of mine enemy."
"Good plan," said Arlene.
     "God's plan."
She touched my arm, and I felt relaxed instead of
tense. "Albert, what if I told you I'd be willing to
study your religion to see what it's about?"
I wasn't expecting that. "Why would you do that?"
I asked, probably too suspicious. In the Marines, I got
too used to being sucker-punched by antireligious
bigots.
     "I'm not promising to convert or anything," she
told me, "but I care about you, Albert. You believe in
these things, and I want to understand."
     "Cool," I said; but I was still suspicious of her
motives.
     She dropped the other shoe: "So if I'm willing to
study what you believe, would you be willing to relax
a little and we could get together?"
     I'd expected more subtlety from someone as intelli-
gent as Arlene, but then again, Marines were not
famous for an indirect approach. I had to close my
eyes before shaking my head. I couldn't make the
word no come out.
     "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable," said
Arlene.
     "You may mean the best," I told her, "but it doesn't
matter what we do or say. Unless we're married, we
can't make love."
     "You mean we can't even fool around?" she asked.
"I mean we can't have sex together unless we're
married."
     I could tell by her expression I was a more surpris-
ing phenomenon than the spidermind. "You're kid-
ding," she said. "Not even touching?"
     "Not sexual touching." I wished she'd let up!
She looked away from me, almost shyly. "I'm only
talking about a little fun."
     I tried a new tack. "How can you think of fun when
the world is dying?"
     "Seems like a good time to me," she said. "We
could use a break."
     "Arlene, any sex outside of marriage is fornication,
even just touching. That kind of touching. The sin is
in the thought."
     She mumbled something. I could have sworn she
asked, "How about inside marriage?" But she turned
away and pretended she hadn't spoken. I suppose
Arlene was as freaked about the thought as I was.
I didn't think I was making the best possible case
for my faith, but God isn't about winning a popularity
contest. He doesn't have to.
     "Albert, if you ever feel differently, I'll be there for
you." I could tell she'd run out of things to say. At this
moment, I probably seemed more alien than a steam-
demon or a bony.
     Fortunately, the rest break was over. I pointed to
my watch and Arlene nodded. We could return to the
far less dangerous territory of fighting monsters in
hell. At least I knew what to expect from them.
Nothing else stood between us and the Radio Shack
except the corpses of some dead dogs. We broke into
the abandoned store, kicking in the inadequately
padlocked door. We used our day-night goggles to
hunt through the darkness, not wanting to use a
betraying light. A number of large spiderwebs were
spun across a wall of boom boxes, proof that one
Earth life form might survive the invasion un-
changed. I was surprised that the store didn't seem to
have been looted . . . but then, what for?
     "We should be able to find the jacks for Jill," said
Arlene, who giggled right afterward. It took me a
moment to recognize what was funny.
     She was right, though. In the store's unlooted
condition, we found the jacks very quickly. She
pocketed them and headed for the front of the store,
but stopped at a counter. Something had caught her
eye; I couldn't see what.
     "I need to ask you a question," she said.
"Ask away."
     "Do you love someone?"
"That's a very personal question."
     "That's why I'm asking," she followed up. "Do
you?"
     She deserved an answer. "Yes, but she's dead."
"You never made love to her?"
     "She died before we married."
"Thank you for telling me," she said. "I'm not
trying to probe you, Albert. I've succeeded in reveal-
ing too much of myself. Now let's get back before I say
something else stupid."
     She went out the door, and I glanced at the counter
to see a demo music CD of Golden Oldies, led off by
Carly Simon singing "Nobody Does it Better." I'd
never heard the song but I could imagine the subject
matter. Jesus help us; was this a divine retribution? I
shuddered; I hadn't seen any rainbows since the
invasion.
     We didn't exchange another word on the way back.
Her expression was grim, hard. She was probably
angry with herself for opening up to me without
finding out first how I really felt. Nonreligious people
usually had this trouble with us. We really meant it.
No wonder we came off like nuts. How could I tell
Arlene that she was probably allergic to nuts?
30
     I let Jill take the next nap on the couch. For a
crazy moment I envied the mummy for sleeping so
long. Jill didn't seem all that rested when Arlene and
Albert returned, but any sleep had to be better than
none.
     Jill asked if there was any coffee, and it turned out
that the chems stored it in the basement. Hot-tap
coffee helped bring her around, and with dark circles
under her eyes and still yawning, she got to work on
the man who was no longer a mummy but still plenty
cyber.
     She attached the necessary wires, brought up her
ultramicro and started hacking. I still had my doubts
that this would actually work; but the more excited
Jill became, the more I was converted.
     Then she said the magic words, "Yes, yes, yes!" and
got up to pump her arm and strut like a guy. I doubt
that sex will ever give her that much excitement.
About a minute passed while she fiddled with the
TracPad, listening to handshaking routines on the
audio-out. She gave the first report: "I've made con-
tact with his brain at seventeen thirty-two. His name
is Kenneth Estes."
     "Does he know where he is?" I asked.
Jill hesitated, and then spelled it out: "He thinks
he's dead and in hell."
     "Can we talk to him?" I asked.
"Yup," said Jill. "I can type questions, and you can
read his answers. But you have to scan through the
random crap; it's a direct link to Ken's brain."
"All right, you interpret," I replied. "The first thing
is find out who he is and why he's important enough
for demon gift-wrapping."
     Arlene sat up on the couch where she'd almost
dozed off. This could well be too interesting to miss.
Albert sat in a chair, but he was wide-awake. Jill
tapped for a long moment at her tiny keyboard, using
all ten fingers, much to my surprise. I thought all
hackers were two-finger typists, it was a law or some-
thing. She read the first part of the man's story:
"As I said, his name's Ken Estes. He's a computer
software designer slumming as a CIA analyst. Low-
level stuff, not a field agent or anything. He was born
in--"
     "No time for the family background," I inter-
rupted. "Keep him focused on how and why he
     became a cybermummy."
Somewhere, water was dripping. I hadn't noticed it
before, but it was very annoying while waiting for Jill
to pass on the messages in silence. Finally, she spoke
again: "When the aliens landed and started the war,
Ken was told by his superiors that the agency had
developed a new computer which the operator
     accessed in V.R. mode."
"What's V.R.?" Albert asked.
     "Old term; this guy's in his thirties! Virtual Reality;
we call it burfing now, from 'body surfing,' I think."
"Oh, the net," said Albert.
     "We'll go back to school later," I jumped in. "Get
on with it, Jill!"
     "High-ranking officers within the agency induced
Ken to accept the implants 'for the good of the United
States.' Told him he'd be able to help fight the aliens.
Instead, it turned out they were traitors within the
Company--"
     Jill stopped for a moment, swallowing hard. She
took another sip of coffee before continuing. We were
back to her deep disgust for human traitors. She made
herself read on. She wouldn't be guilty of dereliction
of duty.
