FLIGHTSUIT

By

Tom Deaderick

1

A family lived here once, long ago.  The metal skeleton of a tricycle, overgrown by weeds and nearly hidden, rusted in the sunlight.  Like the other houses on Iron Mountain, the house had been abandoned fifty years ago.

Now, the buildings were falling down and forgotten, but once children played here.  Small tin and rough metal toys with lingering faint traces of long-faded paint were scattered around wooden frames.  Once filled with sand or flowers, the frames were now boxes around grass and weeds.  Leo looked for patches of thicker weeds that sometimes marked objects.  There wasn't anything in particular that he looked for.  It was a preoccupation, something to do.  Wandering the deserted mining village both piqued and temporarily satisfied his curiosity.

He'd learned to watch for certain colors that were out of place in the green-saturated forest that first crept into and now overgrew the deserted wood-frame houses.  Dark orange-brown usually indicated something metallic.  There were many old bikes and tricycle frames, the village was once filled with children riding all over dirt roads that connected the houses and the storage buildings for the iron mines.

White or faded gray was usually an old board or some kind of handmade furniture, like a chair.  The bright reds, blues and yellows of plastic furniture and toys that littered the houses along the river were absent here.  Everything was from a matching palette.  Even the rusted orange pieces of metal seemed to belong with the trees and vines now, as if they'd been leeched of human craft and were slowly being pulled back by nature.

Sometimes the houses were gone entirely, leaving only smooth brown river stones stacked to form a house's crude foundations.  Each spring daffodils bloomed.  They marked boundaries of porch and path between the little houses where mothers and daughters planted them.  They'd not realized all their hands went to would be left behind and forgotten.  The wood and stones that had sheltered them from freezing cold winters and the deluge downpours of Tennessee summer rains crumbled without human attention, but the most fragile efforts they'd laid their hands to, the flowers, outlasted all.  The flowers bloomed every year, with none to admire them.

The houses had been home to families of the men who mined the mountains of Bumpas Cove as far back as 1896.  Originally named "Bumpass Cove" referring to steep hillsides which caused travelers to bump heels to backsides on steep descents, the embarrassing name was officially changed to "Bumpas Cove" in 1949.

Bumpas Cove is surrounded by the Nolichucky River and the high, forested Appalachian Mountains.  The mountains pile so closely together that flat ground is rare in Eastern Tennessee.  Bumpas Cove is, in common terms a "wide place in the road" assuming that "wide" could, in any way be used to describe a cramped and narrow two-lane road with mountain on one side and the river's edge on the other.  The mountains grudgingly give way, with steep gray-green sandstone walls rising up within feet of the road in several places.  The river yields no more space on its side of the road.  Frequent heavy summer rains bring the river higher and occasionally make the road impassible.

Small, frame houses climb the hillsides in the cove with lot gardens occupying any flat ground.

Around twenty families live in the small houses within Bumpas Cove.   Leo had lived in one of them for all of his fourteen years.  His father left as a soldier and never came back.  Not killed, or even hurt – just moved on.  Leo knew from overheard conversations there was another family somewhere else.  It made his mother angry.  Leo didn't really miss him.  He missed the idea, the concept, of a father that he pieced together from characteristics of his friend's dads, but didn't miss his actual father at all anymore.

He connected only superficially with classmates and no better with the few from outside his school that he met in Sunday school.  Their interests were outside his experiences.  They talked excitedly about new gaming systems, and the latest first-person shooters.

He lived in a generation that increasingly meshed virtual and real environments.  Almost everything was flexible in the virtual environment.  People wanted to feel the pleasure of flight and the virtual environment's gravity rules could be easily changed.  Encounter too great a challenge and a character could simply "respawn" and try again.  In the virtual environment, Leo and the other children grew into, everything was flexible except access.  Money granted access.  Each dawn in the virtual world saw the privileged leaving the sons of misfortune like Leo further behind.  It was a desperate feeling to watch everyone else move forward.

When a small knot of boys gathered to tout their adventures and discoveries in simulated environments, Leo attentively listened.  He stored away details that he could later relate to a different group as his own experience.  All he knew about the games were the stories and ads he'd seen on TV.  He had an old game system that his mother bought at a yard sale.  It worked for a couple months.  No one talked about the two games that he had for it, so he didn't mention it to anyone.

They didn't reject him in obvious ways, no one ever realized he didn't even have the games they were talking about – they just didn't care what Leo said, what he thought or if he was there or not.  If asked, they'd say Leo was an "ok" guy, but no one had ever invited him over and certainly Leo had never considered inviting them to the small house he shared with his mother.

If Leo had been born twenty or thirty years earlier he wouldn't have been so isolated.  Then, boys were outside, playing in woods, wading streams, riding bikes and exploring.  Now all activity centered on devices, gadgets and high-speed internet, all too expensive for his family's means.  They had food, they had simple and small gifts at Christmas, but no extras.  None of his classmate's "essential" entertainments.

Leo's exploration of the old mining village began part out of boredom and part from an amorphous hope that he might find something valuable left behind.

Getting to the mining village was a challenge.  A chain that hung between two steel posts blocked the mine road and the county no longer maintained past that point.  Beyond the chain, the old asphalt was cracked and shot through with weeds and even trees in places.

Stepping past the chain onto the old, long abandoned asphalt was Leo's favorite adventure.  The isolated woods and hills were his green kingdom.  The isolation he felt when surrounded by classmates dissipated when he walked into actual physical isolation.  There was no one here, but this place made him feel like he was supposed to be alone with it.

The wasted road seemed out of place in the narrow valley, as if transported into a place it didn't belong.  The trees and briars slowly strangled it to reclaim the open valley sunlight that was only available in morning or evening on the hillsides.  A small stream ran alongside the road, sometimes coming close and sometimes hidden by bushes and trees, always hemmed in by the mountains.  Traveling through the valley Leo felt exposed, knowing he could be seen clearly by animals on the mountains while they remained concealed.  Tall grasses on all sides could also hide anything.  Even after hundreds of trips to the village, Leo always suspected something was just waiting in the overgrown, eye-level weeds to spring out at him.  Surrounded by mountains all his life, he felt uneasy seeing so much open sky.  He wasted no time in the valley.

After a half mile the road deteriorated into a path.  The path was kept worn by occasional hikers, teenagers looking for a place to drink and by animals, mostly deer.

The worn path through high grass wound close to one of the surrounding hills to become a forest trail.  There was no sign of the original road into the village, the animals and hikers preferred a more direct route than the villager's road and an expanse of briars blocked the valley floor.

What arose from boredom became something Leo eagerly anticipated.  He'd head out several times a week if the weather permitted.  Mrs. Reese, the librarian, introduced Leo to the Tarzan books of Edgar Rice Burroughs after she'd asked what kinds of things he liked to do on the weekends.  She was concerned with Leo's isolation.  Leo read all the school library's Tarzan books.  He found an old knife in a drawer in the basement that had a belt-strap sheath and he took it with him on his excursions.

It felt much better to have the knife.  He'd once seen a black bear leaving the grassy valley path that he normally traveled.  He'd been shocked to stillness.  He stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed as he waited for the bear to shuffle off.  After a few minutes, he could no longer hear the bear's footsteps.  He turned and made his way back home.  He hadn't gone back out for a couple days after seeing the bear.  He often thought he heard it afterward but it usually turned out to be squirrels and birds.  They surprisingly made more noise in the leaves than the larger bear.

2

There were once twenty houses along the hillsides, hilltops and valleys surrounding the mining community of Iron Mountain.  The mining company built and leased them to workers and managers.  Most of the workers lived in the surrounding communities of Embreeville, Lamar and the town of Erwin.

The mines were opened in 1912.  Through the years, over 30 deposits on Iron Mountain and the surrounding hills and valleys were discovered.  The iron, lead and zinc mined from the valley slowed after the Second World War and the families moved from the small homes one by one from 1948 to 1960.

In 1972, a Pennsylvania company acquired the land and began using the mines as dumps. Drum and liquid containers were hauled to the mines, past dozens of homes along the narrow river road where children played and small gardens grew.

State officials inspecting the dumping operations assured residents that toxic materials were not being dumped in the 1,200 acre site, but were forced to backtrack when hundreds of 55 gallon drums of toxic materials were discovered.  The landfill supervisor was a former state employee.

After the toxic materials were revealed, a representative of the state's health department Division of Solid Waste Management admitted to a reporter, "These people don't trust the state, they don't trust the EPA, and they don't trust the company.  And to be quite frank, I don't really blame them.  We have a real credibility problem here.  We made a mistake and now we are paying for it."

Trucks rolled on however until eight-month-old Dana Love Townsend died in her crib with skin ulcers on August 22, 1980.  Both baby and her 19 year-old pregnant mother drank from a contaminated well.  Members of the community took turns standing in the road to block waste trucks until the company finally abandoned operations.

By 1980, the site was listed as one of the EPA's "100 Most Dangerous Landfills".

A landfill employee said that he rarely knew what he was hauling in the liquid tanker trucks.  He just opened the valves and released the chemicals onto the ground.

3

Leo waded the stream that ran alongside the old deserted road watching for crawdads.  He caught and sold them to the fishermen who came down the river road to fish in the Nolichucky.

The river was a local favorite for trout fishing with distinctive water-smoothed brown rocks and clear water – provided it didn't rain.  Rainstorms turned the water rust-brown, like chocolate.  Northeast Tennessee had plenty of rain during hot summer days, giving rise to the name "The Muddy Nolichucky".

As Leo approached the paved remnants where he normally switched over to the path, he stopped.  Maybe, he thought, looking at the way the long sloping briar branches left an opening over the stream, almost a tunnel.  If I walk through the stream and don't try to keep my feet dry, I could duck underneath and go that way.  He hadn't explored this part of the briar-covered valley before.  He liked the way the briars draped together like a tunnel entrance.  It reminded him of Tarzan's winding tunnels down to Pellucidar.  He touched his knife hilt to make sure it was ready.  The tunnel tightened quickly and required him to crab forward on all fours.  I'll be pretty much soaked after this, not just my shoes, but it's ok.  The sun was hot and would dry him before he made it home.  At least it would once he came out of the briar tunnel.  Inside, it was cool and wet, with only scratches of sunlight reaching the stream.

Leo estimated he'd traveled about halfway through the briar patch when he noticed the corner of a shining pipe sticking out of the muddy stream bank. Under the scattered shadows of the briars, it shown like white glass.

Leo expected a sharp glass edge, but it was smooth.  He pulled to see if it would come free of the mud and was surprised when it slid too-easily free.  He fell backward in the stream.  Instinctively, he jumped back up to avoid getting soaked through only to catch his head on the overhanging briars. Pinching the briar stalk between two fingers and gingerly pulling the thorns off his scalp, he looked down at the pipe.

The stream's flow washed it almost perfectly clear of mud.  It glistened smooth and shining.  It was over three feet long, with two tubes connected by a metallic banded section.  Leo pulled the tubes up to look at them.   As the other end came out of the stream, he saw that it wasn't a pipe.

At the other end there was a glove.  It had long fingers, two inches longer than Leo's.  The fingers were wide.  Leo held his own fingers alongside the glove for comparison.  Much longer than his own and three times as wide.  He could probably get two or three of his fingers into the glove.  They were about the same thickness as his own fingers, making the glove look like a giant hammer had flattened it.  The thumb wasn't in the right place.  He could probably wear it but it wouldn't be too comfortable with the glove's thumb in the center of the palm.

He flipped it over to look at the arm end, surprised by how light the sleeve was.  He looked into the sleeve's opening to make sure there wasn't anything nasty down there, but the briar's laced shadows made it too dark.  He turned it upside down and shook.  On the second shake, mud and muck flopped in a pile onto the smooth stones of the stream.

Leo lowered the sleeve into the stream, directing water to wash the inside out.  He upended it several times until the water coming out was clear.

He couldn't stand up straight without getting more briars in his head, so he found a mossy smooth rock on the bank where he could give the sleeve a closer inspection.  Once seated, he looked more closely at it.  Empty of muck and water, it was amazingly light.  Tapping it with his fingernail, Leo decided that it wasn't glass after all, it had more of a metallic ring.  Never seen anything made of metal that was as light as plastic.  He looked around him and found a rock and scratched it against the sleeve.  No mark at all.  Now that's cool.

It was so smooth it resembled polished glass more than metal.  It had depth like a heavy-lacquered floor.  The surface under the clear shine was pearlescent white with shiny, reflecting flecks.  As he looked at the upper part of the sleeve, he noticed very faint surface marks.  Running his finger along them, they weren't indented – they were below the glassy surface with a visual depth that gave an impression of engraved rather than painted lines.

The marks made curls and shapes in the surface.  Leo thought they looked a little like Chinese writing, not random but also not recognizable as any meaningful shapes.  He traced a line with his finger.

He put his hand around the glove's fingers and they flexed freely.  He was used to finding things that were rusty and immovable.  The sleeve seemed almost new.  For some reason, this made him want to look around, to make sure there wasn't someone watching him.  Someone that might be looking for this.  Someone that might want it back.

Leo looked into the open sleeve again but still couldn't see down into it.  He reached in, feeling carefully with his fingers for any obstruction or anything disgusting.  Sliding his fingertips along the inside, he reached further in.  It felt smooth.  He stretched his fingers, meaning to reach into the glove, but the sleeve was too long.  It felt like his fingers reached only to the wrist.  He couldn't feel the curve of the palm with his fingertips, so he was short of that.  His elbow aligned with the sleeve's bend though.  He flexed his arm back and forth.

Leo raised the sleeve on his arm into the sunlight splintering through briar branches.  Water dripped from the inside down his arm, but he barely noticed.  The shiny flecks shone in the sunlight.  Leo was amazed.  He considered what he might do with the sleeve.  It's got to be worth something, he thought.  There might be another sleeve around here.  If there is, I could carry two of them, they're not heavy at all.  I should find as many pieces myself as I can.  When I show it to other people, they'll all come out here and find the rest.  Maybe I should hide it while I look around for more pieces.

He heard a sharp "click!"

He looked around for the noise just as he felt a sting under his upper arm.  He thought a bee had stung him and reached up quickly to pull the sleeve off.  As he touched the upper sleeve he felt the sting again and tucked his chin to look at his bare shirt-sleeved arm inside the sleeve.

A spike of some kind extended near the sleeve's rim and it was sticking into his arm.  It felt as if it was actually scraping the bone of his arm.  It was deeply embedded, Leo saw with queasy horror.  He tugged cautiously at the sleeve but when he did the pain was intense.  He jerked his hand away, staring at the spike.  The sliced sunlight coming into the briar tunnel instantly drew back and darkness filled in.  Leo's limp body rolled over on the stream bank.

The stream washed over his shoes.  It flowed over the brown stones, drawing every small particle around the stones away.  The pile of muck poured from the sleeve was carried away in the gentle, insistent current.  As water washed away the mire, sunlight shone on grey bones of an arm, with a long thumb and two long flat fingers.

4

Five hundred miles away and three years earlier Hack Samuels set events in motion that would later bring Leo and himself atop a high mountain cliff with a dead man below.

There are easier things to do, Hack decided, thinking to himself, than casually creeping closer to a bomb.  It's the casual part that's the problem.  Hard to be sure what emotions should be on the face of someone so enthralled that they forget a truckload of explosive fertilizer is ten feet away.

It's always easier when there are others around.  Hack glanced around the campfire into the faces of Rudolfo's terrorist cell and mirrored their emotions onto his face.  When it's just one-on-one talking to Rudolfo, it’s a lot harder to decide how one of his true-believers would respond to his logical way of presenting something that's totally nuts.

That's what makes him so dangerous.  He's smart and thinks logically, but underneath there's nothing but himself.  Everyone else is collateral damage as long as they enable him to achieve his goals.

The eleven men and two women standing as closely as the heat of the fire in the center allowed were a mixture of emotions.  Hack knew they were all at the end of very long ropes.  The weeks hiding in the woods sapped them.  They were excited about tomorrow, but so tired and hungry that they really just wanted to crawl into their sleeping bags.  They firmly believed tomorrow would be better.

Eduardo Rudolfo kept talking.

Hack shuffled from one foot to another as if trying to get more comfortable as he stood around the fire.  He twisted his back pretending to stretch out a kink and moved an inch closer to Rudolfo.

The guy's good.  He knows what they need to hear so well.  They need to feel there's no other choice, like they've tried every other way to accomplish their goals and they just have no choice.  They're somehow unable to grasp that the people who have more work harder to get it.  They aren't deep thinkers anyway, but I'll never understand how they can't see that the people they hate work for what they have.  They just keep making demands that people give up what they've earned, and they're willing to kill anyone that doesn't.

Eduardo Rudolfo was able to connect with them by pulling together their piecemeal ideas and beliefs into something that came close to logic.  Close enough.

"Everything else has been tried before," Rudolfo said.  He paused, taking time to look into the eyes around the fire.  Hack nodded slightly in acknowledgement and Rudolfo continued.

"We've worked our whole lives alongside them.  They come home to their families at night while we keep working.  At the end of our day, we come home exhausted with barely enough money to feed our family for one day.  They waste and throw away more than we have.  Who gave them this right?  Who decided they should have everything and your children would have nothing?"

Rudolfo looked to his left, "Did you decide, Daniel?"

"No."

"Rachel did you decide that your boys would be hungry out here in the woods while the rich people's children stuff food you can't afford into their fat mouths?"

"No.  It wasn't me, Eduardo."

Hack marveled at their delusion.  By the way, Rachel, what are the boys doing while you're out here?  Have you even said two words to them today between meeting Rudolfo in his camper for drugs and meeting him later for something else?

In the six years Hack spent pretending so he could get close enough to stop people like the ones around him, he'd come to realize they were remarkably uniform.  Somewhere along the way, normal people learned the cause-and-effect of hard work that was lost on these people.

They have never actually tried any other way.  Make demands that require everyone else to give up what they've worked for so we can have what we deserve.  Then be angry when we don't get what we want.  Be miserable that the only way you've ever tried failed again.  Surprise.  Build on your misery, talk of fairness and the justice you're going to extract on the privileged.  They have something we want.  They won't give it to us so we will…take…it.

It seemed to Hack that people like this were everywhere.  Like seeds flung and forgotten that germinated for years and sprouted long after anyone remembered they were there.  Terrorists and revolutionaries sprouted everywhere, in both cities and rural regions.  There are whole countries that talk like these people, ready to upend society and take their chances in the chaos.

At any moment, Hack and other federal agents were tracking and working to infiltrate a half-dozen different radical cells.  Hack knew two agents that were killed in the last year.  One was tortured for a week.  Hack had seen the pictures.

Two nights ago, he and Rudolfo talked about the possibility that there might be an infiltrator in the group.  As the strike date approached, Rudolfo became increasingly convinced there was.  The arrival of the fertilizer moved the group into the major leagues of domestic terrorism.  It wasn't just talk anymore, and Rudolfo was sure they must be on some government agency's radar now.

"You know there is someone here who isn't really one of us, don't you Sam?"

Hack met his eyes and held them long enough that he hoped Rudolfo interpreted open interest in his question.  "Sam" was the cover name he'd used when he met Rudolfo months ago.  He considered whether Rudolfo was talking to him or about him.

He and Rudolfo sat alone at a small fire outside Rudolfo's camper.  Hack glanced over his shoulder as if he were looking about the camp for someone who didn't belong, but he was really giving himself time to decide what reaction was most appropriate.

Hack decided to go with a confused response.  It was usually safe for Rudolfo to think people didn't understand him.  He thought everyone else was an idiot so appearing confused usually fit his expectations.  He asked, "What do you mean?"

"Think about it Sam.  How many groups like ours are caught before they are even close to acquiring the means to fulfill their promise?  Very few make it this far.  One in a hundred maybe.  McVeigh made it all the way, but all the others?  No.  They are caught long before they are ready.  We are ready now.  We have the explosives and Monday morning our long mission is over."

"Yes, everything is ready," Hack smiled, trying to come across with the right balance of exhaustion, excitement and admiration.  The exhaustion was easiest.  Everyone in the camp had been on lean rations since they left the original compound.  Rudolfo stood in line with them at mealtimes as if he was just one of the folks, but it was a poorly-kept secret that the courier brought him food along with the newspapers and supplies.  Everyone knew it, but no one said anything.  Out here he was in complete control.  If he ordered someone killed, they'd be killed.  No questions asked.

He'd grown up making his own way.  His mother was hooked on drugs and the worst kind of men.  Little Eduardo stayed clear of them except when there was food.  Then he had no choice.  They'd leave him nothing if he just stayed back and waited, so he edged into a corner of the table, trying to pretend he was supposed to be there.  He'd get a few bites before one of them shoved him back.  Otherwise, the men barely noticed him.

He received all the frustration his mother carried from her life's disappointments and the way the men abused and left her.  She criticized his every move, and begrudged the minimal obligation she had for him.  If he was quiet, she accused him of being surly or too good to speak to her.  When he reached out to her she pushed him away and said he was pathetic.

The survival of children like little Eduardo Rudolfo is miraculous.  Living in the worst environments imaginable, they tenaciously hang onto life.  Their reward is the cycle's continuance.  They bring more children into the same poor circumstances.  Few escape the cycle.  A tiny fraction achieve great success, recounting the trials of their childhood as testimony to their hard work and determination.  The rest, in multitudes, merely survive, the miracle uncelebrated.

Rudolfo stayed out of prison until he was old enough for a judge to finally put him there.  He'd known misery and isolation all his life.  He survived the first horrible year in prison by watching and learning.  No one guided him.  No long-term mentors to take an interest in him and keep him from making mistakes.  No one needed a weaker partner that didn't know the ropes in a place where enemies were made from the smallest offense.  He was a liability, so he watched and learned and made the mistakes himself.  Because the penalties for mistakes were harsh, he learned quickly.  Rudolfo was a survivor and prison taught him to be subtly manipulative.  People on the outside were oblivious to small visual cues and voice inflections that meant life-and-death in prison.

Rudolfo's eyes never left Hack as he waited to see what Hack would say next.

"We're close," Hack said, "I'd say it's natural to be edgy.  Has someone been acting suspicious?"

Rudolfo waited before responding.  "Fisher," he said.

Hack held his breath to avoid sighing in relief.  Rudolfo never took his eyes off you and talking to him, especially one-on-one was nerve-racking for Hack.  "What makes you suspect Fisher?"  Fisher was a big gregarious man.  Everyone in camp liked him, including Rachel.  Hack figured Rudolfo was jealous, but wasn't sure if it was for Rachel's attention or the group's.  Either way, Hack felt sorry for Fisher.  He was an ok guy who was working construction until he met Rachel in a bar and started chasing her.  The guy was two days away from losing a reasonably decent life, either way it came down.

Hack asked, "You want me to keep an eye on him?"

Another of Rudolfo's frustrating pauses, and then he said, "Yeah.  Yeah Sam.  You watch him for me.  If he does anything that makes you suspicious just off him.  Don't even bother checking in with me on it.  I don't like the guy anyway."

"He's, ah…" Hack started, "He's a big guy man.  When are we getting our guns back?"  Rudolfo had taken up all their guns, cellphones and batteries a week ago.  Hack felt exposed without it, especially knowing what was coming.

Rudolfo just looked at him.

"I mean, the guy's bigger than I am.  Not much way I can stop him without a gun."

Finally, Rudolfo nodded and said "Yeah.  I see your point.  I'll think about it."

Hack sat awkwardly for a moment, and then nodded.  "Ok.  I can do that.  Whatever you want."  He stood up to leave.

"Rachel says that it's you I shouldn't trust Sam.  She says you're smarter than you make out."  Rudolfo craned his neck to look up at Hack.  He waited for a moment before showing a quick, unpleasant smile.

"I think she might be sweet on Fisher," Hack said.  "She doesn't want you to do anything to him maybe."

Rudolfo nodded.  "Yes, maybe she is.  Too bad."

5

Hack constantly looked over his shoulder after the little fireside chat.  He assumed that Rudolfo had similar conversations with others in the group and wondered who was assigned to watch him.  He and Fisher both lived through the weekend as Rudolfo's paranoid mind found other worries.  Fisher stood across the campfire from Hack as they listened to Rudolfo's exhortations.

Hack noticed the wind was picking up.  Rain's coming.  Leaves and branches moved in the night, barely silhouettes against a dark and cloudy sky.  At least it will cut his motivational speech short.  Rudolfo was losing their attention as the first drops fell.  Everyone was tired of being wet.  The heat lifted water during the day and held it until the clouds were ready to burst.  It rained in the late afternoon or evening every day they'd camped in the woods and there was no way to get their clothes completely dry.  They wanted the speech to end so they could get someplace before it really came down.

Two drops of rain splashed onto Hack's face.  He looked up.  They were so completely surrounded by trees that the only sky visible was directly overhead.  The sky was filled with low, roiling clouds and there were flashes of light far off that were on the way to them.

The wind began to whip the treetops first.  Then the lower branches swayed, and finally the undergrowth came gradually alive with movement.  The scrub brush twisted and turned.  Green leaves were dark gray with undersides that were a silvery shade lighter.  The shimmering leaves made the forest look like waves encroaching the clearing.

Rudolfo railed on.  "All of the hardship we've come through before hasn't stopped us.  We've found a way past every obstacle this corrupt society has created, first as individuals and now as a group, a family.  No one was there to help us.  No one to make life easy for us.  We made our own way, while they all stick together in their sickening excess.  They've grown fat and comfortable.  They can't defend themselves or provide their own food, while we've struggled at the bottom, with nothing."

He paused for effect before continuing, "But we are stronger for our fight.  Now we are ready and they are not.  We are willing to strike while they can only hide and wait for their corrupt government to help them.  But this time is different.  This time it will be more than one person, more than a group – this time we will bring our full power to them – and they will reel under it."  Rudolfo pointed to the rows of 55-gallon drums already loaded inside the semi's trailer.  He pointed with his right hand.  It held the dead-man's switch.

Hack looked back into the open doors of the semi, I really wish he would stop pointing with that thing.  If he gets too excited, we'll all be dead before we know what happened.

In the distance, just outside the clearing, a wind gust fanned the brush and Hack saw an agent duck down lower.  He'd only been visible for an instant, but it was long enough.

Rudolfo stopped and stared, unsure of what he'd seen.

Well, the good news is, the agents are here, Hack decided.

Then he snapped his left hand out around Rudolfo's.

6

Hack squeezed Rudolfo's fingers tightly around the trigger.  Without thinking, Rudolfo jerked away from Hack's pinching grip, leaving the trigger entirely in Hack's hand.  Good, was all Hack had time to think, before jamming his right elbow hard into Rudolfo's throat.  Hack pressed the bigger man backward like a linebacker with a good low angle on a running back.  Rudolfo was off-balance and they both fell heavily against the barrels that hadn't yet been loaded.  The hard metal rim creased painfully into Rudolfo's back.   Hack held him against the barrels with his elbow, and kept the trigger out of his reach.

Lightning cracked the sky.

This distance from the fire, Rudolfo's eyes were small red reflections of firelight.  "You!  You after all!  I knew that you weren't right," Rudolfo said through clenched teeth.  "I knew you were one of them."  Hack said nothing.  He'd given up months of his life for this moment.  He'd never get those months back and whatever happened in the next minutes, he'd never have a second chance at this either.  He was all in and he focused everything on anticipating Rudolfo.

Like Rudolfo, Hack was a watcher.  Rudolfo learned to watch people in prison and became expert by necessity.  Hack was a natural watcher, always on the outside and looking for what everyone else missed.  He watched for the little things, like who tended to speak first after someone else – sometimes that indicated hidden disagreement.  Hack watched people listening when others spoke, and he analyzed their reactions.  While Rudolfo watched everyone in his "family", Hack focused exclusively on Rudolfo.

Hack thought strategically about anything he did.  Now he needed to outthink Rudolfo because he'd learned to fight in prison and he'd not been going hungry for the last three weeks.  He had thirty pounds of advantage and full stores of energy.  Hack had only adrenalin and desperation.

The sky unloaded a deluge of water, and the cacophony of raindrops striking leaves and earth rose into a deafening roar.  The campfire flickered quickly into darkness as the agents crept forward.  Without the firelight, lightning and muzzle flash was the only illumination.  The shocked and exhausted men around the fire ran to the tents and trailers.  A crack of thunder that sounded too much like a rifle shot started the firefight.

Inside the trailers silhouettes appeared momentarily at the windows before the lights were shut off behind them.  Rifle shots popped from within and the agents dropped to ground.

Behind the semi, Hack was losing ground.  Weeks of poor rations tipped the scales against him.  He felt the strength draining from his arms as he fought to keep Rudolfo down.  Soon he would be spent and Rudolfo would take the trigger.

He fought in complete darkness but for an occasional lightning flash.  He wrestled Rudolfo by feel alone.  Blindly, he leaned into a rattling blow to his jaw at the neckline while a second drove his head back.  He felt Rudolfo grabbing for his left arm to pull the trigger toward him and fought harder to keep it back.

The blows to his head made him draggy and he felt himself moving slower.  He was losing.  Rudolfo landed three more blows in succession.  In the darkness, there was no forewarning, no opportunity to pull away.  Hack focused on the trigger, keeping his arm up and back, but it was dropping closer to the ground.  He gripped Rudolfo's collar in his right hand and extended once more, pressing away, but Rudolfo sensed opportunity and adjusted for more leverage against the barrel.

Unable to see in the darkness, or hear over the din, Hack felt himself slipping away from exhaustion and the head blows.  He searched inside for any remaining reserves.  He gets the trigger and we're all dead.  He'll just blow it up as soon as he gets it.  He's got nothing to lose now.  He knows he can't get to the school after this, but he'll be satisfied to kill all the agents.

But there was nothing left.  He was just too exhausted to fight him off.

Hack clenched his fist tighter around the trigger and closed his eyes, trying desperately to think of a way out.  The repeated blows made it hard to think so he concentrated on holding his fingers tight around the trigger and on the place where he imagined Rudolfo's jaw would be – just above his grip on the collar.  He roared in frustration, that all the months of pretense, of staying on guard every moment, all of the planning and hard work would come down to a moment that left him no choices.  Hack put one last squeeze into the trigger and swung it forward into Rudolfo's face.

The blow broke Rudolfo's jaw free, twisting it sharply askew.  He stopped raining blows on Hack's face and moved his hands to protect his shattered face.  Neither man could see the impact of their efforts, so Hack jabbed again, holding the trigger tight.  The second punch didn't connect squarely.  It grazed down the side of Rudolfo's shattered jaw, and scraped against bone.  Rudolfo screamed in agony.

Hack pulled his knees underneath to get better leverage.  He turned loose of the collar, and brought his right fist back, before launching it directly into the mess of Rudolfo's face.  He felt his body go limp.

He sat back on his heels gasping for air.  The river of rain still poured down.  He tilted his head down and breathed cool air through his mouth to avoid inhaling water.  He held the trigger up as much as his drained strength permitted and rested his chin on his chest.

A bright white flash reflected off the truck in front of him and he felt a hard slap of a bullet on his forearm.  The sound of the shot registered as he cradled his arm.  Broken, he thought dully, feeling the sharp broken edge of bone with his working fingers.  There was a tearing sensation and a sharp sting in his elbow as a partially-severed tendon snapped.  The fingers holding the trigger opened.  He pulled the trigger in closer to his body to maintain pressure without the fingers and worked his right hand around the open useless fingers of his left.  He squeezed his right fingers tight around the unfeeling left fingers and the trigger underneath and held on.  Hack rolled to his side, and pressed his legs until he'd scooted up against two of the barrels.  He closed his eyes and tried to think only about keeping his fingers closed.

Other shots cracked around him with agents crawling through the grass, relying on darkness for concealment more than hard cover.  There was just grass and an occasional stump in the clearing.

The last two surviving members of the group were in a small camper.  They conserved ammunition, firing when they spotted muzzle flash.  The agents wanted to be sure there were no children in the camper before they moved in on the holdouts.  At this point, they felt time was on their side.

The rain felt colder as Hack huddled against the explosive tanks.   He focused on his fingers.  As he tried to flex the fingers of his left hand, they didn't respond at all.  In the darkness, gripping the trigger, drained of his last reserves and bleeding out, Hack kept thinking that his grip might be gradually releasing.  Unable to see, he flexed and very slightly released his grip every few seconds to be sure he was still holding the trigger.  The more he concentrated on it, the less natural the control of his hand felt.  He lost track of the sounds around him in the squeeze-relax repetition.

The last terrorist surrendered.  The past weeks had diminished all of them and they had little fight left.

When a flashlight waved across him, Hack saw his fingers around the trigger covered with dark mud red with his blood.  More flashlights came, dancing all around him and then settling on his hand and his face.  "It's him," the closest agent told the others turning slightly so they could hear through the downpour.  "It's Agent Samuels and he's still alive!  Get the medics over here and call in the copter for evac."  The agent looked at the trigger held in the bloody hand and moved the light up the sides of the chemical drums.  "And get the bomb squad over here too.  ASAP!"  He bent down carefully, closer to Hack.  "Hack.  Hack, can you hear me?"  Hack's head nodded twice.  "Ok.  That's great.  You did great Hack.  You're going to be fine," the agent told him.  "I'm going to put my hand around your fingers, so you will be able to turn loose, ok?"  Hack turned his eyes up to see the agent and mouthed "ok".

7

The hospital room was dim when Hack awoke.  A clock on the wall beneath the television showed 2:30, and a groggy glance to the window suggested it was early morning rather than afternoon.

His left arm was in a cast.  Lifting it up he could see four fingers, all strapped to the cast with rubber bands to keep tension off tendons as they healed.  He knew this from past experience.  Months of rehab ahead.  Great.

Scanning the room, he saw a mirror over the sink.  From the bed, it faced the wrong direction.  Nothing else reflected back at him so he lifted his right fingers to his face to assess the damage by touch.  There was tenderness, but no wires or patches.  Ok, that's good, he thought, surprised.  He pressed carefully on sore cheekbones gauging damage.  Surprised there's not more swelling.  His face was sore, but he was relieved there seemed to be no serious damage.

After a few minutes, he felt a little more awake.  He patted around in the sheets for a remote control, and finding it, turned on the television.  The banner at the bottom was a week after the date Rudolfo planned to blow up the school.  Hack anticipated it for months.  It was burned indelibly into memory.  Seeing it was a week in the past washed ice water through him.  He worked to sort out his jumbled memories.   No, he thought, we got him.  He hoped Rudolfo was in a hospital room close by.  Maybe I'll visit him in the morning.  He aborted the grin too late to avoid the sharp pain it sent to both cheek bones.  He decided grinning wouldn't be a good idea for several days yet.

The banner changed to "Cane Creek Plot Thwarted".  Hack turned up the sound.

"…twenty three members of the terrorist group killed in the raid on Thursday," the newscaster read from her teleprompter.  She'd quickly become serious in the transition from the previous report.  Rudolfo's mug shot flipped onto the screen with her.  Hack almost smiled again at the sight of Rudolfo's gigantically swollen jaw and the purple-and-yellow bruises covering the right side of his face.  Ouch.  "Representatives of the NSA say the scale of the explosion would have been devastating."  A video of the School Superintendent replaced the anchor.  "I'm told their plan was to park the truck in the space closest to the gym overnight.  In the mornings, we collect all the children in the gym as the buses arrive in order to give teachers time to get their rooms ready," he said.  "There would have been 600 students in there.  These are very young children.  It would have been beyond imagining."

The anchor returned, adding "NSA representatives report that the explosion would have completely demolished the gym, likely killing everyone inside." She continued, "Three federal agents were wounded in the attack, one fatally." Hack swallowed, recognizing the agents.  "Hospital representatives indicate that Agent Henry "Hack" Samuels is expected to regain consciousness today."  Hack's eyes went wide as he looked at his own face on the newscast.  "Agent Samuels infiltrated the group for months and fought terrorist leader Eduardo Rudolfo during the raid, single-handedly wrestling the detonation device from him in the firefight."

The mug shot returned as she concluded, "Rudolfo is under heavy security and expected to be moved this week into the prison infirmary at Louisiana State Penitentiary."  Have fun at "The Farm", Hack thought smiling in spite of the pain it caused.  Going to be a lot harder to work under cover with this going on.  Who gave them my name and how did they get details about the raid?  Somebody screwed up big time.  Hopefully, it'll just blow over.

Unfortunately, the Agency needed a political diversion from recent fraud and waste scandals.  Hack was more valuable as a hero than as a terrorist infiltrator so they continued trickling additional details to the press, keeping the story alive while they waited on Hack to recover adequately for a full press conference.

He'd hoped to be released quietly in the night, but they went out the front door of the hospital at 10 AM to give the media setup and coffee time.  They led him through questions while an Agency media rep stood alongside for "no comment" replies for ones he wasn't permitted to answer.  He rode home in a limo the Governor's office provided.

The week he was in the hospital, reporters interviewed all of his neighbors.  All three local channels had satellite trucks at his apartment.  Once inside, he ignored the knocking and stayed locked inside until they moved on.  Over the next six months, he was recognized everywhere he went.  He started wearing hats and dark glasses as if he were dodging paparazzi.  He felt exposed.  Watched.  There were a lot of other domestic terror groups besides Rudolfo's.  Any of them would achieve instant notoriety if they could kill, or worse, capture him.  He put in for a transfer.  As it turned out, that worked right into the Agency's plans.

They staged him in a DC office for six months, monitoring him.  He dyed his hair and grew a short beard.  They had a new assignment for him.  He met with twenty Representatives and five Senators over the next four months.  He knew he was being interviewed for a highly secret assignment, but no one told him what it was.

Hack picked up pieces of information from the questions.  He learned enough to guess that the Agency wanted to leverage their high-profile hero to pull a project away from the FBI.  The project had something to do with an alien artifact that someone found in Tennessee.

8

It was time for a catalyst.

After eighteen months, Hack's superiors at the NSA were losing confidence and this was a last, or possibly, if he were lucky, a near-last-ditch effort before the artifact and his leadership of the project were taken away.

The NSA assembled some of the nation's leading experts in metallurgy, chemistry, electronics and energy to review the plate-sized artifact discovered in the mountains of Eastern Tennessee.  The team's initial excitement and enthusiasm dissipated with the increasing frustrations and pressures of what was proving to be an inscrutable puzzle.

The researchers initially welcomed the Agency and the hero of Cane Creek.  Like the rest of the country, they'd read of his previous missions like novels serialized in papers and news reports.  In the battle to acquire choice projects from a beleaguered FBI, the Agency made Hack into a larger than life, modern-day Davy Crockett, adventurous, brave, determined and humble.    The humility angle covered Hack's repeated insistence that his involvement in several of the previous missions was being exaggerated with other agents playing a larger role in some than his own.

He repeatedly downplayed his role and emphasized other's efforts, but the Agency refused to declassify anyone else's involvement.  They declassified information supporting their narratives and prevented Hack from disclosing anything that countered.   Hack didn't see the process as building up his reputation, but as destroying it.  The Agency strip-mined what they needed from his life, and destroyed everything that mattered to him.

He lost long-term relationships with agents he'd known for years.  Embedded in terrorist groups, with dozens of irrational and highly unpredictable violent people, the other agents became his surrogate family.  They held close ranks as actors hiding themselves amidst plans of psychotic madmen.  Living lies, and pretending for weeks at a time, they relied on each other.  Hack thought those friendships would last forever, but there was no way to convince any of them that he'd fought against the Agency's efforts to transfer their achievements to him.   One-by-one he lost touch with each of them.

As his public personae increased, Hack felt diminished.  He had done great things.  He had saved lives, not just on the Cane Creek infiltration but on other missions.  He'd once been proud of his accomplishments.  But now, his actual accomplishments were so overwhelmed by the Agency's mythology, that the reality was less than the fiction.  As a field agent, pretending was his job.   Now, the Agency made his whole life a pretense.  He avoided talking about himself, which everyone attributed to his heroic humility.

Everything he did reinforced the mythology.  He'd cut his finger cleaning the garage the weekend before his introduction to the research team. It wasn't anything serious.  He was always cutting or snagging himself on something.  For some reason, he was prone to accidents with anything sharp, just a little bit careless.  The most dangerous time was usually during the first few minutes of some outdoor project, before he'd settled in to work.  He'd be adjusting a saw blade, or using his hands to ram a post into the ground, opening packages or the like.  He had a knack for accidentally finding sharp edges.

