David, Peter PSI-man 02 Deathscape UCBATTLE OF THE PSIONICS
Suddenly two huge arms wrapped around Chuck from behind. He felt a holstered gun 
the other man was wearing. But his arms were pinned too tightly.
Chuck reached out with his mind to pull the gun from the holster. Nothing 
happened.
It was as if his mind power had been shut down. Chuck gasped, straining more 
than he ever had, and still the gun would not come free.
"My God," a voice gasped from the darkness, "you've got one hell of a power, 
haven't you?"
PSI-MAN
DEATHSCAPE
PSI-MAN
DEATHSCAPE
Peter David
ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK
PSI-MAN: DEATHSCAPE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any 
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, 
or locales is entirely coincidental.
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Diamond edition /1991 Ace mass-market edition / March
All rights reserved. Copyright  1991 by Charter Communications Inc.
Cover art by Edwin Herder.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other 
means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing 
Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 
10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is 
http://www.penguinputnam.com
Check out the ACE Science Fiction & Fantasy newsletter and much more on the 
Internet at Club PPI!
ISBN: 0-441-00710-4
ACE
Ace Books are published by the Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin 
Putnam Inc.,
Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
November 1, 2021
Thru
November 2, 2021
1
MOST CARS THAT came and went from the large building known throughout Boulder, 
Colorado, as the Internet Propulsion Laboratory used the single main road that 
ran to and from it. There were small connecting roads off to the side, but they 
led to high mountainous areas. No one lived there. People lived in town, or in 
the suburbs, but the idea of residing up in the mountainous regions? It was 
absurd.
As noted, no one lived there.
But hiding out there that was something else again.
Up one of the steepest, most mountainous of roads drove the van. The sky was 
overcast and gray, much as it had been the day before and the day before that, 
and probably the way that it would be in all the succeeding days. The sun was 
setting, although the only way to tell was that the gray was simply becoming 
darker gray. There were stories of how, decades earlier, it was possible to sit 
on a cliffside and watch a great, glowing orb drop below the horizon line, the 
daylight being given over to night, stars appearing in the night sky. Just 
stories, though. Fantasies that many living in present days could not even 
remember.
The van was carefully neutral and nondescript. At the moment it was painted 
gray. Two weeks ago it had been blue, and eight weeks before that, white. 
Rattling around in the rear of the cargo bay was a small pile of license plates 
for easy conversion. It rolled up the incline on tires that were rapidly 
becoming threadbare, coughing in protest as gears shifted to urge it the rest of 
the way up the hill.
The van suddenly made a sharp right turn into a small pathway that no one would 
have been able to spot if they hadn't already known it was there. It swayed from 
side to side, the rattling becoming even more pronounced, and the man who was 
riding in the rear of the cargo bay held on with grim determination, 
uncomplaining, perhaps even resigned to his difficult lot in life. Nevertheless, 
he grunted slightly as if to register token protest.
The driver heard it and took immediate umbrage. "I'm doing the best I can, 
dammit," he snarled. There was no passenger seat next to him. They had ripped it 
out to provide as much room as possible.
"I know you are, goddammit, just drive," snapped the passenger. "Jesus, Buzz, 
get your head out of your butt, okay?" His legendary patience was starting to 
wear thin, and because of the abruptness and harshness of his reply, it startled 
the driver into silence.
The van made a final turn into a final, hard-to-see turnoff, and chugged through 
the darkness toward a ramshackle building. An angry barking sounded from up 
ahead in response to the ratting of the van, but stopped as the van pulled up 
and the two men got out.
The driver, Buzz, clapped his hands together briskly, summoning the dog that he 
had raised from a pup. He remembered when he'd first seen Mars and judged by the 
paws that the dog was going to be large, even for a Doberman. Just how large he 
could not have imagined as Mars loomed out of the darkness, pausing slightly to 
confirm with scent what ears had already told him.
Mars lumbered forward, the blackness of his fur enabling him to blend with the 
night. If he remained still, he would merge with the shadows and no one would 
know he was there until he chose to make his presence knowna move that was 
usually fatal for the unwary.
Buzz rubbed on the back of the Dobie's huge neck, and the dog flattened out his 
ears. "Good to see you're keeping an eye on things," said Buzz, and then walked 
toward the house.
His strides were long, since Buzz was well over six feet tall. He wore faded 
jeans with holes in the knees, and an old army surplus jacket. His brown hair 
was long and straight, hanging down to around his shoulders but thinning on the 
top, and his thick moustache was uneven and needed a trim. His eyes were mostly 
hidden beneath his bushy eyebrows.
Buzz shoved open the door and was greeted by the sound of a hammer cocking in 
the darkness. He paused there and said dryly, "Someday, you asshole, you're 
going to blow me to kingdom come before I can open my mouth."
"That'd be an improvement," came floating from the darkness.
"Where's Jupe?" was asked by the other voice, a female.
Buzz chucked a thumb. "Coming."
"How's it scope?"
"Fine, Shai," said Buzz, glancing around. "Can't we have any goddamn light in 
here?"
"No. Somebody might see us."
"Like who, a raccoon? Gimme a break?" He had put a cigarette in his mouth and 
was holding a lighter up, about to light it.
There was an angry hiss, like a snake spit, and the lighter was blasted out of 
Buzz's hand, shattering. The bullet smacked into the wall behind.
He stood there a moment, his mouth moving but no sound emerging. "Shai, youyou 
asshole!" he managed to get out finally.
"Filthy habit," came Shai's voice.
"You could've killed me!"
"There's that. There's always that. Course if I wanted to kill you, you'd have a 
bullet in your brain right now."
There was a soft footfall behind Buzz, and he turned to see Jupiter standing in 
the doorway.
Jupiter had been the passenger in the van. He should have been right behind 
Buzz, but as always, he took his own sweet time getting anywhere. Privately, 
Buzz figured that it was because Jupiter was allowing for the possibility of a 
trap at all times, and figured that it would be preferable for Buzz to spring 
it.
Jupiter was a small man, especially in comparison to Buzz, and yet there was 
something about him that indisputably marked him as the leader. His body was 
lean and muscular, his neck long, and his face foxlike. His hair was 
close-cropped and blond, almost white. He surveyed the group, those he could see 
and those he couldn't.
Buzz pointed into the darkness. "Shai shot my lighter," he complained.
"Filthy habit," said Jupiter.
This drew a low laugh from the darkness, and an angry grimace from Buzz.
There was a slow shifting of feet as someone rose in the darkness, and moments 
later a tall man stepped from the dark. The deep blackness of his skin had 
hidden him well in much the same way that the darkness enfolded the Doberman on 
guard outside. His head was shaved clean, but a thin beard ran along the edges 
of his lantern jaw. He was cradling a sleek I&L automatic with nightscope and 
silencer, his preferred hand weapon and the one that he had used moments ago to 
dissuade Buzz from lighting up. In his deep voice he rumbled, "Buzz said it 
scopes. Buzz is an asshole, though. What you say, Jupe?"
"It scopes," agreed Jupiter in that smooth way he had. "In fact we do it 
tonight."
"Aw, man," came the female voice, and now she stepped out as well into the pale 
light that the night sky was providing. "We do it tonight, by morning they'll be 
combing the area for us."
"No, Luta," replied Jupiter. "They will think we've fled the area. It won't 
occur to them that we'd be less than two miles away."
Luta pursed her lips. She looked small and withdrawn, habitually wearing clothes 
that were much too large on her. Her sleeves usually covered over her hands. Her 
red hair was close-cropped and hidden beneath a kerchief, her body equally 
hidden beneath the many layers of clothing. Her eyes were large and smoldering. 
"Bullshit," she said.
"It's not bullshit," replied Jupiter, but Luta wasn't listening anymore. She had 
retreated back into the darkness, there to murmur to herself and occasionally 
snarl angrily.
"You think we can take it?" said Shai after a moment.
"Yeah, we can take it," replied Jupiter.
"Place is guarded."
"No big deal. It's a quick in and out. We go in, we plant the bomb, we're out. 
One less place for our beloved government to be manufacturing poison."
"You sure?" said Shai. "Maybe it's a trap."
"It's no trap," said Jupiter. He leaned against a wall, his arms folded. 
"Remember, they think we're in Minnesota."
"We're not the only game in town, man," said Buzz. He automatically reached for 
a cigarette, then remembered that the trigger-happy Shai had dispatched his 
lighter. "Other groups are around, y'know. Scattered throughout the country. Get 
with the times, man. This is the twenty-first century, after all. We're not the 
only ones fighting for the environment."
"Maybe," agreed Jupiter, "but we're dropping, man. You hear about Porky?"
The others reacted with surprise, including Buzz who had been with Jupiter most 
of the day. Jupiter hadn't breathed a word about it. "What about Porky?" he 
said.
"Nailed him."
"No." Shai didn't want to believe it, and in the corner of the room, Luta 
gasped. "Shit no. Porky's a fucking legend, man."
"Yeah, well, now that's all he is," said Jupiter. "He and his people were in 
Chicago, and the Complex helped nail him."
"Aw, man." Shai was shaking his head and he walked the length of the room, 
blending in with the shadows. "Between the army and the Complexman, whatever 
happened to government of the people and all that shit?"
"Somebody realized just how much shit it was," said Jupiter. "We gotta do this 
one, people. Do it big. Between the stuff they're producing in that factory and 
the waste material they produce making the stuff"
"We got it," said Buzz, and shook his head. He shivered slightly. "Man Porky. 
Can't believe it."
"Believe it," said Jupiter. "And believe that if we're not careful, we'll be 
next."
The comment hung there in the air, unresponded to. No one bothered to point out 
the obviousthat perhaps now would be the time for the group to split up. To 
give up the fight, to count as blessings that they had gotten away with as much 
as they did and be satisfied with that.
It was not suggested because it was not an option.
2
"CHUCK, THERE WAS nothing we could have done."
Dakota was saying the same thing for what seemed the hundredth time. And, as 
before, Chuck did not seem to be paying attention, or at least he didn't seem to 
believe it. Instead he just sat there opposite her at the table in the diner, 
rapping his knuckles in irritation on the stained tabletop.
Dakota shook her head as she studied him. His hair and beard were dark, and she 
knew by this point that although the beard was that natural color, the hair most 
certainly was not. The beard helped hide a jaw so square you could slice a pizza 
with it, and the fake color in his hair hid the blondness. He had a high 
forehead that made it seem to Dakota as if he had a great deal on his mind, 
whichif you counted knowing that you were a hunted man by a forbidding 
government agency (not to mention the fact that you were potentially the most 
powerful telekinetic on earth)could certainly be counted as a great deal.
The gaze of his blue eyes hugged the tabletop. He had eaten his side order of 
spaghetti, leaving his entire veal cutlet over. He hadn't been in much of a mood 
to eat, and Dakota really couldn't blame him. Still he had to snap out of it.
"Chuck, you hear me?" she said. "Earth to Chuck Simon."
He glanced up at her, "Don't use my name in public," he whispered.
"Finally something that got a response out of you," she said with a small 
measure of satisfaction. "Did you hear any of the other words I said?''
"I heard them. I just"
"Just hated to hear them."
He shrugged his broad shoulders.
They were in a run-down diner in a run-down section of town. Boulder, like most 
cities since the start of the twenty-first century, had skidded downhill. The 
well-to-do lived far out in large palatial estates with guards and monitors or, 
even more popular these days, in underground cooperatives that were exclusive 
and pricey. The "tunnelers" were people who were convinced that nuclear 
holocaust was not too far off, and the cooperatives were designed for survival 
of that unfortunate (but probably inevitable) time. The best known was First 
Strike Estates, a virtual town unto itself where Mayor H. H. Hunter held sway, 
and any intruders were shot on sight.
But the poor and the not-so-well-to-do only had the cities in which to take 
refuge. Boulder was one such. Once a nice college town, albeit with a major drug 
problem. Now drugs were not a problemat least, sales weren't. Money never 
changed hands, because of the Cards. Instead, everything was done with barter. 
Snap was the drug of choice, and Snap could get you anythingfood, vehicles, 
sexanything.
Chuck Simon was not interested in Snap.
He was interested, rather, in the vehicle they discovered quite by accident off 
by the side of the road when they approached Boulder. They got out when Rommel 
announced to Chuck, rather forcefully, that they better pull over or otherwise 
Rommel was going to take a dump in the back of the rickety pickup truck that 
served as their transportation. Taking the large German shepherd at his word, 
they indeed pulled over, and while Rommel was going about his business, he 
picked up the scent of the vehicle.
What a mess the thing was when they discovered it. A twisted heap of metal, the 
smell of alcohol permeating it. That the driver was drunk was beyond question. 
It was fortunate that he didn't take anyone with him when he dispatched himself.
However, he didn't, Chuck felt, deserve the fate he got. Chuck pried the door 
open, with a generous additional push from his mind, and found the poor bastard 
with his neck broken, the inflatable cushion in the steering column only 
partially inflated. Hell of a time for the safety bag to malfunction. Who knew 
how long he had been dead.
Get his wallet, Rommel said.
Chuck looked at his companion in surprise. "His wallet?"
"Good idea," Dakota said.
"I can't do that," Chuck said firmly. "It's wrong."
"Wrong to take his wallet? Why? He's not going to need it," Dakota pointed out 
matter-of-factly. "Besides, it was your idea."
"No it wasn't. It was Rommel's."
She glanced at the German shepherd, who stared back at her blandly. "Of course," 
she said tonelessly. "Foolish of me. Why should I think that a good idea came 
from you, Chuck? All right. Turn away so you don't have to watch."
"I can't," was the simple reply. But Chuck knew that she was right. The driver 
wasn't going to need it. And these days, you got your hand on a Card wherever 
and however you could. So he watched as Dakota rummaged through the corpse's 
pockets, pulled out his wallet, and moments later held up a plain white card 
with a little flourish.
Everyone had a Card. They were issued at birth, and had taken the place of 
money, of many important documents. More precisely, everyone had two Cardsthe 
one they carried with them, and the original that was on permanent file with the 
Department of Identification, from which duplicates of lost, damaged, or stolen 
Cards could be obtained.
Chuck could not use his Card, of course. With the government tracking him, the 
last thing he wanted to do was leave a trail they could so easily trace. Instead 
he obtained black market fakes wherever he could, and on one occasiona very 
early onehad swiped one from a soldier. But taking one off of a dead man it 
gave him chills.
He sat in the diner now, feeling bleak and depressed. Dakota studied him for a 
moment and, believing there was an implied criticism of herself, said tightly, 
"What would you have preferred, huh? To waste an opportunity?"
He looked up at her and said, "As soon as we're out of Boulder, we contact the 
authorities and tell them about the dead man."
She blew air out from between her lips impatiently. "What's the point of that? 
It won't make him any less dead. And when they do find him, they close off his 
file and the Card becomes inactive. We're wasting an opportunity. As long as we 
keep the purchases small, people don't even bother to verify the retina 
patterns. And when the government finds out the guy is a stiff, what are they 
going to do? Come to the cemetery for payment?"
"That's fraud," he said quietly. "Besides, how do you know they won't hound the 
stiff's next of kin? And that's another thing. Don't you think his family is 
entitled to know he's dead? They're probably worried sick."
It was frustrating for her. On the one hand it was Chuck's high sense of 
morality and diligence that she found attractive. On the other hand, it sure 
could be a pain in the ass sometimes. "All right," she sighed finally, "all 
right, already. As soon as we're out of Boulder. Okay?"
"Okay." He smiled thinly at that. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I must be nuts. I'm probably nuts just being here with you."
"I warned you that you shouldn't come with me," he told her. He fiddled with the 
straw that was sticking out of his half-emptied glass of soda. "But you did what 
you felt like doing. You could've stayed with the circus. Maybe you should go 
back," he added with a sigh. "Dakota, this is"
Where's my food?
The brisk and rather sharp question came into Chuck's mind from just outside the 
window next to them. He mentally scolded himself. "Sorry."
"Sorry what?" said Dakota.
"Not you. The"
"The dog, right," Dakota finished for him. "Y'know, you say you and that 
horse-sized dog of yours talk telepathically. Part of me thinks you're just 
jerking me around, but the other partthe majority, I guessbelieves you."
"Why is that?"
"Because every so often you have these flashes of common sense, and I don't 
think they're coming from you."
"Uh-huh," said Chuck as he slid open the window next to him. Warm and heavy air 
washed over him as he tossed his untouched veal cutlet out the window. It never 
made it to the ground as Rommel, unseen below, caught it in his jaws.
That's it? came after a moment.
"That's it," said Chuck in a low voice, facing Dakota. She placed her chin at 
the base of her hand and watched the conversation with interest.
I'm still hungry. Get me a few steaks. Raw.
"It's bad enough I'm using a dead man's Card," murmured Chuck. "I don't have to 
destroy his credit rating, too."
That's another thing. There was all that meat in the car. You wouldn't let me 
eat it.
"What meat oh," and Chuck felt faintly nauseated. "You mean the dead driver."
Yeah.
"That's disgusting."
"What is?" asked Dakota.
"Rommel is annoyed because I didn't let him eat the man in the car."
Dakota's face wrinkled as well.
A waste of perfectly good meat.
"Eating a dead human it's awful, Rommel," Chuck whispered. "I'm picturing you 
doing it, and it makes me sick."
From below came the response, You eat steak.
"So?"
So what do you think a dead cow looks like? A bed of roses? You keep inflicting 
your morals on me, and my stomach keeps being empty.
"I thought you said you wouldn't eat humans anyway."
I said I wouldn't like to. They're stringy. But whatever is handy
"Hold it," Chuck said nervously. "How do you know humans are stringy?"
"We are?" said Dakota, not exactly thrilled with the direction this conversation 
was taking. Her own recent meal was starting to turn in her stomach.
"How do you know?" Chuck demanded again.
There was silence at the other end.
"Rommel," he said warningly.
I've heard it around.
"You're lying."
Go neuter yourself.
Chuck was about to press the matter further when sharp footfalls next to him 
caused him to look up. And up.
Three very large individuals were standing next to him. Chuck knew their look 
and type immediately. Scruffy, unwashed, torn clothes, and a general air of 
insousciance, even anarchy about them. And these three, in addition, were 
extremely bulky, with large rolls of muscle hanging from their tattooed arms. 
They were known as "Cutters," and sometimes "Cardless Wonders."
Once upon a time, a more innocent time, Chuck would have turned his nose up at 
them as if they were some lower form of life. They were blatantly disdainful of 
the government and of everything the government did that was supposedly in the 
best interests of the people. The government had taught all the good citizens, 
such as Chuck Simon, that Cutters were bad and the government good. And Chuck, 
like all the other good citizens, believed it.
That was before the government had dubbed Simon "Psi-Man," and put him at the 
top of their list of people they'd like to see either working as a government 
assassin, or otherwise simply dead. Neither option was, as far as Chuck was 
concerned, in his best interest.
Neither was picking a fight, which the Cutters for some reason seemed ready to 
do.
"Problem, friends?" asked Chuck slowly. "You want this table? We were just 
leaving."
Chuck started to get up from the table, gesturing to Dakota that she should do 
likewise.
The Cutter in the lead placed a firm hand on Chuck's shoulder and shoved him 
back down again.
You want me in there? came the terse question.
"I can handle it," Chuck muttered very, very softly.
Good. I'm so weak from lack of food anyway that I probably couldn't
"Oh, shut up," Chuck said sharply.
The Cutter who had pushed Chuck down said slowly, thickly, with a gravelly 
voice, "You telling me to shut up?"
"He was talking to his dog," Dakota offered helpfully.
"Shut up, bitch," said the Cutter.
"Ooooookay."
"Gimme your Card," said the Cutter just behind him. "We feel like having dinner. 
And you're treating us."
The manager of the diner, who also happened to be the chef, stormed out from the 
kitchen. His bald head was glistening with sweat from standing over the grill, 
and his dirty smock was stretched over his ample stomach. "You guys are in here 
again!" he snarled.
"We like it here. Service is good," said the first Cutter.
Chuck glanced at Dakota and shrugged. "It's not worth fighting over," said 
Chuck, and he pulled the Card out of his shirt pocket. He handed it over to the 
Cutter.
"Thanks, man," said the Cutter.
The restaurant manager shouted angrily, "I'm calling the cops!"
"You do that," said the Cutter as Chuck rose quickly. Dakota did likewise and 
the two of them slid out from the booth to make way for the Cutters.
Except the Cutter who had, up until that moment, been silent reached out and 
grabbed Dakota by the shoulder. "She stays."
"Let go of me," said Dakota angrily.
Chuck hesitated only a moment. He had no desire to perform any unusual act, 
anything that could be described later to authorities as possibly paranormal in 
origin. Nevertheless, his reaction was largely automatic and instinctive.
"Let the lady go," Chuck told him.
Immediately the Cutter's hand flew away from Dakota's shoulder as if charged 
with reverse polarity. He stared at it in amazement, unsure of what had just 
happened.
Chuck did not want to give him the time to figure it out. "Let's go," he said 
quickly, and started for the door.
Not fast enough. The Cutter who had grabbed Dakota now came at Chuck from 
behind. Chuck started to turn but the Cutter was fast, faster than Chuck would 
have expected. He hurled himself against Chuck, his hands reaching around and 
grabbing Chuck by the wrists and pulling the smaller man's hands around behind 
his back.
Chuck grunted, staggered slightly, and said, "I wouldn't if I were you. I really 
don't want to hurt you."
The Cutter breathed hot, foul-smelling breath into Chuck's face as he said, "Oh, 
good. I was worried."
There was a roar from outside as Rommel instinctively tapped into the stress of 
the situation. The Cutters paused, confused and uncertain, and one of them said 
nervously, "What the fuck was that?"
At that moment, Chuck bent his knees, and put his left foot in front of his 
right. Quickly he brought his right arm up, the Cutter's automatically 
following. The Cutter hesitated, confused, thinking that Chuck was simply 
writhing in his grasp. Instead Chuck suddenly twisted his body and the Cutter 
staggered to the side, his right foot leaving the ground, totally off balance. 
Chuck spun his body and the Cutter left his feet altogether, the ground suddenly 
pinwheeling out from under him and then abruptly returning with force as the 
Cutter tumbled forward.
In a classroom where tomiki aikido was taught, or in a competition, the Cutter 
would have been able to go into a forward roll and recover quickly. In this 
situation though, the Cutter crashed to the floor. His neck and shoulders took 
the brunt of the impact and he screamed, pain shooting through him.
The other two Cutters hesitated only a moment and then came at Chuck.
Dakota leaped back into the booth, crouching, shielding herself. The closer of 
the two Cutters lunged for Chuck and swung a roundhouse at him. Chuck deflected 
the force of the blow, got the wrist and twisted quickly, pivoting. He twisted 
the Cutter's arm back, spun 180 degrees, pushed with one hand while pulling with 
the other.
He had misjudged his opponent's weight, thoughthe Cutter was big but 
surprisingly light. Chuck used too much force. The result was that the arm twist 
and follow-through hurled the Cutter onto the table and the man kept on going, 
smashing head-first through the window and falling to the ground outside.
Chuck heard a joyous bark and howl from outside, followed by a scream.
"NO!" shouted Chuck. "Rommel, no!"
The force of the dog's fury almost overwhelmed him. Get out of my head! snarled 
Rommel.
"Don't kill him!" Chuck commanded.
Chuck started toward the window, already able to envision the horrified Cutter 
lying helpless on the ground, Rommel's massive paws against his chest.
Dakota's shout alerted him a moment too late as a meathook-sized hand slammed 
down on the back of Chuck's neck. Chuck staggered forward, bracing himself on 
the edge of the table, his head swimming slightly. He started to reach out with 
his mind, to mentally hurl the attacker away even though he didn't want to 
display his power.
A plate sailed through the air, hurled like a Frisbee by Dakota's strong arm. It 
smashed into the Cutter's head and ricocheted away, and the Cutter staggered. 
Without looking Chuck lashed out with his leg, catching the Cutter just below 
the knees and sending him to the floor.
From outside came the sounds of ripping.
"Rommel, stop!" shouted Chuck as he ran for the door of the diner. Dakota 
followed him, stepping over the semiconscious forms of the Cutters and pausing 
only briefly, to grab the white Card that they had taken.
Chuck ran out to the front of the diner and screamed again, putting all the 
force of his mind behind it, "Back off, Rommel!"
There were people all around, poor people and people down on their luck, and 
none of them were doing anything to try and help the man who was being viciously 
mauled by the bloodthirsty canine. In a way, Dakota could understand it. If he 
stood on his hind legs, Rommel was probably the tallest individual on the block. 
As he was now, hunched over the Cutter, his jaws tinged red and his black eyes 
glowering, the curious "Z" in his fur, he looked like an animal you wouldn't 
want to get within miles of unless you were heavily armored.
Rommel had frozen on Chuck's command and now he stood there, unmoving, his 
entire body trembling in silent rage. Chuck approached him, step by step, not 
wanting to do anything that could possibly dislodge his very tenuous control. It 
was taking everything he had to override Rommel's primal blood lust.
"Back off Rommel," he said.
Why? There was unbridled fury in the transmission.
"Because I said so."
Who made you boss?
"God," said Chuck.
This stopped Rommel a moment. Who's God?
"He made everything."
Food?
"Yes, food. And the water you drink, and the air you breathe, and the bitches 
you hump. And he gave man dominion over all the animals."
Really.
"Yes, really."
I'll bet the animals weren't consulted about that decision.
Chuck had made it all the way to Rommel and now he reached down and pushed 
Rommel's quivering jaws away from the victim on the ground. "You're probably 
right," he said softly.
He turned and looked at the Cutter, a quick, superficial glance. The Cutter was 
moaning, and there were long, angry-looking rips and scars on his upper torso, 
and a long one down the side of his face. Nothing he wouldn't recover from, 
though.
Chuck turned quickly to the people who were standing around, the people who had 
been watching this odd man holding a conversation with no one that they could 
see. "Call an ambulance," he said.
No one moved.
"Somebody call an ambulance!" he repeated.
One man standing nearby, a young man with an arrogant manner, said, "Big deal, 
man, it's only a Cutter."
Chuck turned toward the man who had spoken and his control slipped just a bit as 
he snapped, "I don't care, call one!" and as he said it, his mind pushed ever so 
slightly, and the man staggered, pushed by an invisible fist. He was unsure what 
had caused it, but something suddenly warned him that it might be a good idea to 
do as this angry man (who talked to midair) had instructed.
Someone was tugging on Chuck's arm. He turned, tensing only a moment before 
relaxing upon seeing that it was Dakota. "What?" he said.
"Let's get to the truck," she said urgently. "Let's get out of here."
"We have to wait for the ambulance."
"But"
"No buts," he cut her off. "I have to make sure he gets off all right. I can't 
just turn away."
She sighed, knowing better than to argue with him when he was like this. 
Impatiently she turned and headed off for the parking lot where the pickup was 
parked.
I'm hungry.
Without glancing at Rommel he grunted in a low voice, "Not now."
Dakota stalked across the small parking lot at the side of the building and 
climbed into the driver's side. She sat there, arms crossed, steaming.
What was the guy's problem, anyway? Why did he go around caring about other 
people so much? Couldn't he see that that sort of attitude was just going to get 
him into trouble? Was just going to get in the way?
Damn him anyway. It was infuriating. Chuck Simon was totally unreasonable. He 
had no sense of priority at all.
Except it sort of depended on how one defined priority. For Dakota, her top 
priority was personal welfare: hers and his. For Chuck, top priority was what? 
The welfare of all mankind?
She chewed on her lower lip, shaking her head. What was it that Chuck said he 
was? A Quaker? What the hell was a Quaker, anyway? All she knew was that she'd 
never met one, and if Chuck was indeed one, then the one Quaker she knew was 
pretty damned
concerned. Damn, but it was one of the things she found attractive about him; 
that he was a concerned, caring person. Except she didn't like it when it was 
inconvenient to her. But what did she expect him to do? Turn his nature on and 
off like a spigot? Now who was being unreasonable?
She glanced at her sideview mirror, sighing, and then sat upright, snapping from 
her slump. In the mirror was one of the Cutters, the one that Chuck had hurled 
to the floor.
He was walking away, though, quickly, glancing over his shoulder in her 
direction. Was he concerned that he'd been spotted? What was happening?
She reached for the door handle to get out, to go after him and demand to know 
what he wanted. Then she reconsidered, her hand moving away from the handle and 
settling in her lap. It was obvious what had happened. He'd seen her climb into 
the truck, had started to go after her, and then thought better of it. He had 
thought about his buddy, lying on the ground bleeding, and he had thought about 
Chuck tossing people around and Rommel chewing people up. He'd decided that 
these were not people he wanted to contend with.
She settled back and smiled. That was very wise of him, she decided.
The Cutter left the parking lot, glancing over his shoulder one more time. She 
hadn't spotted him. Great. His hand was in his pocket, clutching the 
needle-sharp ice pick. The ice pick he'd shoved into the right rear tire of the 
pickup truck that would cause a steady, slow leak. He hoped it would leave them 
stuck somewhere nice and inconvenient. It wasn't much in the way of retribution, 
but it was all he had to offer. One had to get it where one could.
3
SERGEANT MARY Jo Sanderson lay on her back, staring up at the sky and trying to 
recall the last time she had seen stars. At least, seen stars in the sky rather 
than as a result of her last serious drinking bout.
She heard a crack of thunder overhead, and from around her in the darkness came 
mutters of "Shit."
"Knock it off," she said briskly. "That's why God invented tents."
The unhappy murmuring ceased, and Jo shook her head as she crawled into her own 
tent from which a soft light was emanating. Once inside she removed her helmet, 
running her fingers through her closely cropped blond hair.