     The high-ranking officers had cooperated with the
aliens, joining a criminal conspiracy against the coun-
try they were sworn to defend--and incidentally,
against their own species. Ken "told" us more
through Jill: Company 'borged me, attached me to
alien net, one not part conspiracy waited too long, tried
to save killed conspiratora-tora-tora befora took him
out. . .
     "How did the aliens intend to use him?" I asked.
Jill asked, and the answer came: Hoped him conduit
betwalien biotechputer netputer and webwide human
d'bases crlsystems.
     "Jeez, it's like a sci-fi James Joyce," I said. "From
now on, you interpret, Jill. It gives me a headache!"
"We live in a science fiction world," said Arlene,
wandering over from the couch, wide-awake, as Ken's
tale unfolded. "Fly, I'd like to ask a question," she
said.
     "Be my guest."
"Jill, would you ask him how much of the alien
technology was biologically based?"
     Jill asked and passed on: "Ken says that all the alien
technology is biotech, except for stuff they stole from
subject races, like the rocket technology for the flying
skulls."
     "Yes!" exclaimed Arlene, as excited as Jill at a
moment of vindication. "We've been on the right
track all along, Fly. The original enemy went as far
with biological techniques as they possibly could.
Perhaps the first species they conquered lived on the
same planet, but had a mechanical technology they
were able to adapt to their own use. Eventually, they
conquered the Gate builders; we monkeyed with the
Gates, turned them on, and the invaders poured
through. That would explain why in any choice be-
tween organic and mechanical, they always opt for the
biological."
     "And it would also explain why our own technology
shows up in odd places," I agreed, "and why they use
firearms."
     "They're pragmatic," said Albert. "Their study of
us proves that, these demonic forms they take."
I tried to get the show back on the road: "Jill, can he
tell us how they communicate with one another?"
There was a long stretch before Jill helped us out
with our immediate communication needs. "He says
it hurts to think about this, but he will. He ...
realizes we're free. I've told him a little about us and
... he does want to help."
     "Tell him we appreciate anything he can do," I said.
Another moment passed and he answered the ques-
tion beyond my expectation: "There are neural path-
ways integrated into the computers. Psi-connections
carry all the orders. The aliens don't need to tell their
slaves what to do! They merely think the orders, but
it's different than merely thinking. No word. Project?
Psimulcast?"
     "Does Ken know where the commands originate?"
I asked.
     "He doesn't understand the question," Jill an-
swered quickly.
     "Uh, I'm not asking if he knows where the ultimate
leaders happen to be right now. But does he know
how the chain of command functions for the inva-
sion?"
     Jill's forehead showed some extra furrows as she
passed on my thoughts, probably doing some translat-
ing along the way. Finally, Ken passed on a detailed
report, filtered through Jill.
     "Question is meaningless; no hierarchy."
"Hive culture? Collective?"
     "Nope; they just. .. huh? Uh, they just all do the
same thing. The aliens themselves; the slaves--I
think that means everyone not part of 'the people'--
fight like crazy. That's why they're not 'the people.'"
"Can Ken issue commands?"
     "Fly, that's what he was made for! Receive alien
commands and convey them to human systems."
     "I mean, the other way 'round?"
She tapped, stared. "He doesn't understand the
question. It's like he's not allowed to think about it or
see the question. Some sort of protected-mode thing
firm-wired in. Wait, he's talking again . ..
"This 'invasion fleet' is actually an exploration
fleet. Highest-intel aliens are the entities inside the
spiderminds. Send out fleets, probe, when feasible
conquer alien worlds, no reason other than raw pow-
er. Well, Ken can't understand the reason, if there is
one.
     "Slave masters with an expanding empire, but more
interested in finding new genetic material to absorb
into their web-of-life--which is how they think of
it--than they are in having new individual slaves . . .
especially short-lived, contentious slaves."
Jill stopped talking and took off the headphones,
rubbing a hand across her forehead. "Are you all
right?" asked Arlene.
     "Little headache. I'll be all right," she said.
"You need to stop?" I asked.
     "No. Hey, I just had a brainstorm! If we could get
Ken jacked into one of the alien terminals and
override the safeties, we could sabotage their net!"
"Brilliant idea," I said. "Why didn't I think of
that?" I winked. "Maybe we could sabotage their
entire technology base."
     "There's a problem. When he's connected to the
net, there are built-ins that override his human voli-
tion. The monitor can't take over the CPU."
     "It can if it has its own chip set and special
programming," muttered Arlene.
     "The program that shuts off his brain must have a
'front end' somewhere in his brain," Jill said--to
herself, I presumed. "If I can find it, I can disable it,
or I'm not Jill Hoerchner."
     "Are you?" asked my pal.
Jill glanced over at her and added, "I'd need a quiet
place where I can be undisturbed for several days.
Days, not hours."
     There were several hundred questions I wanted to
ask Ken; but we heard a loud noise from upstairs. It
didn't sound like more of the headbanger music. It
sounded like heavy feet thumping around upstairs.
Maybe it was aliens coming to pick up their supply of
zombie brew.
     I was pissed that the chems hadn't warned us when
these "guests" would pay them a visit; then I realized
that the aliens wouldn't stick to any kind of set
program. All the more reason for the captain and the
doctor to maintain their act.
     Very quietly, Arlene flicked off the one light in the
basement ceiling. We sat in the dark. We heard raised
voices; the chems were denying that they'd seen a
human "strike team" or a human wrapped in ban-
dages.
     I heard the telltale hiss of imp talk; I held my breath
. . . there were a lot of feet tramping around up there.
A new kind of voice spoke next, a grating, metallic
monotone. It sounded like a robot from an old sci-fi
movie, or something speaking through a vocoder.
Once this voice entered the conversation, our hu-
man allies sounded frantic. I had a bad feeling about
this. Good agents would put on a believable act. Good
agents would stick to the part, right to the point of
death. But were they?
     The next sound we heard was all too familiar: a
powerful explosion shook the house, followed by the
smell of fire from above. Before we could even think
about acting, there was another explosion, and now
smoke began to drift down the wooden steps to our
hiding place.
     We listened to the alien storm troopers start tearing
the place apart. They'd convinced me of their sinceri-
ty in trying to find us. I huddled the others and said:
"The bastards will find the basement. Our only hope
is if the cooks dug an escape tunnel, one that exits
from here."
     Keeping the light off didn't make it any easier, but I
hadn't noticed a tunnel when we could see. If my pipe
dream produced a real pipe, the opening would be
hidden anyway. We rummaged through spare equip-
ment, desperately trying not to make noise. The stuff
was mainly metal, so the process wasn't easy.
The chems had stored their chemical stuff in the
basement. Tanks of volatiles, glassware, a fire extin-
guisher, jars and jars of chemicals (and I was grateful
the glass was thick). There were plenty of shelves and
books. And nowhere behind any of this did we find a
secret opening.