When he was ten, his parents bought him a replica sword.  The first days after Christmas, rain preventing him from giving the sword a good swing.  He'd waited anxiously to play with it.  The first sunny day after Christmas, he'd rushed outside to battle the tall weeds beyond the yard.  He'd chopped weeds for less than a minute before he executed a spinning slice down at a stubborn stalk.  He'd misjudged the stalk's resistance and sliced through it with too much extra force.  The blade creased the back of his calf as it swung full around.  They'd all made a trip to the emergency room.  He remembered his mother standing in the doorway as the nurse came in to scrub the cut.  She wore a robe over her pajamas.  She told the nurse, she was going to start calling him "Hack" instead of Henry.  They continued to laugh about it over the next week, calling him "Hack" as both tease and unsubtle reminder.  After a while, the name stuck.

The news reporters heard this story from his mother while he was in the hospital.  Every time people saw a bandage on him, they laughed in reference to the story.  It reinforced their belief that they knew him from the articles.

The researchers chuckled and clapped him on the back in a friendly and familiar way when they saw the bandaged finger.  They felt comfortable with the Hack they knew from the papers and TV stories.

The public's knowledge of him through the media was almost a disguise in itself.  People felt they knew him from the stories and were slow to notice differences in the real man.  They'd ignore or rationalize any behavior that didn't mesh with their preconceptions.

For Hack, this aspect was comfortable and familiar.  He was still the infiltrator, standing apart from the others and looking in from the outside.

9

He'd seen the cracks forming in the research team from the outset.  Each of them was an expert in their respective field.  Determined and serious-minded people with focus ingrained from childhood by parents, teachers, professors and peers.  They'd learned to avoid distraction and were impatient with time spent outside their own hypotheses and conclusions.

For the first few weeks, working for the NSA on a Top Secret project with expansive equipment budgets and new offices was novelty enough.  As they settled in and became comfortable, pleasantries fell away in the rush to be the first to discover the strange artifact's properties and origin.

Hack saw them as exceptional individuals with no concept of collaboration.  The initial excitement dragged into months with few conclusive findings.  After eighteen months, Hack decided the logjam was too tight to break on its own.

Timeshare Counsel, Inc. was going to break it for him.

10

Timeshare Counsel, Inc. rose to prominence as one of the government's pet think tanks.  In the past four years the company developed a reputation for creative insights, problem solving and confidentiality.  Where other organizations developed success by going deep in a specific area, like military nanotech, infiltration techniques, or dozens of other specialties government bureaucrats needed, Timeshare's specialty was its expansive scope.  They chose projects in healthcare, data mining, manufacturing, transportation, city design and a wide array of military interests.

The research team arrived minutes before and had already been escorted into Timeshare's conference rooms by the time Hack stepped out of his own black Suburban.  He carried the artifact in a black backpack.  His security team was stationed all around Timeshare's brownstone building, including Richards on the rooftop with a sniper rifle.  He passed Walker on the sidewalk, ambitious and talented, she was his second-in-command.

"Squared away, Major," Walker said as he passed, watching both ends of the street for activity.  There was no sign that anyone outside the Agency was were aware of the artifact, but no one wanted to risk its loss.  It was, to anyone's knowledge, one of a kind.

Hack had been to Timeshare twice before, once for the initial meeting with Taylor and once with his team as they planned this excursion.  It was well-secured, for a non-military operation, to comply with prospective client's confidentiality needs.  Agent Sowyer sat behind three computer monitors, reviewing feeds from deployed drop cameras.  There were six additional security monitors on the desk to his left.  These were monitored by Timeshare's own security staff.

"Building is secure, Major," said Sowyer, without looking up.

The research team was already seated when Hack entered the conference room.  There were two seats left.  Taylor would sit at the head.  Three touchscreen monitors were recessed into the table for him there.  Hack stepped in front of the remaining seat beside Taylor's empty chair.

Hack didn't want to sit and then bounce back up to meet Taylor so he stood beside the chair and looked to the door.  In his earpiece, Sowyer told him Taylor was en route.

11

Theodore, "Ted" Taylor was Timeshare's President and Founder.  He'd spun Timeshare off from Berc, Inc. almost seven years earlier.  Berc was one of the big six consulting firms in the country.  Timeshare quickly developed a reputation for solving deadlocked challenges.  Taylor employed a dozen other executive-level consultants with just under a hundred support staff.  His personal participation in most sessions declined over the years.  Now he usually sat in only for introductions and left session leadership to his execs.

He chose only a few projects each year to participate in himself.  Those clients paid substantially larger rates for his involvement.

Taylor dressed expensively.  He entered the conference room with a placid, self-assured smile.  He shook hands with Hack and motioned they sit down.

During introductions, Taylor smiled and congratulated each of the researchers on some aspect of their work, a paper they'd written, a theory they'd proposed, patiently working his way around the table.

"Clarity and insight are found in disagreement," started Taylor.  "When everyone is in agreement, little of import is actually decided.  You are on the verge of discovery, requiring only an external catalyst," Taylor looked at Hack as he said this, "to break disagreement into agreement.  I am glad to assist you."

"But first," Taylor dropped his eyes to the black backpack, "please show me your artifact."

12

Hack unzipped the backpack, and pulled out a heavy strongbox.  He pushed the backpack further down the table.  He then placed his hand over the white palm outline on top of the box.  Red illuminated fingerprints remained on the cover after Hack removed his hand.  The box clicked.

Hack lifted the lid and Taylor saw the artifact for the first time.

It looked like a piece of a cracked soup bowl.  Taylor looked to Hack for approval before reaching for the artifact.

"It's ok, we've scanned it carefully over the past year – there's no danger to you, and of course, nothing you could do would harm it," Hack told him.

Taylor picked the artifact up, holding it with both hands.  It appeared to be a white ceramic material, a half-inch thick.  The white was clean and bright, with a subtle blue tint.  Like everyone who picked the artifact up, Taylor was surprised by its weight.  It looked like ceramic or heavy, leaded glass but weighed almost nothing.

A tiny smile flicked at the edge of Hack's mouth as he watched Taylor's eyebrows knit together briefly.  Everyone's surprised by how little it weighs, Hack thought, as if they'd just witnessed a magic trick.

Hack felt a tiny satisfaction to have pricked Taylor's smug armor.  There was something about Taylor that he just couldn’t like, although he had so far been unable to pinpoint it.  It's just his arrogance, Hack thought.  The guy's got a giant ego.  Been smart his whole life and doesn't want it to go unnoticed. As long as he comes up with something these guys haven't figured out…Nothing else matters.  Hack smiled at Taylor and nodded.  Taylor met his eyes without an expression and looked down at the artifact.

The others waited, and watched Taylor turn the artifact over in his hands.  Taylor's fingers traced faint swirling lines in the surface.

"The lines look like indentions in the surface as if they are cut into it, but the surface is smooth.  The traces are below a glossy, transparent outer surface," Hack provided.  "X-ray and fluoroscope don't tell us anything about the tracings.  The entire thickness of the artifact seems to be one material, but we think there might be sections with different properties." Hack made eye contact with one of the researchers.  "There's a theory that the swirls might be for communication, whether as primary communications or enhancements, we don't know."

Taylor continued to stare at the artifact.

"What about the sound?" Taylor asked.

Hack's eyes tightened on Taylor, "Sound?"

"The music," Taylor looked up at Hack.

Taylor asked, "You hear it?"

"I reviewed the preliminary reports your team published, Major.  Have you discovered a pattern to the music?"

"Dr. Roberts," Hack asked, looking at the team's radiologist, "would you outline this for Mr. Taylor please?"

Roberts cleared his throat and pulled himself up a little, "We didn't discover the vibrational energy that you're calling 'music' right away, but we isolated the range and monitored it for a three-month period, during which the underlying vibration or background noise didn't seem to repeat, at least in any recognizable way.  It was just a steady stream of different tones, without repeating cycles.  We haven't been able to reliably decode the patterns."

Hack watched Taylor take this in and motioned Roberts to continue, "We observed patterns in the layer above the background vibrational stream that seem to coincide with the artifact's proximity to various items.  These foreground vibrations change as objects are brought closer to the artifact.  We experimented with various objects, a glass, metal objects, a wooden block, and things like that.  We put the objects close to the artifact and tracked the changes in the tone patterns.  At first, there seemed to be no logical pattern.  We put an object near the artifact and the pattern would be completely different when we put it back.  The second round of tests, we fabricated a fixture to hold the artifact and the object in exactly the same position relative to each other.  When an object is placed in exactly the same position, it generates a pattern that repeats with about ten percent variance."

"But the pattern is different when the object is out of alignment with the prior position," interrupted Taylor, "even if the same object is introduced".

"Yes," Hack replied before Roberts could answer.

"Cat's whiskers," said Taylor, watching Hack to see if he understood. "A cat's whiskers are called 'vibrissae'.  They allow cats to navigate in complete darkness, winding through grass and branches, while avoiding objects that might damage their eyes.  The foreground vibrations you've detected are transmitting a representation of the surroundings, like a radar image.  The ten percent variance is likely caused by people walking in the hallway outside the lab.  It's apparently detecting their movement as well."

This evoked a response from Roberts, "That's just what I was getting at four weeks ago, but Jonas's ridiculously contrived experiment derailed my theory!"  Jonas took up the argument and the researchers jumped in at once.

The researchers were eager to score points against each other.  As the debate picked up momentum, Taylor watched them, saying nothing.  Hack knew there would be no clear winner.  None of them would actually admit defeat even if they'd obviously lost, so very little was produced from the exchanges.  Hack kept his eyes on Taylor.

Taylor's mouth moved slightly as if he were participating in the conversation, with his eyebrows moving as an occasional point was made, but he didn't interject himself.  He stared at the middle of the table, at the artifact.   Because Taylor sat virtually motionless, Hack noticed a slight movement of Taylor's right arm.  He was doing something under the table.  Hack leaned his head back and to the side to see what.

Turning only his head, Taylor met Hack's eyes and smiled.  Something in the smile reminded Hack of Rudolfo's smug self-assurance.  In the few hours he'd spent with Taylor in the preliminary planning sessions, working out contract details, Hack remained uneasy.  The more time he spent with Taylor, the less he liked him.  He was smart.  Hack brought the artifact here because he was smart, but he didn't trust him.  He kept suspicion off his face as Taylor spoke and reminded himself every few seconds that someone as smart as Taylor might be much more perceptive than Rudolfo.

"I'm writing your report, Major" Taylor said.  He raised his right hand up just over the edge of the table.  His right fingers danced about as if there was a marionette underneath.  As Taylor spoke, there seemed to be no interruption or hesitation of his finger's motion.

Black leather tips covered each of Taylor's right fingers and his thumb.  His palm was covered by a black glove with cut-out fingers.  Taylor twisted his hand to display the back, which had a small chrome plate in the center and smaller knuckle plates.  Blue LED lights tipped each knuckle, and flashed as Taylor's fingers moved.  Seeing this, the researchers paused their debate, intrigued by Taylor's device.

"I designed this to transcribe my notes during these sessions.  It transmits notes, and immediate instructions to my staff," explained Taylor.  "Please continue, I'm listening."  Taylor put his right hand back under the table.

The discussions continued for an hour longer before the researchers lost steam and noticed Hack and Taylor were just observing.

As soon as the discussion ended, Taylor stood up.  "Gentlemen, and Major, I hope you will agree that your time and considerable fees have been well spent."  He smiled.  "I will be pleased to meet with you again in the near future, should you require my assistance."

For a moment, Taylor stood alone, with everyone else staring in disbelief.  They'd expected the session to take all day, possibly several days.

Hack felt his anger rise.  The team was already negative about meeting with an outside consultant, especially one they'd decided had little scientific background.  They'd give him Hell over this.  Hack stood, "We're just getting started here Taylor".  Before he could continue, the conference room door opened.  One of Taylor's staff entered, holding a thick blue bound report.

Taylor took the report, and presented it to Hack with a small head bow.  "Major, it has been an especially great pleasure to meet you.  You've brightened my day with this interesting artifact.  Please reserve your judgment though, until you've read the entire report.  It's quite thorough.  There are six additional lines of research and investigation I've proposed to help our military understand the possibilities introduced by the artifact, including the artifact's neutrino mill, which, alone, is a discovery of great potential significance.  Imagine the implications of continuous, ever-replenishing energy, Major.  With suitable design changes, there might never again be a need to store energy.  It could become inexpensively available for all.  The possibilities are fascinating, to say the least."

Hack was stunned to silence.  He took the report and shook Taylor's extended hand.  As Taylor nodded to the others and turned to leave the room, Hack looked down at the report.  Then he glanced around the room, seeing a few faces already sporting "I told you so" looks.

He opened the blue book, and was overwhelmed by what he saw.  He flipped page after page.  It was a fully-finished product.  There were pages of conclusions, followed by detailed notes and references from other published studies.  The second section, did indeed contain six new proposed tests.  Two of the six were similar to concepts the team had discussed before the session with Taylor, but even these varied in the hypothesis projected.

He typed and compiled this report, while participating, while leading, the discussion. How is that even possible?  He must have been typing instructions to a team of technical writers and researchers upstairs the whole time he was in here with us.  Taylor had been highly recommended, so Hack knew he was smart, but this?  He'd have felt the session was an astounding success if Taylor had been able to break even one of the logjam arguments that had held the team unproductive for weeks.  He'd never expected to come away with proposals for new lines of study.  He flipped to the end.  Counting ten pages of single spaced footnotes, there were 204 pages.

The researchers filed past Hack out of the conference room.  Jonas smirked at him, "That's a classic consultant, Major, they borrow your watch to tell you what time it is, and then they send you an invoice."

Hack shook his head.  "No.  It wasn't in the report.  I reviewed all the preliminary data we provided Taylor and removed references to the physical tests that were inconclusive.  The foreground vibration results weren't mentioned in the preliminary report – at all."

"Well, you must have made a mistake." Jonas said, shrugging off further discussion, "Otherwise, how could he possibly have detected the vibrations?"  Jonas was shaking his head, "He obviously couldn't actually hear the music Major.  The frequencies are far outside the human auditory range.  You've just forgotten mentioning it along the way."

Hack said nothing, letting Jonas lose interest and walk away.  There was no need to argue.  Hack had carefully pulled those findings from the preliminary packet.  The smug bastard came up with that on his own, he thought.  How?

Hack couldn't wait to read the rest of the report.

13

Taylor heaved the last of his lunch through his open car door.  A truck horn blasted his ears as it passed, although Taylor was sufficiently off the highway.

Taylor closed the door, wiping his mouth with a sleeve.

His eyes in the rearview were shot-through with blood.  If only I felt as good as I look, it'd be at least some relief, he thought.  The migraine was crippling.  He hoped relieving the nausea might decrease some of the pressure behind his eyes.  I don't have time for this.

He couldn't remember having a headache before his teens, but had them regularly since.  As an adult, it became a weekly occurrence.  They usually started on Friday or Saturday morning.  He thought it might be caused by not getting enough sleep through the week, but he'd never been able to stay in bed once he woke up – and he usually woke before five.  He typically caught up on sleep with a Sunday afternoon nap, and reset for the week.

When a migraine started, he could function but couldn't maintain sufficient concentration for anything complex, so he shuffled around the house and caught up on the week's chores until it crawled back from his temples, down his neck and back to wait somewhere down there until the next week.  He usually felt better by mid-afternoon or evening on Saturday as long as he took the pills.

He was at home packing when Sowyer called.  He'd already taken the migraine pill.  It was bad timing for a migraine when he needed to be sharp, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.  Would've been better to leave on a Monday or Tuesday, he thought, shaking his head.  The headshake was a mistake and he instantly regretted it, as his eyes rolled over the broken glass he felt lining his eye sockets.  He had packed all the essentials, a small case of clothes, the duffel bag of money and his checklists.  Once he'd zipped the clothes in, he stood looking around the room.

One last look around.  Don't want to leave anything important behind.  The house was much larger than a single man needed.  There were four bedrooms, a large den that he'd converted into a home theater, a giant kitchen full of hanging copper pots that his girlfriends fussed over and his giant downstairs study.  He'd owned the house for two years.  The decorator he hired was still collecting pieces.

The little throwaway phone vibrated in his pocket.

"Taylor?"

"Yes, it's me.  Do you have everything?"

"Yes, I have it.  Do you have my money?"  Taylor winced.  Head is killing me.

"Yes, of course, I'm looking at it right now," he lied, he was looking at his own duffel of money.  He'd forgotten to pull out some for Sowyer.  Do that in a minute, he thought.  Stay focused, keep Sowyer calm.

"Alright.  I'll meet you in two hours as we planned."  Sowyer said.  "I want to get this over with so I never have to hear your name again."

Whatever, thought Taylor, whatever it takes.  Just focus on the objective.  He glanced around uncertainly before spotting the yellow legal sheet with his active checklist.  He snatched it from the desk and hurriedly scanned the list to make sure he wasn't missing anything important.  No.  Nothing critical to this step other than just keeping Sowyer calm.  The checklist said, "13. Keep Sowyer calm.  He is inclined toward anger and has tendencies toward solving problems with violence – do not argue with him about anything!"

"That is excellent Agent Sowyer." Taylor replied.  "I look forward to completing our transaction."  He held back a sarcastic response to Sowyer's jab.

He disconnected the call and put the phone in his pocket, going back over the list.  He read carefully through each line, making sure he wasn't missing anything.  He thought about crossing off the line that encouraged him to keep Sowyer calm, but decided he would leave it until he was certain he'd never see the man again.

The line just above it read, "12. Pack bag of clothes (2 nights), duffel of cash (all of it) and book of checklists – don't leave anything behind that you need, you might not be coming back here again."

He looked at the two bags on the floor in front of him and moved a large leather-bound journal to the floor beside them.

Realizing how important his checklists were becoming to his life, he'd decided to transcribe them into something more impressive.  The journal's thick leather cover was moss-green, soft and flexible.  He'd had "T. Taylor – Timeshare Checklists" embossed deep into the bottom right cover.  He liked the way it felt so much that he often just held it while sitting in his chair, watching television as he dozed off.  It held a history of his past plans, instructions guiding his immediate actions and strategies for years into the future.  It had become the book of his life.  The pages were hand-torn, giving the edges a ragged thrown-together look like a magic tome.

He was never able to catch up with the transcription process.  He didn't take the book with him to the office.  It was too valuable to risk losing.  During the meeting sessions with clients, he used a different notebook filled with yellow legal pages.  He stuck the loose yellow pad pages into the back of the book as he filled them.  Several times a week, he'd sit down at his big desk at home and copy the checklists into the book with music filling his downstairs office.  The wonderfully acoustic shelves of thick, old books the interior designer bought softened the music's echoes.

He paused, looking at the book on the floor.  I'm forgetting something.  What is it?  He remembered.  Just about let it slip my mind again.  He looked around the office for something the right size for $75,000.  My briefcase, that's about the right size.  I won't need it anymore.  He dumped it out and crammed two stacks of bills into the bottom before he noticed the little chrome nameplate with "T. Taylor" stenciled under the soft, leather grip.  He considered this for a moment, and then reached in and removed the stacks.  Not be a good idea.  He looked for something else.  Aha.  Perfect.

His staff at Timeshare bought him a messenger bag for his birthday.  On the side, a stencil read "Mr. Wonderful".  Even though he suspected they intended it as sarcasm, they presented it with solemn expressions and phony smiles, so he went along with it.  He didn't care what they thought of him anyway as long as they did their jobs.  He preferred to interact with them as little as required.  Even that minimal interaction was more than he desired.  He brought the bag home and tossed it into the corner of his office.  His housekeeper later hung it on a lower rung of the coatrack where it remained untouched for months.  It'll annoy him.  He thought about Sowyer's reaction when he gave him the bag of money.  With all his money in it, he'll just have to take it anyway.  Good enough for him.

14

Taylor realized when he noticed the sign for Mclean that he couldn't remember any details of the drive.  Couldn't remember cars he'd passed.  Other than stopping to be sick, he'd just been on autopilot.

He'd be early.  He hoped for an hour's nap before Sowyer arrived.  Closing his eyes for even ten minutes might give the pill a chance to slide the headache back down, at least far enough that he could function.

He looked down again at the checklist, just to make sure he was still on track.  He'd crossed out "12. Pack bag of clothes (2 nights), duffel of cash (all of it) and book of checklists – don't leave anything behind that you need, you might not be coming back here again," with a single ruler-straight line.  The checklists were essential.  Without them, there was no way to pass instructions to himself from the high-energy timesharing bouts to his normal times afterward.

He'd started referring to his talent as "timesharing" years ago.  It was a term from the early days of computers, before everyone had one for themselves and expensive ones were shared by many users.  Even the earliest computers could process calculations and procedures tremendously faster than humans, leaving a computer spare time between one user's input and a human's ability to review its output.  During this spare time, the computer easily processed input from other users, delivering new output without either user noticing a delay.  The processing speed difference between computer and human was so great that many humans could share computer processes with little noticeable reduction in performance.  From the computer's perspective, it was a serial response – one user's request after another, but the speed was so quick the users didn't notice.

Taylor's timesharing had much more in common with the massive distributed computing model of the SETI@home project.  In 1999, researchers at the University of California, Berkeley developed a distributed-computing program that included a downloadable screensaver.  When downloaded, the screensaver linked thousands of unused computers to analyze radio telescope signals from the Arecibo radio telescope, searching for signs of intelligent life in background static.

"Timesharing" linked Taylor's mental processing capabilities with the minds of people around him.

As far back as he could remember, he'd felt some aspect of this ability.  He always felt smarter and more productive around other people, although never to the extent he achieved now.  He remembered exactly when his ability step-changed.  A few years ago, returning from a seminar in Texas, he experienced the first real taste of clarity.  It followed a couple days off work following his return.  He'd caught something on the plane and felt terrible.

He felt better over the weekend and fine on Monday.  At first, he didn't notice anything different.  He'd worked for Berc then, one of dozens of business analysts.  He helped the developers compile business requirements documentation during brainstorming sessions with the company's clients.  He had a good mix of business and technical skills with enough technical understanding of software development that he could communicate technical information to business people and vice versa.

That Monday, Berc was meeting with a startup software company.  Berc often "reviewed" new software products and classified them by market position and cost, provided the startup subscribed to Berc's research services.  Both client and consultant understood that it was essentially an advertising model with a pretense of objectivity, but it was an effective way to sell new software.

The startup team included two business and three technical people.  On Berc's side, there were an equal number of developers, an application architect and the customer liaison, in addition to Taylor.

Normally, Taylor said almost nothing in these sessions.  The discussions were highly technical, with each of the technical folks vying for superior caste by challenging the other's concepts or understanding of related design methodologies.

Once the discussion started, Taylor keyed into it in a new way.  He understood in a way he'd never experienced before.  When the startup's lead developer described the approach they'd taken, Taylor understood, in a detailed way, exactly what he meant.  More than that, as the description spread out in his mind, he clearly saw the layout of the data that would feed into the system from the startup's business partners and envisioned how those systems pulled data components from their own customer data.  He held the entire value chain in his mind at once, simultaneously seeing both detail and scope.  While they talked about data that supported their application's function, Taylor's mind mapped out source data from upstream and planned possible business ventures using the data produced by the startup and the startup's clients.  It was unlike any experience Taylor had ever felt or even conceived possible.

It was clarity.  Every detail in his mind was clear.  He knew why they'd designed the software the way they had even though they'd not even alluded to it in the discussion.  He projected from their design that they'd missed most of the business opportunities he saw for their product.  They were too-narrowly focused on their primary deliverable.  Taylor saw what they missed.  It was exhilarating to feel such a solid understanding of things yet-to-occur.  Things he knew wouldn't occur unless he shared his insights.

He realized that he'd said something, and that everyone was staring at him.

He took a deep breath and plunged in, telling them about all the opportunities they'd missed.  In his excitement, he started too many steps away from their own conclusions.  When he saw they weren't following his logic, he backed up and talked through connections until he saw a few of them nodding.

Moving to the whiteboard, he diagrammed the opportunities he saw and made scribbled notes and plans that were three steps beyond deliverables they'd considered.  Taylor smiled thinking that they looked like a table of bobble-heads as one-by-one they caught on.

Then he recommended changes to their approach.  Changes would require major rework now, but align better with more downstream opportunities.  He looked back from the board and saw his ideas slowly gel for each of them.

But Taylor's own team from Berc didn't get it.  Where the startup's developers had spent months discussing the application's design requirements and business opportunities, the consultants had no frame of reference to connect with Taylor's ideas.

Taylor's boss was not pleased.  "Mr. Taylor, if you would please join me outside for a moment, I think we should leave the technical discussion to the technical people."

Outside, his boss was furious.  After several minutes he let Taylor know that this recent behavior seemed to fit into a pattern that had apparently been disappointing for some time.  Taylor reeled, and realized he was a lot closer to losing his job than anyone had communicated to him before.

At which point, the conference room door opened.  The startup's lead architect asked, "Could Mr. Taylor rejoin us?  The developers would like to ask him some questions and pick his brain."

For a moment, neither responded.  Taylor grinned meanly at his boss and said, "Of course, I would be glad to."

Two years later, the startup's Initial Public Offering was the third largest of the year.  Every startup employee in the meeting that day became a millionaire.

15

Taylor didn't quit immediately.

Over the next several weeks, he learned more about his new talent.

The consulting business was an ideal test environment, supplying opportunities to discuss widely-ranging industries and areas of specialized research with plenty of experts.  After just a few moments, the background knowledge, conclusions and theories for each person became his own, as if he'd spent his entire life studying healthcare devices, circuit design, refining, dozens of diverse manufacturing systems, government, anything.  Each time, experts came in haughty and confident that they knew everything, and left realizing they'd only scratched the surface.  They were invariably excited and anxious to get back to begin work on the new ideas Taylor showed them.

Taylor learned the more specialized the group was, the easier it was to focus their/his thoughts, allowing more detailed mental maps projecting further upstream and downstream.  Groups of people with more generalized backgrounds limited his projection scope.

Even in these situations however, his own processing power was orders of magnitude greater.  At times, he'd tune out the discussion around him and make his own plans using the processing power of those around him without them being even slightly aware.  There seemed to be no reduction of their own capabilities during the process and no visible sign anything was happening.

Distance proved to be a limiting factor.  Over a few sessions, he learned that the connections could only be sustained over relatively short distances – close to twenty feet.

Each additional person added to the processing power at his disposal and their understanding of the world became his own.  He couldn't see their memories, but he had their understanding and their knowledge.  Taylor thought of it in the same way a person imagining the smell of a Magnolia anticipates the fragrance from memory without any idea where they first cataloged the smell.  They couldn't possibly recall the first time they'd smelled the flower, but readily anticipated it from memory.  He knew everything they knew without awareness of when and how they'd learned it.

He also learned timesharing didn't last.  As soon as his connection to the others was broken, usually by distance and sometimes by his own choice, he lost clarity and even the understanding of the ideas he'd shared moments before.  One minute he fully understood the most complex theories and the next he had only the vaguest idea what he'd been thinking about.

There seemed to be too little available space in his own mind to archive the resources he marshalled during timesharing.  All the clarity fell like dew to the ground without the network connection to sustain it.

So he made checklists and took extensive notes.  During the timesharing sessions, he wrote step-by-step instructions to himself.  His "smarter" self devised long-range strategies for building a business, for acquiring wealth, and for manipulating other people.  He scribbled detailed instructions he could follow even without understanding their full scope outside of the sessions.  He hadn't yet conceived the glove he now used, so he relied on pen and pad.

He learned the instructions had to be very specific.  Once he lost the connection, he couldn't understand why he'd wanted to do something.  So he relied heavily on the checklists.  Gradually, he stopped second-guessing his smarter self.  If the checklist told him to do something, he knew his smarter version had figured out that it would be good for him.

One day, after meeting with a team of entrepreneurial advisors during a session at Berc, he'd come out of the conference room, and picked up a soda and sat down in his office to read his checklist.  It said…

"1. Quit job - TODAY."

He'd started "Timeshare Counsel, Inc." using all the money he'd accumulated in his retirement fund.  He'd picked the right clients at every step, starting with a small client whose father was retired military because his checklist indicated they had defense contract connections.

When he needed a skillset for his own business strategies or marketing, he'd go to a conference and sit in on sessions with dozens of experts.  Pages scribbled from his pen as he tried to keep pace with the flow of thoughts and ideas.  Afterward he was always exhilarated.  Rather than leaving him tired, the experience made him feel as if he were taking on the world, and winning.  He'd stop by someplace expensive on the way home and eat dinner alone thumbing through the notes.  He read them as if they'd been written by someone else.  The notes were interesting, but he couldn't always follow their logic.

It always worked.  As long as he followed the checklists, everything worked out well.  The security of knowing in advance that everything you were doing would work was addictive.  He withdraw from situations that weren't detailed in the checklists, feeling uncomfortable with routine chores and awkward in hallway conversations.   He was especially awkward with women until he'd found a relationship therapy group that met twice a month.

The group was led by a psychologist with two assisting interns.  At first, he'd gone to the therapy group alone.  He'd told the others that his girlfriend wouldn't come.  There were a couple other singles at the session, a man and a woman, so it wasn't that unusual.  Of course, Taylor was the only one who brought a notepad.  Watching him sitting alone taking copious notes, some of the others decided a psychologist was probably not required to understand his problem with women.  One young couple found him especially amusing.  They'd glance toward him when his head was bent over the notepad and wisecrack to each other, hiding their grins behind coughs or quickly looking down into a brochure.  He didn't care that he was their entertainment.  The whole time they twittered and mocked him, he was using both of their minds to make his life better.  They'll be back here in two weeks, still trying to figure each other out, and I'll be using what I'm learning here to get women to do whatever I want.

Which he did.  Like an actor studying his lines, Taylor reviewed and rehearsed from the therapy session notes, until he was able to present himself as someone who cared about other people, felt compassion toward need, who preferred listening to speaking and who was interested in a woman's opinions.  It wasn't easy at first.  He pretended to be the exact opposite of the way he actually felt.  But it was worth the effort.  Like fishing, it required patience.  Some sensed his insincerity and darted away, but he became an increasingly proficient angler.

Occasionally, he'd entangle himself with a woman he couldn't free himself from.  He tried to avoid women he met professionally.  Clients or members of organizations that he volunteered with to worm his way into business opportunities couldn't just be told to get lost or not called, so he avoided them.  There'd only been a couple that were just too exciting to resist.  After a few weeks, he was ready to move on, but was trapped by a need to keep a professional relationship with them.  For these situations, he returned to the couple's therapy group for more insight.

He asked these "clingers" to come with him to the session, claiming he wanted to build deeper relationships with them.  While the others looked for ways to strengthen their bond to each other, Taylor used his timesharing connection to probe his partner's doubts.  He uncovered the aspects of his behavior which caused them concern and over the next week he reinforced their fears.  It didn't take many demonstrations to solidify a preexisting doubt.  They soon broke off the relationship.  He pretended to be hurt and confused by their decision so they'd feel guilty.  After the first time, he swore off dating anyone he knew professionally.  He smiled to himself at the thought that he was constantly out of step with everyone else.  The other couples were there to stay together and he was there to blow up his relationship.  Everyone around him tried unsuccessfully to connect with others and for him it was easy.  He had an ability to connect deeper than they could imagine, solely for his own objectives.

16

Taylor gradually drew away from situations not addressed by the checklists.  The checklists were the plans his smarter self made.  As long as he followed the checklists everything worked out great.  If a situation was addressed by one of the checklists, he felt calm and confident, knowing that everything would go according to plan.  The only times he felt confused and uncertain were the situations in-between.  The big blocks of his daily activities were covered.  The moments or small activities glued between weren't.  Those moments frustrated him and he avoided them whenever possible.  Following directions from the checklists felt like flowing downstream.  Everything was going to work out.  Anything not on the list made him anxious - like walking too close to the edge of a cliff, dangerous and risky.

It was challenging at first to explain his constant note-taking.  He tried to throw it off as a technique he used to augment a poor memory, explaining that writing helped him remember.  He didn't care all that much what anyone else thought anyway.  There wasn't anything they could do if someone wanted to take notes.  The real problem with note-taking was that he couldn't keep pace with the open hydrant of timeshared ideas.  His hand would be painfully stiff after a session and he'd still miss more than half the ideas.

He timeshared with some innovative computer tablet designers looking for a solution.  He was leading a discussion at the whiteboard projecting the most likely future market directions straight out of the mind of one of the clients.  He was phoning it in, relying mostly on what the clients own research suggested – they were almost right, close enough.  He was running idea paths through their networked thoughts to see if there was anything else interesting, when he noticed one engineer's pet project.  The engineer was working on a next-generation input device – a wearable keyboard.  Each letter was communicated wirelessly by the positioning of the user's fingers in relation to each other.  The prototype the engineer developed followed the finger position of a normal keyboard, to minimize the learning curve.  Taylor dismissed this approach immediately.  He disengaged his focus from the whiteboard session without any noticeable change.  He was easily able to continue leading the discussion and interacting with their questions while he pulled the information on the prototype input device over to another mental workbench.  He heard his own voice like a television playing in the background while he worked.

The engineer's main design limitation, the user's learning curve, wasn't a problem for him.  He'd only be taking notes during timesharing sessions, when he had the network of multiple minds – so he could easily manage very complex command movements.  He wasn't limited by any existing keyboard metaphor.  He wasn't limited to letters.  He could design swipes and combinations to communicate elaborate instructions and macro commands.  Standing at the whiteboard, with the engineers taking down market projection calculations he aggregated from their minds, he designed the command glove he used in the meeting with Hack.

Taylor abandoned the two-glove model he'd picked from the engineer's mind.  He wanted everything to be managed by one hand so he could attract less attention.  Taking frantic notes tended to dampen conversation and openness and there were times when people became suspicious of his scribbling.  If he could avoid their notice, that saved unnecessary explanation.  The command glove's first layer was a keyboard with the right side "U-I-O-P" keys at the lowest level and the left side "Q-W-E-R-T-Y" a level higher.  Extending his fingers reached the top keys and pulling them back selected the lower keys from a traditional keyboard.  The fingertips would transmit tactile feedback through tiny electrical pads.  He thought his mind would learn to translate the tiny impacts to give him a sense of the keyboard under his fingers.  Within ten minutes, he had a keyboard design in mind that he felt would work.  He knew he could easily learn to use it.  He thought the command glove resembled a conductor's movements, or a puppeteer's movements.  He smiled at the thought of himself as both puppet and puppeteer with the command glove providing instructions from his smarter self to his normal self.  With his back to the engineers, his smile was unnoticed.

Realizing he'd only used two depth layers of hand movement for his command glove design, he added other functions with his wrist pulled back further and layers with his fingers further forward.  The initial keyboard layer became a zero layer, with six more layers "up" as his wrist pulled back and eight more layers as he bent his wrist forward.  One layer contained a series of communication commands that he could use to send commands to his staff.

He used the tactile responses for return communications, with tiny finger impacts sending messages back from his staff or other reading systems through the letters.  The smaller impact was for the right side letters and the slightly heavier impact was for the traditionally-placed left side.  The impact location placed the key.  The whole system built upon the physical finger-memory that is unnoticed in the blur of interaction with a keyboard.  For Taylor's hyper-awareness, nothing was unnoticed.  He could register the keyboard as easily as any blind person read braille and never lose a step in concentration.  He had so much excess capacity, he could afford to focus on any number of activities.

He contracted the client's designer to develop the command glove for him.  They agreed that Taylor would keep 40% of the proceeds from any development of the command glove and the patents would be exclusively in the designer's name, with Taylor as a silent and confidential partner.  The designer was eager for the funding Taylor provided, although frustrated with Taylor's insistence on layering so many commands into the glove.  He argued that the added complexity was too great for anyone to learn and begged him to focus only on the two-layer keyboard instead.  Taylor knew the engineer was right.  No adult could adapt to the command glove's complexity.  A child of reasonable intelligence could learn to use the command glove, with years of use, but no adult could, except Taylor himself.  He insisted several prototypes be built before he allowed the engineer to move forward with his own more simple and marketable designs.

By the time Taylor met with Hack, he'd integrated the command glove fully into his consulting process.  Commands he issued with the glove were centrally collected by a networked ticketing system.  Tasks and assignments became tickets.  His staff monitored the ticket system, picking off tasks by area of responsibility and running down information.  With the full staff posting independent responses, the routine feedback overloaded the glove's tactile response system with inbound information, restricting his outbound communication.  He changed the process to route the team's responses back through his executive assistant first.  The assistant filtered most of the routine responses, reducing return communications to a manageable level.

During sessions, the office became a buzzing newsroom of activity.  Each person had specific tasks and produced a dedicated part of the final report, following the guidance Taylor provided through the command glove.

They believed Taylor to be a true genius.  There seemed to be no other explanation for his wide breadth of knowledge and unmatched multitasking.  From their perspective, Taylor was almost a computer himself, with an uncanny ability to simultaneously dictate different assignments.  They'd watched text composing itself in two tasks at the same time as Taylor's keyboard jumped from task-to-task directing different activities.  He often talked of timesharing.  They thought he meant that he was the ultra-fast computer and they were the users.  His genius provided them some consolation for his self-centered behavior.  They chalked it up as the understandable eccentricity of a great mind.  He could afford to pay high salaries which also helped people overlook his poor manners.

17

In the weeks following the discovery of his abilities, Taylor registered for a neuroscience conference.  He wanted to understand how his timesharing actually worked.

Taylor stood at the conference hall's doorway looking in on rows of metal frame, soft-padded chairs at the room's near-capacity crowd.  He guessed there might be 400 people in the room.

No way, he thought, looking around the room.  I can't go in there.

Physicians continued to filter past him into the hotel's Grand Ballroom from the registration table.  Their little "Hi my name is" tags scrawled with names and strings of credentials.

Taylor backed out of the room, feeling the disappointment that always accompanied disrupted mental connections.

When he formed new connections, he always experienced racing thoughts and crystal clarity, as well as a pleasant euphoric feeling.  When the connections were locking in, he sometimes felt an imagined wind and sunlight in his face as if he were cruising down a coastal road, flowing along road curves.  He raced, feeling his foot constantly increasing the gas, the pedal never actually reaching the floor.  Faster and faster.  As the connections increased, the driving feeling faded and in place of the car underneath, he saw the highway itself under and around him as he lifted up and flew straight into open air over endless seas toward the sun.  By that point, he would be immersed in the thoughts and ideas and plans of the people around him and begin to drive them in the directions he chose.

When he pulled away from the connections, the euphoria drained, leaving him feeling disappointed and lonely, like a runner sprinting to cheers of the crowd who suddenly finds himself alone on the track, still running but alone.  Without the notes and checklists, the lasting feeling would have been only depression and loss, but reading his notes afterward always inspired and invigorated him.  He knew he was truly special, possibly unique in all the world.  His staff believed him to be a genius, but they had actually underestimated his uniqueness.  There were many with genius intellect and would be more born in the future, but he knew there was no one like him.

Backing out of the Grand Ballroom, he snatched a meeting agenda from the registration desk.  The agenda listed several breakout sessions.  He selected one with a ridiculous long title and an impressive speaker's biography.  Taylor checked his watch and headed for the breakout room, hoping for an empty seat in the audience center.

18

He'd learned over the years to avoid large rooms of people.  The connections were completely overpowering.  Any time he found himself in the midst of a large number of people, he kept moving.  The wide neural net he generated didn't connect immediately.  He'd feel an invisible tug toward others as the connections initiated.  As long as he kept moving the connection didn't lock in.

In his mind, he imagined the neural net of his timeshare connection hanging a few feet overhead, and slowly descending on those around him in the way a heavy tent drapes around a support pole.  The heavy shroud he imagined fell without slowing from their head until it reached the floor.  The dark heaviness of it left behind a sparkling mesh of pin-sized lights, brightest in a twenty foot radius around him.  Its outer boundary felt indefinite, fading gradually with distance.

At first, the dark shroud and sparkling mesh was something he only imagined.  Over time though, he'd become accustomed to thinking of the process this way, and the mesh felt almost tangible.

Connections took time, so he'd left the Grand Ballroom before an intoxicating flood of information and ideas overwhelmed him.

When he first discovered his ability, he soon learned that more people yielded greater processing power.  He hadn't realized there was an upper limit until he'd attended a play.

He'd been testing his limits then.  The closeness of a theater, with strangers sitting quietly in the dark around him, seemed a perfect opportunity.  As he started to relax in his seat, he felt his arms grow heavy.  He closed his eyes and unpacked himself, stretching out into the minds in the darkness around him.  It was exhilarating, as if his mind had lived in a cramped, confined space and now had a wide-open field.  It wanted to run and keep running.  His thoughts raced away.