She smiled ruefully. She remembered how, when she'd been drafted, she'd had hair 
so long it hung down to her ass. The day she had gone in for her regulation 
haircut, it had taken everything she could not to burst into tears as she saw 
huge clumps of hair littering the floor around her. The pile had resulted in 
awed murmurs of "Holy shit" from all around her, and she'd come to think of that 
moment as her first combat experience. She had been certain at that moment that 
nothing the army could throw at her subsequently would be anywhere near as 
devastating.
To a certain degree, she had been right. She had seen combat, intense enough 
that she had been decorated three times. But nothing had been quite as traumatic 
as that first encounter with the rules and regulations that had, at one time, 
been the enemy, but had since become her salvation and protector. She had 
embraced that which could have destroyed her, and it had made her strong.
She held her book up to the dim glow of the light and began to read. From the 
darkness around her she heard scufflings as the rest of her squad retreated to 
their tents. It was good for them, she decided, these occasional night outings 
on which she took her squad. The barracks at nearby Ft. Morris were all too 
comfortable. Here, in the wilds of the woods of Colorado, there was more of the 
spirit of adventure that epitomized, to her, what the army was all about.
A soft rain began to fall, pattering against the tent, and slowly it became a 
harder rain. Overhead the sky rumbled more and more loudly, lit up and danced to 
the tune being fiddled by the electric bows of lightning. Jo huddled closer to 
the light to see better. Technically she should have called for lights out 
considering the time, but all things considered she didn't see much harm in 
turning a blind eye to it and letting the men keep the lights on for as long as 
they wished. It's not as if they were providing targets for passing bombers.
Embrace the rules, sure, but don't strangle to death in their grip.
She wasn't sure what time she had drifted off. All she knew was that she was 
brought to startled wakefulness by the explosion. The massive, rolling explosion 
that reverberated through the woods and roused everyone around her in the 
darkness with shouts and profanities. Not just an explosion, but a series, one 
feeding off the other. As one faded, another followed it up, becoming louder as 
if a giant were moving toward them with massive, echoing steps. "What the hell 
is that?!" came from nearby. She had no answer, but she knew what was situated 
in the direction of the explosion, and she didn't like the conclusion she was 
drawing. Jo ran out of her tent, pulling on her helmet and shouting orders for 
her squad to assemble. The rain was still coming down, her boots squishing in 
the mud around them. Something was going down, something big. All of a sudden, 
Sergeant Jo Sanderson's squad had genuine night maneuvers on their hands.
And that was when she heard the scream. It was deafening, smashing through her 
head, and she staggered under the pure buffeting force of it. She fell to the 
ground, her face in the mud, and writhed in the pain of it. Someone pulled her 
to her feet, she wasn't sure who, and someonePrivate Dorsch, she thoughtwas 
shouting in her face, his expression one of concern. But she didn't understand 
what he was saying, didn't understand anything except the intensity of the pain 
and agony that was lancing through her as if someone were taking a screwdriver 
and a ballpeen hammer and slamming the screwdriver through her head and out the 
other side. Instinctively, having no idea why, she clutched at her eyes.
Her legs had lost their strength and she sagged in the soldier's grip. My God, 
I'm dying, she thought, and then, even worse, My God, I'm frightened. Yes, far 
worse. Dying was easy. Living with the concept that a frightening situation can 
overwhelm one, thoughthat was a concept she could not begin to deal with.
Sound came back to her by degrees, as if someone were slowly adjusting upward 
the volume on her mental television set. "Sergeant!" came the shouted voice of 
concern from Dorsch, and now others were gathering around him.
It was dark, they couldn't see her face. They wouldn't see the fear and panic, 
the confusion in it as she came to the slow realization that something very 
wrong had happened. That something, somehow, had entered her mind from the 
outside. That her thoughts were not her own.
She was peering out at them from between mud-covered fingers. Slowly Jo lowered 
her hands, composing herself, try- ing to situate her mental attitude so that 
when she did speak, it would be in a confident, determined voice instead of one 
filled with the confusion and panic she felt.
"Pack up the gear. We're moving out. Let's find out what the hell that was," she 
said tautly.
4
"THAT'S JUST GREAT."
The light drizzle had just begun to fall as Chuck stood toward the back of the 
truck, staring at the flat tire. He kicked it reprovingly, as if that might stir 
it back to life.
It was bad enough that they had taken a wrong turn en route to the highway and 
were now on this large road that seemed to be going nowhere they wanted to go. 
But now this, standing on this side of a road in the middle of nowhere
Although, curiously, there were halogen lamps mounted every few yards. Obviously 
this was a well-traveled road, nowhere or not, and someone had gone out of their 
way to make sure that it was easy to see.
What was even easier to see was that they were in serious trouble. Rommel, in 
the back of the pickup truck, was resting on his forepaws and looking at Chuck 
with boredom.
Do something, he told him.
Chuck glanced at Rommel. "I could always ride you," he said.
Never happen.
"You're right. I'd need a saddle." He turned toward Dakota who was still in the 
cab. His hair was already slicked down from the rain, which was starting to come 
down a bit harder. "Where's the spare?" he called out, kicking the flat again.
"You just kicked it," she replied.
He looked back at the flat tire. "Great. Just great."
He trotted up to the cab and Dakota rolled down the window. "I think I see 
lights up ahead," he said, pointing east. "Maybe someone up there can help us 
out. You stay here."
"No argument. You taking Rommel?"
He and Rommel exchanged glances. Rommel looked distinctly uninterested in 
setting out on a trek along the roadside.
Gee, if only he did have a saddle.
"Rommel, you stay here," said Chuck.
I stay with you.
Chuck felt touched by the loyalty. "Look, I know you want to protect me"
The hell with that. You're the one who feeds me. If you leave, I don't get fed.
He sighed. "Man's best friend."
Where? Rommel looked around.
"Look, I really want you to stay with Dakota. I don't like the thought of her 
being stuck by the roadside at night all alone. I want you to protect her."
From wild animals?
"From people."
Same thing.
"True. Very true. So you'll stay with her."
There was a pause, which was unusual. Rommel typically responded within moments. 
His thought process was endlessly fascinating to Chuck: clear, straightforward, 
concerned with a dazzling paucity of things and how they related to his life. 
The rest, from sentiment to theology, was generally brushed off as irrelevant.
I'll stay with her.
"Thank you," said Chuck with a sigh of relief.
Be careful.
"Why? Because if something happens to me, you won't get fed?"
That too.
"Too?" said Chuck with a rueful laugh. "What else is there?"
Just be careful, you stupid human.
Chuck was touched. But somehow he had the feeling he shouldn't say anything. It 
might spoil the moment. Besides which, the rain was coming down a bit harder 
now. He pulled the top of his jacket up over his head to give him some measure 
of shelter and started off at a slow run up the road.
If he had been alone, or if it were just Rommel and himself, he might have just 
battened down the hatches and waited in the truck for the rain to pass. But 
there was Dakota to considerhe didn't like having to be stuck with her in the 
middle of nowhere, especially since one never knew what might come along. Also, 
after these months on the run, he had lost the ability to feel comfortable in 
one place. He had to keep moving, always moving, afraid that someone might be on 
his heels at any moment. Which they probably were.
Dakota turned in her seat and looked out the back window. Rommel was sitting in 
the rear of the truck, looking wet and somewhat annoyed.
Her lips twitched in sympathy. She reached over and opened the door on the 
passenger side and gestured for Rommel to climb down from the back and up into 
the cab. Rommel, for his part, merely stared at her as if she had lost her mind.
Impatiently she waved again, thinking, This is the genius dog Chuck talks to all 
the time? Christ. This time, Rommel seemed to get it, or at least deigned to pay 
attention to it. Moments later he was squeezing his considerable hulk into the 
cab next to Dakota, and it was at that point she wondered if this indeed had 
been such a keen idea after all. As Rommel climbed in he seemed to just keep 
coming and coming as if he were endless. His muzzle was pressed against the 
windshield, his haunches were shoved down against the seat, and he couldn't seem 
to find anywhere comfortable to place his paws.
Rain was coming down harder and Dakota tried to reach across to pull the door 
shut. It was with some frustration that she discovered that she could not, 
because now Rommel was blocking the way.
With a few choice words of disgust, she climbed down from the driver's side, 
walked around and, in so doing, getting herself good and soaked, got to the 
passenger side, slammed the door shut-There was a howl of anger. She saw a few 
tufts of fur sticking out and realized to her horror that she'd caught Rommel's 
tail.
She yanked the door open and Rommel pulled it in, growling. She closed it again, 
this time far more gingerly. Then she walked back around to the other side and 
slowly climbed in. Rommel was glaring at her, a rumble in his throat like a 
tractor.
She forced a smile. "You like show tunes?" she asked.
Chuck tried to stay to the side of the road. Originally he had been walking 
toward the middle, but when he had tried to flag down a large truck heading in 
the opposite direction, it had shot right past him without slowing down. It had 
not been very encouraging.
He didn't think the rain could come down harder, but it did. This trudging along 
was taking him absolutely forever. If only there were some way to hurry things 
along.
It was then that he hit upon an idea. Every time he had tried to use his TK to 
lift something heavier than he himself could carry, he had failed. That was why 
his power couldn't help him, for example, lift the truck and compensate for the 
blown tire. But he could benchpress his own weight.
He stood dead still and tried to concentrate on lifting himself up. He 
envisioned a giant fist reaching down, for it had helped him in the past to lift 
things by visualizing a hand doing so. He closed his eyes, spread out his arms, 
and pictured the hand lifting him high in the air.
When he opened his eyes and looked down, he hadn't budged a fraction of an inch.
Maybe, he decided, it was like sitting in a chair and trying to lift the chair 
while you were in it. Two forces working against each other. Or maybe it was his 
mild fear of heights that was somehow short-circuiting his power, preventing it 
from placing him into a difficult and potentially phobic situation. Or maybe he 
was just stupid.
Still, it occurred to him that perhaps, at least, he could give himself a boost. 
He started to run, mentally picking a point at which he would leap, and the 
moment he hit it, he mentally shoved away at the ground.
He sailed through the air in a dazzling, thirty-foot broad jump, and was just 
congratulating himself when he started to come down again. He hit the ground and 
landed on his ass, skidding out of control for a good ten feet before tumbling 
off the road and into a ditch. He lay there for a minute or so, getting back his 
breath and, in addition, getting covered with mud to go with his general look of 
sogginess.
Slowly he sat up, shaking off the feeling of being a drowned rat. All right. He 
couldn't fly. He couldn't leap long distances, much less a tall building in a 
single bound. At this rate he was never going to be a comic-book hero.
He got up and started to walk again on unsteady legs.
Within a few more minutes, he came within sight of what appeared to be a large 
gate to somewhere.
He hesitated. Perhaps it was a government installation, and he had no idea how 
thoroughly word had been spread about him. Would they recognize him on sight? 
Shoot, maybe? Well, if they tried to shoot him, certainly his TK could protect 
him. But what if?
He shivered, becoming chilled to the bone. It started to dawn on him that the 
old saying, "Any port in a storm," was an old saying because it still held true. 
He was in one hell of a storm, and he was most definitely in need of a port.
Squinting to see as best he could through the rain, Chuck started to run at a 
quick pace. As he got nearer, he saw a large, lighted sign hanging on a fence 
just to the right of the gate. It read Internet Propulsion Laboratories. Well, 
that seemed harmless enough.
He got to within sight of the guard booth at the gate, which he certainly hoped 
was manned at this time of night. The huge gates were electronic, at least eight 
feet high, with sharp and rusty points at the top.
He started to slow down for no reason he could finger. By the time he was within 
a couple of feet of the gate he had come to a stop.
Something was wrong.
Rommel stared listlessly at Dakota, who was trying desperately to keep up her 
end of the conversation.
"So the guy says to his dog, 'Who's your favorite baseball player?' And the dog 
says, 'Room. Rooth.' Like a bark, see? And the bartender says, 'Get outta here, 
that dog can't talk,' and he throws the two of them out. And the dog looks up at 
the guy and says," and she snickered slightly. " 'Ya think I shoulda said 
DiMaggio?' "
She stared at Rommel, waiting for a response. Rommel just stared back at her.
"Critic," she said.
Suddenly Rommel tensed. Dakota was a little startled by the abrupt movement. It 
was as if electricity had suddenly filled the cab.
"What is it?" said Dakota softly. "What is it, boy? Is something wrong?" When 
there was no reply, she said, "Is it Timmy? Is he trapped in a barn?" She had no 
idea what that meant, but her own mother had always said it when their family 
dog was acting strange, and her father had always laughed, and when she'd asked 
them to explain it they had said in that way they had, "You wouldn't 
understand." Well, hell, she didn't understand now, either.
"It's Chuck, isn't it?" she said.
Rommel looked at her as if responding to the spoken name. All this time, Dakota 
had been unsure of whether Chuck was really pulling her leg when he said he 
spoke to the dog. Or maybe he really believed it and was just a little nuts. 
Either way, she really wished at that moment that if Rommel could talk, could 
communicate at all, he would say something already.
Because she was starting to get very, very nervous.
Chuck put his hands against the bars and looked through the gate, peering at the 
guardhouse within and squinting. The light inside it was extinguished, and there 
wasn't enough illumination from an obscured moon to provide anything with which 
to see.
Except he was able to see enough. He was able to see a dark form slumped halfway 
out of the guardhouse.
Chuck shouted out, shouted for help, and rattled the gate. There was no response 
from the guardhouse or from anywhere nearby.
He stepped back, closing his eyes, focusing his power and his concentration. His 
breathing slowed, his muscles tensing at first and then relaxing as he forced a 
calm through himself. He reached into the core of himself and found the power 
there, found it strong and throbbing. He drew it up into his mind, readied it.
His eyes snapped open and his head twitched convulsively, as if he had just 
hurled something from his temple. The invisible power lashed out, cracking into 
the gate. The gate blew open with a loud crash and klang as the doors flew in 
opposite directions from each other, smacking into the fence.
Chuck paused, catching his breath, and then bolted through and to the 
guardhouse. He dropped to his knees, examined the corpse that was lying there
No, not a corpse, for a low moan issued from it. The guard was in his late 
fifties, probably a retired cop, in a position that was secure behind its 
electronic gate and low exposure to risk. He rubbed a bruise that was swelling 
on the back of his bald head as Chuck said to him urgently, "What happened? Who 
did this?"
"Don't know," he gasped. "Extremists, I think"
Chuck blanched. Extremists. For a moment, the good, government-trained citizen 
that he had been rose in indignation. Extremists were bad. Extremists were evil. 
Extremists disagreed with the policies of the government, disagreed with the 
wars that the government was fighting. Extremists made their displeasure known 
by blowing up factories where work was being done on weapons and such.
But that was the Chuck Simon of Ohio talking. The Psi-Manthe assassin on the 
run that the government was afterhell, he was considered worse than the worst 
of Extremists. Perhaps it was time to start reconsidering his opinions. Still
"What is this place?" Chuck said.
"Internet Propulsion Labs" The guard was trying to sit up, and blood was 
trickling down his face. A cut had opened up on his forehead. "They pulled up 
in a truck had some gizmo that overroad the electronic lock" His hand was 
fumbling for a phone. "Gotta call help.
His hand went to where the receiver was, but all he was greeted with was pieces 
of plastic. "Broke my phone" he said, sounding more confused. Clearly he was 
concussed, not thinking properly.
"Where are they?"
"Went to lab just a few minutes ago"
"Anyone up there?"
"My daughter my daughter"
The guard said it another two times or so, and Chuck's mind was racing. Cut off 
from communication, and Extremists were in this lab. Chances were they were 
going to blow it up. And this poor man's daughter was there. Probably a 
technical worker, or maybe a custodial person. The Extremists might try to make 
sure the place was empty before they blew it or they might not.
He couldn't turn away. Something had to be done, and police or soldiers would 
never arrive in time to do it.
"my daughter"
"Leave it to me," said Chuck. "I'll save your daughter."
The rain was coming down harder, but he ignored it as he dashed out of the 
guard's house and ran up the path. This time he actually managed to give some 
extra kick to his strides by using his power to push off in small bursts. He 
made tremendous time.
Unfortunately, he made such good time that he wasn't there to hear the guard 
say, "My daughter have to call my daughter in town tell her what happened 
thank God the plant is empty"
Rommel began to bark furiously. Dakota had never heard him bark quite like that, 
or at least not from that close up. She thought she was going to go deaf.
He leaped up and slammed his paws against the windshield. A crack ribboned 
across it.
"Jesus," shouted Dakota, "hold on!" She jumped out of the driver's seat, 
throwing open the door and alighting on the rain-slicked road. Rommel 
practically exploded from the car, hitting the ground and skidding slightly. 
Then the great dog caught himself, spun, and started to run at full speed in the 
direction that Chuck had gone.
Dakota stood there a moment, her hair becoming plastered to her face, her 
clothes starting to soak through. She considered that perhaps just climbing back 
into the truck would be the best thing to do.
Then she pictured Chuck lying somewhere in a ditch, bleeding and dying. Unbidden 
she imagined an image of the body they had discovered, and the karmic concept 
that such a fate would come around to visit itself upon Chuck
With a feeling that she was going to regret this decision, Dakota ran off after 
Rommel, who was already fading in the distance.
Chuck approached the front of the building cautiously, probing with his mind. 
There was trouble, a disturbance somewhere within the building. He could not 
localize, but he could definitely feel it.
The rain pelted him, and now the wind was howling. It was a long, mournful howl 
that put him in mind of Rommel. Right now he would like nothing better than to 
have that homicidal mastiff at his side, even if the creature did have a certain 
knack for ripping warm-blooded beings into bite-sized chunks. He couldn't even 
communicate with him, for they were out of range of Chuck's power. He had a 
vague feeling of Rommel, but that was all.
The front door slid open silently. He was going unchallenged, had penetrated 
this far into the labs. He didn't like it one bit.
Then he saw something he liked even less.
Halfway down the hall was a monibotthe squat, heavily armed and dangerous units 
that were used for routine hall patrol in many high-tech installations. As 
robots go they were pretty simple and, as was usual for robots, highly 
single-functional. They were unable to distinguish between friend or foe, which 
was why they were never going to replace soldiers. Monibots were armed with 
motion detectors and Rapidoshots, one eighty-round chamber mounted on either 
side. Basically, if anything larger than a mouse moved, it was perforated until 
it stopped moving.
It was impossible to shut them off in person. Their remote power flow came from 
a security system situated some miles away that provided service to many such 
devices throughout the area. The only way to dispose of them was for the guard 
to have contacted the security system on the phone, given them certain 
privileged information, and requested a shutdown while explaining the necessity. 
Without that, the only thing to do was wait until 8 A.M. the next business day 
when the monibots shut down automatically.
Whoever had penetrated the perimeter had done neither. The monibot was tilted on 
its side, its center panel blown out and lying a couple of feet away on the 
floor, twisted into scrap. Its electronic eyes were dark and lifeless, and the 
muzzles of the Rapidoshots hung impotently downward.
"What the devil?" breathed Chuck.
With his TK he probably could have handled any monibots he came uponprobably 
still could, if he had to. But someone had come through and saved him the 
necessity.
He started to make his way through the shining steel corridors, glancing around 
nervously. His sneakered feet squeaked on the polished floor, and every so often 
he glanced at his own distorted reflection.
He wasn't quite certain where he was going. He was operating entirely on 
instinct, but his instinct had grown to be fairly reliable and he'd learned to 
trust it.
A right, another right, then a left, and he moved faster now. His mind was 
racing far ahead of him. If the guard's daughter was working late, how did she 
avoid being riddled with bullets by the monibots? Perhaps there were some 
security holes that he was unaware ofa code word, perhaps, or a localized 
shut-off device provided to key personnel.
What had blown out that robot? And now he passed another oneeach was programmed 
to patrol its own quadrant, so they never overlapped and started shooting each 
other.
This robot, just like the first one, had been totaled. Not only that, but 
something had been scribbled on this one. He crouched down, squinting at the 
words, scrawled in what seemed a female hand, Klaatu Barata Nikto. He whispered 
the words to himself, confused as anything. What the hell was that phrase 
supposed to mean? Sounded like Latin a little, but he couldn't be sure. Foreign 
languages had never been his strength.
As he was studying the robot, the hair on the back of his head began to rise. It 
barely gave him warning before a low growl reached his ears.
The Doberman was standing there, snarling, maw drawn back exposing razor-sharp 
teeth. It was big, big enough to give Rommel a run for his money. But Rommel 
wasn't here. And Chuck was suddenly wishing that, wherever Rommel was, Chuck was 
with him.
The animal uttered one short, furious bark and then leaped at Chuck.
It slammed into Chuck, its teeth snapping at Chuck's face, but before it could 
press the momentary advantage, the shocked animal was being lifted off the 
ground by an invisible force. It kept going up, up until it slammed into the 
ceiling overhead and let out a confused and frightened yelp.
Chuck placed his hand against his chest, trying to recover his breath. He had a 
nasty scratch from the creature's claws, and in short order it would definitely 
start to sting like hell. For now, it served as a sharp reminder that Chuck 
couldn't let his guard down even for an instant. His momentary lapse in 
concentration had cost him. The dog shouldn't have slowed him down for a moment, 
Dobie or not. But Chuck had been startled, and that moment of confusion had been 
enough for the dog to score a hit.
Next time an opponent might not miss.
He slowly got to his feet and stared at the dog, madly running in midair, unable 
to find purchase on anything. Chuck smiled mirthlessly, taking no joy in the 
animal's plight.
"Psi-Man says go home, boy," he said.
In response the dog hurtled away down the corridor. For good measure, Chuck spun 
the dog like a pinwheel, the dog's body making brisk whoop-whoop noises as it 
sailed down the hallway. As soon as the dog was out of sight, Chuck released his 
mental hold and heard the dog thud to the ground. Chuck paused, waiting for the 
animal's renewed charge, but all he heard were the desperate sounds of retreat.
He realized then that the dog might lead him to whomever he was trying to find, 
and he started after it. But within moments he had become lost again in the maze 
of corridors and cross hallways.
He spun on his heel, trying to find a way out. Trying to sense which was the 
direction to go. But oddly, he wasn't feeling anything anymore. Whatever 
instinct had guided him was suddenly shut down, as if it had decided to go for a 
coffee break.
He glanced off to his right and saw a large, darkened conference room. There was 
a long table in it, with a tabletop made out of some sort of ebony material that 
seemed so dark that it might have absorbed all available light, like a black 
hole. Just past it was a huge bay window, opening out on what seemed to be a 
stunning view. Chuck had never seen anything quite like it, living in the 
relative obscurity and blandness of LeQuier, Ohio.
He approached it slowly, for a moment his mission forgotten. His senses were 
ensnared instead by the beauty of the view. The noise from his shoes that 
squeaked on the glistening hallway floor vanished as he entered the conference 
room, for the room was carpeted in rich, dark shag. He walked across and placed 
his palms against the window, his breath caught.
He hadn't realized that the back of the building faced onto a cliff. Far below 
the cliff, in what seemed an immeasurable distance, rolled the waters of some 
river. Even though it was night, he could see the telltale white bubbling that 
gave an indication of the speed with which the water was moving. The rain was 
still coming down hard.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
He spun quickly, surprised and confused. He had not sensed anybody, not expected 
anybody. And yet here somebody was, a foxlike man, pale and unnerving, standing 
framed in the doorway, looking completely at ease.
"Stunning view," he said. "It was once unspoiled timberland, you know."
Chuck circled slowly, keeping the table between himself and the newcomer. "It 
looks pretty unspoiled to me."
"Yes, well, it would. That's because you don't know where to look. For example, 
that lovely river down there? Polluted." The smaller man was moving now and 
Chuck kept circling, the smaller man coming toward him. There was something 
about him that Chuck found very unnerving. The man spoke as he moved, slow and 
unhurried. "Polluted by the waste from experimental chemicals this place 
produces."
"What chemical waste?"
"Don't play stupid," said the man. "You work here. You know."
"I don't work here. I just came by because I saw there was trouble."
The smaller man laughed curtly at that. "Oh. Right. I suppose you hadn't heard: 
Good Samaritans went out of style ages ago."
"Who are you?"
"We're here to blow up your bosses' plant."
"They're not my bosses, but you can't do that."
"Don't get cocky," said the smaller man, stabbing an impatient figure at Chuck. 
Chuck was still circling, and had practically gone all the way back around to 
the door. "You did something to Mars, I'll grant you that. Scared the doggie doo 
out of him. But us, we've been through too much. We don't scare."
"Neither do I," said Chuck, stopping and standing his ground.
As if taking his cue from Chuck, the smaller man stopped as well. "You would," 
he said sincerely. "You would if you knew what we know. The things the 
government hushes up, so that only the brass at the top, top levels knows. For 
example, did you know that the stuff they pump into the water is having a major 
ecological effect? Not just killing plants around the river, no. It's affecting 
the animal life. There're rumors going around about all sorts of creatures 
wandering the woods. Mutant deer and bears, stalking around, altered and driven 
berserk by the wastes from experimental drugs being pumped into the water by 
mankind. Creatures that hunters' bullets don't stop. That nothing short of a 
bazooka can stop. That's our contribution to the ecological balance. And you 
think we should be stopped from blowing this nightmare up? We should be given 
medals."
Chuck stared at him for a long moment. "I know," he said softly, "I know you 
believe in what you're saying. Christ, I don't know, maybe you're right. But I 
can't just stand here and let you blow this place up, for whatever reason. There 
are lives at stake"
"Just yours, and you don't count," said the smaller man, and then with an odd 
inflection he added, "Shai."
Chuck didn't know what the man was talking about until suddenly two huge arms 
wrapped around him from behind. The bare arms of a massively muscled black man 
crisscrossed Chuck's chest, pain shooting through him as the hold massaged the 
fearsome cut he had sustained.
Dammit, he should have sensed him coming! What the hell was wrong with him?
"What should I do with him, Jupe?" The deep voice had a faint Jamaican lilt to 
it. Against his buttocks, Chuck felt a holstered gun the other man was wearing. 
But his arms were pinned too tightly
Well, hell, why should that stop him?
Chuck reached out with his mind to pull the gun from the holster. He wouldn't 
fire it, of course. He would not kill, under any circumstances. But, despite the 
harsh words of this smaller fellow, a floating gun aimed down his throat should 
go a long way toward spooking him rather seriously.
Nothing happened. The gun would not move from his holster.
It was as if his mind power had been shut down. Chuck gasped, straining more 
than he ever had, even more than in the days when he was not yet fully 
conversant with his power and every movement was a difficulty. And still the gun 
would not come free.
The one called Jupe, however, was staggering as if struck. "My God," he gasped 
out, "you've got one hell of a power, haven't you?"
Shai looked from one to the other in confusion. "This little guy? He's got"
Chuck didn't know what was happening, didn't care. All he knew was that his 
breathing was becoming more labored from the increasing pressure of the man 
behind him. He felt as if his rib cage were about to collapse. And whatever was 
happening to him, this was no time to form an overdepen-dency on his TK power.
Even as all this raced through his mind, he slammed down on the instep of the 
man called Shai. Shai grunted in anger and annoyance, and Chuck managed to bring 
up his right hand enough to squirm it around and grab hold of Shai's wrist.
Chuck twisted it, hard, and like snapping a whip, Shai's entire body had to 
suddenly jerk around and contort to follow its path. Before Shai knew it, rather 
than being behind Chuck and squeezing, he was facing Chuck with his own wrist 
creaking under Chuck's grip.
Shai brought up his free hand, fingers curled, hard base of his hand as the 
driving impact point. It came around with blinding speed and Chuck blocked it, 
but just barely. The movement enabled Shai to shake loose, and the black man 
spun away and suddenly snapped into an alert defensive stance.
Chuck was standing several feet away, and immediately fell into a relaxed aikido 
defensive posture. He readied himself for Shai's attack. And Shai would attack, 
of that he had no doubt.
Aikido was a discipline with no offensive moves, only defensive. Chuck would 
only react rather than act. It was up to Shai to make the first move.
Shai did, coming in quickly, lashing out with a side snap kick. Chuck stepped 
aside, brushing past the leg, using its own speed against it, and flipping Shai 
across the room. Shai's back hit the table and he rolled across it, slamming 
into the far wall just under the window. The glass rattled with the impact.
Shai scrambled to his feet, growling angrily. And from across the room, off to 
the side, Jupe said in annoyance, "For God's sake, Shai. Shoot him."
Chuck froze, for the gun was now in Shai's hand like lightning. He tried with 
all his power to yank the gun away and still his mind betrayed him. But Jupe 
staggered, and he moaned, "I can't hold him forever!"
It was then that Chuck realized what was happening. Jupe Jupiter, most 
likelywas negating his own psi power. He was overriding Chuck's psychic ability 
with one of his own. He looked from Jupiter to Shai and back, unsure of which 
one to deal with first.
"He's a worthy fighter," said Shai tautly, the gun never wavering from its aim 
on Chuck. "It's not fair to me to shoot him from here. He deserves to meet me 
hand-to-hand."
"Screw that!" snapped Jupiter. "Dammit, Shai, do what I'm telling you! Kill 
him!"
Shai flashed his white teeth that seemed to glow in the darkness against his 
face. "Sorry, man," he said.
He fired once.
Chuck pitched back, fingers flying for his head. Blood welled up from between 
his fingers and he hit the floor with a wet, sickly thud.
"Damn," Shai said softly. "Goddamn."
Jupiter let out a sigh as he felt the pressure ease. Then he tossed an angry 
look at Shai. "Since when do you question my orders?"