     We hunted the walls, shaking bookcases that might
be doors, checking fireplaces for hidden holes, any-
thing at all! I was about to give up when my hands
came to rest on a bookcase that seemed bolted down,
unlike the others.
     I started tugging on various books to see if one of
them was a trigger mechanism. Two things happened
simultaneously. First, I found a book that wouldn't
move. Never had I been happier to find something
stuck.
     Second, with a triumphant howling, the imps found
the trapdoor and flung it wide, letting light pour into
the basement.
     We froze; I was a statue holding up the bookshelf;
Albert stood nearby, holding the naked Ken in a
fireman's carry; Jill was part of that tableau, holding
her CompMac ultramicro, still jacked into Ken; and
Arlene was on the other side of the basement room, in
the gloom. Of the five of us, Ken did the best job of
playing dead, but he had an unfair advantage.
A thing dropped down the open trap.
     This baby looked vaguely humanoid--oh, they
were keeping at it--but definitely alien. The yellow-
white, naked body maintained the hell motif so
popular with the invaders. No obvious genitalia. The
arms and legs were unusually small and thin. The
most outstanding feature was the way the skin rippled
like bubbling marshmallows over an open fire. I
wondered if this might be one of their enslaved races.
As it came closer, it dawned on me why the spindly
limbs were irrelevant to its effectiveness in battle. The
new monster was hot. I mean, fires-of-hell-make-
your-eyeballs-pop hot. No wonder the skin rippled
from the amazing heat. He was like a mirage in the
desert made into burning sulfur-flesh, the most "hell-
ish" creature yet.
     There were books on the shelf right next to it. They
burst into flame from his proximity, lighting the
room, and the wood of the shelf charred right before
our eyes. Maybe it was an optical illusion, but it
appeared that actual flames danced along the thing's
skin. The little voice in the back of my head started
shrieking: Saved the best for last! The trouble with the
little voice was that it was so damned optimistic.
As the living torch moved closer, I saw its eyes
weren't really eyes--more like a ring of flaming dots
so bright that it hurt to look at them. I wondered how
we might appear to this creature; I also wished I had a
barrel of ice water to throw on the uninvited guest.
The others were as confused as their fearless leader.
Arlene was able to fire off a short burst from her AB-
10. The thing didn't even react, but Arlene's machine
pistol became so hot she had to drop it. Then the fire-
thing moved between the others and Yours Truly,
focusing on me.
     Having cut me off, the monster put on a little magic
act. It was so bright, I couldn't turn away, no matter
how painful. . . and I watched its body actually con-
tract, becoming brighter as it squeezed together--like
it was about to explode.
     Training took over, the healthy respect we were
taught for all kinds of explosives. I had no desire to
become Marine flambe.
     I dove to the side, screaming inarticulately; every-
one got the idea, falling flat, trying to cover himself.
Fireboy exploded, a blast lancing out and disintegrat-
ing the bookshelf where I had stood a moment before.
Albert threw himself over Ken's body, then left Ken
on the floor and grabbed his Uzi clone. We had all the
light we could use.
     The big Mormon opened fire. The big gun actually
sounded soft compared to the horrific explosion from
the alien, but the result was the same as with Arlene.
Did the thing generate a heat field around its immedi-
ate body surface, heat so intense that bullets dissolved
before getting through?
     One good plan was growing in my head: run away!
This was a much better plan than it sounded. Rising
shakily to my feet, I could see quite clearly the tunnel
we'd been trying to find. The shelf I'd been exploring
had indeed covered the exit, and the explosion had
done a superb job of open sesame. I considered how to
rescue the others, or at least Jill and Ken. The mission
wasn't a burnout case yet.
     For some reason, the fire monster seemed to have a
thing for me; it targeted me again. I recognized the
telltale signs. Looking right at me (if those black dots
counted for eyes), it began to contract, powering up
for another burst.
     Before I ended my career as a piece of toast, Arlene
came to the rescue. She got right behind the monster
and opened fire from behind. Having learned her
lesson about wasting bullets on this guy, she used the
fire extinguisher.
     Never discourage initiative, that's my motto!
She sprayed the thing, snarling, "Goddamned fire-
eater!" It was the best name she'd invented in quite a
while.
     The monster screamed. The fire extinguisher was
actually extinguishing the fire! This suggested a whole
new approach to dealing with the monsters: properly
labeled household appliances could restore Heaven
on Earth.
     Arlene kept pouring the foam on the fire-eater, who
was making a sound somewhere between a screeching
cat and sizzling bacon. If the Marine Corps were
around after we'd saved the world, I'd recommend a
special medal for Arlene as master of unconventional
weaponry: first the chainsaw, now the safety equip-
ment.
     I have the highest possible regard for women who
save my life.
     "Move out!" I bellowed to one and all, issuing one
of my favorite orders. Everyone liked the idea just
fine. Except for one imp, that is, without the brains to
avoid tough Marines who had just stopped a monster
compared to which an imp isn't fit to light cigars.
Imps aren't generally all that bright, of course, so I
don't know why I was surprised. The ugly little sucker
dropped through the hole and threw a flaming wad of
snot that I refused to take seriously. On the other
hand, one of those wads cashed the chips of Bill
Ritch. The thought made me doubly mad, so ...
I returned fire with my double-barreled, thinking
how I actually preferred an honest, all-American duck
gun like this one to the fascist, pump-action variety.
Yeah! The imp split down the middle, the guts making
a Rorschach test. Better than a riot gun, no question
about it.
     We hauled ass down the tunnel as I ran our list of
liabilities. There was only one, actually, but it was big.
If we'd gotten the shelf open and closed behind us,
we'd have a decent chance right now. However, all the
monsters in the world knew where we'd gone, and the
hordes would be hot on our heels.
     Reinforcing this idea was the hissing, growling,
slithering, wheezing, roaring, shlumping, and thud-
thud-thudding a few hundred meters behind us.
There was nothing to do but run like thieves in the
night.
     Arlene brought the fire extinguisher with her; God
knows why, unless we ran into another of our brand-
new playmates. Albert and Jill were strapped, so their
hands were free to carry Ken. Poor Ken. The way he
was getting knocked around, bruised, and cut, he
would have been doing a lot better if the bandages had
been left on. If we got out of this, I promised to buy
him a whole new body bandage.
     The tunnel, winding snakelike, was terribly narrow,
lined with raw earth and occasionally propped with
wooden braces. The little voice in the back of my
head insisted we were perfectly all right, so long as the
passage wasn't blocked. This was the same voice that
always told me to leave the umbrella home right
before the heaviest rainfall of the year.
     Now, it's not like we hit a real cave-in. If we had,
we'd simply have died right there. But a partial cave-
in we could deal with.
     Albert threw his massive frame at the wall of dirt,
and it shifted. We were slowed down by Jill and
Arlene pushing Ken through, while Albert yanked
from the other side. I guarded the rear with the
shotgun loaded, ready for bear. No bears.