He learned two important lessons that day.

Most of his experimentation was during consulting sessions at Berc.  These sessions all had some purpose, some objective, a focus shared by each attendee, at least to some extent.  The clients spent months or even years, working on a product, or some new technology that had become, essentially, their life.  They thought about their jobs during the day and consciously or subconsciously when away from work.  While they relaxed, their minds wrestled the challenges that dominated their attention during the day.  The Berc consultants didn't have the extensive focus in any particular area that their clients had, but the mental stimulation of learning something new and their desire to identify anything a client might have missed or might find valuable gave them cohesion.

Consistency of purpose and mission proved ideal for Taylor's timesharing.  It was most powerful when his own objectives for the session mapped more closely to the experience and interests of surrounding minds.  When he took knowledge and insights from transportation executives and developed new ideas and transportation services for example, the concepts were market-disrupting and innovative.  Trying to leverage a wide neural network of those same executives to select stocks for a portfolio might produce some good insights, but nothing of the same scale.

The wide neural net of the play's audience was a tornado of incoherent subconscious interests.  No amount of effort seemed sufficient to maintain Taylor's own determined line of thought.  Without a subconscious unifying focus, Taylor's racing thoughts were pure chaos.  He would focus on one thing, only to find himself hopelessly distracted seconds later.  He couldn't retain a chain of thought long enough in memory to add the next link.  He had massive processing capability with no means to control it.

That was the first lesson - without a unifying background or focus large groups were impossible to focus as timeshares.

The second lesson involved his maximum operating range in a tightly-packed crowd.  Most of his experience timesharing was in the consulting meetings with clients.  The conference rooms were sufficiently large that everyone maintained a comfortable distance from each other.  He'd experimented with his own location in the meetings, moving as far as possible from the others – as subtly as possible, telling them he wasn't feeling well and didn't want anyone else to get sick.

They mostly ignored him anyway.  He'd made enemies of all but the most charitable and forgiving.  He never tried to ingratiate himself and once clients started to ask for him specifically, he wasted no time rubbing it in.  The staff was relieved when he sat away from the table for any reason.

When a speaker moved around close to him, they stayed connected in the neural net.  As long as they didn't move too far away he could sense their mind and feel his own thoughts speed on.  Those further away could disconnect easily with any movement at all.  He'd become annoyed with people for connecting and disconnecting.  They, of course, had no idea.  It was an unbearable distraction to be forcing a stream of thought through the timeshared minds, frantically taking notes to collect the best concepts and observations along the way and not wanting the stream's flow from one idea to another to slow – only to have someone get up and go to the bathroom.  He'd be disrupted in mid-thought and would sit blinking, trying to remember what he'd had in mind.

He occasionally found himself staring with tight, frustrated eyes at people who left and returned.   He'd catch himself with no idea how long he'd been staring.  Sometimes they were looking at him too.  It wasn't hard to imagine this behavior was probably not helping him fit in.

From the consulting sessions, he established twenty feet as his maximum operating range.

In the theatre the seats were much closer than anyone's comfortable personal space.  He found his seat just after the play began, weaving between knees and seat backs to make his way to it.  He breathed in deeply, anticipating an enjoyable experience.  He kept a notebook for notes.  There was no point, Taylor figured, to being smarter than everyone else if you didn't make it pay off.  During the play he planned to timeshare through some of his strategies for the upcoming week.

Deep breathing relaxed him.  He opened his eyes to watch the dark shroud drop past the people around him.  The vision was so compelling, he couldn't tell whether his eyes actually saw it.  The shroud seemed convincingly real.  As it dropped, the glittering radiance of the wide neural net in the dark theatre was stunning.  Taylor saw a weave of bright glistening webs concentrated and bright over the heads of those beside and in front of him.  He watched as one by one, they lit up and he felt…

He felt confused and anxious.  He'd expected the clarity and calm of the timesharing sessions he had experienced in the conference room, and he began to understand the importance of shared background.

His thoughts ran away from him.  A woman three rows down was thinking about the things she would need to pick up after the play for lunch tomorrow.  Taylor felt her anxiety as she looked at a mental image of her pantry to see if she had used the last of the oregano.  He grew anxious along with her.  He noticed how bright the theatre was becoming as the radiant webs appeared over more and more people.  His mind raced, running a few steps with one mind before jumping alongside another.

He couldn't recall a single thought from the last hour when he blinked awake in the theatre.  People were standing and leaving their seats.  It was intermission.  As those closest to him left, the timeshare tumbled apart.  The blackout scared him.  He looked at his watch.  He'd lost more than an hour.

He'd been lost in the expanse of hundreds of minds connected in the timeshare without any unifying background.  His own thoughts wandered from the fleeting thoughts of one person to another.  He looked at the pad.  He'd scribbled the page over with circles and squiggled erratic marks.  It was almost black.  He'd left marks on his pants as the pen drifted off.  He realized that he must have sat through several bouts of audience applause and laughter, completely oblivious.  He wondered if he'd been drooling or making sounds.  Thankfully not - there were no wet spots on his pants.  There was no way to know if he'd made noises.

People were coming back into the theatre.  Taylor jumped to his feet, dropping the notebook and his pen, realizing he would need to get out before the people around him started to reconnect the timeshare net.  He bent and looked for the notebook, spotting it on the floor of the row below.  He stretched and stepped over the seat into the lower row as people turned to look.  He didn't care what they thought.  He had to get out of there quickly, but the book was critical.  It was filled with dozens of checklists he'd compiled.  Once he had the book, he hurriedly left.

Reflecting on the experience outside, he'd learned the second lesson of the evening.  His timesharing limits were greatly extended when participants were close together.  If the wide neural net was always there but unnoticed, that made sense.  He was the only person who could see and use the net, but it was always there.  Perhaps people felt it without noticing it, attributing the effects to themselves.  When they were in a room brainstorming with people of like background, they felt sharp clarity and when they were in a room full of people with diverse thoughts, their minds wandered easily.

He was glad to have escaped notice and wondered what he would have done if he'd awoken in a mental institution.  The adrenalin shakes stayed with him for the rest of the evening.  He avoided theatres afterward and was careful to keep moving in crowds.

19

He sat quietly in the neuroscience conference breakout session and timeshared the minds of the forty-one physicians.  They never noticed.  No one ever did.  It didn't seem to have any impact on what they were doing.  They just carried on with their presentations and discussions, while his wide neural net draped over them.

Taylor wanted to understand his timesharing and using the experiences and accumulated knowledge of this group, he developed a theory.  He had written it all down at the time, of course, and kept the notes, although he could only understand a few of the notes later.  But he had a good enough idea of how it worked to get by, a working knowledge.

The popular model explaining the mind's function centers on neurotransmitters passing information chemically along concentration gradients that are like paths or stream beds between the billions of neurons in a typical brain.  During the breakout session, Taylor pieced together theories from the fabric of experience around him.

The chemical information could be thought of as a "last mile" connection.  The popular model of chemical information packets might explain how ideas converted to action, but not how an idea formed in the first place.  Taylor was amazed that he'd never before considered how something as intangible as an idea could be created by chemical and biological physical structures.  Sitting there in the breakout session, he imagined shaking a toolbox around and having ideas fall out.  So little was actually understood about the mind that the popular theories for ideas arising from an amorphous concept of complexity weren't all that different.

It was as if someone looking at a highway saw dozens of tankers and assumed they transported everything, never noticing the telephone wires running along the highway carrying smaller packets of information faster and over greater distances.  The scientists at the conference just waved their hands as explanations for where the original spark of an idea or concept began.  They were seemingly satisfied attributing the process to complexity, as ridiculous, Taylor thought, as the idea of thousands of networked computers developing sentience, or a thousand jabbering monkeys.

Sitting in the conference and tapping into the processing power of everyone in the room proved there was some form of information transmission beyond the crude chemical transport within a single mind.  There was something more, obviously.

There's probably someone in this room who believes there's a unifying connection between all us, he thought.  He looked at the faces around him.   Some poor guy that's tried for years to get people to believe him, to get his research funded, Taylor thought, smiling with only the slightest uptick in the corner of his mouth.  He stared at one of the physicians that was not even looking at the speaker, but taking notes as fast as his hand could move.  That guy.  He's one.  He doesn't believe every invention, every plan for the future the human mind generates, is caused by little chemical packets dropping from one mechanism we don't understand to another one.  He knows that's not all there is.  But he can't figure out a way to prove it that doesn't give the others reason to mock him.

As Taylor stared, the disheveled young physician stopped scratching at his pad and glanced over at him.  Taylor closed his notebook on the pages of notes he'd taken.  I could buy the guy a coffee.  We could open up my notes and he would be able to move forward.  He could probably convince everyone of his theory.  He'd stop all the other research in this room that is heading toward a dead end and all these people that think he's some hack would have to admit he was right all along.

Taylor stood up and walked toward him.  As he turned down the aisle toward the door he nodded to the young physician and smiled.  The physician hesitated and then continued taking notes.

Taylor headed for the parking garage.

20

Sowyer was already at the meet-up location when Taylor arrived.  I should have guessed, thought Taylor, irritated.  No time for a nap to push the migraine back.  He's dangerous.  I should be at my best for such a delicate situation.  He would have to make do.

He pulled his car alongside Sowyer's in the deserted parking lot.  They'd agreed to meet in the lot of an abandoned department store to ensure there were no cameras.  There were no pleasantries exchanged.  Sowyer hated Taylor and Taylor couldn't name a single person he actually liked.  He nodded anyway, just an acknowledgement.

Trying to see past Sowyer into the interior of his car, he asked, "You have it?"  He was intent on keeping communication to a minimum if possible.

Sowyer seemed to have the same objective.  "Yes," he replied. "I have it.  As much as I hate dealing with you in any way, I'll give you this, your damned plan worked just like you said."

Taylor nodded.  Of course it was a good plan.  He'd set to work on a plan to acquire the artifact immediately following the session with Samuels' research team.  He removed himself from the consulting schedule and spent two weeks tracking the project's security agents.  He'd followed them to coffee shops for lunch and bars on some afternoons.

Without knowing why at first, he'd begun to suspect that Agent Sowyer and the attractive Agent Walker were having an affair.  Perhaps he'd unconsciously picked it up via timesharing, he wasn't sure.  He'd followed them to a coffee house and sat in a booth with high walls close enough that his ability told him the details of their interactions.

He'd left a note on Sowyer's windshield a week later and laid out his demands.  He'd also offered Sowyer what was a nice, financial bonus to mitigate his anger.  He didn't want Sowyer's pride to overwhelm his self-control.  Sowyer would have no reluctance to kill him if he thought he could do it without harm to his own family or career.  A little upside financial gain siphoned enough of his anger to prevent this.

Taylor guessed that the research team would have scanned the artifact to produce 3D mockups so researchers could use models for physical tests while the actual artifact underwent the long term tests for electrical, chemical and UV data.  When they needed a fixture made to hold the artifact in place, they sent the plastic models to the fabrication department rather than the artifact itself.  The models were created by a laser-etching process from a plastic material.  The plastic models wouldn't serve Taylor's purposes, but the mapped 3D data coordinates would.  He instructed Sowyer to download them.

From these coordinates, Taylor contracted a machinist to create a perfect Aluminum duplicate.  Aluminum was a little heavier than the glass-metal artifact, but Taylor knew the artifact would be out of the lab for the next several months as Samuels carried it to secret congressional sub-committee meetings.  The NSA needed additional funding and everyone was fascinated by the artifact's potential.

Photographs copied by Sowyer ensured similar surface features and gloss for the duplicate.

The artifact was routinely transported within the research facility 2-3 times per week.  Sowyer and the other security agents handled all transport.  Years of routine repetition lowered attention to detail and gave Sowyer opportunities to switch the original and duplicate.  Sowyer sent the duplicate to himself via overnight delivery to arrive on Saturday.  Sowyer and the other agents alternated Saturday coverage and they typically carried Saturday mail to the inspection facility themselves.

Sowyer picked up the package.  He opened and scanned the other items and hid the fake artifact.  A week later, he had an opportunity to switch out the artifact as he picked it up from the research lab and put it into its travel case.  Major Samuels palmed the case closed.  The duplicate was so close in appearance that even for the few seconds that Sowyer had both in hand, he could only perceive a slight difference in the weight.  Samuels hadn't noticed anything in the second between Sowyer laying the artifact in the case and palming the lock.

Sowyer fought back adrenalin shakes after the high-stakes experience, but sitting in his office later, it began to sink in that Taylor's plan had actually worked.  As much as he hated Taylor's smug satisfaction and disregard for anyone else, he rationalized that the money Taylor offered would give him a chance to make amends.  He'd broken off the affair with Walker shortly after receiving Taylor's note.  Fear of losing his family and career provided a pause and resurgent clarity and he now wondered at what he'd almost lost.  Walker didn't seem overly concerned.  He suspected her attention might now be focused on Samuels.  "Good luck," he thought – not sure which of them might need it most.

Taylor was so excited it was hard to contain his reaction.  He held his checklist folded in his hand, for reassurance more than anything else.  He'd read this list so many times, he could rewrite it from memory if necessary.  He was currently working on "13. Keep Sowyer calm.  He is inclined toward anger and has tendencies toward solving problems with violence – do not argue with him about anything!"

He found this challenging.  He didn't like Sowyer and would have loved to make him feel worse, if possible.  Focus on the big picture, he reminded himself.

He said, "That's good, Agent Sowyer, I knew that you would be successful.  You're extremely capable."

Sowyer said nothing, staring at him like a bug in need of a heavy boot.

"This is going to be just fine Agent Sowyer, you have nothing to fear.  Major Samuels is making rounds with the artifact for the next 35 days taking it from one end of government bureaucracy to another, allowing congressional committees to see the artifact first hand.  He has to keep his superiors happy so the research funds keep flowing".

No response.  Reassure him.  Keep him calm.

"By the time the artifact returns to the lab, it will have traveled from sub-committee to sub-committee, been handled by dozens of bureaucrats – making it impossible to track down exactly when and where it was replaced by our forgery," said Taylor, smiling and excited.

"They'll have hundreds of possible leads with no surety as to how long they've held the forgery.  And they'll want to keep it quiet.  Their investigation will be hamstrung by their desire to avoid disclosing to anyone that the artifact has been replaced.  It will take months and produce no results."

Grinding his teeth, Sowyer prompted, "What about me?  What about my family?"

"You have every reason to trust me Agent Sowyer," assured Taylor.  Sowyer huffed at this and shook his head, but Taylor pretended not to notice. "Our interests are the same now.  We both want to keep our relationship confidential.  You will be free to refocus your attention to your wife and family.  There's no reason for her to ever know about the situation with Agent Walker."

Reaching into his back seat, he said "I have the money."  Show him the carrot, get his mind off the stick.

"This is not blackmail," he said.  "We're doing business.  It's good for both of us."

"It's blackmail alright, you're not fooling anyone.  Give it to me."

He reached into the bag and thumbed through the cash stacks without pulling them out.  When he finished, he held the bag up.  "This your idea of a joke?" he asked, looking at the "Mr. Wonderful" stencil.

Standing face-to-face, Taylor regretted the tease.  "A little levity hurts no one Agent Sowyer."  At least I hope not, he thought remembering #13.  Sowyer was a soldier with hand-to-hand combat training and sixty pounds on Taylor.

"It's going to be fine Agent Sowyer.  As soon as you give me the artifact, we will never meet again.  You'll be free to live your life with a nice little bonus to boot."

Sowyer reached into his passenger seat and handed Taylor the artifact.  Holding it for just a second too long in order to draw Taylor's eyes up to meet his own for a last stared threat.

Taylor sat in his car as Sowyer drove away.  Threats were unnecessary.  Taylor had the artifact now.  He held it.  Somewhere far back in his mind, he tried to understand why he'd wanted it.

He opened his checklist, looking for #14.

21

Leo blinked several times.  There was barely any difference in what he saw with his eyes open or closed.  It was dark.  He sat up quickly, horrified to be alone, in the woods, at night.  He looked about him trying to see everything around him at once.  Oh no.  Oh no, no, no, No!  I've got to get out of here.  He knew his mother would be frantic, and he would be in serious trouble.  He sat up fast, forgetting the briars hanging overhead.  Having also forgotten the sleeve, he lifted his left arm up to push them away.  Lowering his sleeved left arm into his lap he pressed thorns away with back of his right arm with a small whimper escaping his throat.

The sleeve and the stream were the brightest features in the darkness.  The sleeve reflected moonlight scatter as did the stream's rolling wavelets as they slid across dark stones.  He shifted himself to sit more upright and touched the back of the sleeve's forearm with his right hand.

A faint blue pinpoint of light was visible as he raised his fingers back off the surface.  Squinting at it, he was unsure if it came from the sleeve or was a moonlight reflection.  The pinpoint was right where his fingertip had touched.  He raised the forearm closer to his eyes, just as the pinpoint started to move.  It followed a slowly swirling arc and left an even fainter blue phosphor trace behind.  The phosphor trace faded as the pinpoint moved.  Leo judged by the trace's pattern that the pinpoint was following one of the designs he'd seen etched into the surface.

The slowly moving pinpoint separated into two lines, with each traveling in opposite directions across the forearm.  When they were three inches apart, both changed direction and traveled on parallel paths toward the sleeve's fingers.  After five inches, they changed direction again and came back together – leaving a rectangular trace on the forearm.  This rectangle brightened and a new pinpoint appeared in the center.  This one was orange.  It flared brightly for a second, then faded in intensity and began to flash on and off every two seconds.

Faint blue triangles appeared around the orange pinpoint.  The triangles were different sizes with different heights and bases.  When a squiggled, wavy line appeared beside the orange pinpoint, Leo realized the rectangle was a map.  The wavy line was the stream and the triangles were the mountains surrounding him.

As he watched, a line dropped from the apex of each triangle to its base.  Another line extended from the intersection of the vertical line with the triangle's base, and swept a radius, leaving a contour trace as it spiraled back to the apex of each triangle.  The movement stopped with contours of each hill around Leo marked on the map.

Another orange pinpoint appeared two inches outside the rectangular map and began flashing in time with the original one.  Leo thought the second marker must be another piece of the sleeve.  After a minute when nothing new was added to the map, Leo remembered the spike in his arm.

Can I pull it back out?  He felt along his arm in the dark, his fingers coming to the wet skin, punctured by the spike and still slightly bleeding.  He was glad that at least it hadn't bled much.  Feeling around the point where his skin met the spike brought cold sweat to his forehead and he felt himself swim and sway.  He pulled his hand away fearing that he might pass out again.

He noticed how fast he was breathing.  His breath was catching and rebounding too quickly.  He forced a long inhale that helped.  Don't want to pass out again.

He looked again at the other orange pinpoint.  Should I walk over to see that other orange marker before I go home, or get out of here before something worse happens?  It's not bleeding anymore, and only hurts if I raise my arm too high.

He looked at the lights on the sleeve, wondering what powered them.  If the batteries, or whatever, died before he found the other piece, could he find it himself?

He decided that if the sleeve was worth something, it would be better to have two pieces than just one.  Once other people saw it, there might be a lot of people looking for the rest and he might not get anything else.

He stood up unsteadily, stooping to avoid briars and squinting cover for his eyes.  Stepping back into the water helped wake him up.  The stream's refreshing coolness during the hot day felt cold and clammy in the moonlight.

After a few careful minutes wading, crouched through the briar tunnel with a patchwork of additional scratches on his back and right arm he stepped out of the stream onto the cracked asphalt.  He looked at the map again to get his bearing, trying to locate the other sleeve piece and noticed that a red pinpoint had appeared on the map.  Leo looked up at the dark silhouettes of the mountains to figure out where the red pinpoint indicated.

A loud exhalation broke the quiet darkness.  Leo froze.  Black bears were common in East Tennessee's mountains.  He'd come across a couple after his initial encounter.  They usually sensed people from a hundred yards away.  They blew warning blasts of air from their nose, warning people to stay back.  Leo didn't move and didn't breathe.  Seeing a bear in your back yard or crossing a road was one thing.  Seeing a bear after you'd hiked miles out into a quiet forest was another, and hearing one in the woods at night that you couldn't see was worse.  Listening so intently, it felt as if he was almost reaching his mind out to "feel" what caused the noise.

Another loud snort and then fast shuffling of leaves that meant something was running.  His heart raced.  Which way?  Realizing he couldn't actually see the bear regardless of how hard he might try through the dark woods, Leo looked at the map.

He breathed in again when he saw the red marker moving away from the – his – orange marker.  He stayed still and quiet, terrified that the red marker might move closer again.

He watched the red light travel outside the rectangle and move along the outside of the sleeve's forearm.  After it moved three inches outside the map, it winked out.   Leo listened but couldn't hear it shuffling through the leaves any longer.

He waited a few more minutes watching apprehensively for the red dot to reappear, wiping old sweat from his forehead and eyes.  He realized he was sweating a lot even though he shivered from the night's chill.  Sliding his feet to avoid tripping over upturned asphalt pieces, limbs and grass patches, he made his way along the cracked old road.  The stars and moon sliver provided just enough contrast to make silhouettes of the familiar hills and trees surrounding the road.  Having traveled this same route in the daylight many times helped him navigate.

Leo came to a point on the road he judged to be closest to the other orange pinpoint and stopped.  The dark woods lay quiet and forbidding in the direction the map indicated.  Judging by the distance he had already covered on the map, the other object must be up the hillside, less than a few hundred yards more.  In the daylight, he could probably see the spot from here, unless it was around the curve of a hill – but when he stepped into the woods, he'd block out even the dim moonlight he had on the road and it would be really, really dark.

But it was so close.  He listened for shuffling leaves or cracking branches. He looked again at the faintly-illuminated map and wondered how long its power would last.  Without the map, there'd be no hope of finding the other piece.  I've got to see what it is.

He stepped into the shadowed trees.

22

It turned out that the short distance the map implied was misleading.  The map didn't account for briars or twisting rhododendron branches.

In the pitch blackness, there was no way to know briar branches were in front of him, until they caught on his clothes or face. These were big thorny berry branches and they went through his pants and shirt right into skin.  He couldn't tell if they were raspberry or blackberry.  From past experience though, he knew there'd be smears of color on his clothes tomorrow that would tell the tale.  When he'd gone through patches of them on prior, daylight hikes, he came home to find hundreds of small scratches where unnoticed briars had dragged over skin without tearing his clothes.  The scratches burned in the shower for days afterward.

With no way to avoid them, Leo ploughed through, shielding himself as much as possible by the sleeved left arm and keeping his eyes squinted.  Even though he couldn't see anything but tree and branch silhouettes outlined against the silvery night sky, he didn't want to completely close his eyes.  That felt too vulnerable.  Looking at the map lights every minute or so, dim as they were at least gave him some reassurance.

The briars thinned out but only to make way for rhododendron branches.  Leo hated rhododendron branches.  They were nearly impenetrable with many twisting branches stemming from each plant base.  The branches ranged from over an inch to small twigs.  Each twisted and crossed over each other, weaving a continuous net.  In the daylight, Leo avoided them wherever possible as they forced him to wind his way through, spending more time moving sideways than forward.  Adults all loved them and thought the flowers were beautiful, but they weren't typically crawling through them.

Briar patches were usually over a small area, passable in a couple minutes' walk.  Rhododendron patches sometimes covered an entire hillside.  The short distance indicated on his map, could take 15-20 minutes even in daylight.  Leo thought about going back several times, but realized that he'd just be crawling back through the rhododendron branches.

It was always easier traveling atop ridgelines.  The rhododendrons stopped short of the top, and larger trees there starved undergrowth, making an easy walk.  If he could find the other piece of, whatever the sleeve was, indicated by the orange pinpoint, he could make his way upslope and get home faster.

The ridges also felt safer.  Anything would have to come uphill, giving him more opportunity to hear, or possibly see, it further off.

Winding through the branches was more challenging than usual – the sleeve's top edge kept catching on branches.  Leo soon learned to avoid this.  It sent sharp pain through the spike.  He wiped sweat and grime from his forehead.  Why am I sweating so much?

He started to stand up, trying to see further around the hill's slope.  As he did, blood drained from his head and he blacked out.

23

Ethan stretched in the sunlight streaming through a dusty window, and felt its warmth on his shoulder.  He swung his feet to the floor and let his back soak in the sunlight.  He was in no hurry.  It felt like a warm blanket.

After a few minutes he reluctantly stood up, and walked to the bathroom.  The sunlight hadn't reached this far into the house, but he'd put a round stick-on light on the wall just above the electric switch.  He bumped the back of his hand against it, and the small battery-powered bulb dimly lit the bathroom.  There was a stiff washcloth hanging over the cold water valve.  He crunched it together several times to soften it, then circled it around the mirror's face clearing some of the dust.  Looking at his reflection, he realized checking the mirror had become a pointless habit.  Always the same, and no one to see me anyway.  He wasn't sure why he bothered checking the mirror at this point, but he never remembered that it was pointless until he'd wiped a circle clear and made his routine morning inspection.  Old habits.

He bumped off the stick-on light and walked outside onto the porch.  "Hey old man," he said to the golden retriever lying on the porch's wooden planks.  The dog's tail slapped the floor twice in greeting, and he smiled up at Ethan, hoping for a petting.  "Just a minute boy," he said, walking over to the side of the porch.  He relieved himself through the rails onto the grass below.

He kneeled down and scrubbed his hands through the dog's fur.  "How's Oscar this morning?  Good?  Yeah, me too buddy."  He rubbed on the dog for a while, enjoying the soft fur's feel.  "What've you been up to boy?  You look tired."  He looked to the other side of the porch and frowned at the empty feeder.  Usually lasts him at least a couple weeks.  A few times, bears or raccoons had cleaned out the entire feeder in a single night, but he didn't' think that was the case this time.  Raccoons always left the feeder in pieces, and it stood where he'd left it.  Oscar must have just eaten it all.

"Sorry boy," Ethan told the dog.  "I'll get you some more."  Oscar looked hopeful.

Ethan walked back inside, leaving the door open.  The phone wasn't on the counter where he usually left it.  Oh oh. He normally kept a routine and was frustrated with himself for slipping.  Without the routine, things were a lot harder to manage.  It wasn't on the other side of the sink.  He went over to the bed.  It wasn't on the nightstand.  He finally found it by patting down the rumpled blanket.  Must have fallen out of my hand as I fell asleep. The battery was dead.  He almost never used the phone, but this far from cell towers it discharged quickly as it tried to lock in a signal.  He couldn't actually use the phone without walking a half-mile closer to the river.  It was more useful as a timepiece.  He took it to the counter and connected the charging cord.

The charger was connected to solar panels he'd put on the roof with a dozen twelve volt batteries storing accumulated power.  The battery gauge indicated they were fully charged.

He turned on a battery-powered radio.  It was an expensive one that received stations from all over the world.  It was Ethan's main connection to the world outside his cabin.  He went into town so rarely that even though he'd lived his entire life within a five-minute drive of Bumpas Cove, no one knew him.  When he needed to get into town, he drove the four-wheeled terrain cycle from the cabin through a trail down to the crumbling asphalt road and on to the riverside.  He paid a heavy-drinking neighbor $15 a month, by automatic deposit, to let him park his truck in the back of his house.  He only used the truck to get into Erwin, or the Co-Op in Jonesborough where he bought supplies.  He'd watched the little towns change from year to year and saw something new or changed with every trip.  The four wheeler was being repaired by a small engine shop in Erwin.  I need to get down there and pick it up before they sell it, he worried.  He wasn't sure how long it had been there.  Might've missed a call from them. I'm sure it's fixed by now.  He'd have to walk to the truck today, and pick up the cycle.

He leaned against the counter, and listened to the radio.  After a few minutes, he heard what he was listening for and turned it off.  He stood considering at the window, then reached over for the calendar hanging on a nail beside the sink.  He flipped to the next month and counted back.  Three weeks, he thought, twisting his mouth.  No wonder.

He went outside, stepped off the porch, and headed for a small wooden shed.  The shed, like the house, was desperate for paint with only flakes covering patches of gray planks.  He looked back at the house considering how big a job it would be to paint the house and shed.  Dread that.  It's been so long since it was painted, its going to soak up several coats.  The house was small with two bedrooms, the living room, and kitchen combination he slept in, and a bathroom.  The walls were old weather-toughened oak planks that would last even without paint.  The gray house stood out like a white ghost in the surrounding green forest.  Grass around the house was knee-high with briars and bushes encroaching.  He tried to mow every couple weeks, otherwise the length was too much for him to tackle with the human-powered rolling clipper blade.  Never be able to catch back up on that again this summer, he thought.  He'd either have to use the gas trimmer or just let it go until spring.  At this point, he would probably just let it go.

He unlatched the shed door and stepped inside.  The shed had a light that he'd connected to the AC/DC converter inside with an orange extension cord.  It ran out of a hole he'd drilled in the wall beside the kitchen window.  The light coming through cracks between the shed's plank walls was enough to see the metal garbage can he used for dog food.  He pulled out an unopened bag and carried it onto the porch where Oscar waited.  He stood and excitedly wagged his tail as he watched Ethan.

Oscar was munching happily on the dog food, while Ethan stood on the porch and folded the empty bag.

That was when he saw a boy stumble out of the woods.

24

When Leo woke, he didn't recognize his surroundings.  He was in a bed with a column of morning light streaming across the bed.  It was not a familiar bed, nor was the room.  He lay still and turned his head only slightly, trying to figure out where he was.

A wooden, straight-backed chair was near the bed.  He saw a small, white nightstand with an oil lamp.  On the nightstand sat a photograph of a man and woman with a frail, old man lying on a hospital bed between them.  All three smiled for the picture, although only the old man looked really happy.  A wooden table further off was scattered with books and paper.  There were more photograph frames behind the scatter.  Beyond the table, there was a small kitchen with an out-of-place bright-orange cooler on the counter.

Leo struggled his elbow underneath to raise up.  The nightstand was dusty.  So was the frame.  Dust motes danced in the light from the window behind him onto the floor.

A man wearing worn jeans and an old, once-white, t-shirt came in the door and looked at him.

25

Awake, thought Ethan. Thank you Lord.

He asked Leo, "Are you ok?"  Leo made to sit up but Ethan motioned him to lie still.  "You've been in shock.  You'll need to move slowly."

"Where am I?" asked Leo.

Ethan looked around the room and said, "My house.  You're safe, I found you in the woods.  Can I get you some water?"  Leo nodded.  Ethan went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and pulled out a small metal cup which he filled from the orange cooler.

Leo watched the man as he brought the little cup back, trying to decide if he could be dangerous.

The beam of sunshine from the dusty window lit millions of floating dust motes.  It was difficult to see the man until he stepped directly into the light.  When he did, the motes swirled around him, giving him a glowing outline in the dim room.  He sat in the chair beside the bed holding the cup out to Leo.  Leo watched the motes swirl around his moving hand, and circle behind his head like a halo.

As the man leaned into the light, Leo decided he might be close to his mother's age, although he was never sure how old an adult might be.  He had more gray hair than his mother, and not too many wrinkles around his eyes.  The t-shirt he was wearing had some dirt on it where he'd been carrying something that got on him.  He seemed of average height for a man, Leo guessed.   He smiled at Leo to let him know he wasn't going to hurt him.  It was a quick smile that settled back into his face like he'd tried it on and it didn't fit, but his eyes held onto it a little longer.

Leo drank the water, which was cold and good.

He looked at Ethan.  Ethan reached over to take the empty cup.  "Would you like some more?"

Leo nodded.  Ethan gently took the cup from him, and walked back to the cooler.  Leo looked at the frame on the nightstand, and decided the man was the one in the photo.  As the man walked, his boots rapped on the cabin's dusty wood floor.

Leo scanned the room again while the water trickled into the cup.  Behind the photograph, there were small wooden figures.  Carved statues with twisting shapes.  He squinted to sharpen focus in the dim light.  What are those things?  He'd assumed at first that the left one was a bear.  It was heavy, and looked like it was walking on three legs with one leg lifted in mid-step, but as he stared he couldn't catch it at the right angle to confirm his guess.  The one on the right was almost hidden from view by the photograph frame.  It looked like it might be an octopus with one tentacle reaching up over its head.  Usually people carved ducks or turtles, he'd never seen any carved creatures like these.

He heard the trickle stop, and glanced quickly up at Ethan.  The strange little shapes had unnerved him.  He didn't know why.  They didn't seem right.  They weren't any shape he expected to see, and his nerves were frayed already.  He looked up at the man, tensed and expecting something bad to happen.

But the man looked at him with sad and hopeful eyes and said, "My name is Ethan".

Leo felt his shoulders release tension, and he smiled back, "I'm Leonard Christiansen," he said.  "I go by 'Leo'".  He took the water from Ethan, and drank it down.

"Do you live down on the river road?" asked Ethan.

Leo nodded, "We live in the yellow house beside the big garden."  His mother planted a few rows of corn and tomatoes in the back rows of the garden that belonged to the family next door.

Ethan thought for a moment.  "I know which one you mean."  Ethan hesitated.  "What happened to you?"

"I like to look for stuff in the old cabins," Leo said, a little concerned that he might get in trouble for trespassing.  Leo asked, "Do you live here?"

"For years," Ethan replied, "and years".  He smiled at Leo.

Looking at the glass-metal sleeve, Ethan finally asked, "What's on your arm Leo?"

Leo locked eyes with Ethan, feeling his pulse pick up.  His voice broke as he replied.  "I don't know."

"I found it in the stream.  As soon as I put my arm inside it, it stuck a hook in my arm, and now I can't get it off," his voice rose with panic as he finished.

Ethan made a wincing face, "I thought it might be some kind of prosthetic arm, that maybe it was a replacement for a missing arm.  I was afraid to try taking it off."

Leo sat up and tilted his shoulder so Ethan could see the spike.

Oh God, thought Ethan.  "That's sticking in your arm?"

Leo nodded.

"And you can't get it back off?"

A quick headshake.  No.

Leo's eyes watered, and his lip tightened.  It wasn't a good feeling when something happened to you that scared an adult.

"It's alright Leo," assured Ethan.  "We'll get you to a doctor and they'll be able to get it off.  Can you tell me what happened after you put it on, how'd you end up here?"

Leo spent the next ten minutes telling Ethan about his frequent explorations of the deserted homes in the little mining village, and his discovery of the sleeve.  He showed Ethan the map on the sleeve's forearm, and explained that he was looking for the second orange marker when he passed out.

As Leo showed Ethan the map, he noticed a yellow marker alongside his orange one at the map's center.  "I guess this one is you," Leo told him, "Since you're not red, I guess you're not planning to eat me."   Ethan's brows knitted along with a little smile, and Leo explained the map's representation of the bear.

"That's amazing," laughed Ethan.  "You have no idea where it's getting power?"

Leo shook his head, "Nope.  That's why I came after the second marker before heading for home.  I figured that the battery might die before I could find it."

"We'd better get you home though Leo.  It's possible that when the battery does die, that spike might release its hold on you, but I'd rather you were with a doctor when that happens."

Leo swallowed, thinking about the spike moving.

"Let me get you something to keep your sugar up.  How about some crackers and peanut butter?"  Ethan returned from the cabinet and sat in the wooden chair near Leo with a plate on his lap, stacking little peanut butter cracker sandwiches on the plate for Leo.  The crackers were a little stale and the peanut butter was different from the kind his mother bought, but as Leo chewed, it tasted better.

After several crackers, Leo started to feel quite a bit better.  Ethan gave him some more water in the tin cup to wash it down.  Leo raised his left arm to take the cup without thinking and the sleeve knocked it out of Ethan's hand, wetting the dusty floor.

"That's ok.  No problem," Ethan told him, and refilled the cup.

26

There was a scratch at the wooden door.  Ethan opened it and an old crème-colored golden retriever got up from its haunches and walked inside.  "Come on in boy," Ethan told the dog.  It nosed Leo's hand, spilling drips of water from the cup.  Leo sat the cup down on the bed and scratched behind the dog's ear.

Leo asked, "What's his name?"

"His name's Oscar," replied Ethan.  "Say 'Hello' Oscar.  This is Leo."  The dog shifted his weight to put a paw up on the bed.  They both laughed.  "Ok.  That's enough.  Go lay down."  The dog walked over to lay on a mat under the sink, slowly wagging his tail as he went.

Leo motioned his head toward the photos, and asked, "You live here alone?"

Ethan turned and looked toward the table, clenching his lips.  "Yeah," he said. "Just me and Oscar…"

Leo asked, "Who is the woman in the picture?"

Ethan turned back to Leo, "She was my wife.  We were divorced right after my son died.  I haven't seen her in more than thirty years.  She might not be alive now.  I don't know."  Ethan stopped and looked back to the photo.

"The one in the middle is my son, Ray.  He was twelve in that picture."

27

"He had a disease called 'Progeria'," Ethan told Leo.  "It's always fatal".  "Almost always fatal," he corrected, "Almost always".

"It's a genetic disease that's inherited from your parents.  Both parents can be carriers and be totally fine.  If they have four children, one might be perfectly fine, two might be carriers and show no symptoms, and one would likely have the disease.  Little Ray didn't do anything wrong, just a nudge of luck and he'd be a grown man today with a family.  But he got a nudge the other way instead."

Leo tried to imagine the wrinkly little elf in the picture talking and playing like a boy.

Ethan normally didn't like telling other people about Ray.  There was the surface Ray, the facts about his short life, his rare illness, and his death, and there was the real Ray, the boy who suffered without complaining, because even with his little boy's understanding, he wanted his parents not to worry, who liked watching cartoons about super-heroes with gifts above those of other people, that was the essential Ray.  There was no one but him now who knew the essential Ray.

When Ethan told people about Ray, they always focused on what he felt was the surface Ray without getting to know his boy.  It wasn't a rare disease that defined his son's life.  It was playing with his cars and action figures on a blanket spread over the grass in the sun with a breeze keeping everyone cool.  It was Ray laughing as Ethan pretended to be horrified by little Ray's driving of the car.  When he told other people about his son, they'd nod to indicate they understood, but the parts of the story that meant the most to Ethan were routine, the everyday things, familiar-sounding bits of emotion and memory that were unremarkable unless the people in the story were your own family.  If the memories belong to you they meant something.

Ethan didn't like people acting like they knew and understood Ray when they couldn't possibly.

But this was the first time, he'd ever told a boy about his son, a boy that was close to Ray's age.  In a way, Ethan felt he was introducing his son to a potential friend, someone his own age that could appreciate and enjoy Ray's personality in a way that even parents can't.  Kids showed different sides of themselves to other kids, one reason watching children play with each other intrigued parents.  Ray had few opportunities to play with other children.  The disease charted the course of his life.

Ethan introduced Ray to Leo, explaining his son's good humor, and his short life's highlights.  He explained that Progeria Syndrome was one of the rarest diseases, affecting one in eight million children.  Most children with Progeria had short lives, typically living only to twelve or thirteen.

Ethan brought pictures from the table.  Leo noticed several more of the strange carved figures on the table with the frames out of the way, but it was too dim to see them clearly. "Ray aged eight times faster than you do," Ethan told him.  "He was a boy trapped in the body of an old man, not able to run and play, not able to explore like you.  He'd have loved doing that.  Would have loved to have a friend his own age to explore with."

Leo shifted his weight to relieve pressure under his arm.  The top of the sleeve made his arm numb.  "How long have you been staying in this cabin?" he asked.

Ethan's eyes tracked up to the right as he subtracted, "about 45 years."

"I can't believe the people who owned this land haven't tried to get you to leave during all that time".

"I own it," Ethan said.

"I've owned this house and the five acres out back since I built it.  I built it to live in when I worked at the iron mines.  When everyone else left, I stayed.  After Ray died, and Maggie left, there wasn't anything out there calling me, so I stayed here.  People tried to get me to leave and start over with a new wife and family, but that felt wrong.  Felt like they wanted me to forget what I'd had, forget my son.  I didn't.  I want to be with them.  If I can't be with them, I'll be where I can see things each day they touched, and I'll remember them better."

"When I wake up in the morning, they still feel here with me.  Through the day, I'll be carrying wood and walk past the little grassy spot where we played and ate sandwiches that Maggie made.  I remember them.  That's what I want.  If I leave this place behind, I'd be separated from those memories.  Pictures can't bring back the feeling of a place or the way it feels to be there and see the same sky and trees that you saw together."