Shai was stonily silent. And Jupiter, slowly realizing what was at stake, said 
more softly, "I understand, Shai. Really. But we've got priorities. Buzz and 
Luta must almost be finished with the gizmo by now. We have to keep on schedule. 
Luta's blitzing the monibots was necessary, but it certainly alerted the central 
security HQ. They'll be sending people. So let's remember the job we have to do 
and do it, okay?"
This was met with a low grunt, and Jupiter took that as an affirmative. He ran 
out, Shai right behind him.
Chuck's body lay unmoving and there was no sound, save for the splattering of 
rain against the window.
5
THUNDER RUMBLED AND lightning split the sky overhead. Dakota staggered, even 
stumbled slightly, but a tightrope walker doesn't fall quite that easily.
Unless the tightrope walker hits a pothole filled with water. Which is what 
Dakota did, and she went down with a cry. She fell flat, trying to absorb the 
impact with her hands as best she could. But when she fell it was at a bad 
angle, and when she went down it was with her leg at a bad angle to her foot.
She banged her fist on the road in frustration, but she didn't realize at first 
the severity of her injury. She realized, though, when she tried to stand and 
pain lanced through her lower leg as if someone had slammed a javelin through. 
She cried out and fell again, this time banging her knee. But that was nothing 
compared to the throbbing that had seized hold of her calf.
She looked up and Rommel was nowhere in sight. There, in the distance, was what 
appeared to be a fence of some sort, a fence and a gate. And far beyond that, 
buildings. She even thought that in the distance she heard Rommel barking 
angrily.
Suddenly the gates far in front of her opened and a van roared out. Tires 
screeching, it turned sharply and roared down the road straight at her.
Dakota shrieked, throwing up her arms to ward off the impact that she was 
certain she was about to feel certain that her last thought was going to be, 
What a stupid way to die. She staggered, trying to get out of the van's way, but 
her ankle betrayed her and she fell for a third time, ripping up her palms on 
the road. Then all she could see were headlights, nothing but headlights 
flooding her field of vision.
She heard a shout, and then the van screamed to a halt, brakes catching and 
slowing the van so that it stopped mere inches in front of her. Dakota's heart 
pounded against her chest and she looked up in confusion as the door of the van 
opened and a tall man with dark hairblack, perhaps, or maybe brownand a 
moustache leaped out of the van. He skidded slightly when he hit the ground and 
barely caught himself on the door handle.
"Christ, what are you doing here?" he shouted over the pounding rain.
"I'm looking for someone!" she shouted back. "Have you seen him?" She was trying 
to stagger to her feet, wincing. "Dressed kind of like me, with dark hair and 
beard he was on up ahead of me"
And now another man stepped out from the other side, a foxlike man. Whereas the 
first man seemed bothered by the rain and was muttering under his breath, this 
man barely noticed it.
She couldn't make out his eyes, for it seemed as if his face were cast in 
shadow. He stood there for a moment, seeming to size her up. "Was this man," he 
said slowly, "a rather skilled fighter with psionic powers?"
She gasped, incredulous. Automatically, out of defensive habit, she wanted to 
deny it, to laugh off the suggestion that anyone, much less Chuck, would be 
possessed of powers of the mind. But this was not the situation to toss around 
bullshit, and she was getting the overwhelming feeling that this was definitely 
not the man to toss it at.
"Yes," she said after a moment's thought. "I we work together."
"You did," he said.
His quiet, certain emphasis on the past tense startled her. "What are you 
talking about?"
That was when the explosionthe same one that Jo Sanderson was witness tolit up 
the sky.
Rommel squeezed between the bars of the gate and started up the road. With the 
rain coming down as hard as it was, he stuck to the more tree-filled perimeter 
rather than running straight down the main road. It afforded him some measure, 
albeit small, of protection. It also enabled him to come nowhere near the van 
that was speeding down the main road toward the gate.
As a result, while Dakota was having her confrontation with the Extremists, 
Rommel was just approaching the main building.
He barked in agitation, because he sensed that something was wrong. Chuck needed 
him, needed him desperately. What had been even more alarming for Rommel was 
that, for a time, he had completely lost sense of Chuck. Even when Chuck wasn't 
around, Rommel sensed him deep within his mind. They couldn't communicateChuck 
generally had to be face-to-face to do that, although their range was improving 
all the time. But Rommel felt him, as deeply as his drive for food or 
self-protection. It had become a part of his psychological makeup, part of his 
instinct.
Except Chuck was gone, as if their tie had been broken. Rommel couldn't 
understand it, and tried to figure it out even as he ran through the woods. But 
his reasoning abilities were not the greatest anyway. Chuck was the thinker, the 
strategist. Chuck was, as much as Rommel hated to admit it, the brains of the 
team.
But as he approached the building, suddenly he felt it again. Something had 
happened; something had disrupted their communion. Perhaps even rendered Chuck 
unconscious. But now Chuck was
Rommel froze. RUN! screamed his mind. RUN! RUN! RUN!
And that was when the building exploded.
Concussive force combined with waves of pure heat hurled Rommel back, back into 
the supposed safety of the woods. He tumbled tail over head, his fur crisping in 
the heat. He howled as he fell, and huge pieces of mortar and concrete plummeted 
all about him. It was nothing short of miraculous that he wasn't crushed by a 
piece of debris.
He kept on rolling, his paws scrabbling for purchase, finding none. The massive 
dog was completely in the power of something that utterly dwarfed him. He 
smashed into a tree, his head striking it with a sickening crunch, and that 
stopped him.
Consciousness fled him, and as it did, pieces of burning metal fell into the 
leaves overhead, embedded themselves in the trees.
All around the unmoving dog, trees began to burn.
6
MINUTES EARLIER
Chuck felt a distant pain in his forehead, and was irritated with it until he 
remembered that he should be dead, and therefore that pain was wonderful. It 
meant he was alive.
Except what if he was, in fact, dead. And one could feel pain even in death. 
Now that hardly seemed fair. Then again, life had never been fair. Why should 
death be any different?
Slowly he raised his hand and felt what seemed to be caked blood on his 
forehead. He sat up carefully, uncertainly, his head throbbing. His fingers 
traced the line of the gash across him. Then he looked at the wall. There was a 
hole in it about the size of an acorn, and he was certain that there was a 
bullet inside that hole.
Shai had missed.
"The hell he did," said Chuck, staggering to his feet. He knew instinctively 
that Shai was a crack marksman. He had done precisely what he wanted to do, 
namely crease Chuck's skull.
Why? That was obvious. Despite the orders of the man who was apparently his 
boss, Shai had had no desire to kill Chuck.
"He wanted to fight me," Chuck told no one, shaking his head slowly. God, what 
insanity. Not only reveling in violence, but actually sparing someone's life so 
that a violent encounter could be anticipated. Still, Chuck couldn't knock it. 
If it hadn't been for that rather curious move on Shai's part, Chuck would not 
have survived the encounter.
He staggered out into the hallway, his head ringing. He placed a hand against a 
gleaming wall and winced at his reflection. Not pretty. Not in the least. But as 
least he was there.
He concentrated, reached out, trying to use his senses and discovering that they 
were indeed working. He was detecting a problem area up ahead. Might it be that 
Jupiter guy? The one who seemed to have the power to short out his own psychic 
abilities? Anything was possible anything except, he thought bleakly, the 
likelihood of his getting out of the place in one piece.
He had wondered going in whether even Extremists would destroy a building if 
they knew there were still people inside. That if he just warned them that the 
guard had a daughter somewhere in the building, they might hold off. But 
Jupiter's brutal order of Chuck's death cast those hopes aside.
He was running, letting instinct take over. His mind was screaming a warning at 
him. He wasn't sure what he was sensing, only that there was great danger.
Part of himthe intelligent part, he thought bleakly wanted to turn and run. 
Wanted to get the hell out of there. God, he was no hero. He was no 
intrinsically brave man who always did the heroic thing. No superhuman 
muscle-bender, the type he'd seen in the Holos, dodging bullets and performing 
invincible deeds as long as the camera was rolling. He was just a guy, driven by 
desperation and a need to make sure that no one was hurt. Still, it was times 
like these that he desperately wished there were a director somewhere yelling 
"Cut!"
He staggered, nausea overwhelming him, his head throbbing. He had not recovered 
from the creasing and he leaned against a wall, fighting his stomach and losing. 
He heaved the remains of his earlier meal onto the floor, choking and gagging. 
It took long seconds, and when he'd finished, he automatically started looking 
for something to clean it up before he realized that he had to have other 
priorities at the moment.
He started to run again, closing his eyes to try to ward off dizziness. Not a 
concussion, please, please, he prayed, wondering if God happened to be paying 
the least bit of attention to him this bleak night. As if in answer, the thunder 
cracked overhead.
Where are they? he thought desperately. If he ran into them now, with a mouth 
like sandpaper and the stability of quicksand, he wouldn't last a minute. But he 
had no choice. He had to find the girl; he had to get the hell out of here
He had to turn right. Right here, through this door. Something was telling him 
that. Some inner sense, some
And suddenly he realized that it wasn't an inner sense.
It was the beeping.
He had been so rattled, so confused and ill, that he had not realized that there 
had been a steady, insistent beeping noise. Faint when he had first come around, 
but getting louder as he had automatically started running toward it.
It was in the room, just off to the right. He ran into the room, all the time 
thinking desperately, Please, please let it be something simple, something 
trivial, some automatic gimmick
He ran to the middle of the room, arms flailing in random, confused circles, and 
he spun there in the middle, looking around, trying to find the source.
Chuck spotted it. The source of the beeping, the source of where the noise had 
begun and where it would very shortly end, the alpha and omega. Birth and death.
Death. Oh, God, death. It was a bomb. It was a goddamn bomb, and it had been 
attached and wired to some huge bank of equipment. Equipment that was built 
right into the wall, and the bomb was ticking down. There it was, the LED 
reading and it said 008. Eight seconds.
"Eight seconds'." Chuck screamed, as if arguing with the evidence of his own 
eyes.
They had been too thorough. This machinery it was wired to was humming with a 
low and powerful energy. It was a generator of some sort, that had to be it, and 
in a sense of perverse justice, it was powering the very bomb that was to be its 
instrument of destruction.
If he used his TK to rip out the bomb, that would set it off anyway. And in the 
time that it took for that information to sink in, three seconds had passed. 
Five seconds left.
No time, his mind screamed, and somewhere far in the distance he suddenly became 
aware of Rommel as his mind shouted, Run! Run! RUN!
He had already turned and dashed for the window, the power of his TK giving him 
an additional launch as if he'd hit a springboard and hurtled himself forward. 
The girl, wherever she was, was dead. There was nothing he could do. He sent a 
brief prayer heavenward for the girl's soul and, while he was at it, one for his 
own.
He smashed into the window and bounced off.
Bounced off.
He fell to the ground, glanced back reflexively. Two seconds.
His brain screamed and the scream blew out the window, shattering it into a 
million fragments. He leaped through the window, bringing his arms up to cushion 
the fall, and he glanced back, ignoring his mind that said, Don't glance back, 
you idiot, and the building blew.
White, incandescent light reached him first, searing his eyes, and he clapped 
his hands to his face and screeched, even as his shoulder hit the ground. He had 
had the briefest glance of woods far off to his left, the merest hint before the 
light cleansed his retinas.
A split instant later the heat hit him, but by then he was rolling, tumbling as 
was Rommel some distance away. But Rommel had been farther from the explosion. 
For Chuck the only salvation came in the rain. The rain, which had been his 
enemy, now allied itself, cooling him even as his skin puckered and blistered 
under the intensity.
Then came another explosion as, from somewhere within, another generator blew. 
The sky became a dazzling display, as if somehow lightning were no longer 
content to strike down from the clouds but were instead erupting up from the 
ground. If it had not been so horrifying it would have been glorious. If Chuck 
had been able to see he would have gasped in awe of the destructive toys mankind 
was capable of producing.
But he could see nothing. Instead he tumbled, helplessly, hopelessly, screaming 
and sobbing his pain and anguish and shock. A piece of cement caught him on the 
shoulder with the speed of a missile and he felt the shoulder go numb.
Waves of shock hurtled him farther, farther, the ground sloping precipitously. 
He tried to find the calm center of his soul, to allow the fates to carry him, 
but he was rattled, fighting for survival in the center of a hellish storm 
created by human hands.
He hit something, some sort of wooden railing, which crumbled so easily that he 
had a feeling it had been there for quite some time. A barrier, long ignored. 
But a barrier against what?
In less than a second he had his answer as the ground vanished from under him.
Just like that, there was no support. He was in midair, and even though his eyes 
were throbbing orbs rather than functioning instruments, he knew what had 
happened. He'd rolled off a cliff, a cliff that stood majestically above a river 
he'd seen out a bay window
Back a few minutes ago. Back when he had sight. Back when he was alive. Not like 
now. Now was now, and now he had no sight, and now he was dead. He was a dead 
man.
He started to fall and he screamed. Not verbally, for his throat had constricted 
in panic, his vocal cords closing up. But his mind screamed, a primal bellow of 
pure terror that only comes when you are certain your life is over. Not 
endangered or grotesquely inconvenienced, but simply and irrevocably over.
His arms and legs spun, grasping at nothing, and he probably looked pretty 
damned funny, he realized.
And then gravity seized hold of him, and he fell.
7
DAKOTA WATCHED IN openmouthed astonishment as the explosion reached upward, the 
flames seeming to lick the heavens. First the light and then, moments later, the 
sound reached them, earsplitting and massive. Dakota staggered, unable to look 
away from it, her mouth moving but no words emerging.
"You bastards," she whispered before the noise had even begun to die down, and 
then more loudly, "You bastards!" She leaped toward Jupiter, fingernails bared, 
lips drawn back into a snarl. It was actually a fair impression of Rommel, and 
not intentional.
Also not particularly effective, for Jupiter did not back down in the least. 
Indeed he didn't have to, because a sharp and angry barking emerged from the van 
that brought Dakota up short.
A snapping, snarling Doberman came from the passenger's side, striking a 
defensive posture between the unflappable Jupiter and the hesitant Dakota. It 
took a step toward her and seemed ready to rip her to shreds. The only thing 
deterring it was Jupiter's firm but gentle hand on the back of its neck.
It brought Dakota's forward motion to a halt, but not her fury. "You blew up 
that place!" she said furiously. "Are you saying Chuck was in that place?"
"Of course," said Jupiter deferentially. "It was his own fault he was in the 
wrong place at the wrong time or was it just bad luck?"
"You lousy, lousy bastards!" Dakota was screaming, her body trembling, her hands 
curled into shaking fists. But Jupiter was barely paying attention, instead 
studying her with a casual detachment.
"Of course," he said in a triumphant whisper. "Oh, of course. That explains 
everything."
Thunder rumbled as Jupiter advanced on her, and Dakota started to back up, 
staggering. Then she shrieked as the dog lunged forward, his jaws snapping on 
her pants leg.
"Get him off!" she howled.
"I don't suggest you go any farther," said Jupiter politely, "or otherwise Mars 
will be forced to keep your calf as a souvenir."
"Get him off get him off get him off!"
"You are the shrill one," said Jupiter, grabbing her firmly by the wrist and 
gesturing Mars away. The Doberman backed down, still growling, a piece of fabric 
from Dakota's pants leg still in his teeth.
Jupiter yanked her forward, hard, and she cried out, stumbling on her injured 
ankle. Jupiter was supporting the weight of her and when he spoke it was in an 
unhurried, but deadly sounding, whisper. "I know who you are," he said softly, 
"I know what you are. I know who you work for. And you might prove valuable to 
us for a time before we're forced to kill you. So come along."
He dragged her toward the back of the van, Dakota putting up resistance as best 
she could. But it wasn't much as he yanked open the doors. Darkness yawned at 
her and she gasped as she made out two more forms within, and the brief flash of 
the barrel of a gun.
"Welcome," said a deep voice with a faint Jamaican lilt.
Jupiter hurled her into the van and slammed the doors behind her, cutting off 
the sound of her shriek. He then came quickly around the other side, and as he 
had expected, the sounds of her protest had quickly been terminated, thanks to a 
gag that someoneprobably Lutahad shoved in her mouth.
"Drive, Buzz," he said briskly.
Buzz fired up the engine, putting the van into gear, and he started down the 
roadway.
"Who the hell is she?" said Luta from the back, sounding extremely irritated. 
Luta did not take well to strangers at all.
"Remember our little discussion about the Complex?" asked Jupiter. "About how 
they nailed Porky?"
"Yeah. So?"
"I think this young woman is with the Complex."
In the darkness Dakota's eyes widened. She shook her head furiously, and her 
reward for it was a brisk crack against her skull by Luta.
"You think so?" Shai now rumbled.
"Fairly certain."
"How did you come up with that?"
"Well, we're fairly certain that the guy she's looking for is the guy whom I had 
Shai kill."
Shai remained stonily silent, and Jupiter did not give it any thought as he 
continued, "And that guy he was something special. TK with remarkable power. I 
could barely hold him back. Plus hand-to-hand. And he was in exactly the right 
place at the wrong time, for us."
"But I still don't see" Buzz began.
Jupiter quieted him with an impatient wave of his hand. "The rumor lately is 
about the psionics division the Complex has put together. That guy with the 
beard, he sure seemed like he would be right at home in an outfit like that. My 
guess is that somehow they caught wind of our plan and dispatched a team to try 
to check us out."
"She psionic too, then?" demanded Luta. She looked down a trifle nervously at 
Dakota, who was moaning softly because of the crack on the head she'd been 
given.
"I don't think so," said Jupiter slowly. "If she were, then I'd sense it. And"
Suddenly he sat forward in alarm. "Buzz!"
The headlights of the van had picked up an unexpected sight. Ahead of them on 
the side of the road, was a squad of soldiers. One of the soldiers was in the 
forefront and was putting up a hand, indicating that the van should slow to a 
halt. From nearby now were visible the shining hand lamps of other soldiers as 
well.
Buzz slammed his hands down repeatedly on the steering wheel. "Goddamn!" he 
shouted over and over, and then turned and snarled at Jupiter. "You said they 
wouldn't get here this fast!"
"They shouldn't have," said Jupiter in obvious irritation. "They must have been 
in the area anyway."
"That's great! That's fuckin' great! We're screwed now, man! We're screwed!"
"Slow down," said Jupiter with icy calm. "Make them think we're cooperating."
Obediently, without comprehending, Buzz slowed the vehicle down. The speed 
dropped, the van wavering slightly on the slick roads. From the darkness of the 
van's back, there was the unmistakable sound of a rifle being readied.
"That won't be necessary," said Jupiter. "You've forgotten our little short 
circuit. Luta, my sweet"
Without further prompting Luta made her way forward, her lack of height not even 
forcing her to bend over. She kneeled down next to Jupiter so that her eyeline 
was just above the dashboard.
"Ever do guns?" he asked. "Because now's the time."
Luta took a slow breath, clearing her mind. Buzz, at the wheel, risked a glance 
down at her. She gave him the creeps. When he used his power he didn't have to 
go through all this rigmarole. Letting out her breath, Luta placed the palms of 
her hands together, fingers upright and in front of her, pressing hard against 
each other.
"Ready," she said. "But there's a lot of guns."
"Just do your best. It'll be fine."
"Fine!" said Buzz incredulously. "If there's a bullet in my brain because she 
couldn't nail all the guns, that's not going to be fine."
"They'll never hit that small a target," Luta told him sweetly.
"Get ready," said Jupiter, "we're almost there."
The van slowed to a crawl, and the soldier stepped confidently in front of them. 
He started to say something about the explosion.
"Now," said Jupiter.
Luta reached out, her gaze sweeping the array of weapons in front of her. And 
one by one, each and every one of the gun mechanisms started to fall apart.
"Weapons failure!" shouted Private Dorsch, who happened to be checking his RBG's 
ammo level.
The squad had been carrying state-of-the-art, latest issue. The RBGs were the 
newest thing, the niftiest thing. Everything on the bastards was electronic, 
controlled by computer microchip. Thermal control to avoid overheating, ammo 
counter, computer-generated maintenance that was constant to avoid jamming.
So when Dorsch looked at the ammo counter and saw it go from full clip to empty, 
he knew there was a problem.
Sergeant Mary Jo Sanderson spun, checking her own weapon. She was standing to 
the right, near the passenger side. Dorsch was directly in front of the vehicle, 
having ordered it to slow down, since Sanderson had ordered that any vehicle 
entering or departing the area was to be treated suspiciously. To her horror and 
confusion, her own RBG was reading the same thing. And now the thermal emissions 
control was starting to go haywire. There was an audible crackling as 
microcircuits began to overload and spit out voltage.
"What the hell?!" she shouted.
"Good going!" said Jupiter. "Buzz, get us out of here."
Buzz slammed down on the gas pedal and the van leaped forward.
Dorsch barely had time to look up when the van crashed into him. Sanderson 
screamed his name but he didn't hear it, didn't hear anything as he was hurled 
off to the side. His body bounced once, twice, and then skidded to a halt, lying 
there in the rain like a broken puppet.
The other soldiers reacted automatically, bringing their RBGs to bear on the 
speeding van and pulling the triggers. Most of them got no response at all, 
although several of them were greeted with crackling and spitting noises.
Jo didn't understand what was happening and, at the moment, was not taking the 
time to try to figure it out. Instead she tossed aside the RBG and yanked out 
the ancient service automatic that she kept holstered at her hip. Unlike the RBG 
there was no handy targeting lock-on, but she didn't care. She wasn't even 
thinking about what she was doing, only reacting in a cold fury to what had 
happened to Dorsch. She emptied the clip at the speeding van and, when it kept 
going, muttered a curse.
Others had already run over to Dorsch, who was lying there unmoving. Sanderson 
holstered the gun and ran over to the group of men who were rapidly checking 
Dorsch over. Winkowski looked up at her as she approached, and the expression on 
his face said it all.
"Let me through," she snarled. "Goddammit, Winkowski, out of the way." She 
pushed him aside and dropped down next to Dorsch, ready to apply CPR, first aid, 
mouth-to-mouth anything that she could do so that she wouldn't have to admit 
that she had lost a man.
But one look at Dorsch told the entire story. His head was twisted at an 
impossible angle, his eyes still open in glazed surprise. Jo Sanderson bit her 
lower lip for a moment, but only a moment. Then steely resolve overtook her, and 
she reached over and closed Dorsch's unseeing eyes for him. "I'm sorry, Dorsch," 
she whispered. "Those bastards" She turned and said to the men, "Did anyone get 
the plate number?"
"It didn't have one," said Winkowski and added indignantly, "That's illegal."
She looked at him with a touch of incredulity. "You're right. Gee, they might 
get in trouble."
Another soldier, Tang, pulled a blanket out of his duffel. Sanderson was puzzled 
until he reached over and spread it over Dorsch's body, obscuring it and 
protecting it from the rain. Sanderson gave a quick, approving nod.
Then from behind them someoneMurraycalled out, "Sergeant! Check this out! I 
think you nailed 'em."
Jo rose quickly and went to where Murray was standing. On the ground in front of 
him were signs of skid marks that the van had left behind when it crashed into 
Dorsch. There was also a dark liquid, a series of splotches that ran down the 
road and into the distance.
"You hit something," said Murray. "Fuel line, maybe. Something. They're leaving 
a trail anyone can follow."
"They must be the ones who did the laboratory," said Jo briskly, trying to 
restore her mind to a businesslike mode in the wake of Dorsch's brutal slaying. 
"All right. Fall in. Now listen up," she said as they formed a semicircle around 
her, like a football team in a huddle. "If they're leaking fuel, they won't be 
able to get far. And I don't want to take chances that this rain is going to 
wash it away. I want the bastards who killed Dorsch." There were grim nods from 
all around, and she continued, "You threeThompson, Koenig, Ingersollyou head 
over to the plant. See if there's anyone still around, any survivors. Inspect 
the damage site, see what you can find. The rest of you, come with me."
"Shouldn't we check in with base?" asked Koenig.
"We're out of range," she said tightly, and indeed they probably were. They had 
been airlifted into the woods for survival and night training. They weren't 
scheduled to be picked up at their rendezvous point for two days.
Besides, part of Jo didn't want help even if they could get it. She was burning 
with cold fury over what had happened to Dorsch, and she knew that it had to be 
her and her squad who evened the scales for this crime. It had to be, or there 
was simply no justice in the world.
She glanced over in the direction of the explosion and saw to her dismay that 
the forest within the perimeter was burning. She had already pegged the work as 
that of Extremists. How ironic that people who proclaimed themselves concerned 
about the environment would commit an act that so flagrantly destroyed living 
trees.
In the forest that surrounded the site of the former lab, Rommel whined softly 
and lifted his head.
All around him the trees were going up in soaring towers of flame. The heavy 
rain was helping somewhat, preventing the fire from spreading and indeed 
diminishing its effects. If it weren't for the rain, Rommel, along with the 
entire forest, would have been consumed by this point.
Rommel staggered to his feet and reached out with his mind, trying to sense 
Chuck's whereabouts. He could detect nothing. Chuck was out of range, or 
unconscious. That Chuck might be dead, probably was dead, did not even occur to 
Rommel. Perhaps he might have somehow known instinctively if Chuck had met his 
demise. Or perhaps the thought of the man dying was simply inconceivable. The 
man was a constant, was a part of Rommel's life, and the dog didn't have the 
imagination to envision Chuck departing from it.
He started to make his way through the fire, stepping gingerly over burning 
branches. The trees burned angrily all around him, and the air was sizzling. His 
fur was soaked in some places, singed in others.
A crackling from overhead alerted him, and he leaped just in time to avoid a 
huge, fiery branch that plunged to the ground right where he had been only 
moments before. He glanced back, shaking his great head. Clearly this was not 
going to be easy.
He threaded carefully through, going as quickly as he could and fighting the 
urge to simply dash pell-mell through the forest. And finally he was out.
He stopped and stood there, panting rapidly, looking around for some sign of 
Chuck. But he knew there wouldn't be any. If Chuck were present he would sense 
it before he saw it. But he had to find Chuck, he simply had to.
Otherwise
Who was going to feed him?
8
CHUCK PLUNGED DOWN, down toward the river far below.
Once before he had tried to use his power to break a fall, and had not been 
particularly successful. But that time he had been able to see, and had 
partially been frozen by the sheer magnitude of looking down and seeing the drop 
that awaited him.
This time his main handicap was also his only advantage. He had no ability to 
look down, devastated as his vision was by the explosion. So instead, in his 
desperation, his TK power lashed out wildly, even as he free-fell. He sought out 
the ground, not able to see it, but trying to feel it, feel the hardness of it 
so that he could push against it.
He kept falling, plummeting, trying to slow himself down. He clutched at his 
throat, feeling hopeless panic trying to lock into his mind and paralyze it, 
gravity pulling him down hungrily, eager to assert its dominance.
And his fingers grasped on something around his neck, something he'd gotten so 
used to that he had forgotten he was wearing it. The spoon that he wore around 
his neck that had been bent, through the power of his mind, into an oddly shaped 
letter A. The first letter of his ex-wife's first name.
He whispered it, like a prayer, trying to pull strength from it, trying to 
center on it and fight the confusion and disori-entation. Was he ten feet above 
the ground? A hundred? A thousand? And suddenly he realized he was slowing. Not 
much, not much at all maybe barely enough to fight the acceleration that was 
part of a falling body. But something.
Would it be enough? If he hit ground, going at the speed he was, would he 
survive? Probably not. Probably not. He was dead. That was all. Even as he 
refocused his will, fought to slow himself down further, despair was surging 
through him. And yet, the more he despaired, the more perversely determined he 
became.
In the distance he heard a sound, like roaring from a great wind tunnel. No not 
wind. Water
And then he plunged into the river.
He gasped as he hit, giving him barely a lungful of air before he sank beneath 
the surface. He flailed about desperately, becoming disoriented and unsure of 
which way was up or down. He went down, down, and then struck the bottom of the 
riverbed, thereby determining for certain which way was which.
His feet sank into the muck and he pulled them free, then kicked upward. The 
fierce current of the river was already pulling him, and the brief amount of air 
in his lungs was already running out. He felt a sharp pain in his chest as it 
demanded air, trying to force him to breathe, oblivious and uncaring of the fact 
that he was underwater.
He swam as hard as he could, no slick, organized paddling but instead a 
desperate attempt to reach the surface. He flailed desperately, the river 
buffeting him about
And then, to his astonishment, he broke the surface.
His lungs sucked in air greedily and then he went under again, but this time 
there was no panic, not even the need to fight off panic. Now there was simply 
quiet and determined desperation as he swam with fierce, sure strokes. He had 
been a gym coach, for pity's sake. One of the best athletes in his town. He 
could handle this, blast it.
But the disorientation of the blackness that surrounded him was a powerful 
thing, a frightening thing. He tried to ignore it, but how can one ignore the 
inescapable? Even as he swam as hard as he could, he realized with dull horror 
that he had no idea what direction he was going. The water was sweeping him 
along as uncaringly as if he were a branch or twig. All around him was darkness, 
and the roaring of the river that was everywhere. As the river had tried to fill 
his lungs, unsuccessfully, the pure noise and power of it did indeed succeed in 
filling what remained of his senses.
But he refused to give up, refused to surrender, and he swam desperately and 
furiously. He didn't know where he was going but dammit he was going to get 
there in a hurry.
He lost track of time. He might have been swimming forever. He might have always 
been swimming. Perhaps everything he had ever thought he had done was simply an 
illusion, and he had actually been spending his entire existence anxiously 
paddling in some godforsaken river in Colorado.