     A few feet ahead, we hit the outside of a huge pipe
and found a hole buzz-cut right through it. We opened
it, and I wished I'd left my olfactory senses back on
Mars.
     "Ew!" said Jill, another unsolicited but insightful
commentary.
     Sewer main. We were assailed by the odor of
methane.
     "Dive in, the offal's fine!" said Arlene cheerfully.
The sound of our pursuers only fifty meters back
made the idea a lot more appealing. We could hear
their raspy breathing.
     We ducked into the sewers, very careful that Ken
shouldn't accidentally drown. We'd come this far
together, and he was starting to feel like a member of
the family.
     As we ran we heard the last sound anyone wants to
hear underground: the roar and whoosh of a rocket. I
crashed into the others, making Albert drop Ken.
Something heavy, smelling of burnt copper, whizzed
over our heads; a nasty little rocket that just started to
curve, heat-seeking, but couldn't quite make the turn.
It blew a hole in the pipe instead.
     And I'd thought the tunnel smelled bad before!
I shook the dust out of my eyes and coughed, then
lifted Jill from the ground. Tears were pouring down
her face, but she wasn't crying; my eyes were watering
too. Albert jerked Arlene to her feet, and they both
checked on Ken, who was lying facedown with a pile
of dirt on his head.
     Jill opened his mouth, shoveled the dirt out, and
made sure he hadn't swallowed his tongue. He
coughed, and Jill got to her feet, handing Ken off like
a sack of wheat. I loved watching a fourteen-year-old
do what was considered criminal in the previous
world: act like an adult.
     "Over here," yelled Albert, pointing to a small
hatch leading to a cramped corridor. The monsters
were big; they'd have a hard time following.
Albert went first, probably not a good idea. I
preferred Jill and Arlene in front. If we were am-
bushed from behind, the girls might still get through,
and Albert and I could hold off the Bad Guys; the
mission would go on.
     But it was too late to do anything about it now. At
least we knew that anywhere Albert went, the rest of
us could easily follow. I brought up the rear, hanging
back to delay, if necessary.
     The corridor walls were lined with pipes. When I
caught up with the others, they were trying to open a
pressure hatch at the far end. I brought bad luck with
me--the sound of another rocket.
     Albert and I dived left, Arlene and Jill right, taking
Ken with them. Our actions confused the heat-seeker:
it turned partially starboard, exploding and rupturing
several pipes. Again we had the fun of choking and
gagging on a huge burst of methane.
     Albert grunted as he turned the difficult pressure
hatch; we heard the gratifying sound of metal grinding
against metal. He didn't open the portal a moment
too soon.
     Looking back, I saw imps, zombies, and one bony.
That answered the question of who'd been firing
rockets. Bringing up their rear was either another fire-
eater or the one Arlene had sprayed with the foam. If
the latter, he'd be looking for payback.
     Arlene stepped up, fire extinguisher pointed, ready
for round two. I suddenly remembered something
from my raucous high school daze. "No!" I shouted.
"Get back! Get through the hatch right now!"
She got.
     Coming out last, I slammed the hatch shut and
spun the wheel. "That's not going to last," said
Albert.
     "Won't need to," I said, backing away. "Everybody,
get way back!"
     Albert's face was a mask of puzzlement; then it
dawned on him what was about to happen.
     "Hope you all really like barbecue," I addressed the
troops. "Hey, Arlene. Remember when they built the
L.A. subway?"
     "Yeah . . ." she said, scowling, still confused.
The mother of all gas explosions rocked us off our
feet, blowing the hatch clean off its hinges; the flying
metal could have killed any of us in the path.
I staggered to my feet. It didn't take a lot of nerve to
go over and check on the results; just a strong stom-
ach. Nothing survived that explosion, not even the
fire-eater.
     As I peered into the maw of hell, I saw nothing left
of the alien pursuers except shreds of flesh and a fine
mist of alien blood. And of course the lingering odor
of sour lemons.
     "What happened?" asked Jill, stunned. At least, I
assume that's what she asked; all I could hear was a
long, loud alarm bell.
     I'd counted on the fire-eater; thankfully, it was hot
enough to set off the methane.
     Jill was completely recovered from being stunned.
She jumped up and down and shouted something,
probably some contemporary equivalent of yowza.
We old folk were still a little shell-shocked as we
continued along the sewer. After several twists and
turns, it dawned on us we were lost.
     Arlene had a compass, and now was the time to use
it. "We've got a problem," she said; I was just starting
to be able to hear again. "It shows a different direc-
tion every time."
     "Electric current in the pipe switches," I said.
"Take averages, figure out a rough west."
     No matter where we were and what was happening,
the watchwords must be "Go west, go west." We'd
find the computer in L.A., so the President had told
us; hope he knew what he was talking about. There,
we guaranteed a reckoning the enemy would long
remember.
     31
We continued westward until we finally
     emerged several klicks from where we'd entered.
Night was falling again. We'd had a busy day.
"Transportation," Albert pointed out. We beheld
an old Lincoln Continental, covered in some kind of
crud halfway between rust and slime, making it
impossible to determine its original color. It probably
had an automatic transmission; the mere thought
made me shudder.
     Albert went over and opened the unlocked door.
There was no key. "I'll bet it still runs," he said, lying
down on the seat so he could look up at the steering
column. He did violence to the crappy housing and
started fiddling with the wires. A moment later the
engine coughed into life.
     "You hot-wired the car," said Jill, impressed.
"Sure," he said.
     "I'm surprised you'd know how to do that," she
said.
     "Why?" he asked, getting out of the dinosaur.
"Was that part of sniper training?" Jill wanted to
know.
     "Part of my troubled youth."
"I wish more Mormons were like you," she told
him.
     "The Church was good for me, Jill," he told her. "It
turned my life around."
     "Which way were you facing?" she asked jokingly.
"Toward hell," he said.
     "You're still facing that way," observed Arlene,
"every time you take a step."
     "Yes," he agreed, "but now I'm able to fight it. I'd
rather blast a demon than give him my soul."
We'd had this conversation before. I preferred
opting out this time. Arlene didn't mind a dose of
deja vu, apparently, but then, she was sweet on the
guy. "They're aliens," she said.
     "Sure," he agreed. "But for me, they're demons
too."
     One man's image of terror is another man's joy
ride. Speaking of which, the old Lincoln was enough
of a monster for me. I was half sorry it still ran. A
quick look at the gas gauge told the story: half a tank,
plenty to make it to Los Angeles.
     One thing about an old family car: there was plenty
of room for our family, including Ken propped up
between Jill and Arlene in the backseat. I was happy
to let Albert drive. I rode shotgun.
     Albert flipped on the lights in the twilight and
triumphantly announced, "They work!"
     "Great," I said. "Now turn them off."