Leo shifted to sit up.  "I'm sorry Leo, I wasn't thinking.  We'd better be getting you home again.  I'm sure your mom must be worried sick over you. Let me throw some things in a pack and we'll head out."

Ethan opened a closet and rummaged out an old leather backpack.  He thought for a moment, and then pulled a fresh white t-shirt from a shelf in the closet.  It was still in plastic wrap.  There was a lot of crinkling as Ethan unwrapped it.  Leo saw a neat little stack of them, all still in plastic wrap.  Ethan flipped the t-shirt and a brand new stiff pair of jeans over his shoulder.  While Ethan pulled other items from the little closet drawer, Leo looked at the pictures laying all around him on the bed.

The photos were mostly black and white.  The few colored ones were so faded that the colors were almost an outline.  Leo looked at the pictures of Ethan's son.  The boy looked so alien.  It was hard to imagine him laughing and playing like a normal boy would.  It would be like watching some crazy old man pretending to be a boy, Leo thought.  There were just a few pictures that looked like they weren't taken in a hospital.

Ethan came back wearing the fresh shirt and jeans and smiled seeing Leo looking at the photos.

"Are you ready?" Ethan asked. "We are going to have to walk for a couple miles.  I have a truck but there aren't any roads out here, so I leave it parked at Ron McAllister's place.  I hardly ever use it."

"I've seen that truck," Leo told him.

"Do you feel up to walking?"

"Yes, I feel ok now.  It's not heavy at all.  I just have to be careful not to bump it around or that spike sticks," Leo told him.

Ethan helped him up.  Closer now, Leo could make no more sense of the carved wooden shapes.  "What are those?" Leo asked.

Ethan followed Leo's eyes to one of the carvings.  He picked up the one Leo thought was a bear and passed it to him.  "I carve things," Ethan told him.  "I've been doing it since I was a boy.  It rests my mind to create things."

Leo looked at the wooden figure.  It was very detailed.  It was definitely not a bear.

It looked like a bent-over peanut.  One end was a large single eye with a thick, heavy eyelid.  The folds of the eyelid gave the little shape a gloomy look.  The carving was very detailed.  The creature's single large eye had a smooth lip marking its iris, and inside that an overly-large pupil.  Fold upon fold of skin protected the eyelid.  The other side of the peanut shape had two squat and slow-looking legs.  The two feet had large toenails, like an elephant's.  There were no arms on the sad-looking thing.  The wrinkles and skin texture were so meticulously carved over the entire shape that Leo thought they looked just like a real creature would look, if it existed.

Leo, held the figure up, "What is it?" Leo asked.

"I don't give them names," Ethan told him.  "I just create them.  That one lifts things with its mind.  It doesn't need arms or hands.  They are the highest life form on their rainy planet.  They look gloomy, but they aren't really.  There's something peaceful about them.  They're slow, so everything they do is deliberate and considered long beforehand."

Leo looked at Ethan.

The way Ethan described the creature was as detailed as the lines he'd carved into it.  It didn't seem to Leo like a made-up creature that didn't exist, but just one that he'd never seen.

"It passes the time," Ethan said.

"It looks so real.  You…did a great job" said Leo.  He'd like to ask if it was real, but was afraid of what the man's answer might be.  If he says its real, then what?  He'd be crazy then.  I don't want to be up here all alone with someone that's just said something crazy.

"I don't know where the ideas come from," Ethan said, staring at nothing over Leo's shoulder.  "I imagine them I guess.  I've tried to carve real things, but I never get the details right, its harder to rely on memory of a real thing than to envision one you've never seen."

Leo wasn't sure whether he'd just told him the little figure was real or imagined.  Could be worse, he thought.

"Some of them go together," Ethan said, looking around.  "That one on the table goes with this one.  They hate each other.  The one that looks like a scrawny man with bat wings for arms is vicious.  It hunts the slow-movers, but its dying out because it reproduces slowly."

"I have many more of them," Ethan said.  "I'd love to show them to you, but first we need to get that thing off you.  Are you ok to walk?"

Leo didn't answer.  He was looking at the table.

Ethan asked "What?  What's wrong?"

Leo didn't answer.  He leaned over and nudged aside a picture frame to pick up a dusty wooden figure.  It had two arms and two legs like a man, but the part that had caught Leo's attention was its two long flat fingers.

He held the figure up into the sunlight.  The carving was posed in a squat, with its knees bent close to the ground.  One long arm reached down to the ground in front.  Those fingers curled into knuckles.  The other arm braced on its thigh with its fingers dangling open.  Leo turned the figure to better see the carved fingers.  He raised his left arm and looked at the sleeve's flattened fingers.  They were the same.

He looked up at Ethan for an explanation.  Ethan stared slack-jawed at the figure.

Leo asked quietly, "You carved this?"  He wasn't sure what answer he wanted.

Ethan didn't respond for a few seconds.  He seemed to be asking himself the same question.  "I…I…" Then "Yes, I guess I did."

"You don't remember carving it?"

"No.  I mean yes.  I remember carving it."

"It's the same as the sleeve, though," said Leo.  "You see that its hand is the same as the sleeve's hand right?"

"It does look the same," replied Ethan, although he didn't seem very certain.

"Yeah," said Leo.  "It's clearly the same.  Look at how long the arm is compared to the fingers."  He held the sleeve out by comparison.  "It's the same."  He looked up at Ethan watching closely.  "Where did you see this?"

Ethan was clearly struggling with the idea that one of the creatures he'd carved could be real.  He sat back in one of the wooden chairs, missing half of it, and almost fell.  He adjusted back to the center, staring at Leo's gloved fingers.  He didn't say anything.

Finally, Leo asked again, "Ethan.  Where did you see this?"  He held up the figure.  Ethan's eyes slowly moved off the sleeve to the figure, then he met Leo's eyes.

"I've never seen it.  Like I said, I've never seen any of the things I carve.  They're all just made up."

"Well, this one is definitely not made up.  Right?  You can see this is the same hand right?"  Leo was getting impatient with Ethan's reluctance to admit something so obvious.

"I see it," Ethan said.  "It's the same."  He still shook his head in disbelief.

"Well?  Where did you get the idea?"

"I just dream about things like that.  I dream about them.  In the dreams sometimes I'm somewhere else that doesn't look or smell like anyplace I've ever been.  The plants are all different colors and the houses don't look right.  I get involved with these things.  Sometimes they are friendly like those." Ethan motioned to the sad, peanut-looking thing.  "And sometimes they're dangerous and we're trying to get away from things like those."  He pointed to the bat thing with long spiked wings.

Leo asked, "We?"

"What?"

"You said 'We're trying to get away'.  Are you with the peanut things when they are trying to get away from the bats?"

"Yes, or sometimes other creatures.  There are several other dangerous creatures there.  One is a cat that as big as a rhino.  Those dreams are always terrible.  We're running from one place to another trying to hide.  I wake up exhausted."

"So you dreamed about this one," Leo asked holding up the crouched figure.  "You dreamed about something that wore this?"  He held up the sleeve.

"I guess so.  Although I have no idea how that could be."

Leo looked at him uncertainly, but Ethan could only shrug.

"I think…I dreamed, I mean, that they call themselves 'Explorers'.  They discovered all of the others.  They're the ones who travel.  Sometimes we're running from them."  Ethan paused, then looked up into Leo's eyes, "they are dangerous."

Afraid to hear the answer, Leo asked anyway "Why are they dangerous, Ethan?"

"I don't remember.  I don't think they eat the others like the rhino cats or the bats, but all of the others are scared of them anyway.  I don't know why we run away from them."

Leo didn't like the way the adult-child role felt reversed now.  Seeing Ethan confused only made him feel more afraid.  He wanted to bring back the confident Ethan who was going to take care of him.  He said, "Its ok.  Listen there's nothing bad about it, right?"  And before Ethan could answer something else, he said "Right.  It's just a funny dream you had."

"A few weeks ago, I dreamed that the people of a village came to me to help them save the village.  In the dream they were sheep farmers.  I told them they should mow a checkerboard pattern into one of their hills and use black and white sheep for chess pieces.  The players would be shepherds.  They had to get the right sheep to move to the right square by voice only," Ethan said.  He paused, watching Leo's eyes.  "But that's probably not related," Ethan finished.

Leo stared, trying to read Ethan's serious face.  When Ethan suddenly laughed, Leo felt such a rush of relief that he laughed loudly too.  For some reason, even though none of his circumstances had changed, Leo felt relieved.  He didn't think that a crazy person would laugh at himself.  As bad as his situation was, it would definitely be much worse if Ethan was some kind of nut job.

Ethan shoved some peanut candy bars into the pack, and then sat down on the edge of the wooden chair to be eye-to-eye with the boy.  He'd always had a rapport with children, even before Ray was born.  He knew it was cliché to think of children as innocents, but it was cliché for good reason – it was usually true.  Kids would do mischief, and they'd try to get around the boundaries of any restriction placed on them.  They weren't angels.  But he'd never met one who consciously worked to harm another either.

He'd read the Bible, gone to church, and he believed in God.  Alone and lonely, having lost everyone he loved long ago, God was still real for Ethan, and he waited for purpose to come back into his life.  There were times he felt close to Him and times that he felt very distant and disconnected.  The greatest connection he ever felt with God was when he held his baby son, humming through the same tune over and again.  Softly bouncing with Ray in his arms and the setting sun shafting light through the trees, he felt Ray's little struggles relax into sleep.  He never felt God was greater than in those moments.  All creation, the mountains, the seas, unseen planets – all were less evidence of God, for Ethan, than Ray.

"I don't understand what's happening either," he told Leo, smiling reassurance.  "I see what's happening, but I don't know why.  I've spent a long time putting one foot in front of the other, and getting up every day without being able to find answers to all of the 'why' questions I have.  We might not be able to find out why this is happening, but we can work through it together anyway."

It was as if a breath passed through Leo and calmed his fear.  Since finding the sleeve, everything had happened too quickly to process.  He'd just been falling from step to step without thinking through his situation.  At first everything seemed happenstance, but being found by a person who had somehow dreamed of the…creature?  Alien?  Seeing that Ethan had dreamed of the creature whose sleeve he was wearing made Leo believe that rather than just a series of chance events, he was part of some plan that fit together in some, as yet, unknowable way – that made him feel a little better.  It would be even more terrifying to think that things just happened for no reason at all.

As Ethan turned around to collect the pack, Leo looked at the crouching figure again.  It's long, muscular arms joined thick shoulders.  The head was squat, tight against the body with a round forehead and heavy brows.   Behind its head, from the crown of its squat head down to its shoulders, the neck stepped down.  It was strange to see such square geometric shapes on a creature.  There seemed no neck at all, but the eyes bulged like a chameleon so it probably didn't need to turn its head to see sideways.  It had a rock-slab jawline that looked like it might be able to bite hard into something, like a snapping turtle or alligator.  The bony upper lip covered just the top of the bottom one with two big tusks jutting up from the lower jaw.  It looked fearsome, Leo decided.  It wasn't hard to believe other creatures might fear it.

He looked into its tiny wooden glaring eyes and thought, it wants its sleeve back.

Ethan turned back around.  He gently took the figure from Leo and put it on the table.  "Do you think you can walk ok Leo?"

"Yes, it doesn't hurt me unless I try to lift my arm."

They stepped outside.  Ethan locked the door with a key that he put back into his pocket.

"Stay here Oscar," Ethan told the dog, although the dog didn't seem inclined to go anyway.  Oscar walked arthritically over to lay under the windowsill.

The house looked little different from the deserted houses Leo usually explored.  The paint was almost totally peeled off the gray boards.  As Leo stepped off the wooden porch onto large stones stacked as steps, he looked back at the house.  The tin roof didn't have any holes or ripped sections like some of the houses did, but the roof was still rusted red-brown.

The grass was shorter around the house.

"I have one of those mowers with blades that spin as the wheel turns," Ethan told him.  I mow the yard every couple of weeks, so it looks like it used to, but if I miss a few weeks it gets away from me."

A wooden box frame surrounded a thin layer of sand with weeds sprouting through.  Weeds grew high around the edges of the frame.  A rusted toy construction grader with "TONKA" imprinted sat partially buried along with other unrecognizable pieces of rusted and buried toys.

Leo looked at the toys, imagining a little boy who looked like an old man playing in the sandbox, with those same toys.  I guess, he thought, playing out here by himself he was just like a normal kid, building roads and houses in the sand.  Listening to Ethan talk about the boy, Ray, in the house, Leo kept imagining him as a kid that died a few years ago.  As Ethan talked, he pictured Ray playing with electronic toys, things that he'd play with himself, but seeing the sandbox made Leo wonder just how long ago the boy had last played here.  Clearly, a long time.  What was it that Ethan said about his wife?  How long ago did she leave?  He said he wasn't even sure she was still alive.  At the time, Leo just assumed he was exaggerating or being sarcastic like adults do almost all the time.  But looking at the rusty toys, he thought it might not have been sarcasm after all.

He looked back at Ethan staring at the sandbox, probably remembering Ray playing there.  His hair was brown with only a little bit of gray in it.  His skin looked thick and healthy, not paper-thin like Leo's grandfather's skin.  The backpack straps binding in the t-shirt pulled tight around his shoulders.  He looked strong and fit to Leo.  Although it had been years since he'd seen his father, he thought Ethan looked like a stronger, and nicer, man than he was.  Ethan came up behind him and gently lifted the sleeve up to look at the map on his forearm.  He asked, "You ok Leo?"  Leo nodded and smiled back.  "I just wanted to see if the map was changing as we walked".

Looking at the map reminded Leo that another piece of the sleeve was nearby.  Ethan was looking at the map intently, but hadn't yet worked out what the other orange blip might be.

"That orange pinpoint of light is where I think the other piece of the sleeve, or whatever, is," he told Ethan.  "I think we should look for it.  Look how close we are."

Ethan thought about it.  Leo didn't seem to be in immediate danger, and he was curious to see how he'd missed spotting something that was as shiny and white as the glass-metal sleeve so close to his house.

"Ok," Ethan said, "If you start to feel dizzy or anything though we'll give up and just get you home.  Wait here.  I'll get a shovel in case we need to dig."

He came back with the shovel, and Oscar following.

"Looks like he decided to join our treasure hunt," Ethan said smiling.  "I'll send him back once we get on our way."

"How old is he?" asked Leo.

"Two," Ethan told him.

28

The marker brought them to a pile of old boards and rusted tin sheets.

Ethan looked at it and then at the map Leo held up.  "This was a sheep pen.  I had a couple sheep.  The boards were rotting, and it collapsed five or six years ago," Ethan informed him.  "Try walking around the pen, and see if your orange marker completes a circle around the pen as you go.  That will tell us for sure we're in the right place."  Leo walked slowly around the collapsed pen, watching the sleeve's map.  Returning to his starting point, he nodded to Ethan.

Ethan stepped on top of the old tin roof and pulled a loose piece aside.  The screeching metal against old nails made a horrible racket in the otherwise quiet woods.  Leo looked around the clearing, nervous about making so much noise.  He wasn't sure why, but he always tried to be quiet in the woods.  On usual explorations of his green kingdom, he avoided dry branches or the rock scrabble that made surprisingly loud tumbling sounds if his step dislodged it.  When he made noises, it ruined the natural feel as if the presence of even one person disrupted the forest's quiet contemplation.  He liked the woods to forget he was there.

Underneath the top pieces of the tin roof, they noticed that the sheets comprising the western face of the roof had a large hole, four feet in diameter.  The edges all turned down. Ethan thought this would make sense if something fell out of the sky and crashed through the roof.

Good thing it hit here, he thought, and not directly over my bed.

"Judging by the hole," Ethan framed his thoughts, "I guess whatever it is must have fallen out of the sky.  I thought there was some chance it had been hidden here by someone, but that hole's a dead giveaway."

Leo nodded.

Ethan stepped into opening and looked around.

"I don't see anything on the surface.  Let me dig down a bit.  Be best if you just sit under the shade right there.  If you need some water, be sure to drink.  You probably need to try, even if you're not thirsty," Ethan told him.

Ethan used the shovel, trying to avoid using full force with it so whatever was down there wouldn't be broken or cracked by it.

"Ethan?" Leo caught his attention.

Ethan stopped digging and looked over at the boy.  "Yeah?  Are you ok?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Leo reassured him, "I just noticed something."

"What is it?"

Leo pointed at the top of a tree twenty feet behind Ethan.  The large tree had full branches covered in green leaves, and looked the same as all the other trees, except for its height.  It was much shorter.  Ethan said, "That's west.  The hole and the broken tree make a perfect line to the west."

They looked at each other, then Ethan continued digging.

29

Taylor sat in his car, parked between the two-lane road and the river's edge as his world unraveled.  His eyes darted between random points of focus as he tried to reel his mind back in.

There was a piece of something blue near the base of a tree close to where lapping waves rolled against the coarse sand at the river's edge.  Possibly it was a piece of tarp, or a broken fishing lure.

Foamy bubbles curled around in a pool created by the shelter of a large rock.

Flying nymphs flicked around each other in the sunlight as the river flowed over smooth rocks below the surface.

Haze rose from the hood of his car as river-cooled air pulled the heat away.

The yellow legal page with the checklist shook in his hand as he looked back down at it.

What was I doing?  It doesn't make any sense.  How could I have written this and read it dozens of times and thought that it made sense?

He read the checklist again.

"13. Keep Sowyer calm.  He is inclined toward anger and has tendencies toward solving problems with violence – do not argue with him about anything!"

"14. Get artifact from Sowyer.  Feel it, hold it in hands make sure it's the real thing.  Give him the money.  If he balks, give him more money – as much as he needs to make it happen.  If there's a problem, kill him and take it."  Kill him and take it?  Would I have really killed him for this?

Taylor looked at the artifact.  He held it in one hand and the checklist in the other.  Turning it over in his hand, he had no idea why he'd wanted it so desperately in the first place.  From the moment he learned of its existence, it became his ultimate objective.  His head went back and forth in disbelief.   I was building the company into a revenue engine to support retirement in the Bahamas, socking away a fortune.  What made me drop my good plans for this?  He remembered reading the checklist he'd developed to blackmail Sowyer into stealing the artifact.  He remembered coming back to his list several times a day thinking that maybe there was something he needed to think about, that maybe he was forgetting something.  But as he'd read through the tasks, he'd felt relaxed again.  He was on track.  On track? He wondered now, on track with what?  What the hell kind of crazy plan is this?  I read this over and over and imagined sitting in a deck chair on the beach with my house in the jungle behind me, as if I was working some kind of plan that was going to pay for everything I wanted.  How does that even work?  How the hell does this damned artifact tie to paying for an island retirement? It doesn't. It doesn't tie together at all.

It's just a piece of metal, for God's sake.  It's nothing remotely useful.   Might be a piece of something, maybe, but without the something it doesn't do anything.  Maybe I should get rid of it.  Maybe if I don't have it the police won't be able to pin it on me.  They are going to question anyone who ever touched the thing, to find out who swapped it.  They'll probably be looking for me.  I should throw it in the river and go straight to the airport before it's too late.

Taylor opened the door and swapped the artifact into his right hand as he prepared to throw it.  Its deep enough here, no one would ever find it.  He drew his hand back, meaning to throw it far out into the water, and stopped.  The image of himself splashing frantically around the river with his arms shoulder deep as he tried to find the artifact amidst the smooth river stones came to his mind.  I'll only have to go find it, he realized.  He leaned back on the car and stared at the artifact, relieved that he hadn't thrown it.  That would have been a big mistake.  He'd be able to exchange it for another duffle bag full of cash stacks.

Wait, what?  It's happening again, he thought.

Clearly, there's no way I'm going to be able to sell this thing when the NSA is looking everywhere for it.  Who would I be selling it to anyway?  Where's that part of the plan?  Oh God, I'm going crazy.

The checklist was still in his left hand.  He snatched it up to read it again for the thousandth time, like a man looking at a watch who couldn't recall the time when asked afterward.  He read line #15.

"15. Drive to Bumpas Cove in Tennessee."

He'd driven for seven hours, pulled over on the roadside, parked by the river, and fell asleep listening to the water splashing over and around smooth river stones.  The moon was up by then, and the river wound like cold quicksilver from the mountains down to the irrigated fields he'd passed on the way.  He'd been exhausted.  He wasn't sure how long he'd been up without sleeping.  The last hour of the drive, he'd been drifting asleep every few minutes.  He was relieved to reach the river.

He awoke with a start, looking around frantically trying to figure out where he was.  He hadn't seen detail in the dark, and had fallen asleep so quickly that he had no idea.  The checklist was crunched in his hand.  He opened it and read.

"15. Drive to Bumpas Cove in Tennessee."

Ok, he'd thought.  That's complete.  As he read the next line, he remembered switching on the interior light to read it last night.  It said…

"16. Wait in the car."

Last night, he'd read it and let himself fall asleep waiting.  Something was different this morning though.  When he awoke and read "16. Wait in the car." He'd realized that it was the last instruction on the list.  There was nothing else.  No further instruction.  No tie to another list or connection to a greater plan.  That's when everything unraveled.

30

Taylor sat by the river looking at the bottom of the checklist, with no other minds nearby to boost his think rate, and realized things were horribly, and possibly irrevocably, off plan.  As he tried to figure out some missing logic that would connect his otherwise insane plans, he thought of something else and felt a spike of fear.

What else have I done?   I might have done even worse things than this.  What if I've already killed someone?  Unable to trust his thinking even now, with his mind finally, inexplicably, clear, he searched his memory for the past days.  He remembered making arrangements with Sowyer to swap the forged artifact, and enough to decide that his memory wasn't faulty.  At least he could remember doing these things, even though looking back he couldn't see any reason to do them.  Other than the checklist, he thought.  They were on the list and I did them.

He picked up his bound checklists and thumbed from page to page, reliving the past year.  Most of the lists dealt with running the business and dealing with clients.  The lists seemed to make sense, until the ones after he'd learned of the artifact.

He'd picked knowledge of the artifact from an earlier client.  Timeshared memories of a Senator suggested a strange artifact had been found and was being researched by the NSA.  After that, he saw checklists focused on human networking with the right people.  People who could introduce Timeshare, Inc. to Hack Samuels' chain of command.  The planted seed eventually grew into the suggestion that brought Samuels to him.  There were still a few checklists after that that dealt with other business, but as weeks passed, the checklists were all geared toward the artifact.

Sitting in the car, Taylor looked up from the checklist.  I have to think of a way out of this.  Need more brainpower.  Need to drive back to town and look for a group to draw from.  He reached for the key, and was about to turn it over when his head exploded.

The explosion was a simultaneous sensory overload of all of his senses.  Instead of the river sliding by, he saw a maelstrom of jagged colors, and a Picasso-kaleidoscope of random images from memory, all flash popping in his eyes, or his mind's eye.  The sound was a scream of shattering gears and screeching chalkboard.  He jumped, impossibly trying to draw back in every direction at once as he felt the shock of skin-scalding heat all over his body.

And then it was over.  His hands weren't burned raw, he could hear the river as the sound came back to his awareness, and he saw the morning's sunlight like glass shards on the water.  What was that? Taylor already feared it would happen again.  He waited pensively, tense.  After a moment, an image came to his mind.  It was like a memory, like recalling something.  That's no memory.  I haven't done that.  The image was him getting out of the car, and walking to the steep hill across the road.  He saw himself begin climbing, gripping trunks and exposed roots of small trees to pull himself up.  He craned his head out the car's window to see the top of the hill.  There's nothing special up there.  Why would I do that?

The sensory flash returned.  He screamed into the morning quiet.  Frustration seared into him.  He was angry and frustrated.  No.  Wait.  I don't feel frustrated.  Something else is frustrated, and it's being communicated to me with these mental explosions.  Something or someone wants me to keep following orders and if I don't obey, I'm being shown consequences.  He looked at the hill again and opened the door.  He locked it and walked across the road.  Just looking back at the car raised an electric tingle across his shoulders, promising a more painful coercion if he went back.  Taylor began climbing.

31

They both looked down into the hole.  It wasn't deep, less than two feet.  But it was wide.  They'd found something larger than the sleeve.

The other sleeve looked the same as the one Leo found, although this one was still covered in dirt.  It didn't appear to be broken or cracked, at least in the part Ethan's digging had exposed.  It was attached to a very large chest and torso.  Ethan sat down on the edge of the hole and rested, with Leo standing behind him.  They stared into the hole.

The torso was face-down.  Ethan's excavations outlined a shape that would fit a large man.  It was smooth, with no visible openings, just a solid glass-metal shell to cover someone's torso, chest and shoulders.  Someone with a large chest.

Ethan gripped the neck collar and pulled.  Like Leo, he misjudged the force required to move it and when it came free, he fell backward.  He sat hard on the tin sheeting making a horrendously loud screech.  Ethan looked at Leo sheepishly and grinned.

"I did the same thing," Leo told him, smiling back.  "You're ok?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Ethan said, "This thing is huge."

The torso and chest were barrel-sized.  Every visible surface was the same glossy white glass-metal.  Leo noticed stylized arcs and swirls on the new sleeve like the ones on the left one he wore.  Ethan was amazed by how light it was.  The thing looked solid and heavy, but it was an optical illusion.  He couldn't imagine anything other than plastic that would have a comparable weight.  Even aluminum would be heavier.  Ethan held the entire frame from his extended arm amazed.  Grasping it in both hands, he slowly turned it over to look inside.

"See if there's muck in the sleeve," Leo suggested, "try to dump it out".

Ethan shook the sleeve, emptying a small pile of dry dirt.

Ethan pulled an old handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the chest, looking for markings.  The dirt came off easily, leaving a glassy almost wet-looking surface.  The trees overhead cast shadows that made it harder to focus, Ethan said, "Let's move over here where we can see it better".

They moved a few feet over and sat on the log remains of the clipped treetop.

"Is it some kind of space suit?" Leo asked.

"Maybe.  That's what I would think too, but…" Ethan held the hand with two fingers up to finish his thought.

Ethan continued wiping dust from the suit, looking at the markings.

"Look at how the dirt just falls off of it," Ethan said.  "I've never seen anything repel dirt like that.  It just falls off.  After a few minutes, the suit was clear of dirt and shone in the sunlight.  Even the areas Ethan didn't wipe were clear of grime, leaving the suit uniformly clean.

Leo reached over to feel the surface.  When his hand touched, they heard a buzzing, almost musical hum.  Ethan dropped the suit, snatching back his hands as if he'd been shocked.

The suit dipped when he turned loose, but dropped only inches, bouncing slightly, floating in the air.  As it did, Leo almost fell into it as the sleeve he was wearing yanked toward the suit.  He rebalanced himself to avoid tipping into it.  Even after he'd stabilized himself, the sleeve he wore seemed heavier, pulled by the weight of the floating suit somehow.

They both looked at the suit floating a foot from the ground.  It rotated slowly about a foot from Leo.  As it moved, Leo felt slight tugs on the sleeve as if he were holding the suit in his arm and moving it himself, although he wasn't touching it at all.

Ethan reached for the suit, meaning to pull it back from Leo.  It was unnerving to watch a mechanical thing acting on its own.  It felt menacing and dangerous, like an animal acting on instinct in a way that you couldn't predict.  As Ethan's fingers tightened on the suit's collar, the musical hum came back with a sharply-rising tone.

Ethan sprang back from the suit, stinging pain in his entire hand and crumbled to the ground with his back against the log.  The stinging didn't abate. When he tried to move his fingers, they didn't respond.  "My hand is paralyzed."

Even as he said it though he felt the stinging sensation rising up his arm.  Forearm, then upper arm felt the stinging fire and his arm dropped paralyzed into his lap.  The paralysis reached his chest and shot quickly through the rest of his body, deadening everything below his shoulders and setting his nerves afire.  Sweat dripped from his forehead and ran down his scalp.  His breathing became heavy and desperate.  He had to concentrate to pull enough air in and work to exhale room for more.  Ethan realized that if the paralysis continued he could die.  He closed his eyes and worked desperately to control himself.  Moments passed before he reopened his eyes, first looking at Leo's face and seeing that he was still ok.  He then looked down and saw the grass fading from bright green to dust brown.  He concentrated on breathing.

He let himself catch up a few breaths, then said "I can't move Leo.  It's done something to paralyze my arm and legs."  He gasped for air as he finished.

The stinging nerves faded, leaving him unable to move anything below his neck.

He looked up at Leo, who was breathing hard and slumping down to his knees.

Ethan made himself calm down.  He took breath after breath, deeper and deeper to calm himself.  The grass around them turned brown and dusty dry.

"Are you ok, Leo?" Ethan asked. When Leo didn't respond, he asked louder, "Leo!  Are you ok?"  Ethan pressed his lungs like heavy bellows.

Leo looked up at Ethan, "Yes," he breathed heavily.  "I'm just so tired, all of a sudden, like that thing just really made me tired."

"Its ok, Leo," Ethan told him, trying to reassure him, "It's under control now."

He must be crazy, Leo thought.  If he thinks this is under control, he must be crazy.  This is the definition of 'not under control'.

Leo felt a tiny quick tug on the sleeve and looked back to the suit.  A blue line appeared on left side of the suit, running from the collar to the belt.  Leo saw another line on the right side in the same spot.

The blue line flared with a slight neon glow and the front half of the chest floated free of the suit.  As it did, Leo had to shift his weight to adjust as the center of gravity changed on the entire floating assembly.  It felt like the sleeve was being tugged as the components moved.

Then the suit came toward him with the chest piece staying in front and the suit circling around behind him.  Leo was scared by the suit trying to get behind him and twisted around to keep his position.  As he turned, the suit stayed in position relative to him, so even though he turned, it was still moving further around behind him.  He was like a dog chasing its tail.

Leo stopped turning and looked back over his shoulder, more afraid now that some of the suit was behind him.

It floated closer.

Unable to move, Ethan watched the horrifying scene.  It's putting itself on him.

It was impossible for Ethan not to attribute hostile intentions to the suit.  He'd dug up an inactive mechanical thing from the ground, something that had been buried for years.  Six years assuming that its impact was what finally brought the old shed down.  It lay there for six years, waiting?  Now it circled around Leo like a tiger stalking a goat.  What does it want?

Leo was breathing quickly, terrified by what was happening.  He watched the open collar coming around his neck as the suit floated closer.  When suit brushed against the back of his shoulders, he called "Ethan! Help me!"

Ethan could do nothing.  He realized that he'd actually been telling himself "it's ok" over and over under his breath when he'd said it loud enough that Leo heard him.  Leo just stared back.

The suit settled close against Leo's back and shoulders.  He watched as the left sleeve snapped into the suit with a dull "click" followed by a tiny, almost inaudible musical hum.  Then nothing happened for a second, and another.  The only sound around them was Ethan breathing hard in and out like he'd just run a race.

Leo clutched his right arm tightly to his chest, preventing the suit from sealing.  He looked fearfully into the gaping upper arm of the right sleeve trying to see if there was a spike waiting.

I won't put my arm in there. That only makes it more impossible to get it off.  There's nothing it can do to make me.

Leo looked up at Ethan. He was struggling to move now.  Leo saw one shoulder move forward in a jerk as Ethan looked down at his own body, concentrating.

He looked up at Leo and they both heard a "click".  Leo looked down at the floating chest plate and began repeating "No, no oh, no, please, please".

"What is it?" Ethan shouted and again louder when Leo didn't look up.

"The whole inside is full of them!" Leo screamed.

"Of what, Leo?  Full of what?"

"Spikes!  There are more of them inside like the one in the sleeve."  There were six long spikes on the suit's interior.  These were longer.  Long enough to reach his heart if the suit seated close against him.  "What do I do Ethan?"

There was another click and the chest spikes retracted, leaving no seams to mark their presence in the inner surface.  "Click!" they extracted again, then "click" retracted.

"It wants me to put my arm in the other sleeve.  I think it's trying to tell me that if I do what it wants – it won't use the spikes," Leo said.  "Do you think that's what it means, Ethan?"

"I don't know Leo," I wish I did.

The chest plate floated closer, within inches of sealing with the sides and collar.  The spikes extended again, but this time did not retract.

Leo closed his eyes and pulled his right arm up against his chest, sliding it into the sleeve.  It felt cool and damp.  As soon as his arm seated against the upper sleeve, there was a "click" and the chest plate made a soft metallic thump as it connected to the suit.  Leo watched the line marking the seam disappear with a tiny "pop" that he barely heard.

He waited.  Tensing against the stick of the spikes reaching into his chest.  If they extended now, he knew he would die.

Tension drained slowly out of his exhausted body as he waited.  He sat down and looked at Ethan.

32

Hack stood beside the river staring at Taylor's expensive car.  Now we're getting somewhere, he thought.  I am going to catch you my too-smart friend and we will have a talk.

By nature, Hack held himself in constant self-control.  It allowed him to hide himself in one terrorist group after another for years of his life.  He contained a furnace of fury behind a cool and measured face, showing only what he chose.  Finding that his responsibilities had been compromised, he'd begun stacking dry wood in a furnace that he would soon light.  He would decide when and where, but he already looked forward to the release.  Taylor has some bad news coming.

Hack wasn't sure when the aluminum forgery had been swapped for the real one.  The last measurement of electrical generation was three weeks ago.  The measurements of that test correlated with the previously collected data, so he knew they had the real artifact at that point.  Sometime after, it had been stolen and now he had an idea who was responsible.

In the two days since they discovered the artifact theft Hack's team hardly rested.  Roberts had rushed into the break room carrying the artifact.  "Where is it?" Roberts demanded of him shaking the artifact in Hack's face.  Robert's face was red and patchy.  He'd been fired by promotion from his last research position for his inability to control his temper.  The NSA brought him on board the project anyway as he was the third-best in his field.  The first two were years deep in other top secret projects.  Roberts had been working through the protocols that Taylor had suggested and was becoming one of the more valuable team members, but he required more of Hack's attention than any three of the other researchers.  As long as he stayed morose and frustrated, he kept away from everyone else and produced good work.  When he was on the 'up' curve, he was unbearable, especially when he tried to be entertaining or engage with the others.

Seeing Roberts carry the artifact into the break room, Hack stood slowly.  Tendons in his arm stretched the sleeve of his exercise shirt.  He wanted to reach up and snatch the artifact away but held himself straight and still.

"Dr. Roberts! Do you realize that you've broken security protocol?  The artifact is never to be carried from room to room, except by security staff."  Hack clipped off each word as if he were reading it from procedure, looking first at Roberts then over his shoulder.  Sowyer burst into the break room behind Roberts.

"Agent Sowyer, report!"

Sowyer wiped perspiration from his forehead with his fingers and caught his breath.  "Yes sir, Major Samuels," Sowyer started.

"It doesn't make…" Roberts started, interrupting.  Hack stopped him with a sharp glare, holding his hand up inches in front of Robert's mouth.  Socially inept as he was, Roberts picked up on Hack's fury.  He thought Hack's jaw might crumble his teeth.  He stopped talking and looked fearfully at Hack.

Hack left his hand in place to keep Roberts quiet and turned to Sowyer.

Sowyer seemed equally fearful.  "Sir.  I'm sorry.  He was in Study Room #2 doing electrical tests and suddenly pulled the artifact out of its fixture and ran out of the room.  We saw him leave the room from the monitor room and I chased in here after him."

Hack twisted his head slightly to the side and asked, "You didn't leave the monitor room with no one on watch, did you?"

Sowyer was surprised by the question.  "What?"

Hack took a breath, forcing himself to relax.  The creases in his forehead fell away as he opened his eyes wider.  "Who did you leave at the monitoring station to ensure this situation does not turn into something worse?"

Sowyer answered, "Um.  Sarah."  Hack's eyes squinted and Sowyer rushed to respond with protocol, "I mean Agent Walker, sir.  We were in there going over something when this happened."

Hack wanted everyone back on protocol as quickly as possible.  He would be reviewing every action taken during this crisis with his team later during debrief and wanted to minimize mistakes.  "Good.  Agent Sowyer.  It's important that we follow the procedures we train under in the actual situations they are designed for.  The monitor room must be staffed at all times."

"Yes sir."

He turned back to Roberts, lowering his hand.  "Alright, now Dr. Roberts.  We are going to escort you back down to Study #2 and watch you put the artifact back into its security case.  Then we will talk about your concerns and get to the bottom of this incident."

Roberts raised the artifact and smashed the edge down on the metal table.  He asked, "You mean this?  This piece of junk?"

Hack stared at him unable to believe he had just watched Roberts slam the artifact down.  Without waiting for a response, Roberts flung the artifact across the break room where it bounced off the side of a soft drink machine before spinning to rest on the floor.

Hack looked at Roberts for a second, then grabbed his arm and slammed his face into the same table.  He twisted the arm up, adjusting until Roberts screamed out for him to please stop.  "Ok.  Dr. Roberts," he said bending over to put the words into Robert's ear "now you have my undivided attention.  Tell me what the problem is."

Robert's mouth was mashed against the table so Hack couldn't understand him the first time.  He pulled back enough to let Robert's mouth come off the table.

Roberts said, "Fake!  It's a fake".

33

An hour later, Hack sat in the security monitor station watching digital video recordings from the morning.  He'd watched the recordings several times already.  This time he focused only on the artifact.  He had five views inside each of the four Study Rooms.  One in each corner at ceiling level looking down and one from above the workbench directly overhead.  He watched Roberts working with the artifact, connecting it to the electrical fixture he used to measure current generation and then fiddling with his instruments for several minutes.  Hack fast-forwarded over the adjustment, keeping his eye on the artifact.  If it was momentarily obscured from one view, he stopped the video and moved his focus to an unobstructed view.  The direct overhead view was only obstructed twice.  Each time the artifact was clearly visible on the other cameras.

Roberts clearly had no opportunity to swap out the artifact during this morning's session.  That was bad.  He had the other researchers examining the artifact in Study Room #3.  He glanced at the monitors.  He'd sent Sowyer into the actual room to be eyes-on and Walker was sitting beside him in the control room with orders to watch the live video feed from Study #3, while he reviewed the morning's incident in Study #2.

The problem is, Hack thought, if they find out its fake and it wasn't swapped out today, then when was it?  They'd have to go through weeks of video, or maybe months he thought, feeling acid in his throat.

He'd locked Roberts in his own room, activating the security camera in there to monitor him.  That required a security override process.  The private rooms were configured for video surveillance but cameras were only activated in special circumstances.  Roberts was sleeping.  They'd given him sedatives and pain meds for his swollen cheek, which he'd gladly accepted.

Roberts explained that when he discovered the artifact was just an aluminum forgery, he assumed that the government had just taken the original.  He thought Hack must be aware of the switch and was indignant.

Hack gave orders that everyone would treat the artifact as authentic while they began testing it for confirmation.  Until they found out otherwise, they had to assume it was the real artifact and treat it carefully.  If they found out it was a fake, it was critical evidence and might lead them to whoever stole it.  So far, it didn't look good.  He'd asked Sowyer twice for updates via the earpiece and he'd responded with a headshake both times.

He pulled out a sheet to start an assignment roster for his security detail to begin reviewing the video starting backward from today.  He'd have them note time and date of anything warranting further review and go backward to the last point when the artifact was verifiably authentic.  The test logs were being collected and reviewed now.  Roberts had told him that his own most recent test was three weeks ago.  I hope we have something more recent, Hack thought, that's too much video to go through in this detail.  It will take too long.  He had to locate the artifact before word leaked out, or he'd be destroyed by this, national hero or not.

Two hours later, he stood up from the security console and stretched his aching back.  Agent Parrish sat down to begin his shift at the monitors.  Hack asked Parrish to take a break every fifteen minutes and walk around.  During his own rotation he'd found himself losing focus staring at the screen, watching the researchers and security team interact with the artifact on the surveillance video.  So far, he'd seen nothing out of the ordinary.  He'd watched the last four days backward so far.

He walked to his office, head down, thinking.  He was physically exhausted, but his mind raced ahead.  Taking the first turn at the monitors, he'd demonstrated the importance he put on the task, but he'd also needed the time to calm himself.  He needed a clear and collected thought process, not one that jumped from one point to another without tying conclusions together.  The hours behind the monitors settled him, and he headed back to his office to initiate additional steps.

The research facility was housed in a building that once produced small and medium-range missile systems and test equipment.  The manufacturing floor was concrete and covered with dust.  The large work bays were carved into 60-foot sections by steel mesh cage walls.  Most of the cages were empty, the dust protected from cleaning crews by the cages.  The cages were unlocked twice a year for cleaning.  Sealed plastic and metal containers sat inside several of the cages.  These had not been opened in the time that Hack was assigned to the project.  His documentation didn't disclose anything about the contents.  He assumed they had nothing to do with his project, but he always withheld healthy skepticism when dealing with a superior's understanding of his "need to know".