The roaring ahead of him grew louder and he didn't understand why, so caught up 
was he in a flow of crazed thoughts. Of course, it was understandable why the 
increase in sound held no particular meaning for him.
He had never seen a waterfall.
But he certainly felt it as once again the world dropped out from under him and 
he plummeted. Fortunatelyif that term could reasonably be used to describe any 
part of his current state of affairsit was a short waterfall. Moments after 
he'd gone over the edge he hit the bottom of it. He went under for a moment, the 
strength of the waterfall pressing him down, but then he bobbed to the surface, 
splashing about and gasping for air once more.
His desperate fingers found something, a branch, and his hand closed around it. 
And to his amazement, the branch didn't move. Instead it anchored him to the 
spot, despite the river's best efforts to continue to sweep him away.
He continued just holding on for a few moments, making sure for himself that the 
branch was really not going to go anywhere. Then he began to pull himself toward 
shore, hand over hand. He tried to ignore the blackness, the coldness in his 
body, the rasping of his breath, and the steady, infernal noise of the river. He 
tried to ignore it all, focusing entirely on the branch. His salvation, his only 
friend in the world, was this piece of wood.
A piece of bark came away in his hand, but he managed to reaffirm his grip and 
hold on, just hold on. Then his feet touched the riverbed, gave him purchase and 
support, and he pushed along, pulling himself hand over hand even faster now. 
Hope gave him additional strength, and within moments, he was on the shore.
He lay there for a long time, gasping for air, his heart pounding. He was 
drenched, his clothes sopping, his hair plastered down. Although he couldn't see 
it, some of the dye he used in his hair to cover the blondness had washed away, 
leaving his head somewhat mottled-looking, But he wouldn't have cared, just as 
he didn't care about the coldness and dampness. All he cared about was that he 
was on the land and he was safe.
Safe.
Slowly he sat up and started to assess precisely what was meant by "safe."
He was blind. The cold harshness of that began to set in as he passed his hand 
in front of his face and saw nothing, not even the slightest motion of shadows. 
Even when he was a kid, playing inane party games that required a blindfold, he 
was still able to see something. Some vague hint, some distinguishing between 
light and dark. Of course, it was nighttime, which didn't help. Still
And he was alone in the forest. A forest that was, if Jupiter could be believed, 
filled with creatures that had been mutated by chemicals dumped into
The river. And now he shivered reflexively. If it was true if there were 
chemicals in the riverhad they had an effect on him? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe it 
took a long time to affect you. The animals drank there all the time, after all. 
Maybe his immersion in it would be harmless, have no ill effects at all. Maybe
Maybe and maybe he was going to die. Maybe he was going to change, or display 
the effects of radiation poisoning. Maybe his hair would fall out or his tongue 
turn into some mottled green thing. Maybe
Maybe he was going to make himself crazy if he kept this up.
He stood slowly, on unsteady legs. He staggered, never realizing how much he 
depended on sight to do something as simple as walk. Suddenly the entire world 
had become something he approached tentatively, if at all. Part of his instinct 
told him to just sit and wait for someone to come for him
Dakota. The poor woman, she was sitting back in the truck, waiting for him to 
come with help. He couldn't even help himself, and now there was someone else 
depending on him.
And Rommel
And somehow, instinctively, Chuck knew that Rommel was no longer in the truck. 
He didn't know how he knew, and for that matter, he didn't know where Rommel 
was. But he wasn't in the truck. He hadn't sat around waiting for Chuck to 
return. He was where?
Where, for that matter, was Chuck?
He began to walk, every step cautious and uncertain. He was positive that he was 
going to step on a branch or a rock and fall over, or be attacked by some sort 
of wild beast. He felt eyes, millions of eyes, staring at him from the woods, 
and he was certain they weren't really there, but couldn't shake the feeling 
that they were. And as it whirled around in his mind, he tripped over a branch.
He lay there for a moment, then sat up, brushing the dirt off his hands. Then he 
reached out, his hands moving in formless patterns until his fingers closed 
around the branch that had just tripped him up. It was long, four and a half 
feet at least, maybe five.
He stood, picking up the branch. Then he held it out just in front of him, tip 
near the ground, and started to walk. He moved the branch in front of him as if 
it were a radar sweeper, and it worked perfectly, detecting high branches or 
small holes that could trip him up.
He walked down the shore, looking for help, trying to ignore the bone-chilling 
coldness that cut to his marrow.
9
"WE GET OUR stuff and we get the hell out," said Buzz, stalking the interior of 
their cramped hideout.
"I agree," said Shai from the darkness, which was unusual for Shai. More often 
than not he would reject a suggestion from Buzz out of hand, simply because of 
the source. But there was something about Shai now, something that had Jupiter a 
bit concerned.
Jupiter sat cross-legged on the floor, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Luta?" 
he said. "Your thoughts on the matter?"
"Whatever you say is fine, Jupiter."
"That wasn't my question," he gently remonstrated her.
There was a pause and a sigh from the darkness. "What do we do about her?"
It was the way Luta had of answering questions. When she was certain that the 
course of action was already decided, she would respond with a question about 
the next step to be taken.
The "her" referred to, of course, was tied up in the corner. Dakota felt the 
dull, throbbing ache in her ankle now, which matched the pain in her head from 
when that small woman had knocked her cold. Her lips thinned in annoyance. She'd 
love to be able to go a couple of rounds with that little sleaze without some 
sort of handicap. "Yes," she said in annoyance. "What about me?"
Jupiter did not respond at first, instead staring off into space, his fingers 
steepled in front of him. "You, my dear you will be coming with us."
There were murmurs of surprise and irritation from the others in the group. 
Buzz, naturally, was the loudest, as he snapped, "What in hell we need her for?"
"For protection."
"Protection? Us? What the hell do we need protecting from?"
Luta, naturally, promptly took Jupiter's side and said to Buzz sarcastically, 
"You didn't sound so confident when you were staring down the soldiers' rifles."
"Yeah, well you did fine with that," he admitted grudgingly. "But that just 
proves my point. Why don't we just ditch her or kill her or something. Why drag 
her along?"
"We only kill when we have to," said Shai.
There was a polite cough from Jupiter in response to that. "Oh, is that a fact?"
"Yeah."
"Shai," he said as if addressing a child, "you're obviously forgetting 
something. The government will not operate under such strictures. If they find 
us, they'll kill us. Make no mistake about that. Even if we're unarmed. Even if 
we surrender. That is how things are done nowadays, and that's how we must 
respond."
"Nice excuse," said Dakota. Her initial fear had been replaced by a burning 
anger, by a frustration that control over her life had been usurped in this way.
Jupiter slowly turned his gaze on her. "Considering, my dear, that you are the 
one benefiting from this course of action, I find your arrogance ill-timed and 
misplaced. As just another corpse you are eminently disposable. It is only your 
connection with the Complex, and your possible use as a bargaining chip, that 
enables you to continue breathing."
"Oh, really. And what if I"
She stopped. She could continue to protest that she wasn't part of the Complex, 
but she realized that one of two things would happen. Either they wouldn't 
believe her, or they would. If they didn't believe her, then she was wasting her 
breath. If they did believe her they would waste her. So it dawned on her that 
completing the sentence might not be the smartest thing to do in regards to her 
continued health.
So she quickly changed tactics and said, "And what if I scream?"
"Go right ahead," said Jupiter. "But we're somewhat isolated in this cabin. 
That's why we chose it. No one will hear you."
She sat there, steaming. When it became obvious to Jupiter that she was not 
going to say anything further, he nodded curtly and said, "All right, Buzz. Go 
load up the van."
"Why do I have to do all the shit work?" he demanded. From nearby Mars growled, 
sharing Buzz's irritation.
"Because you're the biggest shit," said Luta sweetly.
He grunted as he got up. When he had walked out the door, Jupiter said to 
Dakota, "What do you think of our little group?"
"I think you're monsters," she replied sharply.
"Indeed. And tell me, my dear have you wondered why winters are so mild these 
days? Hmmm? Have you wondered why 'Dangerous Breathing' days have become more 
and more frequent? Why skin cancer is on the rise, not to mention a number of 
other bizarre medical situations that people can't readily explain?"
"No."
"Of course not." He smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes. "You're not 
meant to wonder. You're a good little drone. The government doesn't want you to 
wonder, and so you don't. The government wants you to sign over your 
independence and your loyalty and your mind, and you do so willingly. Take your 
best shot, my dear, at calling me names. I can assure you that the names I can 
call you are far more disturbing."
"More disturbing than 'murderer,' " she said tightly.
"Life ends, my dear what is your name, anyway?"
"Screw you."
"Very well. Life ends, my dear Screw. Sooner or later, all life ends. But what 
you do with your mind, and with your time here on earththat is the most 
important thing. And it's my overall accomplishments that should"
He was stopped by an angry shout from outside, and the sounds of pounding 
footsteps as Buzz ran back into the house, a string of profanities leaping from 
his lips.
"What's happened?" demanded Jupiter, trying to cut it short.
"We have no fuel!" shouted Buzz, waving his hands about.
"Impossible."
"Not impossible! Those bastards winged the van somehow. There's a neat little 
hole in the tank, and every drop leaked out; most on the way up here, the rest 
in a nice puddle while we were parked. Now how the hell are we gonna get out of 
here?"
"We'll have to find and steal another vehicle, that's all" Jupiter's voice 
trailed off as clearly something upsetting occurred to him. Dakota could imagine 
what it was, for the same thing was crossing her mind as well.
"Damn," said Shai, also realizing.
"What? What is it?" said Buzz, looking from one to the other.
"If we've been leaking fluid all the way back here" said Jupiter.
"Then we left them a trail, Jupe," finished Shai. "And the rain's tapered off 
probably didn't even begin to wash the stuff away."
"They'll come after us," said Jupiter. "They'll know we couldn't have gotten 
far. Even on foot, they'll be here before too long."
"We have to stop them!" said Luta in alarm. "Jupiter, do something!"
Jupiter was stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I won't have to," he said after a 
time. "Buzz will."
"We're dead," said Shai.
Buzz looked at him with indignation. "What, you think I can't?"
"I think we're dead is all I'm saying."
"Well, the hell with you," snapped Buzz. "You think I can't? I'll show you who 
can't."
Jupiter smiled to himself. It was a ritual that they commonly engaged in. Buzz 
seemed to lack the concentration to simply go ahead and use his ability. He 
always seemed to need someone like Shai to push him and prod him, to tell him 
that he was incapable, so that he could rise to the occasion. Jupiter suspected 
that it was probably something sexual. Then again, so was most of life.
Buzz sat down on the floor and started to concentrate. He made sure not to 
engage in any of the deep-breathing nonsense that Luta seemed constrained to do. 
Instead, he simply concentrated, reaching out to the immediate area to see what 
he could find.
He touched the most sensitive mind first and blinked in surprise. A voice seemed 
to sound in his head, and it said, Chuck, is that you? and he had no idea what 
it meant. But he didn't like the sound of it, not at all, and so he quickly 
withdrew his mind and moved on. And then he started to locate the types he was 
looking for. Minds of simplicity, of free-floating anger and pure instinct. 
Minds that he could control and guide.
He told them what he wanted them to do, who to look for. He told them what it 
would take to please him. And in that silent communion they agreed, eager to 
obey and earn his approval. For Buzz had instilled in their makeup, with but the 
slightest effort, that getting his approval was immensely important.
Rommel had squeezed his massive frame back through the fence and had begun a 
steady, distance-consuming lope that brought him back in short order to the 
pickup truck they'd left behind. It sat there on the side of the road, abandoned 
and lonely. Rommel was confused. Bad enough that Chuck had disappeared. Now 
where had the woman gone? In terms of communication she was less than useless, 
but she might be able to feed him at least. But she was nowhere to be found. 
Typical human. Always underfoot when you don't need them, never around when you 
do.
Suddenly Rommel looked up, as if a voice had called down to him from on high. He 
glanced around in confusion and whined softly. He had heard a voice in his mind. 
It didn't sound like Chuck, didn't feel like him but Chuck's was the only voice 
that had ever entered his head before.
Chuck, is that you? he asked.
And then, just like that, it was gone. Rommel couldn't understand it. 
Automatically he put his nose to the ground and made a circle of the pickup 
truck, trying to detect a scent. As if he were certain that there had been a 
human being standing there and was now, for some strange human reason, hiding. 
Not that it made any sense, but then humans never seemed to be overly concerned 
about making sense.
But there was nothing. Not a damned thing.
He barked loudly, and then howled, in hopes that a response would come. But none 
did.
He stayed by the truck a while longer, and then started down the roadway. He 
kept up a brisk, steady trot and then picked up something. A scent, faint, but 
there. The scent of humans, a lot of them. It was possible, with so many spoors 
mixed together, that Chuck's was among them. Humans had a habit of hanging out 
with each other. Rommel wasn't entirely sure why. He could barely handle being 
around two at the most. So what in the world someone would want with a lot of 
them was beyond him.
Nevertheless, Chuck might be with them. And so he set out at a steady run, 
picking up speed as the spoor grew stronger. His stomach rumbled in irritation. 
He hoped he would find some food soon, because he was starting to feel as if 
he'd be willing to eat the first thing he saw.
As it happened, the first thing he saw was a body.
He stopped in surprise. Not just a body. A couple of bodies. He swung his 
massive head around, his large eyes taking it all in.
They looked vaguely familiar. Then he remembered. They were dressed similarly to 
the humans in that place that Chuck had calledwhat was itthe Complex. Where 
Chuck and he had met. They were the men with the rifles who tried to stop Rommel 
and Chuck from leaving. Soldiers. Rommel had gotten to ride a motorcycle that 
time. It had been fun and Chuck had promised him that he might get to do it 
again someday. So far, he hadn't.
These men were different soldiers, and they had no motorcycles. They didn't even 
have lives. Something, something with an unnatural scent, had ripped them apart. 
Rommel did not like the look of it at all, because as near as he could tell, 
whatever had killed the men would probably not have much trouble killing a 
certain German shepherd either.
Still at least there was food here.
His jaws hovered over the body of one of the humans, ready to rip off some meat
And he hesitated.
Now what in the world was holding him back? Chuck wasn't around to be that 
damnable voice that restrained him. Theoretically nothing should be preventing 
him from chow-ing down. It's not like the human needed the meat anymore, after 
all.
So why was it that he could picture Chuck in his mind, an angry finger waving at 
him, saying, "No, Rommel. Not that. You can't eat that. I won't like it, and I 
wouldn't want you to."
Why did he give a stale dog biscuit what Chuck would say? Chuck got in his way 
half the time. Chuck was this irritating lock on him, a human choke collar. 
Chuck was
Chuck would be
Chuck would be disappointed in him.
He growled low in his throat. Hell, it wasn't like the human was going to attack 
him, or even would attack him anytime in the future. This was a seriously dead 
human, and so were his friends. So it could not remotely be considered 
self-defense, or disabling or killing an attacker. It was just meat.
Just meat.
And he couldn't do it. He was hungry and tired and furious with himself, but he 
couldn't do it.
In annoyance, he urinated around the corpses. Just in case he changed his mind. 
But he had the dismal feeling he wasn't going to.
That's what happens when you hang around with humans, he realized. It spoils 
you.
There was the further scent of humans past that point, though, mingled with the 
scent of the other creature. Rommel followed the scent, which led him deep into 
bushes and trees. Except that they had been knocked down, torn about. Something 
had come through here with the speed and power of a bulldozer, and Rommel had 
the distinct feeling he knew what it was. It was the same creature that had 
killed the humans behind him.
He followed the scent all the way, as far as he could, before he stopped.
The scent of the humansno, one human, he now realizedended here. And "here" 
was a cliff, jutting out over a sheer drop. The wind whistled fiercely around 
it, buffeting Rommel so hard that he did not dare to go to the edge of the cliff 
and look over. It wasn't really necessary. He knew exactly what he would finda 
drop so steep that no human could possibly survive it.
There were tracks as well, tracks that led to the edge of the cliff and away. 
There was no doubt in Rommel's mind that they were tracks from whatever the 
creature was that had killed the hu
His ears suddenly pricked up. Something was approaching from behind him, 
downwind of him so that he hadn't caught the scent sooner. And then came a roar 
so deafening that Rommel almost leaped right off the edge of the cliff in 
response. As it was the explosive noise startled him so greatly that he leaped 
from hiding and skidded halfway toward the cliff edge.
He spun and stared incredulously at what was coming at him.
It was a bear, but far more massive than any he had ever seen. And it 
lookedwrong. Its fur was wrong, its eyes, its whole manner. It smelled wrong. 
It was dying. That was it. It was dying, except the bear didn't know it yet. And 
it was a slow death. Might take weeks or months before the bear would notice 
that it was dying, at which point it would probably just keel over.
Unfortunately it was nowhere near that time yet.
The slavering monster lunged toward Rommel. Rommel waited until it was almost 
upon him, then dodged around him like lightning. The bear staggered and then 
turned. By that point, however, Rommel had darted back into the woods. He had 
seen everything he wanted to see, everything that he was going to see.
Rommel briefly considered the idea of fighting the bear, but that seemed an 
exercise in futility, if not outright suicide. So instead he elected to run, 
assuming that, if he couldn't outfight the damned thing, at the very least he 
could outrun it.
But as he ran through the woods, he wondered what in the world had caused the 
bear to look like that. And he also wondered if somehow the human whom the bear 
had stalked to the cliff had somehow managed to survive. Humans, Rommel 
realized, could be very resourceful when they weren't being self-absorbed.
10
AT THE POINT in time when Rommel had first returned to the pickup, and was 
briefly waiting for either Dakota or Chuck or both to return, Sergeant Mary Jo 
Sanderson was leading her squad in pursuit of the individuals she believed to 
have been responsible for the bombing of Internet Propulsion.
The dripping fuel had indeed been an invaluable means of tracking. The squad of 
a dozen men had broken camp earlier, and were carrying everything they'd brought 
with them when they'd first been airdropped down. Nevertheless, Jo noted with 
pride, it hadn't slowed them one iota.
She tried to figure out what in the world was going on. Why had there been 
massive weapons failure all at the same time? The odds of that happening were 
well, there were no odds for it. It could not, should not happen, under any 
circumstances. But it had, robbing them of their standard heavy firepower. They 
still had their handguns, and some of those could be pretty high techespecially 
the ones with the laser sighters. Jo, for her part, still preferred the old 
style one that she kept holstered. The one her father had used and had given 
her. She'd worn and fired it with pride, although her mother had shuddered every 
time she'd seen it being used.
"Sergeant!" came a voice from up ahead. It was Winkowski, she realized. He was 
the best tracker in the outfit, the one with the best eyesight. And it was 
clearly serving him in good stead now, for he said, "Over there. It goes off 
over there."
Sure enough, the droplets had veered off. It was a narrow dirt road, mostly 
obscured by bushes and overgrowth, and left to their own devices, Sanderson's 
squad might well have walked right past it.
Sanderson pulled out her gun and replaced the magazine, not satisfied with the 
fact that it was half empty. She slammed a new magazine in place, tucking the 
partially depleted one into her pocket. "Okay, people," she said, "you look 
alive and you stay alive. Shapp, you're on point."
The men nodded silently, making their own ammo checks. Then they entered the 
passage cautiously, two-by-two formation, with Shapp several feet ahead leading 
the way.
Shapp was one of the more experienced members of the squad, which was why it was 
a shame when he died first.
They had penetrated halfway up the overgrown road when a massive roar shook them 
to their roots. The squad froze, casting nervous glances at each other.
"What the hell was that, a fucking lion?" demanded Winkowski.
"Shapp, what do you see?" called Sanderson.
What Shapp saw was movement, to his right, something huge. He swung his pistol 
around and squeezed off four rounds, each explosion of his weapon deafening. And 
now the others following suit, pumping away at the same general direction that 
Shapp had been firing in. Like deadly fireflies, shots ripped through the air, 
lighting up the underbrush.
"Cease fire!" Jo called out. "Come on, hold it! Save ammo, goddammit!"
They obeyed her order and they paused, waiting to hear some movement, some sign 
of anything.
"Nothing could have survived that barrage," said Jo confidently.
Shapp never got a chance to agree or disagree, because a huge paw swept out from 
the underbrush. The first arc of the claw took off his face, and even as he 
keeled over dead, the return arc ripped out his bowels, sending blood and gore 
spilling to the dirt.
It leaped into their path. It was massive beyond massive, a grizzly from hell. 
On its body were the marks of the bullet wounds. It was bleeding from a dozen 
hits, and it didn't seem to be the least bit bothered by them.
It charged at them, bellowing defiance. They didn't hear Jo's screams of "Fall 
back" they didn't need to hear them, because they were falling back just fine 
without any urging.
There was a snarl from behind them and Jo, who was bringing up the rear, spun. 
Her eyes widened in shock.
It was, of all things, a raccoon. A cute, furry raccoon, except it was about 
twice as large as any she had ever seen, and there was madness in its eyes. It 
leaped straight at them with incredible agility. Jo swung an arm, catching the 
creature's tail and hurling it to one side.
The raccoon snagged onto a branch and the branch bent and then snapped the 
creature right back at the soldiers. It sailed through the air and landed on the 
back of Private Dawson. Dawson screamed as the raccoon sank its teeth into the 
back of Dawson's neck and, with an effortless yank, ripped out Dawson's throat. 
Blood flew, spattering Jo and others around her.
In front of them the bear was tearing them to ribbons. Three men were already 
down, and the squad was emptying all its ammo into the bear. It wasn't even 
being slowed down. It grabbed a fourth man, lifted him high over its head, and 
Jo watched helplessly, in terror, as her man was ripped in half, in goddamn 
half.
From somewhere she heard Winkowski scream, "Let's get the fuck out of here!"
The squad broke and ran. They tried to retreat but now there were more creatures 
coming at them, squealing and gibbering in high-pitched, insane caricatures of 
their own voices. The soldiers split, ran any which way they could.
Jo was not ecstatic with the way her men were responding to pressure. Then 
again, she couldn't blame them for two reasonsfirst, this was beyond anything 
they'd ever been trained to deal with. And second, she was busy running herself.
Mary Jo Sanderson plunged through the woods, smashing through the branches that 
ripped at her face and clothes, running as fast as she could. She shouted the 
names of her men, hoping to pull them together. But she got no response. Instead 
she heard screams, shouts of horror and fear, ripping and chewing noises. She 
bit back tears, because dammit she was too hard-bitten to cry, she had been 
through too much to revert to some damned stereotype weepy female.
She saw a clearing up ahead and dashed for it. She broke into an open area, kept 
on going, and skidded to a stop.
A cliff. A sheer drop. (The same cliff, in fact, that Rommel would arrive at 
some time later.) She looked around, considered trying to climb down it, and 
promptly dismissed that option as counterproductive to her continued existence.
A fierce wind was blowing around her, so fierce she staggered and almost lost 
her footing. It was as if some massive hand wanted to pick her up and fling her 
to her doom.
The full horror and shock of what had happened had not yet set in. For that she 
was grateful. In the distance she heard shouts and screams. Her men. She had 
deserted her men. No she hadn't, she had just run with the rest of them. But 
dammit, she was the leader. She should have done something.
She still could. Perhaps she still could.
She turned toward the woods and froze.
The bear was standing there, its mouth covered with gore. She thought she saw a 
piece of someone's uniform sticking in its teeth.
They stood there, studying each other for a moment, and then the bear opened its 
mouth and roared.
She brought her gun up and emptied the remains of the magazine at the animal. It 
staggered slightly under the assault, but otherwise seemed uninjured, even 
angered. Nothing was stopping the huge beast, nothing.
Jo backed up until she could back no further. The wind yanked at her, and it was 
all she could do not to be blown away. But maybe that would be preferable, 
because the monster was advancing on her, waving its paws, ready to gut her as 
it had her men.
If only they had packed heavier firepowerbut who could have predicted what had 
happened? Who knew their RBGs would go out? Who knew, when they'd been 
airdropped down for a routine survival
Airdropped.
"My God," she whispered even as her hand flew to her pack. When they'd broken 
camp, she'd been a good soldier and packed up everything. Brought everything. 
Including her reserve parachute pack. She'd cut loose the parachute since it had 
gotten tangled in trees when they first landed. The parachute was gone. But not 
the new, light emergency chute, still clipped to her pack harness.
If she just jumped and opened it, it probably wouldn't slow her down in time to 
avoid getting killed. She wasn't high enough. But
The bear roared and charged as she yanked on the emergency rip cord. The chute 
rippled out from her pack, and the high winds on the cliff grabbed it up and 
yanked her off. The bear skidded to a halt and stood there, confused and 
puzzled, as Jo was picked up by the winds and carted away.
She was carried high, high into the air, out of control, as she watched the 
cliff recede, the bear standing there in frustration. Then suddenly a downdraft 
caught her, sending her spiraling downward. She dangled helplessly, knocked 
about at the whim of the wind. She watched the ground pass under her with 
dizzying speed, and gasped as the breath was knocked out of her.
In front of her loomed trees, and she was heading straight for them. There was 
absolutely no way she could avoid them, for she was at the mercy of the wind, 
and the wind was not feeling especially merciful.
She crashed into the branches and they ripped at her, ripped at her parachute, 
tearing gaping holes in it. Jo Sanderson fell, branches cushioning her but 
breaking under her weight. She screamed in pain and frustration
And hit the ground.
She lay there for a long moment, not daring to breathe, afraid that taking a 
breath would inform her that she had broken a rib or punctured a lung. But 
eventually she did indeed take a long, slow, deep breath.
Nothing. No sign of damage in the chest area. All right, she told herself, let's 
check the rest.
She stood slowly, carefully, on wobbly legs. She took stock of herself, checking 
all over for broken bones, but she couldn't find any. She was banged up and 
bruised, but otherwise seemed in fairly good shape.
There was the old saying, she recalled, that any landing you can walk away from 
is a good one. Well, this might not have been pretty. Indeed, it was pretty 
god-awful and undignified, but at least she was alive. And she was walking away 
from it, and by God, it was a good landing after all.
She took two steps and a roar filled the air.
She spun.
Another huge, mutant bear crashed out of the woods, heading right for her.
The last thing she had time to think before the animal got to her was, So much 
for the good landing
11
SOMEHOW CHUCK'S SWEEPING, makeshift cane managed to miss a rather nasty tree 
root. Chuck's foot, however, did not, as he tripped over it and fell, sprawling, 
to the floor. As he fell, he accidentally dropped his cane and it rolled away 
from him, to sit serenely under a nearby bush.
It was only a little more than an arm's length away, but for Chuck it might as 
well have been a mile. He started to crawl around, reaching, trying to grasp it, 
and when several minutes of this yielded nothing, he stopped. He began to 
imagine what he had looked like just now, on hands and knees, trying to find a 
stick.
My God, he thought, what if I have to spend the rest of my life like this?
He had been trying to seal away the enormity of his predicament. To ignore it, 
to deal with it, just deal with it, rather than succumb to the massive 
difficulty of it. But that was no longer possible, and he fell to the ground and 
started to sob, his back heaving, tears rolling down his face. He was completely 
and utterly alone. No humans to help him, no dog to support him, lost and alone, 
completely alone. Just how dismal his fate was, he couldn't even begin to 
comprehend.
The realization that he just might not ever get out of these woods that, 
indeed, it was likely he would not was overwhelming. He'd heard of people who 
wandered in circles for days at a time, and they were sighted. And he was
"Blind," he muttered harshly. The sound of his voice was the first human sound 
he'd heard in what seemed ages. He had completely lost track of time, but the 
world was terrifying to him. Simply terrifying. He never had any idea whether 
every single moment might be his last. Something might be watching him, getting 
ready at any time to leap out at him before he could stop it. He'd die there
(Calm down.)
his body gutted by whatever it was that killed him
(Knock it off.)
and left there, food for whatever other things happened to pass by and want a 
quick snack, as if he were a late-night deli
(Christ almighty, stop it!)
and his body would decompose, never found by a human being, and things would 
crawl in and out of it and
(STOP IT!)
He screamed, an agonized, choking, sobbing scream that carried high into the 
trees, into the uncaring sky. The rain had trailed off, leaving him damp but 
getting no damper, and miserable, and alone
He buried his face in his hands and continued sobbing. And when he had finished 
with that, had gotten it all out of his system, he let out a slow, trembling 
sigh. A cleansing breath to relax him and clear his mind.
Okay. He'd made a fool of himself. At least there was no one around. The only 
witness to his little display of histrionics were the trees, and the chances 
were slim that they were going to tell anyone.
Deal with it, Simon. Just deal with it.
He felt queasy and sick, probably from the water that he'd had to take a little 
ride through. He closed his eyes and searched for balance. Balance within 
himself. Balance with nature.
It was why he had taken up aikido in the first place. The low-level babble of 
the world that his untrained mind had picked up, like a radio with a broken 
receiver, had come close to driving him insane. He had become both a Quaker and 
a student of aikido to retrain his mind into the way of peace, into the way of 
calm and communion with nature, something that both philosophies emphasized.
Just because he was unable to see nature did not mean that it had departed from 
him. He was still himself. He had not lost the ability to remain in touch with 
himself, and that was what was important.
To reinforce the feeling of inner calm, Chuck stepped into his natural, relaxed 
stance, performed another cleansing breath. Then he began to do his kata, a 
pattern of movements that enabled him to run through the techniques of aikido. 
At first he felt the tentativeness and uncertainty of the moves, but he brought 
his concentration around to it, managed to focus. By the time he was running 
through the kata for the third time, he was performing with the speed and style 
to which he had grown accustomed.
He let out a sigh and kneeled, feeling some small measure of triumph at the 
reclamation of his spiritual center.