"Oh, right," he said like a little boy caught playing
with the wrong toy. We drove along without lights,
heading toward the diminished glow of Ellay.
"Do you have a new plan?" Arlene asked.
     Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw that Jill was
sleeping. "Of course," I said. "Always. I think we
should hijack a plane, elude any pursuit--"
     "Yeah," Albert interrupted. "I wonder if they have
any aircraft? I haven't seen any."
     "Maybe they're using zombie pilots," Arlene com-
mented hopefully. Zombie pilots would not have fast
reflexes.
     "So, as I was saying," I continued, "we take our
plane and hot-tail it to Hawaii. There we find the War
Technology Center and take them Ken. With help
from Jill, we plug Ken into the bionet and crash the
whole, friggin' alien system."
     "Good plan," said Albert.
"Ditto," said Arlene.
     It was good to be appreciated. With a proper
respect for Yours Truly, I might yet help Arlene to find
God. I was certain that Albert wouldn't mind that.
"Wonder if there'll be monsters at the city limits,"
said Albert at length.
     "Don't see why they'd have that much organiza-
tion," I answered, "after what we've seen. What do
you think, Arlene?" I asked, glancing into the rear-
view mirror again. She'd joined Jill in the Land of
Nod. Given the condition of Ken Estes, the backseat
had become the sleeping compartment of this particu-
lar train.
     "The girls are taking forty," commented Albert
with a touch of envy.
     "How are you holding up?" I asked.
"Driving in the dark without lights keeps the old
adrenaline flowing."
     "I know what you mean. But if you can use some
relief, I'll spell you."
     He risked taking his eyes off the black spread of
road long enough to glance over. "You're all right,
Fly. I see why Arlene respects you so much."
"She's told you that?"
     "Not in so many words. But it's an easy tell."
We both tried to discern something of the road. The
horizon was bright, in contrast to the darkness right
in front of us. It was that time of day. I rubbed my
eyes, suddenly starting to lose it.
     "Why don't you take a nap?" he suggested.
"No. Should at least be two of us awake, and I want
to make sure you're one of them."
     "Right."
Exhausted but too wired to sleep, we made it into
Los Angeles at night. We didn't run into any monster
patrols on the way. Maybe they were saving up some
real doozies for us at the Beverly Center.
     At the outskirts of the city, zombie guards shuffled
back and forth in a caricature of military discipline.
Even a zombie would have noticed our approach if
we'd had the headlights on. Score one for basic
procedure.
     Albert took a side road, but we ran into the same
problem. "How long do I keep this up?" he asked.
"All night, I'd say, if I hadn't prepared for this."
"How?"
     "I didn't throw out the lemons we didn't get around
to using before. I wrapped them in plastic wrap from
the MREs. We still have them with us."
     "To borrow from Jill, ick!" he said. "Who's been
carting around that rotting crap?"
     "You, Bubba!"
"Just for that, Fly, you get to wake the girls." The
man knew a thing or two about revenge.
     We parked and I woke up Jill first. Then I let Jill
risk tapping Arlene on the shoulder. Some tough
Marines you wake with kid gloves--or better yet,
with a kid. Arlene came to with a start, but she was
good. Very good.
     The night air felt pleasantly cool. As we spoiled it
with spoiled citrus, Jill asked, "What about Ken?"
"Lime and lemon him too," said Arlene. "We've all
got to be the same to the zombie noses."
     "So, walk or ride?" asked Albert.
"Don't see any reason to give up these wheels
before we have to," I said, amazing myself, consider-
ing how I regarded the old Lincoln. "With the win-
dows down, we ought to pass."
     "I look dead enough to keep driving," said Albert.
We all piled back in, thought rancid, graveyard
thoughts, and rolled.
     As we approached the first zombie checkpoint, I
started worrying. There hadn't been any other cars
around. But we'd seen a fleet of trucks with zombie
drivers back in Buckeye. I'd have felt a lot better if we
weren't the only car.
     Suddenly we were rammed from behind. A truck
had hit us. It didn't have lights. One good view in the
side mirror revealed a zombie driver. "Don't react," I
hissed to everyone, fearing a volley of gunfire at the
wrong moment. Everyone kept his cool.
     "We weren't hit very hard," I said. The truck was
barely tooling along, at about the same slow approach
speed we were doing. "Everyone all right?" I asked
quietly.
     While I received affirmatives, the zombie driver
demonstrated some ancient, primitive nerve impulse
that had survived from the human days of Los Ange-
les. The fughead leaned on his horn. All of a sudden, I
completely relaxed. Getting past the checkpoint was
going to be a cinch.
     "Shall I take us in, Corporal?" asked Albert, obvi-
ously on the same wavelength.
     "Hit it, brother," I said.
The truck stuck close to our bumper through the
totally porous checkpoint. After that, we just drove in
typical L.A. style, weaving drunkenly between
zombie-driven trucks, leaning on our horn, all the
time heading for the ever popular LAX. I wanted to
give the airport the biggest laxative it had ever had
with Lemon Marine Suppositories. Cleans out those
unsightly monsters every time!
     32
We dumped the car in one of the over-
     crowded LAX parking lots. Lot C, in fact. There was
real joy in not worrying about finding a parking place,
and an even greater pleasure in not worrying about
remembering it.
     We only had to hop a single fence to get where we
were going, in the time-honored tradition of hijack-
ers, and Ken didn't weigh very much. A thought
crossed my mind. "So, uh, one of us knows how to fly
a plane, right?"
     "Better than flying it wrong," Arlene said.
"No time for jarhead humor," I said. "Gimmie an
answer."
     "Funny," said Arlene, quite seriously, "but I was
about to ask the same question. Really."
     We both looked at Albert. "I'd been planning to
take lessons, but I never got around to it," he admit-
ted sadly.
     "How hard can it be?" I asked, recalling the words
of an old movie character.
     We infiltrated the refueling area for the big jets, and
I found the perfect candidate: an ancient C-5 Air
Force transport, which could easily make it all the
way to Hawaii. Assuming somebody could drive it.
Everyone was already doing a good zombie perfor-
mance, although I still thought Jill was overdoing it.
Ken was propped between Albert and me, and we
were able to make it look like he was stumbling along
with us. We prepared to tramp up the ramp, joining a
herd of other zombies.
     A pair of Clydes waited at the entrance. Damn the
luck! We could pass for zombies among zombies, but I
wasn't at ail sure about these guys,
     They were disarming each zombie as it entered the
plane. It was a perfectly reasonable precaution, con-
sidering how zombies acted in close quarters when
they were jostled, pushed, pulled ... or damn near
anything else. I couldn't blame the Clydes for not
wanting the plane to be suddenly depressurized, but
the idea of being disarmed was not at all appealing.
We did some shifting around, then hit the ramp
with myself in the lead, the other four right behind
me, four abreast with Jill and Ken on the inside. Jill
did as good a job as I had of keeping Ken's end up.