The researchers worked in a building within a building at the far end of the giant manufacturing floor.  All of the artifact research was contained entirely within the interior building, which the researchers called the Matryoshka lab after the wooden, stacking, round dolls of Russia. They'd printed ad hoc building signs and taped them over the official building number.  A few weeks after they'd put up the sign, Hack ordered an official metal sign that read "MATRYOSHKA LAB, B-171" and replaced the ad hoc signs.

Hack walked between the dusty caged spaces with footsteps that echoed back from the darkness of the giant building.

He'd given up the office space allocated for his use inside the Matryoshka Lab, wanting more distance between himself and the research team.  He saw numerous advantages to this approach.  Hack wanted the individual researchers to see each other as a team.  Hack believed teams were defined by exclusion rather than inclusion.  People always pulled themselves into collections of "us" and "them".  If he'd tried to blend with them, they'd have felt compelled to alienate a sub-group from within the team.  With himself and the security team as the outsiders, he could press all the researchers together anytime he chose simply by giving them a new policy or procedure they all could universally complain about.

The previous project manager's office contributed to his failure.  When the building was a manufacturing shop floor, the plant managers worked in a long clubhouse with windows overlooking workers and operations.  He'd outfitted the clubhouse in luxury.  The visual significance was obvious to all.  He literally looked down on everyone else in the project.  When a meeting was required, he would call them to the clubhouse.  They'd walk from their research building down the long dusty aisles between cages with the project manager looking down on them as they approached.  He'd been replaced after a year.  Hack didn't know what that previous research team had been working on.  He knew it wasn't the artifact.  The NSA had used his hero status to win control of the artifact.  Considering how unique and amazing the artifact was, he could only wonder what the preceding team had been working on.

Hack had immediately seen the strategic disadvantage of the clubhouse and chose a different office for himself.  In the center of the great shop floor there was a small clean room.  It was glass-walled on all four sides.  Its bright lights made it look a little like an isolated diner inside the dark warehouse.  The clean room was used by the original occupants of the building.  They developed and tested printed circuit boards in this sterile environment.  It was ideal for Hack's needs.

It was apart from the research building but not ostentatious.  The glass walls around the circumference signaled transparency and openness.  Ironically, for a man whose career accomplishment required him to live a complete lie for months, Hack was open and straightforward.  He considered his understanding of human behavior and his ability to predict a person's actions to be his most useful asset, and he orchestrated outcomes by subtle leadership, dropping hints of ideas weeks ahead that he could draw out of the team later.  He'd worked with people who manipulated other people and saw what he did as completely different.  Manipulators tried to guide behavior in ways that were best for themselves without regard for outcomes that would benefit those around them.  Hack saw his own actions as those of a conductor, holding some instruments still for periods, pulling others in with small movements like the "come-forward" motion of two fingers.  The resulting performance maximized the team's assets.  The process was as natural as breathing to him and came so easily that he maneuvered with unconscious strategy most of the time.

He walked to the clean room and stepped into the positive pressure of the airlock.  It was an old design, simple with a set of doors on the outside, a small entry area with pegs for coats and jackets and a small bench underneath.  The inner doors were mechanically blocked, by a metal rod, until the outer doors closed.  It wasn't an airlock in the sense of being waterproof or airtight.  It was just designed to prevent dust from entering the clean room.

Inside the clean room, low cubicle walls surrounded each agent's desk.  The core of the clean room had regular floor-to-ceiling walls.  It contained the restrooms and a small break room and galley.  Hack's office was on the other side of the clean room.  He had the full wall of the kitchen on one side and another wall bisecting half of his side of the clean room.  He'd had the large glass windows of the other two corners of his office replaced by smart glass.  If he needed privacy for video conferences or confidential discussions with staff, he could make the glass opaque with a switch built into his desk.

Hack sat down at his desk with a paper list of ideas he'd jotted down while reviewing the surveillance monitors.  He started with a scan of incoming email.  One immediately caught his attention.  It was from a friend in the Transaction Surveillance Network division.

They'd met on a beach in Florida two months after Cane Creek.  He'd recognized Hack from the news and introduced himself as Hack sat on a beach chair falling asleep for the third time that day (so far).  He welcomed Hack to the NSA, pulled up a chair and sat enthralled for the rest of the afternoon.  Neither had company and by evening they were laughing like old friends over beers.  He told Hack about the Transaction Surveillance Division and how every purchase made through U.S. banks and institutions was tracked and analyzed.  The next day on the beach, he pulled out a thin tablet and pulled up all Hack's purchases on a map.  At the bottom of the map, projected models of his salary and bank assets ran along a timeline.  The models could predict annual income by spending patterns.  The predictions showed his predicted salary over the last 10 years.  It was never more than 3% off.  He saw his projected salary in the next 10 years as well.  It was fascinating to see his life through the lens of his purchasing behavior.  The time spans while he was in deep cover with a terrorist group were bracketed under a translucent red panel.  He'd learned that the model had identified these sections as abnormal patterns.  His new friend told him that TSD information identified any out-of-pattern behavior.  The NSA could identify every undercover policeman and agent in the U.S. simply by the transaction models.

When Hack began the artifact research assignment, he'd called on his friend to set some traps.  The email indicated one had just been sprung.

The artifact was originally discovered by a hiker on the Appalachian Trail on the boundaries of Tennessee and North Carolina.  The Trail cut through the Cherokee National Forest which contained several significant marijuana patches.  Following the discovery of the artifact, the NSA volunteered low-level helicopter scans of the area to help state and National wildlife agencies track down patches in the surrounding mountains.  This provided cover for aerial scans of the area to look for artifact-like signatures.  Although a handful of potential signature hits were identified, site inspection by agents disguised as hikers rejected all of them.  Weeks later, when site searches were discontinued, the agents were relieved to turn their tents and hiking gear in.

Even with the failure to find additional artifacts, Hack believed eventually more would be discovered in the area.  It was impossible to believe only one such artifact existed.  It was clearly not complete but a part broken from something else.  By itself, it served no discernable function.  Hack felt sooner or later something else would be discovered there and he wanted to know if that ever happened.  He knew enough about government operations to know that just because he had one piece, that whoever found another one would not likely come forward with it.  They'd set up a competing research lab just like his and keep their project secret hoping to produce results and take overall ownership of the project.  For all he knew, there could be three other agencies working independently on different artifacts even now.

So Hack had set a trap with the help of his friend.  He'd asked to receive an alert if any profile that looked like a government agent made a purchase of any kind in an area bounded by Johnson City Tennessee, Greeneville, Tennessee and Burnsville, North Carolina.  Since implementing the monitoring parameters, no profiles recognized as agents had reentered the region.

He also decided to use the TSD monitoring for the researchers and his own security detail.  If any of the people who came in contact with the artifact entered the region, they'd likely be looking for something and Hack wanted to know about it.

He continually added to the target profiles.  Each Senator who saw the artifact was added to the list.  Everyone who came in contact with the artifact joined the profile.

When Ted Taylor filled up with gas and bought granola bars and snacks at a convenience store along I-26 last night, he'd triggered an alert.  Hack's friend hadn't automated the confidential alerts he'd requested since they didn't come through official channels.  They were just running under his own name.  As a result, he'd only sent the email to Hack this morning, giving Taylor a lot of time to move on.  Hack thanked his friend and asked that he set a separate monitor on all of Taylor's transactions.

Then he readied his security team for a field operation.

34

Ethan was regaining control over the fingers of his paralyzed right hand.  It was furthest from the point of contact and he thought that might be why feeling returned to it first.  His fingers felt slow and stubborn to respond making him feel as if he'd somehow just forgotten how to move them.

It was slow progress.  With no sensation of feedback, he couldn't be sure he was pulling the right muscles to even move his arm.  He watched the tendons go taut, that was the only way he could tell he was doing anything.

He looked up at Leo.

Tears tracked down his face leaving clear traces through dust he wasn't able to wipe away.  Leo raised the new right sleeve trying to wipe his face made itchy by tears, but his fingers weren't long enough to move the glove's fingers.  He settled for wiping with the back of the glove, making a diagonal swipe on his face.  He felt helpless.

Suddenly both glove's fingers snapped open.  Leo watched them as horrified as if he was watching two twitching snakes in his lap.  The fingers extended fully before Leo's eyes, then snapped into fists.  This repeated twice.  Then one-by-one each finger extended and retracted, more slowly this time – as if the suit were testing each one.

When the last finger finished its "test", Leo heard a "click" and felt a sharp pain in his upper arm where the spike held him.  He moved the sleeve experimentally, not sure if the sound meant another spike had extended or that that first had retracted now that the suit had Leo under its complete control.

Raising the sleeve no longer produced the sharp pain, so Leo decided the spike must have retracted.  The relief was at least something positive, he thought.

Then the entire left sleeve moved without Leo controlling it.  It slowly moved toward the chest plate, the fingers pulling into a fist as it did.  When the gloved fist touched the suit's chest, it stopped, held for a moment and began moving outward.  Leo tentatively resisted the movement to see if the suit could overpower him.  It moved smoothly against his efforts.  Leo was afraid to exert too much force against the sleeve for fear of the spike, but he decided the sleeve could probably overpower him anyway.

After a series of slow sweeps, the sleeve repeated the movements at speed.  It moved so fast, it was only visible at the end points of its movement, with just blur between them.  It was fascinating and terrifying to watch.

Leo realized the suit could be dangerous to anyone that tried to remove it.  The blinding fast movements suggested the suit was capable of more than just defense.

Ethan continued trying to move his own arm as he watched the suit's whip-fast and precise movements.  It was alarming to watch the suit's incredible speed, knowing it wasn't under their control.  It was like sitting within a few feet of a lion, dangerous and completely unpredictable.  He could see Leo's wide-eyed shock over the suit's deep collar as the arms flashed in rapid movement.

Then as suddenly as it started moving, it stopped.

35

Change of plans, thought Ethan.

"Leo, listen.  We're going to be ok.  I'm almost able to move my legs again.  The feeling is coming back."  He slowly lifted his right arm to show Leo.  His left arm and fingers still felt numb where they'd actually contacted the suit, but the numbness was fading now.  In a few minutes, he might be able to stand.

"As soon as I can move my legs, I am going to run for help.  You can wait here and you'll be fine.  It'll take me a half-hour or less to get within range of a cell phone tower and then we'll get a rescue copter in here to fly you out," he waited on a response.

Leo nodded, "Ok".

"I know you can't control your arms, so I'll get you a drink before I leave.  Even though it has control of your arms, it can't go anywhere so you can just wait here until I get back.  Don't try walking around.  We need to be able to find you, ok?"

"Ok, but please hurry…" Leo stopped.

Both arms became active again.  They extended to the ground on either side and lifted him from the ground.  Fully extended, the arms lifted him high enough to leave a four inch gap between Leo and the ground, with his legs still in contact with the ground.

The elbows bent slowly, raising and lowering, assessing Leo's weight.

"Oh oh," Leo said, as the elbows bent fully and held in place, like a coiled spring.  Leo felt something in the suit inflate, filling in the empty space between his body and the suit in the arms, shoulders and chest.  It felt like a tight, constricting sweater.

The sleeves exploded in motion, extending so fast Leo exhaled in a rush.  The suit's flashing leap carried Leo into the air, and twisting sideways over the log.  His legs dangled like an extended frog, the leap carrying him high enough to clear the log by two feet.

He bent his knees instinctively, intending to absorb the landing impact, but the sleeves diverted most of the impact into forward horizontal momentum.  Leo's feet drug on the dust only briefly before lifting back into the air with the suit accelerating quickly to minimize impact.

It leaped again and Leo flinched away from a limb directly in their path.  The left arm flashed to the limb and Leo saw the fingers lock into place around it.  Their momentum converted to a downward arc that drove Leo's chin down into his chest as the suit swung up on the other side.  At the arc's apex, the sleeve powered a hard press from the creaking limb and leapt out into the air toward another tree.  The suit carried Leo fifteen feet in the air.  Leo felt the sensation of a long fall before the right arm blasted out to catch a limb below him that he hadn't seen.

The right arm didn't release at the apex of its swing this time.  Instead, the left swung back and twisted the swing to change direction.  The right arm continued to hold while the left swung out and back to generate momentum, leveraging speed and the weight of Leo's own arm and dangling legs.  After eight swings out and back, the suit had achieved a swing that brought Leo eye level with the limb at each end of the swing and then it released, sailing Leo through the air to another tree.

Leo could hear Ethan yelling behind him but couldn't understand what he was saying.  The rush of air in his ears was almost continuous now that the suit had established horizontal momentum.  It leaped from tree to tree, at one point circling completely around a large tree to gain altitude.  Leo was high up now and saw Ethan's house over the smaller tree tops.  He focused on the direction of travel, trying to pull his head down into the suit's collar and avoid having a branch poke his eyes.  There were several scratches at his face and one hard one as a branch drug across the top of his head.

Leo swung directly into a mass of branches he knew were going to hurt.  Just before impact though both arms flashed out, shattering the dry branches out of the way.  Sticks and pieces hit Leo's face.

He realized it was providing at least some protection for him.  He hoped that was a good sign.

36

Flying through the air between two trees, Leo noticed something as the left sleeve pulled in close to his chest.  There was another orange marker on the map, and it was getting closer.

The suit allowed its swinging momentum to wind down.  The arc decreased until Leo was hanging by both arms, trying to see down past the suit's giant chest and enclosing collar.  He hung in place with legs dangling.

Then the hands released and he dropped straight down.  Branches zipped and snatched past Leo's face.  One large limb scraped as it passed the suit's chest plate.

The arms finally locked onto a limb, flexing expertly to absorb the impact so successfully that despite the long drop, the impact wasn't much greater than Leo had experienced during the swing through the forest.  He had no way to gauge how far they'd come or how long they'd swung through the forest.  He looked around trying to get his bearings, but he'd completely lost any sense of direction during the forest swings.

He couldn't see the ground over the suit's chest, but he guessed from his view to the side that he was about ten feet off the ground.  The suit was finally still.  Without the wind rushing past his ears, Leo heard crunching leaves and sticks off to his left.

"Help!  Help me," he shouted, hoping whoever it was would hear him.  At least the steps were getting louder.  They were coming closer.  He saw movement through the briars and bushes.  Someone's walking this way, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief.

He remembered the map and looked up at the sleeve just above his eye level as the suit hung from the limb.  He saw the orange marker close by now.  We must be close to that, he thought.

Then he saw a pair of white legs step through briars and into view.  Just legs and boots.  Nothing else.  Leo closed his eyes with dread.

37

Leo watched as the legs crunched through undergrowth.  The legs moved with a fearsome intent all their own.  He couldn't take his eyes off them until they walked underneath and were blocked from his view.

For a moment, nothing happened.  Then the gloved fingers snapped open, releasing the limb above.  Leo gasped expecting to fall, but the suit didn't drop.  It floated in place, then began to slowly and smoothly descend.

Leo knew he was being lowered into the legs.  He pulled his legs up to his chest to keep them from the leg openings.  The suit descended closer to the ground.  The openings must be just below my legs, he thought, taking a deep breath and drawing his legs up tighter under him.  Sweat dripped from his hairline, running down into his eyes before sliding down chin and neck, pooling in the pocket created by the collar's tight neck seal.

He breathed faster, trying to keep his legs up, but he was exhausted.  Gradually his muscles gave in to gravity.  The suit waited as Leo's legs dropped slowly into position.  Leo knew he was beaten when the suit continued its slow descent.  He felt the leg openings touch his shoes.  A little whine escaped him, making him feel even more weak and defeated.

With only the length of the sleeves to estimate, Leo expected his toes would be left dangling once the suit sealed, but the previous owner's legs were apparently about the same length as his own. His feet slid into the boots.  He wiggled them in.  He remembered the squatting creature Ethan had carved.  The short legs hadn't been evident in the sculpture because the legs were folded underneath.  He imagined the creature would look apish when standing.  Monkey suit, he thought, with a depleted smile.

Leo waited several minutes for something to happen.  The suit was still and quiet.  Leo noticed that the padding was cool against his skin and clothes.  There was even a very slight sensation of massaging waves that flowed through the insulation layer.  Even though the suit left no room for movement inside, it seemed to be doing something to make it feel less constricting.

Leo was used to the sticky-slimy feel of the East Tennessee humidity.  He'd always figured that if it were actually comfortable outside, the woods would be completely filled with hikers.  Not many people wanted to be crawling through the woods with little breeze, 90% humidity and hot summer temperatures.  Leo decided it would be great to have personal air-conditioning while out in the woods – if he could control it, of course.

He was comfortable but his mouth was very dry, the exertion and lack of water dehydrated him.

The right leg took a step.

It was disorienting to put his foot down and not directly make contact with the ground.  He lost his own balance inside the suit and would have fallen had there been any room for him to move against the suit.  The padding in the legs inflated as soon as the suit sealed, leaving no freedom of movement.

The left foot stepped out and over a small branch.  Leo tried to see what he'd just stepped over but couldn't see the around the collar.  The suit headed upslope.  To Leo, it felt as if he were riding rather than walking.

He watched the suit approach a growth of briars.  Without slowing, it stepped into the thick of it, raising an arm to deflect branches from Leo's face.  The sleeves did the same with a branch.  Leo began trusting the suit to keep sticks and branches from his eyes.

The jostling ride, coolness of the suit, the temporary release from danger and exhaustion overcame Leo and he rested his head against the side of the collar.  The muscles in his neck were sorely abused by the forest swings and he'd never felt so tired before.

38

Ethan stood.

His shirt was soaked through with sweat.  His legs shook and trembled.  When he bent his knees to pick up the pack and canteen, he had to push off the log to get back up.

He looked into the quiet woods in the direction he'd last seen Leo swinging like a giant white ape.  The creaking of limbs and brushing sound of branches swiping against the suit had long since faded into silence.  He considered for a moment.  It won't do the kid any good for me to catch up to him if I can't help him.  Ethan walked to the shed, picking up a stumbling momentum as control of his legs slowly returned.

Scanning the shed shelves through the open door, Ethan mentally checked off items that would either be no use or be too heavy to carry.  He settled on a small hand axe, a hammer and a hacksaw.  All the tools were rusty but still serviceable.  Ethan pulled on a drawer and it slid wood-on-wood open.  Inside the drawer were three shining silver boxes.  Ethan pulled the longest out and opened its small hinged lid.  Inside there were five new hacksaw blades.  Ethan shut the hinged lid and placed the silver box in his pack with the other tools.

Oscar slowly wagged his tail as Ethan stepped onto the porch, but didn't get up.

Ethan opened the closet and reached in behind the stack of t-shirts.  The pistol he pulled out shone even in the dim light of the closet.  It was a silver nickel-plated Colt .45 with dark golden brown burled wood grips.  Ethan bought the gun long ago and hadn't fired it in more than a decade.  It shone, without even a smudged fingerprint. Ethan grabbed the shirt he'd worn yesterday from the closet floor and wrapped the gun in it before placing it in the backpack with the tools.

He slid the shirts to the side looking for shells.  Finding them, he slid the shirts back.  The shells were in a small silver box with a sliding lid. Ethan slid it back, revealing a dozen shells.  He closed the lid and put the box in the pack.  It jumbled when he walked, but he didn't foresee a need to be quiet.

He walked fast to the door, jumped past the steps and jogged into the woods.

39

The suit's travel through the trees left no trail for Ethan.  All he could do was travel in a straight line in the direction the suit traveled and hope it didn't change direction.  Where would it be going?  Ethan had no frame of reference to guess.

He maintained a steady pace through the woods, dodging around trees and, where he could, avoiding briar and bramble.  When he couldn't immediately spot a clear path, he plowed through briars with his forearms up to protect his face.  Ten minutes tearing through the briars traced a red patchwork across his forearms.  He stopped, caught his breath and checked the scratches making sure none was too serious.  He smiled and gave a quick headshake.  Stupid, he thought.  His hands dropped to his sides and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the path before him, channeling his attention forward and mentally pulling blinders shut to the side.  He opened his eyes.  He swung his arm up and to the side and dry, brittle briars broke away.  He stepped into the thick briars and pressed them away sending brown dust into the air around him.  He picked up speed again.

As he made his way, he thought of Ray.  He'd developed a habit of thinking conversations with his son since the day he'd died.  During the time Ray was in the hospital, he'd prayed for God to heal him, to give him the full life he deserved, then to take away his pain and finally for God to take care of Ray when the boy had moved on.

He'd prayed on his knees, begging for Ray to live, hundreds of times during his last years, but had spent even more time with short wish-prayers while he worked or drove to the hospital or sat exhausted in the stiff chair by Ray's bed.  Most of these wish-prayers, didn't have formal introductions or pleasantries, no "Dear Lord", or even "Lord…" just "please" or  "help him," or something similar, dozens of times during the day.  His heart would catch right in the middle of whatever he was doing and he'd think of Ray.  He'd plead from his shattered heart.

In the last days, Ray slept most of the time.  Ethan framed mental conversations with him.  Missing Ray's smiling words, Ethan's mental conversations mingled increasingly into his day even before he passed on.  In all the long years after his death, Ethan had more conversations with Ray than they'd actually experienced in his short life, imagining responses from fragments of pieced-together memories.

Got to hurry, he thought, but it was more of a question.

But we've also got to be careful, Ray answered. You saw what almost happened…

I know.  It was close, but it's under control.

Ethan imagined Ray shaking his head, his little eyes staring.

I pulled it back again, Ethan thought.  I just lost control for a second, there was a lot going on, and…

But it affected him, Ray said from somewhere indistinct.

Ray was right.  Yes, I think so.  He had trouble catching his breath and I thought he might faint, but I rolled it back in time.  He's young.  Ethan scowled as he climbed the steep hill, putting his hand on each knee as he stepped to push up.

How are we going to get him out of that thing?  Should have brought the crowbar, maybe I could crack it open at the seam.  He stopped to listen.  Have to find him first anyway.  If he's changed direction… Ethan trailed off worrying.

Ethan sensed Ray was still concerned and reassured him, I've got this under control.  I think I can control it now.  Ethan knew Ray was waiting for him to open up.  It's been so long…

I don't think so Dad.  Ethan's throat constricted hearing Ray say "Dad".  He swallowed.  Ray seemed to sense his heartache and softly asked, What about Oscar?

Ethan reached the ridgeline.  In the summer, with every tree covered by leaves, there were only a few ridgelines that actually offered a view of the surrounding hills and valleys.  Most, like this one were boxed in by leaves and branches allowing only gaps through the trees to see the valley below.  A large rock outcropped the ridge.  Ethan climbed up on it for the additional elevation, the rock also providing a quiet place to stand without rustling leaves.

He listened, slowly turning, careful to avoid falling from the rock.  He heard shuffling in the leaves over the next ridge, or maybe further.  It sounded like something running, or at least moving faster than the slow walking pace of a deer or a bear.  Ethan tried to focus his hearing on the sound, but instead heard the sound of helicopter blades thrumming thick, humid air.

Ethan looked up, trying to pinpoint the helicopter.  It wasn't close enough to see, and the tree cover overhead was dense.

Might be someone looking for the boy, Ethan guessed, or a routine overflight looking for marijuana plants.  In any event, it wasn't close enough to help, just close enough to completely cover the shuffling sound.  Go on, Ethan thought, move on.

He was still looking up, when something white caught his eye.  It was only above the treetops for a second before he lost sight of it.  He heard sticks break and leaves rustle in the direction whatever it was seemed to travel, but couldn't see or hear anything else above the low thrumming of the distant helicopter blades.  It was maddening.  The dense woods already limited his vision to short distances, making him more dependent on sound – and the helicopter reduced even that.

What was that?  He hadn't seen it straight on, only from the periphery, but he was sure that it was white.  It stood out sharply in the green treescape.  He looked in the direction of his earlier pursuit and then back where he'd seen the white shape.

The helicopter was closer to the direction he'd been traveling.  If that is a search and rescue copter, and Leo is in that direction, they will find him before I do.  If that white movement was Leo though, he's going in almost the opposite direction – they won't find him, or at least I can probably get there first.

Ethan set off in the direction he'd seen the flash of white, unsure if he'd made the right choice.  As the helicopter left his original route and he heard it coming in this direction though, he began to hope he'd chosen right after all.

40

Leo wasn't expecting the suit to leap.  When it did, it took him a moment to figure out what was happening.

It walked up the ridgeline faster than he could have climbed it unencumbered.  It reminded Leo of a train.  The Clinchfield Railroad still carried loads along the Nolichucky River.  Trains sliced through the mountain valleys several times a day.  When you were close to the track, you kept an ear out in both directions.  There was something abrupt and surprising about a train suddenly appearing around a bend.  Even when you were clear of the tracks, it was a disconcerting surprise.  The train seemed out of place in the quiet.

Reaching the ridge top, the suit slid to a stop on small gravel.  It squatted down into a deep crouch, extending Leo's arms to brace on the ground in front of it.  It's the same pose that Ethan carved, Leo thought.  Then, something smacked the back of his head hard, and green leaves and branches smashed into his face.  They flew through the tree tops, then sailed into clear air.  He felt leaves brush the boot tips.

Air rushed at his face, then both of the suit's arms were in front of him, shielding him as the leap's arc dropped him back into tree branches.  Thick branches cracked against the suit, with the leap's great momentum shattering the smaller ones out of the way.  The right arm whipped out and down.  Leo saw pieces of a huge dead limb and a mass of flying splinters flash past before the right arm came back to shield him.

Leo tightened his eyes against the impact he knew was coming when they hit ground.  He expected a bone-shattering impact.  Leaves and branches exploded around him when the suit hit.  It was still traveling vertically and horizontally, but Leo could hardly tell anything had happened.  It felt like he'd jumped down from his bed.  Momentum slid them for several yards through the leaves.  The boots ripped deep into the soft dark soil and wet, fallen leaves.

Before all the momentum was gone, the suit started running, changing direction.  Leo twisted his head to look back.  The suit had leaped from one ridge to another, avoiding the thick rhododendron and briar growth that accumulated in the crease.

41

This last mountain was steeper than all the others they'd passed.  Giant Poplar trees ran from ground to sky, with trunks straight as rulers.   The giant trees surrounded the clearing, digging deep roots into the ground away from the cliff edge.  Small scrub trees sunk their own tough roots down through rocky loose gravel nearer the edge.

It was treacherous, sliding footing.  Leo would normally crawl low or even go on all fours to peer carefully over such sheer edges, fearing the loose rocks would give way underneath.

The suit ran up the very edge, boots sliding for traction.  Leo saw the edge ahead had fallen away leaving two large stones jutting precariously into space.  The suit didn't slow, launching from one rock to the other with a long stride.  Leo felt his heart trying to fly up out of his chest.

Looking left, he saw the tall trees too far away.  On his right, he saw only air and hazy green distant mountains.  He held his breath, expecting to slip and fall over the edge at any moment as the suit ran.

Then they crested the ridge.  Unable to see the ground near his feet, Leo expected the suit would sail off into empty air.  He felt the boots sliding across the rocks.  Finally, the sliding stopped and the suit stood up from its running crouch.  They were in a clearing atop a high cliff.

He couldn't see the ground, but the open air all around him was assurance enough that the suit must be standing directly over the cliff's edge.  His fingers tingled and his palms felt cold and sweaty as he peered over the collar's rim.  He saw the tops of tall Poplar trees in the valley below.  On all sides he looked out over valleys and mountains covered by trees, packed so tightly that he couldn't see ground.  Leo looked toward Iron Mountain.  He couldn't see any of the houses through the tree cover, but thought he was looking at one of the mountains that circled the village valley.

Twisting his neck, he saw the forest behind the clearing.  Large rocks scattered a boundary between forest and the rock scrabble clearing.

The suit stood on the edge.  After a few minutes, the arms moved.  Both arms stretched out to each side, palms open.  It froze in position, as if the suit relished the warm midday sunlight.

Then it was quiet.  The suite made no movement or sound.  Leo heard the squeaks and chirps of grey nuthatches as they regrouped in the clearing.  He heard, or possibly felt, a very low vibration coming from the suit.  When he focused on it, he thought it might have some minimal change of scale or pattern, but it was so faint Leo he thought it could just be his imagination.

Gradually, he heard a new sound, very faint, but increasing – a helicopter.  Leo straightened, the stiff and sore muscles of his neck locking his head in place, his mind gauging the subtle difference in volume, triangulating the helicopter's position.

He held his breath hoping the helicopter would continue growing louder.

A branch cracked in the woods behind him.  Leo tried to see the sleeve's map, hoping it might identify a potential rescuer, or at least assure him that it wasn't a threat, but the arms were still fixed outstretched.  The map was too far to read and at the wrong angle.

He craned his neck to one side, then the next, trying to see what was coming.  The crunching and shuffling leaves suggested a person walking rather than the mulling casualness of an animal looking for food.

"Hello?" Leo asked.

42

Taylor pulled himself onto a sunbaked gray sandstone rock and breathed deep.  He felt the blood pumping through his jugular vein.  It thrummed in his ears.

He was slick and slimy with sweat.  Dust and dirt mixed with sweat to make a gritty grime.  He pulled loose shirttail from his waist and wiped face and forearms.  The shirt was soaked through with sweat already, but he felt better getting the grime off.  The painful presence in his mind had blasted him several times during his trek through the woods.  He was in poor physical condition and stopped several times when he couldn't force himself to go further.  After a minute, images would flash into his head.  He learned quickly that failure to respond to the images would be corrected by the painful jarring.  Trying to breathe in the thick and humid air was like pulling oxygen out of water.  He sat on the rock expecting to receive another prod again before he could rest.  A moment passed, and another though, and he gratefully used the opportunity to catch his breath, never taking his eyes from the white figure standing on the cliff ahead.

Although he was far outside the usual range for a timesharing connection, almost fifty feet, he felt his mind beginning to connect with the person in the white suit.  For some reason, the suit was facing the cliff edge.  The toes of its boots appeared to be almost hanging over the edge.  It reminded Taylor of the mountain statue overlooking Rio de Janeiro that stood on the precipice with white arms outstretched.  His mind recognized the figure in the suit as a boy.  He sat, still breathing hard, while he allowed the connection to fix in place.

"Hello?" the boy said again.  Taylor felt his fear, his racing rabbit's heart, trapped in a snare and fearing the step of the hunter.

43

Taylor didn't respond to the boy's call.  He sat for a moment longer, quietly thinking.  Then he stood and slowly made his way to the boy.  Several times he nearly fell, twisting his footing.  The clearing was covered with sharp-edged rocks, shattered by winter ice and summer heat.  He felt a fury toward the boy rising within him.  Whatever coerced him up the mountain bristled at the sight of the boy in the white suit.  Having felt the punishment the presence could inflict, Taylor felt a moment's empathy toward the boy.  He wasn't accustomed to concern for anyone else, but it only lasted a moment.

It wants the suit back, he thought.  All of this was to get back here to this suit.  As he thought this, an image flashed to his mind along with a feeling of frustrated impatience.  In his mind he saw the long-armed suit flying through blackness.  Not a suit, a flightsuit.  It is a flightsuit.  And the frustrated feeling subsided.

He stepped close to the flightsuit, edging carefully toward it while keeping a close eye on the cliff's edge.  The flightsuit's boot tip was just inches from the edge of the cliff.  Taylor wondered why the suit would step so close to the edge. Some of the small rocks dislodged as Taylor's foot scooted close to the suit actually fell from the edge causing the last drips of Taylor's exhausted adrenalin to seep into his bloodstream.

The boy's eyes were wide and frightened.  His face was covered with dust and grit with clear streaks underneath his eyes.  His wide eyes looked hopefully at Taylor over the edge of the flightsuit's deep collar.

Taylor looked down at the flightsuit.  He reached his own dirt-covered fingers to the touch the white shoulder.  The boy gasped, "No!  Don't touch it!  It will shock you."

Taylor hesitated, listening and tense, for a warning from the presence.  I don't think so, he thought.  In fact, it felt like the presence wanted to feel it.  He slid his fingers along the smooth shoulder.  Same, thought Taylor.  It's the same as the artifact.  It felt so smooth, like glass.  As his grimy fingers traced the surface, the dirt fell away leaving no smudge, no mark at all.  He looked at the flightsuit standing amidst the dust of the clearing and saw its surface shone as if polished.  He tapped on the sleeve to hear the heavy metallic ring and smiled.

Stepping back from the cliff edge, Taylor slid a small pack from his shoulder.  He reached inside and withdrew the artifact Sowyer had stolen.  He looked at the flightsuit trying to see where it fit.  There didn't seem to be any holes in the surface, nothing missing.  He felt the artifact pull from his fingers.  He craned his neck watching the artifact float to the opposite shoulder and settle into place.  The artifact formed a ridge on the shoulder that Taylor now saw matched one on the right.  It wasn't obvious before.  He reached up and touched the artifact's twin on the near shoulder.  Seamlessly back together.  Amazing.

"Who are you?" Leo asked.

Taylor looked back at him unsure of what would happen next.  He had no checklists, no plans for this.  He felt the familiar neural network expanding between himself and the boy.  He realized, without noticing exactly when the knowledge came to him, that the flightsuit was quite capable of movement.  It had run up the cliff edge.  It had leaped from ridge to ridge.  It was powerful and drew energy from some invisible source.  He looked blankly into Leo's eyes, giving no response, while he dug through his memories and experiences.  Leo stood locked in place with his mind open to Taylor's exploration.

This experience felt different to Taylor.  Not just timesharing.  He imagined himself standing in a maze hallway.  Little things, he imagined them as figureless small living things, darted past him through the maze, fleeing past in both directions.  Ahead, he saw the hall divided in two directions.  Some of the little things flashing past his legs went down one passage and a few vanished into the other.   He watched the shapeless things for a while before he realized what they were.  Thoughts.  These are his thoughts.  He'd never seen his own, or anyone else's speeding thoughts in this way.  It might not even be possible, he realized.  Might create some kind of inescapable looping process to start trying to see your own thoughts.  Searching thoughts could blend into the stream of searched thoughts and…what?  He had no idea, but it might not be a good idea to go too far with that particular experiment.

What else could these little things be?  Nothing occurred to him.  Wonder if I can actually catch one?   His perspective of them seemed as real in this maze place as his own imagined form.  He bent slightly and when the next one came around the corner, he grabbed it.   It recoiled under his fingers, trying to escape, but Taylor only squeezed it harder.  It burst in a spray of Cerenkov-blue jelly.  The flowing jelly seeped into his hands and forearms.  He licked some from his lips where it had splashed his face.  He heard a boy's voice in his mind.  It was clear, isolated sound with no background noise at all – like a voice in a dampened broadcast booth.  The boy's voice asked, "Maybe he owns it?"

Taylor looked down and saw the crushed little thing pull itself back together at his feet.   After a moment, it started to move again.  There was a sensation of it moving slowly at first, then abruptly achieving the same speed as the other little ones flashing past him.  He looked at his fingers.  The jelly's glow rapidly faded into grey.  The electric warmth as it splashed onto his skin now felt like a brush with frog's skin.  Wet and dead.

He crouched and waited for another of the little things.

44

As seconds passed in the world outside, Taylor ran through Leo's mind chasing his thoughts, catching them and tearing them apart.  His mental personae was covered in gray slime of dozens of intercepted thoughts.  The darting thoughts had no hiding place safe from him.  Their path through the maze made them vulnerable to Taylor's capture, and he tore apart one after another.  As with the first, they reformed at his feet in a diminished state before continuing their original journey.

He wondered if he could create one of the little things himself and send it into the maze.  Would it be processed by the boy's mind?  He decided to try.  What message would he send for such an unprecedented experiment?  What would be fitting?  Something more suitable than Graham Bell's "Watson! Come here I need you."  He watched the helpless little thoughts flying past his knees and felt his complete mastery of the boy's mind.  He thought of just the right announcement.  As he stood in the maze, covered in the slime and essence of a dozen stolen thoughts, he smiled.

He echoed his announcement in his own mind, trying to figure out how it might be packaged from a stream that he knew was present but invisible.  He concentrated and imagined himself to be a magnet, drawing, pulling at the invisible stream.  Finally he felt a current between his fingers, as if he'd plunged them into a river and felt invisible forces slipping past them.  The invisible forces collected into a fog between his two outstretched palms.  It became less transparent and resembled a floating, spinning jellyfish.  As it grew to the size of the boy's thoughts, he let his announcement echo into it.  The blue glow swirled in until it looked just like the ones flashing past.  He squeezed it experimentally and was surprised to feel a sudden terror.  He looked about him in the maze, feeling threatened and afraid.  There was nothing but the little thoughts.  He squeezed his little thought package again and the sudden fear returned as if he were a trapped animal hearing a hunter's step.

This must be what it feels like for him, he thought grimly.  He smiled and pulled his hands away from the little package.  It dropped to the floor, hesitated a moment and then flashed around the corner.

Taylor turned, waiting to snare another thought and find out if his experiment worked.

45

Leo watched Taylor.  There was nothing else he could do.  His arms stretched out at his sides and legs held firmly by the suit.  The guy was either his last hope or…

He asked, "Who are you?"  He wondered if the man owned the suit.  He seemed to be familiar with it and wasn't paralyzed by touching it.

Then a voice cracked like thunder. "I AM," it said.   The sound came from all around as if the air itself spoke.  He looked around trying to locate the sound, listening for it to repeat.  When he looked back to the man, he was smiling.

46

Taylor signaled Leo to "be quiet" by putting his finger against lips.  Then the air voice said loudly, I think we can do better than that now.  I know that you hear me.  Taylor was quickly adapting to his new ability, beginning to package thoughts he wanted to send to the boy with less concentration.  He was impatient for the boy to figure out what was happening.  The intercepted thoughts suggested he was beginning to catch on.

Those are my thoughts you're hearing boy.

Leo's eyes locked on Taylor's lips as the air voice spoke.  They never moved.

"What…," Leo started, his own voice startlingly weak and small compared to the booming air voice.  He stopped when Taylor shook his head in frustration.  The air voice said, no.

Talking in my mind, Leo thought.

Taylor nodded, relieved to move on.  Yes, it works.  No need for words between us at this point, Taylor thought, or ever.  He was careful not to package the "or ever" part and monitored Leo's thoughts to make certain he didn't receive it.  Good.  I alone control communication.

A shattering scream of images and sound blasted Taylor.  The maze of the boy's mind turned translucent and became only an overlay, replaced by a virtual duplicate of the clearing.  Both the maze and the clearing were visible, with the clearing feeling dominant and tangible.  In his mind he saw the boy and himself crumpled to the ground prostrate with a giant orange-red figure, like a menacing ape before them.  It towered over them, halfway as tall as the ruler-straight trees behind it.  Its face was angry and frustrated.  Its all-black eyes peered at him under cavern brows.  The alien air it breathed was a bellows of furious frustration.  It was covered in short fur, with longer growth on forearms and lower legs.  Muscle and tendons stretched the skin taut.  The creature raised its gaze from Taylor and looked skyward.  Its fingers stretched into the sky, then tightened into fists.  It pulled the closed fists down into its chest and held still for a moment.  Then with horrifying violence it slammed both fists into the ground on both sides of Taylor.  The vision was incredibly detailed.  As its giant fists smashed into stony ground, bits of rock exploded from the ground around Taylor, the impact shaking this vision earth.  The giant creature lowered its face down to Taylor.  Each exhalation from the gigantic thing made him stagger.  Its eye was close enough that Taylor's imagined self could reach out to touch it, if he could ever force himself to move under its monstrous, barely contained fury.  He wondered what would happen to his mind if the creature closed him in its immense grip and crushed.  Would he die?  Would his body live with a mind that was crushed?  He wanted desperately to keep the creature calm.

Outside Taylor's mind, a second passed for Leo with the man's eyes wide open and far away.

This has been inside me, Taylor thought, looking at the great black eye.  This monstrous inhuman thing hid inside my mind.  While I worked to build the company, while I met with people, even when I…Taylor stopped mid-thought realizing all the women he'd been with while a furious angry, alien, thing hunched behind his eyes, watching.  Taylor shuddered and tried to swallow.