And from there, he was struck by an idea. One that he chided himself over not 
having realized earlier. If he walked in his usual manner, refusing to adapt to 
the situation that fate had dealt him, he was going to continue to fall. The 
farther he had to fall from, the more it was going to hurt.
But there was no real reason he had to walk the way he usually did.
Many techniques in aikido had been developed to defend oneself from attack while 
on one's kneesin the event that you were kneeling to someone who was secretly 
your enemy and they took that opportunity to try to kill you. But part of the 
techniques in defense was the shikko, the kneeling walk. It had never been 
contemplated as a means of getting aroundmerely something to be used in tandem 
with the kneeling techniques of the suwari-waza. But one did have to adapt to 
changing times.
From his kneeling position, Chuck raised his upper body and brought his left 
foot forward, knee up. Simultaneously he moved his right foot behind his left 
foot. Then he brought his left knee to the ground, advanced his right foot, also 
knee up, and this time brought his left foot behind his right foot. In this way, 
crablike, he moved across the ground.
To his right was the rushing river, and he decided to try to stick to that so 
that he needn't worry about going in circles. Not only that, but he wouldn't 
have to be concerned about being attacked from that side.
As he moved, he tried to sense with his mind rather than with his eyes. All 
around him, really, was peace and serenity. Rather than be afraid of it, he 
should try to embrace it.
Out of habit he was keeping his hands on his upper thighs, and so he banged his 
knee rather sharply against a tree that was directly in his path. He stopped, 
rubbing the knee to try to restore circulation, and as he did so, he tried to 
feel the tree. Not with his hands, but with his mind. He tried to reach out and 
feel the sense of it, the being of it. Get some sort of knowledge that it was 
there.
He couldn't. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. But he should be able 
to, should have some sense of the world beyond his eyes. After all, he picked 
things up with the power of his mind, envisioned their levitation and made it 
so. This wasn't much different, was it?
He reached out with his hands, feeling the surface of the tree, putting his 
hands around it, running his fingers over it. He nodded slowly, putting together 
in his mind an image of what he was facing. Then he leaned back, released his 
grip, and tried to see it without seeing it. Tried to imagine and remember what 
it had felt like, put the fragments together in his head.
He tried to see it without seeing it.
He couldn't. He knew in his heart that he hadn't gotten it yet. So he tried with 
something smaller, picking up a rock and palming it carefully, feeling the 
weight and heft of it. It was a particularly smooth one and his fingers caressed 
it. Then slowly he put the rock down and simply sat there, trying to call it to 
mind. He envisioned the rock, simple, small, and hard.
Then he did what he used to do when he was first learning how to use his 
powerhe envisioned a giant hand doing his bidding. In his mind's eye, which was 
still sharp and clear, a large hand was stretching out, raising up the rock and 
bringing it over to just in front of his face.
Slowly, tentatively, he reached out to grasp the rock that was hovering there. 
His hand passed through the air, and there was nothing to impede it. He frowned, 
passed his hand in the other direction. Nothing.
He reached down and picked the rock up with his hand. It hadn't budged from 
where he'd left it.
This was not going to be easy. Not easy at all.
12
DAKOTA HAD BEEN silent witness to the screams and shouts from outside the cabin, 
the gunfire accompanied by the roaring and the hideous sounds of rending and 
tearing. "What did you do?" she whispered, and then louder as the cries were 
beginning to die down, "Damn you, what did you do?"
Jupiter glanced at her with open amusement. "My dear Screw," he said, "did you 
think that your precious and deceased partner was the only psionic in the world? 
Did you? There are more of us than you might think. Luta there now she's quite 
good with mechanical things that is, she has a positive knack for causing them 
to break down. Buzz there has a most uncanny way with animals. He can summon 
them and command them. MyselfI'm rather something of an odd case. What I do, 
you see, is shut down the powers of others if I so desire. Rather curious, don't 
you think?"
It was a bit much for Dakota to take in. She gestured toward Shai. "What about 
him?"
Shai chuckled. "I don't need no steenking powers," he said.
"Yes, we try to be patient with Shai," said Jupiter consolingly. "He can be 
rather devastating, but you know how it is with the slow ones. I assure you, 
we'll all grow on you."
"Like fungus."
He smiled thinly. "You still don't get it, do you? We're the good guys. We're 
the heroes."
She gave him as scathing a look as she could manage. "Then the good guys are 
pretty screwed up nowadays."
"You have absolutely no idea what we're trying to accomplish. No idea what's 
really going on out there. You have no comprehension of a world in which people 
who are concerned about the environmentpeople who want there to be something 
left for our children, people who care that the earth is being turned into a 
rotating cinder in space by a totalitarian governmentpeople such as this, such 
as us, are outlaws. Villains."
"Murderers."
Jupiter suddenly shot forward, his hand lashing out and grabbing the front of 
Dakota's shirt. He pulled her close to him and hissed in her face, "The 
government is a murderer millions of times over. They murder nature. They murder 
people in the war effort. Who are we fighting? Who in hell are we fighting? No 
one is sure, but dammit, there's a war on. And we make weapons to fight in the 
war. Oh, heavens yes. Do you know what they were making in Internet Propulsion? 
Take a guess."
She tried to pull out of his grasp. "I don't know. Engines, I guess."
"Oh, yes. But their more popular product was chemicals used in chemical warfare. 
That used to be outlawed, did you know that? Before they repealed damn near all 
the rules of war since they were so afraid that hammerlocking weapons 
development would push our beloved governments into the only combat available, 
namely nuclear. Anything is better than nuclear, right? Devastate the people, 
the place, that's okay. But we have to keep the globe together for as long as 
it's possible to pick it clean."
Through gritted teeth she said, "If they were making chemicals and you blew the 
place up, you must have released some of it into the air. That wasn't exactly 
brilliant, now, was it?"
"They've already been dumping waste products into the water and air and ground. 
We're not happy about how we had to proceed, but at least we did something. And 
at least, for a while, that place won't spill out any more filth."
He stared at her a moment longer, and seemed to be searching her eyes. "Am I 
getting through to you? Am I getting through at all?"
She merely returned his gaze levelly, silently. He shook his head sadly. "You 
know nothing," he said at length. Then he released her and stood, smoothing out 
his trousers. "All right. Let's get out of here."
"And go where?" said Shai. "It's the middle of the night."
"If our location had been made, then we're sitting ducks here," Jupiter told 
him. "There's no point sitting around waiting for reinforcements to show up."
"We have no transportation," Buzz pointed out.
"The soldiers who were all over us must have come in some sort of vehicles," 
Jupiter reasoned incorrectly. "Perhaps we can find one of theirs. Or perhaps 
this young lady here," and he pointed at Dakota, "will tell us where the vehicle 
she came in might be."
"We got a flat," said Dakota.
"Hopefully, for your sake, you're lying," Jupiter said quietly.
"I'm not going," said Luta.
They all turned and looked at her. "Why on earth not?" asked Jupiter.
"Because there's all kinds of creatures running around out there," she replied. 
"All those awful mutant things that Buzz called together."
"Don't worry," said Buzz, getting to his feet and stretching. He tapped his 
forehead. "I can feel them all up here. As long as I got a brain in my headand 
not a word out of you, ShaiI can control them. They won't harm us as long as 
I'm around."
"Asking a lot of faith here," rumbled Shai.
"I have faith in Buzz," Jupiter said calmly. "We are each of us experts, and if 
we don't respect each other's expertise, we really don't have much of anything, 
do we? So, gentlemen and ladies let's get to it."
They made a practice of traveling light, so their few belongings were hastily 
shoved into backpacks and strapped on. Shai hauled Dakota to her feet and when 
she tried to stand she cried out. "Now what?" demanded Jupiter.
"I hurt my ankle," she said.
"Oh, really?" was his sarcastic reply. He grabbed the leg she was favoring and 
pulled it up to his eye level. Dakota staggered, Shai's firm grip preventing her 
from falling back. Jupiter rolled up her pants leg and yanked off her shoe and 
sock, and when he did Dakota let out a bloodcurdling scream.
In the woods nearby, Rommel's ears pricked up. A human had just screamed from 
somewhere close. Normally that would afford him little interest, for the general 
affairs of humans were of no consequence to him. But that voice sounded 
familiar, as if it might belong to the woman who traveled with them.
Even as the scream faded, Rommel was heading in the direction from which it had 
come.
"Oh, shit," said Luta.
She was reacting to Dakota's swollen ankle, red and angry. Even Shai winced 
slightly, and Jupiter was, if not sorry, at least a bit regretful.
"It appears you did indeed injure yourself," he admitted. "Very unfortunate. 
Shai, you'll have to carry her."
Dakota waited for some word of complaint or comment from the big man, but he 
said nothing. Instead he simply turned his broad back to her and indicated that 
she should climb on. It was not something she especially wanted to do, but she 
saw little choice. So on she climbed as Shai swung his backpack to his chest.
"All right," said Jupiter. "Let's go."
Buzz was in the lead as he confidently opened the door of the cabin and stepped 
out.
A gunshot cracked out.
Buzz staggered back, banging into Luta, who let out a shout of alarm. He spun, 
and Luta screamed as she saw the neat hole that had been drilled into Buzz's 
forehead. His eyes rolled up into the top of his head, and like a tree, he 
toppled forward and hit the floor.
Shai dropped to the floor, Dakota losing her grip and tumbling off his back. 
Luta was still screaming, gaze riveted to the blood that was beginning to stream 
down the sides of Buzz's head.
"The door!" shouted Jupiter. "Close the door!"
Shai's foot kicked out, hitting the door and slamming it shut. Over and over 
Luta was screaming, and Jupiter's shouts of "Shut up!" did nothing to stop her.
Buzz lay there, arms akimbo, blood and gore starting to puddle on the floor 
around him.
"Cover the window!" Jupiter ordered. "Quickly!"
"With what? Good intentions?" snapped back Shai.
They were all hugging the ground now, afraid to move. Jupiter felt a warmth 
around his fingers, realized that it was trickling over from Buzz and yanked his 
hand away.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Luta kept repeating. She had pulled her legs up and 
was rocking back and forth, sideways, her body trembling.
"Shut up!" he snapped, and had no more success with the order this time than he 
had earlier. "Shai at least get the body out of here. Please."
Shai scrambled over to Buzz and, from a crouched position, picked him up. The 
back of his head stuck to the floor for a second but then came free, and without 
a word Shai tossed him out the window. Then he slid up the side of the wall next 
to the window, making sure not to present a target, reached over, and slid the 
window shut. "There," he said sarcastically. "Safe now."
"We're gonna die, we're gonna die," Luta was saying. Jupiter sighedat least she 
had switched her hysteria to a different phrase.
"Will you please try to get a grip?" he said, averting his eyes from the puddle 
on the floor, which was all that remained of Buzz in the one-room cabin.
"Who did it?" said Shai.
"Had to be a soldier. Had to be," Jupiter reasoned, correctly this time. "Buzz's 
little friends didn't get everybody. Who knows how many more are out there."
"Hold on," said Shai. He had pulled out his automatic and scrabbled across the 
floor to the door.
"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Jupiter, and Shai ignored him as he 
opened the door a crack and slid his hand through. He fired off three quick 
shots and then slammed the door.
Dakota, who had been trying to recover her scattered wits, said, "What did you 
do that for?"
"To let them know we're armed," said Jupiter.
"And dangerous," Shai added.
"Looks to me like they're the ones who are more dangerous," Dakota observed.
In the darkness of the cabin, Jupiter said tightly, "I would be cautious about 
irritating us if I were you. How ever many of them are out there, they are 
obviously firing at the first thing to make itself a target. It would be very 
unfortunate for you if you happened to present a target, now, wouldn't it?"
Dakota, wisely, said nothing.
13
CHUCK'S LEGS WERE cramping up, his knees starting to become torn, and he was 
bleeding. It seemed that he couldn't remember the last time he had been warm and 
comfortable and not aching. He had developed a cough, a nasty-sounding one deep 
in his chest, and all around him the forest seemed alive. It was alive, as he 
heard rustling and shakings. He didn't know if something was stalking him, or if 
the leaves of trees were just blowing in stray winds. In the hidden recesses of 
his imagination, all sorts of hideous terrors lurked and strayed in his 
direction, claws extended and sharp teeth snapping.
He put his hand to his forehead. He felt hot to himself, which of course didn't 
mean anything. But it made him nervous as hell. Not only that, but his throat 
felt raw, partially from the coughing, partially from something else.
Chuck was not predisposed to getting sick. There was the old line about never 
being sick a day in your life. For Chuck that was pretty much true. His 
endurance and stamina were tremendous, and as for illness, he never suffered.
So why now? God help him, was it the river? Had trying to avoid drowning in the 
river only condemned him to something even worse?
He bent over, resting on all fours, listening to his breath rattle.
And then he jumped, startled, because of the huge crash off to his left. As if 
someone had dropped an anvil through the forest. His first thought was that some 
immense creature was coming at him, but the direction of it was odd. It really 
did sound like something coming down from overhead. A huge bird, maybe, shot 
down, except then he would have heard gunfire from nearby.
Then a brief, very human shriek and curses, getting progressively lower to the 
ground. Female
A female had fallen from the sky.
Back in the day of being a feckless, horny teenage boy, he would have considered 
this a bounteous gift from God. Women from heaven. Maybe her name was Penny.
Now, though, he didn't know what to make of it. He tried to shout out, a cry of 
"I'm over here! Help me!" but nothing more than a mild croak emerged from his 
lips. He heard the rustling, and she sounded like she was only about twenty, 
thirty yards away, off to his left. But sounds were deceptive in the forest, he 
knew. Her voice might be bouncing off of trees. And for that matter, what was 
she doing here, anyway? He was assuming she was friend when she might be foe
But what choice did he have? The blackness still hung over him, terrifying him. 
He felt as if his only chance for survival was connecting up with this woman, 
whoever she was. And he had to hope that she was better off at the moment than 
he was.
He stood up and moaned very softly, stretching his legs. His knees were a 
wreckhe couldn't possibly continue as he was. He was going to have to walk, as 
painful as that might be. He had to move quickly, because if he couldn't make 
his voice carry, he was going to have to find her before she vanished from the 
area.
The thought of moving away from the relative safety of the river edge, of 
plunging blindly into the forest, was horrifying. But Chuck took a deep breath, 
fought once again for the calm, clear center of his mind.
You didn't see simply with your eyes. When you were of a spiritual mind, he 
firmly believed, when you were one with nature, you shouldn't need to rely 
solely on your eyes. There had to be more. When he studied aikido, when he 
defended himself, and when he saw others in action, there was more than just 
sight involved. You defended yourself with a mind that sensed where blows were 
coming from, instinct that cued you to protect yourself. He had seen true aikido 
masters move so quickly, block and attack with such speed, that they were 
literally blurs.
There was sight. And then there was sight beyond sight.
So, the first step. Then the second. He started to move, leaving the river 
behind him. The sound of the rushing water had had a pacifying effect on him, as 
calming and nurturing as the sound of a mother's heart to a child in a womb. Now 
he was leaving the protection of that environment, of that sound.
He stopped dead. Something had warned him and he slowly reached out. Directly in 
his path, barely a few inches, was a tree.
Something had warned him. It wasn't just his psychic sensesthose only seemed to 
react to the evil intent of people, and warn him of the danger they intended. A 
tree was neutral, not inherently dangerous or threatening. A tree was simply 
there.
His fingers passed over the trunk and he coughed. And smiled.
He stepped around the tree, feeling the first measure of confidence he had in 
quite some time.
And that was when he heard the roar that made his heart stop.
He jumped back, gasping. From ahead of him had been the sound of an animal, 
immense from the volume of it. Incredible sound, pure and savage, and hungry and 
angry
And the woman.
"My God," he whispered, and he started to run. He wasn't even thinking about it, 
even with the darkness hanging shroudlike over him. He ran, ran toward the sound 
that continued, growing louder and louder.
There was something crashing through the woods, coming toward him. He heard fast 
human gasps, female. It was the woman, somewhere there in the darkness of the 
forest and his mind.
And then something slammed into him, something soft yet hard. A woman, the 
woman, but her body was muscled and hard, and they went down in a tangle of arms 
and legs.
The blackness was unrelenting. He fought down panic, tried to calm himself, and 
then there was the roar, the roar from right in front of them.
"Run!" she shouted at him, which seemed very sound advice. He tried to clamber 
to his feet
and his feet left the ground.
The roar was absolutely deafening, was overwhelming, was everywhere. Something 
had grabbed him up, lifted him high into the air. He felt the claws raking 
across his arms, felt himself in the grip of something that could rip him apart. 
Indeed, was about to rip him apart.
How high was he? Five feet, ten, twenty? He'd lost all sense of distance, was 
totally out of control, had no idea what was up and down.
The darkness roared at him, blasting him with hot, fetid breath that nauseated 
him. He shoved back against something with his feet, knew he had planted them 
against a massive, hairy chest.
He was the pacifist, the lover of life. He had lost his temper once and 
unleashed the pure fury of his power and had sworn never to do so again. He had, 
indeed, feared this selfsame power for what it made him capable of, and had 
mentally placed his own psychic dampers on himself to contain his power. He had 
chained his power up to save lives.
And everywhere now, everywhere was the enraged bellowing of the animal, and the 
jaws were about to rip into his face, rip out his throat. No choice, no choice 
at all, and he cut free the chains and threw the dampers.
His mind lashed out, undisciplined, driven by panic, the power a tangible thing 
that ripped out at whatever it encountered and shredded it. It was as if he had 
vomited up a thunderbolt.
He had no idea what he had done, no clear vision of what he had accomplished. It 
had been a panicked, desperate move. All he knew was that the roaring had 
stopped, very, very suddenly, and he fell to the ground, no longer supported by 
whatever had been holding him.
He landed badly, one shoulder absorbing most of the impact, and he lay there, 
unable or afraid to move. He waited for the creature to attack again, for he was 
not positive what had just happened. His mind hazed and fogged over, and from a 
distance came a female voice saying something. But he couldn't make it out, 
couldn't understand a word.
He felt as if his entire body were on fire, and he coughed once hoarsely before 
letting the cool darkness claim him.
14
THE BEAR CHARGED at Jo Sanderson, and the sergeant ducked under the great 
sweeping paw, leaping and rolling to the side as fast as she could. Her gun was 
back in its holster, and even if she pulled it she was still out of ammo except 
for the half clip in her pocket. And even if she had a full magazine ready and 
loaded and fired every single round into the creature's chest from less than a 
foot away, the chances were that the thing would laugh it off before 
disemboweling her.
She scrambled to her feet and started to run. From right behind her came an 
enraged howl from the bear, and the sound of foliage crashing to the ground. It 
was right after her, moving with incredible speed, and she knew in her heart 
that there was absolutely no way she was doing anything other than prolonging 
the inevitable.
Her one and only chance was to make for the river that she had spotted as she 
had plummeted to the ground. But that was a long shot, and worse, it seemed 
likely that the animal would drive her to the ground before she got anywhere 
near the water. Worse, she wasn't even sure that she was heading in the right 
direction.
The bear was closing the gap, which hadn't been all that wide to start with. Her 
backpack jostled around and she considered trying to ditch it, but she would 
have had, to slow down to do that. It didn't seem practical, or healthy, or 
indeed having much point at all.
And it was right after her as a swipe of its paw ripped through her backpack. It 
was that close, and it was about to be closer.
Jo put on an extra burst of speed, calling from the depths of herself, counting 
on every last bit of adrenaline that she could possibly summon. She dashed 
headlong through the woods
and crashed into a dark shape.
She knocked it flat and was tangled up with it, falling heels over head. In the 
darkness of the forest she could barely make it outa mass of dark hair and a 
beard, it seemed, clothing ripped and shredded. Probably some sort of bum or 
derelict or Cutter who had chosen the woods as his home.
Wonderful. Now the woods were going to be his burial ground too, for the bear 
had caught up with them.
For all her desperation, and all her fury at this man who had accidentally 
blocked her path and guaranteed her death, she nevertheless had to do all she 
could to try to save one last life. "Run!" she shouted. She rolled to the side 
and, getting to her feet, began to wave madly as if signalling an airplane, 
trying to capture the beast's attention.
The beast didn't care. It was going to kill whatever it was looking at for the 
moment, and at the moment it was looking at the hapless forest dweller.
It grabbed the unfortunate man up, roaring in his face. The man was shoving his 
feet against the monster as if hoping to push it away. She couldn't make out his 
face in the darkness, but he was clearly terrified. Of course he was.
She knew it was hopeless, even pointless, but she couldn't stand by and do 
nothing. The bear was roaring even louder, as if announcing his intentions of 
killing the human it held in its grasp. Jo, in the meantime, yanked out her 
pistol, pulled the clip from her pocket. She slammed the clip home and brought 
it around, trying to find someplace she could aim at the bear that might have an 
effect. She wasn't a deadshot like Winkowski, but if she could drill the 
monster's eye
The man was clearly at the end of his resistance, his body frozen, his back 
arching, his head trembling
and the bear exploded.
Sanderson's jaw dropped in disbelief. As if someone had shot a missile through 
it, all the major organs in the bear's chest exited out the creature's back with 
a sound like a volcano erupting. There was a perverse pattering sound, like 
rain, as vital liquids and organs showered down on the surrounding bushes and 
leaves. The bear staggered, confused, looking down as if noticing with great 
curiosity that someone had blown a hole in it the size of a sewer cover.
Its body refused to function, and the bear dropped the man and fell back, and 
then over, while uttering one last protest.
Sanderson stood frozen, staring from the man to the animal and back again, still 
not believing her eyes. The man lay there, moaning, and she went to him and took 
him by the shoulders. "Are you all right?" she said.
Closer to him now, her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, she saw that he 
appeared to be an accident victim of some sort. His clothes were singed, his 
body was battered and bloody
Could he have been caught in the explosion at the plant? But, no, that was 
impossible, certainly. There was no way he could have gotten from there to here 
unless
He moaned, and when she touched his face she quickly withdrew her hand. "Lord, 
you're burning up," she whispered. "High fever. You look terrible. Who are you?"
He stared up at her, his eyes not appearing to focus on her face. There were 
more burns and singes around his eyes.
Suddenly a thought hit her, and she passed her hand in front of his face. He 
didn't react to it. "Can you see? Can you see me? Anything?"
His head lolled to the side, his eyes closed, and for a moment she was certain 
that he had just died. But no, he had simply passed out. From the sound of his 
breathing, though, it didn't sound any too likely that he was going to wake up. 
Still, she couldn't just leave the guy here. For chrissakes, she owed him her 
life.
Didn't she? What in hell had just happened here, anyway? That monstrous 
animaland she glanced in the direction of the shattered corpsehad been about 
to make a late-night snack out of him, and then suddenly had blown to pieces as 
if someone had dropped a grenade down its throat. But how had that happened? Had 
he been packing a weapon of some sort? She checked him over quickly, but found 
no weapons. No ID either. He must have dropped it somewhere along the way
The way from where?
Who was this guy?
She had to get back to her men. But by the same token, again, she wasn't going 
to leave this stranger in the middle of the woods.
Jo pulled out her compass to verify her direction. Her main hope was to make it 
through the woods, find a passage that would bring her back up the cliffs and 
rejoin her squadwhat was left of itin time to prevent the Extremists who had 
blown up the plant from escaping.
She blew air through her lips. Right. That was all she had to do. Oh, and do it 
while lugging this guy. For she knew that that was her only option.
She lifted him up. He was heavy, but nothing she couldn't handle. If there was 
one thing that Jo Sanderson was confident in, it was her strength. Maybe she was 
no match for one-on-one with the grizzly from hell, but she could haul this guy 
around, no problem.
She swung him around so that his left arm was around her shoulder, and she 
supported the rest of him with her right. She hoped that this would bring him 
around faster, although with the way he was feeling, she wasn't holding out 
hope.
She started walking, and she whispered to him, "Come on, keep the feet moving, 
left, left, left raht left"
Through cracked and dry lips he muttered something faintly. A name. Maybe the 
name of a loved one. She listened closely and made out, in a faint whisper, 
"Rommel."
She shook her head.
Who was this guy?
15
WINKOWSKI LAY IN the bushes and wondered how much longer he had to live.
The young soldier had gotten over the initial panicked drive that had seized 
hold of him when they had been besieged by those mutant animals. Yes, gotten 
over it but not before he had run like mad, putting as much distance between 
himself and that orgy of hysteria as possible.
He clutched his handgun, his only weapon, and peered through the bushes once 
more. It was still dark, but he could see the outline of the cabin in front of 
him. His eyes, he had always boasted, were the sharpest in the squad. Maybe in 
the army. It made him terribly effective at night, and also the best shot in the 
outfit.
It had also enabled him, miraculously, to carry the fight to the enemy.
Claude Winkowski had never shot anyone before.
He had been in training, had even been on maneuvers. He had even participated in 
a police action, overrunning some Fifth World Nation. But everyone there had 
practically surrendered on sight, and hardly any shots were fired. Certainly 
none by him, at any rate.
He almost felt self-conscious about it. He had also wondered when and if the 
time came, whether he would be able to do it. For Winkowski had always had 
doubts about his ability as a soldier. His marksmanship was unparalleledthe 
squad nickname for him was Hawkeye. But that was simply a skill. Everyone had 
skills. He wasn't sure whether he had the spirit, the guts, the do you have what 
it takes sort of stuff.
And his general sense of concern was not aided by the fact that he had run when 
shit had gone down. He tried to tell himself that it was understandable, that it 
wasn't his fault. That he had spent his time preparing to fight human enemies, 
not bizarre mutants. That if he had stayed, fought, he probably would have died 
along with most of his squad. Maybe all, because he hadn't seen anyone else. He 
tried to tell himself so many things, but all of them boiled down to the fact 
that he had run, goddammit, he had run.
He had to make up for it somehow.
Luck had been with him, however, in the direction that he had run. For it had 
taken him straight through the brush to within sight of a cabin. His eyes had 
widened as he had seen, parked outside the cabin, a very familiar van. A gray 
van with a crunch in the fender off of which Dorsch had been hurled earlier in 
this hellish evening.
The van belonged to the Extremists, and it was parked in front of the cabin. 
Therefore, (elementary logic dictated) the Extremists were inside the cabin. And 
he was outside the cabin. That realization was quickly followed by anotherhe 
knew they were in there, but they didn't know he was out here. If he could stay 
out of sight, hold them there until reinforcements showed up
God, how would they know? How would they know where he was?
He scratched his head and suddenly felt like a major fool. His comm unit was on 
his belt, right where it should be. He could try and get in touch with someone, 
tell them where he was, summon help
He paused, holding his breath.
There had definitely been some sort of movement within the cabin. And now the 
front door was opening and a man was framed in the doorway. He was tall, fuzzy, 
scuzzy
Winkowski's eyes widened. He recognized him instantly. His eyeshis wonderful, 
magnificent, sharp eyeshad seen that figure behind the wheel of the van that 
struck Dorsch. This was him, this was the bastard who had steamrolled right over 
one of his best buddies.
The action was immediate, the mechanics smooth because of long practice. He 
brought the gun up, aimed, and squeezed off a shot all in just over a second.
The bullet drilled the bastard in the forehead. He staggered back, his eyes 
sweeping the woods as if trying to spot where the bullet had come from, but 
actually it was just reflex. The brain was already dead, Winkowski was certain.
He tumbled back into the darkness of the cabin, and there was a satisfying 
chorus of shouts. Everyone from inside was yelling at once, and a woman had 
screamed and another woman was saying something repeatedly, and then the door 
slammed shut.
A cold, hard smile of satisfaction split Winkowski's face. He'd done it. Chalk 
up one for the good guys.
The door opened slightly and several shots spit out from a gun. None came 
remotely near Winkowski. They were blind shots. They had no idea where he was, 
no idea how many soldiers surrounded the cabin. It was just exactly what he 
wanted and how he wanted it to be.
He sat there, wondering what to do next. From his angle he could see both the 
front door and the side window. He hoped there wasn't a back, or they could 
escape out the back and he'd never spot them.
Suddenly there was a movement at the side window. He started to respond, shift 
his position, when that movement abruptly produced a body. It was the man he'd 
shot and killed, and he was being unceremoniously tossed out the most convenient 
aperture. It indicated that there was no back door, otherwise they would most 
certainly have used that.
Winkowski watched him sail into the bushes with cold pleasure. And it was then, 
and only then, that a truth began to settle in. He had killed someone. He had 
actually used his skill, the God-given skill of the hawk's eye, and had 
exercised the life of a human. Like a surgeon, cutting out a cancer with a 
scalpel.
He shouldn't feel bad about it, after all. He knew that, was certain of it 
beyond all doubt. This guy, whoever he was, had been responsible for killing 
Dorsch. Had been responsible, at least partially, for blowing up a government 
installation. Had been responsible for death, destruction, and mayhem.
And somewhere, somehow
Sometime in the past
Had been a teenager, discovering his first kiss, having sex for the first time. 
Had been a child, running and playing, dreaming about being an astronaut or 
doctor or maybe even a soldier. Had been a baby, brought into the world, crying 
and squalling, cradled and nursed and, hopefully, loved.
All those experiences, all those things that Claude Winkowski had been through 
as well.
The guy had killed Dorsch. Winkowski had killed him. Simple as that.
He could see the man'sthe corpse'sfoot sticking out from the underbrush. The 
foot of the man, the teen, the child, and the babe, and that life had been taken 
away by one squeeze of one trigger. Something ephemeral and irreplaceable, gone.
Winkowski felt tears rolling down his cheeks and furiously wiped them away. 
Finally he'd gotten his first blood, and this was how he was reacting? God, and 
he called himself a soldier.