This makeshift plan could work if the Clydes were
bored.
     Sure enough, they barely paid attention as we
simply took our heavy artillery and tossed them on
the pile outside the plane. Bye-bye, shotgun. This left
us with nothing but the pistols hidden inside our
jackets.
     We stuck close to each other, lost in the zombie
mob, as the plane started to taxi; then we worked our
way up front. The Clydes were in the back, huddled
and talking about something. By the time the plane
lifted off, giving me that rush I always get from
takeoff, we were close enough to the front that we
could duck behind the curtain leading to the cockpit
door. I took it on myself to give it a gentle push.
The door opened inward, revealing a pair of imps
hovering over a strange globe, another product of
alien technology, bolted to the floor. The monsters
appeared to be driving the plane through the use of
this pulsing, humming, buzzing ball. It gave me a
headache just looking at it; biotech made me need a
Pepto-Bismol. The glistening, sweating device was
connected to the instrument panel.
     The imps' backs were to us. They were so preoccu-
pied with their task, they didn't even turn around
when we entered. I closed the door quietly and locked
it.
     From the cockpit I saw Venus ... we were going the
wrong way, due east!
     This simply would not do. I pointed at the imps,
and then at Arlene. She nodded. We stepped forward,
pistols in hand, and the barrels of our guns touched
the back of imp heads at exactly the same instant.
The little voice in the back of my head chose that
instant to open its fat yap and suggest that Arlene and
I should say something to the imps, on the order of,
"We're hijacking this plane to Hawaii. We never did
have a proper honeymoon!"
     But there was no way to give an imp orders, other
than Fall down, you're dead! We'd simply take over
the plane. After we killed the imps.
     I'm certain that Arlene and I fired at the same
moment. The idle thoughts passing through my mind
couldn't have affected the results.
     But something went wrong.
The imp Arlene tapped went down and stayed
     down. She put two more bullets in him, almost by
reflex, to make certain that the job was good and
done. I should have been able to take care of one lousy
imp, after the way we'd exterminated ridiculous num-
bers of zombies, demons, ghosts, and pumpkins.
One lousy imp! At the closest possible range! The
head turned ever so slightly as I squeezed the trigger.
Somehow the bullet went in at an angle that didn't
put the imp down.
     Turning around, screaming, it flung one flaming
snotball. One lousy snotball. I dived to the left. Arlene
was already out of the line of fire, on the right, taking
care of the other one. Jill crouched, fingers stuck in
her ears, trying to keep out the loud reverberations of
the shots in the enclosed space. Albert could have
done the same.
     But Albert froze. As much of a pro as he was, he
stood there with the dumb expression of a deer caught
in the headlights, right before road kill. Maybe Albert
had a little voice in the back of his head, and it had
chosen that moment to bug him. Or maybe it was
such a foregone conclusion that these imps were toast,
he'd let down his guard, taking a brief mental rest at
precisely the wrong moment.
     The fireball struck him dead-center in the face.
I remembered losing Bill Ritch that way.
     It didn't seem right to survive all the firepower this
side of the goddamned sun, and then cash in on
something so trivial. It made me so mad, the cockpit
vanished in a haze of red. It was like I'd mainlined
another dose of that epinephrine stuff from Deimos.
I dropped my gun and jumped on the imp, beating
at it with my fists, tearing at it with my teeth. I was
screaming louder than poor Albert, writhing on the
floor holding his face.
     Hands were on me from behind, trying to pull me
off, little hands. Jill was behind me, yelling something
in my ear I couldn't understand; but the part of me
that didn't want to hurt Jill won out over the part that
wanted to rip the imp apart with my fingernails.
Letting go seemed a bad idea, though; there'd be
nothing stopping it from tossing the fireballs to fry us
all. Then I heard Arlene shouting something about a
"clear shot," and I suddenly remembered the inven-
tion of firearms.
     The caveman jumped out of the way to give Cockpit
Annie the target she wanted. She pumped round after
round into the imp's open mouth. He never closed it.
He never raised his claw hands again.
     Of course, while we were encountering these diffi-
culties, there was a commotion outside. I guess we
had made a bit of noise.
     One of the zombies tried the door. The lock held for
now. Sanity returned, and I helped the blinded Albert
get up, casually noticing that he hadn't taken any of
the flaming stuff down his throat or nose. He might
live.
     In the distance we heard gunshots and curses. The
Clydes must have been forcing their way forward,
shooting any zombies in their way. Suddenly, I was
grateful that the plane was a sardine can of solid,
reworked flesh.
     "Okay, moment of truth," said Arlene, the mantle
of command falling on her there and then. It's not
something I'd wish on my worst enemy. "Who's going
to fly this damned thing?" she asked in the tones of a
demand, not a question.
     The gunshots crept close. We had perhaps a minute.
"I will," said Jill in a small voice; but with confi-
dence. I remembered her stint in the truck with some
trepidation. Then I remembered how she stayed be-
hind the wheel after a missile tried to take her head
off.
     "You didn't tell us you could fly one of these," I
said, getting my voice back.
     "You didn't ask," she said. It sounded like one of
those old comedy routines, but without a laugh track.
It wasn't funny.
     "Jill," I said, "have you ever flown a plane before?"
"Kind of."
     "Kind of? What the hell does that mean?"
A zombie threw itself against the door, where
Albert still moaned. He braced himself, still fighting,
still a part of the team.
     She sighed. "Okay, I haven't really flown; but I'm a
wizard at all the different flight simulators!"
Arlene and I stared at each other with mounting
horror. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but my
experience bringing down the mail rocket--with a
high-tech program helping every mile of the way--
probably qualified me less to fly the C-5 than Jill with
her simulators.
     "All right?" I said to Arlene.
"Right," she answered, shrugging, then went to
hook up Ken.
     I helped Jill look for jacks on the glistening biotech.
She was more willing to touch it than I was. She found
what she needed and plugged Ken into the system.
The operation went smoothly; he'd been designed for
the purpose.
     Jill called up SimFlight on her CompMac and
tapped furiously, connecting it to Ken, then to the
actual plane. A moment later she spoke with that
triumphant tone of voice that rarely let us down:
"Got it! We have control!"
     The gunshots suggested the Clydes were getting
closer, and more heavy bodies were beginning to
throw themselves against the cockpit door. I was
about to make a suggestion when Albert beat me to it.
He was down but not out.
     "Godspeed," whispered Albert, still covering his
eyes. "Now, why don't you purge all the air from the
cabin, daughter?"
     Raising my eyebrows, I silently mouthed "daugh-
ter" to Arlene, but she shook her head. Albert obvi-
ously meant it generically. He was much too young to
be her real father.
     Faster and faster, Jill typed away . . . then the rag-
ing, surging sounds behind the door grew dimmer and
dimmer, finally fading away to nothing. Modern
death by keyboard. We were already at forty thousand
feet and climbing; up there, there was too little air to
sustain even zombies. And Clydes, human-real or
human-fake, had a human need for plenty of O2.