The timesharing, his thoughts staggered slowly into daylight, that wasn't me at all, was it?  The thing pulled back, staring at his face.  It wasn't, Taylor thought, feeling certainty behind the thought.  It was you.  The creature's huge head pulled back inches more.  You can be here, Taylor spread his arms to indicate the imagined version of the cliff face, in my mind, because your (people?), (kind?), because you communicate with each other through something like the timesharing network you created between me and the people around me.  Taylor sensed some subtle, almost imperceptible relaxing by the creature as if a door was slowly cracking in the frustrating prison it had made for itself in his mind.

The creature settled back on its haunches further, giving Taylor a hard stare.  Taylor thought the stare meant, stay there.  Then he followed the creature's gaze to the boy, or where he'd last seen the boy.  The boy's image had faded while Taylor and the creature interacted.  Taylor looked around the cliff clearing.  The scene from his mind felt identical to the physical world version at first, but as his eyes scanned for the boy, he noticed that detail seemed to fill in only after he focused on it.  As his eyes first moved toward something, like the large rock near the edge, it felt the same as its physical counterpart at first even though his mind, or the creature's, painted the details in after he was looking at it for a moment.  The mental image seemed to only have minimum necessary detail at any moment.  Looking out over the cliff at the surrounding mountains was especially disconcerting.  The mountains almost seemed to have more detail in periphery than when he stared directly at them.  Probably never a change in distant detail here, he thought.  There's no point to it.  The feeling that my peripheral vision is chasing after more detail might be because my mind is used to seeing vague representations in the peripheral and not accustomed to a lack of detail straight ahead.  He kept his view close in as much as possible to avoid the unsettling, magnetic draw of his eyes trying to bring the mountains into focus.

The boy had vanished.  He was gone.  Taylor looked back to the creature.  It hadn't moved.  While Taylor had scanned around the virtual clearing, it had not moved.  It stared at the ground to his right.  Taylor looked at the ground and saw nothing.  He looked back at the creature to be sure it was looking at the same spot.  It was, but there was nothing there.  Gradually, he became aware of a shimmer in the space beside him, like heat haze rising from sunbaked rocks.  The haze thickened into a form.  Hiding, he thought.  The boy was trying to hide from it.  He was able to hide from me, but not the creature.  It knew right where he was, like a cat allowing a mouse to run between its paws as it pretends to be bored and disinterested.  He tried to swallow something caught in his thought.  He's not disinterested at all.  He's keenly interested.  In both of us, Taylor thought.

Taylor thought some unheard communication was occurring between the creature and the boy.  He drew the maze back into focus by pulling into himself and making his virtual self heavier.  As he pulled the maze view toward him, he realized how natural this control of focus felt.  It came to him as naturally as using hands to bring something closer even though it had no comparison in the physical world.  He released his pull on the maze and watched it fade back again, replaced by the imagined view of the mountain clearing.  He relaxed still more and saw the physical clearing again, felt the sun's warmth on his face and heard birds calling in the woods.  Not a second has passed, he decided.  I could pull myself down into our minds and experience the equivalent of weeks or even years in the span of a second here.  Taylor considered his situation.  He'd stolen a unique piece of what turned out to be an alien armor, a flightsuit apparently capable of independent space travel, from the NSA.  They would eventually identify him as a suspect given his sudden, unannounced departure.  He'd sacrificed his ability to generate revenue from his company ever again.  Topping it off, he had a hateful, frustrated alien in his mind that could easily control him through incapacitating painful attacks.  Drawing back into himself and away from his uncertain future was irresistible.  He was relieved for a 'time-out' that stopped or slowed the ticking bomb the creature had made of his life.  He tightened his view again and watched the physical detail fade into the imagined clearing.  Then he reeled in the maze of the boy's mind.  He was knee-deep in a river of swimming thoughts.  He snatched one from its path and tore it open.

He heard the boy's voice plead for understanding, what is happening to me?

Good question, Taylor thought to himself.  He relaxed his pull on the maze, coming back into the imaginary clearing.  The creature was still staring intently into the boy crouched at its feet, trying ineffectively to hide.  Taylor considered how one went about clearing his throat in an imaginary world and decided against it.  Probably best to just look at it for bit and let it see that I have a question.  Which did work.  The creature turned its black bowling ball eyes to Taylor and waited.

Taylor asked, what are you going to do with me?  He braced himself expecting a barrage of images and screams.  Instead, he saw endless black space through a clear helmet as if he were inside the armor.  The face reflected back on the inside of the helmet was the orange-red ape.  There was a sensation of movement without any visual point of reference.  After a while, he noticed several of the stars directly in front of him growing brighter.  Then they grew larger and he recognized them as planets.  He saw Jupiter swell to eclipse the other stars and felt a sensation of falling into it.  He expected to crash into it.  His depth perception and sense of distance were frighteningly off.  The sphere might be smaller and closer or larger and further away.  He half expected the giant ball to brush his equally giant shoulder.  He tumbled toward it, closer and closer.  He closed his eyes, expecting impact.  Feeling nothing, he opened his eyes and turned his head to see Jupiter falling away.  Relief washed over him and he turned to look ahead.  He saw a small blue shape growing larger.   The revelation continued for some time.  Occasionally, there was a pause and he'd be aware of the creature watching him to make sure he understood.  Its patience surprised him.  It's important to his plans that I understand, Taylor realized.   When he saw something he didn't understand, he thought a question to the creature.  Somehow, it understood his questions and provided memories of its own or pieces of his memories in response.

And Taylor came to understand its plan.

47

Something amazing is happening to you boy, Taylor packaged his thought and sent it into the maze.

Well, that's good news, thought Leo back.  I thought it was something awful.  Leo wondered if sarcasm worked with ESP.

Nope, he decided when the booming response came back.

You've found something that's unique in all the world.  Mountains of gold yet to be unearthed and treasures of every kind in the world, and all of them combined aren't as special as this flightsuit you've found.  All other treasures came from the earth.  Only this one didn't.

I'll take the gold, Leo thought.

A laugh like rumbling thunder over the mountains surrounded Leo.

After a pause, the thunder spoke again.  It was created so far away the light from its home world can't even be detected from here.  A place so far away that mankind will never reach it.  So far away that for all intents and purposes, it is unreachable – like Heaven, Olympus or Asgard, unreachable.

The entities' memories were flowing freely to Taylor now.

Leo watched the man's face.  It moved only slightly, as if he were asleep.  His attention is somewhere else, Leo decided.  It's totally creepy to hear the guy's thoughts while he stands there staring like a mindless zombie with his face twitching.

The man's booming thought said, and you have something that traveled here, from there.

Leo kept still.  He noticed something else.  As he'd been talking with the man, he kept remembering things from his own past.  At first, it seemed his mind was wandering as the man droned on, but as one memory followed another, he was beginning to think there was something else going on.  Right now Leo remembered sitting in bed with his mother.  The memory was so clear it overwhelmed his focus, pushing even the boom of the man's ESP voice into the background.  The memory was so much nicer than his present situation and it drew him in.  He was glad to escape into it.  He felt soft, warm sunlight on his bare shoulder as evening sun came through his bedroom window.

He remembered sitting partly on his Mother's lap, her arm wrapped around him.  She was reading his favorite book, outgrown now, but not forgotten.  It was about a little prince who lived all alone on a small asteroid.  Listening to his mother read about the little prince's discoveries made him feel safe and at peace, following the little boy's curious footsteps.  Even as a much younger boy, the little prince's freedom, living all alone on his own tiny asteroid held an allure in his child's heart.  Every day, the little prince decided what he would do.  One day the little prince left his asteroid to explore the wider universe, leaving behind the world he knew and loved, to see what he might be missing.  Even a young boy like Leo could tell the little prince's adventures weren't always happy, but there was always the reassurance that he could return home.  In the story, a snake told the little prince that his bite would send the boy back home.  When Leo was very young, this seemed like magic and he, like the little prince, believed the snake.  As he grew older, he realized that being bitten by a snake in the desert might have killed the little prince and that maybe the only way the little prince could return home was to die.

He remembered his mother trying to gently ease his attention away from the little prince's fate.  She wanted him to keep believing in the storybook magic and not think about dying.  The diversions she tried to give him only made him feel something important was being hidden from his young curiosity, out of his mother's good intentions – but still hidden.  Like all children he saw anything hidden as something to be discovered, not realizing there is no way back to what can be lost in the knowledge.

He learned many things from the story.  He learned that the future is not always as nice as the past and he learned that no matter how many assurances adults gave children about dying, they still weren't certain themselves.  The little prince went to an unknown place.  Maybe it was a nice place and maybe it wasn't, but what it was for sure was unknown.

Leo returned from the memory, listening again to the man.

They are explorers and adventurers, the man continued.  In their culture those who explore furthest, overcome the greatest risks and learn the most are elevated.  Thousands of their youngest travel from their home world in these suits, recording everything they see to bring back and increase their society's knowledge and experiences.

They are long-lived, but even with their long lifetimes, few of their explorers come back to enjoy the pleasures of a successful exploration.  Traveling the great distances between stars takes a long time, even for them.  The few who come back cause long celebrations and enjoy the greatest pleasures of their society.  When he left, only a handful had returned, those who were fortunate enough for their destinations to be closest.

He wasn't so lucky.  He drew a faraway destination, a long trip.

They travel out, speed increasing second after second.  They have technologies far ahead of ours… so far.  We are primitive.  The suit has something that our scientists call a "Neutrino Mill".  These are microscopic engines wrapped in a layer inside the flightsuit.  These Neutrino Mills generate power from tiny, almost weightless particles that pass through everything, including us.  More than 100 trillion Neutrinos pass through each of us every second.  The flightsuit generates a tiny amount of energy from each one that passes through it, giving it a limitless power supply anywhere in the universe and avoiding a need for power storage.

Even with the great speed they achieve, the trip out takes years.  For the adventurers to bring back knowledge, they needed something faster for return trips.

48

They are virtually fearless explorers, Taylor continued, but he's still afraid of the return trip.

The flightsuit's life support, its recording systems and its weapons are technology that's commonplace in their society, proven and dependable.  The return trip technology is all new and there's a terrible cost.

As Taylor told him about the alien and the suit he was trapped in, Leo's mind wandered.  He remembered experiences he'd forgotten long ago.  It was so pleasant after the terror he'd felt over the last hours to recall the safety and warmth of times with his mother.  He remembered things he hadn't thought of in years.  It was like finding forgotten photographs in the attic and seeing himself in situations he barely remembered.  He remembered his first day of school.  The tiny desk with his books stacked in the brown metal box under the seat.  He'd anxiously carried the books around in the new backpack his mother bought him for a week before school started.  He sat in the exact middle of the little chair and kept his feet perfectly still.  It seemed to Leo that the other kids knew what to expect, but it was all new to him.  Many of them had older brothers or sisters and somehow gained from their experiences.  Leo remembered feeling scared and afraid, not knowing what would happen next.

The return trip technology works like an ejection seat in some ways.  I've heard stories of fighter pilots here on Earth.  They say using the ejection seat is the second last thing they want to do.  Blowing explosives directly underneath your seat is obviously dangerous.  Pilots that eject have been permanently injured and sometimes never fly again.  Still, it's better than the alternative, I guess.

When the creature's return trip is activated, the flightsuit flash-scans every molecule of the pilot.  The scanning process destroys each molecule of the pilot in the process.  The computational requirements for something like this are far beyond anything we can do at this point.  The process has to occur nearly instantaneously because the location of each molecule in relation to the others also has to be preserved.  Their animal tests made some real messes.  Fortunately, at a molecular level, there's a lot of redundancy, so they drop the copies, knowing they can reproduce them by copying one of the preserved molecules.  In my old job, we did the same thing with data, its called de-duplication.  Taylor paused, thinking.

Adults drone on more in their head than they do when they are speaking, Leo thought.  He sensed time passing slowly outside.  Give them more time and they just fill that up too.  Why's he taking the time to tell me all of this?  What's he waiting for?

Taylor wasn't "listening".  Leo watched a leaf break fall from a real-time tree.  Before it reached the ground, Taylor continued.

Of course, nothing material is really preserved, just information.  The inside of the suit is going to be filled with a grey indistinguishable mush after the return trip tech snapshots the pilot.  It's a destructive process.

Leo's panic suddenly rose.

That's as horrifying a concept to them as it would be to us.  Hard not to see that as dying, regardless of what you hope will happen next.

Then the flightsuit packages the information.  Once the pilot has been scanned, there's no rush.  I guess it's a good thing for us that they haven't yet mastered this return trip technology.  There'd be thousands of them showing up here.  We'd be easily overwhelmed.

The flightsuit calculates the homeworld's location.  They use calculations from the Neutrino flow for this as well as radio waves from the local stars – techniques that I couldn't understand even as I see them in his mind and of course you wouldn't understand them anyway, so there's no point in telling you.  That location is identified and the position relative to the flightsuit is adjusted hundreds of times a second like a sniper keeping crosshairs on a target with his finger on the trigger.

He brags like he's one of them, thought Leo, like this was his achievement.

When everything is ready, millions of microscopic engines woven into the underlayer of the flightsuit realign to point toward his home world and the tiny mills are reengaged.  When they are generating energy from neutrinos, the mills only brush lightly with the flow of particles, not changing their direction.  For the return trip to work though, the mills must completely divert a particle's vector.  The particles are fired at the home world, with some slowed slightly to create staggered patterns.  The patterns are the encoded data which can be interpreted on the other end.

He is really pretty doubtful that the process can work.  They've developed algorithms, distributed in the control systems of the trillions and trillions of neutrino mills that power every part of their society.  These algorithms monitor neutrino flow and direction watching in the direction of each assigned adventurer, always watching for a pattern signature of a return trip.

In theory, the patterns will be caught and the snapshot of data that represented your every molecule, fired hundreds of light years away will be reassembled in reconstitution tanks.

The reconstitution process takes almost a year.  It is new tech to them and there were many failures in the years before he left.  The lead designer was one of the first tests of a sentient creature.  He transmitted himself from one device to another, coming out physically indistinguishable but with substantially diminished mental capabilities and strange psychological quirks.  Even among a society that elevated discovery and exploration, volunteers for subsequent tests were reluctant afterward.

By the time he left for our solar system, the most recent volunteers were only slightly diminished during the process, with the exception of a few random disasters.  They are true adventurers though.  They can't imagine not exploring and expanding.  Even if the odds were considerably worse, they'd still have plenty of their young eager for the opportunity.

Still, he has some anxiety.  Either way though, he's going through with it now.  The accident that opened his seal on reentry burned his body in seconds.  Not immediately…Taylor "remembered" the searing pain the alien felt as the frictional heat flashed in through the open seal in the sleeve.

He doesn't have anything to lose since his body was already destroyed.

49

Leo thought the helicopter sounded closer.

They won't get here in time, Taylor told him.  He's almost ready.  He has to make room.  Their minds need much more storage space than our brain has.

When he first came into my mind, I could barely function for a week.  I didn't know what had happened at the time, at first I thought it was a brain tumor.  After a week, the pain faded and I began to notice my new abilities.  I thought I'd just somehow unlocked something I was born with back then.  Didn't know he was in here with me.

He was content being a passenger for years.  Well, not content, I guess.  Despondent and resigned might be closer to what he felt.  About the way we'd feel if we were trapped with cavemen or savages with no hope for rescue or relief.  He hung on.  They're geared for survival and anyway, they don't have any way to release control of their consciousness, even when their physical bodies die.

He started creating the wide neural nets that I called "timesharing", so he could stretch out across all of their minds.  A single mind was too small for his consciousness.  Being constrained made him tense and edgy.  He also stretched out to learn more.  They can't stop that explorer's drive.

The neural connections with groups of people were a great relief for him.  He encouraged me by connecting my mind with theirs.  That boosted my own mental process.  Even though only lasted during the connection periods, I was able to make checklists so my smarter self could give me directions, Taylor tapped his head.

They don't give up easily, but I think he'd given up hope of returning home until the NSA brought the artifact to me.  Before I touched the artifact, I had no idea that my abilities might be caused by something else living inside my mind.  As soon as I touched it, I started to hear an echo, very quiet, much quieter than my own thoughts.  As I focused on the artifact analysis, he was planning his escape.

Over the next few weeks, he subtly took over.  My reliance on the checklists made it easy for him.  That's clear now.  It was easy to develop a dependency on the checklists.  The checklists helped me build a profitable company from nothing, guided me through investments, relationships, everything - for years.  Why wouldn't I follow them?  I trusted my smarter self and didn't expect to understand the strategies it developed for me.  They just always worked.

When the alien's goals replaced my own, I didn't even notice the difference.  Thinking back though, I can recall times when I started to wonder about it.  He sensed me coming near his purpose and pushed reassuring ideas into my mind.  I'd be looking at a list that detailed stealing an alien artifact from the NSA and he'd associate that with my dreams of sitting on the beach, as if that were a logical result.  It's pretty easy to be tricked when someone has access to your mind and you have no idea they're in there.

Taylor glanced in the direction of the helicopter.  They are getting closer.  But we'll make it.  He smiled.

It's telling him something now I bet, Leo thought.  Taylor's booming god-voice stopped communicating with Leo.  His mouth slackened and fell open.  His eyebrows jammed together like he'd been punched.

Taylor looked toward the edge of the clearing over his shoulder.  He turned away from Leo and walked a few dozen feet.  He knelt and started pulling rocks away from the base of a gnarled little tree.  Leo tried moving, but the suit was still locked in place, so he twisted his head to see what Taylor was digging up.  He'd stopped now and was just looking at something.  Leo couldn't see what it was until Taylor bent at the waist and brought up a dusty glass dish.

He wiped the inside of the bowl out with his sweat-wet shirttail and carried it back to the place he'd stood while communicating with Leo.

Leo saw the disk was a thick bowl of clear glass or plastic with a white glass-metal triangular panel running down from the top to one side.

Taylor held the bowl upside down over his face, smiling through the clear glass.  It's the helmet, Leo knew then.  He realized that he'd still somehow been holding on to a thread of hope because he felt it slipping away.

50

They are adventurers, Taylor repeated.

He just loves to hear himself think, thought Leo, tired of Taylor's condescending and arrogant tone.  He thinks he's in the middle of something amazing and it doesn't matter what it is going to cost anyone else.  What a total jerk.

Taylor kept on.  They thrive on overcoming challenges.  Adventurers that aren't smart enough to plan for almost every conceivable situation don't survive long.  These guys live for hundreds of years, and their civilization is a hundred times older than ours.

The flightsuits give their explorers every advantage.  It has weapons we can't even imagine.  Leo thought of the way the suit had paralyzed Ethan and hoped he was ok.

As Taylor talked, Leo noticed the sky behind him.  White clouds like a crashing surf, frozen over the blue sky, like a slow-moving photograph.  The clouds over Taylor's shoulder were so far away Leo felt like he was looking at them from the bottom of a deep well.  They felt so distant.  Standing on the tingling edge of the cliff, unable to even see his feet, he felt a vertigo-pull into the clouds.  The feeling was so strong, he felt if he could jump just a little into the air that he'd fly up into them.  He held onto the feeling for moments before letting go - it was better than his reality.  As the tingly feeling faded, he felt a tight constriction deep in his chest and a feeling that something was stuck in his throat.

Leo was bruised, dehydrated and terrified.  Everything he'd taken for granted, his life, his freedom, his mother - everything he'd ever assumed was his, had been taken away and he'd been handed the life of a prisoner in return.

He wanted to just get away.  Get away from this crazy jerk, before he steals everything and be free.  Leo longed for the freedom he'd had just hours ago.  He wondered at how much his life had changed in just a few hours.  How could it get so far away so fast?  Please, please, just let me get away from this.  If I can just get away, I'll never forget how much I have again.  I just want to go home.

He kept his eyes on the sky behind Taylor, trying not to look at him.  Deep behind the blue sky.  Somewhere out there is a whole world of aliens.  They make amazing things and travel forever to explore anything that's hidden.  They can make things that could keep everyone on Earth fed and warm and help us learn even more, but they don't care about that.  It doesn't care about anything but going home and it is going to take me with it, Leo thought.

Was there a heaven somewhere between him and a horrible planet full of aliens?  Where would he go when the machine shot the alien home?

Taylor heard his thoughts.

I think you're going along for the ride Leo.  I think a little powerless part of you will be there inside as he controls your body.  He smiled crookedly.  You'll be the first human to see an entire alien civilization.  The bad news of course being that you won't be able to actually do anything or speak with anyone and you'll just be ignored and alone, like a headache.  Something to be pushed aside and forgotten.

Assuming the whole thing even works of course.  He thinks there's a good chance you'll both be mentally defective when you get there, but like I said, he's got nothing to lose at this point.  He's ready.

They've thought of everything.  Their neural process is so different from ours, their fail safes take advantage of their ability to mesh minds with other creatures.  They know there's a good chance their physical body could be damaged, and they plan for situations where their consciousness might inhabit someone else, me in this case, so they design the suit to automatically mate to another pilot.  As soon as the system is sealed, Taylor indicated the helmet, it'll reconfigure to fit who, or whatever, is wearing it.  If the highest life form on earth was a raccoon, I guess it'd make a raccoon-shaped armor, Taylor laughed in his head.

That's why it had you put on the rest of the flightsuit, but not the helmet.  At this point, the suit's still programmed to follow the alien's guidance.  Sealing the helmet activates an automatic reconfiguration.  That would transfer control over to you.  Plus the suits are designed for fighting, so they block any telepathic attack.  He needs the helmet off while he clears space in your mind for his trip home.

Leo stopped looking at the clouds and watched the helmet in Taylor's hands.

The helicopter was getting closer.  Close enough now that they might see it, little larger than a bird behind the green forest cover.

Leo looked directly into Taylor's grinning eyes.  Why?  Why are you doing this to me?  I know he wants to go home and doesn't care what happens to me, but why are you helping him?  I've never done anything to you, or anyone else, he added.  Why are you helping him steal my life?

Taylor's head shook once, his caustic grin dripping down as his upper lip crept up.  Like I have a choice, the booming voice replied.  If he keeps smashing my mind, he's going to break something.  You have no idea boy.  He's just communicating with you through me.  He's inside me.  He can reach out and fire pain receptors directly in my brain.  You have no idea what it feels like when the memory of every pain you've ever felt gets called up at once.  So stop whining.  You have no idea.

Besides, if it's your life or mine, that's easy math anyway.

Before he fell into my mind from his exploding suit, I had nothing.  You don't know what it's like.  Your whole life's been easy.  Really, you've had all the best parts of life anyway, I'm saving you from the hard parts that come later.  I've paid my whole life for something better and I'm due.  I've worked as hard as anyone else.  Everyone else gets the rewards while I do all the work.  They all stick together and unless you're one of them, they'll never leave anything for you.  They're selfish and small.  If only one of us can have a life coming out of this, why should it be you?  What makes you deserve a chance for a good life more than me?  I've worked my whole life while you've done nothing.

When he fills your mind, I'll be free again.  No more headaches from him trying to elbow more of himself into my brain.  You can't even imagine.  Looking forward to a pressure that's not just lifting off of you, but blowing like a wind right out of your head.  Of not feeling like you might explode at any moment, and staying clenched night and day to hold it together.  For years.

It'll be different for you.  Still painful, I'm sure, but he's had time to clear out more space in your mind than he had with me, so there'll be less spilling over the edges.

What do you mean? Leo asked.  What has it been doing to me?

You've noticed it.  I watched you remembering.  He needed time to clear more space in your mind.  I've not just been standing here waiting for nothing.  He's been clearing space for himself for the trip home and for the long recovery after.  He can only carry as much luggage as there is space.  Our minds have a lot less space.

He lost a lot of his own memories and knowledge just cramming himself into my mind, yours has more room – mine has decades of stored memory and experience, but he doesn't want to go through the rest of his life clenched and cramped either, so he's been clearing out your memories.  You've noticed it.  I could see and feel them too as he unwound them.

Leo's breath caught.  He remembered feeling pleasant memories as Taylor had talked in his mind, but aside from the general peaceful feeling they'd produced, he couldn't recall what he was actually thinking about.  He tried frantically to remember, but there was nothing.  What was I thinking about?  New tears tracked down his face as his fear and isolation crested.

It'll be a blessing really boy.  Why would you want to remember what home was like while you're trapped in a prison where you can never reach it again?  That'd be terrible.

Leo saw a small smile flick the edge of Taylor's mouth.  Whatever happens to me makes no difference to you, he thought.  Don't act like it does.  He stared at Taylor, unable to move, unable to run.  Unable to release the frustration, and anger, and fear.  He screamed his frustration full into Taylor's face.  After the silent mental communication, the scream jolted Taylor.  Jerking away, his foot slipped on the small rocks.  He grabbed at the flightsuit's arm to avoid falling from the edge.  For a second, Leo tensed, expecting that he would pull them both crashing into the rocks below, but the suit's traction held.  Taylor stepped back glaring at him.  Leo felt at least a little relief and smiled.

A third voice spoke in his mind.  It wasn't Taylor this time.  As it spoke, the anger dropped from Taylor's face, replaced by slack-jawed awe.  The voice sounded like two dust-dry rocks scraping together to form words.

It was quiet but clear and it spoke in a rumbling whisper.

Ready.

Leo and Taylor stared at each other, and for a while neither spoke or communicated.

Taylor spoke, aloud this time, "It's never spoken to me before.  Always used pictures from memories joined together into stories and just made me understand by meddling with my thoughts."  Taylor looked up into blue sky, as if searching.  "I'm the first person in history to communicate with alien life.  The first person ever."

Taylor dropped his eyes back to Leo.  Leo shook his head once, "I'm here too jerk.  I heard it."

"You're not here for long," Taylor said.

51

Everything happened at once.

A deafening black helicopter slid through the sky over the clearing.  As it passed over, it dropped from treetop height into an eye-level hover with Leo and Taylor over the valley floor.  The sound made it impossible to hear anything else.  The flightsuit didn't move, so Leo had no hands to cover his ears.  It was so loud he could barely think.

A door slid open in the side of the copter, and a man with a black rifle brought the barrel up to point at Leo or Taylor, Leo wasn't sure which.

Taylor scanned the clearing behind them.  Hack's security team ducked into concealment behind rocks and trees.  They were ragged from the dripping heat of the mountain trail run and sleep-deprived, but catching up to Taylor instantly adrenalin-sharpened them.  Hack's six security agents aimed rifles, the barrels of each moving between Leo and Taylor as the agents assessed which was the greater threat.

Leo turned to follow Taylor's stare and saw soldiers wearing black and green camouflage behind trees and rocks.  He saw the one closest waving hand signals to soldiers on either side with the rifles aiming at him and Taylor.  The deafening wind from the helicopter covered the sound, but Leo saw the leader's mouth moving.  Seconds later, the soldiers aiming at Taylor moved to aim at Leo.

52

Ethan needed to stop.

Each time he'd thought to stop, Ray yelled for him to keep going.  Ethan felt as if he would reach the top only to fall over dead on his feet, but, Ray would say you know you can do it Dad.  You just have to want to.  Nothing can stop you.

He didn't stop.  He'd never let Ray down again, even if it did kill him.

His lungs strained to pull oxygen from the humid air.  He'd run almost continuously since changing direction after spotting the white blur.  As he ran down the first hill, he'd second-guessed himself at every step, certain he'd made the wrong choice.  He'd crossed another ridge before hearing the helicopter moving in his direction.

When it had zoomed over the top of the ridge, he'd been in the valley below.  Under normal circumstances he would have stopped and caught his breath many times as he climbed a mountain this steep.

He pushed on, gasping for air.

By the time Ethan slapped his hand onto the top surface of the last big boulder before the clearing, he'd lost track of everything except Ray's voice. He crouched low, running up the mountain, pulling himself with handholds on branches and rocks as he moved, eyes locked.  He came up over the ridge too quickly and barely caught himself before tumbling headlong into space.  He pulled up hard and took a step back from the boulder's edge for good measure.

The helicopter's wind blast was deafening.

Ethan struggled to understand what was happening.

The boy, Leo, was on the cliff's edge.  In addition to the chest and arms he'd last seen, there were legs as well.  The white suit stood with arms outstretched like a cross.  It was so close to the edge Ethan couldn't imagine how Leo hadn't already slipped off with the grit and rocks blowing from the helicopter.

The copter hung at eye level, a soldier inside targeting either Leo or the man next to him, Ethan couldn't tell from his angle and distance.

The man beside Leo on the cliff held a large glass dish out as if he were about to put it on Leo.  He faced Leo with his back to Ethan.

More soldiers hid in the side of the clearing opposite Ethan.  They would notice his arrival within seconds, Ethan was sure.

Ethan's mind raced to interpret the chaotic scene.

53

The helicopter is too close, Leo thought.  The suit has decided it is too close and a threat.  Not sure if I felt something moving or what, but it's getting ready to do something.

A small dimple appeared in the glass-metal surface of the flightsuit's left shoulder.  Because Leo was expecting the suit to do something, the slight movement caught the corner of his eye.  He watched a BB-sized hole appear in the top of the dimple.  The hole expanded and the dimple left a quarter-sized hole in the flightsuit's shoulder.  Leo turned away from the hole as an eye-searing blue light floated out of the opening.  For a second, it just floated, a shining blue pinpoint of light.  Then it shot toward the helicopter.

The soldier in the helicopter put his hand to his helmet trying to hear instructions.  He had seen the light coming but had no time to react.

The helicopter vanished.  The wind blowing at Leo from the blades was swallowed by a whoosh of air toward the helicopter and a crack like thunder.  Then silence.  It happened so fast, Leo's mind was still filling in what he'd seen from after-images.  The helicopter hadn't just vanished, it had been sucked into itself.  He'd seen the beginning of a scream on the soldier's face in the instant before the bones crushed together into a pinpoint.

After a moment's silence, there was a sound as if the entire hillside had just crashed into the valley below.  Dust blew back up over the edge.  Taylor was peering over the edge.

That was the helicopter falling, Leo thought.

He glanced back to see Taylor grinning with delight.  He lifted the helmet and arched his eyebrows.  "Ready for company?"

Leo saw Ethan standing on a large rock looking at him, his jaw still hanging open from the helicopter's disappearance.

54

Ethan saw the man raising the helmet, but his focus was on Leo's eyes.  He read the fear in them.

He heard Ray, yell "STOP HIM!"

In the years since Ray's death, Ethan had stacked regret.  A stick of regret for every time he'd told Ray he was too busy to play.  Chunk, into the stack.  A stick for every time he was too exhausted from work in the mine to play, into the stack.  It didn't matter, now, that he'd been falling asleep on his feet trying to work nights and be at the hospital during the day.  By Ethan's punishing self-assessment, he'd let Ray down many times, right down to the last time as he sat in the hospital feeling his son's small hand grow cold.

Ray had gone, leaving regrets to remember him.  On the few occasions when Ethan felt a moment of simple pleasure, standing in the sun feeling the cooling fall wind, he'd catch himself and feel guilty enjoying something that Ray was missing.  He'd wished thousands of times for a chance to go back and replace each of those memories and half-efforts with a better effort now that he knew there would be so few allotted.  The weight of those stacked regrets had crushed Ethan for years.

Without a second's hesitation, Ethan dipped his shoulder, allowing the pack he'd carried on his back to slide down his arm.  As it slipped off his shoulder, he jammed his right hand into the bag, grabbing inside.  The bag fell to the ground and revealed the long silver pistol in Ethan's hand.

Ray yelled again, "STOP HIM, Ethan!"  This time Ethan saw Leo's mouth framing the words.  He leveled his right arm, closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

Then he opened his eyes and pulled the trigger.

55

Taylor hadn't seen Ethan.  He was lowering the helmet toward Leo when his face erupted in a spray of red, gray and white.  As Leo twisted his head away, he heard Taylor projecting thoughts through the time-frozen, near-instantaneous mind-to-mind communication.  What are you looking at? At first, the booming voice still sounded like an angry god in Leo's head, but then in a smaller voice, like a scared little boy, what's happening?

The connection broke, and Leo continued turning his head as bits of brain and sharp pieces of Taylor's shattered skull ripped past.

Taylor's body froze in place with one remaining eye locked onto him.  The other eye and the top of Taylor's head was on its way over the edge.  Leo watched the helmet drop from Taylor's loosened fingers.  It fell too close to his feet to see if it bounced over the edge.

He heard, or perhaps felt, he wasn't sure which, a tremendous wind through his mind.  He felt relief of a pressure in his head that he hadn't quite been fully aware of before.

He flinched away from the remains of Taylor's slack and surprised face as it leaned toward him.  The body slid against the flightsuit before tumbling past toward the valley below, leaving a red smear, which instantly beaded and slid off.

56

When the helicopter vanished, Hack held his team back.  "No one fire until I do," he spoke into his mouthpiece.   He needed to stop Taylor from putting the helmet on the suit, there was no way to guess what would happen if he did, and he didn't want a kid injured by stray fire or ricochet.  "Sowyer, target Taylor's leg or something non-vital, I want to get him away from the suit without killing him."

"Yes, sir" Sowyer replied, sighting Taylor's head.  Put you away this time.  For good.

Someone else just popped into view across the clearing.  Hack was almost looking right at the spot when Ethan bounded into view and almost fell right over a boulder.  Who's this guy? Before he could make any guesses, the guy threw off his backpack and was standing there holding a gun.  In Hack's long experience dealing justice to men with guns, he'd never seen one pull a gun out and immediately fire.  Everyone always waited to see how a gun changed the dynamics of a situation.  Even the worst killers would hesitate for seconds, if only to savor the power they'd gained.  The guy across the clearing fired in one fluid motion, pulling the gun smoothly out of the backpack, raising it and punctuating the move with a BANG.

"Oh shit."  What the hell is going on here?

Taylor's body fell over the edge.  "Target shooter!"

Across the clearing, Ethan saw the soldiers sighting down on him.  He lowered his right hand and the gun to his side and held his left hand up motioning the soldiers to stop.

Ethan said "Wait!" and again louder, not sure if they'd heard him.  His ears were sharply ringing.  He'd forgotten how loud the gun was without earplugs.

The soldiers weren't lowering their guns.  Ethan began to realize they might shoot him.  His time sense was completely blown.  Everything was happening so fast that it was all reaction.  Rifle barrels sighting down.  Too far away to communicate.  Fingers pulling back?  Are they about to shoot me?

Ethan's mind raced until suddenly, it stopped racing.  Like a man running through a maze who notices a door he's not yet tried.  He lost focus on the soldiers and considered the distraction with his full attention, and he thought, oh, there it is.

He'd had a metal puzzle as a boy.  It was four triangular twisted shapes locked together.  He'd worked with it for days trying to figure out how the pieces came apart.  He carried them with him everywhere for that week and would be in the middle of doing something else whenever he thought of another move to try.  He'd try it only to find the attempt only locked the puzzle in another way, then put it back in his pocket frustrated.  He'd excitedly pull it out again hours later for another try.  His conscious mind gave up many times only to be called out again to test out attempts unconsciously developed.  Finally, he'd pulled it out, made a couple twists that he was sure he must have tried before, and the puzzle came apart in his hands.

Ethan realized he'd been subconsciously trying to solve a vexing puzzle for decades, ever since Ray's death and maybe before.  He'd failed so many times that he no longer consciously tried to solve it, but hadn't realized until now that his mind hadn't given up.  The feeling of surprise and satisfaction was much greater than the metal puzzle.  He'd been pleased with himself then.  Now, the answer to a lifetime of pain, isolation and loss came forward, and Ethan felt elation so great it was like a crashing wave of warm, long-hoped-for peace.

And the soldiers fired.

The sound the rifles made was literally deafening.  It exploded in Ethan's ears.  He stared at the soldiers through red smoke, but his focus was entirely inside his own mind and it didn't quite register on him that they'd fired.

He was inside his own mind.  Exploring controls he'd looked for so long.  He held them, concentrated on holding them so tightly.  He was afraid that if he lost them, he might never find them again.  He held them and didn't move.

Hack called for his team to hold fire.  He looked at the boy still standing locked in the suit, and tried to understand how it had stopped their rounds in midair.  There was no outward sign that the suit had done anything.  The guy was standing there staring past them, still with his hand up, and there wasn't a scratch on him.  There'd been no impacts in the dust and rocks behind or around him either, just a quickly dissipating red dust about twenty feet in front of the guy.

Hack noticed the grass in front of the guy had changed color.  The grass directly in front of the man wasn't green now.  It was bleached white and dry, but just in that one area.  The rest of the grass in the clearing was still green, but in front of the target it was brown and dead.

Suit's not the only anomaly here, thought Hack.  He told the team to keep weapons trained on the guy but to hold fire, and he weighed options.

Sweat itched Ethan's scalp, threatening his concentration.  I can't believe it, he thought.  How long?  Then, I have to see if I can turn it loose and unlock it again.  He was terrified that if he turned it loose and couldn't remember the exact way it felt in his mind, he might lose it again forever.

He looked for something to experiment on, temporarily ignoring the soldiers.

Hack saw the guy lower his left hand, still holding the big pistol at his side in his right hand.  He spoke into the microphone to his team, "The guy's pretty accurate with that gun, if he raises it again, drop him – otherwise, we need to give this some time."

The guy was looking into the trees, Hack looked but saw nothing.  As Ethan's left hand rose again in the direction he'd looked, the agents tensed, preparing to fire.

"Hold your fire, remember," Hack reminded them. What's he doing?

Then he noticed one of the trees in the direction the guy was looking was changing color.   The leaves turned bright yellow, then orange, red and brown in the span of three seconds.  The colors were so bright it seemed the tree caught fire. The leaves quickly faded to brown and all dropped from the tree at once in a brown curtain.  Then a branch cracked and fell from high up in the tree.  Seconds later, another fell.  The tree's bark turned gray.

Hack kept looking from the tree to the guy and back.  The guy still held the pistol down at his side.  His other hand was half-raised toward the tree with the fingers only slightly moving.

Hack heard a loud creaking sound and a "WHOOSH!" as the giant tree with its now bare and bonelike limbs fell.  It fell dangerously close to the guy - between him and the armor, hitting the hard rock clearing ground with a WHUMP!  The top third of the old giant cracked in two at the cliff's edge, falling end-over-end out of sight.

Hack looked at the man, his mind racing.  He aged it.  He aged the tree in seconds.  He did the same thing with the bullets.  The red dust was rust.  How do we stop someone that can do that?  What would happen if he did that to a person?

Hack ducked a little lower behind his concealment.  He noticed the others in the team shuffling down a bit as well, except Sowyer who was actually standing up and breaking his cover.  He ordered Sowyer to get down, but Sowyer seemed oblivious.  Hack shot a quick look at the guy and saw he was just standing there, his face vacant.  Sowyer wrenched his helmet off, the strap pulling on his left ear.  Dropping the helmet, Sowyer clenched his eyes shut and pressed his palms against both temples.  Hack saw tendons strain with the force and feared Sowyer would actually injure himself.  He yelled, "Stop!" almost reflexively.  "Sowyer stop before you hurt yourself.  What is it?"  He looked across the clearing, but the guy was still just standing there, no longer grinning, just looking down at his hand.  Sowyer's problem didn't seem related to anything the guy was doing.  Hack had seen men freeze with fear before.  Something else was going on with Sowyer.  He was clearly in agony, and Hack had no idea why.

57

Ethan's emotions spun out of control.  He was excited, afraid and frustrated.  He'd reached a peak in a lifetime of frustration and loss, and now he was ready to let it all go.

He'd felt the power flowing past him toward the tree.  Actually felt it.  It was like sand blown by the wind, brushing against him as it flew toward the tree, tingling as it touched the skin of his arms and hand.  He couldn't see it.  Not quite anyway.  The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stretched with the charge it left behind.  It felt good.  It felt…so…good to open the valve, and let it go.  Here take it.  Take it.

A huge smile broke across his face as he turned loose more and more on the tree.  There was so much.  It felt like he stood in the ocean with his back to the sea, with wave after wave flowing around and past him toward the beach.  He had no idea where it came from, not from inside him, no person could contain this much, what, energy?  He wasn't even sure what it was.  Whatever it was, he unloaded it on the tree, directing, willing it, and encouraging the little tingly particles to fly.  Fly.

He'd been holding back his whole life, clamped down, pulling back, trying to maintain control.  Now, he let go.  He'd held back every conscious moment since he could remember, and letting go felt as good as dropping a heavy load and feeling the blood rush back to your shoulders.  He'd never realized how good it could feel to let it go.  Maybe the tension and fear of turning loose was the problem all along.