A sudden movement off to the left brought his attention around.
The glowing eyes of an animal stared at him from out of the underbrush. He could 
barely make it out, but even in shadow he could see that the thing was huge. 
Monstrous. Probably another mutant.
He didn't want to start firing. It was vital that he preserve ammo, because he 
didn't know for sure how many people were in the cabin. If he wound up getting 
in a firefight, he needed enough ammunitionnot to mention plain old luck-to 
survive. Besides, if he started firing, it might give away his position.
He took dead aim on the animal, still hidden in the shadows of the underbrush. 
It wasn't moving. Winkowski wasn't even sure it was especially interested in 
him.
"Get out of here," hissed Winkowski.
The animal seemed to hesitate a moment and then it vanished back into the 
undergrowth.
Winkowski was amazed. He couldn't believe his good fortune. Had he gotten 
through to the creature? Was it actually afraid of him? Maybe it just wasn't 
hungryhaving sated itself, he realized in grisly fashion, on the bodies of 
other soldiers.
Whatever the reason, the animal had moved off, and Winkowski was not about to 
knock it.
He settled back to wait for further developments, and tried not to think about 
the body that was lying unmoving in the bushes.
Rommel tried to figure out what to do.
He walked the perimeter of the cabin area, sleekly and silently, and picked up 
the scent of the woman, Dakota. There were others with her. There was also some 
idiot hiding in the bushes with a gun, one of those who was dressed like the 
ones from the place where Chuck and he had first met. Now what was the name for 
those creatures again? Oh, yes Chuck had called them soldiers.
Well, this soldier had seemed less than impressive. His face had been wet and 
his hand trembling as he had held a gun on Rommel and stammered at him. Rommel 
considered attacking him but saw nothing to gain. He wasn't going to eat him, 
and aside from the fact that the soldier was pointing a gun at him, there was no 
threat.
Rommel hadn't eaten in some time, hadn't slept, and he was starting to get a 
little worn down. If an argument could be avoided, by all means Rommel decided 
to avoid it. Besides, the man wasn't what was making him nervous.
It was the other dog.
There had been several rather vicious and curious animals in the area, but they 
seemed to have wandered off, as if they'd lost their purpose. But there was 
still a dog around. It was in the cabin, and it had marked the perimeter with 
its scent. It was a big one, from the smell of it. Big and nasty, and it had 
probably eaten.
Chuck, where are you? demanded Rommel.
The comm unit on Winkowski's belt crackled to life. He removed it and spoke in a 
low, hurried voice. "Pigeon Six here," he whispered.
"Thank God," came the reply.
"Panther Six?" He couldn't believe it. Jo Sanderson had always treated him well, 
always seemed ready and willing to listen to him. He had privately begun 
mourning her, and could barely contain his excitement. "Panther Six, is that 
you?"
"Yes. I can barely hear you."
"I'm whispering. I'm keeping surveillance on the cabin where the Extremists are. 
I've already taken down one of them."
There was a pause on the other end. "Is that confirmed?"
"He's dead, Panther Six. I made sure of that." Another brief pause, and then she 
said, "Are you okay?" The question held more than the surface meaning, and he 
knew it, and it was only one of the many reasons that he was devoted to her. 
"Fine, Panther Six."
"Keep an eye on them. Do nothing to make yourself a target, understand? I've 
lost enough men on this debacle, I don't want to lose you, too."
"I've no intention of getting lost, Panther Six. Where are you?"
"Believe it or not, just outside of a cabin."
Surprised, he looked around, scanning the perimeter as best he could. "I don't 
see you."
"That's because I'm nowhere near your position. I'm at another cabin. Some 
abandoned, run-down thing."
"You sure it's a different one? Maybe the Extremists are inside."
"Well, I've just entered, and I don't see anyone else here. I'll be there as 
soon as I can. Panther Six over."
"Over and under, Panther Six."
Winkowski slipped the comm link back onto his belt, and then settled back to 
keep watch. He stayed absolutely still, because for all he knew one or more of 
those mutant creatures was still wandering around in the neighborhood, and he 
didn't want to do anything that might encourage them to come over and visit.
16
Jo SANDERSON CLOSED her comm unit and turned back to her rather curious patient.
He lay sprawled on one of three tattered-looking bedrolls spread on the floor. 
He was on his back, his chest rising and falling slowly and irregularly. Every 
so often he would cough, a nasty-sounding rattle that didn't bode well.
She had no idea who owned the cabin, or if anybody did. It was hard to tell how 
long the bedrolls had been lying theremaybe days, maybe months. Impossible to 
tell considering how filthy they were. But they were better than nothing. 
Indeed, the whole cabin definitely fell into the realm of "better than nothing," 
but when Jo had spotted it, she couldn't believe her good fortune. Her shoulders 
and legs were becoming sore at the weight of the bearded stranger, and when the 
light from her flashlight had picked up the cabin, she had been thrilled.
It had not stopped her from proceeding with care, of course. She had peered 
cautiously through the windows before entering, wanting to make sure that she 
wasn't just barging in on someone. Not that she cared particularly if she was 
disturbing an occupant or rousing them from their slumber. But if someone were 
already there and they were armed, it could get sticky. Fortunately, whoever had 
been occupying the cabin had apparently departed ages ago.
The door had been unlocked, so entry had been easy. And moments later she had 
the mysterious man lying on one of the dirty bedrolls, looking very flushed in 
the glow of her flashlight.
After Jo had finished her conversation with Winkowski, she tore a narrow strip 
of cloth from the end of one of the sleeping bags and wet it with water from her 
canteen. Then she applied the compress across his forehead. He moaned softly, 
and he was still hot and shivering.
"Can you hear me?" she asked him softly.
There was no response from him, no sign that he had heard her. But he had 
stopped coughing, and that certainly had to be a good sign.
Jo was no doctor. Her mother had been a registered nurse, and that gave her some 
feeling for what she should be doing. But, dammit, she realized that what she 
should be doing is getting back to her squad, not screwing around with this guy. 
So he was sick. So what? There were plenty of sick people in the world. So he 
had saved her life
Had he? Was he really responsible for stopping the creature, or had something 
about that monster's nature just caused it toto what? Spontaneously 
disintegrate? Was it possible? Hell, sure it was possible. After all, she was 
thinking about a creature that by rights shouldn't even exist in nature. 
Anything was possible.
So all right. So now what?
He shivered, and she pulled another sleeping bag over him, trying to provide him 
with additional warmth. She removed the compress and placed her hand against his 
cheek. Already he seemed cooler from it, and she raised an eyebrow. "Whatever 
you've got, you seem to be a fast healer, guy."
He moaned softly, and again muttered the name "Rommel."
She frowned at that. Now why in the world would he care about Field Marshal 
Rommel? Was he a history buff or something?
Jo rose and stretched her legs, glancing around the cabin to see if there was 
anything else that could be of some use. It didn't appear so. A table, a few 
chairs and other sticks of furniture, some empty tins of food. Nothing much that 
gave her anything to work with.
Her mysterious patient moaned more loudly this time. He seemed to be dreaming, 
twisting in his sleep and muttering. She bent over him, trying to make out what 
he was saying.
It sounded like names of places. He said what sounded like North Dakota, and 
then started muttering something that sounded like "Butte, tell Butte," and she 
wasn't sure what the hell Butte, Montana had to do with anything.
He started to shake and tremble, sweating even more. She reapplied the compress, 
shaking her head, and then he said, "Complex."
That made her ears prick up. Could he simply be using the conventional word? But 
it was an odd thing to say. Or could he be referring to that mysterious and 
powerful agency that lived a shadowy existence and was, by all accounts, 
practically omniscient? Was this guy an agent of the Complex? Or maybe the 
Complex was after him?
Now that put an interesting spin on things. If the Complex was after this guy 
and she was aiding him, wasn't that leaving her open for criminal charges?
A lot of "ifs." A lot of supposition. And she owed him her life didn't she?
He cried out, arching his back. She looked down, unsure of what to do. "Shhh," 
she said. "It's okay. You're safe." But whatever dream world he was in wasn't 
letting him go quite that easily.
And suddenly the food tins rose into the air.
Jo didn't notice them at first, so distracted was she with the writhings of her 
patient. But then she did spot them and her eyes widened. "What the hell ?" she 
whispered.
"Get away from me!" he shouted into the air. His eyes snapped open but he didn't 
seem to see anything. Or else whatever he was seeing was in his mind. "Get away! 
Get away!"
Jo suddenly screamed as she was yanked off her feet.
She sailed across the room, totally out of control, as if in the grip of an 
overwhelming power. Nearby the furniture rose up, and a chair hurtled across the 
room in her direction. In midair she nevertheless managed to twist so that the 
chair just missed her, crashing against the wall behind her.
Jo shrieked, not believing what was happening. Everything in the room had gone 
berserk, flying into the air and whirling about as if caught in an invisible 
maelstrom. The man rolled over, gasping, crying out, and Jo slammed up against 
the ceiling, crushed against it, and feeling massive, unseen power shoving her 
hard against it. She thought her ribs were going to crack, fancied that her 
lungs were collapsing.
"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it!"
She started to descend and then was slammed harder against the ceiling, 
spread-eagled against it. Things were hurtling everywhere. The table shattered 
under the pressure, rotting wood collapsing. A window blew out in an explosion 
of timber and glass. The door was blasted open on its hinges, and in the center 
of all the tumult, of all the insanity, was the dreaming man on the floor. The 
very air around her seemed alive, roaring in fury, as if a storm had moved into 
the center of the cabin.
Jo's fingers clawed toward her holstered gun. She didn't want to do it, but 
there was no choice. She felt the pressure increasing against her and she cried 
out, certain that she had waited too long. Certain she was going to die, pulped 
by this bizarre individual who could kill even in his dreams.
She managed to pull the gun from its holster and she brought the weapon around, 
aiming it dead center at the dreamer.
And suddenly she fell to the floor.
Just like that, whatever was going through the mind of the tortured dreamer 
ended. Jo landed with a thud and rolled, coming quickly up to a defensive 
stance, her gun held out in front of her in a two-handed grip. She was gasping 
for breath, her short blond hair disheveled, her eyes wild. It was the second 
time in this insane evening that she'd been airborne, out of control, and it was 
definitely not one of her favorite habits.
The man lay there, gasping for breath, still very obviously asleep. Jo backed 
against the wall, trying to get as far from him as possible, her eyes and gun 
not leaving him for a second.
She had heard whispered rumors about people like him. She'd never witnessed it, 
to some degree never seen it before.
Psionic.
"Gotta get out of here," she muttered. She had no business hanging out anyway. 
She was in a cabin with someone who could rip her to shreds just by having a bad 
dream. Sure, he had obviously saved her life. So what? He'd been busy saving his 
own. She had just been along for the ride.
Part of her warned her that she should shoot him anyway, just to be safe. Who 
knew how far his power extended? But she couldn't do it. But what she could do 
was get the hell out of the cabin.
Which was exactly what she did.
17
THE EXTREMISTS HAD been lying on the floor of the cabin, unmoving and 
unspeaking, for quite some time. Dakota couldn't help but observe that it was as 
if they were in shock, unable to accept what happened. Unable to believe that, 
whatever their plans were, they had gone so wrong.
"Porky, and now Buzz," said Luta softly. "They're getting us all, Jupiter. We're 
all going to die. Why are we doing this? Why?"
Jupiter remained silent, and it was Shai who said, "Because it's what we have to 
do. Because we see what's happening and we can't turn away."
Dakota thought that bleakly amusing. That was the sort of claptrap she always 
heard Chuck spouting. But these guys, who used violence to suit their needs, 
sure as hell weren't members of the Society of Friends. "You mean you don't 
thrill to a life of danger?" said Dakota.
From the darkness, Shai said, "Would you like to know just how much you know?"
"I really don't care."
"My son died at age three. His lungs never developed the ability to breathe the 
crap that passes for our air. My wife died two years after that. Skin cancer, 
because the ozone layer has deteriorated so badly that the sun's rays are our 
enemy."
"There are ozone factories" she began.
"Uh-huh. And why do you think there are? Because people like us spread the word 
about what was happening. If we hadn't, nothing would have been done. As it is, 
it's probably too little, too late."
He was silent for a time after that, and then Dakota said quietly, "I'm sorry 
about your family."
He didn't respond.
"Are we all enjoying being maudlin?" said Jupiter. "Or should we be considering 
methods of getting out of here?"
"Like what?" said Luta. "If any of us stick our heads out, we'll be shot. There 
could be a dozen guys out there."
"Then why don't they attack already?" said Jupiter.
"Because they don't know how many of us there are, or what our weapons are," 
said Shai. "And why should they? They can just wait until reinforcements show 
up. Or they could wait until a bomber shows up and we can just be bombed out of 
existence. So why should they risk their necks?"
"So that's it," said Luta. "We go out, we get shot. And even if we don't get 
shot, there's still animals running around. You know, the creatures that BuBuzz 
summoned. Lurking about somewhere, and they'll attack us because Buzz isn't 
here."
"That's very possible," agreed Jupiter.
"So what do we do?" wailed Luta. "I can't put their weapons out of commission 
while they're hidden. I can only affect what I see. And if we come out they'll 
shoot us."
"We could pretend to surrender, and when they come out, you could short-circuit 
them," said Jupiter, thinking out loud. But then he frowned. "But if I were 
them, I'd hold a few men in hiding, just in case. Even one hidden marksman could 
still pick us off. Damn, if only we knew how many were out there."
And Shai said quietly, "If this is our time to die, then we die. With honor. 
With dignity. With the same sort of honor and dignity that we wish man gave to 
the planet that birthed him. We have to provide an example."
"I don't want to provide an example," said Luta. "I want to see my birthday next 
week."
Shai glanced at her. "Next week's your birthday?"
"Tuesday."
"In case we're dead by then, happy birthday." And Shai laughed low in his 
throat.
"Jupiter! Make him stop that! Make him stop saying that!"
Jupiter gave Shai a pleading look, and Shai smiled to himself but said nothing 
further.
"Now" Jupiter said after a moment of thought, "we will be able to get out of 
this."
Luta sat up anxiously. "How? How?"
"Our bargaining chip." And he inclined his head in Dakota's direction.
"No way," said Dakota tightly. "You do whatever you damned want, but leave me 
out of it."
"I'm sorry you feel that way. Mars"
The dog, whom Dakota had almost forgotten about, stood up obediently in the 
darkened corner.
Jupiter pointed at Dakota. "Kill."
The dog charged at Dakota. She screamed, throwing her arm up in hopeless 
self-defense as the Doberman closed on her, jaws snapping. But just before the 
jaws could clamp down, Jupiter's stern voice said, "Stop."
Mars halted, inches short of Dakota, and swiveled his large head. He growled, 
and Dakota was reminded of Rommel and Chuck's holding him back from killing that 
Cutter. She prayed that Jupiter's command over Mars was as strong.
"Heel, Mars. Good dog." Jupiter spoke in a no-nonsense tone, and Mars obediently 
backed away from Dakota. But he never took his eyes from her.
Dakota slowly let out her breath. From nearby, Shai said sternly, "That wasn't 
nice, Jupe."
Jupiter looked at him incredulously. "Being pinned down by the military must be 
mucking with your memory, Shai. I never claimed to be a nice person. Now, my 
dear Screw, you will do exactly as I say or next time I don't hold Mars off. Is 
that understood?" She nodded. "Now what is your name?"
"Bailey."
"Bailey," he repeated. "And your first name?"
"Barnum N."
He smiled in that lipless way he had. "Droll. Very droll. All right then, Screw, 
now listen carefully. Your life will depend on it."
Hidden in the bushes, unmoving for what seemed forever, Winkowski carefully 
straightened out his cramping leg. His nerves were shot, being as high-keyed for 
so long a time as they were. Every so often he had to shake his hand briskly to 
restore circulation, since he was keeping his finger wrapped around the trigger 
for so long a time.
He saw no need to clutter up the airwaves by constantly contacting the sergeant. 
The sarge certainly sounded as if she had the situation in control, and besides, 
he didn't want to make any unnecessary noise. He had had one more communication 
with her after the first oneshe had sounded out of breath, like she was 
running. She also sounded very jumpy, as if she had just been through a very 
jolting or disturbing experience. Well, certainly she had. They all had been. He 
had reconfirmed his position, and she had told him she was on her way. She had 
even, she said, spotted what appeared to be a passage that would bring her up 
and around the cliffs.
He glanced at his watch. The sun would be coming up in a few hours not that 
anyone saw the sun much these days, but at least it was comforting to know that 
it was there.
He heard the door of the cabin creak and immediately brought his gun up, 
sighting carefully. Something poked through the door, and he blinked in 
surprisea flag. No, not a flaga piece of cloth, but it was definitely white.
Were they surrendering? He couldn't believe it. Then he had a flash of panic. 
What if they were? He couldn't just shoot people who were giving up. But if they 
gave up, he'd have to reveal that it was just him. If only he knew how many of 
them there were. If only he had heavy armaments that he could use to just blow 
up the whole cabin. Just a few shells from an RBG, or even a grenade or two.
The door opened a bit wider, and a woman appeared. Her hands were behind her 
back, and the rope wrapped around her stomach indicated the hands were tied. She 
looked disheveled and frightened, but was clearly trying to keep up a brave 
front.
Winkowski lowered his gun slowly, uncertain of how to proceed. Was this 
legitimate? Was it bullshit? What was going down here? He wished desperately 
that a CO were on hand. Planning, strategy, decision makingthese had never been 
his strengths. Point, aim, firethese were what made up his life.
From inside a voice called out, "Army people listen carefully. We have what you 
folks are so fond of calling a 'situation' on our hands. The young lady whom you 
see in the doorway is an agent of the Complex. As such, she has some value to 
you, I would think."
Winkowski's eyes widened. Christ almighty, the Complex. Were they lying? Maybe 
she was one of the Extremists. But what if they weren't lying.
"We've already killed her partner," the voice continued. "We will kill her if we 
are driven to it. We would prefer not to. But we will require safe passage if 
this agent is to continue to live."
The young soldier said nothing. To call out would be to give his position away. 
He knew they had firearms. The question was how many, and even more, how many 
were aimed at the woods. He had to proceed very, very carefully.
"By no later than what you would call oh-nine-hundred hours, we want to have a 
helicopter to take us to the nearest airport," called the voice, "and from 
there, passage to Mexico. The agent will stay with us until such time that we 
are clear. After that, she will be released. Make no mistakewe are prepared to 
die if we have to. And if you are interested in capturing a house full of 
corpses, feel free to wait until one minute after oh-nine-hundred. We will not 
be taken alive but neither will she."
The young woman was yanked from view, and the door slammed shut. Winkowski let 
out a long, slow breath. This was definitely not goodnot good at all.
He'd wait for the sarge to get here, but he was going to have to let her know, 
soon, just what was going on. He was going to need orders and strategy. And he 
was going to need them fast.
18
THE FIRST THING that Chuck slowly became aware of was the odd fabric beneath his 
hand. It was resting on something coarse and dirty. His hand moved over and 
touched bare floor.
He was inside somewhere. Well, that was an improvement.
He tried to remember what had happened to him. He seemed to recall a woman, and 
some sort of roaring creature. He remembered very little else, his thoughts 
being as scrambled as they were. And he had killed. That was it. His TK had 
lashed out, as if it had a life of its own, and destroyed in some way the 
creature that had wanted to kill him. More blood on Chuck's hands.
Slowly he sat up, taking a deep breath and then letting it out. There was no 
raspiness, much to his surprise, and he repeated the cleansing breath. Whatever 
had been in his lungs had worked itself out.
All was still darkness, though. He passed his hand in front of a shadow. But it 
was hard to be sure whether it was really there, or whether he just so wanted it 
to be that he was imagining it.
Slowly he got to his feet, trying to deal with the concept of the blackness. He 
put his hands out to his side, then in front of him, and started to walk forward 
very slowly and carefully. He tried to reach out, get a feeling of his 
surroundings. Each step was tentative, for he still had no idea what might await 
him. And then he stopped in his tracks, reached forward, and touched the wall.
He smiled. He had sensed it there, just as he had sensed the tree. Maybe he was 
going to be able to do this after all.
And suddenly he heard the sounds of footsteps. There had to be a porch or 
something of some kind, because it was definitely feet on wood. There was 
nowhere he could hide, and even if there were, he couldn't see it.
He faced where he thought the door was, arms hanging loosely at his sides, and 
waited. The door creaked open, and in his darkness, Chuck faced the newcomers. 
He put up his hands and said, "Don't be alarmed. I've been in an accident. It's 
damaged my sight somewhat, and made me a little ill. I'm not even sure how I 
wound up here, but I assure you that"
And from the blackness of Chuck's world, a voice said, "I don't believe it."
His blood chilled. He knew that voice.
"That's him, isn't it? That's the bastard that landed Mort in the hospital!"
Chuck was truly impressed. It wasn't often that someone could be in a near-fatal 
explosion, be burned up, be blinded, be sickand then have things go wrong. All 
in one night. Well, the up side was that, at this rate, he wasn't going to have 
to worry about the next night.
"You're the Cutters," he said tonelessly. "The ones from the diner."
"Two out of three of us. You and your damned monster almost killed Morrie."
" 'Morrie' would be dead if it weren't for me," said Chuck, but he didn't think 
his argument was going to hold much weight. Even as he spoke, his mind raced 
ahead trying to anticipate the situation.
They'd kill him, or try to. That much was plain, even to a blind man.
He had to do something. He lashed out with the power of his mind in defense, 
driving it with the primitive need to survive. And he heard an explosion of 
timber, and the men shouted and gasped. Chuck didn't know what had just 
happened, but one of the Cutters inadvertently filled him in as he shouted, "The 
table just blew up! How the hell did that happen?!"
Chuck was less than thrilled. He had no real ability to control his power, not 
without sight. He could try to lift them up, hurl them out, but he might wind up 
crushing them, or blowing them to pieces. He would not, could not take that 
risk. Even if it meant his own life.
But it didn't have to. From long practice, he dropped into his defensive aikido 
position, arms and legs poised. His breathing was slow, measured, and 
controlled.
They were there, somewhere in the darkness. He knew they would come at him. He 
tried to reach out, feel them with his mind. He listened with his ears, sensed 
with his nose. Tried to hear the sound of their feet coming at him.
There was a quick scuffle from his right. He turned, ready to meet it
and he was grabbed from behind. It had come from nowhere, startled him, 
frightened him. For a moment he lost his balance and concentration, considered 
switching to his psi power now that a foe was in proximity. But what if he 
overapplied it?
Moves that should have come instinctively, thoughts that should have flowed in 
orderly fashion, were scrambled and uncertain. Before he could make any move at 
all, a meaty fist slammed into his stomach. He gasped, gagged, his head 
spinning. Another blow from the darkness, this one to his face, and his head 
snapped around. He tasted his own blood, welling up from a split lip.
The man was still holding him from the back. Dammit, this should be easy, 
automatic. But everything seemed to be coming from everywhere, simultaneously. 
He twisted, tossed the man to the ground, but then Chuck's feet were knocked out 
from under him and he crashed to the floor. He tried to stand up, tried to get 
to his feet, but a booted foot kicked him in the stomach. There had been a quick 
whistling of air as it had approached, he realized, but too late. Too late. It 
knocked the wind out of him, and another kick to the side knocked him over. He 
tried to roll and keep rolling, but he crashed up against a wall.
Using the wall for support, he tried to pull himself up. Something, heaven knew 
what, warned him, and he dodged a furious punch aimed right at his head. He 
grabbed the wrist while still at full extension and yanked down, driving a knee 
upward and toward the pit of his attacker's stomach. It was not the kind of move 
he usually made, but one of desperation. It showed, because it was poorly 
executed and wound up glancing off the man's leg.
Something grabbed him from nowhere and hurled him to the ground, and the punches 
and kicks started coming. They seemed to be everywhere. It was as if a hundred 
men were in the room, each with a dozen arms, all attacking simultaneously. He 
cried out, bringing his arms up in front of his face to avoid a kick in his 
teeth, bringing his knees up to guard his vitals. And they wouldn't let up, 
pounding him, hurting him.
He felt the power welling up in him. Kill them, it whispered, kill them. You 
don't have to take this abuse.
"N-no," he choked out, and they thought he was talking to them. They laughed 
harshly, and Chuck could hear one of them drawing back his foot to kick him 
again, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from. He had completely lost 
balance, lost touch with the world and himself.
And then a hammer was cocked.
He was certain it was a gun aimed at him until a crisp female voice said, "Back 
away from him."
There was the sound of choked disbelief from the Cutters. "I mean it. Back away 
from him. Now."
The voice was new to Chuck, and yet somehow vaguely familiar. He heard his 
assailants sputter in indignation, saying, "He was trespassing! This is our 
place! We found it first! There's our sleeping stuff, right there!"
"And that gives you the right to beat him to death."
"What gives you the right to say we can't? That thing probably isn't even 
loaded."
There was the sound of a gunshot and a stifled shriek from the Cutters.
"There are three choices," she said. "You get out of here. Or get it in the 
heart. Or get it in the balls. The first option is yours. The second two will be 
mine, and you can't be sure which I'll pick."
There was the quick, hurried shuffling of feet, and within moments they were 
receding into the woods.
Chuck lay there, trying not to moan, and only partly succeeding. Then a soft 
voice, the woman's, said, "You okay?"
"Ohhhhh fine," said Chuck, trying to sound jovial. He spit out a wad of what he 
suspected was blood. At least it wasn't a tooth. "We were discussing religion 
or politics. One of those. You know how nasty those arguments can get"
He tried to sit up and gasped. Then she was at his side, helping him. "Don't do 
it if you feel you're going to hurt something."
"No, I'll be fine. Really," he said. "I learned how to roll with punches."
"Obviously." She felt his forehead. "You're cool. That's impressive. A few hours 
ago you were white-hot."
"I've always been a quick healer," he said, and then paused. "You were here 
before." It wasn't a question.
"You remember?"
"Not very much. Some." He took a deep breath and was pleased at the lack of pain 
and raspiness. Not only was whatever in his chest gone, but apparently he'd been 
lucky enough to avoid cracked ribs from the pounding he'd taken. "How do I 
look?"
"You're going to have some nasty bruises. At least one black eye. Can't be sure 
about the other stuff."
"Who are you?"
"Sergeant Mary Jo Sanderson."
"Police?"
"Army."
"Oh," he said.
"And you are?"
"Chuck Smith." He hated lying, especially to someone who had saved his life. But 
he had no choice, especially with her being attached to the government. For all 
he knew she had standing orders to shoot Chuck Simon on sight.
She helped him over to the sleeping bags and lay him down. "You were here 
earlier?" he said.
"Yeah."
"Don't take this wrong, but why'd you leave? And why'd you come back?"
There was a long pause, and he sensed that whatever answer he was going to get 
wasn't going to be the whole truth. As if they were playing a waiting game, 
waiting for the other one to be fully honest and neither was willing to do so 
first.
"I felt I owed it to you to come back," she said after a time. "To make sure you 
were okay."
"And why'd you leave?"
An even longer pause. "Something came up," she said finally, and from the 
finality of her tone it was clear that she wasn't about to elaborate on that. 
"Here have some water."
He hesitated. "Where'd the water come from?"
"It's in my canteen. Filled it at base."
"Not from the local water?"
She uttered an unfunny laugh. "You're kidding, right?"
She brought the canteen up to his lips and he gulped down the water greedily. 
She had to pull it away from him when he started to choke. "You shouldn't laugh 
about the native water," he said.
"What're you, an environmental Extremist or something?"
The question was very carefully phrased and Chuck hesitated. She sounded 
suspicious of something. "No. Just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. 
Someone who took an extended swim in the river out there. I think that's what 
made me sick."
"If that's the case, you were damned lucky you recovered at all," she said.
"You're not kidding."
There was a pause as she said, "I'm going to have to get going soon. You can't 
see, can you?"
"Not at the moment," he admitted. "I'm hoping it clears up."
"Then maybe you'd better"
There was a beep from nearby and he turned his head in confusion, wondering what 
had caused it. "My comm unit," Jo told him upon seeing his puzzlement. She 
clicked it on and said, "Go ahead."
"This is Pigeon Six," a nervous voice came over. "Sorry to bother you, Panther 
Six. Are you on the move?"
"Very shortly. What's the problem? Are they trying to get out?"
"They've got a hostage."
"Tough shit."
"They said she's with the Complex."
That gave her pause. "That could be a problem. If it's true."
"They said they killed her partner and are ready to kill her if we don't provide 
them means of escape."
Chuck sat up upon hearing this. His head hurt when he did it, but he brushed the 
pain aside. "What does the woman look like?" he said. "Did he see her? Ask him 
what"
"Pigeon Six, can you describe her?" asked Jo.
"About medium height, long brown hair. Kind of pretty. Wearing jeans, red 
flannel shirt, black t-shirt under it"
"Oh, God," said Chuck. "Oh, God, it's Dakota."
"Didn't copy that?" Winkowski said over the comm unit.
"Stand by, Pigeon Six." She snapped shut the comm unit and said to Chuck, "Level 
with me. Is she with the Complex? Are you?"
He didn't want to lie to her, but he had heard the flat, impersonal reply she 
had given when she had first thought that there was simply a civilian held 
hostage. So instead he said carefully, "You have to understand even if we were 
with the Complex, I couldn't tell you."
"It would explain a hell of a lot," she said softly. She clicked back on the 
comm unit. "Pigeon Six, keep a lid on there. How long do we have?"
"Deadline is oh-nine-hundred."