"Well done, daughter," said Albert. He could hear
just fine.
     Having come this close to buying it, I could hardly
believe we were safe again. A coughing fit came out of
nowhere and grabbed my heart. Arlene put her arm
around me and said, "Your turn to sleep again." I
didn't argue. I noticed that Albert was already
snoozing.
     Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care . , .
I felt too lousy, and too guilty somehow, to stay
under for long. Less than a half hour later I was awake
again. Jill had turned around, crossed the coastline,
and was over the ocean. All was well with the world
... for a few seconds longer.
     "Holy hell, we're losing airspeed!" she suddenly
screamed, jerking us all awake. "We're losing alti-
tude!"
     It's always something.
The engines strained and whined, making the
     noises they would if headed into a ferocious head
wind. But there was no wind. With a big fooooomp,
one engine flamed out. Jill wasn't kidding about the
quality of her simulator exercises; she instantly dived
the plane to restart it. Then she headed back, circling
around to try again.
     "Stupid monster mechanics," I yelled. "Dumb-ass
demon dildo ground crew! How the hell do these
idiots intend to conquer the world when they can't
even--"
     "Shut up!" Jill shouted. I shut up. She was right. I
could be pissed off all I wanted after she saved our
collective ass.
     Two more tries and she was white-faced. "It's some
kind of field," she said. "We can't go west."
"So that's how they're conquering the world," said
Arlene calmly. I took my medicine like a good boy.
33
     Jill set the auto-pilot to continue circling,
hoping no one had noticed the deviation yet. She
typed away, accessing the biotech nav-com aboard.
Then she smiled grimly. "Listen up," she said.
We sure as hell did; the mantle of command was
hers while we were in the air. "Guys, we're going to
have to dump you off at Burbank." She said it like
Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell where the devil himself
is imprisoned in ice, spending eternity chewing on
Judas like a piece of tough caramel. I'd made good
grades in my lit. courses.
     "What? Why?" demanded Arlene.
"The force-field switch is located in the old Disney
tower, near the studio."
     "Is nothing sacred to these devils?" I asked.
"Night on Bald Mountain," said Arlene, "part
deux."
     "Sorry. No choice."
Jill altered course and headed northeast. We didn't
speak for the rest of the short flight. None of us could
think of anything worth saying.
     Finally, Jill was bringing the plane low over Bur-
bank International Airport. "Can you do a rolling
stop?" I asked. "Slow down to about fifty kilometers
per hour, then turn it into a touch-and-go?"
"Uh," she said. After thinking about it, she contin-
ued: "Yeah. Why?" I let the silence speak for me. She
gasped and said, "You're crazy if you're thinking of a
roll-out!"
     "I'm thinking of a roll-out."
"What the hell," said Arlene. "I'm crazy too."
Jill shook her head, obviously wondering about
both of us.
     She cruised in over the airport, ignoring the stan-
dard landing pattern and dodging other planes, which
answered my question about lousy zombie pilots.
We were low enough that the passenger cabin was
pressurized again. Arlene and I went aft, picking our
way over a planeful of zombies and two Clydes that
were examples of the only good monsters. Jill kept
calling out, "Are you ready?" She sounded more
nervous each time. We reassured her. It was easier
than reassuring ourselves.
     "Open the rear cargo door!" Arlene shouted so that
Jill could hear. We hit the runway deck hard, bounc-
ing twice; the C-5 wasn't supposed to fly this slow.
The rushing wind made everything a lot noisier. But
we were able to hear Jill, loud and clear, when she said
the magic word:
     "Jump!"
We did just that, hitting the tarmac hard. I rolled
over and over and over, bruising portions of my
anatomy I'd never noticed before. I heard the sound
effects from Arlene doing her impression of a tennis
ball. But I didn't doubt this was the right way to
disembark the plane; couldn't risk a real landing.
I got to my feet first. Jill was having trouble with her
altitude. "Jesus, no!" shouted Arlene at the sight of
Jill headed for a row of high rises.
     "Lift, dammit, lift!" I spoke angrily into the air.
There wasn't time for a proper prayer.
     At the last second, bright, blinding flares erupted
from under both wings, and the C-5 pulled sharply
upward. A few seconds later we heard a roar so loud
that it almost deafened us.
     "What the hell?" Arlene asked, mouth hanging
open.
     "Outstanding!" I shouted, fisting the air. "She must
have found the switch for the JATO rockets."
"JATO?"
     "Jet-assisted takeoff!" I shouted. "They're rockets
on aircraft to allow them to do ultra-short-field take-
offs."
     "I didn't know that plane would have those."
"She probably didn't either," I said, so proud of her
I wished she could hear me call her daughter the same
way Albert had.
     We watched until Jill became a dark speck in the
sky, circling until we could get the field down.
We tucked and ran, jogging all the way to the huge
Disney building; the Disney logo at the top was shot
up--somebody'd been using it for target practice.
"Ready?" I asked.
     "Always."
I took a deep breath; pistols drawn, we popped the
door and slid inside.
     My God, what a wave of nostalgia! It was like old
times again . . . back on Phobos, sliding around cor-
ners, hunting those zombies!
     Up the stairwells--couldn't trust the lifts . . , I
mean the elevators. Any minute, I knew I'd run into a
hell-prince--and me without my trusty rocket
launcher. Thank God, I didn't.
     We played all our old games: cross fire, ooze-barrel-
blow, even rile-the-critters. The last was the most fun:
you get zombies and spinys so pissed, they munch
each other alive.
     Every floor we visited, we looked for that damned
equipment. Nada. We climbed higher and higher; I
began to get the strong feeling that we'd find the field
generator way, way up, fortieth floor, all the way at
the top.
     It'd be just our luck.
We took Sig-Cows off'n the first two zombies we
killed; better than the pistols, even though they were
still just 10mm. The next one had a beautiful, won-
derful shotgun. I'd take it, even if it was a fascist
pump-action.
     "Like old times," I said.
"Back on Deimos," she agreed.
     "They die just as easily. I like my new toy."
"Hold your horses, Fly Taggart," she said. "Haven't
you forgotten something?"
     "Like what?"
"A certain wager."
     No sooner did she mention the bet than I did
indeed remember. There was only one thing to do.
Change the subject: "Those zombies were probably
the least of our troubles, Arlene. We can settle this
later--"
     "No way, Fly! I jumped out of a plane for you, and
you're gonna pay your damn bet." When she got like
this there was nothing to do but surrender. All the
demonic forces of hell were like child's play compared
to welshing on a bet with Arlene Sanders.
     "Well, now that you mention it, I do have a vague
recollection," I lied. "And that Sig-Cow looks like a
mighty fine weapon at that."
     "Good," she said. "You take the Sig-Cow. The
shotgun is mine."