It was a surprise when the tree fell.  He'd been so focused on flying energy into the tree that he didn't consider the likely outcome.  There was a moment when the tree started to lean toward him that he thought it would fall right on him.  When the top of the tree started to move, there was an instant realization of its mass.  It was a gigantic, old (now) thing and it was leaning toward him.  He'd let up and stopped encouraging the flow, but the tree was already coming down.

Ethan felt an overwhelming rush of excitement and exhilaration as the giant fell within feet of him with a loud and, for Ethan, satisfying sound of crushed air.  He breathed, "Wow" and shook his head, smiling.

Wow, Ray agreed.  That was great, Dad!  You did it!  Did you see that?  Wham!

Ethan beamed. Yes!  It was amazing.  I found it Ray.  I finally figured out how to let it go where I want without it slipping out bit-by-bit, aging everything around me.

All those years alone…

Ethan was young when Ray was born.  Back then, in East Tennessee, it wasn't uncommon for a couple's first child to be born before they'd reached twenty.  They'd rushed into life together, passing through daily life, passing milestones without ceremony as they passed by for a once-and-only moment of experience.  Gone in youth's rush and beyond reach after it.

Ethan began piecing an understanding of his mysterious condition together in the weeks following the Ray's diagnosis.  Ray was underweight at birth, but seemed fine otherwise.  As the weeks went by, his failure to thrive became more evident.  The Progeria diagnosis which had, at first, seemed an impossibly random catastrophe was a piece of Ethan's puzzling life.

As a child, Ethan was not discernibly different.  His divergence began in his teens.  He wore out new clothes in less time than other kids.  By Christmas, the new notebooks he'd received at the start of the school year were frayed with only a few crinkled pages still attached and all the loose pages stuffed between the covers.  His mother complained that he was just too rough on his things.  When she talked to his classmate's mothers they said their sons were too rough and careless with their things too.  The difference, lost in superficial discussion, was that Ethan's clothes and his common possessions were destroyed substantially faster.  He'd promise to be more careful with his clothes, and within weeks there'd be holes and tears in the knees or seat.

He'd worn through his original wedding band the week before Ray was born.  It just fell off one day in the shower with a "tink, tink" as the seam wore thin.  He'd decided he was just rough on things in the way other people decided they were clumsy or forgetful.  He was just rough on things.

Ray's diagnosis, so rare and freakishly out-of-the-blue as it was, didn't seem to tie to anything, Maggie's family had no history of it, and his parents were healthy and vibrant new grandparents.  For Ethan, in those weeks of soul-searching after the diagnosis, there was no connection to anything except himself and the strange faster-than-normal entropy.  He began, for the first time, to consider that perhaps there was something truly abnormal about him.  With this new perspective, he examined his life.  Objects he used more, like his rusty tools, aged more quickly.  The chair he sat in each night, looked five years older than Maggie's.  Nothing he saw disproved his suspicion that he was different from everyone else.

When he finally mentioned his concern to Maggie, she laughed.  "It's ridiculous," she said, taking him to the mirror.  "Look.  All these things you're talking about are just normal wear and tear.  If anything, you look younger than you should, you dog.  If everything around you is, somehow", she shook her head, "aging super-fast, what about you?  You're not aging fast and you're around yourself all the time."

She was right.  He'd let it drop.  Looking through the wedding pictures later, he looked virtually the same as today.  But, he was not totally convinced, and as the months went by and little Ray's future grew increasingly close, the feelings of guilt bore down on him.  He became certain there was a connection.  He'd brought it up, as casually as possible, to Ray's doctor during a checkup.  Even though he'd become almost certain himself, he was afraid the doctor would think he was a kook.  The doctor had dismissed the idea out of hand, giving Ethan a mini-lecture on Progeria as if he hadn't read all about it and lived it firsthand already through the first year of baby Ray's life.  He just went along and pretended he agreed with the doctor, as convinced as ever there was a connection.

The next years were a blur, with Ethan working extra hours at the mine and struggling to eke the last iota of energy out for time with Ray.  There was never enough, looking back, he knew that although he'd been with Ray as much, or more, than any other father in the little mining community, he'd rarely been rested enough to really give Ray the focus he had in the mornings when he woke early for work.  He'd think about Ray and Maggie during the day and be eager to get home, but after a couple hours together, he wasn't able to keep going.  He'd lay beside Ray in bed telling him a made-up bedtime story, only to have Ray stop him.  "That's not what happens," he'd say and Ethan realized he'd mingled discussion from work into the story as he fell asleep talking.  Weekends were better.  Waking up with Ray and Maggie, he gave them his full attention.

Those early years with them were the best part of Ethan's life, and he remembered them often.  As Ray's condition worsened, the stress on Ethan mounted.  All of his life, he'd been an early-riser, usually waking before the alarm went off.  He began to oversleep and where he'd been a light sleeper before, now he had to be shaken awake.  Back then, he'd just assumed his sleep quality was low.  Anyone would have trouble relaxing in a similar situation, he thought.  In any event, he didn't feel groggy, or sleep-deprived so it wasn't a problem, other than requiring Maggie to wake him up.

After Ray was gone, Maggie was not the same.  Ray had grown between the two of them in a way that felt tight and complete at the time, but left cold empty sadness between them.  With no family history of illness with anything like Ray's rare Progeria, she'd blamed herself and Ethan equally.  Both of their genes had combined in a way that doomed Ray, and she would wake up each day and roll the stone of her grief up the mountain over and over.

She left the house one Saturday a month after Ray's death without waking Ethan.  She intended to spend the day driving the Blue Ridge Parkway and just remember Ray alone.  She drove all day and felt it had helped, at least a small bit.   The house was quiet and Ethan didn't answer when she called, although his car was in the driveway.  She walked to the shed and around the house without finding him.

Cell phones were decades away, so she made dinner and waited.  She was worried and angry with him in equal parts.  The brief relief she'd gained during the day was lost in frustration at Ethan for not leaving a note about his plans.  At ten o'clock, she decided she'd go to bed.

She saw Ethan in bed and let out a gasp, with her hand holding her heart in place.  As she approached him she saw that he was breathing normally.  He seemed to just be sleeping.  She switched off the light and slid in beside him.

In the morning, he still slept.  Maggie considered waking him but decided to let him sleep.  She skipped church, she wasn't ready to face anyone there yet anyway.  When she came home Ethan still slept.  Throughout the day, she'd come to the door and watch him.  Her amazement and compassion drained away as night returned.  Ethan's coma was creepy and unnatural.  She slept fitfully on the couch with the bedroom door closed.  She woke with sunrise and found Ethan sleeping peacefully on.

She shook him, and he came awake with a mumbled "thanks" and went into the shower.

Maggie was still sitting on the bed when he came out, towel around his waist.

Ethan asked "anything special you'd like to do today?"

"Ethan," she said, "it's Monday."

She told him then about how she'd spent the weekend watching him sleep.

"I didn't know a person could sleep that long," she said, almost as a question.  Ethan didn't reply.  He had no answer, but she could tell he was working through something.  He dressed and went in to work.

Maggie pulled out the wedding album and looked at Ethan.  He really hadn't aged since the wedding.  Staring at the mirror, she could see lines at the corner of her eyes and the hint of a crease around her smile that would eventually set in place.  She was aging.  Normally?  Or faster than normal?  She had no way to gauge and of course, after what she'd been through what would be normal anyway?

But Ethan's concern that somehow he might be the cause of Ray's Progeria came back to her.  She'd laughed it away then, but that was before she'd seen him sleep in a coma for 58 hours.  There was no doubt that Ethan was different now, and it wasn't so hard to accept other differences might be possible.  She spent the day looking at the house, his things, his clothes, his chair and the tools in his shed, and she started to believe.  By the time Ethan came home, they both knew he'd been right.

The next days were worse even than Ray's last days.

The crushing guilt they'd shared had tenuously held them together.  With no family history of illness in either side of their genes, the disease was a fluke, just incredibly bad fortune.  The combination of genes that gave them Ray's unique personality and indomitable spirit gave him only a short time.  With the guilt burden removed, there was nothing left between them.  Maggie's eyes had looked at him with love and loyalty once.  He'd seen the fear and sadness in them as they brought Ray into the world and saw him out.  He'd seen her eyes vacant with guilt and sadness.  The last time he saw her, they were filled only with fear.  She'd increasingly avoided him over the weeks after the long sleep, minimizing contact and staying as far away as she could manage in the little house.  She thought he was causing her to age faster and although it horrified him to think of it, he thought so too.

Their life together ended with a last tight and sorrowful embrace.  He watched her drive away with tears pooling in his eyes.  He could see her shoulders hunch down in the car as she cried.  He watched the road long after she drove away.

In the years since, Ethan's strange condition increasingly isolated him.  Alone in the little house, time came apart.  Without anyone to physically wake him, he slept for days or weeks at a time.  When he woke, he felt like he'd slept normally.  He listened to the radio to learn how long he'd been asleep, always feeling like a single night passed.

He'd wondered why he'd slept normally before Ray's death.  Ethan tried often to exert conscious control of his strange time condition.  He'd stare at a clock trying to slow or speed it up, but nothing ever happened.  Since he couldn't control it consciously, he decided his unconscious mind somehow could.  Clearly, it was his unconscious that took over as he slept and created some kind of time-deflecting cocoon around him, allowing him to go without food or bathroom for weeks.

But he couldn't control it consciously.  He tried day after day without success of any kind until, like the little steel puzzle rings he had as a boy, he put it out of mind and let his unconscious mind work on it or ignore it as it chose.

He imagined his unconscious mind as a separate person from himself, with different objectives and mysterious and frustrating ways.  It controlled his strange, useless ability throughout his life allowing it to leak out in only the most subtle ways, with his clothes and the objects around him aging faster than normal.  The oddities of his genes swept into Ray too, minus the unconscious control mechanisms.  Ethan read everything he could find about Progeria victims.  Almost nothing was ever written about their parents, so he had no way to know if they had conditions like his own.  He'd never told anyone who actually documented his own fears.  If any other parents had come forward with similar concerns, those had likewise never been documented.  He thought it possible that the kids that died of Progeria had the same physical condition he had without the control system.  Whatever that was.

He became flotsam in the time stream, and the world moved on.  Mine operations slowed and finally stopped as richer sources were found.   People moved out of the houses around him.  With his long sleeps, he only ate one day every couple weeks.  Compound interest and minimal withdrawals on the money he'd saved covered his expenses.  The world left him alone and soon forgot him.

He talked to Ray and God intermittently through the day and listened to the radio during meals catching up on what he'd slept through.  He'd slept through the death and funeral of both his parents, visiting fresh gravesides to pay belated respects.  They'd left their only son an inheritance which he put into long term, high-interest accounts.

Years passed, then decades.  The century turned.  For Ethan, it was a year.  Alone with his grief and rare interactions with complete strangers.  He started to heal.  While he lived a completely abnormal existence, he held the loss of Ray and Maggie in a heart that no longer felt like broken glass.  He talked to the memories of them every day and in his long, slow dreams.

He'd given up trying to control the thing, consciously at least.

Apparently, my unconscious has worked it out, he thought.  After all this time.

When the tree crashed to the ground, Ethan felt a rush of joy, relief and power that he couldn't imagine existed.  He felt like the light of a sun was shining out of him.

He breathed, "Wow" and shook his head, smiling.

Wow, Ray agreed.  That was great, Dad!  You did it!  Did you see that?  Wham!

Ethan beamed. Yes!  It was amazing.  I found it Ray.  I finally figured out how to let it go where I want without it slipping out bit-by-bit, aging everything around me.

All those years alone…

Dad.  Hey, Dad!  Better pay attention.  We've got to help Leo!

Ethan set his thoughts aside and bent down to put the gun back in his pack.  He lifted it back to his shoulder keeping an eye on the soldiers.  The rifles still targeted him, and he could only hope they could see he'd put the gun away.  Now he had to do something they might consider threatening.  He braced himself and took a step toward Leo.  He waited.  No one fired, so he continued walking slowly toward the boy.  He came to the tree and straddled it to get across.

The soldiers watched him through rifle scopes as he crossed the clearing.

"Are you ok?" he asked Leo.

"What was that?" Leo asked back. "What just happened?"

"It's a long story, Leo, a sad one.  We don't have time for it now."

Ethan looked back at the soldiers who seemed to be struggling to restrain one of their own.  Good, he thought, that'll give us some time to get him out of this thing on our own.  They can have it, that's probably all they want anyway.

"How do we get this thing off you Leo?" Ethan asked.  He saw the boy was looking at the soldiers.  When he turned back, he was wide-eyed with fear.

"We can't," he said quickly, "We can't take it off, Ethan.  There's no time.  You've got to help me, Ethan!  Quick!"

"What?" Ethan asked trying to understand what had escalated Leo's fear so quickly.  "What do we do to get it off?"

"We can't take it off in time, Ethan.  That's him", he nodded over his head at the soldiers as they wrestled on the ground.  "That's the alien.  It's taking over that soldier now.  This suit is his.  If he comes within twenty feet of me, he's going to take over my mind just like he's doing with that agent and this time, he's ready to leave."

"Leave?" Ethan asked, "Where's he going?"

"Home!" Leo shouted. "Ethan, he's going home!  He'll take me with him and I'll be a prisoner in his mind there all by myself."  Leo peered over the edge of the suit's collar. "I can't see it."

"See what?"

"The helmet.  Get the helmet Ethan.  It didn't fall off the edge did it?"

"No," Ethan replied, picking the helmet up and holding it where Leo could see it.  "Its here."

"Put it on me, before they see what you're doing," Leo gasped.

"What?  No!  We can't go any further with this Leo.  We might only be making it more impossible to get you out."

"If you don't," Leo locked eyes with Ethan.  "If you don't Ethan, you're condemning me to death all alone and completely helpless, living out my whole life as a voice with no one listening.  Please, Ethan, put the helmet on me now!"

Ethan's mind raced with his thoughts circling back to the same place.  Leo was asking, was begging him to do something.  He didn't understand why, but the boy seemed sure.  He didn't have facts or time to understand, but if he didn't act immediately, something bad might happen.  The boy thought it would.

58

He lifted the glass bowl up over Leo's head, careful not to brush against the suit.  He had no idea if it would try to stop him, but he didn't want to take a chance.  This close to the edge, he'd probably fall right off.

The soldier they'd restrained seemed to have come to his senses.  He'd apparently reassured them enough that they'd let him up, and they were walking toward the suit with rifles pointing at Ethan.

He positioned the glass helmet as close as possible to the right location and held it steady over Leo's head.  They looked at each other.  Leo smiled at Ethan to reassure him.  He was afraid to look at the soldiers.  He knew they were getting close.  He felt the alien's mind reaching into his.  Leo nodded to go ahead.

Ethan spread his fingers, and the helmet dropped in place.

The helmet clinked lightly, and seals made a soft "pop" as they settled in place.  Leo's eyes darted inside the glass dome.  Seconds passed.  The suit's arms released and fell to the sides, and Leo stumbled in the suit.  Without thinking, Ethan grabbed at the suit and pulled Leo back from the edge.  He jerked his hands off the armor once he'd realized he'd touched it, even though it hadn't stunned him this time.  He kept his hands close just in case Leo's knees gave out.

The suit settled lower, dropping Leo down to eye level with Ethan.  As Ethan watched, the suit drew itself in tighter.  The shoulders shrank down, and the long forearms pulled back.  Leo felt his fingers touch the glove tips.  He held the right glove up to his eyes and watched seams appear between the two flat fingers.  The seams deepened, and he felt the suit sheath around his fingers.

He looked at Ethan.  Ethan saw his lips moving but couldn't hear anything through the sealed helmet.  A blue circle of light traced on the glass surface in front of Leo's mouth, and Ethan heard "…fitting itself to me".

"I hear you Leo," he said. "Can you hear me through that?"

"I can hear you perfectly.  It sounds like your mouth is talking right into my ear.  At first it was like being underwater, but now I can't tell the helmet is even there."  The dust that had covered the helmet was gone.  It was crystal clear.

He brought his arm up, flexing the gloved fingers.  Ethan watched the collar neckline drip down like hot wax onto the chest plate as the clear glass of the helmet extended below Leo's chin.

"I can see the ground in front of me now," Leo said with a small smile touching his lips.  "That helps."

The flightsuit felt like a second skin.  Ethan stepped back as Leo stretched his arms and fingers, feeling the flightsuit respond to him.  It wasn't bulky or cumbersome at all.  It mirrored his movements without hesitation or drag.  He snapped his fist up into a straight arm punch, and the flightsuit amplified the movement, making his arm a blur.

Leo smiled, "I think its ok, Ethan."

59

"Raise your hands now!" Hack didn't need to yell.  They'd closed the distance and were less than 40 feet from the two and continued slowly closing the gap.

The delay while he restrained Sowyer allowed them to get the helmet on.  Hack was pretty certain that was not a good development.  The suit instantly compressed a full helicopter, plus pilot and gunner into a speck that Horton couldn't see.  He had to assume it could do the same or worse, if that is possible, to a person.  He didn't want to find out what might be worse.

The suit was an alien artifact.  Clearly a functional alien artifact.  It was irreplaceable and priceless.  The government would have it at any cost.  The lives of everyone here meant nothing.  The suit would fund whole new arms of the government.  They would analyze alien technology, and convert it to weapons and new industrial technologies.  Keeping the suit secret would prevent ownership squabbles with other countries.  Secrecy would be maintained, at any cost.  Hack considered options, signaling the team not to approach closer.

The suit was as destructive as it was irreplaceable.  If he could take it now, with only this handful of witnesses, the government could easily keep its prize secret.  The people in this clearing were the only ones who'd seen it.  They'd all be victims of some unfortunate accident.

If the kid escaped with the suit though, his team would be crucial to the search – the only direct witnesses of its capabilities and in the meantime, more people might see it.  Hopefully more people than the government could easily remove from the board.

Just a normal day, Hack thought.  He'd survived terrorist standoffs and multiple missions.  No one else had survived two.  He was good at quick life-or-death responses.  Comes in handy, he thought.  If I let them go, we'll still get the suit eventually, and maybe everyone here will live through it.  Maybe not everyone, he thought.  The kid and his friend's chances aren't good either way. If we do capture them, assuming that's even possible, we're dead.  I'm sure of that.

Let them escape without making it look like there was any choice.

"Keep back," Hack told his team.  They'd closed within ten feet.  The suit shone in the sunlight.  There didn't seem to be a crack on it.  How is that possible?  It must have been blown apart for us to find a piece of it.  Self-repairing systems?   I'm standing within reach of something greater than the pyramids or the Rosetta stone.  It changes everything we believe.  People will never see the world the same again.  Like growing up, there'll be no way back.

If everyone knows about it, we'll have no choice but to share it.  If we take it today, and no one outside this clearing knows about it, it will be kept secret and used by the government.  They aren't known for good decisions.  Hack was.

"Lower your weapons.  We are going to talk this out.  No one else is getting killed."

His team lowered their rifles but kept them ready.  Good.  Hack looked at Sowyer to make sure he complied.  He had, but he was still acting strangely.  He stared at the kid like he was ready to kill him.  Deal with Sowyer later.

Now, plant the seed before he tries something else.  "You don't think we're going to just let you walk out of here," Hack said.  Come on kid, figure it out.  It's all on you.

After a pause, Leo replied "I don't think there is anything you can do to stop us."

Perfect.  Smart kid.  Now make sure the team gets our alibis straight.  Have to hope the kid stays calm and doesn't react instead.  "We can shoot you.  That would stop you."  And the key part, "Wouldn't it?"   In debrief later, he'd make it sound like a pronouncement, not a question.

Come on kid.  Say it.  Be smart.

Leo hesitated.  Ethan was ready to act, but didn't see any way they could escape.

"You tried shooting," Leo said, "and it didn't work.  I don't think you want to try it again.  Something bad might happen.  Worse than last time."

Kid's got backbone.  Good.

Leo wrapped Ethan in the suit's arms and leaped from the edge.

"No!  Kid!"  Hack reached out and felt the smooth surface of the suit's shoulder as it dropped out of reach.  Oh crap.  He leaned out to watch them fall.

60

Leo saw the ground rushing up.  His initial reaction was to spread one hand out to soften the landing while holding Ethan tight, but not so tight that the flightsuit crushed him.  The suit had taken control though, and it repositioned its arms underneath Ethan as they dropped.  It was getting closer to the cliff wall as it fell.  Leo watched the rocks flashing past, too fast to recognize detail.  Too close to the wall, he thought, steeling himself in the suit for the impact.

The suit scraped against rock and kept falling.  Most of the contact was through the boots, which the suit stretched out and drew back with each impact.  It hit a jutting outcrop with the right leg stretched out to meet it first.  When it hit the outcrop, Leo realized it was trying to convert the fall into something like a skiing descent, by hitting the sloping rock edges.  It seemed to be working, they were bouncing back and forth between the walls of a wide vertical channel.  They were falling sideways and down now, but still too fast.  Here it comes, Leo thought.

The suit rebounded like a spring as its control systems converted crushing vertical kinetic energy into a survivable deceleration.  At impact, it lowered Ethan in its arms almost to the ground, using the distance from its chest to the ground to further decelerate him.  Then it sprang forward launching itself into the middle branches of rhododendrons, twisting in midair like a cat and shielding Ethan as it crashed backward into the branches.  The suit rolled as it hit the branches and launched Ethan away.  He landed in high weeds and briars.

The suit rolled over backward to land on its feet, knees bent.  The arms reached out to each side for balance.  It stood up and released control back to Leo.

"Wow."  Leo ran to the weeds.  "Are you ok?"

Ethan looked down at himself, unsure.  Everything had happened so fast.  "I'm going to be sore and scratched, but I can walk.  I was sure we were going to die."  Leo helped him stand.  The both looked up.  They'd fallen far enough from the cliff that they could see over the outcrops to the top.  They saw the soldiers peering over.  Leo waved.

"How did you know the suit could survive a fall like that?"

"I didn't," Leo said still staring up the cliff, "I just figured that it would probably not let me do something that it couldn't protect me from."

Ethan looked at him without saying anything.

After a few seconds, Leo said, "Come on, we've got to hurry."

Ethan spread his hands, "Where?"

"There's something we need, I'll explain on the way.  Right now we need to get moving before it's too late.  I'm going to pick you up and carry you, like it did on the fall.  Is that ok?"

Ethan didn't like the plan, but there was no doubt they needed to get moving.  He held his arms out so Leo could reach around him.  As the arms brought him up, he said, "Now I know where the bruises are.  Right under my back where it held me in the fall.  Ouch, that hurts."  He winced and grit his teeth as the arms settled underneath him.  "Ok, ready I guess."

The suit was amazingly agile and fast.  It amplified Leo's movements, sensing intentions like his own muscles.  At first his amplified movements were clumsy and jerky.  Now either he was already becoming more comfortable with it, or it was compensating and smoothing out his movement.  Inside the helmet, Leo mumbled to himself, "Now where's his car?"  Although he was only thinking aloud, the suit responded with a faint map of blue lines projected into the inside of the glass bubble.  Leo saw the suit's orange pinpoint and a line that was the nearest shore of the river.  When he looked at the river, numbers appeared in each spot as his eye moved.  There were two numbers at each point, one over the other with a bar between.  Leo didn't know what the numbers meant.  Another orange pinpoint blipped onto the map near the river.  Is that another piece of the suit or the car?  As he considered this, he came to the edge of small crease where rainfall cut into the hillside, creating a deep ravine.  A tree had fallen across it.  Leo glanced at it, considering whether he could run across on the log.  A red outline projected in the helmet.  He looked at the log more closely, and the display flashed numbers across it.  He looked back over the shallow ravine and gauged the distance across.  A lifetime's experience with his own legs made it easy to estimate how safely he could make a leap, but he'd had only a few minute's experience with the suit and no way to know how far it could leap.  It had, so far, prevented him from doing anything it couldn't survive.  Leo thought the cliff jump might have been pretty close though, since it had to convert the straight jump into a controlled slide.

Ethan said, "You're not going to jump are you?"  "Just walk down the edge and back up the other side."

It was good advice, Leo knew the suit could quickly get across that way.  That's no fun, he thought, and besides how will I learn what it can do without trying?  He was already running toward the ravine as he made up his mind.  Ethan frowned at him through the helmet and threw his arm around Leo's shoulder.  He, or the suit, timed his stride perfectly with his left foot springing forward inches from the edge.  His right foot landed two feet from the other edge, and he kept running.  When Ethan saw his smile, he couldn't help smiling himself.  Still don't know if it could have jumped further, Leo realized.  It might have just jumped as far as it needed.  He concentrated on running without tumbling over the rocks that lay below the ferns and rotten leaves, watching the orange pinpoints get closer.

Close enough, he thought, stopping in a patch of chest-high, amber grass.  He let Ethan's legs down.  Ethan arched his back, glad to get his weight off the bruises on his back and thighs.  Leo whispered, hoping the suit wouldn't amplify his voice.  "I think his car is right down there, but there are a bunch of red dots moving around it.  Let's crawl forward and see."

Ethan nodded, "Ok".  They crept forward.  Ethan hardly moved the grass.  Leo looked like a bear as his crawled on all fours.  Ethan noticed that as they crawled, the glossy white surface became more reflective.  The reflections of the grass beside him became increasingly distinct.  He reached up to tap the suit.  Leo tried to sit back on his haunches, but the suit's bulk wouldn't lean back far enough.  He put one knee down and the other out in front to see what Ethan wanted.

"It's camouflaging you.  Leo held his hand up and saw only grasses himself for a moment.  It was oddly disorienting to know his hand was in front of his eyes and not be able to actually see it.  Then a blue outline traced his arm in the helmet glass.  He still saw the grass right through his arm, but the outline let him know where it was.  It was disorienting, and Leo thought, very cool.

Now that they'd stopped, Ethan realized the suit wasn't reflecting the grass.  There was no reflection of him.  He looked at the small briar branch on the other side of Leo and then back down at the suit.  The branch stem looked like it was in a glass of water, with just a faint distortion where Ethan knew the suit was.  Rather than creating a reflection, Ethan decided the suit was projecting what was on the other side of Leo, as if the suit wasn't there at all.  As Leo stopped moving, even the distortion vanished.  He was completely invisible.  Even the clear helmet seemed capable of camouflage projection.  Ethan reached out to touch it.  His fingers bumped but he couldn't see anything.

Leo waved his arm to see the effect.  Ethan saw a distortion warp the grass around the moving arm, but still couldn't see the rest of the suit.

"As long as you don't move," he whispered to where he thought Leo's face was, "I can't see you at all.  It's very weird."

Leo smiled and almost laughed inside the helmet when Ethan whispered to his side rather than his face.  "I know.  What's it look like when I move?  Can you see me clearly then?"

"No, not clearly.  I can just tell there's something there," Ethan assured him.  "I catch the movement but can't find anything there."

"Well, that should help," Leo said, "because I think there's a lot of police watching the car."

61

There were a lot of police watching the car.   Three police cars were parked in one lane of the road.  The police were only allowing cars to go through the open lane if their driver's license indicated they lived deeper in Bumpas Cove.  Three of the cops were looking in the windows of Taylor's car, which was parked in the sandy gravel near the river's edge.  Hack's call to the Sheriff warned them against opening the car doors.  The Sheriff himself was on his way.  They'd recognized Hack's name, and the Sheriff and two more deputies were on their way.  They assumed that Hack was involved in another major terrorist infiltration and wanted in on the capture.  One of the deputies printed an article on the Cane Creek terrorist raid and made copies for each of them in case they had a chance to get Hack's autograph.

They hadn't yet arrived.

Ethan and Leo agreed that Ethan would stay in the grass while Leo would sneak down to the car.  Assuming the flightsuit's camouflage stayed on, it should be easy to sneak in undetected.  Leo wasn't sure how he'd activated the camouflage, so he was a little concerned that it might turn itself back off again just as he walked down into the group of police.  I hope this helmet is bulletproof.  He thought about it, and added, I hope the rest of the suit is bulletproof too.

He crawled away from Ethan.  He wanted to get clear of him before he stood up just in case the camouflage deactivated.  Twenty yards away, he looked at Ethan through the helmet.  Ethan was scanning the area around him.  Ha.  He still can't see me.  That's a good sign.  Ok, here goes.  Leo stood up, watching the cops closely for any sign they saw him.  The three cops that were looking in the car windows were now talking beside it.  A fourth was talking to the driver of a car that had pulled up as Leo crawled away from Ethan.  None of them reacted.  Leo thought they probably would have noticed someone just popping up in the weeds, so he assumed he was still camouflaged.  Well, that's good.  He stepped forward, trying to move the grass slowly as he passed.  After a few steps, his boot came down on a stick.  It broke with a SNAP! All four of the cops looked straight at him.  Leo froze, as he watched them through the helmet.  Please be on camouflage.  Please be on.

Apparently, it is, he thought after the cops started talking again a few seconds later.  "Whew," he breathed out slowly, then clamped his lips, reminding himself not to make sounds.  There was no way to know if the suit might decide he wanted to talk with the cops and amplify the sound so they could hear through the helmet.

Leo looked down.  He'd have to watch more closely where he stepped going forward.  The next steps were quieter, although it was hard to tell how much noise he was making from inside the suit.  He made it to the edge of the road.  The cop waved the driver past and stood in the open lane watching in both directions.  Leo stood for a moment.  He kept expecting to be discovered.  Any moment the cop was going to yell, "Hey you!"   To Leo's surprise, he hadn't, yet.

He stretched the toe of the boot out, making an exaggerated tiptoe step.  Then another.  He smiled, then grinned, thinking how ridiculous he'd look if he weren't invisible.  A giant bear-sized suit tiptoeing directly in front of a cop.  He was careful not to let himself laugh out loud.

He reached the edge of the road and realized closing the distance to the car was going to be much harder.  For one thing, he was close enough to the cops that they'd hear any sound his boots made.  The river's edge was all sand, with smooth river-polished stones and grass patches.  He could easily spot occasional sticks and dried leaves.  The sand helped reduce his footfalls, but there was no way to avoid making footprints.  Even an unobservant person would notice footsteps appearing in the sand, and he still wasn't sure how much movement the suit's camo system could handle.  The cops would definitely notice a shimmery haze this close.

He looked for a grass patch and put his foot just behind it, hoping the footprint would be hidden from the cop's view.  He waited, balancing himself, watching for any reaction.  Ok, next.

He stepped behind another patch.  One of the cops directly facing him looked down at the sand.  He stepped away from the car and knelt down to look at the footprint.  Leo was petrified and held his breath.  The cop reached down to touch the footprint with Leo's foot still in it.  His fingers jammed into the camouflaged boot, and he jerked them back.

"Ouch," the cop said.  "What the heck?"  He reached his hand to the footprint more slowly the second time.  His fingers touched the boot again.  Mystified, he rapped on Leo's boot with his knuckles, making a heavy metal sound.  The other two cops came over, standing behind the kneeling cop.  They were huddled around Leo, oblivious to his presence, for the moment.

The kneeling cop raised his fingertips from the boot tip up the shin of the suit and then sprang backward to sit on the sand.  The two standing beside him jumped back a step and reached for their holsters.  Leo jumped back too and ran around the back of Taylor's car.

The cops jerked their pistols into two-hand grips and aimed directly at Leo, although they only saw a hazy, ghostlike distortion.  In the weeds across the road, Ethan stood up, watching the scene unfold.

Leo looked in the passenger window of Taylor's car with the cops aiming their guns directly at him.  He tried to open the door, but couldn't get the gloves in the handle.  It's probably locked anyway, he thought.  He drew back his arm and held it for a moment, preparing to smash the window.  They'll probably shoot when I do this.  He glanced up at Ethan standing in the grass and decided he'd better hurry before someone spotted him.  He jabbed his arm forward.  The suit took over, and his gloved fist impacted the window faster than his eye could follow.  The passenger window imploded into glitter, spraying a lightshow of sunlight.  The driver's-side window burst out in larger pieces.  A twisted lightning-bolt crack ran across the front windshield.

The cops ducked away from the explosion, shielding their eyes with elbows.

Leo's fist was frozen within inches of the point of contact.  The suit relinquished control, and Leo grabbed a thick green journal from the passenger seat.  There was a wide rubber band around it holding loose pages.  As Taylor packaged his thoughts, he couldn't put the book and the bag out of his mind.  They were his prizes, at that point, all he had left, and they would provide his dreamt-of future.  Leo saw them in the background as they'd communicated and knew Taylor was eager to rid himself of the alien and get back to them.

Now the duffle bag, he thought.  Then the first bullets hit him in the chest.

62

The exploding glass peppered the nearest cop when the car windows blew out.  A dozen pieces cut through his blue shirt and embedded into his forearm.  As they stumbled backward, he dropped his pistol into the sand and sat down staring at the outside of his forearm, trying awkwardly to see how badly he was injured.  All three officers had been saved worse injury by their Kevlar vests.  The other two were further from the car, and although later examination would find several pieces of glass in various locations, they'd not yet, in the excitement of the moment, realized they were injured.

They both thought there had been a bomb in the car.  The suit's camouflage system hid Leo so thoroughly that only the curious cop had seen anything.  When Leo lifted Taylor's journal from the passenger seat, they saw the journal float out of the car window and hang in midair.  They had a target, and training took over even though there was no explanation for what they saw.

They fired seven rounds before stopping.  Five rounds hit Leo in the chest and abdomen, two coming through the journal first.

As it stood on the cliff face, waiting for Taylor to arrive, the suit's energy systems had collected solar and neutrino energy preparing for the blast of focused energy that would send Leo and the alien's essence, in the form of a neutrino pattern, hundreds of light-years away.  Having fulfilled the final routine of its programming, it would continue collecting energy until fully recharged and would then detonate.  The explosive release of energy would have created a ½ mile wide crater and flattened trees for a full mile around.

When the return trip routine cancelled, the suit was left with a full charge.

The bullets tore through the air, faster than sound.  Computer programs written on a planet, eons away in time and space, processed information through photonic processors, 800,000 times faster.  Against such a slow attack, the flightsuit's programming determined that a full-cover repulsion field was unnecessary and raised the field only in calculated impact areas.

Then the flightsuit waited for the bullets to arrive.

As the bullets reached the field's outer periphery, two inches from the flightsuit's glass-metal surface, the suit began its analysis of the arrival vector.  The program allowed the bullet to travel almost to the other side of the field, the outermost surface of the suit, as it collected trajectory data.  Then, it reassigned the bullet's kinetic energy back to the vector's point of origin.  Since the bullet's inbound velocity was so low, relative to the suit's defensive design parameters, it drew energy from storage and boosted the bullet's return velocities.

The two rounds that deflected through the journal flew back through the same holes they created.  The suit's calculated point of origin for these rounds sent them harmlessly past the two cops.

The other rounds returned to their precise points of origin with a thousand times their initial energy.  The result was horrific.

At such close range, the suit precisely calculated the point of origin for the five rounds.  One bullet actually impacted another round as it left the barrel.  The other four rounds hit the guns and the cop's hands.  The impact force blasted gun and bone fragments backward, instantly transforming them into a maelstrom.  The cop's arms exploded backward into their face and chest.  They stood for seconds with the stumps of their arms still extended.  One round continued its travel, exiting the cop's disintegrated shoulder blade.  Their faces went instantly white as they stood looking at their destroyed hands.  The younger cop turned around to stare at the curious one who'd fallen to the ground when the car windows blew out.  His face had a stunned look as if he was asking, "Is this really happening?"

The curious cop stared at the scraps of skin and bone hanging from his partner's elbows and then at the bone and pistol shards still sticking from the bloody Kevlar vest.

Leo could not believe what was happening.  He'd snuck down to the car thinking he could snatch the journal and bag without any plan other than sneaking close to the car.  The suit had massively overreacted to the attack and rather than the bullets just bouncing harmlessly off like he thought they would, it had blown them back at the cops.  Their arms are blown off.  He just kept thinking their arms are gone as he stood there gawping.

He took a step toward the injured cops.  His natural reaction was to help them in some way and apologize, as if that were possible, for what the suit had done.  He stopped himself, realizing that the suit might actually, somehow, do something even worse.  Just get the bag, he thought.  Just get the stupid bag and hide.

For a moment, both of the injured cops stood.  The younger cop, a new father, fell first.  His eyes lost focus, staring into the air and he leaned over backward.  His head hit a smooth brown river rock laying in the sand.  In thousands of years, no human had moved this rock, never sat upon it.  It was unnoticed and unremarkable until the young cop's head split open upon it like a ripping melon.  It would sit upon the curious cop's desk until his retirement years later – as a terrible reminder of how close he'd come.

The curious cop stared in horror as blood ran off the rock and into mica-sparkling sand.  The young cop's exploded open wrists bled into the sand with the last beats of his shocked heart.

The curious cop looked up, but not in time.  The older cop fell across him, knocking his pistol into the sand.  The older cop reached up to him with the shattered stump of his arm.  It slid down his shoulder before falling leaden onto the ground.  He'd wish afterward that he'd held his friend and said something comforting as he slipped away.  But his reflexes were faster than his good intention.  He slid himself out from under the body and watched his friend pass alone, too horrified to even say anything.  Their eyes met.  After a few seconds, he realized nothing remained behind his friend's frozen gaze.

Shaking now and near shock, he remembered the ghost.  He looked to the car and saw nothing at first.  Then he saw the journal bobbing in the air.  It moved toward the trunk.  At times he could see the journal in full, but it occasionally disappeared altogether or was only visible as a sliver.

As he watched, blinking, trying to focus the hazy apparition into clarity, the car dipped and shook on its shocks.  The bouncing stopped and the haze disappeared entirely, leaving only the floating journal to mark its presence.  Then it screamed.  That didn't sound angry, the cop thought, it sounded frustrated.  Maybe scared.  What is this?

Then the haze returned, and the cop saw the apparition take form.  For less than a second, he saw it.  He'd later tell the NSA agents, it looked like a man in a spacesuit.  He saw the figure's arm swing from overhead to crash into the car's trunk.  The impact almost lifted the car's front tires off the ground.  As the bounces settled, he watched the trunk lid rip itself loose and fly out across the road.  It clanged into a heap against the rock wall and fell noisily to the ground.  A large black duffle bag jumped out of the trunk and floated in the air with the book.  The cop shook his head, trying to clear his vision, but could only see the slight haze now, along with the book and duffle.  They floated around the car and toward him.  They stopped ten feet from him and just floated in the air.  He looked over at his pistol.  He could reach it, but didn't want to try after seeing the thing defend itself.  He looked back up at the thing he knew was there.

The ghost said, "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean for it to hurt anyone.  Please help them, and don't let them die."

Then the bag floated slowly toward the road.  Reaching the road, it shot through the air to land on a hilltop of tall yellow grass.  The cop watched, but it never reappeared.

63

"You've got to get yourself under control," Ethan told him.  "You're shaking, and the suit's amplifying it.  I can't get near you."  At least I can see him now.  If the kid had been hurt, and the suit kept him invisible it'd be impossible to find him.

Leo was exhausted and in shock, "I kn-know wwit.  I can'tt help it.  I don't know wh-what's happening to me.  I'm scared."

"It's going to be ok son.  We'll find a way to get this off you.  Can you lay back on the grass and put your feet up on that rock for a few minutes?"

Leo twisted his shoulders around to see the rock.  "Yes.  I can.  Wwill that help?"

"Yes, I think it will."

When he'd settled into the grass with his feet on the rock, Leo asked, "Do you think they will die?"

Ethan paused with no idea what to tell the boy.  "I don't know," he finally admitted.  "I don't know if they will."  No ambulance sirens yet, he thought.  "The suit did that Leo.  That wasn't you."  He knelt close to Leo but far enough away to avoid accidentally touching the suit as he searched the boy's eyes through the helmet.  He'd only known Leo for a day and his only interaction with the world had been through the news he received from the radio and tiny television.  He'd heard many stories of increasingly violent young people.  He imagined they had little similarity to kids from his generation, or Ray.  So he was relieved when Leo spoke again.

"The suit just…it just," Leo started, breaking into tears.

Ethan watched helplessly and waited for him to stop crying.  He heard the sirens now.  Too late for them, he thought.  Too soon for us.  We've got to get moving.

Ethan reached into the backpack and pulled out a canteen.  He drank a couple gulps and let it down into his lap, looking at Leo.  How in the world…

"You must be getting thirsty in there.  Do you see any way to open that helmet?"  If we can't get him out of that can, he could die of dehydration or starve in there.

"I'm not thirsty," Leo replied.  "I've been drinking from this little tube."