"Okay, look. Use the alternate frequency and, very quietly, try to raise 
somebody. A troop should be arriving soon to launch a full investigation of the 
plant. These guys are not going to get away, but we want to make sure they don't 
injure or kill their hostage. In the meantime, we're on the way."
"We?" came the confused voice of Winkowski.
"Yeah, me" and she paused, "and my secret weapon.."
19
ROMMEL HAD THE sense of him.
It had returned, going off in the back of his head like a light bulb. Suddenly, 
just like that, Rommel was aware of Chuck, that dim background sensation that 
was part of the link they shared. He still couldn't communicate with Chuck. 
Chances were Chuck wasn't even aware that the link had been reestablished. Maybe 
he hadn't even realized that it had been severed. Humans could be pretty thick 
that way.
He started moving through the forest, having left the cabin with Dakota far 
behind him. There was nothing he could do for her anyway, and even if there was, 
he didn't have much interest in it. For whatever reason, Chuck was keeping her 
around, but Rommel had little to no patience with her.
He hated to admit it, but Rommel was also fairly tired. He hadn't eaten in ages, 
hadn't slept. He was getting exhausted.
Something small darted just within his field of vision and he started after it, 
hoping against hope that it was something he could eat. A flash of white, a 
small tail, told him it was a rabbit. Well, maybe the spirit of Chuck had 
somehow invaded his mind and, annoyingly, distorted his sense of priorities, but 
nothing was going to stop him from chowing down on a rabbit.
He bore down on the rabbit, barking eagerly, knowing that giving the animal 
warning was not the brightest maneuver, but unable to contain his enthusiasm.
The rabbit spun and snarled at him.
That brought Rommel up short. The rabbit glared at him through red eyes and 
bared its teeth. It was the largest damned rabbit Rommel had ever seen.
It was growling. Madness. He'd never heard a rabbit make the slightest noise at 
all, and this one sounded like it was about to leap for the kill.
Which was exactly what it did. Two, three hops and the rabbit was slicing though 
the air at Rommel, ready to fight, ready to kill.
Rommel crushed its skull with one swipe of his paw.
He looked down disdainfully at the corpse in front of him. Killer or no, it was 
still just a rabbit, for pity's sake. Nothing that Rommel couldn't handle.
He tore off a piece of the rabbit's carcass with his teeth and chomped on it, 
and then he promptly spit it out. He knew immediately that something was wrong, 
that there was some sort of deadly additional ingredient to the rabbit's makeup. 
It was not something he wanted to have anything to do with, but unfortunately, 
that meant that he was going to have to continue being hungry. There was, he 
realized, no help for that.
He kept walking, trying to get a feel for what direction Chuck was in. It was 
possible Chuck might simply find his way to Rommel, but he decided he wasn't 
going to just stand around and wait. Chuck was a nice enough guy for a human, 
Rommel decided, but not exactly big on brain power. He couldn't always be 
counted on to do the simple, intelligent thing. Rommel had lost count of the 
number of times he had had to do the thinking for both of them. Making up for 
humanity's shortcomings was one of the many burdens that animals had to uphold.
He'd heard Chuck use the phrase "beasts of burden." Maybe that was what it 
referred to.
Rommel scoured the area, trying to track Chuck, and eventually settled on one 
particular direction as being the most promising. There was no one reason he 
could pin down as to why he felt that way. Just a general impression. He hoped 
it was the right one.
In the cabin that Rommel had left behind, Mars placed his muzzle down on his 
front paws. Mars had sensed another dog in the area, but now that dog had moved 
on. It was obviously not going to challenge Mars's claim on the area. Too bad, 
Mars decided. Some large animal to rip apart would have gone down quite nicely 
about now.
Dakota, from the corner, her knees pulled up, watched Mars carefully and said, 
"Your dog seems kind of fidgety. Maybe he has to go out."
"Maybe he does," agreed Jupiter. "But we're all holding it. So can he."
"You're all heart."
She turned back and looked at Shai. The large, dark man had been staring at her 
for some time now, just staring at her. It was starting to get on her nerves. 
"And what do you want?" she asked with some impatience.
He grinned at her disarmingly. He seemed so pleasant, even amused by it all. 
There was a detachment about him, as if he considered everything that occurred 
as merely of a transitory nature.
"What's your name?" he asked her. "And come on let's can the bullshit, okay?" 
He had that curious, hinting bit of an accent. The question came out "cahn the 
bullsheet."
And suddenly it really did seem somewhat ridiculous. "Dakota," she said.
"Right, first name North," said Jupiter, the gaze of his narrow eyes darting 
from one to the other.
"No, that's her name," said Shai with confidence. "At least the name she goes by 
on a regular basis. First name or last?"
"Both. Originally first, but I dropped the last one ages ago." Dakota was 
becomingly increasingly convinced that she was never going to make it out of 
here. There was a kind of bleak certainty that this was it, and that being the 
case, what was the point in jerking around anymore. "I thought it would look 
better to have just the one name. More mysterious." She put up a hand as if 
envisioning the name stretched across a marquee. "Da-Ko-Ta," she said, adding a 
breathless pause to each syllable.
"Very mysterious," agreed Shai. He shook his head. "Silly lady. You're no more 
with the Complex than I am."
"I dunno, you with the Complex?" She smiled.
"If I were, Da-Ko-Ta, I wouldn't be here."
"Go ahead, tell him the truth," said Jupiter with an expansive wave. "Tell him 
whatever you want, because I already know the truth and nothing you can say is 
going to convince me otherwise."
She shook her head, a neutral expression on her face. "It must be wonderful to 
be that smart, that you can't ever be fooled."
"It carries a certain degree of responsibility," he conceded. "I try to live up 
to it."
Dakota brought her hands above her head, interlacing her fingers, and cracked 
her knuckles loudly. She glanced over at Luta and, to her surprise, saw that the 
smaller woman had curled up in a corner and gone to sleep. Well, that was 
certainly one way to escape from pressure.
"So what are you doing here?" asked Shai.
She smiled thinly. Screw it. "I don't know," she said. "There was this guy and 
he seemed really nice. Was really nice. He showed up in the circus I was working 
atI was a tightrope walker. And he stayed with us for a while, but then guys 
who were after him showed up and he wasn't going to be able to stay anymore. And 
the circus life had really started to drag for me."
"How did you come to join the circus?"
She stared at him. "You got a smoke?"
"Buzz smoked. He was killed and tossed out a window."
"That's one way to kick the habit," she acknowledged.
Shai grinned widely at that and inclined his head at Luta. "Good thing she's 
asleep. She'd start blubbering, she hear you say that."
"She liked Buzz?"
"She likes living. Buzz didn't live, that shook her up."
Jupiter cleared his throat loudly. "I hope you two are having a nice chat," he 
said somewhat petulantly.
Shai's smile seemed to say, Ignore him. "So, why the circus?" he repeated.
She shrugged. "Usual reason. Ran away when I was a teenager. Circus was a haven. 
Didn't run away from much. Father who was a drunk and lorded it over all of us." 
She paused. "My mother never stood up to him. I always hated her for that. Why 
she put up with it I'll never know."
"So you've never been home in all that time."
She paused. "Got word two months ago, my no-good father hit the road."
"You mean he left?"
"No, he hit the road. He staggered drunk one night into the middle of the 
interstate and a cross-country truck banged into him." She smacked a fist into 
her palm. "Sent him flying about, oh, twenty, thirty yards. They collected the 
remains with a teaspoon."
He was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, that makes one of us. And my mother wanted me to come home. 
Apologized for everything, apologized for being weak and not standing up to 
him."
"And did you? Go home, I mean?"
She looked at him. "No."
"Why not?"
"Why should I?"
"Because she asked you to. Because if I were your parent and I had not done 
right by you, I'd want the chance to make amends."
"Yeah, well we don't always get what we want." She paused, and sighed. "But 
after that, the circus seemed I dunno, I guess after ten years of going 
everywhere, you suddenly start feeling like you're going nowhere. Y'know? So 
when Chuck came along"
"Chuck was the bearded fellow," said Jupiter.
"Yeah."
"The fellow Shai shot and killed. On my orders."
She stared at Shai, her eyes narrowing. He said nothing, and at last she said, 
"No he didn't."
"Ah, well, obviously a decade of circus life has made you wise in all things," 
Jupiter said.
"Wiser than you, smartass," said Dakota. She shook her head. "I'd kill for a 
cigarette."
"Tell you what," said Jupiter. "We'll see if we can scrape one up for you at 
the time of your execution. Think of it as a last request."
"I'll always remember your compassion," said Dakota dryly. She glanced at Shai 
and, with a toss of her head in Jupiter's direction, said, "Why hang out with 
this idiot?"
Jupiter made a bemused humph sound. Shai raised an eloquent eyebrow. "I promised 
I would."
"Promised him?"
"Promised my family," he said. "On their graves. Promised I would do something, 
try to help others to avoid the fate they had. Don't know how much I've 
succeeded. You try, and you do what you can. But there's this overwhelming sense 
ofI don't knowhopelessness. Because every day we wake up, on the run, looking 
over our shoulders because we're certain that someone is going to catch up with 
us and kill us just about anytime. And what are we fighting for? The gray skies 
that are overhead. Still gray. Just as gray as when I started this fight ages 
ago. Maybe even grayer. And you got to wonder, what is the point of it all? 
What's the damned point?"
She shrugged. "Beats me. I'm just a dumb circus performer."
"Yes, that is what you would have us believe," said Jupiter sarcastically. "But 
that's a useless ploy."
"Well, I just don't have a hope in hell of slipping one past you, do I?" Dakota 
asked him.
He shook his head. "I've seen too many lies. I'm too good at spotting them."
"No, you just assume that everything is a lie. It's not the same thing."
"Nowadays, my dear Screw, it's generally a safe assumption. A very, very safe 
assumption."
She stared at Jupiter for a time. "We're not going to get out of here, are we?"
"Is this some sort of revelation that just hit you?"
"Kind of."
"Well, my dear, that is the project that I'm working on. To live or not live, 
survive or not survive. And a great deal of that hinges on the desirability of a 
certain Complex agent. That, my dear, had better be you."
"Up close and personal, Jupiter. One on one, you and me, no more bullshit, I'm 
telling youI'm not who you think I am."
He smiled at that. "Which of us is, my dear Screw? Which of us is?"
20
JO WAS BEGINNING to wonder if she hadn't made a mistake.
The path they were following up the mountainside had widened out, and Chuck had 
asked her indulgence while he stopped briefly to rest. Now he was sitting on a 
flat rock, cross-legged, breathing slowly, sightless eyes staring at noth ing, 
and he had been that way for several minutes.
"Would you mind telling me what in hell you think you're doing?" she asked, her 
impatience mounting.
"You're standing"he paused"six feet away."
She looked down, mentally measuring the expanse of ground between them. "About, 
yeah."
"And you're there," and he pointed straight at her.
"So?"
"I need you to do something for me."
"If it will get us moving." She glanced over her shoulder and saw the sun 
beginning to come up on the horizon. Thank God. It had been the longest night of 
her life. It also brought them closer, though, to the deadline of 0900. Didn't 
he understand that? Didn't he care?
"I need you to move. As quietly as you can. And if you can, try and get close 
enough to touch me without my knowing."
He was pointing at her, and every instinct about him seemed to be directed at 
her.
Okay then. If that was what he wanted to play. She began to move as silently as 
she could, knees flexed, one foot quietly crossing in front of the other, hands 
out to the side for balance.
His pointing hand slowly followed her, tracking her. She raised an eyebrow and 
had to admit to herself that she was impressed. Then she abruptly switched 
direction, arcing back the way that she had come.
He continued to point where she had been, and she felt slightly disappointed in 
him. Then his finger wavered, and he was clearly confused. He didn't know where 
she was, but he knew that she wasn't where she had been.
She picked up a rock that was lying nearby and tossed it to her left. The 
clattering on the ground distracted him and he looked off in the direction of 
the rock. As he did so, she came in quickly, her hand streaking out.
Her hand clamped down tightly on his shoulder and she dug her fingernails in. 
"Ow!" he said. "Come on, that hurt."
"Would have hurt a lot more if I had a knife in my hand. What are you trying to 
prove?"
"I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm trying to learn." He frowned. "Trying to 
remember things my sensei taught me. Things he said that maybe I didn't even 
fully understand when he was teaching me. I should be able to keep track of 
you."
"You're blind, Chuck," she said harshly. "I really don't mean to upset you or 
anything, but it's pretty obvious."
"I should be part of nature," he said stubbornly. "As you are. If we're part of 
the same world, I should be able to know where you are. I should be able to feel 
you at all times."
"Not on a first date. Now come on." She started to walk away.
"No."
She made an angry, guttural sound in her throat, stomped back and stood in front 
of him. "You are so goddamn stubborn it's not funny. I'm ordering you to come 
on."
"I'm fighting for my life here!" he said angrily. "Don't you understand that?"
"What I understand is that I've been given a deadline by a bunch of terrorist 
loons, and your own partner has her life on the line, and you're sitting here 
giving me bullshit about being part of nature. Have you seen nature lately, pal? 
Believe me, it's not something you'd want to be a part of. Now move it."
"Leave me if you have to. But I won't be any good to Dakotato anyoneunless I 
learn to handle this. I can't be afraid of the dark. It has to make no 
difference."
"Christ!" she said angrily, and she reached for him.
Chuck wasn't even thinking about it, didn't even realize her hand was 
outstretched. But his right arm swung up automatically and brushed it aside.
They stood there that way for a moment, unmoving. Then slowly Jo backed up a 
couple of steps, pondering the situation.
She tried to grab him again. He blocked it.
A slow smile was beginning to spread across his face.
Both of her hands moved incredibly quickly now, trying to grab hold of him, 
trying to fake him out. He didn't go for the fakes, wasn't fooled by them at 
all, and the other, closer strikes he swept aside. They moved so quickly, parry 
and thrust, that it was a blur.
He managed to block ten of her thrusts. On the eleventh her left hand sailed 
through while he was blocking her right and she slapped him hard across the 
face. The loud crack seemed to jostle him for a moment, and then he rubbed his 
face and half smiled. "Not bad. Not a bad start."
"Yeah, well, it's going to have to do. Now come on."
He nodded briskly, sliding off the rock. He still wasn't fully confident, still 
had a way to go, but he was starting to feel a little better.
He stepped forward and tripped over a gopher hole.
Jo turned to see him sprawled out on the ground. "Every couple of steps forward 
you wind up taking a few back, don't you, cowboy?"
"Sure looks that way, doesn't it?"
Slowly he climbed to his feet, shaking his head. Then he looked up at her, and 
he frowned. "My God," he said.
"What is it?"
"I'm starting to see something. Vague very vague shadows at best. More 
confusing than anything else at the moment, but I think yeah." His voice 
started to become more excited. "Hold up some fingers."
She held up two fingers.
"Five," he said. "Am I right? Five?"
"Well, five if you count the three that were clenched, yeah. Come on."
Feeling somewhat crestfallen but nevertheless a bit better, Chuck followed her 
up the narrow trail.
And then, ahead of them, they heard screams. And a very familiar roar.
And something else. Something that galvanized Chuck into action, and with a 
shout he shoved past Jo and started running and stumbling in the direction of 
the furious animal sounds. Jo couldn't believe it. Whatever was going on up 
ahead was clearly something involving some very angry and very nasty-sounding 
animalspossibly more of those mutant bears that she had dealt with. It was not 
an encounter she was looking forward to and yet, thanks to the blind superman, 
she had to go running straight into the maw of the danger again.
Oh, hell, she reasoned. No one said she was going to live forever. And she ran 
after Chuck up the path.
21
THE CUTTERS WERE relatively new to the woods. They had found that abandoned 
cabin, the one that they'd now been forced to give up. The nice thing about it 
was that it had been built so close to the edge of a passage that led up the 
cliffside. It made it easily accessible to the main road. They followed that 
passage up now, cursing and muttering to themselves over the unfairness of all 
that had gone on.
"Our cabin."
"Damned right."
"Our bedrolls."
"Damned right."
"She had no damned right!"
"Damned right."
And so on, as they trudged up the passage and eventually up into the woods that 
lay at the top.
In their anger and loud cursings, they aroused the mutant bear that had been 
sleeping in the brush just near the top of the passage, the part that opened out 
onto a clearing at the top. The bear had lost a lot of bloodthe many bullet 
wounds it had received had weakened it. But there was still a lot of life left 
in the old creature, and it had no intention of expiring quietly. But it was 
indeed much too slow to wake up in time to do little more than grunt at the men 
who went by. And that they did not even hear.
So they went past, and eventually the bear staggered to its feet and headed off 
in a particular direction.
The Cutters, meantime, made their way through the woods, and then the foremost 
jumped back and uttered a shriek.
"What is it?" demanded the other, already more than fed up with the miserable 
way matters had turned out.
"Look!" said the first Cutter urgently, and the one bringing up the rear looked 
where he was pointing.
They saw bodies of soldiers lying there, unmoving, and the soft sound of flies. 
The men moved forward cautiously, brushing away the pesky insects that were 
swarming around the dead soldiers. They looked as if they'd been gutted from 
crotch to sternum.
All of which was of little interest to the two Cutters. What caught their fancy 
far more, and what pleased them no end, was that the bodies had guns on them. 
Guns in their hands or guns in their holsters.
"Let's get 'em," said the taller of the two, and his compatriot did not 
hesitate. There were three soldiers there, and within moments, the two Cutters 
had divested them of their weaponry.
The taller Cutter was joyfully buckling the ammo belt on. The shorter was 
sighting through a special scope, and he saw that a pin-width beam of red laser 
light emitted from the scope, drawing a bead on whatever it was aimed at. That 
way you knew, every time.
"Damn, this thing is great," he said. He swept it around and the red light 
played ominously on the forehead of his friend who made it clear in turn that he 
was not thrilled one bit. "I know you've been saying we shouldn't hang out too 
long in the woods, because of some of the things wandering around here. But this 
baby'll"
"You jackass, get that thing off me!" he snarled. "Find something else to aim 
at"
They suddenly became immobile as they heard the sound of something making its 
way through the woods. Not an inch did they move.
Rommel made his way through the forest, proceeding as cautiously as he could. He 
was operating entirely on instinct, which was not unusual for him. But this time 
it was to an extraordinary degree. He had not picked up any sort of scent of 
Chuck. He had no proof from any of his senses that Chuck was ahead of him, or 
that he was heading in the right direction. Nothing except a deep and abiding 
faith in the infallibility of his basic nature.
In other words, he was too self-confident to think that he could possibly be 
wrong.
The wind was to Rommel's back and then it shifted. That shift brought Rommel up 
short, because a new and somewhat odious scent reached his nostrils. He paused, 
his ears pricked high, his eyes narrowing ferally. The scent was familiar. 
Human, yes, Rommel had known that immediately. But also humanno, humansthat he 
had encountered before. Yes, that was it. It was some of those humans whom they 
had encountered earlier, outside the eating place.
Did they have Chuck? It was a wondrous burst of intuitive possibility on 
Rommel's part. He knew that they had menaced Chuck earlier, if the threat that 
such as they provided could actually be termed "menace." If they had Chuck, 
they'd probably hurt him if they could if they could. Maybe he was even with 
them. It seemed very unlikely to Rommelhe would certainly smell Chuck, or sense 
him through their link.
And then Rommel hit on a plan.
Now German shepherdseven telepathic ones that were built like small carswere 
not known for their extensive strategic capabilities. Rommel had even once had a 
lengthy argument with Chuck over that very subject, when they had been having 
one of their customary discussions over the infinite superiority of man's best 
friend over man. This was not, curiously, a view to which Chuck subscribed, and 
Rommel could not understand why. Chuck had contended that man's ability to plan 
strategy made him somehow better than dogs. His proof had been to point to the 
roster of famous military strategists throughout the history of mankind. 
Rommel's response had been that if that was Chuck's proof of superiority, it was 
pretty pathetic because (as Rommel sanguinely pointed out) you never saw dogs 
being stupid enough to get into organized wars in the first place.
Chuck's explanation of reasons for war wasn't much better. Primarily, it seemed, 
humans fought over imaginary lines called boundaries. Rommel couldn't grasp 
fighting over something that wasn't there. The least humans could have the 
courtesy of doing, Rommel felt, was urinating on what was theirs so everyone 
would know whose was what. That would probably eliminate wars. Chuck tended to 
agree, feeling that if it had been pissed on, nobody else would want it anyway.
The upshot of the ongoing discussions was that the subtleties of human behavior 
continued to elude Rommel, or had until just now when he came up with a plan.
It was not a deep plan, or a subtle plan. But it was a plan nevertheless, and 
Rommel felt some measure of pride in it.
What he planned was quite simple, really. He would wait until the foolish humans 
showed themselves. Then he would bare his teeth and bark very viciously. The 
humans would run screaming to a place of safety, and that place of safety might 
be, hopefully would be, where they were keeping Chuck. And if he found Chuck, 
then hopefully Chuck would feed him since, thus far, nothing he'd encountered in 
the woods had been vaguely appetizing.
If Chuck was not there, Rommel had even developed (wonder of wonders) a backup 
plan. Namely that he'd kill the humans and eat them, and mental directives and 
taboos and queasy feelings be damned, he was hungry for pity's sake and if his 
next meal had to be human flesh, and he had to eventually face Chuck and be 
scolded for it, so be it. At least he'd be scolded on a full stomach.
Rommel waited for them, quiet and still, in a small clearing. They sounded like 
bulldozers coming through the woods, and Rommel realized that they were actually 
under the impression that they were being sneaky. Infinitely superior humans 
indeed. It was to laugh, ha ha.
The humans burst into the clearing and skidded to a halt. If Rommel had had the 
facial muscles to smile, he would have. The look on their faces was absolutely 
priceless.
They recognized him, of that Rommel was certain. He growled for effect, and then 
barked loudly to get them running.
They didn't run. Instead they swung around human guns and aimed them right at 
Rommel.
Rommel's heart sank. This was definitely not good.
The first bullet kicked up dirt just in front of him. Rommel leaped back with a 
yelp, and the second bullet blew out a branch just to Rommel's left.
Rommel came to the sudden realization that his plan was shot, and he might be 
next. His backup plan seemed even more remote than the primary plan.
With an alarmed bark, he pivoted and leaped into the woods. There was another 
gunshot and he felt a brief flash of pain on his left flank. A bullet had just 
winged him, and he had absolutely no intention of hanging around in case one of 
the bullets should strike closer.
He bolted through the woods, bullets flying all around him. Yes, this was most 
definitely not good.
It had been a good plan, a noble plan. It just happened not to have worked.
The Cutters laughed uproariously and they fired again on the fleeing form of the 
dog. It was so big that it couldn't slink away as a smaller animal might. 
Instead, it left brush waving in its wake.
The Cutters looked at each other, and didn't even have to tell each other what 
was on their respective minds. They both plunged into the woods after the dog, 
the sound of it just ahead of them pulling them on.
Rommel heard them coming after him and his heart sank even further. Whenever he 
slowed down in the slightest, there would be the sounds of gunfire and brush 
would be broken off around him. He wasn't sure if they were toying with him, or 
if they were just miserable shots.
The bushes pulled and yanked at his fur, and the ground began to tear at the 
pads of his paws. He was tireddog-tired. He had had no sleep, no food. Nothing. 
Even at his peak, he probably couldn't jump them fast enough to take them out 
before one of them managed to drill him. As it was the wound on his flank was 
stabbing at him, slowing him down.
There was the constant sound of joyous whoops and hollerings. God, it was 
annoying. It was hard enough for Rommel to think, since thinking had never been 
his specialty. It was not being made any easier by the constant chattering and 
bellowing of those idiots behind him.
Then he picked up another scent.
It slowed him down momentarily, and a bullet missed him by scant inches (the 
morons were definitely catching up), but he had to home in on the direction. 
There! There it most definitely was, and he headed off, tracing the scent, his 
heart pounding with excitement.
He had come up with another plan! Three plans in the course of fifteen minutes, 
a record not only for him, but possibly for all dogs everywhere.
For a moment the Cutters thought they had lost track of him. Then they heard a 
rustling off to their right and barreled off in that direction. Their enthusiasm 
was at an all-time high. They were envisioning doggie insides splattered all 
over the landscape, bits of fur sticking to the sides of the trees that towered 
all around them. It was a pleasant and diverting thought, and their only concern 
was that they might lose the beast and so be deprived of not only their pleasure 
but a nice bit of revenge. For they had not forgotten that this was the animal 
that had nearly killed their friend, their leader, their constant and bosom 
companion, good ol' what's-his-name.
They broke from cover, looking around, and the taller one pointed. Sure enough, 
there was the stupid dog, pausing at the top of what seemed to be a path that 
angled downward. If the dog had made a break straight down without stopping, it 
might actually have gotten away. But it was sitting there, as if waiting for 
them. Stupid dog.
"Niiiiice doggie," said the shorter one, and the red light of the laser sight 
appeared on Rommel's forehead. A split instant later the gun fired, but Rommel 
was no longer there. Instead he had run off down the angled path.
"Forget it, he's gone," said the taller.
"No! Come on! He's gonna pay."
"We're wasting our ammo. He's just a dumb mutt."
"I don't like the way he looked at me. Like he thinks I'm a jerk or something." 
And with that he ran down the path after his quarry.
His companion stood there for a moment, shaking his head. "You are a jerk!" he 
called after him, and then with a sigh slammed in another clip and went off 
after his buddy. With his longer strides he caught up within moments.
They noticed that the barking up ahead had stopped, that the dog must be moving 
stealthily now. But the path was narrow, the sides sheer as it wended down the 
cliffside. They were unsure whether it was a natural formation or man-made, and 
ultimately it didn't matter. All that mattered was that they were going to nail 
themselves a canine would-be murderer. And there was nowhere, absolutely 
nowhere, that the stupid animal was going to be able to hide.
They turned a blind corner and skidded to a halt, their laughter and amusement 
catching in their throats.
Blocking their path was a huge bear. Not just any bear this thing was beyond 
all belief. It was unnatural. Its dark fur was covered with dried blood from 
multiple wounds inflicted on its body. Wounds created by guns such as the 
Cutters were carrying. The bear wasn't moving, instead was lying on its side, 
its eyes closed.
Dropping his voice to barely a whisper, the taller one said, "It's dead. Right?"
Abruptly, with a sound like a furnace, the bear's chest rose and fell.
"It's sleeping," said the shorter one, equally as quietly. "And it's got bullet 
holes all over it. And that didn't kill it."
"Let's get the hell out of here," said the taller.
And at that moment, from directly behind the sleeping animal, Rommel poked his 
head up. The men looked at him in confusion, and then the great German shepherd 
drew his head back and clamped his jaws down with all his strength on the bear's 
hindquarters.
The great animal rose up with a roar, awakened rudely from its sleep. The ground 
seemed to rumble in harmony with the fury of the bear. And in its towering rage, 
the very first thing it saw was the Cutters.
Upon seeing the attack and the sheer power of the angry beast, the taller of the 
two men became rooted to the spot, whimpering and blubbering. The shorter 
started to run and got a couple of yards when he heard a hideous scream, the 
sound of rending flesh, and he turned in time to see his partner's entrails 
spilling down the path. The dog was watching with great interest.
The bear turned its malevolent gaze on the Cutter, a gaze that seemed to say, 
You did this to me. You and your kind. It took one stalking step toward him.
The Cutter brought his beloved gun up. The red light shone square between the 
bear's eyes and he fired twice, three times.
It drilled the monster, blowing off the top of its skull and splattering its 
brains onto the tree next to it. One eye was gone, the other unseeing.
Barely able to believe his triumph, the Cutter let out a joyful laugh as the 
bear fell
on top of the Cutter. He was flattened under it, the bear's massive tonnage 
crushing him instantly, the laughter dying along with the rest of him.
Rommel stared at the mess, shaking his great head slowly. What in the world made 
humans think that they had the slightest prayer when it came to matching wits 
with dogs?
Then a familiar presence made itself known in his mind. He turned excitedly, 
calling out, Chuck?
Chuck came running up the path and cried out in delight. He charged toward 
Rommel and tripped on some brush. He fell, absorbing the impact, but Rommel was 
instantly alerted.
You can't see, he said in shock.
"I can't see, right," said Chuck. "Well, a little bitvague shadows, 
distinguishing between light and dark. How are you?"
Hungry.
"Nice to know there are some things you can count on."
Suddenly Rommel lifted his head, growling low in his throat. Immediately Chuck 
knew what he was reacting to and said, as softly as he could, "She's a friend. 
She doesn't know about us. Be subtle."
Behind Chuck now came Jo, looking puzzled and shaking her head. "Chuck, who is" 
Then she gasped, upon seeing the carnage. "My God," she breathed.
"What is it?" he said urgently. "What's wrong?"
"II was going to ask you who the dog is but that can wait. Just ahead of us 
there's a dead bear, and two dead men."
"Your men?"
"Civilians."
"I wonder who they are," said Chuck, but the tone was significant enough that 
Rommel knew to whom the question war addressed.
Two of the idiots who were bothering you back at the eating place.
"Cutters," said Chuck, understanding.
"Could be," agreed Jo. "Waityeah, that's them, all right. They're kind of 
bloody and messed up, so I didn't recognize them right off, but they were the 
ones who were hassling you back at the cabin."
"Even so, they didn't deserve to die," said Chuck.
"Well, they sure weren't earning the Congressional Medal while they were living. 
So who, or what, is this magnificent animal?"
"Rommel. He's my dog."
"Looks more like your dogs, plural. Okay, come on, let's get to Winkowski. He 
must be going nuts up there."
"Right. You lead the way."