     We resolved this dispute at just about the right
moment, because a fireball exploded over our heads.
We were under bombardment by imps. Now the new
weapons would receive a literal baptism of fire.
Blowing away the spiny bastards, up the fifth floor
stairwell, I turned a corner and found myself nose-to-
nose with another Clyde. This close, there was no
question: it looked exactly the same as the one we'd
killed in the alley in Riverside, the same as the two
who'd disarmed us getting on the plane.
     There was no question now: they were, indeed,
genetically engineered. The aliens had finally made
their breakthrough . . . God help the human race.
He raised his .30 caliber, belt-fed, etc., etc.; but we
had the drop on him. He never knew what hit him--
well, it was a hail of bullets and Arlene's buckshot,
and he probably knew that; you know what I mean!
But now I had my own weapon; she looked envious
. . . but she'd had her pick. The bet was paid.
As a final treat, thirty-seven floors up--Jesus, was I
getting winded! I felt like an old man--we were
attacked by a big, floating, familiar old pumpkin.
It hissed. It made faces. It spat ball lightning at us.
I spat a stream of .30 caliber machine-gun bullets
back at it, popping it like a beach ball. It spewed all
over the room, spraying that blue ichor it uses for
blood.
     "Jesus, Fly," said my partner in crime, "I'm going
to lose my hearing if this keeps up."
     "What?"
"That machine gun! It's almost as loud as Jill and
her jets."
     "What's that?" I asked, grinning. I was delighted
with the results of my belt-fed baby.
     She gave a "playful" punch on the arm, my old
buddy. I yelped in pain.
     "Where's an uninjured place on your body?" she
asked.
     "That's a very good question. I think tumbling
down the airstrip eliminated all of those."
     "Same here," she said. "But you can still make a
great pumpkin pie." She kicked at the disgusting
remains on the ground.
     "Shall we find the top of the mouse house?" I
suggested.
     "After you, Fly."
In battlefield conditions, a proper gentleman goes
ahead of the lady. If she asks, anyway. I was happy to
oblige; but the nose of my machine gun actually
preceded both of us.
     At the very top we found a prize.
The door wasn't even locked. Inside was a room full
of computers hooked into a new collection of alien
biotech. This stuff gave off a stench, and some of it
made mewling sounds like an injured animal. I
wished Jill could be with us, plotting new ways of
becoming a technovivisectionist.
     "Got to be it," said Arlene.
I had trouble making out her words, not because my
hearing was impaired, but because of the noise level.
My machine gun contributed a good portion of it. So
did Arlene's shotgun. And there were several explo-
sions. A nice fanfare as we blew away unsuspecting
imps and zombies tending the equipment.
     I picked up a fiberglass baton off the body of an ex-
zombie guard and used it to bar the door. I expected
more playmates along momentarily. The idea didn't
even bother me; not so long as I could buy us some
time.
     Arlene waved the smoke away and began fiddling
with the controls on the main console. She frantically
started flipping one push-switch after another, look-
ing for the one that would kill the field.
     "There has to be a way of doing this," she said, "or
finding out if we've already done it.
     "What makes you so sure?"
"Well, what if the aliens wanted to fly to Hawaii?"
I nodded. "I can just see a pinkie in one of those
Hawaiian shirts."
     "Damn! I wish we had Jill and Ken with us."
"Defeats the whole purpose, A.S. They're ready
and waiting, forty thousand up, ready to blow for the
islands as soon as we cut the bloody field."
"Most of the switches require a psi-connection to
activate, and I can't do that!"
     By now there was a huge contingent pounding on
the door. The fiberglass bar was holding them ... so
far. These sounds did not improve Arlene's psycho-
logical state or aid the difficult work she was trying to
do.
     "I'm not getting it," she said. "I'm close, but I'm
not getting it. Damn, damn, damn . . ."
     "Is there anything I can do?"
"Hold the door. Hold the door! I'm sure there's one
special button, but how will I know it even if I find
it?"
     As if to mock her, the entire panel went dark right
then. She looked up and saw . . .
     Me. Me, her buddy. Fly Taggart, technical dork,
first-class. In my hand I held a gigantic electrical cord
that I'd sliced in half with my commando knife. I
knew that knife would come in handy one day.
"When in doubt, yank it out," I said with a smile.
She tried to laugh but was too tired for any sound to
come out. "Did you learn that in VD class?" she
asked.
     I was saved from answering her because the door
started to give way under the onslaught. Then the
shred of a feeble plan crept into my brain. I ran across
to the windows and smashed them open.
     We were forty stories high, looking straight down
on concrete, but it seemed better to open the windows
than leave them closed.
     "We took the energy wall down, at least," I said
over my shoulder. "Jill's got to notice it's gone and
tread air for Hawaii."
     Arlene nodded, bleak even in victory. She was
thinking of Albert ... I didn't need alien psionics to
know that. "The War Techies will track her as an
'unknown rider,'" added Arlene bleakly, "and they'll
scramble some jets; they should be able to make
contact and talk her down."
     "Would you say the debt is paid?"
I didn't have to specify which debt. Arlene consid-
ered for a long time. "Yeah," she said at last, "it's
paid."
     "Evens?"
"Evens."
     "Great. Got a hot plan to talk us down?" I asked
my buddy.
     She shook her head. I had a crazy wish that before
Albert was blinded, and before Arlene and I found
ourselves in this cul-de-sac, I'd played Dutch uncle to
the two love birds, complete with blessings and un-
wanted advice.
     But somehow this did not seem the ideal moment
to suggest that Arlene seriously study the Mormon
faith, if she really loved good old Albert. A sermon on
why it was better to have some religion, any religion,
lay dormant in my mind.
     Also crossing my mind was another sermon, on the
limitations of the atheist viewpoint, right before your
mortal body is ripped to shreds. Bad taste, especially
if you delivered it to someone with only precious
seconds left to come up with a hot plan.
     She shook her head. "There's no way," she began,
and then paused. "Unless . . ."
     "Yes?" I asked, trying not to let the sound of a
hundred slavering monsters outside the door add
panic to the atmosphere.
     Arlene stared at the door, at the console, then out
the window. She went over to the window like she had
all the time in the world and looked straight down.
Then up. For some reason, she looked up.
     She faced me again, wearing a big, crafty, Arlene
Sanders smile. "You are not going to believe this, Fly
Taggart, but I think--I think I have it. I know how to
get us down and get us to Hawaii to join Albert."
"And Jill," I added. I nodded back, convinced
she'd finally cracked. "Great idea, Arlene. We could
use a vacation from all this pressure."
     "You don't believe me."
"You're right. I don't believe you."
     Arlene smiled slyly. She was using the early-worm-
that-got-the-bird smile. "Flynn Taggart. .. bring me
some duct tape from the toolbox, an armload of
computer-switch wiring, and the biggest, goddamned
boot you can find!"