"What?"  Ethan leaned over, peering into the helmet.  "How did you know it wasn't poisonous?  There's no way an alien would eat or drink the same things we do.  It might make you sick."

"I know.  It was just right next to my mouth, and I was so thirsty standing in the sun all that time that I drank from it without thinking.  It tasted fine though.  I'm pretty sure it's just water."  He sipped again from the tube as a demonstration.

"Ok, well that's good news, at least"

The ambulance was getting louder and more sirens joined the chorus.

"Time to get out of here.  Can you get up?  Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes.  I can get up.  I'm not shaking anymore."  The image of the cops standing with their hands blown off wanted to get his attention.  He felt jittery knowing it was there and pushed it aside, staring hard at anything else.  Leaves rustled in trees covering the mountainside.  He watched them, careful to keep his peripheral vision away from the police cars and the red spots of sand.  He'd glanced down at them once and started to breathe fast and feel sick before he turned away and thought of something else.

Leo asked, "Where are we going?"

"I think I know of a place they won't look," Ethan told him.  "At least, I hope they won't."

"Is it far?"

"No.  We can walk there."

Leo paused a moment and asked, "Won't they follow us?"

Ethan stopped.  Damn.  They will follow us.  They'll get dogs to trail us.  Even if they can't get a scent from the suit, they'll be able to track me and see me if they get close enough.

"I could lead them away in the suit," Leo offered.

No better options, Ethan decided.  "That's a good idea.  Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Yes, I can do it," Leo replied, a little excited by the prospect and eager to get away from the river carnage.

"Ok.  Hang on."  Ethan sat down and pulled off his boot, then the sock.  He put the boot back on and stood up, looking around.  He found a long stick.  He wrapped the sock around the bottom of it and pulled it into a tight knot.  He handed the stick to Leo.  "Drag this along behind you when you want the dogs to follow your trail, and lift it in the air when you want to confuse them.  Lead them down along the river as far as you think you should go then throw it in the river and jump as far as you can away.  That should break their trail.  Then jump and run to get to mine #12.  Do you know which one is #12?"

"Yes."  Leo had visited most of the mines, exploring.  Some of them no longer had signs.  People had taken them as souvenirs.  The "Mine #12" sign was rotten and wet.  No one wanted it.  "Are we going to hide in the mine?"

"Yes," Ethan told him.  "Are you ok with that?"

"Yeah, that's a great idea."

Ethan smiled at his resiliency.  "Ok, great.  The first thing we've got to do is get me away from this hilltop, break my trail.  We'll need you to jump with me as far as you can," Ethan looked around, "in that direction, maybe land near that stream if you can control it that well."

"Ok, let me lift you up."

He's a lot more eager for this than I am.  Even as scared as he is, he enjoys using the suit.  Maybe this will distract him from what happened back there.  Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin when Leo's gloved hand reached around his back to lift him.  It's amazing but it's also deadly and beyond our understanding.  I'll be glad to get him out of it.  Then they can have it and do whatever they want with it.

Leo adjusted his hold, trying not to squeeze Ethan too hard.  "Ready?"

"Just try not to make pancakes out of us."  Ethan thought for a second and added "Don't jump us into the atmosphere either."  He didn't have any feel for Leo's control of the suit, so it was pointless to give advice.  "Sorry," he added, "just use your judgment.  You're doing fine."  Except for the cops, Ethan thought.  He tensed, readying himself for the leap.

Leo stared at a flat grassy spot across the little stream 200 yards away.  It was pointless to think of controlling the suit's jump the same way he would gauge the effort necessary to jump without it.  There was no comparison.  Although he was certain he'd not yet reached the limit of the suit's capability, he'd already jumped great distances.  His normal jumps without the suit might be off by inches, and he'd never notice.  A suit-powered jump on the other hand, would be much greater and misjudging it might change his landing point by ten or twenty feet.  In fact, he thought, there's no way to know how it's going to amplify it.  It might go clear over the mountain instead of just down to the stream.  The more thought he put into the effort, the more uncertain he became.  It was becoming more unnatural as he stood there, and he had to keep mentally rehearsing what it felt like to jump as if he might forget it.  There were rocks around the further side of the little patch he wanted to land on and there were briars and small trees to the right.  The stream was the left boundary.  He didn't want to land too hard or it might hurt Ethan.  He was sure the jump wouldn't hurt him inside the suit, but he didn't think it would be as protective of Ethan.  He shook his head, frustrated and decided to just jump.

It was immediately obvious they were not going to land on the little grassy spot.  When he jumped, he'd put more effort in than he intended, and the suit sprang forward.  The leap carried them over the soft patch.  They were still rising as they passed over it.  Leo was looking ahead trying to see where they would land.  Until the leap began to arc down, it was impossible.  They sailed over the crest of the other hillside with the suit slipping between treetops on the downslope.  It landed on a smooth grassy downslope and slid to a stop.

"Woohoo!"  Leo forgot about missing his intended target in his relief and the excitement of flying down to a smooth sliding landing between the trees.  "This thing is amazing!"

Ethan slid down from the suit and backed up a step.  "It is," he agreed.  "I've never seen anything like it."  Ethan knew the government would pull out all stops to acquire the suit.  They'll never let us live to talk about it, he thought, let alone let him keep it.  We've got to hide and do this on our own terms, or we're dead.  Good news though, the kid's temporarily distracted from the injured cops.

"Ok.  So you're sure you know where to come, right?"

"Yes, mine #12.  I will meet you there."

"Jump back to the hilltop where we were and drag the sock stick behind you as you run.  Head down the river for a few miles.  That shouldn't take you very long in the suit.  Hopefully, it will camouflage itself again when you go.  That white stands out in all this green.  Anyway, you'll probably beat me to the mine entrance.  Wait for me there."

"Don't worry, I will be fine."  He hunched down and leaped away.  Ethan watched him fly through the tree trunks and disappear over the mountaintop.  Have to assume he made it, he thought.  He listened for a moment for gunshots, but only heard the blaring sirens as they reached the cops.  Then he started running.

64

It's nice here, Leo thought.  They were ¼ mile underground, according to Ethan.  The mine entrance was low, and Ethan had to walk bent over.  He stopped frequently to kneel down and straighten his back.  Leo had to crawl on hands and knees to fit the bulky suit through the shaft.  The clearance was close, but adequate, while they traveled the main shaft.  It was larger to accommodate the small-gauge rail lines for the little wooden ore carts.  When Ethan turned off the main shaft, the walls closed in around them.  Leo had to wriggle his shoulders and twist himself to get past.  He felt himself beginning to panic several times.  The suit was already tight and confining.  When he jammed into a seam and felt resistance on all sides with a thick hard padding around him, it was just a terrible feeling, like he was burying himself.  He had to be careful not to panic when he became stuck because the suit might amplify his jerky attempts to free himself and bring tons of rock down on them.

The suit broke edges off the rocks as Leo wound himself through the crawl space, making just enough room for him to press himself through.

When he caught up to Ethan standing in front of a wall of iron bars, he'd been horrified, thinking there was no way he could actually turn himself around to crawl back out.  He saw Ethan digging through his backpack with a little flashlight.  The helmet made it easy for Leo to see in the mine's utter darkness, although everything was a different shade of blue, except where the helmet amplified Ethan's flashlight.  Before Leo could ask what they were going to do, now that they couldn't go further, Ethan pulled out a shining silver key.  He held it up for Leo to see and gave him a wide reassuring grin.  The key slid easily into the rusty old padlock and Ethan pulled it open.

Leo followed him through the iron gate and waited while Ethan crawled around behind him to lock it again.

They'd squeezed through another 300 yards before coming to a large open room.  There was a wooden picnic table in the center, with four tall metal cabinets along one wall.  Ethan showed him the stores of canned food and water.  All of the cans were rusty on the outside, but Ethan claimed the food was still good inside, although it might taste odd.  A rack of breathing tanks and masks filled up the other wall.  At one end of the open room a large tunnel led to a similarly sized room.  This one had a small table in the center, with steel-frame bunk beds.  They'd picked pieces of mattress off the steel mesh.  Rats had eaten through it.

Ethan opened one of the cans of beans from the steel cabinets and sat at the moldy gray-green picnic table eating them.  He drank water from a porcelain camp cup.   There were rusty flashlights but no batteries.  Sulfuric acid from the batteries leached out of the paper boxes.  They'd opened one but the battery casing itself fell apart in Ethan's hands.

He'd found an old metal lamp on the bottom shelf and a rusty can of fuel oil.  The lamp seemed very bright at first.  After a few minutes, their eyes adjusted to it and Leo started to think it was a pretty cool hideout.

Ethan scraped the bottom of the can with a spoon and washed the last of the beans down.  He felt bad eating in front of Leo, but he'd started to get shaky as the adrenalin drained off, and he needed to be thinking clearly.  He'd asked Leo if he was hungry.  After a moment, Leo told him he wasn't.  Ethan thought that possibly the suit was feeding him nutrients in some way and obliquely asked if Leo felt anything inside the suit sticking him or poking at him.  Leo couldn't feel anything, so Ethan changed the subject, setting the can away from him on the table.

"Ok.  I think we need to try getting that helmet off now Leo.  We should be safe here.  Even if they search the mines, they'll stop at the gate.  There's no reason for them to think we'd get past it."  Unless their spotlight shows the crawling tracks or newly-chipped rock edges.  Hopefully, they won't bring hounds near the mine entrance, either.  Too many things to worry about, that we don't have any control over anyway.  Right Ray?

That's right.  Nothing you can do about that.  It was a good idea to hide here.  You're smart.

Ethan smiled.  He seems to be a good kid.

Ray nodded.  He's going to be afraid later.  When he starts to remember what happened today and when he realizes he can't go home tonight, or maybe for a long time.

Ethan dragged a heavy wooden box from the wall over to the table and motioned for Leo to sit on it.  Leo settled carefully down onto it, expecting it to fall.  The suit's bulk made it seem heavy so it was easy to forget how light it was.  Ethan sat at the picnic table a couple feet away.

"Obviously, I'm not going to touch it.  I hate to think what it might do if I tried to take the helmet off," Ethan said.  "It has to be you."

"Yeah.  I think so too.  I'm pretty nervous about what's going to happen to me if I try to take it off and it won't come off, so I was afraid to try it before."

"It's going to be ok.  Don't worry, I think it will let you take it off."

Leo watched Ethan's face in the lamplight.  It was easy to believe Ethan.  Leo's adult acquaintances were few, his mother and teachers.  He'd rarely spoken with an adult about anything other than "How's school?" (fine) or "Are you eager for High School?" (maybe, leave me alone).  There wasn't usually any reason to talk with them.

This was the first time that he was trying to do something that an adult also wanted to do.  It was strange to be on the same level as a grown up, where they faced a problem and they didn't know what to expect either.  Leo thought that it should scare him that Ethan didn't know what was going to happen, but it didn't.  Instead, he felt a closeness, a partnership as if Ethan was another kid.  A really capable, and patient one.  That's another thing that's different about him, Leo realized.  He's not in a hurry to get somewhere or do something else.  When you say something, he listens to every word, like he's interested in whatever is happening.  Leo smiled at Ethan and reached both hands up to the helmet.

As his gloved fingers touched the helmet, they heard a small "thwock".  Leo lifted the helmet off, smiling broadly as his eyes adjusted to the unamplified lamplight.

"All right!"

Thank you God, Ethan thought.  Thank you.  "Yes!  Great!"

Leo set the helmet carefully on the table.  Ethan was careful not to touch it.

"Do you think it will let me take the rest of it off, now?"

"Give it a try," Ethan suggested.

Leo took hold of the suit's left wrist and pulled.  Nothing happened at first, and he felt the first flow of fear.  Then a blue phosphor traced a previously invisible seal between the shoulder and the suit's chest.  He tugged again, and the sleeve slid off easily.  Within minutes, the suit made a shining white pile on the floor.

Leo asked, "What is this place?"

"The miners met here to rest so they didn't have to go all the way back out to the surface.  When the company left, I kept a copy of the key.  I had this silver one made so it wouldn't corrode, because of my…well so it wouldn't corrode."  Ethan wasn't ready to talk about the entropy field that he generated yet.  Kid's trapped down here with me.  Don't want him worrying that I'm some dangerous freak.  He'd been tightening and relaxing his newfound control of the field since he'd inadvertently discovered the controlling thought pattern in the clearing.  Tighten it down, and he could pull it deep inside him, where it had no effect on anything around him.  Release it, and everything aged at an accelerated rate.  He'd practiced as he walked from the river, and his control increased.  While Leo was in the break area, he'd piled the rat-chewed mattress pieces in a corner and opened up on the pile.  The mattress pieces faded to a uniform gray, then into a smaller and smaller pile of dust.  When he'd stopped, all that remained was a thin powdery dust.  He reined it tightly back inside him when he was near Leo.  Out of habit, he constantly checked to see if Leo showed any sign of exposure to the field, but the boy had surprisingly good energy and spirits, in spite of the paces he'd been put through.  Resilient kid.

When he'd come back into the break area, Leo was pulling stacks of money from the duffle bag.   Without the suit, Leo couldn't move the bag, so he carried the stacks to the table in armloads.  He counted off as he stacked them, finishing with "$4 million, 2 hundred and 70 thousand!"  Wide-eyed, he looked at Ethan and laughed.  "There's four million dollars!"

Ethan asked, "Where did he get all of this?"

"The alien was in his mind for years before he figured it out.  All that time he thought he was just really smart and able to tap into other people's brains to get even smarter.  He could only do it with people who were nearby, and when they left, he'd lose all of their brain power.  That's why he wrote down instructions to himself in," Leo reached over and held up the journal, "this book."

"T. Taylor – Timeshare Checklists," Ethan read from the cover.

"That's what he called it, when he connected to other people's brain, 'Timesharing'."  Leo handed the journal to Ethan.

Ethan opened the journal.  It was filled with Taylor's notes.  Each page had a title with numbered instructions written below.  Some of the pages continued from the previous with "Page 3 of 4" in the top right line.  The writing was neat and careful with the exception of a few pages where he had, for some reason, written over and over on the same page without flipping to a new sheet.  The writing on those pages was so thick on the page that it was impossible to make out most of the words.

The checklist titles ranged from obvious financial plans, "Generate $400k from these investments" to "Get sex from Samantha".  Ethan blushed at the instructions on the latter and flipped past without comment.  He turned around to sit on the picnic table.  Leo shoved some of the stacks over, and sat next to him.  There were fifty or more pages that were profit schemes.  Ethan had no way to know how many Taylor had already used to earn the money in the duffle.   The money itself was proof that his plans worked at least some of the time.  Why was the alien helping him?  When did it stop working on his goals and change to its own?

Ethan flipped to the end and read from there.  He read the instructions for Taylor to drive a stolen artifact to the riverside and wait.  He flipped back through the previous pages and wondered how a man who planned everything so meticulously had been convinced to work himself into a corner with no way out.  All these plans, so careful, but once he delivered the alien to the suit, nothing.  Your plans stop here.  The alien was a good partner to you for years, giving you money and women, and it was only at the end that you must have realized that the plans benefitted him and not you.  In the end, there was no future for you, and all you'd gathered for yourself was left behind for someone else.

Ethan set the journal aside.  Leo picked it up.  "Let's put that away for a bit and get some rest, ok?"

Leo looked concerned at the idea, "Here?"

"I think we need to rest here for a few hours at least.  We might try sneaking up to my cabin for some blankets later, but I don't want to get out there yet.  They are probably looking everywhere for us."

After a few hours, Leo was shivering with cold.  He looked over at Ethan.  He seemed to be sleeping just fine on the metal mesh of the bed rack.  Leo just couldn't lay there one more minute, he was freezing cold.  He slow-rolled out of the rusty metal rack watching Ethan to make sure he didn't wake him.  He walked into the break room where Ethan had left the lantern burning so they weren't in complete darkness.  He half-considered putting some of the money in a small bucket he'd seen in the cabinet and making an expensive fire, but there'd be no place for the smoke to go.  If it did go to the surface, the police and government people might see it.

He looked at the flightsuit.  It let me take it off.  No reason it wouldn't let me take it off again.  I can't sleep down here without it.  It's freezing.  Leo stood over the suit considering his options.  It didn't take long to realize there weren't any.  He pulled the wooden box over to the suit and sat down to pull on the white boots.  They didn't feel warmer at first, but he expected the suit would heat up once he had all of it on.  Even if it didn't provide any heat of its own, it would contain his body heat.  The suit didn't take over like it had when he'd first worn it, but it was continuing to move on its own.  As he slid his arm into the sleeve, the sleeve rim glowed a light blue.  He felt it rotate slightly, aligning itself to the shoulder cuff, and as he drew it closer, it closed the gap without his assistance, sealing with the "thwock" sound.  Leo craned his head to see around the corner.  Ethan was still soundly asleep.  He doesn't roll around at all when he sleeps.  At least he doesn't snore though.  Can't tell that he's breathing at all really.  He's a tough guy to sleep down here with no cover and not even curl himself up for warmth.

It was already warmer with the suit on.  I can't tell if it's warming up because it's sealed around me or if it has turned some heat on for me.  The change was gradual, Leo didn't feel any concentrated areas of heat, but during the time he'd been putting the suit on, he'd begun to feel comfortably warm.  He left the helmet on the picnic table and walked quietly into the back room.  The suit interpreted his movements and activated its stealth procedures.  Without the helmet to outline his body, he couldn't see it himself.  It made climbing into the steel bed frame challenging.  He'd forgotten that he'd need a pillow.  I should have taken my shirt off and rolled it around my shoes.  It wasn't worth getting back up he decided and rolled over on his side to lay his head on his invisible arm.  Exhaustion took over, and he was asleep within minutes.

He snapped awake.  He'd dreamed that he'd fallen asleep by the river.  In the dream he'd been shaken awake by the young cop.  The cop was friendly and was just lightly shaking him by the shoulders, "Hey Leo wake up buddy.  What are you doing asleep out here?"

"I was just tired," he replied.  "I'm not in trouble am I?"

"No of course not," the officer smiled back shaking his head a little to show Leo what a funny idea it was that he'd be in trouble for falling asleep outside.  He brushed aside hair from Leo's eyes.  "Let's get you home buddy," he said.  He put his arm across Leo's shoulder and turned him to walk toward home.  Leo noticed the older cop sleeping on the sand a few steps from where he'd slept with his back to them.  As Leo and the young cop walked around him, Leo saw blood on the sand in front of him.  The older cop's hands were gone.  He seemed to be sleeping peacefully as if there were nothing wrong, but Leo felt the dream grow suddenly cold and wrong.  He watched the older cop as they walked past, trying to step quietly so he wouldn't wake him.  He didn't want the cop to wake up.

The younger cop said, "Hey! Steve!  Wake up man.  We've got to get Leo home."  Leo was terrified.  The older cop's eyes snapped open, staring directly at him.  The older cop started to sit up in the bloody sand, his eyes locked on Leo's, fixing him in place.  He wasn't able to move, couldn't run away, what is happening?  He needed to run away.  He looked at the younger cop for help.  The young cop was staring at him now too as if he'd just realized Leo was something awful.  Leo saw the arm the cop had around his shoulder had no hand.  Bloody pieces of white bone protruded from torn tendon with a flap of skin hanging down.  The young cop patted Leo's shoulder with the bloody stump.  "It's ok buddy.  We'll put you someplace where you won't hurt anyone again.  That's the best thing.  Steve and I will take care of you."

Leo looked into each corner of the room's rough rock walls to assure himself that the mangled cops weren't hiding in the dark.  Ethan still slept peacefully, seemingly in the same position he'd been in last night.  Or day, Leo thought.  It might be daytime now.  There was no way to tell in the mine.  He got quietly up from the bed, not as concerned about waking Ethan having seen how stubbornly the man slept.

The suit was warm.  Leo sat down on the box and waited for Ethan to wake up.  After a few minutes, he grew bored and decided he would put the helmet on and learn more about the suit.  He held it overhead and felt the suit take hold of it with whatever force it used to maneuver itself.  He tentatively turned the helmet loose.  It floated in the air for a second then gradually lowered into place, clicking shut.  For a moment there was no sound at all, then the suit began transmitting sounds from the room, and he heard tiny sounds below the range of his own unaided ears.  He heard the drip of water falling into the rusted sink, and with the helmet's light amplification, he saw the next drop gathering from the cabinet above it.

He wondered, how much can it understand?  Can it read my mind?  It can tell when I want to sneak around.  The suit disabled the camouflage effect when he left the back room.  Are you there?  Can you hear me?  Nothing happened.  Guess not.  It must decide what I want to do by my movements, like when it makes a punch super-fast and lets me pick up a can without snatching and crushing it.  Wonder if it can hear me?

He turned away from Ethan in case the suit amplified his voice and said "Can you hear me?"

A soft tone came from the helmet near his ear.  Leo jumped up surprised and unnerved by the response.  A blue squiggle of light projected inside the helmet.  As Leo looked at it, it morphed into other shapes, flashing rapidly from one to the next.  Just as he recognized the shape as letters from other languages, the letters faded out and the word "YES" appeared.

Leo's skin felt cold within the suit.

He spent the next hour sitting on the box, facing the dark corner and talking in a whispered voice.  Words flashed across the helmet, along with images, maps and checklists.

The suit's logic was a pinnacle achievement of an explorer society, thousands of years more advanced than humans were thousands of years ago.  It communicated with humanity's own ultimate achievement, the mind of a fourteen year old, with an equal and otherwise unparalleled hunger for exploration.

They made plans.

65

Leo stood beside Ethan as he slept.  He'd asked the suit in a whisper if Ethan was alive.  There was no way Leo could tell by just looking at him.  If he was breathing, the breath was so shallow or slow that he couldn't see Ethan's chest move.  The suit assured him that Ethan was alive.  He asked the suit how long Ethan had been asleep.  14 hours.  Leo wondered, how long is he going to sleep?  He'd spent the last several hours experimenting with the suit, tossing and catching things, trying to move quietly, playing with the stealth settings, listening to Ethan's slow breathing from the other room.  He was ready for something else now and growing bored.

He reached out to shake Ethan's shoulder, deactivating the stealth mode as he did.  A few shakes were required before Ethan's eyes opened.  His dream must have been a lot better than mine, Leo thought.  He wakes up like it's a sunny Saturday morning down here in the mines.  Leo smiled at the thought.  Ethan smiled back at him, sitting up stiffly.

"Good morning," he said, "I guess morning anyway.  Any idea how long I was asleep?"

"Good afternoon actually," Leo replied, grinning.  "The suit says you've been asleep for 14 hours.  Is that normal?"

Ethan's smile didn't totally leave, but he became more serious.  "No.  It isn't.  Usually, there's no one to wake me up, so I sleep longer."  He watched Leo's eyes for a reaction.

"Longer than 14 hours?"

"Yes.  It's related to my condition.  I call it an "entropy field".  That's as good a name as any.  It doesn't really matter what I call it, I've never met or heard of anyone else that has it, other than kids like Ray who have it without any ability to control it."

He looked at Leo gauging whether he should tell the boy more.  Amazingly resilient kid.  I guess they all are probably.  He felt Ray snicker and smiled.

"That's why I keep Oscar.  He'll eventually lick me awake or tug on my shirt when he gets hungry.  I put his food in a weekly feeder before I go to sleep so he'll have food in case he can't wake me up right away."

Leo asked, "How long do you sleep if he doesn't wake you?"

"Weeks, Leo.  I might sleep for weeks at a time.  Whatever it is, my subconscious has control of it.  When I sleep, it pulls the reins in tight, and the field only affects me.  Slows me down in time.  I wake up weeks later and it feels like a normal night has passed.  For my body, at least, that's all that it has experienced.  I'm as hungry as you are in the morning, but that's all.  Everything just slows down when I sleep, like a bear hibernating, except the bear is passing normally through time asleep, and I'm out of phase with the world when I do."

"What's the longest you've ever slept?"

"I slept for 65 days once and almost as long several times.  When you are out for that long, it takes most of the morning to catch up on the news.  It makes a lot of problems.  I had to get into town for more food and supplies."

"I'm glad you woke me up.  Please wake me when you get up from here on out, ok?"

"Yeah, I definitely will."

"It's ok, it's not dangerous to you," Ethan reassured him.  Leo hadn't really considered that there could be any danger until Ethan said that.  Ethan was watching him and saw the concern creep in.  "I wasn't able to control it, but now I can.  It's been like an annoying puzzle my whole life, like when you have a tooth that's loose and you just keep wiggling at it with your tongue.  Even when I was doing other things, somewhere in the back of my mind, it was trying different things, different feelings, different thoughts, movements of my arms or face, anything to find the control that my subconscious mind already knew, but couldn't share."

Ethan stopped and smiled.  "Then yesterday, when the soldiers or agents, whatever they were…"

"Agents," Leo said.

"Ok, agents then," Ethan agreed.

"When the agents shot at me, I guess somewhere in my stubborn subconscious, it decided to let go, and it was right there where I could see it.  See it in my mind, I mean.  Just a little thought pattern, like a rhyme or song that you can repeat in your mind without saying it out loud.  I just thought about it in that different way and the field shot out and aged the bullets instantly into dust."

"And the tree," Leo offered.

"Yes, the tree, because I wanted to make sure, after all those years of looking for the secret that I had it firmly in my grasp now.  I was afraid I'd lose it again."

"But you didn't?"

"No.  I have it now.  I can control it at will, although obviously when I'm asleep, nothing's really changed.  I can live with that though.  I've learned to.  It's not like anyone else's life, but I've adapted to it."

"If I'm here to wake you though…" Leo trailed off letting it become a question.

"Right.  If you're here to wake me, I'll be like everyone else."

"We might not be exactly like everyone else after this," Leo suggested.

"Right, of course."  Ethan paused, "So I guess we'd better work out a plan.  We can't stay down here forever."  Ethan was concerned that Leo hadn't mentioned going home.  Wouldn't most kids be eager to get home?  Did that thing mess with his mind somehow?

Leo was grinning.  Ethan looked askance and raised an eyebrow.

"What?  What's funny?"

"Not funny," Leo replied.  "It's exciting, not funny."

Ethan waited, but Leo was enjoying the buildup.  Presently, he said, "Taylor said this is a flightsuit."  Leo waited for Ethan.  "A flightsuit."

"Ok, I get it," Ethan said.  "It might fly, that's pretty exciting, sure."

"It can do more than fly Ethan.  It can fly very, very fast.  It can fly very fast in space, between planets."

"You want to fly in space?"

"Uh, yeah, of course, who wouldn't want to?  Who wouldn't want to go through space and see things that no one else has ever seen?"

"I guess so, but if it can fly, why didn't it fly when we fell off the cliff?  I got the sense that it was working pretty hard to keep us from splattering into piles."

"The flight pack is missing," Leo replied.  "The whole suit blew apart when he entered the atmosphere."

"He?"

"The alien, when the alien came to earth he did something wrong, and his body burned up.  It wasn't the suit that failed.  He messed up.  His mind sprang out looking for a container.  The alien's minds and thoughts are connected to other intelligent consciousness across distances, so they're able to hold themselves together even without a body.  He reached out and found Taylor, flying miles below in a plane.  Picked him out of all the other passengers and huddled himself in Taylor's mind, trying to fit himself into it.  For years, the alien just hid, showing himself only through Taylor's timesharing.  The timesharing gave the alien more room and a few hours to stretch beyond Taylor's cramped head, so he encouraged Taylor to timeshare by letting him share in the fun and helping Taylor get money and women."  Leo smiled.

"You got this from Taylor when he was trying to move the alien over into your mind?"

"Yeah, most of it and some from the suit."  Leo explained how he'd learned to communicate with the suit.

"Ok, so it's a flightsuit, but the flight pack is missing."

"Yep, here's where it fits."  Leo whispered to the suit.  Ethan could see his lips moving very slightly, but the helmet blocked sound it interpreted as piloting commands.  A blue outline projected on the helmet where Ethan could see.  The outline showed a front and side view of the suit with a flattened egg-shaped device on the back.  As he watched, the image animated and three small wing vanes extended.  They looked to be a few inches long.

"Not very big wings, are they?"

"It says those are just there to give it projection surfaces for stabilizing fields, whatever that actually means.  It doesn't really matter.  I'm sure it'll make the controls easy for me to manage, like it does the jumps and stuff."

Ethan shook his head, smiling.  I'd forgotten how infectious their excitement and wonder at the world was.  "I assume the suit has told you where this flight pack is?"

"Yes. It's out west," Leo enjoyed making Ethan tease out the secret.

"Out west, ok, where exactly out west should we look?"

"We don't have to look.  The suit detected it from here, and anyway it's exactly where you'd think it would be."

Ethan thought but came up with no idea.  "I don't understand, Leo.  Where is it?"

"It's in Nevada.  At Area 51, with all the other stuff."

Oh, right, exactly where you'd think.  "What other stuff?  What else is out there?"

"The other alien ship that he was tracking here, the one that crashed in Roswell.  The one with the other aliens, the grey ones."

Ethan decided it was best that he sit down.

After a few seconds, he was ready, "So you want to break into Area 51 and get the flight pack?  You want to get into the throat of what's obviously the government's biggest secret?"

"Yes.  The suit is very powerful, Ethan.  We've only seen it do a few things.  It can do a lot more than that.  A lot more."

Ethan's mind churned, desperately trying to keep up with too much new information.

"So, you already have a plan for how you can do this?"

"We have money Ethan", he motioned to the stacks piled on the table's edge.  "We also have the ideas Taylor had to make more money, if we need it, in his journal.  We can make our way there, staying hidden from them.  They're expecting us to come, but it won't matter.  They can't imagine what the suit can actually do."

Ethan looked at the boy. The government will be waiting for him to come home anyway.  He can't get near there without them catching us.  Probably can't even safely call his mother without them closing in on us in minutes.  We've got to be the biggest thing on their radar.

What else is there?

What else is there for me?  There is no one.  I've spent my whole life, since Ray, alone, slow driftwood, getting further from land every day.  I can't relate to the world anymore.  There's nothing I can contribute, no job that a mind from the fifties can do in this world.  No job I can do.  Except fatherhood.  I can do that.

I was a good father once, he thought, tears pooling quickly into his eyes.  I loved it and it was taken away.  How long, God?  This long?  Is this how long it takes for a prayer to be answered?

A thought came to Ethan that didn't feel like his.  It takes as long as it takes.

I guess it does.  I accept, I humbly and gratefully accept your second chance.

Leo asked, "Are you alright?"

Ethan wiped his eyes and nodded.  He waited a moment to speak.  "So you have a plan I guess?"

Leo's smile flashed, "Yes.  We have a plan.  Let me tell you about it."

Epilogue

Hack spent the next four days in interrogation.  The rest of his team, save Sowyer, were released after three days.  Hack began to believe that he might not be released at all.  Just about every level above him had sent someone to badger and question him.  They asked the same questions and left with the same answers.  Hack held nothing back.  He took full blame for the relaxed security procedures that enabled Sowyer to steal the artifact.  The fact that his team was directly responsible was, for him, no excuse and he never offered it to anyone else.

The surprising thing to Hack was that although the interrogators and supervisors spoke as if frustrated, it wasn't hard to pick up that they were more excited than upset.  They'd had the artifact for years and had exhausted every useful avenue the research team had proposed.  Very little new information was left to learn from the artifact.

By enlisting Taylor, Hack flushed out several new developments.

They'd collected dozens of Taylor's acquaintances and all his written and computer files.  There was a team assigned to uncover Taylor's involvement and his motivations as well as the incredible transformation he'd made from consultant to government think tank with numerous and diverse patents.

There was the old man, Ethan Abram, that all witnesses to what they referred to as the "Bumpas Cove Event" claimed had stopped bullets in midair and caused a tree to fall down by pointing at it.  A separate team was assigned to Abram.  The original carbon-dating results from the tree had already come back and pieces were subsequently sent to three additional labs for corroboration.  They'd isolated miles of forest between the river and the abandoned mines.  Getting adequate surveillance equipment into the region required three days.  Some on the search teams felt this delay had probably allowed Abram and the boy to escape, but given the potential for new information or artifacts in the abandoned houses and mines and decades of secret waste disposal, the government was willing to spend whatever might be required to ensure every possible artifact or lead was discovered.  Local newspapers joked that the government was grooming "Area 52".  The NSA refused to comment, fueling the conspiracy in the same way the FBI had long ago guaranteed no one would forget Roswell, New Mexico.

Abrams was identified by documents found in his cabin.  By all accounts, he was in vigorous health for an eighty-three year old.  Possibly, the man in the clearing had assumed the old man's identity at some point, although this theory had some holes.  Abrams' bank account held $602,450, from which he drew, on average, between $35 and $60 a month.  Most identity thieves would have cleared out the account long ago and moved on.  Living on such a small amount, even with the meager amenities and expenses they'd discovered at the cabin, would be challenging.  They'd found bags of dog food, but no dog so far.

But the suit, and its amazing defensive capabilities, was the main attraction.  Inter-Agency leaks filled the Tennessee Mountains with agents from the FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland Defense, NASA and the Defense Department.  The trout-fishing proved, over the following years to be excellent.

Hack was released from interrogation.  The NSA released a cover story that Hack had uncovered a terrorist camp with the captured terrorists safely removed to Guantanamo Bay.  He was a hero again.  The NSA agreed to let him keep his security staff, with broad orders to track down the suit.  They had a hundred and twenty other agents with the same mission on a larger scale, but didn't see any harm in allowing Hack to pursue it on a smaller parallel track.  It was an inexpensive and easy way to keep him compliant.  They didn't expect Hack to find the suit before the large team did.

A few weeks after his release, Hack was briefing his small team on his plan to track and capture the two and acquire the suit.  The phone rang.  He was told to come to the interrogation facility for a meeting with Sowyer.  Apparently, Sowyer had specifically asked for him.

Sowyer's erratic actions in Bumpas Cove drew attention.  The links between Sowyer and Taylor were discovered.  There would be an espionage trial followed by permanent incarceration.  Sowyer's obvious guilt and sullen behavior following the Event helped absolve Hack and the rest of the team.  He fared poorly during the interrogations, but even more so when left in isolation.  Hack was the first person from the team permitted to see him.  The interaction was closely monitored.  Interrogators hoped allowing Sowyer to meet with him would result in some new insight.

Sowyer's cell contained only the essentials, toilet, steel frame bed, thin sealed-seam mattress and sink.  The mirror was a small square of polished stainless steel.  A recessed shelf was formed into the wall behind the bed.  It had a single book on it.  Hack decided it was a Bible.

Sowyer was already standing when the guards let Hack inside.  He was barefoot.  Both of the slippers lay on the "guest" side of the small room, where he'd thrown them the day before.  Sowyer hadn't shaved since the Event and smelled like showers hadn't been too frequent either.  When he left, he would ask if Sowyer was being treated humanely.  He'd given his country eight years of service and Hack thought he deserved better.

Hack sat in a steel chair, leaned forward and smiled.  The chair was bolted to the floor four feet from the bars.

A tentative smile flicked across Sowyer's face, "Hello, Major."

"Hello Charlie, are you alright?"

"Not really," Sowyer replied with a quick hint of anger.  "I'm not really alright, but it doesn't matter."

"It still matters to me, Charlie.  There are a lot of people that care about you, regardless of what has happened."

Sowyer nodded.  "If I cooperate," he looked through the bars at his slipper as he spoke, "they will let my wife in to see me.  Assuming that she wants to."  His eyes glistened.

Sowyer stepped to the bars, as close as he could get.  Hack clamped down on his natural reaction to lean back.  He'd spent years working with Sowyer, and he wanted Sowyer to know he remembered the man he had been before Taylor corrupted him.

Sowyer met his eyes for an instant before casting his stare off to the side.

"Are you going after it?  The suit, I mean.  I guess you're leading the team to catch them and get the suit."

Hack paused, "I can't talk about any of that, Charlie.  You know I can't do that.  It's not your concern anymore."

Sowyer's eyes flashed up to meet Hack's for a second before looking again at the floor.  "Not mine.  No.  Not my concern."

"Leave that to me.  All you have to do at this point is get better.  You just need to get better, so you can make the best choices going forward.  You still have your family Charlie and your boys.  They'll need you as they grow up.  You can make a difference in their lives, even if…"

"I'm not getting out," Sowyer said without breaking his stare from the floor.  "I'm never getting out.  The cops, the helicopter crew…  They'll add those to my sentence.  I lost the most important discovery in mankind's history.  They are mad as bees about that."

"How are you feeling, any better?"

Sowyer's eyes lifted again, "Better today.  Better when people visit.  When it's just me…"  Sowyer cleared the sob from his throat.  "When it's just me, I can't stand it.  I wish my head would crack open so the pressure would be gone.  It's the worst headache you can imagine, like all the headaches I ever had mashed together in a vise.  When someone talks to me, it takes my mind off of it, I guess, or distracts me, but whatever it is, I don't care, it just feels better.  I'm glad to talk with the psychologists and whomever nowadays, funny, huh?"

Hack smiled, the idea that anyone would enjoy an interrogation didn't bode well for their sanity.  "Yeah Charlie, that is funny.  Nobody likes those guys."

"Is there anything I can do for you?  Anything I can do that might possibly help you get better?  They said that you asked for me."

"I just wanted to see someone familiar, Hack.  Since you know everything about their stupid Event, I figured they would let you come.  Nothing I can leak to you that you don't already know.  Just wanted to see someone familiar, who didn't hate me and think I was the worst traitor in history."  Sowyer stopped and looked up at Hack, "It's unreal Hack.  I can't make myself see everything that's happened as real.  It happened so fast, and now everything is gone.  I'm not saying I was perfect, I did things I'm ashamed of, but now everyone in the world's going to think "traitor" any time they hear my name."

"I went through something similar Charlie," I know what you mean.  "It gets too big for you, too big to manage, to wrestle back into the bottle.  Everyone thinks they know me from Cane Creek and the other captures, but all it does is keep them from ever really knowing anything about me – the person.  I understand what you're going through Charlie."

"Except you're a national hero and people spit my name out like its poison."

Short of lying, Hack realized, there's nothing I can say to encourage him.  He's right.

"Can I get you anything Charlie?  Anything they'll let me do I mean."

"No.  Nothing they'd let you do."

Hack stood up slowly to avoid an appearance that he was eager to leave.

"Is, uh," Sowyer started, "is Walker ok?  And the others, I mean.  Is everyone ok?"

"She's fine Charlie.  Everyone's ok out here, just worried about you.  I'm sure they'll let you talk with other people soon, and you can try to move on from here."

Sowyer made no reply, just stared at Hack's feet.

"Catch them."

Hack wasn't sure he'd heard Sowyer, "What?"

"Catch them Hack.  Get the suit back.  It's not theirs.  It doesn't belong to them."

"I will Charlie.  I'll catch them.  The suit belongs to everyone, I agree."

"Just catch them, and get the suit, ok?  You can promise me you're going to be the one that catches them and gets the suit back, can't you?"

"Yeah," Hack replied, "I promise I'm going to try."

A curtain of relief fell onto Sowyer's face and his brooding eyebrows lifted slightly.  He met Hack's eyes once more and smiled.

"It's going to be ok Charlie."

Sowyer nodded, keeping eye contact and smiled.  "Thanks for coming Hack."

"It's ok.  I'm glad to, if it helps you."

The sun outside was too bright after the fluorescents of the interrogation facility.  Hack squinted his eyes, shielding them as his pupils reacted.  So many people already killed and ruined, he thought.  How many more before we get the suit back?  How many people will be killed by the weapons we make from it when we find it?  Who knows, maybe the government will be more interested in the neutrino mills and virtually free energy for everyone?  Yeah, right – that's going to happen.

He was getting a headache.

THE END

ENJOY THIS BOOK?

If you enjoyed "Flightsuit", please rate it on Amazon and write a review.  The rating/review system helps encourage others to join us as we move forward to the sequel, "Flightpack".  Just visit http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H1TC8C6.

WANT MORE?

Now that you've finished the first book, you might enjoy a visit to the series web site at http://www.FlightsuitBook.com, where you will find:

- Background & photographs of the Lost Cove and Bumpas Cove

- Hand-drawn and Google Earth (with artifact discovery site) maps of the sites

- Themes and spoilers

- Updates on "Flightpack"

- A "Follow Flightsuit" button to receive email updates

THANK YOU

I sincerely appreciate my interaction with other readers and look forward to connecting with you.  The book's response has been a great gift.

Sincerely yours,

Tom Deaderick

Map of "Flightsuit" settings by Tom Deaderick

Table of Contents

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Epilogue