Jo nodded, gingerly stepping over the remains of the bear and the men. She 
extended a hand to Chuck who climbed over the obstruction, and then headed up 
the path. Behind her Chuck slowed down long enough to say softly to Rommel, "Any 
idea what those men were doing here?"
Dying, mostly, said Rommel after a moment of thought.
22
THE SOUND OF the chopper roused them.
Jupiter, without thinking, ran to the window of the cabin and glanced out. At 
the last minute he checked his forward motion, narrowly avoiding providing a 
target for whatever snipers might be out there. Still, in the dimness of the 
dark dawn, he was able to make out an army helicopter whipping past them high 
overhead.
"Our ride is here," he said tightly.
It roused Luta from her slumber. Shai, for his part, made no movement, but said 
simply, "They'll never let us go, Jupe. Got no reason."
"We have a reason," said Jupiter tightly, pointing at Dakota. "She's our 
reason."
"She's a little girl from the circus," Shai replied. "You don't want to admit 
we're dead, but we are. But you keep clinging onto this hope that she's our 
ticket out. She's not."
Slowly Jupiter approached Shai, as if he were trying to stare him down. "She 
will be," he said tightly, "what I want her to be."
"Shai, what if he's right," said Luta slowly.
"He's not right."
"I'll prove it," said Jupiter, and suddenly there was a gun in his hand. A small 
dainty pistol, and he held it to Dakota's head. Shai's eyes glowered in the 
dark, and Jupiter told her, "Tell him you're with the Complex."
Dakota's gaze slowly went from Jupiter to Shai and back again. She knew what the 
score was. She saw the wildness in Jupiter's eyes. Penned up here, not knowing 
what was outside, knowing in his heart that the end was near but not able to 
admit it, Jupiter was starting to crack. Perhaps he had already cracked. There 
was intense desperation in his eyes, the kind of raw, throbbing emotion that 
couldn't be reckoned with, couldn't be bargained with, but could only be feared.
"I'm with the Complex," she said.
Jupiter stayed like that for a time longer. "I knew it. See? I told you." He 
slowly drew back the gun, a glimmer of triumph filling his eyes.
"Sure. You told me," said Shai. "Old, stupid me."
Jupiter's gaze suddenly darted quickly, nervously. "Where'd the helicopter go?" 
he said.
"Gone, man," said Shai, shaking his head. "Wasn't for us. Army's bringing more 
guys is what. Then they're going to rush the place, and they're not going to 
care about some little circus girl getting filled with holes."
"Shut up." The command was low and fierce, and then repeated with clear, careful 
articulation. "Shut the hell up," and Jupiter was pointing the gun at Shai.
The two men glowered at each other, and Luta looked fearfully at Jupiter. "Put 
it down, Jupiter," she said.
"No."
"Put it down or I'll make it stop working."
He looked at her, impressed. "You'd do that?"
"Yes, to protect Shai." There was surprising strength in her voice, as if the 
pressure had galvanized her. Backed against the wall, she had come to realize 
that there was nothing more for her to lose. "To protect all of us. I'mI'm 
scared, Jupiter. I still am. But I'm even more scared for you than I am for 
myself. I don't want you to be hurt, or for you to hurt Shai. So, yes, I would 
short-circuit your gun."
He actually looked hurt. It was the first time that Dakota had seen any real 
emotion play across his face. He had kept himself wrapped so tightly, but the 
cracks were there. They had always been there. They were just harder to see.
"I thought you loved me," and there was betrayal in his voice.
"I do," she said softly. "But I'll stop you if I have to."
He regarded her for a time longer. "You know I think you would."
And he shot her.
Dakota jumped and shrieked as Luta pitched back. She slammed her head against 
the wall of the cabin and slumped down, leaving a trail of blood marking her 
slide like a ghoulish road map. Mars barked furiously at the sudden noise, 
confused and upset.
Jupiter's mask of impassiveness had been replaced. He glanced back at Shai, who 
made no move, no sound. "Anything to say?" Jupiter asked him.
Shai shrugged. "Never liked her anyway."
Dakota looked at him, appalled. Did he mean it? Did he say it just to 
accommodate what was clearly a crazy man in the cabin with them? She couldn't 
tell. His face was unreadable.
Jupiter raised his voice, shouting as loudly as he could, so that his voice 
would carry. "That could have been your agent," he called. "She might be dead 
right now! You'd better bring that helicopter back again!"
Dakota started to move toward Luta and Jupiter said sharply, "You'd better stay 
where you are."
She looked back at him, fixed him with a stare that sparked with all the fury, 
all the anger and tired rage that she had left in her. Once she had been 
concerned about being shot. Once, in what seemed ages ago. Now she was cold and 
tired and hungry. Her hair hung in limp, lifeless strands. Every muscle ached, 
every bone creaked, and she simply didn't care anymore.
"If you're going to pull the trigger," she said in a hoarse whisper, "pull it 
and be damned. Otherwise shut the fuck up."
She went to Luta and braced herself, waiting for the smack of a bullet between 
her shoulder blades. But none was forthcoming. She checked the woman over, found 
profuse bleeding from her shoulder and her face dead white. She was clearly 
going into shock. Dakota tore off a piece of her shirt and tried to stanch the 
bleeding as best she could, and desperately tried to remember what you do for 
something like this. Elevate the head or the feet, one or the other. She wasn't 
sure which. But from the way the girl was bleeding, it wasn't going to matter 
pretty soon.
"Bring us the helicopter," Jupiter shouted again, "or she dies!"
And then a voice called out, strong and loud, and there were reactions of 
astonishment from everyone within the cabin.
"I have some unfinished business with one of your men," the voice called, "and 
if he's not a coward he'll come out here and finish it!"
23
JO's VOICE CRACKLED over Winkowski's comm unit. He grabbed at it with relief as 
she said, "Pigeon Six, you there?"
"Right here, Panther Six," he sighed. He was a nervous wreck, his concentration 
shot from having to monitor hour after hour the lack of movement outside the 
cabin. "Where are you?"
"Right behind you," came the reply.
He turned slowly and saw Jo's face smiling lopsidedly behind him. "Nice to know 
you're on top of things, Pigeon Six."
He sagged. "Boy, am I glad to see you." Then his eyes narrowed. "Who's that?"
"Oh, him," and she inclined her head toward Chuck, who had appeared from the 
undergrowth next to her. "That there is Chuck. He's a new recruit."
"Hi there," and he extended a hand, and then yanked it back in alarm, bringing 
his gun up in the same motion. "What the hell!"
"Oh, that's Rommel," she added dryly. Next to Chuck, Rommel had appeared, teeth 
bared. He was still not especially pleased by the proximity of soldiers, and 
least of all their weapons.
At that moment her comm unit crackled to life. She and Winkowski looked at each 
other in surprise and she plucked it off her belt. "Panther Six here."
A brusque male voice said, "Panther One-one here."
Major Sutphin. "Well, it's about goddamn time!" she said in exasperation. "Where 
the hell have you been?!"
"Panther Six, I can't say I appreciate your tone."
She was about to tell him where he could shove his appreciation, but she glanced 
at Winkowski crouched next to her, hanging on her every word. "Sorry, sir," she 
said, trying her best to sound contrite. "It's been a difficult night." (Good 
God, had it all been in one night?)
"Understood," was the terse reply. "We are approaching via helicarrier."
"May I respectfully ask the major," she said, "where you've been all this time?"
"Inspecting the damage at Internet Propulsion and combing the surrounding area."
"But I dispatched three men to Internet! They should have told you that we had 
the Extremists pinned down!"
"Yes, well unfortunately, your men were shot."
Jo's jaw dropped and she and Winkowski exchanged incredulous looks. "Shot?"
"That's affirmative."
"By who?"
"The guard at the factory. He mistook them for intruders and shot them as they 
forced their way though the front gate. One is dead, the other two are in a 
coma."
Jo looked at Winkowski, and then at Chuck. Chuck, sensing her eyes on him, said, 
as if by way of explanation, "The guard was confused when I saw him."
"You saw him. Before he shot my men."
"That's right."
"And you didn't kill him."
"There seemed little reason to at the time," he said dryly.
Suddenly a helicopter hurtled toward them, and as it did so the major's voice 
crackled over the comm unit, "Give us your position, Panther Six."
"You'll be directly over our position on my mark now!" said Jo as the chopper 
flew directly overhead. Then she added, "You saw the cabin?"
"That's affirmative. That where the Extremists are holed up?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. We'll be there with reinforcements momentarily. Hold on. Panther 
One-one out."
The comm unit clicked off, and that's when they heard the gunshot.
"Oh, my God," whispered Chuck, "Dakota"
He started to stand up and Jo yanked him down roughly. "What're you, nuts?" she 
snapped. "Don't present a target like that. Don't give them any hint as to your 
location. That's why I had Winkowski maintaining radio silence, so his yap 
wouldn't give his position away. Although if I'd known my three men were shot 
before they could pass information along" And she shook her head. 
"Twenty-twenty hindsight."
Then they heard a voice, the angry voice shouting, "That could have been your 
agent! She might be dead right now! You'd better bring that helicopter back 
again!"
"That's one of the men from the factory, all right," said Chuck confidently. 
"I'd know that voice anywhere."
"We have to stall them until the reinforcements show up," said Winkowski. "Their 
deadline was oh-nine-hundred hours. We have time yet."
"That was not the voice of a man who's got all his soldiers in a row," said Jo. 
"He's cracking. I can hear it. And when he goes off, his gun will go off. We've 
got to do something to keep him occupied."
"I'll do it," said Chuck.
She looked at him incredulously, as did Winkowski. "You've gotta be shitting 
me," she told him.
"That's army talk, right?"
"Those creeps are responsible for at least a dozen deaths," Jo said. "I'm not 
going to put another one into their laps."
"Neither am I," Chuck told her. "Especially when that other woman is a woman 
who's a friend of mine. Now I'm doing this. I'm expendable. Besides I owe 
them."
"You owe them?" Her tone was dangerous.
"One of them, at any rate. He could've killed me. He didn't. He's entitled to 
another shot at me, the way he wants it. I always pay my debts."
"Even if you pay with your life."
He nodded slowly. "Even if."
Chuck stepped away from her and moved into the brush, Rommel following. Jo made 
no move to stop him, and Winkowski said in surprise, "You're just letting him 
go?"
"I think I have to," she said.
Chuck made his way through the brush, Rommel at his side. He kept one hand 
resting lightly on Rommel's back as the dog guided him toward the cabin. "You're 
going to be my eyes, Rommel."
I was getting that impression.
"This is going to be very important. I'm counting on you, because that guy can 
kill me, even hand-to-hand. I'm certain of it."
That would make life fairly dull, if you weren't around.
He almost laughed at that. "I'd miss you, too."
I didn't say I'd miss you. I could use a little boredom.
He went a few feet farther and then stopped. "There's an open space in front of 
us, isn't there?"
Yes.
"Describe it to me."
What do you want to know?
"Whatever's important."
Okay. There's no food there.
Chuck sighed. "Is there anything that's an obstruction on it?"
No, it's fairly flat.
"Where's the cabin?"
Over on the other side of the clearing.
"How far?"
What?
"How far? How many yards or meters?"
I give up. How many?
Chuck realized he had a problem. "Okay, look if you had a whole bunch of dogs 
your size lying end to end, from here to there, how many dogs would it take to 
reach the cabin?"
There was a dead silence.
What in hell are you talking about?
"Dumb dog."
Get neutered.
Chuck sighed, more deeply this time. All right then, the hard way. He cupped his 
hands to his mouth and shouted, "I have some unfinished business with one of 
your men, and if he's not a coward he'll come out here and finish it!"
24
DAKOTA STILL COULDN'T believe it. Chuck! Alive! She wanted to call him, to shout 
out that she was okay, that everything was going to be okay.
Jupiter and Shai stared at each other. "Did my ears deceive me," said Jupiter 
slowly, "or did I just hear the voice of a dead man call out to me?"
"I guess I missed," said Shai.
"I wanted him dead."
"You'll get him dead. But my way."
He rose and headed for the door. From behind him Jupiter said, disbelief in his 
tone, "Where do you think you're going?"
"To meet him."
"Never."
He turned very slowly, very dangerously, like lightning capable of leaping from 
the bottle at any second. "You going to stop me, Jupe? We been together a long 
time. You going to try to stop me?"
"They'll blow your head off the moment you step out the door."
"No. He's like me. We're going to do this, and everybody who needs to know, 
knows it."
He started for the door and suddenly Jupiter shouted loud enough to be heard 
outside, "You expect me to send one of my people out?" Shai stopped and turned, 
puzzled, and Jupiter continued, "If you're who I think you are you step out 
first. Of course we have guns, too. We might just decide to shoot you."
There was a dead silence. Jupiter smiled in the dimness and said, "See?"
But Shai was peering through a small hole in the door, and now he looked around. 
"He's coming out into the open."
"Shoot him. This time do it right."
Slowly Shai shook his head. "Got to be this way. And sad part is, you'd never 
understand why." And with that he walked out of the cabin.
Winkowski saw him emerge and brought his gun up, ready to shoot. "Give the word, 
Sergeant," he said hoarsely.
She watched as a tall, muscled black man walked away from the cabin in slow, 
measured steps. Walking in the other direction was Chuck, arms loose and 
relaxed, the dog at his side
"Son of a bitch," she whispered.
"What?" said Winkowski, his gaze riveted on the black man. Then he followed 
where she was looking and he saw it, too.
Chuck was wearing a blindfold.
The black man had stopped, and he was looking surprised as well. "What's this 
for?" he asked.
"Wouldn't want to make it too easy for me," said Chuck calmly.
"I'm not fighting you like that."
"You afraid?"
"It's not honorable."
"You are afraid. Afraid that I'll beat you, even like this," said Chuck.
"You can't possibly."
"If I do, you let the girl go."
"You won't beat me that way," said the black man with finality.
"In that case," said Chuck, "you have nothing to lose."
The black man was silent for a moment. "All right," he said.
Rommel seemed to drift away slightly as Chuck fell into a natural defensive 
pose. The black man struck a stance as well, standing in a t-form like a fencer, 
his weight balanced on his back leg.
"Let me plug that bastard," said Winkowski tersely.
"Hold off," she said.
At that moment her comm unit squawked. She picked it up and said, "Panther Six 
here."
"Panther One-one," came the brisk voice. "There's been a change of plan. Word 
from high command is to bomb the Extremists and have done with it."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"Bombing begins in five minutes. We will be using high-localizers and limited 
impact, but I would nevertheless suggest you leave the area."
"You can't! There's hostages"
"Too bad."
"An agent with the Complex."
"I don't care if the Chief of Staff is in there," said Sutphin, "our policy for 
terrorists is no deals, no negotiation. Extermination. Squash them. S.O.P. You 
know that. Five minutes. Panther One-one out."
She stared at the comm unit a moment longer. "Winkowski," she said quietly, 
"evacuate."
"But, Sergeant"
"Now," she said sharply and, seeing the impact it had on him, added a bit more 
softly, "move your ass, Winkowski. I'll see you in a bit."
Biting back a reply, he moved away from her, vanishing into the woods. And she 
added under her breath, "Or maybe you'll see me in bits."
25
"YOUR DOG GOING to jump in for you if things get tough?" said Shai, not moving 
from his position.
"He's giving me hints," Chuck replied.
"Oh. Right," said Shai.
He's still moving, Rommel said. There's nothing in between the two of you. You 
can move to your left or right andlook out, here he comes.
Chuck had been alerted. He'd heard the scuffling of feet, sensed the sudden 
shift in the air.
Shai came in quickly. Chuck listened to every movement, tried to feel the 
direction, listened to Rommel's coaching, and his arm lashed out to block. But 
Shai suddenly spun and came in with a reverse snap kick that landed hard and 
fierce in Chuck's stomach. Chuck went down to one knee, gasping.
He kicked you in the stomach, Rommel told him helpfully.
"Thanks," gasped out Chuck.
Shai was back in position, fists clenched, shaking his head. "This is 
pointless," he said.
"You're afraid," said Chuck, staggering to his feet.
Thin-lipped, Shai came in fast again.
He's going to piss on you, Rommel said.
It took a split second for Chuck to mentally translate that to mean that Shai 
was about to launch a side snap kick, because to Rommel, that's what it would 
look like. He heard the scuffle of the foot on dirt, sensed the sudden shift, 
and pivoted, just feeling the leg whistle by. He grabbed it, carrying the weight 
through, and momentarily immobilized Shai. Chuck twisted, his leg lashing out, 
and he knocked Shai completely off his feet, slamming him face first into the 
dirt.
Shai shook loose from the grip and rolled away, getting to his feet more 
cautiously this time.
Nice job, said Rommel.
"Thanks again," said Chuck.
At that moment he heard a fierce barking and realized that it wasn't Rommel.
The Dobie, the one called Mars, had sensed Rommel's nearness and leaped through 
the window, charging at Rommel. His jaws snapped furiously as he leaped at the 
German shepherd.
"Rommel!" shouted Chuck, horrified. The sounds of the two dogs going at each 
other was a hideous one, snapping and pure savagery and movement-Movement
Shai was moving and Chuck tried to react, but he was distracted and a fierce 
punch slammed into the side of his head. He fell and rolled, trying to put some 
distance between them, and he clambered to his feet. He was disoriented, lost, 
paying attention not to his battle but to the death struggle of Rommel.
Another kick to the side and he went down, clutching. He heard Shai's breathing 
as the big man came after him, heard his feet as he shifted quickly. It had all 
gone wrong, Rommel was supposed to guide him, help him but Rommel was fighting 
to survive, was fighting with his guts and his instinct Movement, where? There
He didn't know what it was he was blocking, but his arm swept up, brushing aside 
the strike of the foot. And now he had the ankle. Ankles could be turned, and 
twisted, and broken.
Tae Kwan Do was what Shai was using. Karate discipline, primarily with legs. 
Aikido could take it. Dammit, it could.
He twisted, feeling the ankle creak under his grip. From the darkness Shai cried 
out, and into the darkness Shai's body fell.
Chuck was on his knees and from the darkness he sensed Shai's lunge. Shai was on 
his knees as well. Suwari-waza, kneeling techniques. Lord knew they were fresh 
on Chuck's mindhe'd just done the shikko across who knew how much forest land.
He caught Shai's hard-edged slash on the edge of his forearm, deflecting the 
strength of the blow and depleting it, and then grabbed Shai's wrist and 
twisted. Shai's entire arm bent backward and Shai slammed to the ground once 
again.
From his twisted position Shai struck back. Even though the movement caused pain 
to rip through his entire shoulder, Shai managed to get his leg between himself 
and Chuck and shove out against Chuck's chest. Chuck's grip wasn't as sure as it 
could have been and he lost it, Shai tearing away from him.
They both got to their feet.
Chuck's heart was beating double time. He slowed it down, reached into himself. 
Heard the beating, heard the pulse of his forehead. He screened out the snarling 
sounds of the dogsit couldn't be part of his world now. He sank down, down into 
the inner calm of his being. And yes, there was his heart, now beating more 
calmly and certainly.
There was the sound of his breathing.
There was the sound of Shai's breathing, as certain as his own. His mind 
focused, bringing himself into tune with Shai. He heard and felt the movement of 
Shai's feet, knew where Shai's arms would be, sensed where the hands would be. 
He knew Shai as he knew himself, and in his mind there was the outline of his 
opponent. As surely as if he were seeing him with his own eyes. Better because 
eyes could be deceived. But the mind's eye knew the moves that Shai would make, 
planned the blocks and knew the counterstrikes.
Jo glanced at her watch. She looked to the skies. Nothing yet. But within 
moments
Shai came in quickly. Chuck backed up slightly, to diffuse the momentum, and 
Shai attacked with a dazzling array of kicks and strikes. He screamed 
repeatedly, his "Ki Ya" filling the air, and Chuck paid them no mind. He was a 
blur, blocking every thrust, turning away every strike, creating a wall of 
muscle and bone that Shai could not penetrate.
Shai slammed forward with a punch and Chuck caught the arm. He twisted at the 
waist, full strength, hard and fast as Shai went past him, and there was a snap 
that was audible throughout the area. Shai went down, screaming, clutching at 
the broken arm, and he staggered to his feet.
Chuck stood there, poised, relaxed, clothes torn and body covered with dirt and 
grime.
"It's over," he said quietly.
Shai paused, gasping. Then slowly he screened out the throbbing pain that was in 
his shattered left arm, and he nodded. "Yes," he said, as much to himself as to 
Chuck, "at long last, it is."
Suddenly Chuck realized the snarling had stopped. "Rommel!" he said urgently. 
Dead silence. "Rommel!" he said again.
From nearby there was a rustling of bushes and then a voice said, Nice of you to 
care.
He knelt down as Rommel came to him, and he ran his fingers across the great 
dog's fur. It was torn and bloodied, and Rommel's breath was coming quickly, 
like a steam engine. "Where's the other dog?"
And from nearby Shai said, "He's dead."
Chuck turned slowly in the direction of the voice. Rommel said in his mind, He's 
right. I had no choice. Him or me.
"I'm sorry," Chuck said softly.
Shai said nothing, which was his habit when he had nothing to say.
Moments later Shai entered the cabin. Jupiter took a step forward as Shai leaned 
against the wall.
"My God," whispered Jupiter.
But Shai wasn't paying attention. Instead he was gesturing to Dakota. "Go," he 
whispered hoarsely. He pointed at Luta, adding, "And take her with you."
Dakota started to get to her feet, pulling the bleeding Luta up, and then she 
saw the gun in Jupiter's hand. "She's not going anywhere," said Jupiter.
"I gave my word," said Shai, and that was when Jupiter saw the gun in Shai's 
hand.
"I didn't give mine."
"I don't care. You shoot them, Jupe, I'll shoot you. You really ready to admit 
you won't get out alive? Really ready to say that to yourself? Are you?"
Jupiter didn't speak. His gun didn't move. He might have been an alabaster 
statue.
"Go," said Shai softly. "Go now."
The women moved, and Jupiter's gun moved with them. It tracked them slowly 
across the room and came to rest on Shai as they went past him. Shai aimed at 
Jupiter, Jupiter at Shai. From Jupiter there projected an aura of desperation 
and from Shai, quiet determination.
Dakota kept moving, limping terribly, pulling Luta along as best she could. And 
Shai and Jupiter did not move, still aiming, a silent struggle of wills being 
fought.
Dakota glanced over her shoulder and then pulled open the door, shouting, "I'm 
coming out! I'm coming out! It's me!"
"No," said Jupiter from behind her. From the sound of his voice it was clear 
that he had completely lost touch with reality. "She's mine. She stays." But 
there wasn't even a sense in it that he thought she was going to, and Dakota 
quickly yanked Luta through the door.
Jo broke from cover, running toward the two women as they half staggered, half 
fell from the cabin. Chuck was moving too, a hand on Rommel's back as they ran 
toward Dakota.
"Chuck!" cried out Dakota, and a few yards from the cabin the two of them 
collapsed.
"We've gotta get away from here, fast," said Jo, running to them.
"Oh, but it's like home," Dakota said sarcastically.
"I mean it, you" And Jo suddenly looked up, her ears already telling her what 
her eyes were confirming. "Let's go!" she shouted. "Let's go, let's go, let's 
go!"
And she pushed and yanked and shoved, and the four of them ran and staggered 
from the cabin as the choppers dove down toward the hideout of the Extremists.
Inside, Shai and Jupiter still held their guns on each other.
"We fought well," said Shai softly. "And now we'll die well. And I'll be with my 
family."
"You don't understand," said Jupiter. "We're going to get away."
"Are we?" asked Shai. A touch of amusement reached his eyes.
"Oh, yes," said Jupiter, his eyes glazing. "You see I've got a plan." And he 
proceeded to explain it.
Shai had trouble hearing the details because of the sharp whistling sound from 
overhead. Jupiter was oblivious to it, of course, and he was still outlining the 
details of his plan when the bomb hit.
26
"HE'S A PSIONIC, all right," Major Sutphin told her. "But he doesn't work for 
the Complex. He's on the run from the Complex."
Jo stood opposite Sutphin across his desk, and she was not entirely able to hide 
the astonishment she felt. When she, along with the survivors of their nice 
routine overnight, had arrived back at Fort Morris, she had thought her troubles 
over. Now they were just beginning.
Sutphin tapped the computer screen on his desk. There was a CONFIDENTIAL flasher 
on the upper right, and on the upper left was Chuck's name.
"He's extremely dangerous," said Sutphin. "A rogue assassin. We are to keep him 
heavily sedated until they can send people here to apprehend him. Some guy named 
Beutel is assigned to the case."
"Beutel." She rolled the name over in her mind. Tell Butte Beutel. "Yeah. 
Okay."
"Yeah okay?" said Sutphin. "Sergeant, head over to the base hospital 
immediately. That is where they're being kept? He and the woman, plus that other 
Extremist we captured?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Move your keister." He was picking up the phone. "I'm going to warn them 
he's to be kept sedated. You get and then start pumping the over there and 
supervise it woman for information."
She saluted stiffly, and then said, "Sir, with all due respect, he doesn't seem 
like the type who would be"
"I don't recall asking your opinion, Sergeant," he said, his moustache 
bristling.
"No, sir. Thank you, sir." She turned on her heel and left.
Dakota looked up from her hospital bed to see Chuck looking in at her. Her eyes 
widened in surprise primarily because she was looking into his.
"You're okay!" she gasped. It had been barely hours since they had been brought 
there, and during that time she had agonized over how (she was certain) Chuck's 
life was going to be living hell, going through it in darkness.
He walked forward and embraced her. "Still a little light sensitive," he 
admitted, "but I've got most of it back. My power helps me to heal somehow."
"Power of positive thinking, probably."
"Maybe," he said. "I don't know. We'll have a chance to discuss it later. Come 
on"
"No."
The answer surprised him. "What?"
She smiled and took his chin in her hands. "First, with all my injuries, I'd 
only slow you down. I don't have the power you do. Second I think I've had it 
with running around. Maybe I'll go back to the circus. Or maybe I'll go back and 
mend some old family fences, which is just like tightrope walking, only more 
dangerous. No matter what, I think you've kind of worn me out, Chuck."
"I'mI'm sorry"
"Don't be. It was a trip. C'mon first you tried to talk me out of coming with 
you, and now you don't want me to leave. Men. So fickle." She drew her face to 
him and kissed him once on either cheek, and then for a long, lingering moment 
on the lips. She let him go and smiled. "I love you, Chuck. Don't be a stranger 
wherever I am. Okay?"
"Okay."
He moved away from her and into the hallway. Rommel was waiting there next to 
the two guards Chuck had already rendered unconscious. She's not coming?
"No."
Bitches. What did you expect?
"I expected exactly what she said. Come on."
They moved down the hallway and as they passed a room, a female voice said, 
"Hey you"
Chuck turned and saw Luta lying there, haggard, drawn and pale, hooked up to 
tubes and monitors.
"You're a psi, aren't you," she said. It was not a question. He nodded.
"There's more of us," she said, very softly, very hoarsely. "More than you would 
think. More going there, every day. When there's enough there's going to be a 
revolution they could use you"
"Where?" said Chuck urgently. "Go where?"
"I don't know. Heard about it rumors talk"
"What did you hear?"
And she whispered one word before her strength left her and she slipped back 
into a deep sleep. And the word was "Haven."
Jo sped in a Jeep toward the base hospital, her mind racing. She thought over 
everything that had happened, tried to reconcile what she had seen with what she 
had been told.
She loved the army, embraced the army. She loved the rules, the order, and the 
regulation.
Assassin. The ugly word rolled across her mind.
And then she spotted him, moving across the base, sticking to the shadows of a 
storage building. Him and his dog, an unmistakable pair.
She turned the wheel sharply and barreled toward them, pulling her gun from her 
holster.
Chuck looked up and saw her. His arms rested at his sides and he made no move. 
Rommel growled warningly and Chuck muttered a word to Rommel to get him to stay.
The Jeep screeched up to them and slammed to a halt. Jo Sanderson sat up on the 
top of her seat, her gun aimed at him.
They said nothing for a long moment. She stepped out of the jeep, keeping the 
gun leveled on him.
"I saved your life," he said quietly.
"I saved yours," she replied.
He stared at her for a long moment. "You're one of us," he said.
She looked at him oddly. "What?"
"Like us. Like me. When one of us is around the other, we justjust know. I 
know. You're like me. You must know it by now."
She rememberedremembered hearing the scream of agony when the factory went up 
the scream that no one could hear
"No, I'm not," she said firmly.
They said nothing.
"I won't do anything against you," said Chuck. "Arrest me. Do what you have to."
What're you, nuts?
"Shut up, Rommel."
She looked from one to the other. "You talk to the dog."
"Of course."
"Of course." She shrugged.
She held out her gun and reversed it, proffering the butt end to him. "Take it."
"What?"
"And the Jeep. Get the hell out of here. There's guards at the front gate, but 
that shouldn't slow you and Rin-Tin-Tin down. You heard me. Get out. Oh but hit 
me first." She turned, presenting the back of her skull. "I have an image to 
protect."
"I can't hit you."
"Then my ass is grass for letting you walk out. Hit me."
She braced herself and the impact came, sending her to the ground.
She lay there, hugging the pavement, and listened as the Jeep started up and 
roared off. Then she raised her head and watched him go, the large dog hunkering 
down in the back.
Jo reached around and touched the back of her head gently. Not even enough for a 
lump. He hadn't even been fierce enough to give her a goddamn lump.
Shaking her head, she stood, placed her back against the brick wall of the small 
building, then brought her head forward and then back as hard as she could, 
slamming it into the wall. Stars exploded behind her eyes as she sank to the 
ground.
Some assassin, she thought, and passed out.